Skip to main content

Full text of "The Atlantic"

See other formats 


O 


THE 


ATLANTIC  MONTHLY 


A  MAGAZINE  OF 


Literature,  Science,  &rt3  ana 


VOLUME  LIV. 


BOSTON 
HOUGHTON,   MIFFLIN  AND   COMPANY 

NEW  YORK:  11  EAST  SEVENTEENTH  STREET 

Htoersttie  Prefi0, 

1884 


COPYRIGHT,  1884, 
BY  HOUGHTON,  MIFFLIN  AND  COMPANY. 


RIVERSIDE,  CAMBRIDGE: 

ELECTROTYPED  AND  PRINTED  BY 

H.  0.  HOCQHTON  AND  COMPANY. 


CONTENTS. 


PAOX 

Aivazofsky William  Jackson  Armstrong     „    .    .     .  673 

American  Flirtation,  An Grace  Denio  Litchfield 829 

American  Story  Writer,  An 131 

Battle  of  Lake  George,  The Francis  Parkman 444 

Beaten  by  a  Giaour O.  H.  Durward 79 

Bibliographical  Rarity,  A 422 

.Bird-Gazing  in  the  White  Mountains Bradford  Torrey 51 

Bourgeois  Family,  A       Margaret  Btrtha  Wright 533 

Buckshot :  A  Record  ' J-  Howard  Corbyn 507 

Bugs  and  Beasts  before  the  Law       E.  P.  Evans 235 

Chile,  The  Growing  Power  of  the  Republic  of 110 

Chimes,  and  How  they  are  Rung A.  F.  Matthews 76 

Choy  Susan       William  Henry  Bishop 1 

Combination  Novels George  Parsons  Lathrop       .....  796 

Consuming  Fire,  The R.  N.  Taylor 662 

Copp6e,  Francois Frank  T.  Marzials 759 

Crude  Science  in  Aryan  Cults E.  P.  Evans 627 

De  Senectute F.  Sheldon 668 

Despotism  of  Party,  The Herbert  Tattle 374 

Dinky Mary  Beale  Brainerd 206 

Edda  among  the  Algonquin  Indians,  The Charles  G.  Leland 222 

Embryo  of  a  Commonwealth,  The Brooks  Adams 610 

English  Literary  Cousin,  An Louise  Imogen  Guiney 467 

Fiction,  Recent       413 

Galileo,  The  Haunts  of E.  D.  R.  Bianciardi 91 

Gospel  of  Defeat,  The Harriet  Waters  Preston    ......  21 

Grass :  A  Rumination Edith  M.  Thomas 693 

In  the  Haunts  of  the  Mocking-Bird Maurice  Thompson 620 

In  War  Time S.  Weir  Mitchell   .  60,  145,  289,  433,  577,  721 

Knox's  United  States  Notes 709 

Lakes  of  Upper  Italy,  The 352,  477,  681,  785 

Last  Stand  of  the  Italian  Bourbons,  The William  Chauncy  Langdon      ....  663 

Legend  of  Inverawe,  A C  F.  Gordon  Gumming 333 

Literary  Curiosity,  A 398 

Lodge's  Historical  Studies 271 

Malta J.  M  Htllyar 639 

Mediaeval  and  Modern  Punishment E.  P.  Evans 302 

Migrations  of  the  Gods,  The William  Shields  Liscomb 520 

Minor  Songsters Bradford  Torrey 491 

Mistral's  Nerto Harriet  Waters  Preston 595 

Modern  Prophet,  A 274 

Negro  Problem,  The N.  S.  Shaler 696 

Not  Mute,  but  Inglorious Julie  K.  Wetherill 392 

Old  New  England  Divine,  An       Kate  Gannett  Wells 247 

Old  Salem  Shops Eleanor  Putnam 309 

Over  the  Andes       Stuart  Chisholm 736 

Palmer's  Odyssey 559 

Penelope's  Suitors Edwin  Lassetter  Bynner 769 

Peter  the  Great 124 

Poe's  Legendary  Years G.  E.  Woodberry 814 

Poetry,  Recent 117 

Relation  of  Fairies  to  Religion Elizabeth  Robins  Pennell 457 

Schliemann's  Troja 128 

Shakespeare,  William,  The  Anatomizing  of Richard  Grant  White 257,313 

Solitary  Bee,  The Edith  M.  Thomrts 557 

Southern  Colleges  and  Schools Charles  Forster  Smith 542 

Spain,  A  Cook's  Tourist  in 33, 191 


IV 


Contents. 


Stephen  Dewhursf  s  Autobiography Henry  James,  Sr 649 

Story  of  the  English  Magazines,  The Charles  E.  Pascoe 364 

Taylor,  Bayard,  The  Life  of 662 

"  These  are  Your  Brothers  " Olive  Thome  Miller 805 

Twilight  of  Greek  and  Roman  Sculpture,  The William  Shields  Liscomb 163 

Under  the  Maples Mary  Treat 326 

Underworld  in  Homer,  Virgil,  and  Dante,  The William  C.  Lawton 99 

Volcanic  Eruption  of  Krakatoa,  The E.  W.  Sturdy 385 

Washington  and  his  Companions  viewed  Face  to  Face George  Houghton 501 

Where  It  Listeth Edith  M.  Thomas 267 

Willis,  Nathaniel  Parker Edward  F.  Hayward 212 

Wolfe  on  the  Plains  of  Abraham Francis  Parkman 339 

Zig  Zag  Telegraph,  The Lloyd  G.  Thompson 184 


POETRY. 


Among  the  Redwoods,  E.  R.  Sill 813 

Ave,  Oliver  Wendell  Holmes 456 

Birchbrook  Mill,  John  Greenleaf  Whittier    ...  637 

Blood-  Root,  E.  S.  F 59 

Boating,  Augustus  M.  Lord 519 

Carpe  Diem,  E.  R.  Sill 162 

Elizabeth,  Lucy  Larcom 391 

Five  Quatrains,  T.  B.  Aldrich 20 

Francesca  to  Paolo,  Julie  K.  Wetherill      ....  594 

In  Tuscany,  Celia  Thaxter 490 


Malice,  Paul  Hamilton  Hayne 648 

Piping  Shepherd,  The,  Katherine  Pyle      ....  338 

Question,  Eliot  C.  True 75 

Rose  and  the  Oriole,  The,  Thomas  William  Par- 
sons    190 

Silence,  Julia  C.  R.  Dorr 308 

Song  of  Silenus,  The,  Samuel  V.  Cole      ....  677 

Thunder-Cloud,  The,  James  T.  McKay    ....  234 

To  ....  Paul  H.  Hayne 397 

Two  Harvests,  Helen  Jackson 784 


BOOK  REVIEWS. 


American  Geographical  Society's  Bulletin  (No.  1)  110 

Bellamy  s  Miss  Ludington's  Sister 413 

Bunner's  Airs  from  Arcady  and  Elsewhere  .     .     .  118 

Craddock's  In  the  Tennessee  Mountains  ....  131 

Crawford's  A  Roman  Singer 421 

Dale's  The  Crime  of  Henry  Vane 417 

Guiney's  Songs  at  the  Start 123 

Hawkins'  Titles  of  the  First  Books  from  the  Ear- 
liest Presses 422 

Jewett's  A  Country  Doctor 418 

Knox's  United  States  Notes 709 

Lodge's  Studies  in  History 271 


Maurice's  Life  of  Frederick  Denison  Maurice    .    .  27C 

Palmer's  The  Odyssey  of  Homer 559 

Phoebe 420 

Robinson's,  A.  Mary  D.  F.,  The  New  Arcadia  and 

Other  Poems       121 

Robinson's,  Phil.,  The  Poet's  Birds 398 

Schliemanu's  Troja         128 

Schuyler's  Peter  the  Great,  Emperor  of  Russia     .  124 

Taylor's,  Bayard,  Life  and  Letters 562 

Tennyson's  The  Cup,  and  The  Falcon 117 

Winthrop's,  Theodore,  Life  and  Poems    ....  120 


CONTRIBUTOR^'  CLUB. 

Afternoon  in  the  Palais  Bourbon,  An,  849 ;  "  All  in  Your  Eye,"  426 ;  Balzac  and  American  Novelists,  717 ;  Bard 
to  his  Maecenas,  A,  572  ;  Bird  Warnings,  715  ,  Case  of  Unlimited  Yarrow,  A,  572  ;  Con  Amore,  282 ;  Contrib- 
utor's View  of  it,  A,  848 ;  Daniel  Webster  Saw  It,  134 ;  Dogs,  281 ;  Eccentricities  of  Conduct,  139  ;  Ethics  of 
Plagiarism,  The,  136  :  Fate  of  Idealists,  The,  573;  First  American  Poet,  The,  282  ;  Following  the  Plow,  138  ; 
Found  :  Venus's  Slipper,  285  ;  Gautier's  Elegie  in  English,  428  ;  Happy  Endings,  134  ;  Letter  "  0,"  The,  135  , 
Literary  Contrast,  A,  426;  Madame  Virot,  570 ;  Making  of  Plays,  The,  136;  New  England  Reformers,  713  ; 
Old  English  Confections  and  Customs,  428  ;  Reminiscences  of  George  Fuller,  424  ;  Three  Sonnets  of  Sully 
Prudhomme,  716 ;  Two  Georges,  The,  853 ;  Wild  Flowers,  854 ;  Wishing  for  To-Morrow,  571 ;  Word  about 
Dictionaries,  A,  428. 

BOOKS  OP  THE  MONTH 141,  286,  430,  575,  719,  856 


\nAE 

•  ' 


•• 


THE 


ATLANTIC    MONTHLY: 


of  Literature, 


VOL.  LIV.—  JULY,  1884.  —  No.  CQCXXL 


CHOY  SUSAN. 


I. 


THE    ADVENT    OF    TEN    MOON. 

LESTER  BALDWIN,  storekeeper  down 
at  Sloan's  Camp,  arrived  one  morning 
at  a  Chinese  fishing-village  on  the  shore 
of  the  wide  Pacific  Ocean,  in  search  of 
a  few  more  hands  for  the  railroad. 

Instead  of  inquiring  for  the  "  bossee 
man  "  of  the  village,  it  was,  strangely 
enough,  a  woman,  Choy  Susan,  to  whom 
he  directed  himself.  Choy  Susan  en- 
joyed in  the  Celestial  community  — 
partly  through  innate  force  of  charac- 
ter, and  partly  as  the  only  one  who  had 
mastered  the  English  speech,  and  thus 
made  herself  of  invaluable  use  in  busi- 
ness dealings  with  the  outside  world  — 

O 

a  position  quite  unusual  with  her  sex. 

For  the  moment  she  was  not  at  home. 
Nor  was  her  partner,  Yuen  Wa,  a  super- 
annuated old  man  whom  she  employed 
to  tend  shop  for  her  during  her  frequent 
absences,  which  often  included  even  bold 
excursions  to  the  fishing-grounds. 

As  the  storekeeper  stood  knocking  at 
her  door,  he  may  be  described  as  a  per- 
son of  lank  figure,  "  sandy-complected," 
as  he  himself  would  have  said,  with  a 
sandy  "goatee,"  and  a  slight  cast  in  one 
eye.  He  Jiad,  when  he  spoke,  a  chron- 
ic huskiness  of  voice.  He  was  known 
to  his  friends  not  at  all  as  Lester,  but 

Yank,"  or  Yankee,  Baldwin. 


A  large  green  parrot,  the  unsociable 
"  Tong,"  hung  out  in  a  wooden  cage  be- 
side the  door,  woke  up,  and  delivered  a 
torrent  of  jargon,  probably  abuse,  in  re- 
sponse to  his  knock. 

"  Quack-a-lee  !  cack-a-lee-lee-ee  !  •  whoo- 
oosh  !  You  're  another,"  returned  Yank 
Baldwin,  in  a  facetious  mood,  by  way  of 
a  reply  in  kind,  and  went  on  further  in 
his  search. 

The  village  had  a  deserted  look  that 
day.  Even  some  doors  which  had  stood 
ajar  on  the  storekeeper's  first  approach 
now  churlishly  closed.  There  was  no 
one  near  the  tawdry  little  out-of-doors 
theatre,  no  one  at  the  fane  of  Hop  Wo  ; 
there  were  no  smooth  polls  being  scraped 
at  the  barber-shop.  A  person  at  the 
smoky  little  cabaret,  with  its  heavy 
wooden  tables,  who  was  engaged  in  pre- 
paring a  confection  of  hog's  fat  and 
sweetmeats  for  the  noonday  meal,  an- 
swered shortly  to  inquiries  only  "  Twel' 
o'clock ! '  and  could  not  be  induced  to 
say  another  word. 

"  I  'd  like  to  wring  "  —  began  Yank 
Baldwin,  upon  this,  indignantly ;  but 
then,  "  Oh,  well,  what 's  the  use  ! " 

He  saw  some  men  at  a  distance,  on 
the  beach,  by  a  smoking  tar-kettle  among 
the  bowlders,  apparently  mending  a  boat. 
He  was  betaking  himself  thither,  and 
had  reached  a  point  where  a  grotesque 
idol,  a.  deity  of  fishermen,  was  squatted 
on  a  flat  rock  among  the  dwellings,  when 


Copyright,  1884,  by  HOUGHTON,  MIFFLIN  &  Co. 


Choy  Susan. 


[July, 


he   heard    himself   hailed:     "Eh,  one 
man !  where  you  go  ? ' 

It  was  Choy  Susan  herself,  who  had 
perhaps  observed  his  quest,  and  now 
came  out,  laying  aside  some  occupation 
in  a  shed  used  for  storage.  She  wad- 
dled towards  him,  her  ample  form  cos- 
tumed in  wide  jacket  and  pantaloons 
of  a  shiny  black  cotton,  men's  gaiters 
on  her  large  feet,  and  a  bunch  of  keys 
dangling  from  her  girdle.  Her  skin 
was  plentifully  marked  with  the  traces 
left  by  small-pox. 

"  Oh,  is  that  you,  Choy  Susan  ?  How 
dy  do  ?  " 

"  How  do  ?  "  replied  Choy  Susan,  se- 
verely. 

"  It 's  a  month  o'  Sundays  since  I  've 
seen  you,  Susan.  I  declare,  it 's  good 
for  weak  eyes  to  set  'em  on  a  fine,  strap- 
pin',  handsome  woman  like  you,  agin." 

"  Too  much  dam'  talkee !  What 
want  ?  "  responded  the  Chinese  woman, 
treating  this  ingratiatory  palaver  with 
brusque  contempt. 

"Well,  we  '11  get  down  to  business 
right  away,  then,  if  you  say  so.  Say ! 
I  want  catchee  about  a  dozen  good 
China  boys  to  go  down  workee  on  rail- 
road, Miller's  division." 

"  No,  can't  catchee  nothin'  here.  Man 
all  gone  flish.  Bimeby,  some  time,  other 
day." 

"  Good  pay !  plenty  eat !  plenty  much 
rice  !  "  said  the  other,  continuing  imper- 
turbably,  and  making  pantomime  of  rais- 
ing food  to  the  mouth  with  both  hands. 
"  I  knew  you  was  the  one  to  come  to. 
Sez  I,  '  If  Choy  Susan  can't  git  'em  for 
us,  nobody  kin.' 

"  Too  much  talkee  !  No,  can't  catchee 
nothing." 

And  she  made  as  if  about  to  bluntly 
conclude  the  interview  and  go  back  to 
her  occupation. 

"  It 's  probably  Easterby  that  would 
want  'em,  if  they  was  wanted,"  appealed 
the  applicant.  "  You  know  Easterby, 
you  know.  He 's  a  white  man." 

"  Mist'  Easte'by  he  a  daisy,"  she  re- 


turned. She  seemed  mollified  at  the 
name,  and  gazed  up  the  street  as  if  now 
more  inclined  to  consider  the  matter. 
This  Easterby,  in  fact,  had  ingratiated 
himself  with  her  of  old  by  some  polite- 
ness or  service,  —  a  way  he  had  with 
people. 

The  village  consisted  of  a  long  main 
street  of  wooden  cabins,  silvered  gray  by 
the  weather,  with  a  motley  cluster,  near- 
er shore,  of  fish-houses,  strange  disman- 
tled boats,  odd  tackles,  and,  above  them, 
frames  of  tall  poles,  along  which  were 
strung  rows  of  fish  to  dry.  The  site 
was  amid  rugged  bowlders,  silvery -gray 
like  the  houses.  Bright  spots  of  color, 
the  patches  of  red  and  yellow  papers 
inscribed  with  hieroglyphics,  a  pennant, 
a  tasseled  glass  lantern,  a  carved  and 
gilded  sign,  scattered  through  it  all, 
might  serve  from  a  distance  as  a  re- 
minder of  the  vivid  spring  wild-flowers, 
now  vanished  from  the  brown,  dry, 
summer  pastures. 

Just  in  the  edge  of  the  expansive  blue 
bay  beneath  lay  at  anchor  the  Chinese 
junk,  the  Good  Success  and  Golden 
Profits,  —  to  transcribe  into  practicable 
form  the  mystic  blazonry  of  her  title 
in  the  original,  —  which  had  come  round 
6n  her  periodic  trip  from  San  Francisco, 
to  gather  up  the  product  of  the  fishing 
industry  and  bring  a  freight  of  salt  and 
empty  barrels.  She  had  discharged  car- 
go, and  all  at  present  was  as  quiet  on 
board  of  her  as  elsewhere. 

"  That 's  right,  now,"  pursued  Yank 
Baldwin,  following  up  his  advantage. 
"  Easterby  's  allers  said  your  bark  was 
worse  than  your  bite." 

Choy  Susan's  bark  was,  in  fact,  worse 
than  her  bite.  She  was  plainly  in  the 
habit  of  being  much  bowed  down  before 
and  deferred  to  ;  and  this,  together  with 
her  practice  of  defending  herself  against 
mockers,  of  whom  she  had  met  with 
many  among  "  Melican"  men,  in  a  long 
experience,  had  given  her  a  manner 
bluff,  masculine,  and  inclining  to  surly 
rudeness.  But  this  was  in  part  a  defense, 


1884.] 


Choy  Susan. 


3 


as  has  been  said ;  and  there  were  mo- 
ments when,  under  her  unsmiling  exte- 
rior, she  almost  seemed  to  appreciate 
the  humor  of  herself. 

She  prided  herself  on  giving  back  to 
mockers  as  good  as  they  sent,  in  their 
own  vernacular.  She  had  learned  her 
English  first  at  the  Stockton  Street 
Mission  at  San  Francisco,  of  which  she 
had  once  been  an  inmate,  and  perfected 
it  at  the  mines  at  Bodie.  Now  Bodie 
was  a  place  where  it  was  charged  that 
they  would  steal  a  red-hot  stove  with  a 
fire  in  it,  and  "  a  bad  man  from  Bodie  ' 
had  passed  into  a  proverb  for  what  was 
lawless  and  terrorizing.  At  this  uni- 
versity she  had  picked  up  a  choice  store 
of  slang  likely  to  be  useful  to  her  in  her 
way  of  life,  together  with  her  half-Eng- 
lish name  and  independent  methods  of 
action  which  made  her  an  awe-inspiring 
figure  before  the  eves  of  her  fellow- 

O  v 

countrymen. 

The  negotiation  for  laborers  had  pro- 
gressed to  about  the  point  indicated 
when  a  prodigious  clattering  of  hoofs 
was  heard  in  the  distance.  On  they 
came,  drawing  nearer,  the  sound  increas- 
ing to  a  phenomenal  racket. 

"  Ger-eat  Scott !  "  cried  Yank  Bald- 
win, pulling  his  hat  down  upon  his  head 
and  running  around  a  corner  to  see 
the  more  clearly,  followed  by  Choy 
Susan. 

A  horseman  came  tearing  into  the 
settlement  like  a  comet  come  ashore. 
It  was  a  Chinaman,  mounted  on  a  small 
roan  steed,  which  snorted,  wheezed, 
kicked,  and  bolted  in  the  most  extraor- 
dinary manner.  The  Chinaman's  loose 
clothing  ballooned  in  the  wind,  his  eyes 
were  starting  from  his  head  in  terror, 
and  at  every  plunge  of  the  animal  he 
bounded  high  from  the  saddle. 

A  stride  or  two  more,  and  they  were 
here  ;  another,  and  they  were  gone  far 
up  the  street. 

A  sudden  population,  now  appearing, 
—  wherever  they  had  been,  —  rushed 
out  and  threw  themselves  in  the  track 


of  the  flying  cavalier,  crying  after  him 
in  tones  of  agonized  entreaty, — 

"  Ten  Moon  !     Ten  Moon  !  " 

"Teii  Moon  I'1  shrieked  the  parrot, 
Tong,  at  Choy  Susan's  door,  in  goblin- 
like  mockery. 

Never,  perhaps,  since  the  days  of  the 
"  fiery  untamed  steed  ':i  of  Mazeppa,  or 
since  Roland  brought  the  good  news  to 
Ghent,  had  equestrian  arrived  anywhere 
in  more  redoubtable  haste  than  this. 

"  Well,  if  it  ain't  Ten  Moon,  cook  o' 
the  Palace  Boardin'  House,  on  my  pony, 
Rattleweed  !  Oho  !  ho  !  ho-o  !  The 
boys  has  put  up  a  job  on  him!'1'  cried 
Yank  Baldwin,  slapping  himself  on  the 
thigh  with  a  coarse  big  hand.  "  A  Chi- 
naman on  horseback  !  "'  he  continued : 
"  that  beats  a  sailor,  and  they  beat  the 
Dutch,"  and  he  doubled  himself  up  in 
convulsions  of  delight. 

Turning  inadvertently  about,  in  his 
amusement,  he  discovered  a  new  figure, 
a  pleasing  young  woman,  standing  be- 
hind him.  He  reported  at  camp  after- 
wards that  he  was  "  dead  gone  on  "  her 
from  the  first  instant.  She  had  come 
quietly  out  of  the  storage  shed,  where 
she  had  been  in  conference  with  Choy 
Susan. 

She  was  attired  in  brown  merino,  with 
several  furbelows  on  the  skirt,  and  at  the 
neck  a  wide  linen  collar  of  fresh  appear- 
ance, and  her  brown  hair  was  neatly 
smoothed.  Her  girlish  face,  of  a  clear 
paleness,  had  the  features  rather  small, 
and  a  somewhat  long  upper  lip  which 
contributed  to  give  her  a  thoughtful  cast. 
She  wore  a  flamboyant  hut,  which  might 
have  been  the  mode  on  the  Eastern  sea- 
board some  years  before.  The  knowing 
in  such  matters  would  have  detected  con- 
siderable trace  of  rusticity,  but  to  Yank 
Baldwin  she  seemed  the  epitome  of  ele- 
gant distinction,  —  a  person  far  beyond 
all  those  he  was  in  the  habit  of  seeing 
in  his  way  of  life.  He  considered  her 
"  high-toned,"  or  "  tony,"  in  the  ex- 
treme ;  and  a  thought  of  infidelity  to 
one  Spanish  Luisa  occurred  to  him. 


CJioy  Susan. 


[July, 


He  immediately  drew  a  long  face,  as 
if  his  mirth  were  not  decorous  before 
the  stranger.  He  threw  out,  by  way  of 
overture  at  conversation,  the  remark,  — 

"  A  pleasant  day  !  ' 

"  Yes,  it  is  a  pleasant  day." 

But  she  gave  him  very  little  heed ; 
her  glance  was  following  with  a  pain- 
ful intensity  the  flying  form  of  Ten 
Moon. 

"  Oh,  he  will  be  hurt ;  he  will  be  killed, 
will  he  not  ? "  she  cried,  clasping  her 
hands  tightly  as  the  rider  disappeared 
brusquely  around  a  turn. 

"  Yes,  I  s'pose  so  ;  that  is,  I  hope  so," 
replied  the  storekeeper  nonchalantly, 
quite  as  if  it  were  a  matter  of  course. 

'The  trio  were  walking  onward  to 
witness  the  end  of  the  adventure,  which 
must  certainly  now  be  near  its  close, 
among  the  narrow  by-ways  of  the  place  ; 
and  Choy  Susan  was  a  little  behind  the 
two. 

"  You  talk  so  about  a  fellow-being  ?  5: 
said  the  young  girl,  turning  upon  him 
indignantly. 

"  Well,  may  be  they  is  feller-bein's. 
I  dunno  but  they  is,"  he  returned,  weak- 
ening under  her  glance,  and  taking  an 
apologetic  tone.  "  I  dunno  's  I  've  got 
anything  so  particular  agin  'em,  if  you 
hain't." 

He  apparently  began  to  admire  the 
spirit  and  originality  of  her  ideas,  as 
well  as  her  good  looks. 

"  The  Chinese  has  got  to  go,  though, 
I  s'pose  ? '  he  suggested  inquiringly. 

"  Well,  that 's  no  reason  for  wanting 
them  all  to  be  fatally  injured  while 
they  're  here." 

But  she  had  a  much  closer  interest 
than  general  benevolence  for  the  race  in 
this,  her  messenger ;  for  her  messenger 
Ten  Moon  was. 

"  What  is  the  matter  with  the  pony, 
and  why  do  they  call  him  Rattleweed  ?  " 
she  now  condescended  to  inquire. 

"  They  've  got  to  call  him  something," 
he  replied,  as  if  this  were  a  full  and 
complete  explanation. 


"  Oh  !  "  was  her  only  comment,  tak- 
ing him  in  his  own  way,  which  pleased 
him  ;  and  before  he  could  begin  the  fur- 
ther explanation  he  intended,  he  was 
suddenly  called  away  to  take  part  in  a 
curious  melee  which  met  their  eyes  in 
front. 

The  fiery  little  animal,  after  circulat- 
ing impatiently  in  various  by-ways,  had 
been  checked  by  rocks  and  fishing  par- 
aphernalia, forming  a  cul-de-sac.  This 
had  given  time  for  assistance  to  come 
up.  Some  had  thrown  their  arms  wild- 
ly about  his  neck  ;  others  had  seized  Ten 
Moon's  legs ;  still  others  endeavored, 
with  ropes,  sticks,  and  poles,  to  snare 
the  fuming  pony  and  throw  him  down. 

Taken  thus  at  a  disadvantage,  Rat- 
tleweed now  at  last  succumbed,  with  a 
certain  expression  of  duty  accomplished. 
He  went  down  amid  great  clamor,  Ten 
Moon  still  in  the  saddle,  and  the  rest 
falling  upon  these  in  a  confused  mass. 

All  emerged  from  this  chaos,  mirac- 
ulous to  say,  with  but  few  bruises  and 
practically  unharmed.  When  Ten  Moon 
had  well  felt  of  his  bones  and  found 
that  none  of  them  were  broken,  he  be- 
gan a  voluble  recital  of  his  story  to  the 
crowd.  The  young  surveyors  down  at 
Sloan's  Camp,  he  said,  had  mounted  him 
on  this  never-to-be-sufficiently-accursed 
animal,  under  pretense  of  kindness,  on 
his  return  from  an  errand  to  that  place. 
The  audience  looked  at  each  other  in 
indignant  disgust,  and  expressed  in  shrill 
tones  their  opinion  of  the  baseness  of 
the  surveyors  aforesaid. 

Choy  Susan,  with  her  air  of  author- 
ity, strode  forward  and  interrupted  this. 
She  touched  the  narrator  on  the  shoul- 
der, took  him  aside,  and  listened  to  a 
report  of  his  mission.  Then  she  re- 
turned to  her  companion,  the  stranger, 
and  reported  in  turn  :  — 

"  Ten  Moon  no  got  answer.  No  could 
find  Mist'  Easte'by.  Easte'by  gone  way 
now,  down  Miller's  Camp.  They  send 
letter  if  he  no  come  back  light  away, 
bimeby,  plitty  click." 


1884.] 


Choy  Susan. 


The  girl  seemed  to  make  an  effort  at 
first  to  repress  strong  feeling ;  then  broke 
out  with  a  despairing  cry,  "  Oh,  what 
shall  I  do  if  he  does  not  get  my  letter 
at  all  ?  " 

The  female  interpreter  and  autocrat 
of  the  Chinese  village  looked  at  her  in 
open  surprise.  An  expression  of  shrewd 
insight  succeeded  this. 

"  You  want  marry  Mist'  Easte'by  ? 
He  you'  beau  ?  *  she  asked  in  a  tone  of 
)lun°  friendliness. 

"  Oh,  Choy  Susan,  my  father  is  go- 
ing to  make  me  marry  another  man  ! 
He  has  gone  down  to  Soledad  now,  to 
bring  him  back  with  him.  When  they 
return,  it  will  have  to  be  done.  My  fa- 
ther is  a  —  a  bishop  of  our  faith,  and 
he  will  marry  us  himself." 

"  Why  you  stay  here,  then  ?  ': 

"  I  got  my  father  to  leave  me  under 
pretense  of  sickness.  I  told  him  I  could 
not  travel  any  further  in  the  jolting 
stage." 

"  So  you  want  see  East'by  ?  " 

"  It  was  by  the  merest  accident  I 
knew  he  was  here.  I  saw  his  name  in  a 
newspaper  as  among  the  surveyors  at 
this  place." 

"  How  you  come  know  he  ?  " 

Choy  Susan  propounded  her  questions 
with  a  dry,  almost  inquisitorial  air. 

"I  used  to  know  him  when  he  was 
surveying  down  at  Lehi,  on  the  Utah 
Central,  and  afterwards  at  Salt  Lake 
City.  It  is  a  very  long  time  since  I 
have  seen  him.  He  used  to  talk  to  me 
about  —  about  —  running  away,  and  go- 
ing to  join  his  mother  and  sisters." 

"  So  you  goin'  run  away,  now  ?  " 

"  Oh,  Choy  Susan,  how  can  I  ?  He 
has  n't  asked  me.  He  does  n't  know  I 
am  here  —  I  don't  want  to  marry  any- 
body  -  -  ever.  I  only  want  somebody  to 
sympathize  with  me  —  to  know." 

She  burst  into  hysterical  sobs,  and 
put  her  handkerchief  to  her  face. 

"  Finding  you  here,  I  —  I  thought  I 
would  get  you  to  take  a  note  to  him," 
she  added  :  "  but  he  will  never  get  it." 


"  Um  ! "  commented  Choy  Susan. 
"  This  new  husbin,  he  Mormin,  too  ? 
Takee  plenty  more  wife,  alle  same  likee 
Chinaman  ?  " 

"  Yes,  he  is  Mormon,  too.  They  would 
not  let  me  marry  any  other.  They 
would  call  it  my  everlasting  perdition. 
He  is  a  relation  of  mine.  I've  onlv 

*/ 

seen  him  once  —  and  he  is  old,  and  — 
and  ugly  —  and  I  hate  him." 

"  No  good  for  woman  to  marry  man 
what  got  plenty  otha  wife,"  said  Choy 
Susan,  with  a  philosophic  and  final  air, 
after  a  pause.  "  My  makee  big  mistake 
myself." 

"  Ah  ?  " 

The  listener  turned  an  attentive  ear 
to  sympathetic  wisdom  even  from  this 
rude  source. 

"  Yes.  You  heap  good  look,  but  heap 
good  look  can  catch  all  same  plenty  bad 
time,"  —  a  way  of  saying,  no  doubt,  that 
beauty  may  be  coupled  with  a  hapless 
fate,  which  we  know  is  true  enough. 
"My  know  how  it  was  myself,"  she 
continued.  "  My  husbin  name  Hop  Lee. 
I  marry  Hop  Lee  when  I  Jesus  girl, 
down  Stockton  Street  Mission.  He 
Jesus  boy,  too." 

"  Oh,  you  were  Christians  ?  " 

"  One  time  ;  not  now.  I  tellee  you. 
Hop  Lee  he  say,  *  You  marry  me  ;  I  got 
heap  big  store,  heap  money.  You  no 
work  sewin'-m'chine ;  you  catch  plenty 
good  time,  plenty  loaf.  I  no  takee  more 
wife.' " 

"  He  promised  you  not  to  marry 
again  ?  ' 

"  He  plomise."  The  speaker  closed 
an  eye  shrewdly ;  then,  reopened  it. 
"  Bimeby  plitty  click  I  get  sick,  small- 
pock.  He  say,  'You  no  good.  Shut 
up  !  I  goin'  bling  otha  wife.'  He  bling 
two  more  wife.  They  beatee  me  ;  make 
work  sewin'-m'chine  all  time,  all  time, 
likee  slave." 

"  Poor  Choy  Susan !  " 

"  So  one  day  I  run  away.  Catch 
money  arid  man  clothes,  catchee  railroad, 
and  come  Salt  Lake." 


Choi/  Susan. 


[July, 


"And  that  was  the  time  when  you 
broke  your  arm,  and  I  met  you  there  ? ': 

"  Yes,  you  helpa  me.  Bimeby  I  go 
Bodie  ;  then  come  here,  get  pardner, 
go  fish,  and  kleep  store." 

"  Arid  what  has  become  of  Hop 
Lee  ?  " 

"He  dead,"  said  Choy  Susan  con- 
temptuously. "  I  pray  Jesus  'ligion 
first  time  makee  Hop  Lee  die,  but  it" 
no  makee  die.  Then  I  pray  Chiua 
'ligion  makee  die,  and  China  'ligion 
makee  die,  and  both  wife  too,  right 
away,  plitty  click.  China  joss  much 
good.  Jesus  'ligion  no  good." 

"  Oh,  no,  you  must  not  say  that ! ' 
expostulated  the  girl ;  but  she  was  soon 
led  back  to  her  own  affair,  to  which  the 
Chinese  interpreter  returned. 

*'  When  your  father  and  other  man 
comin'  back?"  inquired  the  latter. 

"  Inside    of  four   or    five   davs ;  and 

*/         7 

then  it  will  have  to  be  done."  The 
fair  speaker  whimpered  tearfully  again. 

"  Oh,  plenty  much  time  !  plenty  much 
time  !  "  reassuringly.  "  Easte'by  he  get 
letter,  he  come.  You  see  ! ' 

Yank  Baldwin  came  up  and  inter- 
rupted, having  now  rescued  his  eccen- 
tric pony  from  the  chaotic  scramble, 
and  secured  him  in  a  place  of  safety. 

"  Crazy  as  a  bedbug  !  "  he  now  con- 
descended to  explain.  "  He  's  eat  some 
o'  this  here  rattle-weed,  or  loco-weed, 
what  grows  in  the  pastures.  It  gives 
'em  kind  o'  jim-jams.  He  goes  like  that 
every  time  he  starts  out.  Never  knows 
when  to  stop.  He  'd  run  himself  to 
death  if  he  had  room.  Run  away  once 
in  a  paymaster's  wagon,  -with  seven 
tkousand  dollars  under  the  seat.  Was 
out  all  night,  and  found  in  the  woods 
next  mornin',  fast  asleep  on  his  feet." 

His  new  acquaintance  made  a  polite 
pretense  of  listening,  but  was  furtively 
edging  off  at  the  same  time  to  take  her 
departure. 

"  He  '11  go  down,  some  day,  all  of  a 
heap,  like  the  sun  in  the  tropics,"  said 
the  man,  following  her  up.  "There's 


folks  like  that,  too,  —  always  on  the 
dead  jump,  always  burn  in'  the  candle  at 
both  ends.  I  dunno  but  what  I  've  been 
a  good  deal  that  way  myself  'fore  now. 
I  've  been  thinkin',  though,  that  it 's 
'bout  time  for  me  to  settle  down,  and 
get  me  a  good,  spry,  harnsome  wife." 

He  accompanied  this  speech  with  such 
a  glance  of  bold  admiration  that  his 
meaning  was  plainly  evident. 

Yank  Baldwin's  theory  was  that  of 
"  love  at  first  sight,"  and  not  confined 
to  a  special  occasion,  either.  His  stock 
of  devotion  lay  very  near  the  surface, 
and  he  made  prompt  demands  upon  it. 
It  was  told  of  him  that  he  had  once 
proposed  to  a  waiter-girl  at  Frisco  on 
her  bringing  him  his  second  cup  of 
coffee,  and  was  only  distanced  by  a  com- 
panion who  had  already  secured  her  af- 
ter the  first. 

The  stranger  did  not  remain  long  to 
listen  to  his  gallantries,  but  now  tripped 
demurely  away  from  the  hamlet  in  the 
direction  of  the  Palace  Boarding  House, 
at  no  great  distance. 

"  Who  is  she  ?  '  inquired  Baldwin 
sententiously,  looking  after  her. 

"  She  one  o'  them  Mormins,  —  friend 
o'  mine  over  to  Salt  Lake." 

, "  She  ain't  no  Mormon,"  he  said,  in 
strong  incredulity. 

"  She  Mormon^ —  you  hear  me  ?  "  se- 
verely. "  Goin'  marry  man  with  heap 
other  wife  all  same  like  Chinaman." 

"  Go  way  ! '      He  whistled  softly. 

"  You  go  way ! "  returned  Choy  Susan, 
in  her  most  rowdy  manner. 

"  Where  's  she  stoppin'  ?  ':  the  store- 
keeper inquired  again,  after  a  reflec- 
tive pause. 

"  Palace  Boardin'  House." 

"  That 's  where  I  take  my  meals  my- 
self, when  I  'm  here  from  camp.  I  'm 
goin'  there  now." 

He  whistled  several  times  more,  — 
low  whistles  of  peculiar  meaning. 

"  What  was  Ten  Moon  up  to,  down 
to  camp  ?  '  he  asked. 

"  I  guess  he  gone  down  see  China 


1884.] 


Choy  Susan. 


cook  there,"  his  informant  responded 
nonchalantly.  "  He  goiu'  back  China 
day  after  to-morra.  He  take  boat  down 
there,"  pointing  to  the  junk  on  the  bay  ; 
"  then  big  iboat  on  big  water  from 
Frisco." 

With  this  they  returned  again  to  the 
matter  of  the  hands  needed  for  the  rail- 
road. Yank  Baldwin  interrupted  once 
more  in  the  midst  of  it,  however,  as  if 
dismissing,  in  a  final  way,  an  absurd 
idea  that  might  have  flashed  through  his 
>rain. 

"  No  Mormon  in  mine  !     Not  any  ! 
?hat   ain't   what   I  'm    after.     Spanish 
Luisa  's  better  'n  that,  a  mighty  sight." 

It  was  necessary  to  see  Yuen  Wa, 
Choy  Susan's  "  pardner,"  about  the  ne- 
gotiation. He  had  been  a  contractor 
for  labor  in  his  time,  and  still  kept, 
more  or  less,  the  run  of  such  matters. 
He  was  found  at  his  place  now  in  the 
stuffy  little  shop,  full  of  curious  budgets, 
specimens  of  the  fine  large  avallonia 
shells  found  on  the  beach,  dried  avallo- 
nia meats  and  dried  goose  livers,  opium 
pipes,  sticks  of  India  ink,  silver  jewelry, 
and  packets  of  face  powder.  He  sat 
behind  the  counter,  a  wizened  little  old 
man,  with  a  thin,  piping  voice,  reticent 
of  speech,  and  more  like  one  of  his  own 
idols  than  anything  else.  It  was  easy 
to  see  that  he  was  a  person  of  minor 
importance  as  compared  with  his  more 
vigorous  feminine  associate. 

"  All  our  available  labor,"  explained 
Yuen  Wa  in  substance,  "  will  be  needed 
to-morrow  and  the  day  after  for  getting 
the  Good  Success  and  Golden  Profits  off 
to  sea.  After  that,  I  must  tell  you, 
we  begin  a  season  of  'good'  days,  a  fes- 
tival of  a  week  or  so,  when  nobody  will 
work  at  anything.  But  after  that  "  — 

"Never  mind,"  replied  Yank  Bald- 
win. "  I  '11  go  over  and  see  them  Eye- 
talians  at  Monterey.  May  be  I  kin  get 
enough  o'  them.  If  I  can't,  I  '11  come 
and  see  you  again.  And  may  be  they 
won't  be  needed  at  all.  It 's  kinder  on- 
sartain." 


Upon  that  he  was  going  away,  when 
the  Chinese  woman  picked  up  from  the 
top  of  a  box  in  a  corner  a  couple  of 
small  English  volumes. 

"  B'long  to  she,"  she  said.  "  Leavee 
here  when  she  come  see  me,  yest'd'y,  I 
guess." 

"  Whose?  Hern  ?"  said  Yank  Bald- 
win, standing  beside  her  as  she  opened 
them.  "  I  'm  goiii'  back  that  way.  1  '11 
give  'em  to  her,"  and  he  took,  almost 
snatched,  them  from  her. 

One  was  a  book  of  theological  doc- 
trine of  the  church  of  Mormon,  or  Lat- 
ter-Day Saints ;  the  other,  a  novel,  of 
peculiarly  affecting  and  tender  love  pas- 
sages. In  the  former  was  inscribed,  in 
a  prim,  small,  girlish  hand,  a  name  — 
probably  that  of  the  owner  —  in  full,  as 
thus  :  Marcella  Eudora  Gilham,  Deseret 
University,  Salt  Lake  City.  Under  it 
was  a  date  of  about  three  years  earlier, 
when  she  had  no  doubt  been  attendant 
upon  that  institution. 

Chosen  passages  of  doctrine  were 
heavily  underscored  with  pencil,  as  if 
they  had  been  the  subject  of  peculiar 
wrestling  and  study,  or  perhaps,  again, 
in  triumphant  recognition  of  their  force 
against  error. 

Yank  Baldwin  turned  these  volumes 
musingly,  as  he  went  along,  —  more 
than  once  nearly  coming  to  grief  over 
obstructions  on  the  road,  —  and  whistled 
softly  to  himself  a  great  many  times. 


II. 


THE  PALACE  BOARDING  HOUSE. 

The  Palace  Boarding  House  had  once 
been  an  inn.  It  enjoyed  a  slight  re- 
vival of  prosperity  at  present  from  the 
recent  burning  down  of  the  only  hotel 
in  the  American  town  of  Monterey,  ad- 
joining on  the  one  hand,  as  did  the  Chi- 
nese village  on  the  other.  It  lay  at  the 
intersection  of  cross-roads,  leading  up 
and  down  the  coast  and  back  into  the 


8 


CJioy  Susan. 


[July, 


country.  Behind  it  were  great  dusky 
woods  of  a  moss-hung  pine  and  cypress 
peculiar  to  the  place,  and  in  front  was 
the  sea,  palisaded  by  high  cliffs. 

The  building  was  a  large  shingle  edi- 
fice, in  but  shabby  repair.  Its  title  was 
not  borne  out  by  the  facts,  but  was  only 
a  tribute  from  the  florid  imagination  of 
the  place. 

At  a  corner  of  the  shabby  veranda 
creaked  a  signboard,  reading 


PALACE  BOARDING   HOUSE, 

SQUARE  MEALS,  $1.00. 
BY  MRS.  JANE  McCURDY. 


Some  hens  were  scratching  about  the 
sterile  door-yard,  and  a  colt,  his  head 
triced  up  in  a  breaking-bridle,  was  wan- 
dering there,  with  a  portentous  air  of 
feeling  the  indignity  of  his  situation. 

Yank  Baldwin  was  late  at  dinner, 
and  it  happened  that  his  new  acquaint- 
ance, Miss  Marcella  Eudora  Gilham, 
was  the  only  guest  with  him  at  table. 
He  was  so  impressed  anew  that  he  for- 
got for  some  time  to  give  her  back  her 
books.  He  paused  at  times  with  his 
fork  half  raised  to  his  mouth,  in  admira- 
tion. She  had  made  some  little  new 
adjustments  to  her  toilette.  Her  hair 
was  smoother  than  before.  He  con- 
trasted her  with  the  somewhat  frowzy 
style  of  Spanish  Luisa,  of  Monterey  ; 
and  though  the  raven  tresses,  the  heavy 
brows,  and  the  soft  and  melting  mouth 
of  this  latter  were  of  genuine  attraction, 
he  felt  the  contrast  as  most  unfavorable 
to  her  memory. 

Finally  he  bethought  him  of  the  re- 
covered books,  and  made  various  other 
ingratiating  advances,  but  without  nota- 
ble success. 

,"  If  she  wa'n't  Mormon,  I  don't  s'pose 
I  could  expect  her  to  look  at  the  same 
side  o'  the  road  I  was  on,"  he  thought. 

7  O 

Mrs.  Jane  McCurdy,  the  landlady, 
now  came  in  from  her  labors  in  the 
kitchen  to  her  own  dinner. 


"  Mr.  Bald'in,  he 's  connected  with 
the  new  railroad,"  she  said  to  Marcella, 
by  way  of  aiding  to  bring  about  a  so- 
ciable feeling  between  the  two. 

"  My  son,  he  's  allers  fullered  firin', 
on  the  railroad,  too,  or  else  teamin',  one. 
I  dunno  just  what  is  become  of  him 
now,"  she  continued,  foraging  about  and 
making  judicious  selections  among  the 
lukewarm  viands. 

It  seemed  as  if  Marcella  regarded  the 
storekeeper  with  an  increase  of  interest 
after  this.  She  took  a  certain  medita- 
tive way  of  looking  at  him,  and  talked 
amiably  on  general  topics. 

"  Somebody  was  sayin'  she  was  a 
Mormon,"  suggested  Yank  Baldwin  to 
the  landlady,  when  the  girl  had  left  the 
room. 

"  I  expect  she  is,"  sighed  that  hard- 
worked  woman  in  a  weary  way. 

"  Josephite,  then,  most  likely  ?  I  've 
seen  Josephites  down  San  Barnardino 
way.  They  ain't  no  great  different  from 
other  folks." 

"  No,  I  expect  she 's  one  o'  the  reglar 
uns." 

"  Not  solid  Mormon  ?  " 

"  Solid,"  said  Mrs.  McCurdy,  shutting 
out  the  last  ray  of  hope,  as  she  peeled 
a*  cold  boiled  potato. 

Yank  Baldwin  groaned  mentally. 

"  Her  father,  he 's  a  kind  o'  bishop, 
or  apostle,  among 'em,  I  guess,"  went  on 
the  landlady  in  a  gossiping  way  ;  "  round 
this  way  to  visit  among  the  brethren  and 
dp  a  stroke  o'  business  too  in  introducin' 
goods.  I  see  his  cards  with  Zion's  Co- 
oppyrative  Bazaar  on  'em,  and  a  pile  o' 
tracts  on  religion,  in  his  room.  They 
went  over  to  sell  some  things  to  the 
China  stores  the  day  they  came,  and  the 
girl  run  acrost  Choy  Susan,  who,  it 
'pears,  she  knew  of  old." 

«  So  I  hear." 

"  There  's  a  kind  o'  scatterin'  of  the 
brethren  round  through  here,  I  under- 
stan',  on  account  o'  some  bein'  left  after 
the  Mexikin  war,  and  they  're  formin' 
new  settlements,  too.  They  say  they  're 


1884.] 


Choy  Susan. 


a-goiii'  to  settle  all  over  everything  after 
a  while." 

«  Sho  !  "  said  Yank  Baldwin. 

"  I  've  had  consid'rable  many  of  'em 
stop  with  me.  Fact  is,  I  had  a  sister 
among  'em  oncet.  They  roped  her  in, 
some  way,  down  in  Illinois,  in  early 
times.  She  used  to  see  hull  quires  of 
augils  ;  I  dunno  but  what  't  was  reams." 

"  Well,  how  's  business  ?  '  inquired 
the  storekeeper,  affecting  a  brisk  air  as 
he  put  on  his  wide  slouch  hat,  after  fin- 
ishing his  meal. 

"  You  know  of  any  good  China 
cook  ?  '  returned  the  landlady,  answer- 
ing this  question  with  another.  '  Ten 
Moon,  he  's  goin'  away,  goin'  back  to  his 
own  country,  and  I  've  got  to  have  some- 
body else.  Them  camp-meetin'  folks  '11 
be  down  this  way,  too,  pretty  quick,  to 
open  up  at  Pacific  Grove,  and  that  allers 
makes  consid'rable  extra  eatin'.  Rev. 
Samyil  Snow  has  writ.  He  giu'rally 
writes  to  let  me  know  they  're  comin'." 

"  You  better  hustle  round  lively, 
then,"  said  Baldwin.  "  The  head  o'  con- 
struction 's  goin'  to  be  moved  up  this 
way,  from  Sloan's  Camp.  I  should  n't 
wonder  if  we  started  in  three  or  four 
days.  That  '11  make  more  square  meals 
for  you." 

Marcella  Gilham  was  waiting  for  him 
on  the  veranda,  as  he  came  out.  She 
talked  awhile  on  general  matters  ;  then 
asked  as  if  by  the  way,  — 

"  Oh,  are  you  acquainted  with  a 
young  man  on  the  railroad  named  Ru- 
fus  D.  Easterby  ?  " 

"  What,  Rufe  1  Rufus  D  ?  I  should 
say  so." 

"  He  is  a  chain-man,  with  the  survey- 
ors." 

"  He  ain't  no  chain-man  now.  He  's 
got  to  be  transit-man  now,  at  seventy- 
live  dollars  a  month  and  found.  Picked 
it  up  himself.  Picks  up  everything. 
You  know  him?  " 

'  I  have  met  him,"  she  replied  eva- 
sively. 

;  Well,  you  've  met  a  bang-up  smart 


feller,  and  a  good  un,  —  that  's  all  I  've 
got  to  say.  He  's  bound  to  be  division 
engineer  himself  'fore  a  great  while,  is 
Rufus." 

"  If  you  happen  to  see  him,  perhaps 
you  will  mention  that  you  have  seen  me 
here." 

"  O'  course  I  will ;  o'  course  I  '11  men- 
tion it.  He  often  comes  into  my  tent  of 
an  evening  and  chins.  He 's  give  me 
advice  more  'n  once  that  I  've  follered 
out  and  made  money  on  it." 

Marcella  was  very  gracious,  at  consid- 
erable length,  to  the  storekeeper.  As 
he  mounted  to  ride  off  she  said,  — 

u  I  hope  I  shall  have  the  pleasure  of 
seeing  you  again." 

Then  she  turned  away,  and  said  to 
herself  mournfully,  "  If  I  have  made 
a  sufficiently  good  impression,  and  the 
letter  should  miscarry,  this  man  may 
still  bring  me  news  of  him." 

"  Well,  be  good  to  yourself ! '  said 
Yank  Baldwin,  galloping  away  on  his 
queer  pony,  who  had  no  terrors  for 
him.  He  was  immensely  flattered  by  her 
favor. 

"  Hopes  she  '11  have  the  pleasure  o' 
seem'  me  again,  does  she  ? "'  he  solilo- 
quized. "  Pity,  her  bein'  a  Mormon. 
Should  n't  wonder,  now,  if  I  could  con- 
vert that  there  girl  over,  if  I  was  a  mind 
to,  as  easy  as  rollin'  off  a  log." 

He  repeated  many  times  more  in  the 
course  of  that  evening,  "  Pity,  her  bein' 
Mormon,  ain't  it  ?  ':  together  with  the 
reflection  about  converting  her.  Con- 
verting her  to  what  ?  Yank  Baldwin's 
own  theological  convictions  would  have 
been  extremely  hard  to  determine. 

He  wandered  in  an  aimless  way  about 
his  store,  where  he  had  a  stock  of  over- 
alls, cowhide  boots,  blankets,  tin  cups, 
powder  and  shot,  kerosene,  and  bags  of 
meal  and  potatoes,  distributed  on  the 
ground  and  upon  a  rude  counter  and 
shelves.  The  usual  visitors  came  in, 
and  sat  around  a  barrel  in  the  centre. 

The  inspiration  suddenly  took  him 
that  he  might  as  well  move  his  store  on 


10 


Choy  Susan. 


[July, 


the  morrow,  and  not  wait.  He  should 
be  near  her  and  would  have  leisure  in 
the  few  days  before  the  rest  of  the  camp 
should  follow  to  amply  cultivate  her  ac- 
quaintance. Some  Indians,  a  mongrel, 
beggarly  set  of  the  neighborhood,  came 
in  to  buy  stove-blacking.  They  were 
using  it  now  as  a  choice  article  of  face- 
paint;  and  the  transaction,  almost  the 
only  one  of  the  evening,  completed  his 
readiness  to  go. 

"  No  use  o'  stayin'  here ;  there  ain't 
no  business  doin',"  he  said,  addressing 
a  couple  of  young  fellows  who  had 
hauled  supplies  into  camp,  and  had  a 
team  there  vacant.  "  Say,  young  roos- 
ters !  what  '11  you  take,  to  move  me 
and  fixtures  complete  up  to  the  new 
place,  right  away  to-morrer  ?  " 

The  teamsters  thus  addressed  named 
a  price. 

"  You  don't  want  the  job"  he  said 
curtly,  upon  hearing  it. 

"  The  feed  of  the  horses  will  cost  so 
much,"  they  argued. 

"  No  livin'  horses  can  eat  so  much," 
he  returned. 

"  The  tent  alone  will  make  one  load." 

"  No,  it  won't  make  not  half  a  load." 

"It  will  take  a  couple  of  days  to 
do  it." 

"  Why,  you  '11  have  it  all  done  by  to- 
morrer  noon." 

The  "  young  roosters  *  united  in  a 
cry  of  indignation. 

"  Oh,  I  mean  if  you  work,''  said  the 
storekeeper  contemptuously ;  "  and  when 
I  say  work,  I  don't  mean  dawdlin'  and 
goin'  to  sleep  over  it,  the  way  you  do 
for  the  railroad,  either." 

The  spectators  took  sides  for  and 
against  in  the  argument.  The  teamsters 
went  outside  the  tent  and  laid  their 
heads  together  confidentially,  and  re- 
turned with  a  new  price.  This  in  its 
turn  was  rejected,  and  the  negotiation 
seemed  wholly  at  an  end. 

"  Well,  I  '11  raise  you  the  five  dollars," 
said  Yank  Baldwin  finally,  infusing  as 
much  superciliousness  as  possible  into 


his  tone.  "  But  see  you  get  started  at 
daybreak,  d'  ye  understand  ?  And  don't 
you  forget  it ! ' 

He  felt  that  feminine  influence  —  and 
not  for  the  first  time,  either  —  had  dis- 
abled him  in  a  business  transaction 
which,  if  left  unbiased,  he  should  have 
brought  to  a  much  more  advantageous 
issue. 

Marcella  hovered  near,  on  his  arrival 
at  the  new  site  with  his  second  load  of 
effects,  and  spoke  with  him.  As  he  vol- 
unteered nothing  about  Easterby,  she 
came  to  the  point  directly. 

"  No,  I  hain't  seen  him,"  said  the 
new-comer.  "  Fact  is,  he  's  off  some- 
wheres.  I  guess  he  '11  be  back  'fore  a 
great  while.  A  letter  came  for  him 
yest'd'y,  too,  and  is  waitin'  for  him,  un- 
less they  've  sent  it  on." 

The  girl  turned  away  to  hide  her  de- 
spair. 

Whether  aroused  by  the  movement 
of  its  storekeeper  or  not,  it  is  certain 
that  the  whole  of  Sloan's  Camp  also 
got  in  motion  that  day,  in  advance  of  its 
original  intention.  By  nightfall  a  num- 
ber of  tents  were  pitched,  and  the  head 
of  construction  was  definitely  trans- 
ferred to  the  new  location. 

^t  was  a  charming  little  steep  valley, 
traversed  by  a  brook,  amid  embowering 
woods.  The  rattle  of  the  powder  blasts 
in  the  adjoining  canyon  already  began 
to  resound  there,  as  the  new  railroad 
came  rapidly  on. 

Yank  Baldwin,  as  soon  as  installed, 
began  his  court  to  Marcella.  He  invited 
her  down  to  camp  after  supper,  to  wit- 
ness the  moons  of  Jupiter  (said  to  be  of 
a  notable  clearness  just  then)  through 
the  glass  of  the  surveyors'  transit.  She 
accepted,  taking  Mrs.  McCurdy,  how- 
ever, for  fuller  companionship.  Bald- 
win had  brought  her  no  news  that  day ; 
perhaps  she  might  happen  upon  some  at 
camp.  Perhaps,  even,  —  but  that  was 
too  good  to  be  true,  —  Easterby  might 
have  arrived  himself. 

The   tents   glowed   translucent,   like 


1884.] 


Choy  Susan. 


11 


large  lanterns,  in  the  dusk  ;  the  noise 
of  the  clear  brook  smote  musically  on 
the  ear  ;  the  stars  peeped  over  the  mar- 
gin of  the  valley,  and  Jupiter  was  in 
fact  exceptionally  brilliant.  The  engi- 
neer, the  rod-man,  the  two  chain-men, 
the  axe-man,  and  others  had  come,  and 
there  was  a  very  polite  man  temporarily 
in  charge  of  the  transit  instrument. 
But  Easterby  had  -not  arrived,  nor  did 
the  timid  inquiries  which  alone  the  vis- 
itor dared  propound  bring  definite  in- 
formation about  him,  if  indeed  there 
Were  any  to  be  had. 

She  bore  up,  however.  On  the  return 
she  artfully  drew  out  Yank  Baldwin  on 
the  subject  of  railroad  constructors  and 
their  habits,  and  especially  on  survey- 
ors. 

"  Are  they  usually  married  ? "  she 
inquired.  "  Is  Mr.  Easterby,  for  in- 
stance ?  " 

"  If  not,  have  they  often  —  sweet- 
hearts ?  Has  Easterby  ?  " 

u  I  should  n't  wonder  if  he  'd  been  in 
love  afore  now,  or  may  be  is  yet,"  ex- 
plained her  informant,  "  in  some  such 
way  as  to  take  his  mind  off  the  girls. 
I  've  kinder  thought  so.  He  don't  take 
no  shine  to  'em  at  all.  —  Why  ?  Was 
you  particular  interested  in  him?"  he 
broke  off  sharply,  perhaps  inspired  with 
a  sudden  suspicion. 

"  Oh,  not  at  all.  I  —  only  it  is  easier 
to  talk  about  some  one  we  both  know  ; 
that  is  all." 

The  storekeeper  even  ventured  into 
the  "  settin'-room  "  of  the  Palace  Board- 
ing House,  though  not  greatly  at  home 
in  such  places,  and  the  interview  was 
prolonged.  The  session  there  that  night 
was  later  than  usual.  Ten  Moon,  the 
departing  cook,  was  to  "set  a  table  to 
the  devil  "  for  a  favorable  journey,  and 
there  was  a  desire  on  the  part  of  some 
to  witness  it.  The  table  was  in  fact 
set  out,  with  the  proper  allowance  of 
rice,  rice-brandy,  roast  fowl,  and  sweet- 
meats. 

Marcella,  meantime,  whether  through 


desire  for  distraction  in  her  anxieties, 
or  to  continue  the  chance  of  new  dis- 
coveries, brought  forth  a  photograph  al- 
bum to  show  her  visitor. 

"  My  brother,  —  my  sister,"  she  said, 
gravely  pointing  out  in  it  one  young  face 
after  another,  with  much  dissimilarity 
of  looks. 

"  Large  fambly  !  "'  commented  Yank 
Baldwin  dryly. 

He  was  burning  to  accost  the  subject 
of  her  creed,  and  make  a  beginning  of 
the  conversion  which  he  believed  his 
personal  influence  would  render  so  easy. 

She  let  fall  inadvertently  some  ex- 
pression about  the  "  celestial  marriage." 
This  was  his  opportunity. 

"  Celestyil  humbug ! "  he  broke  out. 
"  You  ain't  one  o'  them  that  believes  in 
lettin'  a  husband  have  'bout  forty-'leven 
other  wives,  are  you  ? ' 

The  girl  sighed  heavily. 

"  You  ought  to  tie  up  to  some  good, 
strong,  likely  feller  that  'ud  look  out  for 
you,  and  nobody  else,"  he  continued. 

Marcella  Eudora  Gilham  sighed  more 
heavily  than  before.  The  strange  thing 
was  that  she  showed  no  resentment. 

"  What  does  it  sav  in  these  here  nov- 

V  • 

ils  ? "  bringing  his  hand  down  on  the 
one  he  ha'd  returned  to  her  the  day  be- 
fore. "  Why,  they  show  just  two,  and 
no  more,  a-lovin'  each  other  for  keeps ; 
a-stickin'  to  each  other  through  thick 
and  thin,  and  nobody  else ;  a-havin'  no 
end  o'  trouble,  but  comin'  out  all  right 
in  the  wind-up." 

Marcella  looked  at  the  book ;  then 
took  it  up  herself,  affectionately,  as  if 
mindful  of  certain  passages  that  may 
have  been  an  influence  in  her  life.  But 
she  said,  — 

"  I  suppose  I  ought  not  to  read  nov- 
els. Our  Book  of  Nephi  calls  them 
4  the  vain  imaginations  and  pride  of  the 
children  of  men.' : 

"  Book  of  "  —  began  her  exhorter  in 
disgust.  "  Well,  I  can't  say  I  've  seen 
much  o'  your  kind  o'  folks  myself,  but 
I  know  all  about  'em  from  Rufe  East- 


12 


Choy  Susan. 


[July, 


erby.  He  's  ben  there  and  seen  the 
whole  thing.  He  says  the  women  is  the 
wust." 

"  Did  he  say  that  ?  "  exclaimed  Mar- 
cella,  starting  now  with  warm  indigna- 
tion. 

"  He  says  they  're  the  biggest  fools 
that  ever  was  heard  of,"  pursued  Yank 
Baldwin  imperturbably.  His  best  point 
was  not  refinement,  either  of  argument 
or  of  speech.  "  The  head  men  preaches 
to  'em  that  it 's  their  duty  to  git  their 
own  livin' ;  and  they  take  it  all  in,  and 
grub  their  fingers  off.  The  thing  can 
be  run  ad  liberty  that  way,  without  its 
costin'  the  men  a  cent." 

Perhaps  there  reechoed  through  the 
listener's  brain  at  this  point  the  sonorous 
words  of  sermons  she  had  heard  preached 
in  the  Tabernacle  : 

"  In  that  day  seven  women  will  plead 
with  one  man  to  take  them  as  wives, 
promising  to  eat  their  own  bread  and 
wear  their  own  apparel,  if  he  will  only 
consent  for  them  to  be  called  by  his 
name." 

"  The  women  even  makes  the  men 
take  more  wives  when  they  was  n't 
goin'  to,"  continued  Yank  Baldwin. 
"  The  poor  benighted  creeturs  thinks  all 
hands  '11  git  a  higher  place  in  heaven. 
Oh,  they  're  too  cute  for  anything,  them 
sly  old  Mormon  foxes  !  " 

With  this  onslaught  Yank  Baldwin 
was  about  to  depart  in  triumph,  consid- 
ering that  the  successful  end  of  his  cru- 
sade could  not  now  be  far  distant;  but 
Marcella  let  fall  an  inoffensive-seeming 
remark,  which  checked  him  in  full  ca- 
reer. 

"  The  greatest  men  of  ancient  times," 
she  said, "those  of  the  Bible,  had  many 
wives  at  once." 

"  They  did  n't  ?  " 

She  brought  him  the  Scriptures,  and 
showed  him  the  cases  of  Abraham, 
Jacob,  David,  and  other  of  the  famous 
polyga  mists. 

It  was  news  to  Yank  Baldwin,  as 
very  much  more  in  the  sacred  books 


would  also  have  been.  He  felt  him- 
self getting  beyond  his  depth,  and  went 
off  in  a  dazed  way.  He  recalled  clearly, 
however,  how  charmingly  the  color  came 
and  went  in  her  complexion  as  they 
argued.  Dusky  Spanish  Luisa,  of  the 
raven  hair  and  melting  mouth,  had  van- 
ished completely  out  of  sight. 

"  May  be  Mormon  ain't  no  such  great 
difference  from  Spanish,  any  way,"  he 
mused,  making  provision  in  case  that 
the  conversion  might  not  succeed.  "  I 
s'pose  it  could  n't  do  any  great  hurt, 
her  belongin'  to  'em." 


III. 

THE    SAILING    OF    THE    GOOD    SUCCESS 
AND    GOLDEN   PROFITS. 

As  there  was  no  news  for  the  Mor- 
mon girl  from  any  source,  on  the  fol- 
lowing morning,  and  the  time  for  action 
upon  her  impending  fate  was  growing 
perilously  short,  she  could  not  forbear 
approaching  the  storekeeper  on  the  sub- 
ject of  Easterby  again. 

"  The  fact  is,"  now  said  this  person, 
"  he 's  ben  sent  down  the  line  to  stave 
ofi>  a  strike  among  some  Mexican  labor- 
ers, and  I  ben  seein'  if  I  could  help  git 
some  extry  hands  here  in  case  they  was 
needed.  They  may  strike,  and  may  not. 
It 's  a  secret,  and  we  did  n't  want  noth- 
in'  said  about  it  till  we  see  how  it 
was  all  a-comin'  out." 

"  And  why  was  he  sent  ?  He  is  a 
surveyor." 

"  Well,  he 's  picked  up  their  lingo 
some  way,  and  he's  got  a  takin'  way 
with  him.  If  he  could  n't  do  it,  nobody 
could." 

She  hurried  with  this  statement  to 
Choy  Susan,  in  the  Chinese  village. 
She  was  in  utter  despair,  believing  now 
that  Easterby  would  not  come  at  all, 
would  not  be  found.  And  even  if  he 
were  found,  what  would  he  think  of 
her?  Oh,  surely,  now  nothing  could 


1884.] 


Choy  Susan. 


13 


be  done !  The  Chinawoman  tried  again 
to  comfort  her. 

"  You  got  more  money  ?  '  she  said. 
"  Ten  Moon  no  can  go,  but  send  one 
more  time  messagy,  and  bling  light 
away  back." 

"  Oh,  Choy  Susan,  I  have  no  more 
money,"  and  she  let  her  hand  fall  help- 
lessly on  her  pocket. 

"  All  lite ! ':  said  Choy  Susan,  and 
she  summoned  Qum  Tock,  a  bright,  in- 
telligent boy,  swift  of  foot,  and  sent  him 
off  on  her  own  account,  with  instruc- 
tions to  find  Rufus  Easterby  at  all  haz- 
ards, and  bring  him  back  if  it  were  a 
possible  thing.  The  boy's  employer, 
Mow  the  emblem-maker,  came  present- 
ly to  complain  on  account  of  the  boy's 
being  taken  from  his  work ;  but  Choy 
Susan  opened  her  batteries  of  invective 
upon  him  with  excellent  effect,  using 
English  for  the  greater  impressiveness. 

"Shut  up!"  she  said.  "Git  out! 
Hire  some  hall !  Don't  you  forget 
how  ! "  Upon  which  Mow  the  emblem- 
maker  retired,  totally  discomfited. 

Yank  Baldwin  came  to  Choy  Susan 
the  same  morning,  to  ask  her  "  to  speak 
a  good  word '  for  him  with  Marcella. 
This  point  had  he  now  reached  in  his 
going  away,  as  it  were,  after  the  woman 
of  Moab.  He  offered  a  considerable  re- 
ward if  he  should  succeed  by  her  aid. 
She  showed  no  great  surprise  at  the 
proposition. 

"  All  lite  ! '  she  answered ;  "  but  you 
plomise  me  you  say  nothin'  'bout  to 
she  till  I  fix.  See  ?  " 

To  this  he  assented.  He  fervently 
met  once  more  Marcella  herself.  She 
was  wandering  disconsolately  on  the 
cliffs,  and  he  joined  her.  They  sat 
a  while  at  a  charming  point  where  old 
trees  of  gnarled  roots  gripped  the  rock, 
and  the  spray  dashed  up  into  the  air 
from  curious  caverns  below.  Thence 
they  went  down  to  the  beach.  There 
were  curious  large  shells,  one  seaweed 
red  as  coral,  and  another  of  a  single  long 
smooth  stem,  coiled  like  a  huge  whip  or 


serpent.  Gulls  and  pelicans  hovered 
above  a  neighboring  reef  in  chattering 
conventions. 

In  front  the  blue  water  of  the  bay 
stretched  out  to  meet  the  illimitable 
ocean.  Across  it  came  a  sail-boat  from 
the  direction  of  Santa  Cruz.  Looking 
towards  the  Chinese  village,  they  could 
see  that  the  junk,  lately  arrived,  was  no 
longer  moored  off  shore,  but  had  drawn 
up  alongside  a  small  pier,  and  was  the 
centre  of  an  active  bustle  of  departure. 

Yank  Baldwin  adhered  in  the  main 
to  his  agreement  with  Choy  Susan.  He 
could  not  forbear  throwing  in,  however, 
some  few  words  concerning  himself  and 
prospects  by  way  of  commending  him- 
self to  favor. 

"  There  's  other  bisnisses  I  could  go 
into,  if  I  was  a  mind  to,  more  settled 
down  like,"  he  said.  "  I  've  sometimes 
thought  o'  startin'  a  fruit  drier  and  can- 
nery. There 's  big  money  in  it.  Or  I 
would  n't  wonder  if  I  could  even  pick 
up  surveying  if  that  was  wanted,  same 
as  Easterby.  There 's  your  thermomy- 
ter  for  takin'  levils,  and  so  on ;  then 
you  have  your  baromyter  for  seein'  how 
hot  it  is,  you  know." 

Marcella  showed  no  great  interest  in 
this.  She  was  feverishly  excited ;  in 
need  of  movement,  distraction,  forget- 
fulness.  She  wished  to  go  back  to  the 
Chinese  village,  to  witness  the  sailing 
of  the  junk.  Her  cavalier  wondered  at 
her  taste,  but  offered  her  such  explana- 
tions of  things  there  as  he  could ;  few  of 
them,  it  is  to  be  feared,  accurate,  and 
none  of  them  free  from  race  prejudice. 

"  It 's  no  place  for  a  feller  to  saloon 
his  girl,"  said  he,  in  contempt.  "  I 
don't  see  what 's  the  use  o'  comiu'." 

There  was  a  plentiful  population 
abroad  now.  Many  had  stayed  at  home 
from  the  fishing-grounds,  and  chosen  to 
begin,  with  the  day,  the  festal  season 
opening  on  the  morrow.  It  was  a  time 
favorable  for  trade,  and  the  merchants 
burned  in  their  interiors  old  clothes  and 
mock  money,  to  bring  custom  and  keep 


14 


Choy  Susan. 


[July, 


away  that  class  of  shoppers  who  come 
only  to  price  things,  and  not  to  buy. 

A  moral  drama  would  be  begun  at 
the  little  theatre  that  evening.  The 
fane  of  Hop  Wo  —  to  which  an  inscrip- 
tion, for  the  benefit  of  strangers,  di- 
rected, «  By  This  Way  Go  Up  Stairs  " 
—  was  freshly  adorned.  The  deity  Tien 
How,  propitious  to  sailors,  was  set  out 
upon  the  flat  bowlder  in  place  of  the 
usual  joss,  and  a  pig,  roasted  whole  and 
adorned  with  ribbons  and  gilt  papers, 
lay  before  her.  In  the  restaurant,  dusky 
with  smoke,  games  of  dominoes,  fan-tan, 
and  blowing  the  fist  were  in  progress. 

"Yet/'  (one)  cried  the  players  in 
this  latter,  shrilly,  throwing  out  fingers 
to  correspond.  "  Two  !  "  "  Three  !  " 
"  Four  !  "  "  Eng  !  "  «  Look  !  "  "  Tdk!  " 
"  What !  !  "  "  Gue  !  !  !  "  "  Skip  /  !  !  /  " 

They  rose  in  the  end  to  a  climax  of 
uproar  that  drowned  for  the  moment 
the  monotonous  whine  of  Ah  Wai's  fid- 
dle and  the  clack  of  Chin  Moy's  ebony 
sticks  on  an  ebony  block. 

Our  couple  came  to  where  the  school- 
master was  teaching  some  school-chil- 
dren to  kow-tow  decorously  before  Tien 
How.  The  quaint,  doll-like  figures,  in 
swaddling-robes  of  green,  red,  and  yel- 
low, put  their  small  hands  together  and 
bowed  till  their  foreheads  well-nigh 
touched  the  ground.  The  school-master, 
a  man  not  without  courtliness,  smiled 
benevolently  at  our  friends,  and  expend- 
ed upon  them  his  only  English  speech, 
"  Good-by !  " 

Choy  Susan  came  by,  and  explained 
to  them,  in  substance,  —  stopping  as 
she  bustled  down  to  the  junk,  for  she 
was  one  of  the  most  active  with  bills  of 
lading  and  the  like  in  preparing  it  for 
sea,  —  that  he  was  a  person  rather  above 
his  station  here.  He  was  one  who  said 
philosophically,  — 

"  It  is  better  to  be  honored  among 
the  small  than  despised  among  the 
great." 

She  might  have  told,  too,  how  he  had 
in  his  cabin  the  Ju-pieu,  or  dictionary 


of  twenty-six  thousand  characters.  He 
read  in  the  Chi  Kang,  the  national  book 
of  poetry,  in  which  heroines  are  de- 
scribed, soft  as  the  willow  seen  through 
the  mists  of  spring,  and  with  brows  as 
arching  and  delicate  as  the  opening  wil- 
low leaf.  He  taught  the  three  thousand 
proprieties,  and  how  it  is  polite  to  offer 
things,  but  more  polite  to  refuse ;  and 
how  the  first  person  must  never  be  used 
in  speech,  but  only  terms  of  deference 
and  eulogy  to  the  auditor  instead. 

But  now  the  final  moment  had  come 
for  the  junk  to  take  her  departure. 
The  gallant  Good  Success  and  Golden 
Profits  began  to  cast  off  her  lines.  The 
peak  of  her  mainsail  was  hauled  up. 
A  pennant  was  loosed  from  her  mast- 
head, with  the  inscription,  — 

"  May  this  bark  brave  the  storms  of 
a  thousand  years  ! ' 

Our  couple  found  a  favorable  lookout 
point  on  the  brow  of  a  rise  of  ground. 
They  saw  two  merchants  embark,  neither 
of  whom  would  trust  the  other  with  the 
control  of  a  venture  they  had  in  com- 
mon ;  hence  both  were  going.  Lastly 
came  Ten  Moon,  hurrying  from  a  final 
trip  to  the  Palace  Boarding  House  for 
his  effects,  and,  embracing  friends  along 
tHe  way,  tumbled  precipitately  on  board. 

The  Good  Success  and  Golden  Prof- 
its was  a  vessel  of  perhaps  fifty  feet  in 
length  by  fifteen  in  the  beam.  She 
had  a  great  rudder,  with  carven  tiller, 
which  served  partly  as  a  keel,  her  actual 
keel  being  of  but  small  dimensions. 
Her  motive  power  was  a  principal  sail, 
lateen -shaped,  with  a  jib  or  foresail,* 
both  braced  with  reefing-poles,  so  that 
they  lay  flat  to  the  breeze  instead  of 
bellying.  It  might  be  expected  that 
such  a  craft  would  be  fairlv  good  before 

V         O 

a  wind,  but  would  not  tack  easily. 

A  fusillade  of  crackers  and  revolver 
shots  rattled  briskly  before  the  shrine 
of  Tien  How,  and  last  fervent  wishes 
were  breathed.  A  new  pennant,  with 
the  lucky  Yin  and  Yang,  the  male  and 
female  principle,  was  run  up  on  the 


1884.] 


Choy  Susan. 


15 


junk.  She  drifted  off  from  shore.  Her 
hardy  skipper  raised  aloft  three  cups  of 
wine  of  rice,  and  poured  a  libation  on 
the  deck.  Then  he  took  in  his  hands  a 
fowl,  kow-towed  thrice,  reverently,  cut 
off  its  head,  and  scattered  the  blood  on 
silvered  papers  of  inscriptions  before 
him.  His  sailors,  assisting  in  this  nauti- 
cal manoeuvre,  seized  upon  these  papers, 
and  ran  with  all  haste  to  affix  them  to 
different  parts  of  the  ship. 

There  were  already  painted  on  each 
side  the  prow  an  open  eye  to  spy  out 
dangers  ahead,  and  on  the  stern  the 
phoenix,  Foong,  sitting  on  a  rock  and 
defying  storms.  With  all  this,  if  there 
were  now  no  Jonah-like  person  on  board 
to  bring  ill-fortune,  it  might  be  expected 
that  the  winds  and  waves,  and  especial- 
ly the  wild  Sui  Tow  Foong,  or  devil's 
head-winds,  were  appeased  in  advance, 
and  a  prosperous  voyage  insured. 

All  at  once  a  loud  outcry  went  up. 
Luckless  Ten  Moon,  not  yet,  as  it 
seemed,  at  the  end  of  his  misadventures, 
was  in  the  way  of  one  of  the  sailors 
running  to  affix  an  inscription  to  his 
quarters.  There  was  a  collision.  The 
ex-cook  toppled  over  the  gunwale  and 
fell  into  the  sea. 

But  a  more  singular  thing  happened. 
The  outcry  abated,  and  not  a  hand  was 
raised  in  assistance.  From  both  sea 
and  shore  his  countrymen  looked  on  in 
apathy  at  his  fate.  The  sail-boat  from 
Santa  Cruz,  which  appeared  to  carry  a 
load  of  tent  apparatus,  was  now  in  the 
vicinity.  She  changed  her  course,  — 
and  there  was  a  kind  of  vicious  snap  in 
the  suddenness  of  the  change,  —  and 
ran  down  to  the  spot,  but  she  was  not 
near  enough  to  be  of  any  avail. 

The  man  was  choking,  struggling, 
sinking  ;  he  would  surely  drown. 

Yank  Baldwin  bolted,  without  a  word, 
from  the  side  of  Marcella,  ran  down  to 
the  pier,  and  leaped  off.  He  swam  with 
vigorous  strokes  to  the  drowning  man, 
soon  had  him  by  the  collar,  and  dragged 
him  unceremoniously  ashore. 


There  was  a  clamor  of  a  different 
kind  during  this  performance.  It  seemed 
to  have  rage,  expostulation,  and  lugubri- 
ous wailings  in  it ;  and  when  the  res- 
cuer reached  shore  it  almost  looked  as  if 
he  were  going  to  be  the  victim  of  per- 
sonal violence. 

"  Hang  'em  ! "  said  he,  returning  pres- 
ently to  Marcella.  "  I  thought  first  they 
was  going  to  molt  me.  A  sick  way  of 
showiri'  gratitude  they  've  got ! ' 

"  They  don't  believe  in  saving  per- 
sons from  drowning,"  she  replied. 

"  They  don't  ?  " 

"  No.  They  think  there  are  wander- 
ing spirits  on  the  lookout  to  drag  such 
persons  under,  and  that  they  revenge 
themselves  on  those  who  balk  them  in 
their  purpose." 

Choy  Susan  had  been  with  her  in  the 
mean  time,  and  made  her  this  explana- 
tion hastily,  in  connection  with  another, 
which  confused  her  in  presence  of  Yank 
Baldwin.  He,  too,  had  learned  that 
Choy  Susan  had  spoken  the  promised 
word,  but  did  not  know  its  definite  re- 
sult. » 

Down  below,  the  sail-boat  loaded  with 
tent  equipage  touched  shore,  and  a  min- 
isterial-looking man  leaped  out  of  it. 
He  raised  his  hands  in  prayer  and  re- 
pulsion at  the  superstitious  indifference 
to  a  human  life  he  had  witnessed,  then 
seized  upon  Choy  Susan  and  drew  her 
aside.  She  explained,  when  he  had  re- 
embarked,  and  some  time  later  to  Mar- 
cella, that  it  was  the  Reverend  Samuel 
Snow. 

"  He  talkee  my  be  Jesus  woman  and 
go  back  Stockton  Stleet  Mission.  My 
ask  him  buy  lottely  tickets,"  she  said,  in 
a  hardened  way. 

The  rescued  Ten  Moon  was  rowed 
out  in  a  small  boat,  and  grudgingly  re- 
ceived on  the  deck  from  which  he  had 
fallen.  The  junk  then  sailed  away,  and 
was  slow  in  disappearing  over  the  hori- 
zon. She  would  cruise  homeward  along 
the  hundred  miles  of  intervening  coast, 


16                                               Choy  Susan.                                         [July, 

enter  at  the  Golden  Gate,  unload  at  all.  Oh,  Easterby  's  told  me  all  about 
Yslas  Creek,  and  make  her  next  trip  it,  and  I  know.  He  could  n't  make  out 
probably  to  the  shrimpers  at  San  Bruno  a  livin',  Smith  could  n't,  so  he  pretend- 
Point,  twenty  miles  down  San  Francis-  ed  he  'd  found  gold  plates  with  'hydro- 
Co  Bay.  glyphics  on  'em.  How  could  he  ever 

ha'  read  any  gold  plates,  s'pose  he  had 

IV.  found  'em  ?  " 

"  The   Urim   and  Thummim,  set   in 

VACILLATIONS  OF  YANK  BALDWIN.  silver  bows,  were  deposited  with  them 

in  the  hill  of  Cumorah,  and  by  the  aid 

"  Oh,  that  's  what  they  think,  is  it  ?  "  of  these  he  was  able  to  translate  them." 

said  Yank  Baldwin,  continuing  his  in-  The  .  countenance   and   tone   of    the 

terview  with  the  engaging  Marcella  Eu-  young  woman  expressed  perhaps  a  rapt 

dora  Gillam.     "  Howsumdever,  it  don't  devotion  to  her  creed,  yet  a  skeptical 

make   no   difference   to  me   what  they  observer  might  have    thought   that   he 

think.     I  'd  see  the  hull  bang  of  'em  at  discerned  a  trace  of  hypocrisy  in  it  all. 

the  bottom  of  the  Red  Sea,  so  fur  as  "  Oh,  yes,  he  was  a  sweet  one,  Joe 

I'm  concerned.     I  done  it  just  for  one  was!"  continued  Yank  Baldwin,  suffer- 

thing.    Do  you  want  to  know  what  that  ing  himself   to  be  led  away  in  heated 

is  ?  '  sarcasm  into  a  side  issue.     "  I  s'pose  he 

Marcella  did  not  ask  for  information  got  all  them  there  revelashins  straight 

on  the  point ;  she  feared  she  knew  too  from   heaven,  too.     He   used  to   come 

well  already ;  but  this  discretion  did  not  down    every  mornin'  with  things  fixed 

avail  her.  just  as  he  wanted.     Got  one  revelashin 

"  I    want   to   marry   you,"   he    said.  „  tellin'  his  regular  wife  to  shut  up  and 

"  Choy  Susan  's  broke  it  to  you.     Bein'  not  say  nothin'  when  he  took  a  lot  more, 

as  you  took  a  notion  to  look  at  'em  as  or  she  'd  be  cut  off  into  everlastin'  fire 

feller  creeturs,  and  so  on,  and  as  the  rest  and  brimstun." 

was   so    skulkin'  mean,  I   thought   I  'd  "  Verily  a  commandment  I  give  unto 

haul  him  out  to  please  you.    Now,  what  mine  handmaid,  Emma  Smith.  .  .  .  But 

do  you  say?     Will  you  have  me  ?"  if 'she  will  not  abide  this  commandment 

He  stood  before  her  in  his  wet  ap-  she  shall  be  destroyed,  saith  the  Lord," 

parel,  streams  of   water  running  down  said  Marcella,  quoting  the  exact  words 

and  forming  in  pools  about  his  feet,  as  of  the  text  piously, 

if  this  were  the  most  propitious  of  as-  "He   got  a  one-horse  school-master, 

pects  for  a  wooer.  old   Oliver   Cowdery,  and   a   one-horse 

"  Oh,  I  —  I  can't,"  she  replied,  tim-  lawyer,   old    Sidney    Rigdon,   to    help 

idly-  him." 

"  You    can't  ?     Why   not  ?     I    ain't  "  Oh,  you   ought  to   go   right  home 

a-goin'  to  say  nothin'  agin  your  folks,  and   get   dry  clothes.     You  will   catch 

I  've   give  that  up.     You  was  brought  your  death  !  "   cried  the  girl,  directing 

up  so,  and  can't  help  it,  I  s'pose."  her  attention,  as  for  the  first  time,  to  his 

'  My  father  would  n't  let  me  marry  condition,  and  endeavoring  thus  to  create 

anybody  who  was  not  —  a  Mormon  —  a  diversion. 

one  of  the  Saints,"  replied  the  girl,  tak-  «  Never  mind  about  that !    That 's  all 

ing  quite  a  different  ground  from  that  right,"  he  responded  morosely,  putting 

which  he  so  complacently  adopted.  up  a  hand    to  wring   further    moisture 

'  Saints  be  blowed  \     There  ain't  no  from  his  lank  locks.  "  As  I  was  a-sayin', 

saints  about  it.    Joe  Smith,  what  found-  they  're  all  a  set  o'  first-class  frauds." 

ed  'em,  was  a  lazy  money-digger,  that 's  «  Joseph  and  Hyrum  were  martyred 


1884.] 


Choy  Susan. 


17 


in  Carthage  jail,  and  there  were  many 
more  who  suffered  for  the  faith." 

Still  the  keen  observer  would  have 
fancied  in  the  fair  devotee  a  certain 
evasion.  Was  she  possibly  fending  off 
with  her  doctrines  a  suitor  with  whom 
it  was  not  policy  to  quarrel  outright  ? 

"  Oh,  what's  the  use  o'  argying?' 
now  broke  out  this  latter  in  a  final  way. 
"  You  kin  b'long  to  'em,  if  you  want  to. 

s'pose  your  belongin'  can't  do  no  great 
hurt.  But  you  don't  mean  to  say  that 
you  won't  have  me  unless  I  jine  'em, 
too  ?  " 

The  object  of  his  ardor  bowed  her 
head  distinctly,  but  in  a  sorrowful  way, 
as  if  this  were  indeed  her  ultimate  con- 
clusion. 

"  Oh,  that's  just  a  little  too  much  !  ' 
cried  the  storekeeper,  starting  off  in- 
dignantly. "  That  settles  it.  You  don't 
look  like  it,  but  I  s'pose  it 's  been  grimed 
into  you,  and  you  can't  help  it.  —  So 
long  !  " 

And  he  tramped  away  in  high  dud- 
geon, to  put  himself  into  dry  clothing. 

He  hovered  about  the  Palace  Board- 
ing House  again  towards  evening,  pre- 
serving a  far-off,  resentful  air  towards 
Marcella.  He  happened  to  be  in  her 
presence  when  a  communication  was 
handed  her  by  a  messenger,  Qum  Tock. 
She  clapped  her  hands  in  rapture  upon 
receipt  of  it  and  cried,  — 

"  Oh,  he  is  coining  !  he  is  coming !  " 

"  Who  's  coming  ?  '  inquired  the 
storekeeper,  startled  into  the  involun- 
tary question. 

"  Oh  —  a  —  that  is  —  my  father,"  she 
answered,  recalled  to  her  self-possession. 

But  it  was  curious  that  the  message, 
if  from  her  father,  should  have  been 
brought  by  Qum  Tock,  who  came  from 
Choy  Susan. 

After  this  circumstance,  Marcella  Gil- 
ham  began  to  act  towards  Baldwin  in 
a  totally  different  manner.  She  was 
gay,  loquacious,  and  treated  him  with  a 
delightful  coquetry. 

VOL.  LIV.  —  NO.  321.  2 


The  honest  storekeeper,  enraptured 
beyond  all  control,  took  the  landlady, 
Mrs.  Me  Curdy,  aside,  and  said  to  her,  — 

"  Say  !  borrer  some  o'  those  there 
doctrine  books  o'  hers  for  me,  will 
you  ?  " 

Mrs.  McCurdy  obligingly  borrowed 
them  for  him,  taking  them  without  ask- 
ing permission,  and  he  put  them  under 
his  arm  and  trudged  away  to  his  tent. 

When  the  shades  of  evening  had  fully 
fallen,  that  same  day,  a  bronzed  young 
man,  alert  of  movement,  short,  stout, 
with  a  good  round  head  and  a  bright 
eye,  hurried  into  camp,  threw  off  a  can- 
vas working-suit  he  wore,  spruced  up, 
and  emerged  from  his  tent  again  almost 
immediately.  As  he  was  coming  out, 
he  was  saluted  by  Yank  Baldwin,  who 
had  caught  sight  of  him,  with  — 

"Hay,  Easterby,  old  mail  !  Back 
again  ?  What 's  the  news  ? ' 

"  The  Mexicans  are  quieted  down. 
They  're  not  going  to  strike.  And  I  've 
got  a  leave  of  absence  and  raise  of 
pay." 

"  Good  enough !  I  'm  glad  of  it. 
Say  !  "  approaching  nearer,  confidential- 
ly, "  you  're  the  one  I  ben  a-waitin'  for. 
I  want  a  little  advice.  There 's  a  Mor- 
mon gal  here  what "  — 

"  Not  now  !  not  now,  old  man  !  Can't 
stop  now,  Yank.  I  've  got  business  to 
attend  to  on  the  instant.  See  you 
later." 

The  young  surveyor  threw  this  back 
over  his  shoulder  in  a  cheery  voice,  and 
was  off  without  stopping  for  further  par- 
ley. 

Had  the  storekeeper  followed  instead 
of  returning,  as  he  did,  to  his  tent  to 
pore  over  the  strange  books  of  doctrine, 
he  would  have  seen  him  joined  by  Mar- 
cella at  the  Palace  Boarding  House, 
and  the  two  steal  discreetly  away  to- 
ward the  cliffs.  He  would  have  seen 
them  find  a  sheltered  seat  there,  just 
over  the  verge,  screened  by  cedar 
boughs.  He  would  have  heard  them  set 


18 


Choy  Susan. 


[July, 


to  work  to  talk  of  earlier  times  ;  of  a 
correspondence  that  had  been  interrupt- 
ed, misunderstandings  that  had  arisen. 
He  would  have  heard  argument  then 
of  a  theological  sort,  and  might  have 
judged  from  a  plaintive  tone  of  the 
girl  that  she  was  struggling  anew  with 
old  doubts  and  fears,  once  perhaps  hap- 
pily resolved. 

"  Oh,  I  have  read,  I  have  thought," 
she  said.  "  Can  you  be  so  sure  ?  Can 
the  sufferings  of  all  of  our  people,  the 
blood  of  martyrs,  been  in  vain  ?  ' 

"  Blood  of  martyrs,"  replied  the 
young  man,  "  has  been  shed  for  every 
absurdity  under  the  sun.  We  are  left 
to  grope  in  darkness,  for  the  most  part, 
—  Heaven  help  us ;  but  we  have  our 
little  spark  of  reason,  and  it  must  save 
us  at  least  from  gross  impostures." 

The  night  was  dark  in  the  absence  of 
a  moon,  but  the  stars  cast  a  pale  radi- 
ance down  upon  the  water.  The  milky 
way,  scattered  like  breadths  of  daisies 
in  a  pasture,  stretched  from  horizon  to 
zenith  and  down  again.  The  young 
girl  said,  turning  a  fair  face  up  to  it 
from  below  the  cedar  boughs,  — 

"  When  worlds  are  so  plentiful  as 
that,  of  what  importance  are  we  ?  How 
can  it  make  any  conceivable  difference 
what  we  think,  or  do,  or  are  ?" 

Her  companion  answered,  holding  her 
hand  in  both  of  his,  — 

"  Those  worlds  are  so  far  off,  cold 
and  uncertain,  and  we  are  here  and 
warm  and  living,  and  we  want  our  hap- 
piness." 

None  of  this,  however,  Yank  Baldwin 
saw  or  heard,  wrestling  in  his  tent  as 
he  was  till  well-nigh  morning  over  un- 
couth doctrinal  problems. 

The  pair  on  the  cliffs  heard  the  stage 
come  in  with  a  boom  and  rattle.  When 
they  parted,  in  the  friendly  obscurity  of 
a  thicket  by  the  Palace  Boarding  House, 
Marcella  turned  to  go  within  and  East- 
erby  back  to  his  tent. 

A  door  opened,  letting  out  a  bright 
light;  and  a  rusty-looking  man,  with 


beard  and  shaven  upper  lip,  stepped 
forth  upon  the  veranda,  clearly  revealed 
in  it. 

"  Father  ! ' '  exclaimed  the  girl,  with  a 
frightened  intonation.  "  You  are  back 

O 

so  soon  ? ' 

"  Yes ;  Erastus  and  I  have  come. 
'Rastus  did  n't  want  to  wait  no  longer. 
The  ceremony  'd  better  be  to-morrow 
noon.  I  feel  to  rejoice  that  you  're 
going  to  have  such  a  good  husband. 
Wa'n't  that  somebody  with  you,  just 
now  ?  "  said  the  Mormon  father. 

He  took  his  daughter  by  the  arm  ; 
they  disappeared  within,  and  the  door 
closed  upon  them. 

Rufus  Easterby  overheard.  With  the 
alert,  energetic  manner  characteristic  of 
him  he  altered  his  course,  and  turned 
now  towards  the  abode  of  Choy  Susan. 
It  was  not  yet  so  late  that  she  could  not 
be  aroused ;  he  found  her,  and  the  two 
held  significant  conference  together. 

A  morning  of  fog,  such  as  is  common 
on  the  coast,  succeeded  the  starry  night. 
Fog  dragged  in  the  short  grass,  dripped 
from  the  tree  branches,  shut  out  the  wa- 
ter, veiled  the  cliffs,  and  gave  the  ham- 
lets a  mysterious  looming  outline. 

The  day  was  long  in  coming.  At 
breakfast-time  a  note  was  brought  to 
Marcella,  with  whose  own  mood  the 
gloom  was  well  in  keeping.  The  mis- 
sive was  from  Choy  Susan,  in  a  peculiar 
handwriting  that  she  had  learned  at 
the  Stockton  Street  Mission.  Marcella 
showed  it  freely  to  the  Mormon  father 
and  the  Mormon  lover,  "  Erastus,"  an- 
other rusty-looking  man,  of  the  same 
general  pattern. 

"  Choy  Susan  wants  me  to  come  over, 
if  I  can,"  she  said.  "  She  thinks  she 
will  buy  some  goods  of  us,  if  I  will  ex- 
plain them  a  little  more.  She  —  wants 
me  to  —  come  alone." 

The  Mormon  father  looked  inquir- 
ingly at  the  Mormon  lover.  The  latter 
returned  a  glance  inclining  to  suspicion. 
But  there  really  was  no  good  reason  for 


1884.] 


Choy  Susan. 


19 


objection,  and  the  passion  for  gain  was 
strong  in  both  of  them. 

"  You  can  go,  my  daughter,"  said  the 
father ;  "  but  be  brief !  You  know  what 
is  to  be  done  at  noon." 

Ah,  yes,  Marcella  Eudora  Gilham 
woefully  remembered  her  pressing  ap- 
pointment for  that  hour. 

Yank  Baldwin,  the  storekeeper,  had 
overslept  himself  that  morning,  after 
his  long  vigil.  He  hurried  to  find  Mr. 
Easterby  at  once  he  was  awake,  but 
the  latter  was  not  in  his  tent. 

"  Never  mind,  then  !  "  said  the  store- 
keeper. "  I  don't  want  no  advisin'  now." 

He  had  the  air  of  a  man  with  a  pur- 
pose inflexibly  fixed. 

He  inquired  at  the  Palace  Boarding 
House  for  Marcella.  Mrs.  McCurdy 
told  him  that  she  had  gone  to  the  Chi- 
nese village,  and  her  object.  He  di- 
rected himself  thither  thereupon  with 
all  expedition. 

The  Mormon  father  also,  as  it  hap- 
pened, heard  this  inquiry,  and  observed 
its  manner.  He  chose  to  identify  Yank 
Baldwin  with  the  man  he  had  seen  with 
his  daughter  the  night  before.  She  had 
been  gone  well-nigh  an  hour,  and  should 
have  returned.  He  counseled  with 
Erastus.  The  two  put  their  heads  to- 
gether, and  in  growing  apprehension  set 
out  in  pursuit. 

As  Yank  Baldwin  went  alonff,  with 

o' 

firm  front  and  beating  heart,  he  fanned 
his  purpose  with  muttered  words. 

"Oh,  I'll  jine  'em,"  he  said.  "It 
comes  high,  but  I'll  do  it.  I'll  jine 
'em  and  git  her,  if  I  bust." 

The  enamored  storekeeper  had  gone 
over  to  the  Moabitish  woman,  horse, 
foot,  artillery,  and  camp  equipage,  and 
was  ready  to  embrace  her  faith.  From 
time  to  time,  languid  airs  drove  back 
the  smoke-like  mist  from  the  edge  of  the 
water,  and  showed  a  single  milk-white 
breaker  coming  lazily  in,  and  the  gulls 
and  pelicans  standing  motionless  on  wet 
films  of  the  beach,  in  which  their  shapes 
were  reflected.  Then  it  swept  down 


again,  and  swallowed  up  alike  Yank 
Baldwin  and  the  Mormon  parent  and 
suitor  following  after. 

In  the  Chinese  village,  that  morning, 
there  was  rumor  of  something  unusual 
afloat.  Choy  Susan  had  been  seen  to 
go  at  an  early  hour  to  the  camp-meet- 
ing ground  of  Pacific  Grove.  She  was 
dressed  in  her  gala  costume.  She  wore 
a  wide-sleeved  tunic  of  dark  blue  silk, 
and  her  earrings  were  large  hoops  of 
gold  and  malachite.  Her  black  hair  was 
smoothly  oiled,  and  held  up  in  loops  by 
filigreed  gold  pins. 

She  returned  presently,  and  soon  after- 
ward came  the  Reverend  Samuel  Snow, 
and  entered  her  cabin.  It  was  rumored 
with  dread  that  she  was  to  go  back  to 
the  Christian  faith,  as  the  result  of  yes- 
terday's conference  with  the  minister. 
The  girl,  Marcella,  who  arrived  and 
entered  in  her  turn,  was  no  doubt  to  be  a 
witness  to  the  ceremony.  The  young 
man,  Easterby,  was  probably  another. 

Excitement  grew  apace.  Heads  were 
laid  together ;  then  a  crowd  assembled 
around  Choy  Susan's  closed  door.  The 
morose  parrot,  Tong,  poured  out  upon 
these  his  choicest  vocabularv  of  abuse. 

V 

Yank  Baldwin  pushed  his  way  hastily 
through,  reached  and  knocked  at  the 
door.  It  was  not  opened  immediately, 
and  he  knocked  again.  Marcella  her- 
self set  it  ajar  with  a  peculiarly  shy 
and  blushing  manner.  The  moment  he 
saw  her  he  began  impetuously,  — 

"I'll  jine.  I'll  b'long.  You  kin 
have  it  all  your  own  way.  I  "  — 

But  further  speech  seemed  to  stick  in 
his  throat.  The  door  was  thrown  wide- 
ly open.  Beside  Miss  Marcella  Eudora 
Gilham  appeared,  with  smiling  face,  Ru- 
fus  D.  Easterby.  Behind  him  appeared 
the  Rev.  Samuel  Snow,  and  behind  the 
Rev.  Samuel  Snow,  Choy  Susan.  All 
had  a  significant  air.  Something  un- 
usual had  certainly  happened. 

"  My  wife,  old  man ! '  exclaimed 
Easterby,  pulling  him  socially  forward. 

"  Holy  smoke  !  "  cried  the  astounded 


10 


hfttftl 

UUM, 

\     ">  <h«  lent* 

.in    of  U*,      Sho  h 

\\  .          .         \     i  ........  I 

>      ui     -..MUO     ,M,.!UU 
\  ,nU    H,!,lv>;.,.   iu 

,M<  d»- 
V>UM-.O  .in|'ii><<y  wM 

*  UUwOi  Of  »1fcM*fcIf  100 

1     U  '*    rtll    CilOy   SUWn'w    .1.  r.:»ul 


to 


il 


l'>    (O.IM.  oMou.lm-    :>    (luMul 
lUovpn 

v  .orhox  s,r..»u 

:»u.l  Ino   Huh  M-..  ulion   wo  -.o 
:«,l,lc.l     V  ;       vvo«Mlv,    nol 

».Mh:»»-.    i,»  \Milul-.  .M\     i   ;.MUion    Ir.unlho 


i'mVMi-  >MI(  MI  th«»  foj?  AI  the 
m«ttl  QMM  a  Mormon 

.»n    lovor.  \vith 

(,'n  MU   (h.'U 


Kl\  K    tjr.VTK.UXS. 


AVm  w  «rntl  v/nAW, 


\  I',   -.,^n    u  .-:•.;    «5lh    ^«U«tt|ltt|^  MH  bh 

v-      i    -  »ius|>o^h  "AH  iKou  Low*  «wt« 

riu'u     I  0X0,    >>;;!»    -:   ...  -.  .:        oxoluK    «  I    :UU    lV:Uh." 


lo 
i 

bft 


m 


UL 

.'»*T^f'     ^^W*^V^     vWll^W       \3WPvw^ 


^urk 

WHl  Mill 


of 


:»r,a 


* 


>     ^  y/     •  t  •         \     /•     »-  A  U>  •    *'   •  V 
\^^^^x»T      "Jtm^^^nH^^I^^V^ 


Vil 

s;:-,v 


»-V..r.  -.::>    ;>.o    x>  ,so 


IKS  1. 1 


'/'// 


/,- 


'I 


V. 


Two    tiling,    Ml»-rn    an-    uilli    Memory    will     il,,d.-.—  . 


\Vli;il.-\,-i      ,-|  id     I-   I   ,||   -  \vlill.  •     III.- 


I- 


Th.il       "II    •  "Id    li  ni<l  luiii-li    a!     MM-    idl.ir     ,ide,  ; 
Tin-    lln  ill    lli  il      .h...d.     y,,u    at.    your    rhild'a    In    I     • 


TIM-;  cnsi'KL  OK   in  i  I:AT. 


••  \\  ,-    in-  mm  li  I,..  mi.l  h>  lli..  ,.-   wl|fl  &Q     U    .  .  .-.I, 

Mill,    in    -i    MI-.  I-      |.,illi.-l.  .<iml 

i  •  ii  in  v,  i...  i  ni    iii.-\  .iii  .....  Ion  0x  pound  , 

Hi,    •  niiih.il    ii  .   I..  i    wi.iK    Ilial    Will  in.  I      |"  ••'!, 


An,  I    1,1,    .1       II  i    I  ulu. 


I  i  AN 


IN  Hi.-.  Iii  .1  of  May,  IHMI,  ih- 

.1    i  i    in  MI    lull.-    l.m.wn    In 

'•!<•  ii  u..i  M  of  hm  oonterapomritij 

I  li  d.lly  In-.lil,  even  !••  Mm  h^mir  world, 
liy    I  mill  ,      md     IQOi  il     I  ll  I.    pOHHOHHed 

III        III.'.       llllllO   .1,      .||    .1   IN.    II..II      I,  ..ill       nl        tlllllll 

I     rli  ii  ..  I.  i  .       I  I,  -mi     |<'i.-.|.  i  lo     Ami.  -I 
h  "I   bi     ii  ;i  profei  101    in  llm  Aradi-.iny  «»l 

(  terievu  i..r    \>\>  -i-imily  a  e/  i"  i  iiion,  oj 

In.  ill    NIC.     y.Mi     I  8  I1',    when     In-.    H-IIII  ned 

In   Iii  i   n:ii  Iri  •  ii  v  iil'li-r   mi          <'.<iilin^ly 
I  .......  i:il)li-,  lour  yi-iirt'  coiirHd  at  tll(J  Uni 

V.'l    ill   ,     ..I       I'.rl  In,.          Ulilil     |H,r>  I,    ||r.     ||l-|i| 

lln-  .  h  HI    .,1   ..     lli.  -i  |c  .,  .luring  Mir.  1  1   I   ..I 
In  .    lid-,    l.li.il.  nl'   |iliilir-.n|iliy  ,    and  ilnulil 
l<      .    MM-    i  6    nils    of    IliH   l«-,ii  in-.|    ,n<l   <-i>n 
lentlous    innh  u.  h..n     Inivc,    l).-,c,n,    and 
•  Nl.ill,  rnu:l.i!'yinj(  NilonUy  in  tin-.  inindH 

«.i  in  in  ,    icore  i  "I  |iii]ni  .  i.iii.iii.-diniii.  Mm 

lrii"!li     nid    l.r.'.idlh   -.1     I  Jii..|,  I'.ul.  (,|' 

Mi.il     more     |"  •  .«.nsil,    ri-innn.-rn.livr,    ;md 
liiilliiinl.    I  in,.-,    |.o     win.  Ii     l.lm    IV,  w    wln> 
Kn.-w     liil    rehoin«.-.     and     i.-m.-in 
'  d    In  .    .-.ii  |y    jiroini  .,c,   hi-.lii-yi-d    linn    lo 
li.-.-n,    al.    Ir.i  ,|    oner.    ii|,,  ,n    a    linn-, 
Idy  <-nl.ill.-d,  In-  oei  I  "inly  won  v 
liltl'-  ,    .ni'l    wli.-n   In-    dii-,d,   iinin  u  i  i,  .1      ,1 

in*  di-.ui.li,  in  MM-,  ieme  «»i    noiid 

:md       -iii:ifyiiiK    a-  -lu.-\  •.  m.-nl  ,    ini^lil,    al- 
IIK.  .1    liavc.    lii-i-,n    ralli-d     )i  i-iii;il  IIH-.       I  I.-, 


1   //.  "nl:  i  '  ,/•„„ 

Inlinir..       I'M  ,  ,       ,,|,     j,  ,i     I  .1,  .1  .  . 


Ii  id   a   I'nW   rli,  i  i  .hrd    Ii  n  nd  .,  Iii    win. 111  In-. 

I. -Vl-.ull-.il    Illlll  .ell     IIHIH-.    Ili-.i-ly    ill  II,     III    llir, 

\vurlil    ill   lur^n,   itnd    win.  .-    rniliii   i  . 

I    Hill      III    lli  i    |iOHHililllln-,-i     1.01 1  11     (HI,    llh     III.'. 

ii  r.-.vocalilc,  yc.ai'H  vvi-.nl.  l»y,  u  lom-li  «.l 
•OliK-Mnii''  imi  |  imliKi-.  iiidc'ii  ih.in 

ill.  hi.-t  oliMliiial.n  Hli-rility.      ( 'liiid    ainoii^ 
MurHO  WUH   Kilnionil  Srlmrc,!1,  l.lm   llrnl,   «d 
living    l''riMmli   rritiiJH,  and   Mm 
iijioit     Mm    wliolo,    HiiKUt    Siiin 
Srlii-M-r  VVHH  HO  doo.jdy  IIII|.M- ihi-d  liy  lln-, 
Imlii-.r  Miai.  lh«-   ••. -1.111 ...  •>!   In,  nhy  frioiid 
imr.dr.d    only    to    tin    UiMtiyayod,    HO    lo 
Hjx-,ak,  liy  a  lia|i|imr  arrungc.iiKUit  nl    • 
I.  uial    rirciiiiiMlanc.cn   thai,  Im   imv  i    dr 
l,  iinlil    Ainic.l    WIIM  forty  yc.arn  ol 
-    1 1  "in  IHH  r.ndiravorH,  liy  nx  Imrlal.inn 
find  |>ra<-,lii-al  HU^OHtion,  to   lirin^r   ahoul. 
Mm    ri-,,juin-i|    i-litiii.,-.       I,,    ;,   mo-,1    n.l..-,r 
Otltill^   UHHJiy  |in-.fiM-.i|    In    (In-.   lal«-ly   |.ul, 
li«hed     Vnlnnm     nl'      Ainic.l'H     h'.  111  HUH,1 
Srlmri-.r  IIUH  ^iv«!li  UH  an   ucconnl.  nl'   1,1m 
IttHt  of  th(MA  HyHt(!inalm  ^H'orU,  and   ..I 
ItH  lailnm  niinjily,  an  it  MIM-.IH»-.I|, 
l.lm  lack  <d    Aininl'M  nwn  c,nrdial 
in   l.lm  plan   dcvi  i-d  I'm-  liin 
In  lliiH  (-and  (what  wan  vory  i  ' 

WiMl    him,  iind   H:|,II;MI;III|.    l.n   hi;   n-liiin^ 

n  itun  ),    A  mi. -I    h  id    c.vi-.n  matin  a  HOI  i 

nl  appeal  l.n  hit  hii-nd  In  Imlp  him  lo 
a  IM'-I  HH(5  Of  IliH  in.  II.-.  -In  1 1  I  i.  ull.ioH. 

"Id  thum  y«;t  tirn»i,"  he,   had  dilhd.  ntly 

a  K«  ,|,  "  |,,|-  mi,  |i,  ..j,.-;.K  lioni  my  hold 
and  win  a  hearing  nl  my  I'eJInw  iin-,n  ?  " 
And  Sr.lmn-r  hid  n •  ijmiuli-.d  h/iakly  thai. 

M(  in  mi     v.,i   I      i-,.riH,  Neuriiuii-i,  et  Genive. 


22 


The  Gospel  of  Defeat. 


[July, 


there  was  both  time  and  place,  and  had 
proposed  to  him  a  congenial  subject, 
and  shown  him  an  open  channel  for  the 
communication  of  his  thoughts  to  the 
world.  Nothing  came  of  it.  Months 
elapsed  before  Amiel  even  answered  his 
friend's  letter,  and  then  he  wrote  sadly 
and  with  compunction,  saying  how  sweet 
to  him  had  been  the  taste  of  Scherer's 
encouragement,  but  pleading,  with  scarce 
an  attempt  either  at  explanation  or  ex- 
cuse, his  powerlessness  to  profit  by  it. 
Instead  of  the  original  work  to  which 
he  had  been  incited,  Amiel  published 
soon  after  a  small  volume  of  French 
translations  from  Goethe  and  Schiller: 
marvelous'  feats  of  fidelity  and  prosod- 
ic  mechanism,  as  Scherer  impatiently 
owned,  but  open  in  other  respects  to 
grave  criticism,  which  he  bestowed  upon 
them  unsparingly,  when  requested  by 
the  translator  to  pronounce  a  public 
judgment  upon  his  work.  Amiel  quiet- 
ly accepted  the  castigation  in  the  sweet- 
.est  of  notes  to  his  "  dear  Rhadaman- 
thus,"  and  Scherer  says,  with  sorrowful 
candor,  "  I  do  not  reproach  myself  with 
having  been  sincere.  What  I  do  regret 
is  that  I  should  have  learned  too  late, 
from  the  perusal  of  the  Journal  Intime, 
the  key  to  a  problem  which  then  seemed 
to  me  barely  serious,  but  which  I  now 
feel  to  have  been  tragic.  I  experience 
a  sort  of  remorse  for  not  having  divined 
Amiel  sufficiently  to  have  soothed  his 
sufferings  by  a  sympathy  which  would 
have  been  compounded  of  pity  and  ad- 
miration." 

.Movements  of  poignant  compassion, 
like  that  expressed  in  the  above  passage, 
are  rare  with  Scherer,  who  usually  holds 
himself  well  outside  of  even  the  most  in- 
teresting subject.  If  it  had  been  Sainte- 
Beuve,  indeed,  —  the  softest  hearted 
and  most  sympathetic  critic  who  ever 
lived,  despite  the  stinging  severity  of 
which  he  was  capable,  —  we  might  have 
suspected  some  obscure  fact  of  spiritual 
kinship  between  him  and  his  subject, 
and  .have  taken  the  word  tragic  with  a 


comfortable  grain  of  salt.  But  when 
Edmond  Scherer  calls  a  man's  life  a 
tragedy,  we  may  be  sure  that  he  means 
what  any  sensitive  person  this  side  of 
Geneva  would  call  a  supplice. 

And  such  is  indeed  the  revelation  of 
the  very  remarkable  and  affecting  pri- 
vate journal  of  the  Genevan  professor, 
a  part  of  which  has  just  been  given  to 
the  world,  with  Scherer's  introduction. 
The  man  who  saw  himself  predestined 
to  the  renunciation  of  his  own  worldly 
hopes,  and  the  disappointment  of  those 
which  others  had  founded  upon  him, 
was  unconsciously  appealing  from  the 
judgment  of  his  contemporaries  in  pages 
of  the  subtlest  and  most  penetrating  re- 
flection. He  was  exploring  the  deepest 
mysteries  of  our  mysterious  being  by 
the  concentrated  light  of  an  exceedingly 
vivid  intelligence,  and  under  the  guid- 
ance of  a  consciousness  often  exalted  to 
that  point  where  every  pulsation  is  a 
pang.  He  was  expressing  in  secret  the 
fragrance  of  one  of  the  rarest  of  moral 
natures,  and  holding  a  colloquy  with  his 
own  soul  and  the  material  universe  and 
the  Author  of  them  both,  unsurpassed 
for  sincerity  and  scope. 

"  Sunt  lacrimse  rerum  et  mentem  mortalia  tan- 
,       gunt." 

There  are  tears  in  the  not  unmanly 
voice  which  speaks  to  us  from  these 
posthumous  pages.  It  is  almost  smoth- 
ered, at  intervals,  in  the  sorrow  of  time, 
but  it  thrills  none  the  less  with  the  in- 
tuitions of  eternity. 

Let  the  reader  judge  of  the  exquisite 
quality  of  the  whole  book  by  a  few  spe- 
cimens :  — 

May  3,  1849.  "  Thou  hast  never  felt 
the  internal  assurance  of  genius,  the 
presentiment  either  of  glory  or  of  hap- 
piness. Thou  hast  never  foreseen  thyself 
as  great  and  famous,  nor  even  as  hus- 
band, father,  influential  citizen.  This 
indifference  to  the  future,  this  complete 
distrust,  are  doubtless  signs.  That 
which  thou  dreamest  is  vague,  indefinite. 
Thou  oughtest  not  to  live,  for  thou  art 


1884.] 


The  Gospel  of  Defeat. 


23 


now  no  longer  capable  of  living.  Keep 
thyself  in  order,  then ;  let  the  living 
live,  but  do  thou  resume  thy  thinking. 
Make  a  bequest  of  thy  thought  and  thy 
heart :  it  is  the  most  useful  thing  that 
thou  canst  do.  Renounce  thyself,  and 
accept  thy  chalice,  with  its  honey  and 
its  gall.  What  matter !  Let  God  de- 
scend into  thee  ;  make  haste  to  embalm 
thyself  in  him  ;  make  of  thy  soul  a 
temple  for  the  Holy  Ghost.  Do  good. 
Make  others  happier  and  better.  Have 
no  more  any  personal  ambition,  and 
then  thou  wilt  be  consoled  for  life  or 
death,  or  whatever  may  come." 

April  6,  1851.  "  '  Blessed,'  says  the 
apostle,  'is  he  who  condemneth  not  him- 
self in  the  thing  which  he  approveth.' 
This  internal  identity,  this  unity  of  con- 
viction, becomes  more  and  more  difficult 
the  more  the  mind  becomes  analytic,  dis- 
cerning, and  clairvoyant.  It  is  hard  in- 
deed for  freedom  to  recover  the  frank 
unity  of  instinct." 

"  Alas,  we  must  then  reascend  a  thou- 
sand times  the  peaks  to  which  we  had 
already  climbed,  —  reconquer  the  points 
of  view  once  attained.  The  heart  is  like 
those  kings  who,  under  the  form  of  a 
perpetual  peace,  sign  only  truces.  Alas, 
yes  !  Peace  also  is  a  conflict,  or  rather 
it  is  the  conflict.  We  find  rest  only  in 
effort,  as  flame  exists  only  in  combus- 
tion. Oh,  Heraclitus  !  the  image  of  hap- 
piness is  the  same  as  that  of  suffer- 
ing; unrest  and  advancement,  hell  and 
heaven,  are  equally  in  flux.  The  altar 
of  Vesta  and  the  torments  of  Beel- 
zebub shine  with  the  same  fire !  Ah, 
well,  yes ;  this  is  life,  —  double-faced 
and  two-edged  life  !  The  fire  which  illu- 
mines is  the  fire  which  consumes.  The 
element  of  the  gods  may  become  that 
of  the  damned." 

April  28, 1852.  "  Languors  of  spring, 
you  are  come  again  !  You  visit  me 
after  a  long  absence.  This  morning  the 
song  of  the  birds,  the  tranquil  light,  the 
freshening  fields ;  all  went  to  my  heart. 
Now  all  is  silent ;  and  silence,  thou 


art  terrible  !  —  terrible  as  that  calm  of 
the  ocean  which  allows  us  to  look  into 
unfathomable  depths.  But  thou  lettest 
us  see  depths  within  ourselves  which 
are  dizzying,  unquenchable  desires,  treas- 
ures of  suffering  and  regret." 

"  Do  thyself  no  violence.  Respect 
the  oscillations  of  feeling  within  thee. 
A  wiser  than  thou  is  their  cause.  Do 
not  abandon  thyself  wholly  either  to 
instinct  or  to  will.  Instinct  is  a  siren  ; 
will,  a  despot.  Be  the  slave  neither  of 
thy  momentary  impulses  and  sensations, 
nor  that  of  a  more  abstract  and  general 
plan.  Open  thyself  to  what  life  brings 
thee,  whether  from  without  or  from 
within,  and  welcome  the  unforeseen ; 
but  unify  thyself  always,  and  bring  the 
unforeseen  within  the  lines  of  thy  plan. 
Let  nature  exalt  itself  to  spirit  within 
thee,  and  spirit  resolve  itself  into  na- 
ture. It  is  thus  that  thy  development 
will  become  harmonious,  and  the  peace 
of  heaven  irradiate  thy  brow ;  always 
on  condition  that  thy  peace  has  been 
made,  and  that  thou  hast  climbed  thy 
Calvary." 

Afternoon  of  the  same  day.  "  Shall 
I  never  again  experience  one  of  those 
prodigious  reveries  such  as  I  used  to 
have  —  one  at  dawn,  on  a  certain  day 
of  my  youth,  seated  among  the  ruins 
of  the  chateau  of  Faucigny ;  another, 
among  the  mountains,  above  Lavey,  un- 
der a  noonday  sun,  reclining  at  the  foot 
of  a  tree,  and  visited  by  three  butter- 
flies ;  another  still  upon  the  sandy  shore 
of  the  North  Sea,  lying  on  my  back 
upon  the  beach  and  gazing  into  the 
Milky  Way,  —  sublime,  immortal,  cos- 
moffonic  reveries,  in  which  one  takes  the 
world  to  one's  heart,  touches  the  stars, 
possesses  the  infinite.  Divine  moments, 
those  ;  hours  of  ecstasy,  when  thought 
flies  from  world  to  world,  pierces  the 
great  enigma,  breathes  freely,  tranquilly? 
deeply,  as  with  the  respiration  of  the 
great  sea,  serene  itself  and  limitless  like 
the  firmament  of  blue  ;  visits  of  the  muse 
Urania,  who  draws  around  the  forehead 


The  G-ospel  of  Defeat. 


[July, 


of  those  she  loves  the  phosphorescent 
nimbus  of  contemplative  power,  and 
floods  the  heart  with  the  tranquil  in- 
toxication of  genius,  if  not  with  its  au- 
thority ;  instants  of  irresistible  intuition, 
when  one  feels  one's  self  great  as  the 
universe,  calm  as  a  god?  From  the 
celestial  spheres  down  to  the  moss  or 
the  shell,  all  creation  is,  then,  subordi- 
nated to  us,  lives  in  our  bosom,  accom- 
plishes in  us  its  eternal  work,  with  the 
regularity  of  fate  and  the  passionate  ar- 
dor of  love.  What  hours  !  what  memo- 
ries !  Even  the  traces  which  they  leave 
behind  suffice  to  fill  us  with  reverence 
and  enthusiasm,  like  the  visits  of  the 
Holy  Spirit.  And  then  to  fall  from 
those  heights  of  the  boundless  horizons 
into  the  muddy  ruts  of  triviality  !  What 
a  fall !  Poor  Moses  !  Thou  sawest  afar 
the  swelling  outline,  the  ravishing  boun- 
daries, of  the  promised  land,  but  thou 
hadst  to  lay  thy  weary  bones  in  a  desert 
grave.  Which  one  of  us  has  not  his 
promised  land,  his  day  of  rapture,  his 
end  in  exile  ?  How  pale  a  counterfeit 
is  our  real  life  of  the  life  whereof  we 
have  had  glimpses,  and  how  the  blazing 
lights  of  our  prophetic  youth  do  dim 
the  more  the  twilight  of  our  mournful 
and  monotonous  virility  ! ' 

January  27,  1860.  "Order!  Oh,  Or- 
der !  material  order,  intellectual  order, 
moral  order !  What  solace,  what  power, 
what  economy !  To  know  whither  one 
goes  and  what  one  wills,  —  this  is  order. 
To  keep  one's  word,  to  arrive  in  season, 
this  also  is  order.  To  have  everything 
at  hand,  to  manoeuvre  one's  army,  to 
employ  all  one's  resources,  —  it  is  all 
order.  To  discipline  one's  habits,  one's 
volitions  ;  to  organize  one's  life,  to  dis- 
tribute one's  time,  to  measure  one's 

1  Amiel's  journal,  or  rather  the  first  installment 
of  it,  has  already  been  introduced  to  the  English 
reading  public  by  a  most  interesting  essay,  pub- 
lished in  Macmillan's  Magazine  for  February,  1884. 
It  is  from  the  pen  of  the  accomplished  lady  who 
proposes  to  translate  the  whole  work  when  its  pub- 
lication at  Geneva  shall  have  been  completed  ; 
and  there  can  be  no  harm  in  saying,  what  will 
greatly  add  to  its  interest  with  American  readers, 


duties,  and  fairly  estimate  one's  rights ; 
profitably  to  invest  one's  capital,  one's 
talents,  one's  chances,  —  it  is  still  and 
always  order.  Order  is  light,  peace, 
internal  freedom,  the  possession  of  one's 
self;  it  is  power.  To  conceive  order, 
to  return  to  order,  to  realize  order,  in 
one's  self,  around  one's  self,  by  one's  own 
means,  —  this  is  aesthetic  and  moral 
beauty,  this  is  well-being,  this  is  what 
must  be." 

There  are  even  better  things  than 
these  in  Amiel,  from  the  point  of  view 
of  the  general  reader ;  delicacies  of  lit- 
erary criticism  and  positive  inspirations 
in  the  way  of  metaphysical  definition. 
Nothing  would  be  easier  or  pleasanter 
than  to  fill  a  score  of  pages  with  quota- 
tions ;  and  Amiel's  own  thoughts  are 
doubtless  more  striking  and  suggestive, 
more  conclusive  of  their  own  value,  than 
anything  which  can  be  said  about  them. 
But  our  present  purpose  is  not  so  much 
to  review  in  detail  this  particular  Jour- 
nal Intiine  as  to  compare  it  with  cer- 
tain other  more  or  less  renowned  works 
of  its  own  class,  and  to  inquire  a  lit- 
tle into  the  psychological  and  moral 
significance  of  the  type  to  which  it  be- 
longs.1 

*To  any  one  at  all  well  read,  or  spe- 
cially interested  in  the  private  history 
of  human  souls,  Amiel's  journal  will 
awaken  a  perfect  chime  of  echoes,  — 
clashing,  contending,  blending.  It  re- 
minds us  of  the  prophet  Job  and  the 
royal  David  and  the  Emperor  Marcus 
Aurelius,  of  A  Keinpis  and  Pascal,  of 
Senancour  and  Maine  de  Biran  and 
Maurice  de  Giierin,  as  a  matter  of 
course,  but  also  of  Shakespeare  as  Ham- 
let and  Chateaubriand  as  Rene,  of  Leo- 
pardi  and  Shelley  and  Alfred  de  Musset 

that  the  lady  is  Mrs.  Humphrey  "Ward,  of  London, 
niece  of  Matthew  Arnold.  It  certainly  furnishes  a 
curious  illustration  of  the  kinship  of  minds  that 
Amiel  should  have  found  in  her  no  less  admiring 
and  sympathetic  an  interpreter  than  her  uncle 
proved  himself,  a  generation  ago,  to  Amiel's  elder 
brother,  in  solitary  and  sorrowful  speculation,  the 
author  of  Obermann. 


1884.] 


The  Gospel  of  Defeat. 


25 


at  their  sanest  aud  simplest,  of  Matthew 
Arnold  in  his  dreaming  youth.  What, 
then,  is  the  one  quality  —  for  there  must 
at  least  be  one  —  common  to  all  this 
incongruous  company  of  so  many  climes 
and  ages,  saints  and  sinners,  kings  and 
paupers,  the  misanthrope  and  the  man 
of  gentlest  charity,  poets  and  men  of 
the  world,  I'homme  de  bien  and  the  fla- 
grant ne'er-do-weel  ? 

o 

Primarily,  it  is  nothing  more  nor  less 
than  their  abnormal  capacity  for  mental 
suffering.  Pain,  pure  and  simple,  in  its 
last  essence,  indefinable,  incorporeal,  and 
from  a  vulgar  point  of  view  impossible, 
has  constituted  the  cachet  and  the  calling 
not  merely  of  certain  men  like  these, 
whom  the  world  knows  by  the  accident 
of  their  genius,  but  of  many  nameless 
arid  voiceless  human  creatures.  Even 
physical  pain  is  sufficiently  mysterious, 
and  takes  us,  when  we  attempt  to  an- 
alyze it,  to  the  very  edge  of  the  un- 
fatljomable  gulf,  through  which  the  little 
world  of  men  floats  onward  to  its  doom. 
But  of  the  pain  of  the  nerves  and  senses 
we  can  say,  in  most  cases,  I  ail  here,  or 
here ;  thus  binding  the  strange  fact  of 
our  anguish  to  one,  at  least,  of  the  rec- 
ognized conditions  of  our  mortal  exist- 
ence. "With  that  subtler  order  of  pain, 
experienced  by  Amiei  and  other  intel- 
lectual sufferers,  it  is  not  so.  That  is 
a  tyrannous  and  terrible  something  (we 
have  no  choice  but  to  call  it  a  some- 
thing ;  we  know  not  whether  it. is  es- 
sence or  agency),  free  of  all  the  cate- 
gories and  conditions  which  we  can  name 
or  comprehend,  in  whose  power  men  re- 
main, they  know  not  how  ;  in  the  wheels 
of  whose  invisible  machinery  they  are 
often  most  horribly  entangled,  when  the 
world  deems  them  fairly,  or  more  than 
fairly,  fortunate. 

It  is  probably  this  last  circumstance 
of  the  frequent  disproportion  between 
what  such  people  suffer  and  the  obvious 
conditions  of  their  lot  which  has  led  to 
the  belief,  so  common  among  common 
men,  that  these  woes  of  the  spirit  are 


for  the  most  part  imaginary,  or  at  least 
unnecessary ;  in  one  word,  as  these  cheer- 
ful critics  are  wont  to  say,  in  a  sense  of 
their  own,  morbid.  Morbid,  in  the  true 
meaning  of  the  term,  they  undoubtedly 
are.  A  state  of  mind  like  that  which 
became  chronic  with  the  brilliant  Amiel 
(who,  by  the  way,  was  more  than  com- 
monly genial,  and  even  playful  and  gay, 
in  his  intercourse  with  men)  is  as  truly 
a  malady  as  phthisis  or  hemiplegia.  It 
defeats  no  less  inevitably  the  ambitious 
and  destroys  the  delights  of  life,  but  it 
no  more  deserves  to  be  qualified  with  a 
nuance  of  righteous  disapprobation  than 
do  those  melancholy  inflictions.  A  fash- 
ion prevailed  in  France,  a  generation  or 
two  ago,  —  originating,  perhaps,  in  the 
vogue  of  Rene,  —  of  calling  this  atro- 
phy of  the  spirit  by  the  special  misno- 
mer of  the  mal  du  siecle.  In  truth,  it  is  a 
malady  of  all  the  ages,  raging,  like  other 
plagues,  with  greater  virulence  in  some, 
but  reappearing  continually,  —  sporadic 
here,  and  epidemic  there ;  one,  and  not 
the  least,  of  the  essential  ills  of  time, 
ineradicable,  as  it  would  seem,  from  the 
constitution  of  the  species,  though  men, 
like  Chateaubriand  himself,  have  been 
known  to  recover  from  its  attacks.  Let 
us  now  try,  by  comparing  a  few  of  the 
most  famous  and  fully  reported  cases,  to 
gain  some  insight  into  the  workings  of 
this  obscure  and  pitiful  ill.  If  we  fail  to 
perceive  any  palliative  for  the  individual 
sufferer,  we  may  at  least  strengthen  our 
sense  of  that  oneness  of  our  humanity, 
by  virtue  of  which  sympathy  becomes 
the  counterpoise,  if  not  the  cure,  of  pain, 
and  suffering  voluntarily  undergone  of- 
ten seems  to  be,  in  a  peculiar  and  mys- 
tical sense  of  the  word,  salutary. 

The  two  private  journals  which  most 
obviously  suggest  themselves  for  com- 
parison with  Amiel's  are  those  of  Pivert 
de  Senancour  and  Maine  de  Biran. 
These  are  at  once  the  most  complete 
of  these  introspective  chronicles  which 
we  possess,  the  most  sincere  and  the 
most  intelligible.  Scherer,  in  his  pref- 


26                                         The  Gospel  of  Defeat.                                 [July, 

ace  to  AmiePs  journal,  finely  contrasts  effaced  himself,"   says  George  Sand  in 

the  three,  associating  in  the  comparison  the   preface    already   mentioned  ;    "  the 

the  slight  but  peculiarly  subtle  notes  of  silence  of  the  valleys,  the  peaceful  cares 

Maurice  de  Guerin.     George  Sand,  in  of  pastoral  life,    the    satisfactions   of  a 

a  somewhat  explosive  preface  to  one  of  durable  friendship,  —  we  have  here  the 

the  later  editions  of  Senancour's  book,  last   phase    of    Obermann."      The   real 

can  compare  it  only  with  Rene.     But  Senancour,  however,  returned  to  Paris 

Maurice   de  Guerin  died  early  of   his  in  1814,  and  continued  for  many  years 

malady,  and    Chateaubriand    recovered  longer  to  eke  out  by  literary  hack-work 

early  from  his  ;  so  that  their  experiences  a  sickly  and  precarious  existence.     He 

have  not  the  same  value  and  significance  was  living  and  struggling  there  at  the 

as  theirs  who  were  called  upon  for  the  very  time  when   Sainte-Beuve    said  so 

dry  courage    of   mature   manhood,   the  eloquently  of    Obermann,    "  He   is  the 

unmitigated  patience  of  a  long  series  of  type  of  the  dumb  and  abortive  genius, 

disillusioned  years.    Of  the  relative  mer-  of  .the  full  spring  of  sensibility  wasted 

its  of  the  two  who  remain,  we  have  by  upon  desert  sands,  of    the  hail-smitten 

no  means  the  same  opinion  as  Scherer,  harvest  which  never  matures  its  gold." 

who  dismisses  Maine  de  Biran  with  a  He  lived  on  for  a  full  generation  longer, 

page  or  two  of  rather  supercilious  com-  in  the  selfsame  city  where,  about  the  year 

merit.     To  ourselves,  he  is,  of   all  the  1820,  a  certain  group  of   gifted  young 

great    introspectionists,    not    the    most  men  with  a  taste  for  melancholy  —  J.  J. 

amiable,  not  the  most  eloquent  and  fas-  Ampere,  Jules  Bastide,  Auguste  Santelet 

cinating,  but  the  most  original  and  in-  — formed  themselves,  as   Sainte-Beuve 

structive  ;   he  who  has  made   his   long  tells  us,  into  a  sort  of  Obermann  society 

and  painful  self-examination  best  worth  (the  sympathy  of  the  author  of  Volupte 

while  to  his  fellow-men  ;  and  it  is  matter  with   their  objects  is  readily  conceiva- 

of  curiosity  and  surprise  to  us  that  even  ble),  and  fairly  "steeped   themselves'5 

the    modest    and    magnanimous    Amiel  in  him.     He  even  published,  as  late  as 

should    have    found   his    merits    as    a  1833,  an  instantly  forgotten  novel,  and 

thinker  exaggerated  by  his  ablest  biog-  he  could  hardly  have  been  dead  above 

rapher,  Ernest  Naville.  &  year,  if  he  were   not  even  then  liv- 

Senancour,  it  can  hardly  be  necessary  ing,  when  Matthew  Arnold    first  took 

to  say,  is  Obermann,1  —  "  the  master  of  Obermann  for  his  guide  in  Switzerland, 

my  wandering  youth,"  in  the  words  of  For  Senancour,  delicate  as  was  his  or- 

Matthew  Arnold,  and  a  somewhat  infirm  ganization,   had   fifteen  more    years   of 

master,  truly.     He  is  so  entirely  Ober-  life  to  accomplish  than  either  De  Biran 

mann   that   the   real  personality  seems  or  Amiel,  neither  of  whom  passed  his 

to  have  counted  for  nothing,  even  with  grand  climacteric. 

his  most  sympathetic  readers,  beside  the  Maine  de  Biran  was  a  Frenchman  of 
fictitious  one.  Born  in  1770,  he  was  distinction,  born  under  the  old  regime, 
but  nineteen  years  of  age  when  he  re-  who  at  the  age  of  twenty  was  a  mem- 
nounced  the  priesthood,  for  which  he  ber  of  the  body-guard  of  Louis  XVI., 
had  been  educated,  and  went  to  live  in  and  bearing  his  part  in  all  the  mad  gay- 
Switzerland,  where  he  wrote,  under  the  eties  of  the  Versailles  of  Marie  Antoi- 
thinnest  possible  disguise  of  fiction,  his  nette,  on  the  eve  of  the  great  Revolu- 
famous  book  of  meditations  on  nature  tion. 
and  man.  "He  obscured  himself,  he  During  one  of  the  ententes  of  1789 

he  received  a  wound  which  disabled  him 
i  Obermann.     Nouvelle  Edition,  revue  et  cor- 

rig(?e,  avec  une  Preface  par  GEORGE  SAND.  Paris:  trom  military  service,  and  thus  it  hap- 

Charpentier.    1874.  pened    that    when    the    tempest   finally 


1884.] 


The  Gospel  of  Defeat. 


27 


broke  he  was  in  shelter  from  its  fury, 
leading  an  entirely  retired  life  on  his 
beautiful  but  lonjaJy  estate  of  Bergerac ; 
for,  like  Amiel,  he  had  early  been  left 
an  orphan.  There  he  remained  unmo- 
lested until  the  guillotine  had  done  its 
savage  work,  and  it  had  fallen  to  the  lot 

o  . 

of  a  young  Corsican  officer  to  reestab- 
lish the  reign  of  law  and  order  in  the 
intellectual  capital  of  the  world.  A 
consistent  royalist  always,  he  was  des- 
tined to  return  to  civic  life  in  1809,  as 
a  member  of  the  Corps  Legislatif,  and 
to  pass  his  remaining  fifteen  years  chief- 
ly in  Paris,  where  he  held  high  office 
under  the  Restoration.  During  the  pe- 
riod of  his  comparative  obscurity  he 
had  enjoyed  a  few  years  of  happy  mar- 
ried life  ;  but  his  young  children,  after 
their  mother's  early  death,  were  confided 
to  the  care  of  their  maternal  aunt,  Ma- 
dame Gerard,  and  in  his  thirty-ninth 
year  Maine  de  Biran  found  himself  once 
more  alone.  His  was,  however,  no  idle 
solitude.  He  had  early  plunged  into 
metaphysical  and  medical  studies.  "  I 
passed,"  as  he  himself  says,  half  humor- 
ously, of  the  first  years  of  his  retire- 
ment, "  at  one  bound  from  frivolity  to 
philosophy;"  and  in  the  years  1803, 
1805,  and  1807  he  competed  successfully 
for  prizes  offered  by  the  French  Institute 
and  the  Academy  of  Berlin  for  essays 
on  philosophical  subjects.  He  began 
his  career  as  a  disciple  of  the  fashiona- 
ble philosophy  of  his  day,  the  sensa- 
tionalism of  Locke  and  Condillac ;  but 
the  line  of  his  always  independent  re- 
searches led  him  far  away  from  the 
somewhat  brutal  conclusions  of  the  lat- 
ter. In  the  end  he  became  a  pronounced 
spiritualist,  hailed  by  Cousin  as  "  the 
most  original  of  modern  thinkers,"  and 
of  whom  Royer-Collard,  who  met  him 
occasionally  during  his  later  years  in 
Paris,  at  the  reunions  of  a  small  society 
for  philosophical  discussion,  to  which 
they  both  belonged,  said,  admiringly, 
1 II  est  le  maitre  de  nous  tous." 
But  it  was  only  on  rare  occasions  that 


Maine  de  Biran  could  thus  convince 
either  himself  or  others  of  his  personal 
power,  and  he  has  left  behind  him  no 
complete  exposition  even  of  his  philo- 
sophical creed.  The  essays  and  memo- 
rials upon  which  his  fame  chiefly  rests 
were  fragments,  never  incorporated  into 
a  symmetrical  whole,  and  published,  al- 
most all  of  them,  before  the  date  at 
which  the  painful  private  journal l  be- 
comes continuous  and  full ;  and  we 
should  have  no  need  to  concern  our- 
selves with  his  speculative  views  at  all 
but  for  the  light  which  they  indirectly 
shed  on  the  pathology  of  the  human 
soul.  As  it  is,  we  must  attempt  a  brief 
account  of  them. 

Starting,  as  we  have  said,  from  the 
then  prevalent  point  of  view,  that  the 
mind  contains  nothing  except  what  en- 
ters it  by  the  senses,  and  that  thought 
itself  is  but  a  function  or  secretion  of 
its  material  organ,  through  the  very  re- 
finement of  his  own  sensibilities  he  soon 
discovered  another  order  of  facts.  He 
found  within  himself  the  power  to  ob- 
serve, and,  up  to  a  certain  point,  to  mod- 
ify and  regulate,  the  chaotic  world  of  his 
own  sensations,  —  that  world  which,  in 
his  own  words,  "  is  composed  of  impres 
sions  without  consciousness,  and  of  re- 
flex movements  which  are  likewise  un- 
conscious." "This,"  he  goes  on  to  say, 
"  is  the  life  of  the  animal,  in  which  be- 
ing becomes  in  fact  the  modification 
from  which  it  does  not  distinguish  itself. 
Here  is  to  be  found  the  brute  matter  of 
the  phenomena  of  the  human  mind. 
At  the  moment  in  which  consciousness 
awakes,  in  the  mystery  of  a  first  effort 
of  the  will,  the  personal  force  finds  a 
preexisting  material,  in  the  bosom  of 
which  it  develops  itself.  It  acts  upon 
this  material.  It  takes  possession  of  it. 
It  does  not  emanate  from  it." 

It  will  thus  be  seen  that  M.  de  Biran 
allows  a  large  and  most  important  place 

1  Maine  de  Biran.  Sa  Vie  et  ses  Pense'es. 
Publics  par  ERNEST  NAVILLE.  Paris:  Didier  et 
Cie.  1877. 


28 


The  G-ospel  of  Defeat. 


[July, 


to  the  phenomena  of  sensation,  at  the 
same  time  that  he  differentiates  himself 
from  the  true  sensationists  by  recogniz- 
ing the  sense  of  effort,  the  capacity  for 
self  -  modification,  as  the  fundamental 
fact  of  consciousness,  —  that  which  dis- 
tinguishes the  ego  from  the  non-ego,  the 
thinker  from  the  thought.  Descartes 
had  said,  /  think,  therefore  1  am  ;  De 
Biran  said,  /  will,  therefore  I  am.  In- 
side the  mysterious  limits  of  his  own 
individuality,  he  perceived  a  process 
analogous  to  that  cosmic  one  described 
in  the  majestic  and  mystical  words, 
"  The  spirit  of  God  moved  upon  the 
face  of  the  waters."  The  chaos,  the 
brute  material  of  our  conscious  activi- 
ties, he  called  the  systeme  affectif,  or 
life  of  the  animal ;  the  same  under  the 
influence  of  consciousness,  the  systeme 
perceptif,  or  life  of  the  man. 

At  this  point  the  development  of 
Maine  de  Biran's  psychology  rested  for 
a  time.  That  rarely  exalted  conscious- 
ness of  his  was  destined  to  make  him 
yet  other  and  more  solemn  revelations, 
but  slowly,  imperfectly,  and  by  means 
of  an  experience  so  dolorous  that  he 
who  has  once  perused,  with  a  certain 
sympathy,  the  private  record  of  the  phi- 
losopher's later  years  shrinks  even  from 
reopening  the  book  and  retracing  the 
process.  It  is  in  this  "  seltf  oscura  "  of 
their  middle  life  that  our  three  self-an- 
nalists are  continually  meeting  upon 
common  ground,  and  here,  for  a  time, 
their  subdued  voices  are  hardly  to  be 
distinguished  from  one  another. 

"  Man,"  says  Obermann,  always  the 
most  poetic  of  the  three  in  his  forms 
of  expression,  —  "man,  who  toils  to  ele- 
vate himself,  is  like  those  evening  clouds 
which  are  displayed  for  an  hour,  which 
become  vaster  than  their  causes,  which 
appear  to  increase  in  bulk  even  as  they 
waste  away,  which  disappear  in  one  in- 
stant." 

"  Our  life,"  says  Amiel,  "is  but  a  soap- 
bubble  suspended  on  a  reed ;  it  is  born,  it 
widens,  it  clothes  itself  with  the  fairest 


of  prismatic  colors,  by  moments  it  even 
escapes  from  the  action  of  the  law  of 
gravity.  But  the  black  point  soon  ap- 
pears ;  the  globe  of  gold  and  emerald 
vanishes  in  space,  and  is  resolved  into  a 
single  drop  of  impure  liquid.  All  the 
poets  have  made  this  comparison.  Its 
verity  is  striking.  To  appear,  to  shine, 
to  vanish  ;  to  be  born,  to  suffer,  to  die, 
—  is  not  this  the  universal  summary  of 
life  for  an  ephemerid,  for  a  nation,  for 
a  heavenly  body  ?  " 

"  Time,"  says  Maine  de  Biran,  "  car- 
ries away  all  my  opinions,  engulfs  them 
in  a  perpetual  flux.  I  have  taken  note 
of  these  varying  points  of  view  from  my 
youth  up.  I  thought  to  find,  as  I  ad- 
vanced in  life,  something  fixed,  some 
loftier  point  of  view,  whence  I  might 
embrace  the  entire  sequence,  correct  its 
errors,  reconcile  its  contradictions.  And 
now,  here  I  am,  already  well  on  in 
years,  but  still  uncertain-  and  vacillating 
in  the  way  of  truth.  Is  there  a  point 
of  support,  and  where  is  it  ?  ' 

So,  too,  both  Amiel  and  De  Biran 
speak  repeatedly  of  a  sense  of  somnam- 
bulism, —  of  living  surrounded  by  illu- 
sions which  have  no  counterpart  in 
any  reality,  of  walking  in  a  vain  show 
and  disquieting  themselves  for  naught. 
There  is  also  common  to  all  three  an  in- 
tense and  altogether  peculiar  suscepti- 
bility—  now  taking  the  form  of  sym- 
pathy, and  now  of  revolt  —  to  what  may 
be  described  as  the  pulsations  of  the  life 
of  external  nature,  to  the  variations  of 
the  sky  and  the  procession  of  the  sea- 
sons, with  its  attendant  phenomena. 
Spring,  which  often  brings  even  to  the 
most  thoroughly  acclimated  and  con- 
tented children  of  earth  light  touches 
of  vague  sadness,  is  for  them  a  season 
of  acutest  pain.  It  is  as  if  they  expe- 
rienced in  their  own  persons  the  pecul- 
iar anguish  which  attends  the  return  of 
life  after  a  temporary  suspension,  the 
recovery  from  a  swoon.  It  is  noticeable, 
however,  that  Maine  de  Biran,  who  was 
less  an  artist  than  either  of  the  others, 


1884.] 


The  G-ospel  of  Defeat. 


29 


; 


and  with  whom  individuality  was,  in 
some  sort,  a  matter  of  conscience  as 
well  as  of  consciousness,  here  suffers 
most  keenly  of  them  all.  The  other  two 
have,  to  some  extent,  the  power  of  ab- 
sorbing themselves  in  nature.  Amiel 

o 

has  it,  at  times,  in  a  very  extraordinary 
degree.  He  is  subject  to  what  he  calls 
Proteism,  and  he  finds  wonderful  words 
for  describing  the  strange  experience. 
The  mounting  flood  of  the  century's 
pantheism  came  nearer,  than  in  the  case 
of  his  predecessors,  to  submerging  him 
in  its  "  vast  and  wandering  grave." 

Long   before    the   day    of   either   of 
them  (there  were   only  three  years  dur- 
ing which  they  were  all  contemporary) 
Pascal  had  broached  the  theory  that  the 
life  of  the  soul,   like  that  of  the  bod- 
ily organs,  is   revealed   to  the  subject 
only  through  the  medium  of  pain  ;  and 
that  suffering   and    self-knowledge   not 
merely  imply,  but  continually  react  upon 
and  enhance  one  another.     The  positive 
and  scientific  side  of  Maine  de  Biran's 
mind,  together  with   his    long  practice 
in  analytic    thinking   and   writing,    en- 
abled him  both  to  observe  with  steadi- 
ness and  record  with  precision  certain 
phases  in  the  progress  of  the  "  long  dis- 
ease "  of  life,  which  in  the  case  of  his 
more  imaginative  compeers  either  evap- 
orated in  reverie,  or  exhaled  in  inartic- 
ulate  sighs.     Of  that  free-will,   whose 
existence  his   early  meditations  had  so 
clearly  revealed  to  him,  whose  claims  to 
philosophic  recognition   he  had  so  strik- 
ingly vindicated,  he  was  now  to  experi- 
ence with  an  equally  abnormal  intensity 
the  shackles  and  the  limitations  ;  the  mis- 
ery of  the  incessant  struggle  by  virtue  of 
which  it  maintains  its  place  for  a  time 
in  our  perishable  organism.    Physiology 
tells  us  that  every  one  of  those  facts 
of  effort,  of  which  Maine  de  Biran  had 
perceived  the  central  importance,  is  ac- 
companied  by  a   disintegration    of   the 
material  substance  of  the  muscles  and 
the  brain.     It  is  almost  as  if  this  man 
had    had   a    nervous    system    delicate 


enough  to  report  the  progress  of  this 
obscure  and  incessant  dissolution,  of 
which  the  mass  of  men  are,  Heaven  be 
praised,  entirely  unconscious.  We  are 
the  more  prone  to  believe  it  because  his 
mental  misery  increased  so  noticeably 
from  about  that  fifth  decade,  in  which 
the  decline  of  human  life  begins,  and 
the  waste  of  substance  inevitably  ex- 
ceeds its  repair.  Saint  Paul,  who  was 
also  curiously  and  keenly  conscious  of 
his  own  mortality,  had  said,  "I  die 
daily  ;  "  but  Maine  de  Biran  might  have 
said,  "  I  die  hourly,  momently."  In 
September,  1816,  he  writes,  "It  is  not 
surprising  that  as  we  advance  in  life  we 
are  more  and  more  tempted  to  seek  dis- 
traction, and  to  avoid  ourselves.  We 
no  longer  find  within  those  engaging 
sentiments  of  youth  which  make  a  man 
dear  to  himself.  As  we  descend  into 
the  depths  of  our  being,  we  are  forced 
to  recognize  the  losses  which  we  have 

O 

sustained  and  are  sustaining  daily.  No 
more  future,  no  more  hope,  no  more 
progress !  We  discover  a  mass  of  those 
miseries,  pettinesses,  vices,  which  are  the 
accompaniment  of  old  age.  We  feel 
that  we  can  go  no  farther,  that  the  end 
is  near."  And  in  May  of  the  succeed- 
ing year,  "There  is  within  me  a  fac- 
ulty of  reason  and  reflection,  which 
judges  and  controls  all  the  rest.  My 
constant  exercise  of  this  facultv  at  a 

y 

time  when  I  was  younger  and  stronger 
and  in  better  intellectual  condition  is 
to-day. a  disadvantage.  I  assist  as  wit- 
ness at  the  degradation  and  successive 
loss  of  the  faculties  which  gave  me  value 
in  my  own  eyes.  It  would  be  better, 
perhaps,  not  to  take  account  of  one's  self, 
to  cherish  illusions  with  regard  to  one's 
own  value.  But  if  I  am  led  by  the  sense 
of  my  intellectual  and  moral  decadence 
to  look  beyond  myself  for  consolation 
and  support,  reason  and  reflection,  after 
having  been  the  occasion  of  suffering, 
will  doubtless  have  rendered  me  the 
greatest  service  of  which  they  are  ca- 
pable." And  again,  more  simply  and 


30  The  G-ospel  of  Defeat.  [July, 

brokenly,  "  I  have  no  basis,  no  constant  itself  on  the  side  of  its  Ruler  is  free, 
motive.  I  suffer,  —  I  suffer.  I  will  and  in  so  far  as  free  the  equal  of 
take  refuge  in  the  thought  of  God."  its  cause.  The  poet  laureate  of  Eng- 
There  is  little  enough  of  the  joyous  land,  in  the  preface  to  his  most  pro- 
enthusiasm  of  "conversion"  here,  yet  found  work,  has  furnished  in  a  single 
Maine  de  Biran  was  led,  slowly  always,  couplet  an  exactly  appropriate  motto 
and  at  first  very  blindly,  in  the  direction  for  the  philosophy  of  Maine  de  Biran  : 
thus  indicated.  Before  attempting,  how-  for  its  first  two  divisions,  "  Our  wills 
ever,  to  trace  the  latest  development  of  are  ours,  we  know  not  how ; ':  for  , 
his  speculative  thought,  let  us  say  that  the  third  and  last,  "  Our  wills  are  ours,  ( 
it  seems  to  us  past  a  doubt  that  we  to  make  them  thine."  Epictetus,  as 
have  precisely  here,  in  the  mysterious-  well,  had  ages  before  condensed  into 
ly  exaggerated  sufferings  of  these  dis-  one  succinct  exhortation  the  essence  of 
tinguished  patients,  one,  if  not  an  all-  the  Frenchman's  supposed  discovery, 
sufficient,  explanation  of  their  practical  "  Choose  the  inevitable ; '"  and  some  of 
inefficiency,  —  their  failure  to  take  that  the  most  interesting  pages,  from  a  liter- 
place  in  the  world  of  men  to  which  ary  point  of  view,  of  Maine  de  Biran's 
their  native  power  would  seem  to  have  later  journal  are  those  in  which  he 
entitled  them.  They  are  simply  ex-  compares,  with  extreme  sympathy  of 
hausted  by  their  conflict  with  the  sin-  mind  on  either  hand,  and  subtlety  of 
ister  powers  of  the  air,  —  anaemic  from  analysis,  the  greatest  of  the  Stoics  with 
the  loss  of  their  life-blood  by  invisible  some  of  the  most  spiritual  of  Chris- 
wounds.  The  water  which  a  man  has  tian  writers,  —  Marcus  Aurelius  with 
once  seen  under  a  microscope  will  never  A  Kempis  and  Fenelon.  The  grounds 
quench  his  thirst.  But  to  return  to  the  on  which  he  finally  awards  his  firm  pref- 
speculations  of  Maine  de  Biran.  erence  to  the  latter  illustrate  at  once 
That  central  will,  which  he  found  so  his  disinterestedness  and  his  humility, 
painfully  baffled  and  thwarted,  as  the  Stoicism  he  finds  possible  only  for  the 
years  went  on,  by  the  wearing  out  of  its  elect  of  the  elect,  the  fewest  of  the 
corporeal  instruments,  he  nevertheless  few;  Christianity  is  applicable  to  all 
felt  to  subsist  within  him,  intact  in  its  ^mankind. 

essence  and  unaltered  by  the  wreck  of         "  And   is  this    all  ?  '    exclaims   poor 

matter  ;  and  he  began  to  consider,  with  Amiel,    with    the    true    impatience    of 

more  and  more  of  assurance,  the  possi-  fever,  as  he  flings  aside  the  memorial 

bility  that  its  roots  go  deeper  than  the  of   his  elder  brother    in    sorrow,    com- 

beginnings  of  human  life,  and  that  its  plaining   that  the  book  has  given  him 

final   attachments   are   altogether    out-  u  a  sort  of    asphyxia,"    "  paralysis   by 

side  the    world   of    time  and  sense, —  assimilation  and    fascination  by  sympa- 

are,   in   fact,   religious.       Still   groping  thy."     "  I  pity  him,  and  I  am  afraid  of 

cautiously,  therefore,   by    the    guiding-  my  pity,  knowing  that  his  faults  and  his 

thread  of  a  carefully  noted  experience,  disease  are  mine."     And  then  he  falls 

he  evolved  the  notion  of  a  third  system,  into   somewhat  captious  criticism :  "  It 

in  addition  to  the  sensitive  and  percep-  took   this   thinker   thirty   years    to  ad- 

tive,  —  the    systeme    relatif,  —  wherein  vance    from   Epicurean    quiescence    to 

he    finds  room    for    the   connection    of  Fenelonian  quietism,  and  his  whole  an- 

the    soul   with  God.      The  will  which  thropological  discovery  consists  in  hav- 

rebels  and  contends   against  the   great  ing  reiterated  the  theory  of  the  triple 

unseen  necessity  and  the  will  which  sub-  life,  —  the  inferior,  the  human,  and  the 

mits  doggedly   to    its  omnipotency  are  superior,  —  which  is  in  Pascal   and  in 

still  in  chains.     The  will  which  ranges  Aristotle.     Is  this  what  they  call  a  phi- 


1884.] 


The  G-ospel  of  Defeat. 


31 


losopher  in  France  ?  "  If  Amiel  had 
further  known  that  Maine  de  Biran's 
views  were,  erelong,  to  be  pompously 
ctted  as  authority  for  the  tawdry  phan- 
tasmagoria of  Bulwer's  Strange  Story, 
he  would  have  found  the  fact  rather 
grateful  than  otherwise,  in  the  momen- 
tary wretchedness  of  his  unreasonable 
disappointment.  Scherer,  too,  in  his 
preface  to  Amiel's  book,  sums  up  the 
results  of  Maine  de  Biran's  researches 
into  the  secrets  of  human  suffering  with 
a  certain  clear  and  cold  disdain  :  "  The 
interest  of  the  book  "  (Maine  de  Biran's 
Pensees)  "  consists  in  the  contradiction 
between  the  moral  sense  of  the  author 
which  supposes  responsibility  and  a 
psychological  analysis  which  suppresses 
it.  It  is  stoicism  contending  against  fa- 
tality, and  taking  refuge  in  the  doctrine 
of  grace." 

In  effect,  this  is  Maine  de  Biran's  final 
word,  and,  from  the  point  of  view  of 
the  student  of  human  philosophies,  the 
conclusion  is  undoubtedly  both  slight 
and  trite.  No  better  one  has  ever  yet 
been  offered,  to  be  sure,  but  that  mat- 
ters little.  It  interests  us  more  at  the 
present  moment  to  know  that  the  reso- 
lution of  discoiul  thus  foreshadowed  suf- 
ficed for  the  Jfcuagement  of  Maine  de 
Biran's  protracted  mental  sufferings.  He 
was  never  positively  happy  in  his  faith, 
if  faith  it  may  be  called,  but  he  be- 
gan to  rest.  The  tension  was  relaxed. 
There  stole  over  his  long  strained  and 
tortured  faculties  that  blessed  beginning 
of  quietude,  the  sight  of  whose  counter- 
part in  the  bodily  frame  has  caused  how 
many  a  helpless  watcher  over  agonies 
beyond  his  power  to  relieve  to  lift  his 
eyes  and  involuntarily  murmur  those  old, 
old  words  of  tremulous  gratitude  and 
appeal,  "Lord,  if  he  sleep  he  shall  do 
well ! " 

Before  his  death,  on  the  20th  of  July, 

24,  Maine  de  Biran  received  the  last 

rites  of  the  Roman  Catholic  church,  in 

which  he  had  been  born  and  bred.    The 

wholly  orthodox  tendency  of  his  final 


speculations  naturally  approved  and  en- 
deared him  to  the  foremost  apostles  of 
that  Catholic  revival  which  had  been  her- 
alded by  the  author  of  the  Genie  du 
Christianisme.  Nevertheless,  his  spir- 
itual condition  and  "  exercises  ' '  do  not 
appear  to  have  been  entirely  satis- 
factory to  the  closer  Christian  critics  of 
any  school.  His  Catholic  biographer, 
Auguste  Nicolas,1  laments  that,  while 
the  last  word  of  Maine  de  Biran's  jour- 
nal, entered  about  two  months  before 
his  death,  concerns  the  Mediator  by 
whose  side  man  walks  in  the  presence 
of  God,  he  should  yet  have  experienced 
so  little  of  the  solace  which  the  ma- 
jority of  those  bearing  the  Christian 
name  have  certainly  derived  from  con- 
fiding in  the  actual  and  miraculously  pro- 
tracted presence  of  Christ  in  the  midst 
of  them.  His  Protestant  biographers 
would  have  been  better  satisfied  if  they 
had  been  able  to  discover  in  the  candid 
pages  of  the  journal  any  definite  sense 
of  original  sin,  or^need  of  an  external 
atonement.  Nevertheless,  it  is  one  of 
the  latter,  Ernest  Naville,  who  has  illus- 
trated the  tale  of  M.  de  Biran's  spiritual 
struggles  most  fully,  and  who  has  pre- 
fixed to  his  edition  of  the  Pensees  the 
singularly  appropriate  motto  from  St. 
Augustine  :  "  Domine,  fecisti  nos  ad  te, 
et  inquietum  est  cor  nostrum  donee  re- 
quiescat  in  te." 

Amiel,  too,  had  his  religion,  and  that 
not  merely  an  inward  motion,  but  an  out- 
ward habit,  —  the  habit  of  his  youth, 
which  he  never  abandoned.  There  are 
frequent  notes  of  sermons  in  the  Jour- 
nal Intime,  and  an  exceedingly  inter- 
esting commentary  on  a  course  of  lec- 
tures delivered  at  Geneva  by  Ernest 
Naville  himself  on  La  Vie  Eternelle. 
There  is  indeed  a  peculiarly  pathetic  en- 
try in  the  diary,  dated  March  17,  1861, 
and  beginning,  "Langueur  homicide! 
tristesse  mortelle ! "  in  which  he  goes  on 

1  Etude  sur  Maine  de  Biran.  D'apresle  journal 
intime  de  ses  pense'es.  Par  AUGUSTE  NICOLAS. 
Paris :  Auguste  Vaton.  1858. 


32 


The  G-ospel  of  Defeat. 


[July, 


to  say,  "  Our  church  ignores  the  suffer- 
ings of  the  heart.  She  does  not  divine 
them.  She  has  little  of  compassionate 
precaution  or  wise  regard  to  delicate 
pains,  no  intuition  of  the  mysteries  of 
tenderness,  no  religious  suavity.  Under 
a  pretext  of  spirituality,  we  crush  legit- 
imate aspiration.  We  have  lost  the  mystic 
sense  ;  and  can  there  be  a  religion  with- 
out mysticism,  a  rose  without  perfume  ? 
We  are  always  saying  repentance,  sanc- 
tification,  but  consolation,  adoration,  — 
these  also  are  two  of  the  essential  ele- 
ments of  religion."  Nevertheless,  Prot- 
estantism is  still  to  him  a  church  ;  and 
his  church  and  the  shadow  of  its  un- 
sculptured  porch  is  grateful  to  his  aging 
eyes. 

For  Senancour  alone  there  seem  to 
have  been  no  simple  mother  cares  in  his 
last  agony.  He  died  as  he  had  lived, 
exceptionally  alone.  But  let  us  not  fail 
to  note  one  or  two  particulars,  in  which 
he  seems,  half  unconsciously,  to  draw 
nearer  to  the  spirit^of  the  founder  of 
Christianity  than  either  of  the  others. 
He  is  less  a  spiritual  aristocrat  than 
they.  The  sentiment  which  secludes 
him  from  his  fellow-men  is  not  so  much 
one  of  fastidiousness  or  disdain  —  even 
for  the  intellectually  poor  —  as  of  utter 
helplessness.  He  finds  himself  in  the 
ranks  of  humanity  with  no  arms  for 
bearing  his  part  in  the  battle.  Maine 
de  Biran  knew  that  he  had  a  will  which 
was  thwarted  by  circumstance.  Senan- 
cour mourns  that  he  has  none  whatever. 
But  his  power  of  passive  sympathy  with 
others  is  intense ;  and  with  him,  often- 
er  than  with  either  De  Biran  or  Amiel, 
the  sickening  accuracy  of  description, 
the  piercing,  blind  appeal,  are  for  sor- 
rows which  are  not  his  own. 


The  application  of  the  words  "  In- 
asmuch as  ye  have  done  it  unto  one  of 
the  least  of  these,"  etc.,  to  works  of 
practical  benevolence  is  happily  univer- 
sal in  our  day  among  all  who  bear  the 
Christian  name.  Our  object  has  been 
to  call  attention  for  a  moment  to  miser- 
ies of  a  no  less  poignant  reality  which 
are  beyond  relief  by  gifts  of  clothing, 
food,  and  shelter  ;  and  he  whose  brief 
life  in  Judea,  whether  or  no  it  have  the 
unique  and  eternal  significance  which 
his  professed  followers  assign  it,  did 
certainly  epitomize  in  a  remarkable  de- 
gree the  numberless  varieties  of  human 
woe,  had  his  full  share  in  this  nameless 
and  incorporeal  anguish.  Over  and  above 
its  privation  of  all  that  have  ever  been 
held  the  prizes  of  human  existence,  — 
love,  honor,  beauty,  riches,  and  power, 
—  that  life  of  thirty-three  years  passed 
encompassed  by  a  great  sphere  of  spirit- 
ual sorrow,  into  the  mysteries  of  whose 
awful  culmination  a  not  too  reverent 
theology  has,  for  the  most  part,  peered 
in  vain.  Reflecting  upon  these  things, 
we  are  more  and  more  confirmed  in  our 
impression  that  there  is  a  fixed  place  in 
the  mundane  order  for  souls  whose  too 
keen  sense  of  its  imperfection  deprives 
,them  of  the  little  power  wey  might  oth- 


erwise possess  to  disguise,  or  modify,  or 
ameliorate  it.  The  average  world,  which 
shakes  its  wise  head  over  their  inexplic- 
able inefficiency  and  needless  enervation, 
still  dates  its  daily  doings  from  the  com- 
mencement of  a  life  which  called  forth 
the  saddest  commentary  ever  yet  pro- 
nounced upon  a  so-called,  unsuccessful 
human  career  :  "  He  was  in  the  world, 
and  the  world  was  made  by  him,  and  the 
world  knew  him  not.  He  came  unto  his 
own,  and  his  own  received  him  not." 
Harriet  Waters  Preston. 


1884.] 


A   Cook's  Tourist  in  Spain. 


33 


A  COOK'S  TOURIST  IN   SPAIN. 


I. 


THE  choice  spirits  of  our  day  have 
found  a  term  of  contempt  stronger  than 
that  of  "  Philistine,"  namely,  "  Cook's 
Tourist."  Indeed,  it  includes  the  other, 
for  who  but  a  Philistine  would  go  to  a 
land  of  art,  historical  associations,  and 
natural  beauty  for  a  four  weeks'  trip 
with  a  return  ticket  ?  Yet  I  am  ready 
to  make  the  humiliating  confession  that 
I  have  done  this  thing,  and  found  so 
much  to  see  and  enjoy,  even  under 
those  galling  circumstances,  that  a  short 
account  of  my  journey  may  amuse  oth- 
er Philistines,  and  point  out  a  new  path 
for  their  innocent  pleasures. 

Experienced  friends  who  know  Spain 
well,  and  have  known  her  for  over  a 
quarter  of  a  century,  warned  me  against 
disappointment.  I  was  not  to  expect 
customs,  or  costumes,  or  fine  cities,  or 
fine  scenery,  or  comfort  in  traveling, 
or  ease  in  an  inn,  or,  above  all,  "  local 
color ;  "  that  had  vanished  before  the  ap- 
proach—  the  distant  approach,  it  would 
seem  -  -  of  civilization.  Indeed,  they 
were  so  anxious  that  I  should  not  expect 
too  much  that  they  had  some  difficulty 
in  specifying  what  I  was  to  expect : 
pictures,  to  be  sure,  such  as  could  not 
be  seen  anywhere  else,  and  a  few  fine 
churches,  and  the  Alhambra,  —  they 
would  not  promise  anything  more ;  yet 
they  urged  me  to  go,  by  all  means. 
Over-persuaded  in  this  singular  manner, 
I  set  out  with  my  expectations  pitched 
at  a  moderate  height,  and  here  offer  my 
thanks  to  those  friends  for  the  delightful 
surprise  they  prepared  for  me. 

At  Bayonne,  a  pretty  town  with  a 
physiognomy  of  its  own,  there  are  indica- 
tions of  Spain  perceptible  even  from  the 
railway  :  notices  printed  in  Spanish  and 
French,  and  coachmen  in  Figaro  jackets. 
There  we  had  the  first  glimpse  of  the  bay 

VOL.   LIV.  —  NO.   321.  3 


of  Biscay,  —  a  mere  peep  between  the 
harbor  fortifications,  —  standing  on  its 
head  in  a  truly  traditional  manner.  The 
French  frontier  towns  either  stretch 
along  the  sandy  shores  or  cling  high  up 
on  the  cliffs  of  these  turbulent  waters, 
which  are  so  shut  in  by  headlands  as  to 
resemble  a  series  of  fiords  or  lakes ;  the 
short,  sharp  spurs  of  the  Pyrenees  strike 
into  them,  a  succession  of  abrupt  hills 
and  deep  dells  covered  with  slender 
pine-trees,  an  undergrowth  of  golden 
gorse  and  broom  lighting  up  the  ever- 
green gloom  like  sunshine.  Every  town 
has  its  church  and  its  ruined  fortress 
on  a  rising  ground  above  the  cross-tim- 
bered, many-storied,  deep-eaved,  galler- 
ied  Basque  houses.  Hendaye  stands  on 
a  promontory  so  isolated  by  intervening 
knolls  that  it  looks  like  a  conical  island 
covered  with  a  cluster  of  picturesque 
houses,  no  two  alike,  encircled  by  walls, 
climbing  from  the  water's  edge  to  the 
castle  at  the  summit.  Another  —  San  Se- 
bastian, I  think  —  is  separated  from  the 
mainland  by  a  tiny  land-locked  bay,  join- 
ing the  sea  by  a  straight,  narrow  creek 
between  two  steep  ridges.  The  smiling 
little  town,  with  its  white  dwellings, 
blue  balconies,  and  red  roofs,  is  built  in 
two  regular  lines  on  each  side  of  the 
channel,  as  if  it  were  a  street ;  seen 
across  the  intervening  water,  the  effect 
is  strange  and  charming.  The  robust, 
well-knit  peasantry,  with  hawk  noses, 
wild,  bright  brown  eyes,  bronzed  skin, 
and  strong  white  teeth,  recall  the  Welsh 
type.  They  have  no  resemblance  to  the 
people  at  the  stations  north  of  Bordeaux, 
who  are  unmistakably  French  ;  the  dis- 
similarity is  a  striking  illustration  of 
the  difference  between  a  nation  and  a 
race.  They  almost  universally  wear  the 
Basque  costume,  a  blue  berret,  or  round 
woolen  cap,  and  blue  or  brown  home- 
spun jacket  and  trowsers  ;  a  few,  prin- 


34 


A   Cook's  Tourist  in  Spain. 


[July, 


cipally  public  coachmen,  sport  jacket 
and  breeches  gay  with  embroidery,  silver 
braid,  and  double  rows  of  silver  buttons, 
high  leather  gaiters,  a  bright  sash,  and 
a  little  varnished  black  hat  with  a  silver 
band,  worn  jauntily  over  one  ear.  They 
are  very  proud  of  their  nationality  and 
language  ;  there  is  a  guide-book  story 
that  they  consider  it  the  original  one 
spoken  by  Adam  and  Eve  in  Paradise. 
Their  farming  implements  might  be 
made  on  the  model  of  those  used  by 
our  first  parents  after  leaving  the  gar- 
den of  Eden,  and  are  not  designed  to 
mitigate  the  curse  and  spare  the  sweat 
of  the  brow  of  their  descendants.  Nev- 
ertheless, the  Basque  peasantry  contrive 
,to  till  their  valleys  and  hillsides  very 
well.  At  Irun  the  type  and  dress  dis- 
appear ;  the  next  stations  show  only 
>mongrel  Spanish. 

My  first  contact  with  the  new  coun- 
try was  at  Iruu,  in  the  custom-house,  and 
all  the  boding  words  of  the  guide-book 
had  not  sufficiently  forewarned  me. 
There  were  but  few  travelers,  and  there 
were,  relatively,  a  great  many  officials. 
The  time-table  announces  three  quarters^ 
of  an  hour's  delay  to  examine  luggage, 
but  we  stopped  an  hour  and  a  half ;  the 
additional  respite  being  explained  by 
the  difference  between  Paris  and  Ma- 
drid time,  which  is  made  good  out  of 
the  patience  of  the  passengers.  Three 
dignified  personages,  each  with  a  long 
cloak  thrown  gracefully  over  his  left 
shoulder  and  smoking  a  cigarita,  took 
my  modest  baggage  into  examination, 
while  my  fellow  travelers  had  about  as 
many  apiece  to  investigate  theirs.  The 
slowness,  the  seriousness,  the  silence, 
and  the  suspicion  with  which  this  inves- 
tigation was  carried  on  were  entirely 
unprecedented  in  my  experience,  al- 
though I  had  made  acquaintance  with 
the  custom-houses  of  half  a  dozen  Eu- 
ropean countries,  some  of  them  in  time 
of  war.  Articles  of  the  most  trifling 
value  and  common  use  excited  the  deep- 
est doubts  in  those  mistrustful  breasts. 


A  woolen  wrapper,  the  first  thing  which 
met    their    eyes,    spread    frankly   over 
the  contents  of  the  lower  compartment 
of  the  trunk,  was  taken  out,  weighed, 
measured,    tested   by  four   of   the   five 
senses,  and  regarded  with  much  shak- 
ing of  heads.     I  was  asked  whether  it 
was  new,  whether  it  was  for  sale,  and 
a  number  of   other  questions,  which  I 
did  not  understand.     As  the  successive 
layers  of  my  wardrobe  were  subjected 
to  the  same  scrutiny,  nay  patience  grad- 
ually gave  way.     There  is  one  piece  of 
advice  in  which  all  guide-books  concur, 
and  which  had  been  repeated  to  me  by 
everybody  who  knew  anything  of  Spain, 
on    hearing  that  I  was  bound  thither  : 
Never  lose  your  temper.    There  is  noth- 
ing, they  said,  which  a  Spaniard  cher- 
ishes like  his  self-love ;  he  cannot  bear 
the  slightest  offense  to  his  dignity,  and 
unless  you  wish  to  have  the  worst  of  it 
you    must   treat   him   with    the  utmost 
forbearance,  even  under  the  utmost  prov- 
ocation.    It  is  proverbially  difficult  for 
one  of  an  English-speaking  race  to  keep 
his  temper  with  anybody  who  does  not 
understand  the  English  language ;   and 
when,  in  addition  to  this,  the  delinquent 
does  not  understand  the  use  of  a  sponge 
the   difficulty  is    aggravated.     In    spite 
of  these  trials,  I  controlled  myself  until 
the  three  officials,  having  tossed  about 
the  contents  of    my   trunk  and   strewn 
the   custom-house    counter    with    them, 
dismissed  me  with  a  condescending  wave 
of   the  hand,  and  turned  away.     Then 
my  temper  was  too  quick  for  me,  and 
I  informed   them  in  the  plainest  Eng- 
lish that  they  must  put  back  what  they 
had  pulled  out,  and  leave   my  effects  in 
the  order  in  which  they  had  found  them. 
They  looked  at   me   inquiringly  and  se- 
riously.   I  repeated  my  words  in  a  loud- 
er   voice    and  with    emphatic    gestures, 
whereupon    they   gravely   refolded  and 
repacked  the  clothes,  tucking  and  pat- 
ting them  under  their  covers,  and  locked 
the  trunk  ;  a  porter  seized  it  and  rushed 
off  with  it  to  the  luggage-car,  the  officials 


1884.] 


A   Coolcs  Tourist  in  Spain. 


35 


and  I  parting  with  a  pantomime  of  mu- 
tual esteem.  This  little  prefatory  in- 
cident sent  me  into  Spain  in  a  good 
humor  which  withstood  all  subsequent 
trials  of  the  journey,  so  that  I  cannot 
say  whether  the  same  plan  would  have 
answered  invariably. 

At  Irun  the  scenery  changes.  Leav- 
ing the  bold,  warm-colored  cliffs  and 
blue  coves,  the  road  passes  into  a  dreary 
and  uninteresting  region,  without  trees, 
rocks,  or  striking  outlines ;  poorly  cul- 
tivated hillsides  rising  steeper  as  they 
draw  back  toward  the  distant  Pyrenees. 
But  as  night  approached,  so  did  the 
mountains,  their  grand  and  rugged  pro- 
files breaking  through  masses  of  golden 
and  crimson  cloud,  into  which  the  fog 
of  the  day  rolled  at  sunset.  It  was  a 
gorgeous,  profuse,  dazzling  change,  arid 
amid  the  heavy  purple  peaks  a  silvery 
wedge  of  solid  white  gleamed  through 
the  rifts  of  the  splendor.  At  twilight 
we  were  rushing  between  high  walls 
of  rock,  rising  sheer  from  their  founda- 
tions like  titanic  masonry,  and  through 
gray  wintry  forests  of  great  trees,  twist- 
ed and  torn  by  the  winds  into  the  sem- 
blance of  monstrous  hobgoblins.  A  de- 
pressing series  of  tunnels  ushered  us 
into  the  darkness  of  night.  It  had  been 
as  warm  as  June  when  we  left  Bayonne, 
at  noon  ;  it  was  as  cold  as  December 
before  midnight,  when  we  stopped  at 
Burgos. 

I  had  heard  so  much  of  the  dirt  and 
discomfort  of  Burgos  that  nothing  but 
the  length  of  the  journey  from  Bayonne 
to  Madrid,  twenty  hours,  decided  me  to 
halt  there,  the  other  towns  on  the  route 
dividing  the  distance  too  unequally.  As 
[  walked  up  the  wide,  easy,  dingy  stair- 
case of  the  Gran  Hotel  de  Paris  (An- 
tigua Fonda  de  Rafaela),  having  previ- 
ously made  my  bargain  (without  doing 
phich  nobody  should  enter  either  pub- 
lic abode  or  conveyance  in  Spain),  the 
unscrubbed  paint  of  the  walls  and  the 
odor  of  mouldy  cheese,  which  got  the 
better  even  of  strong  smells  of  tobacco 


and  garlic,  made  me  quail  a  little.  I 
never  saw  a  less  prepossessing  hostelry 
except  in  out-of-the-way  towns  in  the 
old  Italian  States  of  the  Church,  or  in 
one  of  our  second-rate  Southern  cities, 
twenty  years  ago.  My  bedroom  was  a 
large,  bare,  square  chamber,  fully  twenty 
feet  high,  with  whitewashed  walls  rude- 
ly painted  to  imitate  panels  and  wain- 
scot ;  the  furniture  consisted  of  a  shabby, 
uncomfortable  sofa,  a  chest  of  drawers, 
above  which  hung  a  distorting  mirror, 
a  small  and  rickety  wash-stand,  a  huge 
brazier  of  dead  ashes,  and  two  or  three 
new  cane  chairs,  the  single  rung  of 
which  was  but  six  inches  below  the 
seat,  so  as  to  defy  even  an  American's 
attempts  to  use  it  as  a  foot-rest.  The 
floor  was  covered  with  a  straw  matting  ; 
the  bed  stood  in  an  alcove,  with  green 
merino  curtains.  Although  there  was 
a  thick  layer  of  dust  over  everything, 
the  bedding  proved  to  be  perfectly  clean, 
the  wash-stand  well  supplied  with  water 
and  towels,  and  there  was  no  difficulty 
in  having  a  traveling  bath-tub  filled. 
This  was  a  fair  sample  of  my  lodgings 
throughout  Spain,  and  travelers  should 
not  expect  more.  To  conclude  the 
chapter  of  creature  comforts,  let  me  say 
that  at  Burgos  and  everywhere  else  the 
two  essentials,  bed  and  board,  -were 
not  only  irreproachably  clean,  but  in  all 
respects  tolerable.  I  here  first  made 
acquaintance  with  tortillas,  or  eggs 
scrambled  with  tomatoes,  a  very  nice 
breakfast  dish  ;  with  omelets  fried  in 
olive  oil  instead  of  butter  or  lard,  which 
had  too  unfamiliar  a  taste  to  be  pleas- 
ant at  first,  but  which  I  soon  learned  to 
prefer  to  those  fried  in  grease.  The 
bread  was  excellent :  a  little  salt  and  not 
very  white  nor  too  light,  —  something 
like  a  home-made  loaf ;  an  agreeable 
change  after  the  spongy  French  rolls. 
Then  there  was  rice  cooked  in  various 
ways,  all  of  them  good,  and  macaroni 
savory  with  cheese  or  gravy.  The 
coffee  was  delicious ;  but  cow's  milk 
must  always  be  asked  for,  or  otherwise 


36 


A  CooUs  Tourist  in  Spain. 


[July, 


the  traveler  will  be  given  goat's  milk, 
which  spoils  tea,  coffee,  and  every  other 
beverage.  Here,  too,  I  had  ray  first  cup 
of  Spanish  chocolate,  thick  and  frothing, 
but  overspiced ;  it  tasted  of  cinnamon 
rather  than  chocolate,  as  did  all  that  I 
drank  in  Spain.  Salad  is  always  served 
at  dinner,  very  nice,  of  fresh,  crisp  let- 
tuce, and  excellent  oranges  are  never 
failing.  This  is  a  Grahamite  bill  of 
fare,  but  one  need  not  starve  upon  it; 
and  there  were  many  strange  dishes  of 
meat,  plentifully  seasoned  with  garlic 
and  several  varieties  of  beans,  for  those 
who  liked  them.  The  wine  was  sweet 
and  strong,  with  a  family  flavor  of  port, 
and  as  violet-colored  as  in  the  days  of 
Theophile  Gautier.  The  demeanor  of 
the  servants  at  the  Gran  Hotel  de  Paris 
teaches  a  wholesome  lesson  to  those  who 
find  cause  of  complaint  on  this  head  in 
American  hotels.  There  were  two  in 
the  dining-room,  a  man  and  a  maid,  — 
the  latter  a  most  slatternly  person,  who 
dressed  her  hair  elaborately  every  af- 
ternoon and  stuck  a  flower  in  it,  with- 
out changing  her  soiled  apron  ;  next 
morning  the  apron  was  still  more  soiled, 
the  hair  was  rough,  and  the  flower  was 
faded,  but  still  there.  The  waiter  was 
trimmer,  spoke  a  little  French,  and  was 
called  El  Chico  on  account  of  his  stature, 
like  Boabdil,  the  last  of  the  Moorish 
kings.  This  pair  used  to  present  them- 
selves a  quarter  of  an  hour  after  the 
bell  sounded  for  a  meal,  and  lean  on 
either  side  of  a  large  arched  doorway 
communicating  with  the  pantry,  which 
opened  into  the  kitchen,  and  amuse 
themselves  with  our  impatience  as  the 
food  was  not  served  for  another  fifteen 
minutes.  The  boarders,  who  were  ap- 
parently officers  in  garrison,  lawyers, 
and  men  of  business,  who  messed  there 
and  lodged  elsewhere,  would  remonstrate 
good-humoredly  at  first,  and  then  grum- 
ble. The  servants,  leaning  against  the 
door-posts,  laughed  and  chaffed  them, 
ironically  congratulated  them  on  their 
appetite,  and  inquired  if  they  would  have 


their  food  now  or  wait  until  they  got  it, 
with  similar  facetiae.  Once  during  the 
midday  breakfast,  which  corresponds  to 
luncheon  in  England  and  America,  a 
burst  of  military  music  and  the  meas- 
ured tramp  of  feet  announced  that  sol- 
diers were  passing.  The  servants  im- 
mediately set  down  the  dishes  they  were 
serving,  ran  to  a  window,  threw  it  open, 
and  stepped  upon  the  balcony,  where 
they  remained,  talking,  laughing,  and 
looking  at  the  regiment  until  it  was 
out  of  sight.  The  meeker  spirited  of 
the  guests  joined  them,  following  them 
back  into  the  room  when  they  deigned 
to  return.  Before  the  repast  was  over 
the  drums  were  heard  again  ;  out  rushed 
the  servants  a  second  time ;  nobody  else 
stirred,  and  a  gloom  fell  on  the  com- 
pany ;  but  it  did  not  in  the  least  disturb 
the  cheerfulness  of  the  couple  on  the 
balcony,  who  came  back  at  their  own 
pleasure,  and  chatted  gayly  with  each 
other,  as  nobody  else  would  speak  to 
them.  This  was  my  introduction  to  the 
extraordinary  democracy  of  manners 
which  prevails  throughout  the  most  aris- 
tocratic and  top-lofty  society  in  the  Old 
World. 

The  first  morning  in  Burgos,  on  wak- 
jng,  I  threw  open  the  heavy  wooden 
inner  shutters  and  the  long  French  win- 
dow of  my  room,  which  looked  on  a  bal- 
cony, and  I  drew  back  dazzled  by  the 
blaze  of  sunshine.  Below,  market  was 
going  on  in  an  open  square,  groups  of 
men  in  wide  slouched  hats  and  dark 
cloaks  thrown  over  the  left  shoulder, 
and  of  women  in  black,  with  veils  worn 
mantilla-wise  over  head  and  bust,  stood 
about  amongst  shaggy  brown  donkeys, 
who  were  munching  pensively,  freed 
from  their  harness,  and  black  oxen,  with 
sheep-skin  frontlets,  lying  on  the  ground 
near  their  carts,  amid  heaps  of  unfamil- 
iar vegetables  and  dark  red  or  cream- 
colored  pottery  of  strange  and  beautiful 
shapes.  The  scene  was  shut  in  on  one 
side  by  a  long  pale  pink  house  front, 
with  little  iron-railed  balconies  at  every 


1884.] 


A  Cook's  Tourist  in  Spain. 


37 


window ;  on  the  other  by  a  gray,  castle- 
like  Gothic  building,  with  crockets  along 
the  edge  of  the  roof,  and  a  fine  arched 
gateway  surmounted  by  two  coats-of- 
arms  carved  in  the  stone,  bound  togeth- 
er by  a  heavy  sculptured  cord  falling 
in  a  huge  tassel  on  either  side  the  en- 
trance, —  the  order  of  Teutonic  knight- 
hood (according  to  the  guide-book).  In 
the  immediate  background,  with  pre- 
Raphaelite  disregard  of  middle  distance, 
rose  a  steep  green  hill,  crowned  by  for- 
tifications. These  simple  elements  com- 
posed a  characteristic  and  purely  Span- 
ish picture. 

After  this  view  I  could  not  dress  and 
get  out  into  the  streets  quickly  enough. 
The  general  aspect  of  the  town  is  mod- 
ern, but  entirely  foreign  to  everything 
north  of  the  Pyrenees.  The  principal 
streets  are  wide,  the  houses  high,  of 
light-colored  stone  or  gay  stucco,  with 
many  windows,  mostly  inclosed  in  square 
glass  bays,  each  with  a  small  iron  bal- 
cony. The  entrance  is  through  a  deep 
arched  doorway,  generally  open,  on  a 
level  with  the  pavement,  into  a  sort 
of  vestibule,  whence  the  short  staircase 
leads  up  into  the  body  of  the  house. 
But  these  new,  fresh-looking  streets  are 
filled  by  a  crowd  of  people  in  the  very 
costumes,  if  not  the  very  clothes,  of 
Murillo's  and  Velasquez's  times.  Not 
a  single  figure  was  visible  which  might 
not  have  belonged  to  the  seventeenth 
century,  except  soldiers,  of  whom  there 
were  a  great  many,  lighting  up  the  som- 
bre mass  with  dashes  of  red  and  blue. 
The  varieties  of  brown  were  as  remark- 
able as  its  prevalence  :  there  were  snuff- 
color,  mahogany,  chocolate,  coffee,  um- 
ber, burnt  siena,  Vandyke.  The  wo- 
men's dress  had  no  peculiarity  except 
want  of  conformity  to  any  contemporary 
fashion.  I  met  two  or  three  groups  of 
peasants,  in  thick  woolen  petticoats  of 
old-gold  color  with  a  cherry  border,  black 
bodices,  and  cherry  kerchiefs ;  some  of 
the  men  wore  the  red  Basque  berret,  but 
the  predominating  hues  were  black  and 


brown.  The  streets  were  thronged  all 
day  long,  but  nobody  seemed  to  be  going 
any  whither,  or  to  have  anything  to  do, 
except  for  an  hour  on  Sunday  morning, 
when  everybody  was  going  to  or  from 
church  :  that  was  my  only  glimpse  of 
the  upper  classes,  and  they  too  wore  the 
cloak  or  mantilla-veil,  according  to  sex. 
The  ladies  were  for  the  most  part  dressed 
in  black,  with  crape  veils  instead  of 
lace.  Walking  by  twos  and  threes, 
their  missal  clasped  in  their  hands  and 
a  long  silver  rosary  dangling  before 
them,  their  dark  eyes  cast  down  under 
their  long  black  eyelashes,  they  looked 
like  members  of  a  religious  order.  I 
saw  a  few  handsome  faces,  the  outline 
oval,  the  features  regular,  the  complex- 
ion like  ivory,  the  hair,  brows,  and  eyes 
dark  as  night.  As  a  rule  the  faces  both 
of  men  and  women  were  too  strongly 
marked  for  beauty :  the  features  tended 
to  coarseness,  the  skin  to  wrinkles  and 
sallowness,  the  brows  to  grow  too  close 
and  heavy.  An  expression  of  gravity, 
dignity,  and  reserve  in  almost  every  face 
redeemed  it  from  commonness.  The  men 
are  not  tall,  but  well  knit.  The  soldiers 
strike  one  as  under  size,  on  an  average ; 
the  officers  are  fine  men,  but  the  distinc- 
tion is  more  in  their  bearing  than  in 
height.  A  few  Gothic  palaces,  like  the 
Casa  de  Cordon  on  the  market-place, 
look  down  on  the  stir  and  chatter  of  the 
streets ;  from  a  wide  promenade,  with 
trees  and  statues,  bordering  the  river  is 
seen  the  arch  of  a  huge  mediaeval  gate- 
way, with  heavy  battlements,  turrets, 
and  towers,  which  frames  a  perpetually 
changing  series  of  street-pictures.  They 
are  only  a  repetition  of  men,  women, 
and  donkeys.  The  latter  are  on  curious 
terms  with  their  owners :  the  donkey 
uses  his  discretion  in  obeying  his  driver, 
who  has  no  whip  or  cudgel,  but  admin- 
isters an  occasional  slap  or  push  to  the 
animal's  hind-quarters  with  the  palm  of 
the  hand,  to  make  him  go  faster.  As  I 
was  watching  the  never-ending  combina- 
tions of  these  groups,  a  circus  company 


38 


A  Cook's  Tourist  in  Spain. 


[July, 


of  fine  muscular  men,  with  bare  limbs 
and  shoulders,  and  gaudy  tunics,  mount- 
ed on  showy  horses  with  tinseled  trap- 
pings, wound  slowly  out  of  a  narrow 
street,  like  a  procession  of  the  Middle 
Ages,  quite  in  keeping  with  the  rest  of 
the  scene.  Following  them  for  a  few 
steps  to  lend  myself  to  the  illusion,  I 
suddenly  found  myself  confronted  by 
one  of  the  great  doors  of  the  cathedral. 
Of  all  the  famous  minsters  I  have 
ever  seen,  that  of  Burgos  seems  to  me 
to  fulfill  to  the  utmost  completeness  and 
content  the  ideal  of  a  cathedral.  It 
lacks  but  two  points  of  perfection :  a 
better  site,  granting  an  entire  and  instan- 
taneous view  of  the  mighty  structure, 
and  an  unencumbered  nave,  which  would 
allow  the  eye  to  range  down  its  whole 
length  and  embrace  its  grand  dimensions 
at  a  glance.  The  first  condition  can 
never  be  achieved,  for,  besides  being 
crowded  and  hidden  to  the  knees  by  ad- 
joining houses,  the  cathedral  is  built  into 
a  hillside  ;  so  that  even  if  the  streets 
which  abut  upon  it  were  cleared  away 
it  would  not  stand  apart  and  detached, 
visible  from  all  sides.  One  must  be  sat- 
isfied, therefore,  to  see  the  exterior  piece- 
meal. The  west  front  looks  upon  a  small, 
open  square,  giving  the  spectator  an  op- 
portunity of  standing  off  far  enough  to 
get  the  effect  of  the  statued  gallery 
above  the  main  portal,  of  the  rich  rose 
window,  and  two  beautiful  towers  with 
airy  spires,  a  network  of  stone  through 
which  is  seen  the  blue  sky.  Two  or  three 
low  steps  lead  up  to  a  sort  of  flagged 
terrace,  from  which  the  church  is  entered 
at  this  end  ;  a  striking  feature,  which  I 
do  not  remember  having  seen  elsewhere, 
nor  do  I  know  if  it  has  an  architectural 
name.  On  the  north  the  Puerta  del 
Sarmental  is  approached  from  the  street 
by  a  long,  narrow  passage  between  the 
archbishop's  palace  and  the  cloisters. 
Owing  to  the  inequality  of  the  ground 
the  entrance  on  this  side  is  by  a  very 
high  flight  of  steps,  leading  to  a  magnifi- 
cent doorway  of  the  thirteenth  century, 


guarded  by  a  host  of  sculptured  figures ; 
above  is  seen  the  summit  of  the  glorious 
lantern,  an  octagonal  tower  with  an  eight- 
pointed  diadem  of  exquisite  Gothic  carv- 
ing. On  the  south  side  the  level  changes 
again  ;  one  looks  down  upon  the  Gothic 
galleries  of  the  chapels  and  cloisters  to- 
wards the  clustering  finials  of  the  east- 
ern towers. 

Entering  the  church  from  this  side, 
one  sees  the  pavement  thirty  feet  below 
the  door,  which  opens  at  the  head  of 
a  magnificent  double  staircase,  turning 
upon  itself  midway  at  a  broad  landing, 
—  a  superb  production  of  the  Spanish 
Renaissance.  But  how  can  dimensions 
or  descriptions  impart  the  sense  of  an 
immortal  work  of  art?  As  the  heavy 
leather  curtain  of  the  east  door  falls  be- 
tween the  traveler  and  the  outer  world, 
with  its  besieging  army  of  beggars,  how 
can  words  convey  the  feelings  with 
which  he  finds  himself  for  the  first  time 
within  a  great  Spanish  cathedral,  his 
eye  straining  to  reach  the  height  of  the 
vaults  and  to  pierce  the  depth  of  the 
aisles,  while  the  sunset  light  of  the 
painted  windows  falls  athwart  the  pillars, 
carrying  the  gaze  further  and  further 
on,  until  it  is  lost  in  the  dimness  of  the 
distant  chapels.  He  has  the  vastness  to 
himself,  for  except  during  the  morning 
services  there  is  seldom  any  one  to  be 
seen  in  the  long  vistas  ;  even  on  Sun- 
day at  vespers  there  are  only  a  few  dark 
figures,  kneeling  at  long  distances  apart, 
and  still  more  isolated  by  the  rapt  inten- 
sity of  their  prayer.  The  traveler  feels 
as  if  he  had  never  been  in  a  real  church 
before. 

The  material  obstacle  to  a  full  enjoy- 
ment of  the  sublimity  of  Burgos  is  the 
enormous,  lofty  choir,  which  obstructs 
the  nave  and  does  not  even  leave  a  free 
view  of  the  upper  arches.  The  finest 
general  impression  is  to  be  had  from  the 
north  door,  whence  one  looks  across  the 
grand  transept  —  only  a  sixth  less  in 
length  than  the  nave  —  to  the  splendid 
double  staircase  of  the  south  door  and 


1884.] 


A   Coolers  Tourist  in  Spain. 


39 


up  into  the  lantern  -  tower,  which  is 
adorned  to  its  very  apex  with  graduated 
tiers  of  galleries  and  ogival  windows, 
niches,  statues,  heads,  wreaths,  and  all 
the  luxuriance  of  florid  Gothic.  The 
richness  of  this  lantern,  although  con- 
sistent with  the  rest  of  the  edifice,  is  a 
singular  beauty,  for  I  cannot  remember 
another  instance  of  the  interior  of  a 
dome  or  tower  with  any  ornament  ex- 
cept frescoes  or  mosaics  ;  it  is  like  a 
cavern  encrusted  with  stalactites,  and 
enhances  the  magnificence  of  the  nave 
immensely. 

Next  to  the  grand  harmony  of  the 
whole  structure,  notwithstanding  the 
difference  of  age  and  style  in  its  sev- 
eral parts,  its  chief  characteristic  is  op- 
ulence of  detail  and  wealth  of  special 
art  treasures.  The  poor  Cook's  Tourist, 
with  but  two  days  to  give  to  a  place 
where  he  would  gladly  spend  two  months, 
goes  away  with  an  unsatisfied,  almost 
sad,  recollection  of  marvels  of  sculpture, 
painting,  wrought  iron  and  bronze,  gold- 
smith's work,  stained  glass,  illuminated 
missals  and  music-books,  embroidered 
vestments,  wood-carving,  which  he  was 
obliged  to  slight,  and  of  historical  asso- 
ciations which  he  was  forced  to  neglect, 
in  those  crowded  hours.  The  screen  of  ' 
masonry  inclosing  the  high  altar  is  pan- 
eled externally  with  sculpture,  in  high 
relief,  of  the  Passion,  Agony,  and  Res- 
urrection of  Christ ;  there  are  scores  of 
figures,  about  a  third  the  size  of  life, 
executed  with  the  finish  of  single  stat- 
ues. They  are  all  worthy  of  study,  but 
the  Vigil  in  the  Garden  of  Olives,  by 
Philip  of  Be»gofia,  a  Spanish  sculptor 
of  the  late  fifteenth  century,  is  a  mas- 
terpiece. The  kneeling  figure  of  our 
Saviour,  the  descending  angel,  and  the 
apostles  struggling  with  their  sleep  are 
represented  with  a  grace,  simplicity, 
and  pathos  which  recall  nothing  in  art 
so  much  as  Perugino's  best  delineation 
of  the  same  subject.  Single  heads,  of 
extraordinary  force  and  individuality, 
prophets  and  apostles,  project  from  be- 


low these  panels ;  on  the  pillars  which 
divide  them  there  are  niches,  with  stat- 
uettes of  royal  and  warrior  saints,  so 
noble  in  attitude  and  expression  that  the 
spectator  cannot  but  wonder  whether 
the  artist  found  living  models  of  such 
rare  dignity  and  devoutness,  or  followed 
his  own  exalted  conceptions  alone.  Be- 
hind the  high  altar  is  the  Chapel  of  the 
Constable,  the  finest  and  most  interesting 
of  fourteen  which  surround  the  church. 
It  was  built  by  John  of  Cologne  in  1487 
for  Velasco,  the  hereditary  constable  of 
Castile,  and  is  a  monument  of  Gothic 
art  in  its  happiest  exuberance.  Amidst 
an  efflorescence  of  buds  and  sprays  like 
the  simultaneous  outburst  of  twig,  leaf, 
and  flower  in  a  late  spring,  the  con- 
stable and  his  wife  lie  side  by  side  on 
tombs  as  rich  as  thrones,  with  the  sim- 
ple, stately  indifference  of  true  grandees 
to  the  magnificence  around  them.  Their 
ancient  lineage  is  attested  by  coats-of- 
arms  carved  in  every  direction  among 
branching,  blooming  tracery,  as  if  their 
entire  ancestry  had  hung  up  their  shields 
in  this  forest  of  stone ;  the  sculptured 
orders  of  the  Golden  Fleece  and  of  St. 
lago  de  Compostella  give  the  last  touch 
of  pomp  and  pride  of  place  to  this  almost 
royal  sepulchre.  When  the  Duke  of 
Frias,  the  descendant  of  this  noble  pair 
and  present  owner  of  the  chapel,  comes 
to  visit  the  hereditary  constable's  effigy, 
he  may  be  excused  for  believing  that 
the  blood  in  his  veins  is  not  chemically 
composed  like  that  of  other  mortals. 

Each  of  the  thirteen  remaining  chapels 
has  its  picture,  monument,  great  silver 
lamp  with  chains  wrought  like  bracelets, 
or  other  work  of  art ;  some  of  them  are 
small  museums  ;  several  are  as  large  as 
a  full-grown  modern  church,  with  a  sep- 
arate high  altar,  organ,  and  gallery.  The 
largest,  though  neither  the  most  beauti- 
ful nor  the  most  interesting,  is  the  great 
chapel  of  Santa  Tecla,  to  the  left  of  the 
main  entrance.  It  is  a  perfect  speci- 
men of  rococo  decoration:  the  twisted 
columns  wreathed  in  vines  ;  the  vaulted 


40 


A  Cook's  Tourist  in  Spain. 


[July, 


roof  embossed  with  heads  of  cherubim, 
rosettes,  vases,  fabulous  beasts,  and  im- 
aginary blossoms;  the  interspaces  filled 
with  clouds,  flames,  sun-disks ;  the  rere- 
dos  of  the  high  altar,  representing  Saint 
Thecla  on  the  martyr's  pile  surrounded 
by  Moors  feeding  the  flames,  might  have 
been  designed  during  an  orgy.  Yet  the 
delicacy  of  coloring  is  exquisite  :  amber, 
rose,  turquoise,  aquamarine,  and  I  do  not 
know  how  many  more  clear,  tender  tints, 
combined  by  white  and  gilding  in  profu- 
sion, produce  a  lovely  result,  like  a  heap 
of  rare  sea-shells  or  a  hot-house  in  full 
bloom.  In  spite  of  the  detestable  style 
of  art  of  which  it  is  an  exaggerated 
specimen,  it  contrasts  charmingly  with 
the  gray  solemnity  by  which  it  is  envi- 
roned. 

The  cloisters  are  peculiar  in  being 
two-storied,  and  are  exceedingly  or- 
nate. The  spaces  between  the  pointed 
arches  are  occupied  by  life-size  statues 
of  saints,  kings,  and  queens  ;  the  walls 
are  hollowed  into  Gothic  tombs,  where 
below  carved  canopies  repose  knights 
in  their  armor  and  prelates  in  their 
robes  ;  through  the  mullioned  windows 
turrets  and  pinnacles  are  seen  against 
the  deep  blue  sky ;  the  sunshine  traces 
Gothic  patterns  on  the  marble  pave- 
ment. The  lively  air  of  heaven  and  a 
certain  serene  cheerfulness  of  their  own 
give  the  cloisters  a  beauty  and  solemnity 
differing  from  those  of  the  cathedral. 

There  are  other  fine  old  churches  at 
Burgos,  but  they  are  annihilated  by  the 
neighborhood  of  the  cathedral.  Near 
the  town  are  two  convents  which  are 
worth  seeing,  even  if  one  has  but  an 
hour  to  give  to  them.  One  is  the  Cis- 
tercian convent  of  Las  Huelgas,  about  a 
mile  northward,  through  the  tree -bor- 
dered avenues  beside  the  river.  A  great 
gateway  in  a  high,  blank  wall  gives  ac- 
cess, not  to  the  solitary  precincts  of  the 
religious  establishment,  as  one  expects, 
but  to  a  large  and  squalid  village,  and 
the  traveler  picks  his  way  through  dirt 
and  garbage  until  he  finds  the  entrance 


to  the  church  for  himself.  There  is  no 
lack  of  beggars,  but  a  peculiarity  of  the 
Spanish  beggar,  which  distinguishes  him 
from  his  brother  of  Italy,  France,  or 
Switzerland,  is  that  he  never  offers  to 
show  you  your  way,  or  call  the  custo- 
dian, or  perform  any  of  those  services 
by  which  the  others  pretend  to  earn 
your  alms.  The  Spanish  beggar  is  not 
a  whit  less  importunate  than  they,  but 
stands  upon  his  own  merits.  The  church 
of  Las  Huelgas  has  a  square  tower,  much 
like  that  of  many  an  old  English  coun- 
try church,  and  apart  from  its  surround- 
ings is  not  unlike  some  early  English 
sacred  building  which  has  escaped  al- 
teration. Tradition  connects  it  closely 
with  English  history :  it  was  founded 
by  a  sister  of  Richard  Co3ur  de  Lion, 
and  Edward  I.  of  England  was  knighted 
here  by  Alonzo  X.  of  Castile.  But  royal 
tombs  such  as  those  that  line  the  cloister, 
the  sculptured  arches  of  .the  doorways 
and  vaults,  are  not  to  be  found  in  Eng- 
lish parish  churches.  Above  the  princi- 
pal door  there  is  a  thick  wreath  of  ivy, 
most  beautiful  and  natural  in  execution, 
yet  completely  subordinated  to  decora- 
tive use ;  one  of  the  pillars  is  entwined 
with  convolvuluses,  more  conventionally 
treated,  yet  of  charming  delicacy  and 
grace.  The  interior  of  the  church  is 
striking  only  by  its  good  proportions, 
being  whitewashed  and  otherwise  disfig- 
ured, but  it  possesses  some  curious  relics. 
Its  most  noteworthy  feature  is  the  nuns' 
chapel,  nearly  as  large  as  the  main 
church,  and  occupying  the  usual  posi- 
tion of  the  north  transept.  The  stalls 
of  its  choir  are  superbly  carved,  and  the 
walls  hung  with  gorgeous  old  tapestries. 
A  grating  divides  it  from  the  church,  and 
it  is  never  profaned  by  the  foot  of  man ; 
even  the  preacher  delivers  his  exhorta- 
tions through  the  bars,  the  ancient  pul- 
pit turning  on  a  swivel  to  bring  him 
within  sight  of  the  nuns.  Noon,  the 
hour  at  which  they  daily  assemble  for 
worship,  came  while  I  was  still  lingering 
before  the  carvings  of  the  principal  door, 


1884.] 


A   Cook's  Tourist  in  Spain. 


41 


and  the  sexton  hurried  out  to  adjure  me 
by  vehement  gestures  not  to  miss  the 
opportunity.  The  nuns,  in  their  long, 
thick  white  draperies,  slowly  entered, 
two  by  two,  separating  right  and  left, 
and  seated  themselves  on  each  side  of 
the  choir ;  there  were  not  more  than  a 
dozen  of  them.  One  row  immediately 
began  to  chant  in  soprano,  the  other  re- 
sponded in  contralto ;  presently  they 
rose,  and  falling  in  pair  and  rank  again 
made  their  exit  majestically.  The  cere- 
mony did  not  last  five  minutes,  and  I 
wondered  whether  these  brief  orisons 
were  all  that  the  rule  exacts  daily.  The 
nuns  were  all  stout,  some  of  them  were 
short ;  their  robes  were  long,  and  swayed 
in  inconvenient  folds  about  their  feet, 
but  such  dignity  of  bearing  and  motion 
I  never  saw  before.  Every  one  of  them 
walked  as  if  she  were  a  born  queen. 
This  was  in  part  explained  by  Murray's 
guide-book,  from  which  I  learned  that 
to  enter  this  particular  convent  a  woman 
must  be  of  noble  birth  and  have  a  dow- 
er, that  the  abbess  takes  precedence  of 
every  lady  except  the  queen  of  Spain, 
and  that  Las  Huelgas  is  altogether  a 
most  patrician  and  privileged  institution. 
By  way  of  contrast  to  these  cloistered 
dames,  and  to  the  picture  seen  through 
the  grating  of  their  white  forms  in  the 
dark  oaken  stalls  beneath  the  rich  pur- 
ple tapestry,  as  I  walked  back  to  town, 
I  saw  about  twenty  women  in  line  hoe- 
ing a  newly  plowed  field,  —  a  mere  flut- 
ter of  dingy  rags,  one  or  two  wearing 
tawny,  yellow  skirts,  and  all  with  red  or 
rose-colored  headkerchiefs ;  standing  be- 
tween the  brown  earth  and  the  blue  sky, 
against  the  background  of  a  white  con- 
vent wall  shaded  by  a  gray  row  of  leaf- 
less trees. 

Two  miles  south  of  Burgos  is  the 
Carthusian  convent  of  Miraflores.  The 
way  at  first  lies  beside  the  river,  along 
parallel  avenues  of  trees  divided  by 
wide  strips  of  grass,  leading  unexpected- 
ly to  what  looks  like  the  fragment  of  a 
palace  garden  centuries  old.  There  is  a 


large  fountain  surrounded  by  concentric 
walks  and  high  circular  walls  of  box- 
wood shrubbery,  encompassed  by  an 
outer  ring  of  great  trees  in  formal  order. 
This  strange  oasis  is  unprotected  from 
the  public  road,  yet  is  as  solitary,  damp, 
green-mouldy  a  spot  as  can  be  imagined. 
Beyond  it  the  road  strikes  upwards 
among  the  lonely  hills,  and  by  and  by 
the  convent  comes  in  sight;  its  severely 
simple  Gothic  roof  and  tower  cut  clean 
against  the  sky,  shut  in  from  the  unin- 
habited region  round  about  by  high  walls 
inclosing  a  large  tract  of  almost  equal 
desolation.  The  view  from  this  height 
is  very  striking;  beautiful,  too,  with  a 
stern,  implacable  beauty.  On  one  hand, 
long  lines  of  hillside,  without  dwelling, 
tree,  or  cultivation,  swept  by  every  wind 
and  bare  to  the  blazing  sun  ;  on  the  other, 
sharp,  serrate,  deep  -  purple  mountain 
ridges  with  glazed  snow-peaks.  The 
sky  was  cloudless,  the  sunshine  splendid, 
the  air  keen  and  exhilarating,  with  a 
quality  of  lightness  and  purity,  as  if  it 
had  taken  no  taint  from  the  clear,  un- 
encumbered expanse  over  which  it  blew. 
The  church  is  of  fine  proportions,  but 
cruelly  naked  under  its  whitewash, 
which  contrasts  crudely  with  the  vivid 
stained  glass  of  the  ancient  windows 
and  the  exquisite  open  carving  of  the 
canopied  choir  stalls.  Before  the  high 
altar  is  an  immense  alabaster  tomb,  erect- 
ed by  command  of  Isabella  of  Castile 
for  her  parents.  The  royal  pair  repose 
in  their  robes  of  state  on  embroidered 
pillows ;  the  rich  stuff  is  so  scrupulously 
copied  that  it  looks  like  petrified  bro- 
cade. Small  figures,  of  great  originality 
and  expressiveness,  kneel  along  the  up- 
per edge  of  the  tomb,  and  its  sides  are 
crowded  with  scriptural  subjects  in  high 
and  low  relief,  with  a  herd  of  lions  as 
supporters  to  the  oft-repeated  royal  arms. 
Close  by,  in  an  arched  mural  recess, 
kneels  their  only  son,  whose  death  gave 
the  crown  to  his  sister.  This  monument 
represents  a  sort  of  oratory,  but  is  more 
like  an  arbor  of  sculptured  vines,  with 


42 


A  Cook's  Tourist  in  Spain. 


[July, 


V 

lovely  children  playing  hide-and-seek 
among  the  leaves  and  grapes.  It  is  in- 
closed by  pillars,  and  surmounted  by  an 
arch  and  spire  so  elaborately  and  exces- 
sively ornamental  that  the  details,  beau- 
tiful and  spirited  as  they  are,  detract 
somewhat  from  the  still  and  reverent 
dignity  of  the  youthful  figure.  The 
background,  the  base,  and  the  moulding 
which  joins  the  monument  to  the  wall 
are  chased  like  the  setting  of  a  seal.  A 
white -robed  Carthusian  monk,  with  a 
good-humored,  intelligent  face  and  broad 
brown  eyes,  did  the  honors  of  his  church 
in  sympathetic  silence,  evidently  pleased 
by  my  admiration  and  astonishment  at 
finding  such  works  of  art  on  this  re- 

O 

mote  and  abandoned  hilltop.  A  few 
sentences  of  mine  in  guide-book  Spanish 
and  First  Reader  Latin  to  offer  a  small 
sum  for  the  poor  of  the  church  porch 
and  for  the  repairs  of  the  beautiful  sanc- 
tuary set  him  smiling  and  replying  unin- 
telligibly, for  though  I  had  weighed  my 
own  words,  I  could  not  keep  up  with  his. 
However,  he  manifested  so  much  cordi- 
ality that  I  imagine  a  visit  even  from 
a  Cook's  Tourist  is  a  welcome  event  in 
his  existence. 

Five  miles  away  from  the  Cartuja 
des  Miraflores,*- across  the  bare  hills,  is 
the  convent  of  San  Pedro  de  Cardena, 
where  the  Cid  was  buried  by  his  own 
wish,  beside  his  wife  and  daughters  and 
his  war-horse  Bavieca,  the  faithful  steed 
of  so  many  legends  and  ballads,  that  wept 
over  his  dying  master,  like  the  horses  of 
Hector  over  Patroclus.  The  convent 
was  founded  by  one  of  the  Gothic  queens 
of  Spain,  and  abounds  in  traditions  of 
Moorish  times  and  in  mediaeval  tombs. 
But  the  time  was  short,  the  way  was 
long  and  lonely ;  there  was  no  road  for 
wheels,  and  no  saddle  horse  or  mule  to 
be  hired,  so  I  turned  back  to  Burgos, 
where  the  cathedral  consoled  my  few 
remaining  hours.  I  might  have  visited 
the  bones  of  the  Cid  in  the  town  hall, 
had  I  been  so  minded,  as  they  were  sac- 
rilegiously removed  thither  some  forty 


years  ago  ;  but  I  went  to  see  neither 
them  nor  the  so-called  House  of  the  Cid, 
deeming  this  to  be  one  of  the  occasions 
on  which  it  is  safer  to  trust  to  the  im- 
agination than  to  ocular  evidence. 

At  ten  o'clock  at  night  I  was  off  for 
Madrid.  In  Spain  the  quick  trains, 
that  is  to  say  the  least  slow,  run  at  night 
only.  They  consume  an  inordinate 
length  of  time  in  making  their  distance, 
but  the  day  trains  are  so  much  more 
tardy  that  they  are  used  only  by  travel- 
ers whose  object  is  not  to  arrive  until 
the  latest  moment  possible.  Through 
the  long  sleepless  night  we  were  either 
roaring  through  tunnels  or  tarrying  at 
places  of  which  we  could  see  nothing, 
with  names  which,  disengaged  from  the 
Spanish  lisp  and  gutturals,  evoked  recol- 
lections of  the  Peninsular  War,  of  Pres- 
cott,  Motley,  and  Lockhart,  of  Don 
Quixote  and  Gil  Bias.  The  night  was 
cold  and  moonless,  and  at  Avila  station 
the  dark  profile  of  a  town  on  a  hill,  with 
walls  and  towers  against  the  star-lit  sky, 
promised  confirmation  of  the  reputed 
picturesqueness  of  the  place.  But  the 
best  stored  memory  and  the  liveliest 
fancy  could  hardly  have  kept  the  hours 
from  dragging,  until  dawn  revealed  the 
most  dreary  and  forbidding  landscape 
which  my  eyes  ever  beheld :  an  irreg- 
ular, broken  foreground,  scattered  over 
with  innumerable  fragments  of  cold 
gray  rock,  scarred  by  the  track  of 
brooks  which  had  torn  their  way  deep 
into  the  surface,  dragging  stones  and 
bowlders  after  them ;  the  same  scene  re- 
peated again  and  again,  until  distance 
effaced  the  details,  and  showed  only  a 
dun  and  ragged  desolation,  closed  by 
mountains  of  a  dull,  lifeless  blue.  I  do 
not  believe  that  the  African  desert  can 
impart  such  a  sense  of  inexorable  stern- 
ness and  mournful  hopelessness.  The 
only  relief  came  from  an  infrequent 
wood  of  small,  round-headed  pines,  which 
would  look  gloomy  in  any  other  scenery, 
but  which  gave  this  a  sort  of  doleful 
cheer.  I  saw  so  much  of  this  stony 


1884.] 


A   Cook's  Tourist  in  Spain. 


43 


sterility  in  Spain  that  I  could  not  won- 
der at  the  poverty  of  the  people,  or  the 
impossibility  of  wringing  a  subsistence 
from  such  a  soil.  There  were  hours  of 
it  before  the  Escurial  appeared,  squatting 
like  a  monstrous  gray  toad  in  the  midst 
of  the  morose  solitude.  It  is  an  im- 
mense construction  by  actual  measure- 
ment, but  as  wanting  in  every  element, 
of  greatness  as  the  soul  that  conceived 
it.  It  is  a  huge  muniment  house  for  the 
secret  history  of  Spain  during  the  six- 
teenth and  seventeenth  centuries.  I 
heard  in  Madrid  that  a  learned  friar, 
after  long  researches  there,  had  lately 
published  a  work  to  rehabilitate  the 
memory  of  Philip  IL,  who  is  not  vener- 
ated even  in  Spain.  If  he  has  found 
new  matter  in  the  archives  of  the  Escu- 
rial, he  can  reckon  'upon  readers,  if  not 
on  converts. 

As  we  drew  toward  Madrid  the  gray 
stones  grew  fewer,  the  lines  became 
less  harsh,  the  grim  aspect  of  the  coun- 
try relaxed  a  little,  and  the  woodland  of 
royal  domains  clothed  the  hillsides  in 
several  directions.  The  railway  stations 
are  a  long  way  from  the  principal  plaza, 
the  Puerta  del  Sol,  on  which  stand  the 
best  hotels,  and,  on  first  arriving,  one 
gets  an  idea  of  the  town  which  is  not 
much  modified  afterwards.  It  is  a  mere 
modern  capital,  not  unlike  Munich,  but 
still  more  like  Washington  :  wide,  dusty 
avenues  planted  with  trees  which  give 
no  shade ;  immense  public  buildings  of 
more  pretension  than  merit;  irregular 
lines  of  houses,  the  largest  and  hand- 
somest side  by  side  with  the  smallest 
and  shabbiest ;  great  gaps  of  vacant 
ground  covered  with  rubbish;  tasteless 
monuments,  extortionate-looking  shops, 
pretty  little  public  gardens  and  squares  ; 
the  most  miserable  of  street  carriages, 
horses,  and  drivers ;  no  life  in  the  ex- 
tremities, but  always  an  idle,  miscellane- 
ous crowd  at  the  centre,  the  Puerta  del 
Sol.  No  European  town  can  be  so  des- 
titute of  physiognomy  as  an  American 
one,  and  Madrid  has  some  peculiar  fea- 


tures and  a  certain  grand  air  of  its  own, 
but  flattened  and  indistinct  like  the  die 
on  the  old  Spanish  "  levies  "  and  "  ftps  " 
which   were   in    circulation    with    us   a 
quarter  of  a  century  ago.     The  cloak  is 
universally  worn  by  men  of  all  ranks, 
with  great  variety  as  to  lining,  the  fa- 
vorite   colors  being  the    national    ones, 
deep  yellow  and  bright  red  ;  the  garment 
is  thrown  over  the  shoulder  in  such  a 
manner  as  to  show  a  stripe  of  each.    The 
dandies,  polios  as  they  are  called,  wear 
velvet  collars  of  dark  blue,  green,  brown, 
or  black,  to  match  the  cloak,  for  all  these 
shades  are  in  favor  in  Madrid ;  sometimes 
lined   with   light-colored    silk   or  satin, 
pale  blue  being  much  approved.     This 
excessive  elegance  is  kept  for  the  even- 
ing and  dress  clothes.     Great  study  is 
bestowed  on  giving  the  cloaks  graceful 
folds  as  they  fall  over  the  left  shoulder, 
leaving  the  right  hand  free  beneath  to 
offer  to  a  friend  or  to  hold  a  cigarita. 
The  mantilla  is   often   seen,  but   much 
less  frequently  than  at  Burgos,  and  chief- 
ly among  the  middle  and  lower  classes. 
Some   of   the  officers  have  a  beautiful 
uniform,  light  blue  with  white  facings 
heavily  braided  with    silver,  and  there 
are  few  street  scenes  in  which  they  do 
not  appear.    Another  figure  of  the  plazas 
of  Madrid  is  the  crone,  in  a  dark  dress 
and  bright  headkerchief,  selling  water, 
which  she  carries  in  a  large  ivory-white 
jar  of  Oriental  form  ;  glasses  and  long 
sticks  of  coarse  white  sugar,  called  azu- 
carillos,  are  ranged  in  the  sockets  of  a 
curious  brass  stand  surmounted  by  round 
brass  balls  about  the  size   of   oranges, 
the    whole    apparatus    glittering    with 
cleanliness.     The  wet-nurses  of  rich  peo- 
ple wear  a  gorgeous  costume  :  a  skirt  of 
red,  purple,  or  any  brilliant  color,  striped 
above  the  hem  with  black  and  gold,  or 
some  other  strong  contrast,  and  a  fringed 
neckerchief,    usually    black    or    white. 
Their  little  nurslings  are  most  often  in 
white,  but  sometimes  cluster  round  their 
knees  in  rose-color  or  blue,  like  a  bunch 
of  buds.    The  boys  who  have  got  beyond 


44 


A   Cook's  Tourist  in  Spain. 


[July, 


petticoat  government  march  about  sol- 
emnly, clad  in  dark  velvets  and  broad 
Vandyke  collars,  in  charge  of  a  black- 
robed  priest.  Most  Spanish  children 
are  handsome  and  sturdy,  with  rich, 
ruddy  complexions,  and  a  physical  vigor 
which  is  seen  in  their  dense  black  hair, 
eyebrows,  and  eyelashes,  and  in  their 
full  crimson  lips. 

The  Puerta  del  Sol  is  a  paved  polygon, 
so  irregular  in  shape  that  it  is  difficult 
to  judge  of  its  extent,  which,  however, 
appears  great,  particularly  in  crossing  it 
on  a  sunny  day  or  a  muddy  one.     There 
is   room,  and  much    to   spare,  for  cab- 
stands, omnibus  stations,  a  tramway  ter- 
minus, and  a  fountain  ;  it  is  the  head- 
quarters of  the  hotels,  cafes,  shops,  and 
all  that  portion  of  a  town  designed  for 
deluding  strangers.     It  is  never  quiet, 
day  or  night ;  the  noisy  newsboys  shout 
the  evening  papers  until  they  begin  to 
sell  the  morning  ones.     The  great  rival 
hotels  are  the  Paris  and  the  Paix,  and 
for  foul  smells,  steep  stairs,  poor  fare, 
and  high  charges  they  divide  the  palm. 
Yet  in  these,  as  in  the  Fonda  de  Rafaela 
at  Burgos,  the  beds  and  table  are  clean, 
and   there  is  a  perpetual    scrubbing  of 
some  part  of  the  house.    The  habits  and 
customs  are  bewildering  to  a  foreigner. 
In  the  lower  hall  of  the  Hotel  de  Paris 
there  was  a  big  man  in  gray,  called  the 
concierge,  but  who  exercised  some  of  the 
functions  of  clerk  and  hall-porter.     He 
sat  all  day  at  the  foot  of  the  staircase 
playing  cards  at  a  round  table  with  three 
or  four  comrades  of  evil  mien,  not  con- 
cealing his  annoyance  when  called  off  by 
lodgers  to  attend  to  his  business.     On 
each  landing  there  are  a  bench  and  table, 
at  which  the  female  servants  congregate 
and  flirt  with  men  who  seem  to  come 
in  from  the  street  for  that  purpose,  as 
they  are  not  inmates   of   the  hotel  in 
any  capacity,  and  always  keep  their  hats 
on.    My  observation  of  this  practice  goes 
as  far  as  the  fourth  story.     The  wash- 
erwoman, fetching  or  taking  away  the 
lodger's  clothes,  avails  herself  of  these 


social  opportunities  for  hours  at  a  time. 
There  are  electric  bells  in  the  bedrooms, 
but  the  servants  bawl  to  each  other  all 
over  the  house  from  story  to  story,  and 
from  end  to  end  of  the  dining-room  while 
waiting  on  table ;  the  Spanish  board- 
ers generally  calling  out  their  orders, 
too.  Adjoining  the  dining-room  is  a 
small  apartment  called  the  reading-room, 
in  which  there  are  native  and  foreign 
newspapers,  writing  materials,  and  some 
show-cases  of  sham  antiques,  with  ad- 
dresses of  bricabrac  shops  and  other 
cards  of  advertisement.  The  Spaniards 
collect  in  this  room  as  they  leave  the 
table  after  the  midday  breakfast,  and 
immediately  begin  to  smoke,  which  they 
continue  to  do  until  midnight,  their  ex- 
ample being  followed  by  foreigners  of 
every  nation  (including  English),  our 
countrymen  alone  excepted,  although 
there  is  no  other  public  sitting-room  for 
ladies. 

To  return  to  the  streets  :  asses  and 
mules  abound  in  them ;  there  is  abun- 
dance of  horses,  too,  and  of  all  conditions 
of  men  on  horseback,  riding  about  their 
business.  I  could  not  understand  the 
politico-economical  position  of  the  don- 
key in  Spain  ;  he  seems  to  be  an  object 
c»f  luxury  as  often  as  a  possession  of 
poverty.  It  is  common  to  use  a  donkey, 
often  an  absurdly  small  one,  as  leader 
to  a  line  of  large  horses  dragging  a  load 
of  stone  or  iron,  a  custom  for  which  no- 
body could  account.  The  modes  of  har- 
nessing are  odd  and  various ;  the  trap- 
pings of  the  beasts,  especially  the  mules, 
are  sometimes  gay  and  fanciful.  There 
are  public  vehicles,  a  cross  between  om- 
nibus and  stage-coach,  of  which  I  saw 
none  but  shabby,  rattle-trap  specimens, 
used  by  the  common  people,  drawn  by 
two,  three,  or  four  horses ;  the  driver 
sitting  on  the  shaft,  the  box-seat  being 
occupied  by  passengers.  Four-in-hands 
are  more  common  in  Madrid  than  in 
London  or  Paris,  but  it  is  by  no  means 
a  matter  of  course  that  the  equipage 
should  be  elegant.  Even  the  king  and 


1884.] 


A  Cook's  Tourist  in  Spain. 


45 


queen  observe  no  great  state  in  their 
comings  and  goings.  Every  Saturday 
afternoon  they  go  to  pray  for  a  short 
time  in  an  old  convent  church  called  the 
Atocha,  on  the  outskirts  of  the  town ; 
rather  picturesque,  with  its  open  gar- 
den court  in  front,  and  arcades  half  hid- 
den by  creepers.  It  is  a  usage  dating 
from  the  time  of  Philip  II.,  and  attracts 
attention  on  that  account  only,  for  it 
makes  but  a  poor  show.  The  king's 
coach,  preceded  by  an  outrider  in  uni- 
form, is  a  simple  close  carriage  with 
four  horses,  a  coachman  and  two  foot- 
men in  plain  dark  livery,  three-cornered 
hats,  and  powdered  wigs  ;  it  is  accom- 
panied by  a  mounted  escort  of  about 
twenty  soldiers  ;  the  gentlemen  and  la- 
dies in  waiting  follow  in  three  similar 
carriages,  and  a  single  mounted  guard 
brings  up  the  rear.  They  dash  through 
the  streets  at  a  good  pace,  but  there 
is  nothing  impressive  in  the  procession 
beyond  its  associations  and  the  fact  of 
seeing  four-in-hands  used  as  mere  con- 
veyances, with  no  special  end  of  cere- 
mony or  frolic,  like  opening  Parliament 
or  driving  to  the  Derby. 

The  royal  stables  are  on  the  list  of 
sights  for  strangers.  They  are  in  an 
immense  brick  arid  granite  building, 
lofty,  well  lighted  and  ventilated,  clean 
and  in  good  order,  with  an  entire  ab- 
sence of  "  fancy  "  arrangements.  There 
are  several  hundred  horses :  one  com- 
partment is  given  up  to  the  royal  saddle- 
horses,  another  to  the  saddle-horses  of 
the  suite,  a  third  to  the  four-in-hand  and 
other  carriage-horses  for  the  king  and 
queen,  a  fourth  to  the  carriage-horses 
for  the  use  of  the  palace  ;  and  there 
are  others.  The  horses  are  beautifully 
groomed ;  most  of  them  struck  us  as 
in  too  high  condition,  but  seeing  them 
only  in  the  stalls  it  was  impossible  to 
judge  of  them  fairly  in  any  way.  There 
are  a  number  of  English  horses,  and 
several  Irish  hunters  with  prodigious 
haunches  ;  among  these  is  the  queen's 
favorite  saddle-horse,  a  huge  beast,  over 


sixteen  hands  high.  Here  I  saw  for  the 
first  time  the  true  Spanish  horse,  the 
Andalusian  barb,  the  steed  of  Velas- 
quez's equestrian  portraits  ;  he  is  seldom 
over  fifteen  hands,  with  a  big  head, 
neck,  and  body,  tremendously  long  thick 
mane  and  tail,  a  prominent  eye  of  great 
intelligence  and  gentleness,  and  none  of 
the  signs  of  the  English  blooded  stock. 
At  first  the  looks  of  a  saddle-horse 
so  unlike  the  English,  American,  and 
French  standard  shock  the  prejudices 
of  a  horseman  of  one  of  those  nations ; 
but  every  rider  must  soon  be  convinced 
of  the  delightful  qualities  of  the  barb, 
his  strength,  endurance,  docility,  steady 
temper,  smoothness  of  gait,  and  light- 
ness of  mouth.  Not  being  bred  or 
trained  to  jump,  he  is  unfit  for  fox-hunt- 
ing or  steeple-chasing,  but  for  a  riding 
journey  he  is  perfection  ;  his  action  is 
extraordinarily  springy,  almost  plung- 
ing to  appearance,  but  it  is  as  easy  as  a 
rocking-chair.  The  only  specimen  of 
the  arched  neck  and  fine  limbs,  dish-face 
and  small  ears,  which  we  prize  in  horse- 
flesh was  a  small  light  bay  mare,  with 
large  eyes  of  the  same  color  and  the  ex- 
pression of  a  setter-dog.  Not  only  did 
she  turn  such  looks  of  affection  on  her 
groom  that  his  face  melted  into  smiles 
every  time  he  glanced  toward  her,  but 
when  strangers  stroked  and  patted  her 
she  laid  her  head  against  their  breasts 
arid  looked  up  into  their  faces  with  ca- 
nine gratitude  and  tenderness.  There 
was  not  one  of  the  party  who  did  not 
linger  in  her  stall,  and  leave  it  with  re- 
gret. There  is  a  pretty  collection  of 
poniss  for  the  queen  and  princesses  to 
drive  in  pairs  and  fours.  One  of  them 
was  a  little  black,  woolly  fellow,  crinkled 
like  a  negro's  pate,  with  mane  and  tail 
to  match ;  he  had  an  ugly  head,  and 
was  altogether  abnormal  and  unattrac- 
tive. There  was  another  mite  of  a  crea- 
ture, a  beautiful  miniature  thoroughbred, 
though  with  the  strange  tapir-like  upper 
lip  rather  common  in  Andalusia;  he 
was  so  used  to  petting  that  he  ran  after 


46 


A  Cook's  Tourist  in  Spain. 


[July, 


us  aiid  stood  on  his  hind-legs  begging 
for  sugar,  and  it  was  with  difficulty  that 
we  kept  his  tiny  fore-feet  off  our  shoul- 
ders. The  exhibition  of  saddles  and 
harness  is  handsome,  but  too  large  to  be 
seen  thoroughly  in  one  visit,  and  is  not 
interesting  enough  for  two.  The  show- 

o  o 

cases  are  arranged  down  the  middle  and 
around  the  walls  of  a  gallery  as  long  as 
Wimpole  Street,1  and  present  a  gorgeous 
assortment  of  housings,  caparisons,  har- 
ness, and  hammer-cloths.  There  are 
saddles  and  bridles  of  pale  blue  satin 
and  silver  for  royal  weddings,  others  of 
chamois-leather  embroidered  in  gold  for 
royal  huntings,  and  superb  sets  of  black 
harness  with  black  velvet  and  satin 
hammer-cloths  for  royal  mourning ;  there 
were  trappings  fit  for  the  Field  of  the 
Cloth  of  Gold,  used  by  the  young  gran- 
dees at  their  amateur  bull-fights  on  very 
great  occasions,  such  as  the  accession  of 
a  sovereign ;  but  a  catalogue,  soon  grows 
tedious.  There  are  some  handsome  mod- 
ern state  carriages  and  some  of  the  last 
century,  painted  as  prettily  as  a  lady's 
fan  ;  but  the  coach-house,  with  its  im- 
mense variety  of  brand-new  vehicles,  is 
like  the  show-room  of  an  American  car- 
riage-factory. The  only  one  possessing 
any  historical  interest  is  that  shown  as 
the  carriage  in  which  poor  mad  Joan, 
Juana  la  Loca,  the  daughter  of  Ferdi- 
nand and  Isabella  and  mother  of  the 
Emperor  Charles  V.  traveled  about  with 
the  dead  body  of  her  husband,  the  hand- 
some Philip  of  Austria.  The  carriage 
is  appropriately  painted  and  lined  with 
black,  and  has  a  suitably  funereal  as- 
pect the  guide  explains  that  it  has 
been  "  restored."  It  is,  however,  mere- 
ly a  Louis  XIV.  berime,  richly  carved 
with  Cupids  and  garlands,  much  out  of 
keeping  with  its  pretended  purpose  and 
date.  It  is  evidently  fictitious,  yet  awakes 
some  emotion  by  recalling  the  memory 
of  that  hapless  woman.  She  has  lately 

1  "  Everything  has  an  end,"  said  a  ghostly  com- 
forter to  a  dying  wit.  "  Except  Wimpole  Street," 
replied  the  moribund. 


acquired  new  interest  from  the  discovery 
of  documents  proving  that,  if  not  in- 
clined to  the  heretical  ideas  of  the  re- 
formers, she  was  at  least  opposed  to  re- 
ligious persecution  and  unfavorable  to 
the  Inquisition,  and  that  a  temporary  in- 
sanity was  made  the  pretext  for  the  long 
captivity  and  harsh  usage  to  which  she 
was  subjected  by  her  unnatural  son  and 
hard-hearted  grandson  because  her  or- 
thodoxy was  suspected.  These  docu- 
ments, which  have  come  to  light  within 
a  few  years,  give  Juana  la  Loca  a  new 
claim  to  compassion.  She  has  long  been 
a  favorite  subject  with  Spanish  artists  ; 
I  know  of  four  life-size  pictures  on 
her  story  by  contemporary  artists. 

Pictures  !  The  word  has  a  portentous 
significance  in  Madrid.  Nowhere  else 
does  life  seem  so  short  and  art  so  long 
as  at  the  door  of  the  great  gallery  of  the 
royal  museum.  If  I  were  to  say  that  I 
had  found  more  Italian  masters  there 
than  in  the  Pitti  palace,  more  French 
ones  than  in  the  Louvre,  more  Flemings 
than  at  Antwerp,  and  more  Spanish  pic- 
tures than  in  all  the  rest  of  Europe, 
it  would  convey  my  first  impression  of 
this  stupendous  collection.  The  mas- 
ter-portraits of  Titian  are  there,  some 
of  the  finest  Tintorettos  and  loveliest 
Veroneses,  two  world-famous  Raphaels, 
several  canvases  of  Andrea  del  Sarto 
unsurpassed  by  any  in  Florence.  With 
regard  to  native  art,  it  may  truly  be  said 
that  nobody  can  have  a  just  idea  of 
Spanish  painting  without  having  been 
in  Spain.  There  are  fine  specimens  of 
the  principal  masters  in  several  of  the 
public  galleries  of  Europe,  but  to  un- 
derstand the  variety  and  concrete  force 
of  any  one  of  them  he  must  be  studied 
in  the  Spanish  museums  and  churches. 
There  are  some  who  are  unrepresented 
and  unknown  out  of  their  own  coun- 
try :  two  in  particular,  Joanes  Vincente, 
commonly  called  Juan  de  Juanes,  and 
Luis  de  Morales,  both  of  the  sixteenth 
century,  who  are  overshadowed  by  the 
greater  names  of  the  succeeding  age. 


1884.] 


A  CooJc's  Tourist  in  Spain. 


47 


Both  show  the  influence  of  early  Ital- 
ian and  Flemish  schools,  but  they  have  a 
concentration  and  poignancy  in  the  ex- 
pression of  suffering  which  is  national 
and  individual.  They  painted  religious 
subjects  exclusively,  and  in  their  mode 
of  depicting  the  Ecce  Homo,  Mater  Do- 
lorosa,  Agony  in  the  Garden,  and  De- 
scent from  the  Cross,  there  is  a  sin- 
gular bitterness  of  anguish,  the  moral 
and  physical  sentiment  of  the  gall  and 
wormwood,  the  vinegar  mingled  with 
honey.  This  quality  they  have  in  com- 
mon, but  in  other  respects  they  differ 
widely.  There  are  but  half  a  dozen 
pictures  by  Morales,  only  one  of  them 
on  a  more  cheerful  subject,  the  Presenta- 
tion at  the  Temple,  in  which  the  youth- 
ful Virgin  advances  toward  the  aged 
Simeon  at  the  head  of  a  lovely,  lightly 
moving  band  of  girls,  imbued  with  in- 
nocence and  simplicity.  Juanes  has 
nearly  twenty  pictures  in  the  Madrid 
gallery,  of  which  five  constitute  a  series 
on  the  history  of  St.  Stephen.  As  well 
as  I  can  remember,  their  size  is  three 
feet  by  two,  and  they  are  crowded  with 
figures  excellently  drawn  and  spirited 
even  to  exaggeration  ;  when  this  tenden- 
cy is  controlled,  the  expression  of  the 
faces  is  wonderful ;  the  coloring  is  bright 
and  clear,  but  they  are  deficient  in  at- 
mosphere. On  the  same  wall  hangs  a 
life-size  three-quarters-length  portrait  of 
Don  Luis  de  Castelvi,  a  Valencian  noble- 
man of  Charles  V.'s  time,  a  man  in  the 
prime  and  pride  of  life,  in  a  dark,  rich, 
bejeweled  dress ;  it  is  a  splendid  picture, 
worthy  of  Titian  or  Moor,  and  might 
have  been  painted  a  century  later  than 
the  series  of  St.  Stephen.  There  is  also 
a  small  picture,  by  the  same  master,  of 
the  Coronation  of  the  Virgin,  a  16mo 
canvas  so  to  speak,  composed  in  the  con- 
ventional manner  with  rows  of  doctors, 
confessors,  martyrs,  saints,  and  angels, 
and  executed  with  the  patient  care  of 
Hamling  or  Van  Eyck.  The  versatility 
of  which  these  two  last-named  pictures 
give  proof  is  extraordinary,  considering 


the  clearness  of  conception  and  firmness 
of  execution  which  are  also  to  be  found 
in  all  Juanes'  works  ;  he  did  not  waver 
and  falter  between  different  styles,  but 
went  straight  from  one  to  another,  with 
a  fixed  purpose  and  a  steady  brush. 
Tradition  says  that  he  was  noted  for  de- 
voutness,  and  his  life  was  almost  that  of 
an  anchorite ;  the  sacred  images  always 
hung  in  his  studio,  and  he  never  omitted 
to  pray  before  beginning  to  paint.  Fer- 
vor of  devotion,  intensity  of  supplication, 
are  the  strongest  characteristics  of  Span- 
ish religious  pictures  :  in  these  they  are 
unapproached  by  any  other  school.  Mu- 
rillo's  saints  are  so  absorbed  in  prayer, 
their  look  of  entreaty  is  so  compelling, 
that  the  celestial  apparition  descending 
toward  them  seems  but  the  natural,  the 
necessary,  answer  to  the  appeal :  the 
limits  of  sense,  of  space  and  time,  are 
forgotten ;  they  are  insensible  to  the 
cold,  heat,  thirst,  and  fatigue  which  waste 
them ;  they  are  consumed  by  a  desire 
for  a  nearer  communion  with  Christ, 
and  it  must  needs  be  vouchsafed  to  every 
one  who  so  beseeches.  There  is  noth- 
ing of  the  placid  rapture  and  beatitude 
of  Italian  pictures  on  the  same  subjects ; 
the  look  with  which  the  saints  in  Span- 
ish art  receive  their  divine  visitors  is  one 
of  infinite  assuagement  and  consolation 
rather  than  of  actual  bliss  ;  the  remem- 
brance of  pain  is  never  absent.  Even 
in  the  St;  Anthony  of  Padua  of  the 
Seville  gallery  the  predominant  expres- 
sion is  that  of  relief  from  prolonged 
strain  and  suffering.  They  are  profound- 
ly affecting  pictures.  Spanish  religious 
art  goes  far  to  explain  Spanish  religious 
persecution.  The  native  painters  all 
seem  to  have  possessed  this  capacity  for 
conviction  ;  it  is  signally  illustrated  by 
Velasquez's  famous  Crucifixion,  his  one 
religious  picture.  Among  the  fifty  and 
odd  canvases  by  him  in  the  gallery  of 
Madrid  there  are  one  or  two  on  sacred 
subjects,  but  they  might  as  well  be  sec- 
ular. In  the  Crucifixion  our  Saviour  is 
represented  as  just  dead :  the  face  and 


48 


A  Cook's  Tourist  in  Spain. 


[July, 


form  are  of  great  beauty,  attenuated  by 
an  austere  life  and  recent  torture ;  the 
head  has  sunk  on  the  breast,  and  one 
heavy  lock  of  dark  hair  falls  across  the 
right  side  of  the  face  and  almost  hides 
it ;  the  clay-like  hue  of  the  flesh,  a  few- 
drops  and  streaks  of  dark  blood,  are  the 
only  tokens  of  physical  suffering ;  the 
face  has  in  its  expression  all  the  words 
uttered  from  the  cross,  which  is  erect 
in  appalling  solitude  against  the  black- 
ness of  darkness.  The  picture  is  out  of 
place  in  a  gallery ;  it  is  fit  only  for  a 
church,  to  be  unveiled  in  Passion  Week. 
It  is,  as  I  have  said,  strictly  speaking 
Velasquez's  only  religious  picture,  and 
it  strikes  one  as  though  the  painter  had 
been  exhorted  to  pronounce  his  creed, 
had  summed  up  his  whole  belief  in  this 
Crucifixion,  and  had  left  it  to  the  world 
as  his  profession  of  faith. 

Velasquez's  pictures,  besides  being 
splendid  works  of  art,  reflect  the  court 
life  of  his  country  and  century  like  the 
palace  mirror  in  his  canvas  of  Las  Me- 
ninas.  They  depict  the  famous  person- 
ages of  his  day,  the  royal  pleasure- 
grounds,  with  old-fashioned  fish-ponds 
and  formal  avenues,  processions  of  state 
coaches  and  troops  of  stiffly-robed  lords 
and  ladies  who  have  got  out  of  them  to 
take  the  air ;  they  chronicle  the  exist- 
ence of  the  royal  children,  encompassed 
with  artificial  restraints  of  brocade  and 
etiquette;  they  reveal  the  courteous, 
chivalrous  side  of  the  national  character 
in  the  magnificent  surrender  of  Breda, 
where  the  Duke  of  Spinola  accepts  the 
keys  of  the  captured  city  as  if  they  were 
a  gift ;  they  betray  its  barbarous  side 
in  a  strange  assemblage  of  dwarfs  and 
jesters.  The  dwarfs  are  a  collection  of 
every  type  of  humanity  afflicted  with 
that  particular  deformity.  There  is  one 
called  El  Primo,  whose  poor  little  body 
supports  the  head  of  a  philosopher,  with 
phrenological  indications  of  high  moral 
and  intellectual  qualities,  and  a  sad,  self- 
contained,  thoughtful,  handsome,  mid- 
dle-aged face;  he  is  turning  over  the 


leaves  of  an  ancient  tome,  in  which  it  is 
easy  to  believe  that  he  may  find  conso- 
lation.    Next  to  him  hangs  a  diminished 
and  distorted  copy  of  the  human  form 
in  the  mockery  of  a  rich  dress,  crimson 
embroidered  with  gold,  surmounted  by  a 
big  head  with  irregular  features  lighted 
by  a  pair  of  dark  eyes  like  live  coals, 
and  an  expression  of  acute  mental  suffer- 
ing and  hopeless  revolt  against  fate.  The 
face    burns    with   passionate   grief  and 
hatred,  but  there  is  nothing  base  in  it ; 
on  the  contrary,  there  is  a  capacity  for 
love  and  devotion.    I  heard  a  number  of 
people,  on  first  coming  up  to  it,  echo  my 
own  silent   exclamation,  "  Triboulet ! ' 
Beyond  this  is  a  less  painful  picture  of 
the   conventional  dwarf,  tolerably  well 
proportioned,  with  a  round  face,  long 
curly  hair,  and  the  choleric  expression 
of  a  child  who  is  alternately  petted  and 
teased.     The    little    fellow,    splendidly 
dressed  like  a  court  page,  stands  stoutly 
on  a  pair  of  good  legs,  holding  his  white- 
plumed  hat ;  beside  him  there  is  a  fine 
mastiff,  as  tall  as  himself.  Next  is  a  poor 
half-witted    creature,    sickly    and    mis- 
shapen, with  a  cunning  but  harmless  face, 
blurred  features,  and  a  dim  glance  ;  if  he 
was  not  tormented  he  was  probably  not 
unhappy.  The  last  of  the  series  is  mere- 
ly a  small  monster  ;  the  heart  swells  and 
sickens  at  the  thought  of  his  being  made 
the  butt  of  jokes  and  tricks.     The  jest- 
ers are  a  very  different  race,  and  look 
quite  able  to  take  care  of  themselves ; 
their  common  trait  is  an  irritable   eye 
and  the  air  of  paid  assassins.     There  is 
one  of  them  painted  in  a  very  simple 
scarlet  dress,  holding  a  naked  sword  in 
his  hand,  with  a  fine  face  and  figure,  but 
so  grim   of  aspect  that  I  took  him  at 
first  for  the  king's  bravo  or  the  state 
executioner.     There  is  a  deplorable  ab- 
sence of   landscape-painters  among  the 
Spanish  artists.    Velasquez  has  left  half 
a  dozen  sketches  of  villa  gardens   and 
parks,  but  there  is  nothing  else  of  the 
sort,  so  that  one  turns  for  relief  to  the 
fine  landscapes  of  the  Low  Country  mas- 


1884.] 


A   Cootts  Tourist  in  Spain. 


49 


ters  in  the  side-rooms.  This  is  a  curious 
deficiency  in  the  native  art. 

I  have  no  intention  of  going  through 
the  list  of  the  pictures,  or  even  the  paint- 
ers, in  the  Madrid  gallery,  but  I  cannot 
turn  away  from  it  without  mentioning 
Juan  Pantoja  de  la  Cruz,  Sanchez  Coel- 
lo,  and  Alonzo  Cano  :  the  first  two  are 
among  the  fine  portrait-painters  of  the 
sixteenth-century  ;  the  last  is  a  seven- 
teenth-century painter  of  sacred  sub- 
jects, noted  also  for  being  almost  the 
only  sculptor  of  merit  whom  Spain  has 
produced  in  later  times.  Between  the 
old  and  new  schools  of  Spanish  paint- 
ing stands  Goya,  who  died  about  fifty 
years  ago  in  extreme  old  age.  To  my 
thinking,  he  is  the  most  original  genius 
of  modern  times.  There  are  few  of  his 
pictures  out  of  Spain :  one  or  two  in 
the  Louvre,  one  or  two  in  Belgium,  and 
Americans  might  have  seen  two  volumes 

O 

of  his  Caprichios  in  the  Spanish  govern- 
ment building  of  the  Centennial  Exhibi- 

O 

tion.  Everybody  who  turned  over  those 
pages  will  remember  the  frenzy  of  fan- 
cy, reveling  in  the  grotesque  and  horri- 
ble. Spanish  galleries  are  full  of  Goya's 
pictures,  and  the  streets  of  the  subjects 
from  which  he  took  them.  His  compo- 
sitions have  a  grace,  dash,  and  "  go,"  a 
freedom  of  first  impulse  and  an  audacity, 
inconceivable  to  those  who  do  not  know 
him.  The  criticism  of  Goya  in  Theo- 
phile  Gautier's  eloquent  and  picturesque 
travels  in  Spain  gives  as  good  a  notion 
of  his  genius  as  words  ever  can  do  of 
works  of  art. 

To  Gautier  also  maybe  referred  those 
readers  who  wish  to  know  a  bull-nVht 

o 

by  hearsay  ;  they  can  satisfy  their  curi- 
osity by  reading  his  chapter  on  the  sub- 
ject, which  leaves  nothing  for  any  other 
traveler  to  add.  The  crowd  returning 
from  the  sport  along  the  Alcala,  a  long, 
wide  street  leading  from  the  Puerta  del 
Sol  to  the  Bull  Ring  on  the  outskirts  of 
town,  is  one  of  the  most  extraordinary 
sights  which  Europe  affords  in  the  pres- 
ent century.  A  disorderly  battalion 

VOL.   LIV. — NO.    321.  4 


of  omnibuses,  barouches,  light  wagons, 
coupes,  four-in-hand  breaks  and  drags, 
cabs,  mule-carts,  and  numberless  name- 
less vehicles,  some  drawn  by  a  single 
horse  or  donkey,  some  by  two,  three, 
four,  or  six,  with  jingling  bells  and  dan- 
gling fringes  and  tassels,  filled  with  fine 
ladies  and  gentlemen  dressed  in  Paris 
fashion,  with  women  of  the  town  in  black 
lace  mantillas,  bunches  of  carnations  in 
their  hair  and  fans  in  their  hands,  with 
middle  -  class  dandies  in  round  cloaks, 
with  peasants  in  Andalusian  jackets  and 
red  berrets,  with  people  of  the  lower 
orders  in  any  sort  of  rag,  rush  by  helter- 
skelter,  pellmell,  like  a  routed  army, 
smoking,  singing,  laughing,  shouting,  — 
interspersed  with  hundreds  of  horsemen 
and  thousands  of  people  on  foot  dodging 
the  carriages.  The  arrogance  of  every- 
body's demeanor  passes  belief,  from  the 
blue-blooded  grandee  with  a  title  as  old 
as  the  kingdom  to  the  beggar  with  his 
tattered  cloak  draped  over  his  shoulder 
and  his  battered  hat  cocked  over  his 
left  ear  and  slouched  over  his  right 

o 

eye.  Such  an  aggressive  assertion  of 
independence  and  equality  is  unknown 
even  in  France,  and  can  be  seen  in  our 
own  happy  country  only  on  St.  Patrick's 
day.  Everybody  is  as  good  as  every- 
body else,  and  better,  except  when  a 
barouche  tears  bv  with  the  bull-fighters 

t-  O 

in  their  sumptuous  costumes  of  embroid- 
ered satin  and  velvet ;  then  the  whole 
multitude  does  homage  with  huzzas  and 
waving  hats.  The  rabble  gallops  on 
across  the  Prado  and  up  the  steep  streets 
on  the  city  side,  filling  the  Puerta  del 
Sol  for  a  noisy  half  hour,  then  pouring 
off  down  a  dozen  diverging  streets,  when 
the  Puerta  del  Sol  returns  to  its  normal 
condition  of  a  vast  human  ant-hill  of 
idle  ants.  Yet  if  this  mad  multitude  at 
the  height  of  its  frenzy  meets  a  priest 
arid  his  acolyte  carrying  the  Host  to  a 
sick-bed,  the  tumult  is  instantly  stilled, 
the  on-rush  checked  in  full  career,  and 
every  knee  is  bent  and  every  head  un- 
covered, while  the  tinkling  of  the  little 


50 


A   Cook's   Tourist  in  Spain. 


[July, 


bell  can  be  heard.  These  weekly  satur- 
nalia strengthen  the  impression  of  the 
semi-civilized  condition  of  Spain  which 
a  stranger  receives  from  numerous  and 
divers  trifles.  Neither  the  country  nor 
the  society  has  kept  pace  with  the  age. 
Even  the  gossip  from  high-life,  which 
reaches  him  remotely,  has  riot  the  ring 
of  chit-chat  of  the  present  day ;  the 
scandals  of  modern  Spanish  society  are 
so  gloomy  and  romantic,  with  the  high- 
sounding  names  of  the  actors  in  them, 
that  they  are  fit  for  plots  of  the  trag- 
edies of  two  hundred  years  ago.  The 
discrepancies  in  the  mode  of  life  of  peo- 
ple of  rank  and  wealth  are  among  the 
symptoms  of  this  semi-civilization.  The 
royal  palace,  a  fine  building  with  a  long 
front  and  wings  agreeably  divided  by 
pilasters,  stands  upon  a  bluff  above  the 
thirsty  little  river  Manzanares,  a  broad, 
terraced  drive  leading  down  to  the  base, 
where  an  extensive  orangery  shows  a 
thick  screen  of  dark  foliage  and  bright 
fruit  through  great  glazed  doors  and 
windows.  At  the  foot  of  the  declivity 
lies  the  Caza  del  Moro,  or  Chace  of  the 
Moor,  a  small  uninclosed  park  of  fine 
trees,  formal  shrubbery,  and  walks  con- 
verging toward  a  central  fountain.  Be- 
tween this  pleasure-ground  and  the  river, 
directly  under  the  eyes  and  nose  of 
royalty,  a  belt  of  wretched  houses  occu- 
pied by  washerwomen  stretches  along 
the  bank  ;  it  is  an  untidy  laundry,  a  mile 
long,  and  the  king  and  queen  cannot 
leave  the  palace  in  this  direction  with- 
out crossing  a  tract  of  fluttering  house 
and  body  linen  which  comes  between 
the  wind  and  their  nobility.  It  is  the 
only  way  of  reaching  the  Caza  del 
Campo,  a  royal  park  for  pheasants  and 
ground  game  which  lies  just  beyond  the 
city  limits,  on  the  farther  side  of  the 
Manzanares.  The  Caza  del  Campo  is  not 
a  gay  resort ;  indeed,  it  is  hardly  a  resort 
at  all.  I  rode  there  two  or  three  times, 
the  regular  promenades,  the  Buen  Retire 
and  Castillanas,  being  too  crowded  and 
circumscribed  for  exercise;  and  I  met 


hardly  anybody  except  a  few  groups  of 
ladies  in  black  walking  near  the  entrance 
followed  by  their  carriages.  Etiquette 

—  a  word  which  is  not  obsolete  in  Spain 

—  prohibits   the   fashionable  drives    to 
people  in  mourning,  so  they  come  to  this 
deserted  chace  to   stretch   their   limbs. 
There  is   no   pretense   of   keeping   the 
place  up ;  there  are  some  short  drives 
in  good  condition,  bordered  by  fine  trees, 
but  they  soon  merge  into  rough  roads, 
leading  among  low  hills  and  abrupt  hol- 
lows, spotted   with    a   gnarled,   dusky, 
evergreen  oak,  and  as  lonely  as  the  sur- 
rounding country.     The  ground  is  cov- 
ered with  short,  close  grass  and  aromatic 
herbs,    over    which     the    smooth-paced 
Spanish  horses  canter   lightly,   keeping 
a  sharp  lookout  for  rabbit-holes,  as   the 
whole   domain    is   little    better  than   a 
warren.     The  small,  brown  masters  of 
the  soil  start  up  at  every  moment,  wrin- 
kling their  noses  at  intruders  from  the 
height  of  their  hind-paws,  and  only  on 
instant  peril  of  being  ridden  down  disap- 
pear into  their  subterranean  abodes  with 
a  twinkle  of  a  white-lined  tail.     From 
the  hilltops  there  is  a  view  on  one  hand 
of  the  wide,  desolate,  barren  plain,  slop-j 
ing  up  gradually  to  an  expanse   of  pale 
green   table-land,  level  as  the  sea,  and 
melting  into  the  horizon  ;  on  the   other,] 
low  hills   tread  on    each  other's    heels, 
until  they  are  stopped  by  the  long  cren- 
elated wall  of   the  Guadarrama  r 
violet  and  lilac  and  silvered  with  snow. 
Southward  Madrid  stands  up  on  its  bluff, 
showing     the     long,    many  -  windowec 
fronts  of  its  public  buildings  ;  and  at  this 
distance    its  flat   roofs   and   light    tint 
give  it  a  more  foreign  appearance  thai 
it  wears  in  its  streets  and  plazas,  will 
a  faint  suggestion  of  the  East.     Ilm 
on  these  breezy  hills,  one  escapes  i'roi 
the  immediate  climate  of  the  city,  whicl 
has  the  peculiarity   of   Boston,  so   trj 
ing   to    the   nerves,   of    stringing   thei 
to   cracking-points,  while    it    induces 
constant  sense  of  fatigue ;  at  Madrid, 
humanity  is    under   the  "  whip   of   th( 


1884.] 


Bird- Gazing  in  the  White  Mountains. 


51 


sky."  The  water,  on  the  contrary,  which     its  influence  the  skin  becomes  like  vel- 


does  not  come  from  the  panting  Mau- 
zanares,  but  from    springs   among   the 


vet  and  the  hair  like  floss-silk  ;  after  a 
bath  the  body  is  as  smooth  as  if  it  had 


Guadarramas,  is  deliciously  soft :  under     been  anointed. 


BIRD-GAZING  IN   THE   WHITE   MOUNTAINS. 


IT  was  early  in  June  when  I  set  out 
for  my  third  visit  to  the  White  Moun- 
tains, and  the  ticket-seller  and  the  bag- 
gage-master in  turn  assured  me  that  the 
Crawford  House,  which  I  named  as  my 
destination,  was  not  yet  open.  They 
spoke,  too,  in  the  tone  which  men  use 
when  they  mention  something  which, 
if  you  had  not  been  uncommonly  stupid, 
you  would  have  known  already.  The 
kindly  sarcasm  missed  its  mark,  how- 
ever. I  was  quite  aware  that  the  hotel 
was  not  yet  ready  for  the  "  general  pub- 
lic." But  I  said  to  myself  that  for  once, 
at  least,  I  was  not  to  be  included  in  that 
un  fashionably  promiscuous  company. 
The  vulgar  crowd  must  wait,  of  course. 
For  the  present  the  mountains,  in  re- 
porters' language,  were  "  on  private 
view ;  ''  and  for  all  the  ignorance  of 
railway  officials,  I  was  one  of  the  elect. 
In  plainer  phrase,  I  had  in  my  pocket 
a  letter  from  the  manager  of  the  famous 
inn  before  mentioned,  in  which  he  prom- 
ised to  do  what  he  could  for  my  enter- 
tainment, even  though  he  was  not  yet 
keeping  a  hotel. 

Possibly  I  made  too  much  of  a  small 
matter ;  but  it  pleased  me  to  feel  that 
this  visit  of  mine  was  to  be  of  a  pecul- 
iarly intimate  character,  —  almost,  in- 
deed, as  if  Mount  Washington  himself 
had  bidden  me  to  private  audience. 

Compelled  to  wait  three  or  four  hours 
in  North  Conway,  I  improved  the  op- 
portunity to  stroll  once  more  down  into 
the  lovely  Saco  meadows,  whose  "  green 
felicity  '  was  just  now  at  its  height, 
ftere,  perched  upon  a  fence-rail,  in  the 


shade  of  an  elm,  I  gazed  at  the  snow- 
crowned  Mount  Washington  range, 
while  the  bobolinks  and  savanna  spar- 
rows made  music  on  every  side.  The 
song  of  the  bobolinks  dropped  from 
above,  and  the  rnicrophonic  tune  of  the 
sparrows  came  up  from  the  grass,  —  sky 
and  earth  keeping  holiday  together. 
Almost  I  could  have  believed  myself  in 
Eden.  But,  alas,  even  the  birds  them- 
selves were  long  since  shut  out  of  that 
garden  of  innocence,  and  as  I  started 
back  towards  the  village  a  crow  went 
hurrying  past  me,  with  a  king-bird  in 
hot  pursuit.  The  latter  was  more  for- 
tunate than  usual,  or  more  plucky  ;  ac- 
tually alighting  on  the  crow's  back  and 
riding  for  some  distance.  I  could  not 
distinguish  his  motions, — he  was  too 
far  away  for  that, — but  I  wished  him 
joy  of  his  victory,  and  trusted  that  he 
would  improve  it  to  the  full.  For  it  is 
scandalous  that  a  bird  of  the  crow's 
cloth  should  be  a  thief  ;  and  so,  though 
I  reckon  him  among  my  friends,  —  in 
truth,  because  I  do  so,  —  I  am  able  to 
take  it  patiently  when  I  see  him  chas- 
tised for  his  fault.  Imperfect  as  we  all 
know  each  other  to  be,  it  is  a  comfort 
to  feel  that  few  of  us  are  so  altogether 
bad  as  not  to  take  more  or  less  pleas- 
ure in  seeing  a  neighbor's  character  im- 
proved under  a  course  of  moderately 
painful  discipline. 

At  Bartlett  word  came  that  the  pas- 
senger car  would  go  no  further,  but  that 
a  freight  train  would  soon  start,  on 
which,  if  I  chose,  I  could  continue  my 
journey.  Accordingly,  I  rode  up  through 


52 


Bird- Gazing  in  the  White  Mountains. 


the  Notch  on  a  platform  car,  and  can  in 
good  conscience  recommend  that  mode 
of  travel.  There  is  no  crowd  of  ex- 
claiming tourists,  the  train  of  necessity 
moves  slowly,  and  the  open  platform 
offers  no  obstruction  to  the  view.  For 
a  time  I  had  a  seat,  which  after  a  little 
two  strangers  ventured  to  occupy  with 
me  ;  for  "  it 's  an  ill  wind  that  blows  no- 
body good,"  and  there  happened  to  be 
on  the  car  one  piece  of  baggage,  —  a 
coffin,  inclosed  in  a  pine  box.  Our  sit- 
ting upon  it  could  not  harm  either  it  or 
us  ;  nor  did  we  mean  any  disrespect  to 
the  man,  whoever  he  might  be,  whose 
body  was  to  be  buried  in  it.  Judging 
the  dead  charitably,  as  in  duty  bound,  I 
had  no  doubt  he  would  have  been  glad 
if  he  could  have  seen  it  put  to  such  a 
use.  So  we  made  ourselves  comfortable 
until,  at  an  invisible  station,  it  was  taken 
off.  Then  we  were  obliged  to  stand,  or 
to  retreat  into  a  miserable  small  box- 
car behind  us.  The  platform  would 
lurch  a  little  now  and  then,  and  I,  for 
one,  was  not  experienced  as  a  "  train 
hand  ;  "  but  we  all  kept  our  places  till  the 
Frankenstein  trestle  was  reached.  Here, 
where  for  five  hundred  feet  we  could 
look  down  upon  the  jagged  rocks  eighty 
feet  below  us,  one  of  the  trio  suddenly 
had  an  errand  into  the  box-car  aforesaid, 
leaving  the  platform  to  the  other  stran- 
ger and  me.  On  the  whole,  I  thought  I 
had  never  enjoyed  the  ride  through  the 
Notch  so  much. 

Late  in  the  evening  I  found  myself 
once  again  at  the  Crawford  House,  and 
in  one  of  the  best  rooms,  —  as  well 
enough  I  might  be,  being  the  only  guest 
in  the  house.  The  next  morning,  be- 
fore it  was  really  light,  I  was  lying  awake 
looking  at  Mount  Webster,  while  through 
the  open  window  came  the  loud,  cheery 
song  of  the  white  -  throated  sparrows. 
They  seemed  to  be  inviting  me  to  come 
at  once  into  their  woods  ;  but  I  knew 
only  too  well  that,  if  the  invitation  were 
accepted,  they  would  every  one  of  them 
take  to  hiding  like  bashful  children. 


The  white-throat  is  one  of  the  birds 
for  whom  I  have  a  special  liking.  On 
my  first  trip  to  the  mountains  I  jumped 
off  the  train  for  a  moment  at  Bartlett, 
and  had  hardly  touched  the  ground  be- 
fore I  heard  his  familiar  call.  Here, 
then,  I  had  found  Mr.  Peabody  at  home. 
He  had  often  camped  near  me  in  Mas- 
sachusetts, and  many  a  time  I  had  been 
gladdened  by  his  lively  serenade  ;  now 
he  greeted  me  from  his  own  native 
woods.  So  far  as  my  observations  have 
gone,  he  is  to  be  found  throughout  the 
mountain  region  ;  and  that  in  spite  of 
the  standard  guide-book,  which  puts  him 
down  as  patronizing  the  Glen  House  al- 
most exclusively.  He  knows  the  routes 
too  well  to  need  any  guide,  however, 
which  may  account  for  his  ignorance  of 
the  official  programme.  It  is  wonderful 
how  shy  he  is,  —  the  more  wonderful, 
because,  during  his  migrations,  his  man- 
ner is  so  very  different.  Then,  even  in 
a  city  park  you  may  watch  him  at  your 
leisure,  while  his  loud,  clear  whistle  is 
often  to  be  heard  rising  above  a  din  of 
horse-cars  and  heavy  wagons.  But  here, 
in  his  summer  quarters,  you  will  listen 
to  his  song  a  hundred  times  before  you 
once  catch  a  glimpse  of  the  singer.  At 
£rst  thought  it  seems  strange  that  a  bird 
should  be  most  at  home  when  he  is  away 
from  home  ;  but  in  the  one  case  he  has 
only  his  own  safety  to  consult,  while  in 
the  other  he  is  thinking  of  those  whose 
lives  are  more  to  him  than  his  own,  and 
whose  hiding-place  he  is  every  moment 
on  the  alert  to  conceal. 

In  Massachusetts  we  do  not  expect  to 
find  sparrows  in  deep  woods.  They  be- 
long in  fields  and  pastures,  in  roadside 
thickets,  or  by  fence-rows  and  old  stone- 
walls bordered  with  barberry  bushes  and 
alders.  But  the  white-throats  are  crea- 
tures of  the  wilderness.  It  is  one  charm 
of  their  music  that  it  always  comes,  or 
seems  to  come,  from  such  a  distance,  - 
from  far  up  the  mountain-side,  or  from 
the  inaccessible  depths  of  some  ravine. 
I  shall  not  soon  forget  its  wild  beauty 


1884.] 


Bird- Gazing  in  the  White  Mountains. 


53 


as  it  rose  out  of  the  spruce  forests  below 
me,  while  I  was  enjoying  an  evening 
promenade  over  the  long,  flat  summit  of 
Moosilauke.  From  his  habit  of  singing 
late  at  night  this  sparrow  is  in  some 
places  called  the  nightingale.  His  more 
common  name  is  the  Peabody  bird ; 
while  a  Jefferson  man,  who  was  driving 
me  over  the  Cherry  Mountain  road, 
called  him  the  Peverly  bird,  and  told 
me  the  following  story  :  — 

A  farmer  named  Peverly  was  walk- 
ing about  his  fields  one  spring  morning, 
trying  to  make  up  his  mind  whether  it 
was  time  for  him  to  put  in  his  wheat. 
The  question  was  important,  and  he  was 
still  in  a  deep  quandary,  when  a  bird 
spoke  up  out  of  the  wood  and  said, 
"  Sow  wheat,  Peverly,  Peverly,  Pever- 
ly !  —  Sow  wheat,  Peverly,  Peverly, 
Peverly !  '  That  settled  the  matter. 
The  wheat  was  sown,  and  in  the  fall  a 
most  abundant  harvest  was  gathered  ; 
and  ever  since  then  this  little  feathered 
oracle  has  been  known  as  the  Peverly 
bird. 

We  have  improved  on  the  custom  of 
the  ancients :  they  examined  a  bird's 
entrails ;  we  listen  to  his  song.  Who 
says  the  Yankee  is  not  wiser  than  the 
Greek  ? 

But  I  was  lying  abed  in  the  Craw- 
ford House  when  the  voice  of  Zono- 
trichia  albicoliis  sent  my  thoughts  thus 
astray,  from  Moosilauke  to  Delphi. 
That*  day  and  the  two  following  were 
passed  in  roaming  about  the  woods  near 
the  hotel.  The  pretty  painted  trilliuin 
was  in  blossom,  as  was  also  the  dark 
purple  species,  and  the  hobble-bush 
showed  its  broad  white  cymes  in  all 
directions.  Here  and  there  was  the 
modest  little  spring  beauty  (Claytonia 
caroliniana),  and  not  far  from  the  Ele- 
phant's Head  I  discovered  my  first  and 
only  patch  of  dicentra,  with  its  delicate 
dissected  leaves  and  its  oddly  shaped 
petals  of  white  and  pale  yellow.  The 
false  mitrewort  (Tiarella  cordifolia)  was 
iu  flower  likewise,  and  the  spur  which 


is  cut  off  Mount  Willard  by  the  rail- 
road was  all  aglow  with  rhodora,  —  a 
perfect  flower-garden,  on  the  monochro- 
matic plan  now  so  much  in  vogue, 
Along  the  edge  of  the  rocks  on  the 
summit  of  Mount  Willard  a  great  pro- 
fusion of  the  common  saxifrage  was 
waving  in  the  fresh  breeze :  — 

o 

"Ten  thousand  saw  I  at  a  glance, 
Tossing  their  heads  in  sprightly  dance." 

On  the  lower  parts  of  the  mountains, 
the  foliage  was  already  well  out,  while 
the  upper  parts  were  of  a  fine  purplish 
tint,  which  at  first  I  was  unable  to  ac- 
count for,  but  which  I  soon  discovered 
to  be  due  to  the  fact  that  the  trees  at 
that  height  were  still  only  in  bud. 

A  notable  feature  of  the  White  Moun- 
tain forests  is  the  absence  of  oaks  and 
hickories.  These  tough,  hard  woods 
would  seem  to  have  been  created  on 
purpose  to  stand  against  wind  and  cold. 
But  no ;  the  hills  are  covered  with  the 
fragile  poplars  and  birches  and  spruces, 
with  never  an  oak  or  hickory  among 
them.  I  suspect,  indeed,  that  it  is  tho 
very  softness  of  the  former  which  gives 
them  their  advantage.  For  this,  as  I 
suppose,  is  correlated  with  rapid  growth ; 
and  where  the  summer  is  very  short, 
speed  may  count  for  more  than  firmness 
of  texture,  especially  during  the  first 
one  or  two  years  of  the  plant's  life. 
Trees,  like  men,  lose  in  one  way  what 
they  gain  in  another ;  or,  in  other 
words,  they  "  have  the  defects  of  their 
qualities."  Probably  Paul's  confession, 
"  When  I  am  weak,  then  am  I  strong," 
is  after  all  only  the  personal  statement 
of  a  general  law,  as  true  of  a  poplar  as 
of  a  Christian.  For  we  all  believe  (do 
we  not  ?)  that  the  world  is  a  universe, 
governed  throughout  by  one  Mind,  so 
that  whatever  holds  in  one  part  is  good 
evervwhere. 

«/ 

But  it  was  June,  and  the  birds,  who 
were  singing  from  daylight  till  dark, 
would  have  the  most  of  my  attention.  It 
was  pleasant  to  find  here  two  rare  war- 
blers, of  whom  I  had  before  had  only 


54 


Bird-Crazing  in  the  White  Mountains. 


[July, 


casual  glimpses,  —  the  mourning  war- 
bler and  the  bay-breasted.  The  former 
was  singing  his  loud  but  commonplace 
ditty  within  a  few  rods  of  the  piazza  on 
one  side  of  the  house,  while  his  congener, 
the  Maryland  yellow-throat,  was  to  be 
heard  on  the  other  side,  along  with  the 
black-cap  (Dendrceca  striata),  the  black- 
and-yellovv,  and  the  Canadian  fly-catcher. 
The  mourning  warbler's  song,  as  I  heard 
it,  was  like  this :  Whit  whit  whit,  wit 
wit.  The  first  three  notes  were  deliber- 
ate and  loud,  on  one  key,  and  without 
accent.  The  last  two  were  pitched  a 
little  lower,  and  were  shorter,  with  the 
accent  on  the  first  of  the  pair ;  they 
were  thinner  in  tone  than  the  opening 
triplet,  as  is  meant  to  be  indicated  by 
the  difference  of  spelling.1  Others  of  the 
family  were  the  golden-crowned  thrush, 
the  small-billed  water-thrush,  the  yel- 
low-rumped,  the  Blackburnian  (with  his 
characteristic  zillup,  zillup,  zillup),  the 
black-throated  green,  the  black-throated 
blue  (the  last  with  his  loud,  coarse  kree, 
kree,  kree),  the  redstart,  and  the  elegant 
blue  yellow-back.  Altogether,  they  were 
a  gorgeous  company. 

But  the  chief  singers  were  the  olive- 
backed  thrushes  and  the  winter  wrens. 
I  should  be  glad  to  know  on  just  what 
principle  the  olive-backs  and  their  near 
relatives,  the  hermits,  distribute  them- 
selves throughout  the  mountain  region. 
Each  species  seems  to  have  its  own  sec- 
tions, to  which  it  returns  year  after  year, 
and  the  olive-backed,  being,  as  is  well 
known,  the  more  northern  species  of  the 
two,  naturally  prefers  the  more  elevated 
situations.  I  have  found  the  latter  abun- 
dant near  the  Profile  House,  and  for  three 
seasons  it  has  had  exclusive  possession 
of  the  White  Mountain  Notch,  —  so  far, 
at  least,  as  I  have  been  able  to  discov- 
er.2 The  hermits,  on  the  other  hand, 
frequent  such  places  as  North  Coriway, 
Gorham,  Jefferson,  Bethlehem,  and  the 


vicinity  of  the  Flume.  Only  once  have 
I  found  the  two  species  in  the  same  neigh- 
borhood. That  was  near  the  Breezy 
Point  House,  on  the  side  of  Mount  Moo- 
silauke ;  and  even  here  it  was  to  be 
noticed  that  the  hermits  were  in  or  near 
the  sugar-grove,  while  the  Swainsons 
were  in  the  forest,  far  off  in  an  oppo- 
site direction;  but  this  place  is  so  pecul- 
iarly romantic,  with  its  noble  amphi- 
theatre of  hills,  that  I  could  not  wonder 
that  neither  species  was  willing  to  yield 
the  ground  entirely  to  the  other. 

It  is  these  birds,  if  any,  whose  music 
reaches  the  ears  of  the  ordinarv  moun- 

f 

tain  tourist.  Every  man  who  is  known 
among  his  acquaintances  to  have  a  little 
knowledge  of  such  things  is  approached 
now  and  then  with  the  question,  "  What 
bird  was  it,  Mr.  So-and-So,  that  I  heard 
singing  up  in  the  mountains  ?  I  did  n't 
see  him ;  he  was  always  ever  so  far  off ; 
but  his  voice  was  wonderful,  so  sweet 
and  clear  and  loud !  "  In  such  cases  it 
is  generally  safe  to  conclude  that  either 
the  Swainson  thrush  or  the  hermit  is 
the  bird  referred  to.  The  inquirer  is 
most  likely  inclined  to  be  incredulous 
when  he  is  told  that  there  are  birds  in 
his  own  woods  whose  voice  is  so  like 
jthat  of  his  admired  New  Hampshire 
songster  that,  if  he  were  to  hear  the  two 
together,  he  would  not  at  first  be  able 
to  tell  the  one  from  the  other.  He  has 
never  heard  them,  he  says ;  which  is 
true  enough,  for  he  never  goes  into  the 
woods  of  his  own  town,  or,  if  by  chance 
he  does,  he  leaves  his  ears  behind  him 
in  the  shop.  His  case  is  not  peculiar. 
Men  and  women  gaze  enraptured  at 
New  Hampshire  sunsets.  How  glori- 
ous they  are,  to  be  sure !  What  a  pity 
the  sun  does  not  sometimes  set  in  Mas- 
sachusetts ! 

As  a  musician  the  olive-back  is  cer- 
tainly inferior  to  the  hermit,  and,  accord- 
ing to  my  taste,  he  is  surpassed  also  by 


1  He  is  said  to  have  another  song,  beautiful  and      cheeked  thrushes,  who  are  only  found  near  the 
wren-like ;  but  that  I  have  never  heard.  tops  of  the  mountains. 

2  This    is    making   no    account  of   the   gray- 


1884.] 


Bird- Grazing  in  the  White  Mountains. 


55 


the  wood-thrush  and  the  Wilson ;  but 
he  is  a  magnificent  singer,  nevertheless, 
and  when  he  is  heard  in  the  absence  of 
the  others  it  is  often  hard  to  believe  that 
any  one  of  them  could  do  better.  A 
good  idea  of  the  rhythm  and  length  of 
his  song  may  be  gained  by  pronouncing 
somewhat  rapidly  the  words  "  I  love,  I 
love,  I  love  you,"  or,  as  it  sometimes 
runs,  "  I  love,  I  love,  I  love  you  truly." 
How  literal  this  translation  is  I  am  not 
scholar  enough  to  determine,  but  with- 
out question  it  gives  the  sense  substan- 
tially. 

The  winter  wrens  were  not  so  numer- 
ous as  the  thrushes,  I  think,  but,  like 
them,  they  sang  at  all  hours  of  the 
day,  and  seemed  to  be  well  distributed 
throughout  the  woods.  We  can  hardly 
help  asking  how  it  is  that  two  birds  so 
very  closely  related  as  the  house  wren, 
and  the  winter  wren  should  have  chosen 
haunts  so  extremely  diverse,  —  the  one 
preferring  door-yards  in  thickly  settled 
villages,  the  other  keeping  strictly  to 
the  wildest  of  all  wild  places.  But 
whatever  the  explanation,  we  need  not 
wish  the  fact  itself  different.  Compara- 
tively few  ever  hear  the  winter  wren's 
song,  to  be  sure  (for  you  will  hardly  get 
it  from  a  hotel  piazza),  but  it  is  not  the 
less  enjoyed  on  that  account.  There  is 
such  a  thing  as  a  bird's  making  himself 
too  common ;  and  probably  it  is  true 
even  of  the  great  prima  donna  that  it 
is  not  those  who  live  in  the  house  with 
her  who  find  most  pleasure  in  her  music. 
Moreover,  there  is  much  in  time  and  cir- 
cumstance. You  hear  a  song  in  the 
village  street,  and  pass  along  unmoved ; 
but  stand  in  the  silence  of  the  forest, 
with  your  feet  in  a  bed  of  creeping 
snowberry  and  oxalis,  and  the  same 
song  goes  to  your  very  soul. 

The  great  distinction  of  the  winter 
wren's  melody  is  its  marked  rhythm  and 
accent,  which  give  it  a  martial,  fife-like 
character.  Note  tumbles  over  note  in 
the  true  wren  manner,  and  the  strain 
comes  to  an  end  so  suddenly  that  for 


the  first  few  times  you  are  likely  to 
think  that  the  bird  has  been  interrupted. 
In  the  middle  is  a  long  in-drawn  note, 
much  like  one  of  the  canary's.  The 
odd  little  creature  does  not  get  far  away 
from  the  ground.  I  have  never  seen 
him  sing  from  a  living  tree  or  bush,  but 
always  from  a  stump  or  a  log,  or  from 
the  root  or  branch  of  an  overturned  tree, 
—  from  something,  at  least,  of  nearly 
his  own  color.  The  song  is  intrinsi- 
cally one  of  the  most  beautiful,  and  in 
my  ears  it  has  this  further  merit,  that  I 
have  never  heard  it  anywhere  except 
among  the  White  Hills.  How  well  I 
remember  an  early  morning  hour  at 
Profile  Lake,  when  it  came  again  and 
again  across  the  water  from  the  woods 
on  Mount  Cannon,  under  the  Great 
Stone  Face ! 

Whichever  way  I  walked,  I  was  sure 
of  the  society  of  the  snow-birds.  They 
hopped  familiarly  across  the  railroad 
track  in  front  of  the  Crawford  House, 
and  on  the  summit  of  Mount  Washing- 
ton they  were  scurrying  about  among 
the  rocks,  opening  and  shutting  their 
pretty  white-bordered  fans.  Half-way 
up  Mount  Willard  I  sat  down  to  rest  on 
a  stone,  and  after  a  minute  or  two  out 
dropped  a  snow-bird  at  my  feet,  and  ran 
across  the  road,  trailing  her  wings.  I 
looked  under  the  bank  for  her  nest,  but, 
to  my  surprise,  could  find  nothing  of  it. 
So  I  made  sure  of  knowing  the  place 
again,  and  continued  my  tramp.  Re- 
turning two  hours  later,  I  sat  down  upon 
the  same  bowlder,  and  watched  for  the 
bird  to  appear  as  before ;  but  she  had 
gathered  courage  from  my  former  fail- 
ure,—  or  so  it  seemed,  —  and  I  waited 
in  vain  till  I  rapped  upon  the  ground 
over  her  head.  Then  she  scrambled  out 
and  limped  away,  repeating  her  inno- 
cent but  hackneyed  ruse.  This  time  I 
was  resolved  not  to  be  baffled.  The  nest 
was  there,  and  I  would  find  it.  So  down 
on  my  knees  I  got,  and  scrutinized  the 
whole  place  most  carefully.  But  though 
I  had  marked  the  precise  spot,  there  was 


56 


Bird- Grazing  in  the  White  Mountains. 


[July, 


no  sign  of  a  nest.  I  was  about  giving 
over  the  search  ignominiously,  when  If 
descried  a  slight  opening  between  the 
overhanging  roof  of  the  bank  and  a  layer 
of  earth  which  some  roots  held  in  place 
close  under  it.  Into  this  slit  I  inserted 
my  fingers,  and  there,  entirely  out  of 
sight,  was  the  nest  full  of  eggs.  No 
man  could  ever  have  found  it,  had  the 
bird  been  brave  and  wise  enough  to  keep 
her  seat.  However,  I  had  before  this 
noticed  that  the  snow-bird,  while  often 
extremely  clever  in  choosing  a  site  for 
his  nest,  is  seldom  very  skillful  in  keep- 
ing a  secret.  I  saw  him  one  day  stand- 
ing on  the  side  of  the  same  Mount  Wil- 
lai'd  road,1  gesticulating  and  scolding  with 
all  his  might,  as  much  as  to  say,  "  Please 
don't  stop  here  !  Go  straight  along,  I 
beg  of  you  !  My  nest  is  right  under  this 
bank  !  "  And  one  glance  under  the  bank 
showed  that  1  had  not  misinterpreted 
his  demonstrations.  For  all  that,  I  do 
not  feel  like  taking  a  lofty  tone  in  pass- 
ing judgment  upon  Junco.  Pie  is  not 
the  onlv  one  whose  wisdom  is  mixed 

«/ 

with  foolishness.  There  is  at  least  one 
other  person  of  whom  the  same  is  true, 
—  a  person  of  whom  I  have  neverthe- 
less a  very  good  opinion,  and  with  whom 
I  am,  or  ought  to  be,  better  acquainted 
than  I  am  with  any  animal  that  wears 
feathers. 

The  prettiest  snow-bird's  nest  I  ever 
saw  was  built  beside  the  Crawford  bridle 
path,  on  Mount  Clinton,  just  before  the 
path  comes  out  of  the  woods  at  the  top. 
It  was  lined  with  hair-moss  (a  species  of 
Polytricltum)  of  a  bright  orange  color, 
and  with  its  four  or  five  white,  lilac- 
spotted  eggs  made  so  attractive  a  pic- 
ture that  I  was  compelled  to  pause  a 
moment  to  look  at  it,  even  though  I  had 

l  Beside  this  road  (in  June,  1883)  I  found  a  nest 
of  the  yellow-bellied  fly-catcher  (Empidonax  fla- 
viventris).  It  was  built  at  the  base  of  a  decayed 
stump,  in  a  little  depression  between  two  roots,  and 
was  partially  overarched  with  growing  moss.  It 
contained  four  eggs,  —  white,  spotted  with  brown. 
I  called  upon  the  bird  half  a  dozen  times  or  more, 
and  found  her  a  model  "  keeper  at  home."  On 


three  miles  of  a  steep,  rough  footpath 
to  descend,  with  a  shower  threatening  to 

7  O 

overtake  me  before  I  could  reach  the 
bottom.  I  wondered  whether  the  archi- 
tects really  possessed  an  eye  for  color, 
or  had  only  stumbled  upon  this  elegant 
bit  of  decoration.  On  the  whole,  it 
seemed  more  charitable  to  conclude  the 
former  ;  and  not  only  more  charitable, 
but  more  scientific  as  well.  For,  if  I 
understand  the  matter  aright,  Mr.  Dar- 
win and  his  followers  have  settled  upon 
the  opinion  that  birds  do  display  an  un- 
mistakable fondness  for  bright  tints ; 
that,  indeed,  the  males  of  many  species 
wear  brilliant  plumage  for  no  other  rea- 
son than  that  their  mates  prefer  them  in 
that  dress.  Moreover,  if  a  bird  in  New 
South  Wales  adorns  her  bower  with 
shells  and  other  ornaments,  why  may 
not  our  little  Northern  darling  beautify 
her  nest  with  such  humbler  materials  as 
her  surroundings  offer?  On  reflection, 
I  am  more  and  more  convinced  that 
the  birds  knew  what  they  were  doing ; 
probably  the  female,  the  moment  she 
discovered  the  moss,  called  to  her  mate, 
"  Oh,  look,  how  lovely  !  Do,  my  dear, 
let 's  line  our  nest  with  it !  ' 

This  nest  was  found  on  the  auniver- 
s^ary  of  Bunker  Hill  day,  which  I  had 
been  celebrating  by  climbing  the  highest 
hill  in  New  England.  Plunging  into  the 
woods  within  fifty  yards  of  the  Craw- 
ford House,  I  had  gone  up  and  up,  and 
on  and  on,  through  a  magnificent  for- 
est, and  then  over  more  magnificent 
rocky  heights,  until  I  stood  at  last  on 
the  platform  of  the  hotel  at  the  sum- 
mit. True,  the  path,  which  I  had  never 
traveled  before,  was  wet  and  slippery, 
with  stretches  of  ice  and  snow  here 
and  there  ;  but  the  shifting  view  was  so 

one  occasion  she  allowed  my  hand  to  come  within 
two  or  three  inches  of  her  bill.  In  every  case  she 
flew  off  without  any  outcry  or  ruse,  and  once  at 
least  she  fell  immediately  to  fly-catching  with  ad- 
mirable philosophy.  So  far  as  I  know,  this  is  the 
only  nest  of  the  species  ever  found  in  New  Eng- 
land outside  of  Maine.  But  it  is  proper  to  add 
that  I  did  not  capture  the  bird. 


1884.] 


Bird-Gazing  in  the  White  Mountains. 


57 


grand,  the  atmosphere  so  bracing,  and 
the  solitude  so  impressive  that  I  en- 
joyed every  step,  till  it  came  to  clam- 
bering up  the  Mount  Washington  cone 
over  the  bowlders.  At  this  point,  to  be 
frank,  I  began  to  hope  that  the  ninth  mile 
would  prove  a  short  one.  The  guide- 
books are  agreed  in  warning  the  visitor 

o  o 

against  making  this  ascent  without  a 
companion,  and  I  have  no  doubt  they 
are  right  in  so  doing.  A  crippling  ac- 
cident would  almost  inevitably  be  fatal, 
while  for  several  miles  the  trail  is  so  in- 
distinct that  it  would  be  difficult,  if  not 
impossible,  to  follow  it  in  a  fog.  And 
yet,  if  one  is  willing  to  take  the  risk 
(and  is  not  so  unfortunate  as  never  to 
have  learned  how  to  keep  himself  com- 
pany), he  will  find  a  very  considerable 
compensation  in  the  peculiar  pleasure  to 
be  experienced  in  being  absolutely  alone 
above  the  world.  For  myself,  I  was 
shut  up  to  going  alone  or  not  going  at 
all ;  and  a  Bostonian  must  do  something 
patriotic  on  the  Seventeenth  of  June. 
But  for  all  that,  if  the  storm  which 
chased  me  down  the  mountains  in  the 
afternoon,  clouding  first  Mount  Wash- 

J  O 

ington  and  then  Mount  Pleasant  behind 
me,  and  shutting  me  indoors  all  the  next 
day,  had  started  an  hour  sooner,  or  if  I 
had  been  detained  an  hour  later,  it  is  not 
impossible  that  I  might  now  be  writing 
in  a  different  strain. 

My  reception  at  the  top  was  none  of 
the  heartiest.  The  hotel  was  tightly 
closed,  while  a  large  snow-bank  stood 
guard  before  the  door.  However,  I  in- 
vited myself  into  the  Signal  Service  Sta- 
tion, and  made  my  wants  known  to  one 
of  the  officers,  who  very  kindly  spread 
a  table  with  such  things  as  he  and  his 
companions  had  just  been  eating.  It 
would  be  out  of  place  to  say  much  about 
the  luncheon  :  the  bread  and  butter  were 
good,  and  the  pudding  was  interesting. 
[  had  the  cook's  word  for  it  that  the  lat- 
ter was  made  of  corn-starch,  but  he  vol- 
unteered no  explanation  of  its  color, 
which  was  nearly  that  of  chocolate.  As 


a  working  hypothesis  I  adopted  the  mo- 
lasses or  brown-sugar  theory,  but  a  brief 
experiment  (as  brief  as  politeness  per- 
mitted) indicated  a  total  absence  of  any 
saccharine  principle.  But  then,  what 
do  we  climb  mountains  for,  if  not  to  see 
something  out  of  the  common  course? 
On  the  whole,  if  this  department  of  our 
national  government  is  ever  on  trial 
for  extravagance  in  the  way  of  high  liv- 
ing, I  shall  consider  myself  a  competent 
witness  for  the  defense. 

A  company  of  chimney -swifts  were 
flying  criss-cross  over  the  summit ;  one 
of  the  men  said  that  he  presumed  they 
lived  there.  I  took  the  liberty  to  doubt 
his  opinion,  however.  To  me  it  seemed 
nothing  but  a  blunder  that  they  should 
be  there  even  for  an  hour.  There  could 
hardly  be  many  insects  at  that  height, 
I  thought,  and  I  had  abundant  cause  to 

O         7 

know  that  the  woods  below  were. full  of 
them.  I  knew,  also,  that  the  swifts 
knew  it ;  for  while  I  had  been  prowling 
about  between  Crawford's  and  Fabyan's, 
they  had  several  times  shot  by  my  head 
so  closely  that  I  had  instinctively  fallen 
to  calculating  the  probable  consequences 
of  a  collision.  But,  after  all,  the  swift 
is  no  doubt  a  far  better  entomologist 

o 

than  I  am,  though  he  has  never  heard 
of  Packard's  Guide.  Possibly  there  are 
certain  species  of  insects,  and  those  of 
a  peculiarly  delicate  savor,  which  are 
to  be  obtained  only  at  about  this  alti- 
tude. 

The  most  enjoyable  part  of  the  Craw- 
ford path  is  the  five  miles  from  the  top 
of  Mount  Clinton  to  the  foot  of  the 
Mount  Washington  cone.  Along  this 
ridge  I  was  delighted  to  find  in  blossom 
two  beautiful  Alpine  plants,  which  I  had 
missed  in  previous  (July)  visits,  —  the 
diapensia  (Diapensia  Lapponica)  and 
the  Lapland  rose -bay  (Rhododendron 
Lapponicurn) ,  —  and  to  get  also  a  single 
forward  specimen  of  Potentilla  frigida. 
Here  and  there  was  a  bumblebee,  gath- 
ering honey  from  the  small  purple  cat- 
kins of  the  prostrate  willows,  which 


58 


Bird- Grazing  in  the  White  Mountains. 


[July, 


were  now  in  full  bloom.  (Rather  high- 
minded  bumblebees,  they  seemed,  more 
than  five  thousand  feet  above  the  sea  !) 
Professional  entomologists  (the  chim- 
ney-swift, perhaps,  included)  may  smile 
at  my  simplicity,  but  I  was  surprised  to 
find  this  "  animated  torrid  zone,"  this 
"  insect  lover  of  the  sun,"  in  such  a 
Greenland  climate.  Did  he  not  know 
that  his  own  poet  had  described  him  as 
"  hot  midsummer's  petted  crone  "  ?  But 
possibly  he  was  equally  surprised  at  my 
appearance.  He  might  even  have  taken 
his  turn  at  quoting  Emerson  :  — 

"  Pants  up  hither  the  spruce  clerk 
From  South  Cove  and  City  Wharf  "  ? 

Of  the  two,  he  was  unquestionably  the 
more  at  Lome,  for  he  was  living  where 
in  forty-eight  hours  I  should  have  found 
my  death.  So  much  is  Bombus  better 
than  a  man. 

In  a  little  pool  of  water,  which 
seemed  to  be  nothing  but  a  transient 
puddle  caused  by  the  melting  snow, 
was  a  tiny  fish.  I  asked  him  by  what 
miracle  he  got  there,  but  he  could  give 
no  explanation.  He,  too,  might  well 
enough  have  joined  the  noble  company 
of  Emersonians :  — 

"I  never  thought  to  ask,  I  never  knew; 
But,  in  my  simple  ignorance,  suppose 
The    self-same    Power  that    brought  me  here 
brought  you." 

Almost  at  the  very  top  of  Mount 
Clinton  I  was  saluted  by  the  familiar 
melody  of  the  Nashville  warbler.  I 
could  hardly  believe  my  ears  ;  but  there 
was  no  mistake,  for  the  bird  soon  ap- 
peared in  plain  sight.  Had  it  been  one  of 
the  hardier-seeming  species,  the  yellow- 
rumped  for  example,  I  should  not  have 
thought  it  very  strange  ;  but  this  dainty 
Helminthophaga,  who  is  so  common  in 
the  vicinity  of  Boston,  did  appear  to  be 
out  of  his  latitude,  summering  here  on 
Alpine  heights.  With  a  good  pair  of 
wings  and  the  whole  continent  to  choose 
from,  he  surely  might  have  found  some 
more  congenial  spot  than  this  in  which 
to  bring  up  his  little  family.  I  took  his 


presence  here  to  be  only  an  individual 
freak,  but  a  subsequent  visitor,  who 
made  the  ascent  from  the  Glen,  reported 
the  same  species  on  that  side  also,  and 
at  about  the  same  height. 

These  signs  of  life  on  bleak  moun- 
tain ridges  are  highly  interesting  and 
suggestive.  The  fish,  the  bumblebees, 
the  birds,  and  a  mouse  which  scampered 
away  to  his  hole  amid  the  rocks,  —  all 
these  might  have  found  better  living 
elsewhere.  But  Nature  will  have  her 
world  full.  Stunted  life  is  better  than 
none,  she  thinks.  So  she  plants  her 
forests  of  spruces,  and  keeps  them  grow- 
ing, where,  with  all  their  efforts,  they 
cannot  get  above  the  height  of  a  man's 
knee.  There  is  no  beauty  about  them, 
no  grace.  They  sacrifice  symmetry  and 
everything  else  for  the  sake  of  bare  ex- 
istence, reminding  us  of  Satan's  remark, 
"  All  that  a  man  hath  will  he  give  for 
his  life." 

Very  admirable  are  the  devices  by 
which  vegetation  maintains  itself  against 
odds.  Everybody  notices  that  many  of 
the  mountain  species,  like  the  diapensia, 
the  rose-bay,  the  Greenland  sandwort 
(called  the  mountain  daisy  by  the  Sum- 
mit House  people),  and  the  phyllodoce, 
Jiave  blossoms  disproportionately  large 
and  handsome  ;  as  if  they  knew  that,  in 
order  to  attract  their  indispensable  al- 
lies, the  insects,  to  these  inhospitable 
regions,  they  must  offer  them  some 
special  inducements.  Their  case  is  not 
unlike  that  of  a  certain  mountain  hotel 
which  might  be  named,  which  happens 
to  be  poorly  situated,  but  which  keeps 
itself  full,  nevertheless,  by  the  peculiar 
excellence  of  its  cuisine. 

It  does  not  require  much  imagination 
to  believe  that  these  hardy  vegetable 
mountaineers  love  their  wild,  desolate 
dwelling-places  as  truly  as  do  the  human 
residents  of  the  region.  An  old  man  in 
Bethlehem  told  me  that  sometimes,  dur- 
ing the  long,  cold  winter,  he  felt  that 
perhaps  it  would  be  well  for  him,  now 
his  work  was  done,  to  sell  his  "  place  " 


1884] 


Blood-Hoot. 


59 


and  go  down  to  Boston  to  live,  near  his 
brother.  "  But  then,"  he  added,  "  you 
know  it 's  dangerous  transplanting  an  old 
tree ;  you  're  likely  as  not  to  kill  it." 
Whatever  we  have,  in  this  world,  we 
must  pay  for  with  the  loss  of  something 
else.  The  bitter  must  be  taken  with 
the  sweet,  be  we  plants,  animals,  or 
men.  These  thoughts  recurred  to  me  a 
day  or  two  later,  as  I  lay  on  the  sum- 
mit of  Mount  Agassiz,  in  the  sun  and 
out  of  the  wind,  gazing  down  into  the 
Franconia  Valley,  then  in  all  its  June 
beauty.  Nestled  under  the  lee  of  the 
mountain,  but  farther  from  the  base, 
doubtless,  than  it  seemed  from  my  point 
of  view,  was  a  small  dwelling,  hardly 
better  than  a  shanty.  Two  or  three 
young  children  were  playing  about  the 
door,  and  near  them  was  the  man  of  the 
house  splitting  wood.  The  air  was  still 
enough  for  me  to  hear  every  blow,  al- 
though it  reached  me  only  as  the  axe 
was  again  over  the  man's  head,  ready 
for  the  next  descent.  It  was  a  charm- 
ing picture,  —  the  broad,  green  valley 
full  of  sunshine  and  peace,  and  the  soli- 
tary cottage,  from  whose  doorstep  might 
be  seen  in  one  direction  the  noble  Mount 
"Washington  range,  and  in  another  the 
hardly  less  noble  Franconias.  How 
easy  to  live  simply  and  well  in  such  a 
grand  seclusion !  But  soon  there  came 


a  thought  of  Wordsworth's  sonnet,  ad- 
dressed to  just  such  a  mood,  "  Yes,  there 
is  holy  pleasure  in  thine  eye,"  and  I  felt 
at  once  the  truth  of  his  admonition. 
What  if  the  cottage  really  were  mine,  — 
mine  to  spend  a  lifetime  in  ?  How  quick- 
ly the  poetry  would  turn  to  prose ! 

An  hour  afterwards,  on  my  way  back 
to  the  Sinclair  House,  I  passed  a  group 
of  men  at  work  on  the  highway.  One 
of  them  was  a  little  apart  from  the  rest, 
and  out  of  a  social  impulse  I  accost- 
ed him  with  the  remark,  "  I  suppose, 
in  heaven,  the  streets  never  will  need 
mending."  Quick  as  thought  came  the 
reply :  "  Well,  I  hope  not.  If  I  ever 
get  there,  I  don't  want  to  work  on  the 
road"  Here  spoke  universal  human 
nature,  which  finds  its  strong  argument 
for  immortality  in  its  discontent  with 
matters  as  they  now  are.  The  one 
thing  we  are  all  sure  of  is  that  we  were 
born  for  something  better  than  our  pres- 
ent employment ;  and  even  those  who 
school  themselves  most  religiously  in 
the  virtue  of  contentment  know  very 
well  how  to  define  that  grace  so  as  not 
to  exclude  from  it  a  mixture  of  "  di- 
vine dissatisfaction."  Well  for  us  if  we 
are  still  able  to  stand  in  our  place  and 
do  faithfully  our  allotted  task,  like  the 
mountain  spruces  and  the  Bethlehemite 
road-mender. 

Bradford  Torrey. 


BLOOD-ROOT. 

WHEN  'mid  the  budding  elms  the  bluebird  flits, 
As  if  a  bit  of  sky  had  taken  wings  ; 
When  cheerily  the  first  brave  robin  sings, 
While  timid  April  ^miles  and  weeps  by  fits, 
Then  dainty  Blood-Root  dons  her  pale-green  wrap, 
And  ventures  forth  in  some  warm,  sheltered  nook, 
To  sit  and  listen  to  the  gurgling  brook, 
And  rouse  herself  from  her  long  winter  nap. 
Give  her  a  little  while  to  muse  and  dream, 
And  she  will  throw  her  leafy  cloak  aside, 


60 


In  War  Time. 

And  stand  in  shining  raiment,  like  a  bride 
Waiting  her  lord  ;    whiter  than  snow  will  seem 
Her  spotless  robe,  the  moss-grown  rocks  beside, 
And  bright  as  morn  her  golden  crown  will  gleam. 


[July, 


*  S.  F. 


IN  WAR  TIME. 


XIII. 


MR.  ARTHUR  MORTON  would  have 
justified  the  suspicious  of  the  Quaker 
colonel.  He  paid  his  visit  to  Hester 
in  the  presence  of  Miss  Pearson,  and 
was  to  go  home  that  day  ;  and  when  was 
Miss  Hester  to  go  ? 

Mrs.  Westerley  was  not  astonished 
when  he  telegraphed  her  that  he  was  de- 
tained, and  as  little  surprised  when  he 
told,  next  day,  how  pleasant  the  journey 
had  been,  and  how,  of  course,  he  had  felt 
himself  obliged  to  wait  for  Hester,  arid 
had  left  her  at  Dr.  Wendell's,  and  had 
seen  dear  old  Ned,  who  was  looking 
a  lot  better.  "  And  how  nice  of  you, 
Mrs.  Westerley,  to  have  them  all  here  to 
dine,  —  Hester,  and  Ned,  and  the  doc- 
tor !  Miss  Ann  won't  come,"  he  added. 
"  Why  does  n't  she  come  ?  And  my  col- 
onel, —  why  is  n't  he  coming,  either  ? 
I  wish  I  had  thought  to  ask  you  to  have 
him,  too." 

"  Do  give  me  time  to  breathe,  Arty," 
answered  the  widow.  "  We  can't  have 
everybody." 

"  Oh,  I  just  mentioned  him  because 
he  looked  so  ill.  I  met  him  at  the  sta- 
tion. He  was  sending  off  a  squad  of 
men,  and  told  me  that  he  had  tele- 
graphed for  his  major,  and  was  going 
back  at  once.  I  'm  off  as  soon  as  I  can 
get  my  outfit." 

Alice  Westerley  felt  as  if  there  had 
been  a  leaf  doubled  down  in  her  life 
book,  —  what,  as  a  child,  she  had  called 
a  dog-ear,  —  and  now  of  course  every- 
body opened  the  volume  at  that  place. 


"  How  is  your  mother  ?  '    she  asked. 

"  Well,  pretty  well.  But  every  one 
you  meet  abroad  now  is  detestable.  No 
one  believes  in  the  North,  and  mother 
says  it  is  depressing.  She  declares  that 
she  will  not»stay  another  year." 

"  Another  year  ! '  exclaimed  Mrs. 
Westerley,  in  astonishment. 

"  Yes.  Father  does  n't  even  talk  of 
returning,  and  I  think  it  will  end  in  her 
coming  over  alone  for  a  while." 

"  Well,  go  and  dress  for  dinner.  And 
mind  that  you  are  very  attentive  to  the 
old  gentleman,  —  you  know  he  likes  it; 
and  don't  leave  him  alone  with  Dr.  Wen- 
dell and  the  madeira." 

"  Oh,  no,  of  course  not ;  and  as  to 
madeira,  I  have  n't  heard  it  mentioned 
for  a  year  ! ' 

Edward,  with  Hester  and  the  doctor, 
came  punctually ;  but  Wilmington  was 
late,  and  Arthur,  of  course.  He  was 
at  the  age  when  time  has  no  value,  and 
seems  as  boundlessly  abundant  as  sand 
in  the  desert. 

Hester  was  in  simple  white,  with  a 
rose  in  her  hair.  She  was  a  source  of 
unending  wonder  to  Wendell  and  to 
Edward.  Was  this  tall,  fair  woman, 
with  eyes  like  violets  dowered  with 
souls,  the  awkward  girl  of  six  months 


ago 


This 


amazing 


bit 


sleight-of-hand  seemed   to 


of    Nature's 
them  incom- 


prehensible :  a  being  child-like  now,  and 
presently  clad  with  the  well-bred  com- 
posure of  grown  womanhood  !  As  for 
Arty,  he  looked  half  dazed  for  a  mo- 
ment, as  she  turned  to  greet  him.  He 
said  afterwards  to  Edward,  in  his  exu- 


1884.] 


In  War  Time. 


61 


berant  way,  "  "Was  n't  she  just  like 
June  days,  Ned  ?  You  could  n't  tell 
whether  she  was  child  or  woman,  spring 
or  summer  ! ' 

In  fact,  as  Colonel  Fox  had  predict- 
ed, Hester  had  gone  past  Arthur,  and 
he  was  puzzled  at  the  metamorphosis. 
At  last  Mr.  Wilmington  came,  and  they 
went  merrily  to  dinner.  Mrs.  Wester- 
ley's  dinners  were  always  successful. 
She  had  learned  the  golden  rule  never 
to  put  the  stupid  people  to  entertain  the 
clever  ones.  But  to-day  there  was  no 
need  for  her  social  arts,  and  the  party 
was  gay  without  help  from  her.  For 
this  she  was  thankful.  She  felt  dull, 
and  was  glad  not  to  exert  herself.  So 
she  talked  quietly  to  Wilmington,  and 
caught,  at  times,  the  bits  of  chat  which 
fell  from  her  other  guests ;  watching  with 
the  pleasure  of  a  gentlewoman  the  ef- 
fect on  Hester  of  six  months'  training 
with  a  refined  and  somewhat  accurate 
old  lady,  or  smiling  as  she  recalled  the 
social  lessons  of  her  own  childhood. 

"  Sherry,  sir  ? "  whispered  John  to 
Mr.  Wilmington. 

The  old  gentleman  raised  his  glass. 
1  Your  good  health,  Miss  Gray,"  he  said. 
The  girl  smiled,  and  tasted  her  wine. 
He  was  perhaps  the  last  of  a  generation 
who  drank  healths,  and  he  never  gave 
up  the  ancient  custom. 

"  Good  manners,  that  child,"  he  mur- 
mured to  Mrs.  Westerley.  "  I  dined 
out  yesterday,  and  do  you  know,  when  I 
asked  a  young  fellow  to  take  wine  with 
me,  he  said  he  never  drank." 

"  Poor  fellow !  "  said  the  widow,  much 
amused. 

"  And  you  think  I  shall  never  be  a 
colonel,  Hester  ?  '  she  overheard  Arty 
say. 

'Well,   not   never,    but   not   in   six 
months,  you  know." 

Arty  believes  that  he  will  be  a  gen- 
eral in  that  time,"  laughed  Edward. 

'  I  know  he  would  make  a  better  one 
than  some  of  them,  Mr.  Edward." 
"That  might  be,"  observed  Wendell. 


"But,  Hester,  do  you  carry  bugs  about 

yet  ? " 

"  And  lizards  ?  "  said  Edward. 

"  And  salamanders  ?  "  added  Wendell. 

"  Oh,  no,"  she  laughed.  "  I  am  lim- 
ited to  a  little  plant  hunting.  And  oh, 
I  meant  to  tell  you  before  !  I  took  with 
me  to  school  —  and  Miss  Ann  never 
knew  it,  either  —  a  jar  full  of  caterpillar 
cocoons,  so  as  to  have  my  butterflies 
in  the  spring.  I  wish  you  could  have 
seen  Miss  Pearson's  face  when  she  saw 
them  !  " 

"  And  what  did  she  say  ? "  asked 
Wendell. 

"  Oh,  she  said  that  several  of  the  girls 
would  be  butterflies,  in  a  year  or  two, 
and  that  her  crop  was  large  enough.  I 
could  n't  help  laughing,  but  I  cried 
afterwards." 

"  What    a    horrid    old   maid  !  '    ex-  ' 
claimed  Arty. 

"  Not  the  least  horrid.  A  dear  old 
lady.  And  as  to  old  maids,  I  mean  to 
be  one  myself." 

Arty  looked  up,  and  murmured  to 
himself,  "  That  will  be  when  I  am  a 
colonel,  I  presume." 

"  We  shall  take  nets  and  go  after 
beetles  to-morrow  evening,"  said  Ed- 
ward, "  and  Arty  shall  carry  the  lan- 
tern." 

"  Try  your  eyes,  Hester,"  suggested 
the  embryo  colonel,  under  his  breath,  to 
his  neighbor. 

"  What 's  that,  Hester  ?  "  asked  Wen- 
dell. 

"  He  says  I  shall  find  it  trying  to  my 
eyes ! ': 

"  Oh  ! '  exclaimed  Mrs.  Westerley, 
who  had  caught  the  side  glance.  "  Quite 
time,"  she  thought,  "  that  this  young 
gentleman  was  in  the  field  ! " 

"  Eyes  ?  What 's  that  about  eyes  ?  " 
queried  Wilmington,  who  was  a  little 
deaf  unless  it  was  desirable  that  he  should 
not  hear.  "  Her  eyes  are  good  enough, 
I  should  say  ;  and  I  think,"  he  added  in 
an  aside  to  Mrs.  Westerley,  "  that  she 
is  beginning  to  know  how  to  use  them." 


62 


In  War  Time. 


[July, 


Then  there  was,  as  always  in  those 
days,  some  desultory  war  talk. 

"  Hester,"  said  Arthur,  "  I  shall  come 
to  see  you  again,  in  my  full  war  rig,  be- 
fore I  go." 

"  I  would  rather  you  did  not,"  she 
said  to  him  quietly.  "  I  know  you  must 
go ;  but  I  am  a  Carolinian,  and  I  try  to 
think  nothing  about  this  war.  I  don't 
want  to  find  out  whether  it  is  right  or 
wrong.  It  is  awful  to  me,  —  awful." 

As  she  had  grown  older  the  girl  had 
been  led  to  reflect  more  and  more  on 
her  position  and  its  difficulties,  and  this 
sort  of  thoughtfulness  was  new  and 
surprising  to  Arthur.  "  How  old  she 
grows  !  "  he  reflected.  "  I  see,  Hester," 
he  said,  —  "I  see  !  I  ought  to  have 
thought  all  that  for  myself." 

"Thank  you,"  she  returned,  feeling 
that  he  was  gentle  and  generous. 

"  And  now  let  us  have  a  truce  to 
war,"  said  the  hostess,  who  knew  bet- 
ter than  Arthur  what  was  in  Hester's 
mind,  and  suspected  that  this  incessant 
war  gossip  might  be  unpleasant  to  her. 
"  Come,  Hester,  we  will  go ; "  and  so 
saying,  Mrs.  "Westerley  rose,  and  left 
the  men  to  their  wine,  remarking  as  she 
passed  Wendell,  "  Lest  I  forget  it  later, 
will  you  kindly  tell  Miss  Ann  that  I 
will  come  and  see  her  about  Hester  to- 
morrow; a  little  early,  —  about  twelve 
o'clock,  I  may  say.  And  Edward,  you 
will  take  care  of  our  friends  ?  " 

The  next  day,  when  Alice  Westerley 
entered  Miss  Wendell's  parlor,  Dr.  Wen- 
dell rose  and  came  in  from  the  back 
room.  His  face,  which  was  easily  moved, 
expressed  clearly  the  pleasure  of  which 
he  was  conscious  whenever  she  was  near 
him.  Indeed,  it  would  have  been  hard 
for  any  one,  and  least  of  all  for  one 
who  was  sensitive  to  beauty  in  form 
and  color  and  sound,  not  to  have  dwelt 
with  growing  interest  on  one  who  com- 
bined all  these  attractions.  In  no  other 
woman  whom  he  had  known  were  the 
mysteries  of  womanhood  so  developed. 
That  he  did  not  understand  her  fully 


was  a  part  of  her  charm.  Wendell  him- 
self was  looking  well.  The  combina- 
tion of  a  forehead  which  was  delicately 
moulded,  and  looked  wiser  than  the 
man  was,  with  a  mouth  of  unusual  mo- 
bility, and  free  from  the  mask  of  the 
mustache,  gave  to  his  face  an  unusual 
capacity  to  exhibit  whatever  feeling  was 
dominant. 

He  was  now  under  the  elating  influ- 
ence of  a  new  idea,  which  he  thought 
could  be  brought  in  time  to  useful  de- 
velopment. He  had  been  seized  with 
the  fancy  that  it  would  be  interesting 
to  search  into,  and  elaborate  on  paper, 
the  differences  between  American  and 
European  types  of  various  maladies. 
For  this  he  meant  to  drop,  as  he  said, 
for  a  time  other  favorite  subjects,  for 
which  he  had  collected  a  good  deal  of 
material  of  value.  Mere  observation 
within  restricted  fields,  under  some  or- 
ganizing and  applicative  mind,  should 
have  been  his  sole  function.  When  he 
came  to  a  point  in  his  studies  where  it 
was  needful  to  compare  acquired  facts, 
in  order  to  know  how  to  observe  further, 
or  how  to  obtain  by  experiment  facts 
which  should  explain  the  observations 
of  the  post-mortem  table,  he  began  to 
find  difficulties  which  usually  ended  in 
earring  his  path,  until  some  newer,  and 
because  newer  more  fascinating,  subject 
attracted  for  a  time  his  easily  exhausti- 
ble energy.  In  fact,  his  mental  ambi- 
tions were  high,  his  power  to  pursue 
them  limited  ;  while  his  capacity  to  be 
pleased  with  the  recurrent  dreams  of 
possible  future  intellectual  achievements 
was  as  remarkable  as  his  failure  to 
see  why  he  constantly  failed  to  realize 
them.  Hence,  while  respected  as  a  man 
with  much  general  and  scientific  knowl- 
edge, he  was  known  among  doctors  as 
having  contributed  nothing  to  their  jour- 
nals save  barren  reports  of  cases,  and  to 
naturalists  as  a  clever  amateur.  But  of 
these  siftings  of  a  man  by  his  fellows, 
the  public  which  is  to  use  him  learns 
little  or  nothing,  so  that  to  Alice  West- 


1884.] 


In  War  Time. 


63 


erley  he  represented  the  brilliant  and 
original  physician,  to  be  justified  by  the 
patient  issues  of  the  years  which  go  to 
the  slow  growth  of  a  doctor's  reputation. 

"  I  am  very  happy,"  he  began,  "  to 
see  you.  But  now  I  must  go." 

Just  then  Ann  Wendell,  about  to  en- 
ter the  room,  passed  him  as  he  went  out, 
and  Mrs.  Westerley  heard  her  say,  — 

"  I  thought,  brother,  there  was  a  meet- 
ing at  the  hospital  about  something." 

"  Yes,  there  is,  Ann.  But  I  was  de- 
layed." 

"  You  can't  possibly  catch  the  train 
now." 

"  Oh,  yes,  I  can.     It  is  only  a  step." 

"  Well,  hurry,  Ezra,"  she  said,  and  so 
left  him ;  Alice  Westerley  beginning  to 
have  a  faint  suspicion  that  it  was  just 
possible  he  had  lingered  to  see  her.  To 
a  woman  accustomed  to  admiration  this 
was  a  trifling  matter ;  and  the  fact  that 
he  had  probably  failed  of  a  small  duty 
thereby  would  have  been  of  no  disturb- 
ing value  in  her  estimates,  until  itera- 
tion had  given  to  such  lapses  a  body  of 
weight,  or  until  some  chance  had  oc- 
curred to  see  the  large  results  of  what 
seemed  singly  to  be  but  trivial  failures. 

u  You    must   excuse    me,"  said  Miss 

Wendell,  remembering  that  in  her  haste 

she  had  spoken  so  as  to  be  overheard. 

1  My  brother  has  his  mind  so  full  of  his 

work  that  he  forgets,  sometimes." 

"  But  what  noble  work,"  exclaimed 
Mrs.  Westerley,  "  and  what  a  life  of 
constant  self-sacrifice  !  " 

Ann  had  heard  all  this  before.  She 
looked  calmly  at  life  from  standpoints 
of  duty  or  religion,  which  did  not  vary. 
If  she  had  said  literally  what  was  in  her 
mind,  it  would  have  been  that  doctors 
knew  pretty  well  what  was  before  them  ; 
or  else,  being  fast  bound  to  their  profes- 
sion, ought  simply  to  accept  as  of  their 
own  making  that  which  it  is  pleasant  to 
find  other  good  people  call  self-sacrifice. 
But  it  is  not  in  even  as  exactly  moral 
a  nature  as  Ann's  to  be  mathematically 
moral. 


"  Yes,"  she  said,  "  I  think  it  to  be 
counted  a  privilege  when  one  is  called 
to  a  life  of  much  giving,  even  of  what 
one  is  obliged  to  give." 

"  I  hope  he  does  not  suffer  from  these 
constant  exposures  in  our  rough  weath- 
er ?  I  thought  that  he  looked  better 
than  common  to-day." 

"  No ;  he  is  what  I  call  a  strong  man. 
And  your  winters  seem  very  mild  to 
folks  from  the  Cape.  Like  all  of  us,  he 
has  now  and  then  fits  of  the  blues ;  but 
just  at  present  he  is  very  happy  over 
some  new  medical  idea." 

"  About  American  and  European  dis- 
eases ?  Oh,  yes,  he  spoke  of  it  last 
night.  I  thought  it  so  very  interesting ; 
and  he  tells  me  it  is  such  a  fresh  idea." 

Ann  was  always  calmly  pleased  when 
her  brother  announced  to  her  any  of 
these  novel  views,  which  at  first  sight 
assumed  to  him  an  importance  immense 
enough  to  justify  the  enthusiasm  of 
which  he  was  always  capable  at  the  out- 
set of  undertakings.  With  his  schemes, 
plans,  or  researches,  as  intellectual  in- 
terests, she  had  no  true  sympathy  ;  and 
it  would  have  been  foreign  to  her  nature 

<D 

and  her  nurture  to  seem  to  be  that 
which  she  was  not,  even  for  his  gratifi- 
cation. 

"  It  must  be  delightful  for  my  brother 
to  find  people  like  yourself,  who  can 
enter  into  his  ideas.  I  am  very  stupid, 
you  know,"  she  added,  placidly  smiling. 
"  And  really,  I  think  Hester  understands 
him  in  some  ways  better  than  I  do ! ' 

"  Indeed  !  " 

"  You  know,"  she  continued,  —  for 
she  was  by  this  time,  it  must  be  remem- 
bered, on  terms  of  easy  acquaintance- 
ship with  Mrs.  Westerley,  —  "  it  is  n't 
always  just  quite  agreeable  to  feel  that 
some  one  else  can  be  in  any  way  more  to 
your  brother  than  you  are,  but  certainly 
Hester  is  a  great  pleasure  to  him.  I 
sometimes  tell  him  that  I  think  if  she 
were  older,  or  he  were  younger,  he  would 
fall  in  love  with  her  !  ' 

This  was  not  a  pleasant  idea  to  Mrs. 


64 


In  War  Time. 


[July. 


"Westerley.  She  hardly  knew  why,  but 
even  as  a  jest  it  seemed  to  her  not  quite 
what  she  would  have  called  nice. 

"  No,"  she  replied,  setting  aside  with 
a  well -practiced  conversational  device 
the  later  statement.  "  I  can  understand 
that  a  woman  who  is  the  sister  of  such  a 
man  as  Dr.  Wendell  might  well  desire 
to  be  everything  to  him  in  his  life.  But 
how  well  Hester  looks !  Your  speak- 
ing of  her  makes  me  think  of  what  I 
came  about.  I  want  you  to  let  me  take 
her  to  Newport  in  August.  Won't  you, 
Miss  Ann  ?  " 

Ann  was  willing  enough.  She  liked 
Alice  Westerley  as  well  as  she  could 
conscientiously  like  any  woman  who  had 
spent  summers  at  Saratoga  and  in  Lon- 
don, and  who  dared  to  say,  without  sign 
of  compunction,  that  she  had  been  to 
two  balls  in  one  evening.  Moreover, 
she  had  herself  made  up  her  mind  that 
chance,  or,  as  she  preferred  to  say,  the 
will  of  God,  had  taken  out  of  her  hands 
the  responsibility  of  Hester's  training ; 
while  also,  perhaps,  there  was  in  her 
mind,  as  the  result  of  various  circum- 
stances, what  the  chemists  would  call 
a  precipitate  of  jealousy  as  to  Hester's 
relations  to  her  brother.  This  was  so 
easily  stirred  up  that  it  was  apt  to  cloud 
her  judgment,  which  naturally  would 
have  made  her  wish  to  keep  Hester  as 
much  as  possible  within  her  own  con- 
trol. In  morals  and  social  action,  as  in 
physics,  it  is  common  to  find  that  we 
act  under  the  domination  of  a  number 
of  influences,  and  submit  in  our  decis- 
ions to  what  the  physicist  calls  a  resul- 
tant of  forces. 

"  I  have  no  doubt,"  she  replied,  "  that 
my  brother  will  feel  that  Mr.  Gray 
would  wish  Hester  to  be  with  you,  at 
least  a  part  of  the  summer." 

"  Thank  you,"  said  Alice.  "  I  have 
already  mentioned  it  to  him,  and  he  has 
said  that  what  you  would  wish  would 
be  what  he  desired." 

Ann  would  have  preferred  that  her 
brother  should  first  have  spoken  to  her. 


She  had  an  uneasy  sense  that  he  was  in 
some  vague  manner  moving  away  from 
her  and  her  influence. 

u  And  it  will  not  be  till  August," 
added  Mrs.  Westerley. 

"  I  think  he  will  be  glad  of  the  de- 
lay, and  Mr.  Edward  Morton,  too.  He 
has  almost  taken  possession  of  Hester 
since  she  came  back." 

"  I  am  glad  the  poor  fellow  finds 
anything  so  pleasant  to  interest  him. 
He  has  such  high  standards  that  any 
one,  old  or  young,  must  be  the  better 
for  his  company."  Then  after  some 
further  chat  the  widow  rose.  "  I  must 
go,"  she  said.  "  My  love  to  Hester. 
Is  she  in  ?  " 

a  No  ;  she  has  gone  to  walk  with  Ar- 
thur. I  asked  them  to  leave  a  note  at 
a  Mrs.  Grace's  for  my  brother." 

"  Mrs.  Grace  ?  '  exclaimed  Alice,  in- 
terrogatively, and  surprised  into  undue 
curiosity. 

"  Yes.  She  sent  to  ask  him  to  call 
on  her  this  morning,  and  he  had  to  write 
that  he  could  not  see  her  till  the  after- 
noon." 

"  She  has  had  six  doctors  in  a  year, 
my  dear  Miss  Ann,  and  she  abuses  them 
all  in  turn  ! ' 

t   "  Dear  me,"  said  Ann,  "  I  hope  she 
won't  abuse  Ezra ! ' 

Alice  had  her  own  views  as  to  this, 
but  she  felt  self-convicted  of  having 
mildly  gossiped  about  a  woman  whom 
she  detested,  and  she  therefore  held  her 
peace  and  went  away ;  still  believing 
that,  as  regarded  Mrs.  Grace,  it  might 
be  wise  to  put  her  friend  the  doctor  on 
his  guard. 

Two  days  later,  early  in  July,  Arthur 
joined  his  regiment. 

"  Don't  say  good-by,"  begged  Ed- 
ward. "  Slip  away  without  it.  You  will 
be  back  and  forth,  I  suppose,  and  these 
good-bys  in  war  times  are  too  hard.  Al- 
ways one  thinks  anew  of  .what  may  hap- 
pen. I  told  Hester  that  you  would  n't 
be  here  again." 

"  But   I  must  see  her  before  I  go, 


1884.] 


In  War  Time. 


65 


Ned.  I  came  here  out  of  uniform  on 
purpose  to  see  her." 

"Out  of  uniform —  Hum  —  I  see 
—  that 's  right.  But  really,  I  would  n't 
see  her,  if  I  were  you.  Just  oblige  me 
about  this." 

"  But  I  hate  to  go  off  that  way." 

"  I  know  ;  but  she  has,  as  is  natural, 

Arty,  a  good  deal  of  feeling  about  the 

war,  and  as  she  grows  older  it  deepens, 

—  and  —  altogether,   I   think  I   would 

just  go  away  quietly." 

"  Well,  Ned,  I  don't  quite  see  it,  and 
-well,  I  '11  do  as  you  say  ;  but  you  '11 
tell  her,  won't  you  ?  ': 

"  Yes,  dear  old  boy,  I  '11  tell  her ! 
After  all,  it  can't  be  to  her  quite  what 
it  is  to  me ;  and  yet  even  I  would  far 
rather  say  good-by  now." 

"Then  good-by,  Ned." 

"  Don't  be  foolishly  rash,  Arty ;  and 
God  keep  you  !  " 

And  so  was  said  one  of  the  million 
partings  of  the  great  war. 

"  Poor  Ned ! "  murmured  Arthur,  feel- 
ing in  his  poetic  young  heart  all  that 
the  staying  at  home  meant  for  the  gal- 
lant and  high-minded  gentleman  left 
looking  after  him,  as  he  walked  up  the 
street  towards  Mrs.  Westerley's. 


XIV. 

Mrs.  Grace  was  the  middle-aged  wife 
of  a  merchant,  who  had  been  first  one 
of  her  father's  clerks,  and  then,  through 
much  industry  and  indifference  to  any- 
thing but  the  begetting  of  dollars,  his 
junior  partner.  Like  many  men  who 
win  success  in  cities,  he  had  come  from 
a  country  farm,  and  nothing  was  more 
remote  from  his  visions,  when  he  became 
a  clerk,  than  the  idea  that,  like  the  good 
apprentice,  he  might  marry  his  master's 
daughter.  But  when  he  grew  useful 
enough  to  be  noticed,  and  to  be  asked 
as  a  younger  partner  to  dine  at  Mr. 
Johnston's  table,  he  fell  an  easy  prey  to 
the  eldest  daughter,  who,  having  seen 

VOL.  LIV.  —  NO.  321.  5 


three  sisters  married  in  turn,  felt  that  it 
was  well  to  dismiss  her  hopes  of  position 
in  favor  of  the  ruddy-faced,  rather  stout 
young  man,  who  was  somewhat  her  jun- 
ior. Mr.  Johnston,  who  was  not  over- 
prosperous,  knew  full  well  the  value  of 
Richard  Grace,  and  realized  the  fact  that 
he  ran  some  danger  of  losing  his  ener- 
getic partner.  It  was  true  that  his  own 
family  had  been  solid  merchants,  with 
an  accepted  social  position,  for  three 
generations  of  absolute  inactivity,  ex- 
cept as  to  varied  fortunes  in  getting  and 
losing  money  ;  but  then,  social  consider- 
ations could  not  be  allowed,  as  he  told 
his  wife,  to  stand  in  the  way  of  business, 
and  therefore  in  due  time  his  dauo-hter 

o 

became  Mrs.  Grace,  and  had  sons  and 
daughters  after  her  kind. 

The  husband  became  what  such  men 
always  become.  He  prospered  to  a  cer- 
tain extent,  and  but  for  the  many  ar- 
rows in  his  quiver  might  have  been 
called  rich.  He  liked  a  quiet  life ;  drank 
a  little  of  a  morning,  a  little  more  at 
bedtime  ;  drove  a  fast  horse  late  every 
afternoon,  played  euchre  three  times  a 
week,  read  the  Ledger,  and  believed 
in  the  Pennsylvania  Railroad.  There 
were  two  things  in  his  life  he  disliked: 
one  was  that  Colonel  Fox,  a  distant 
cousin  of  his  wife,  was  the  relentless 
trustee  of  her  small  estate,  which  was 
bringing,  in  safe  ground  rents,  six  per 
cent,  in  place  of  the  ten  which  her  hus- 
band felt  it  would  have  brought  in  his 
own  business  ;  the  other  was  his  wife's 
tongue,  and  the  consequences  thereof. 
When  he  stayed  at  home  on  the  off  even- 
ings of  his  euchre  club,  without  lifting 
his  eyes  from  his  newspaper  he  said 
"  Yes  —  yes  "  at  such  intervals  as  a  long 
experience  had  proved  to  him  were  rea- 
sonably competent  to  keep  her  in  the 
belief  that  he  was  listening.  They  were 
in  fact  mutually  unentertaining.  As  to 
what  he  did,  or  in  what  enterprises  he 
engaged,  she  was  in  no  wise  concerned, 
nor  did  he  himself  conceive  that  these 
were  matters  in  which  a  woman  should 


66 


In  War  Time. 


[July, 


have  any  share  ;  while,  unless  her  heed- 
less talk  brought  him  into  trouble,  and 
explanations  became  needful,  he  had 
long  ceased  to  listen,  even  at  meal-times. 
Nor  was  he  much  to  blame.  There  was 
about  her  mental  operations  a  bewilder- 
ing indeh'niteness,  which  baffled  the  best 
bred  attention ;  and  when  Mrs.  Grace 
talked,  what  she  was  saying  was  as  un- 
likely to  have  any  relation  to  what  she 
had  said  before  as  are  the  successive 
contents  of  a  naturalist's  trawl-net  after 
deep-sea  dredging.  Her  life  had  been 
a  feeble  acetous  fermentation.  Her  po- 
sition was  less  good  than  it  had  been. 
Her  daughters  had  married  out  of  what 
she  considered  her  own  proper  sphere 
of  social  life;  and  altogether  she  had 
come  by  degrees  to  have  a  dull  sense  of 
being  somehow  wronged. 

It  was  out  of  reason  to  expect  such  a 
person  not  to  be  critical  of  her  more 
happy  neighbors ;  but  her  criticism  was 
after  all  less  that  of  determined  malice 
than  the  mere  simmering  of  a  slow  in- 
telligence, limited  in  its  interests,  and 
heated,  or  rather  but  merely  warmed,  by 
disappointments,  which,  like  everything 
else,  she  felt  but  vaguely.  It  is  not,  how- 
ever, to  be  presumed  that  such  women 
are  inoperative  in  life.  If  they  have 
ruled  stolidly  'a  stolid  family,  they  ac- 
quire dangerous  habits  of  self-assertion  ; 
and  as  obstinacy  is  the  armor  of  dull 
minds,  Mrs.  Grace  was  apt,  when  at- 
tacked, to  retreat  within  its  shell,  with 
changeless  opinions.  There  are  some 
stupid  people,  and  certain  antagonistic 
but  clever  people,  who  enjoy  in  their 
different  ways  the  pleasure  of  holding 
theories,  which  they  treat  like  spoilt 
children,  and  indulge  at  the  social  cost 
of  others.  Of  such  theories  Mrs.  Grace 
had  her  share.  She  had  a  high  estimate 
of  her  insight  into  maladies,  dosed  her 
helpless  family  a  good  deal,  and  expect- 
ed to  be  heard  with  attention  by  her 
doctors,  of  whom,  as  a  natural  conse- 
quence, she  had  many.  She  disbelieved 
•in  vaccination,  and  had  views  as  to  the 


impropriety  of  experiments  on  animals, 
which  may  have  arisen,  as  Mrs.  Wester- 
ley said,  from  some  mysterious  defen- 
sive instinct  as  to  transmutation  in  kind. 

The  Sanitary  Commission  was  a  great 
resource  at  present  in  Mrs.  Grace's  life, 
and  late  in  the  morning  of  the  day  she 
had  sent  for  Wendell  she  entered  the 
busy  room  of  its  local  office  with  a  sense 
of  tranquil  satisfaction.  Here  she  found 
Ann  Wendell,  aided  by  Hester,  busily  en- 
gaged in  inspecting  and  sorting  under- 
garments intended  to  be  sent  to  Pennsyl- 
vania regiments.  Alice  Westerley  was 
occupied  at  a  table  witli  accounts,  and 
two  or  three  older  and  some  younger 
women  were  sewing,  or  packing  differ- 
ent articles. 

Alice  Westerley  nodded  to  the  new- 
comer, and  the  other  women,  who  rep- 
resented very  various  degrees  of  social 
life  brought  together  by  one  purpose, 
spoke  to  her  as  she  came  in. 

"  What  is  there  to-day  ?  '  she  asked 
Miss  Wendell. 

"  Oh,  everything,"  replied  Ann.  "  You 
might  help  Hester  to  pack,  these  socks. 
This  is  Mrs.  Grace,  Hester.  Make 
room  for  her,  my  dear." 

"  What  a  tall  girl  you  are  !  "  said  Mrs. 

jGrace,  and  knelt  down,  talking  as  she 

somewhat  sluggishly  helped  to  pack  the 

box  between  them.    "  And  you  are  Miss 

Wendell's  niece,  Hester  ?  " 

"  No,  I  am  not  her  niece." 

"  Oh,  yes,  I  remember,  —  her  ward.' 

"  Oh,  no,  I  am  not  that,  either,"  an- 
swered the  girl,  whose  instincts  were 
quick  and  defensive. 

"  Now,  I  remember  :  Sarah  —  that 's 
my  daughter  —  told  me  about  you,  and 
how  your  father  was  killed.  And,  you 
know,  Sarah  says  you  are  engaged  to 
Arthur  Morton." 

"  I  am  not  engaged  to  Mr.  Arthur 
Morton ! "  exclaimed  the  girl,  coloring 
as  much  with  anger  as  with  shame.  "  I 
am  a  young  girl  at  school,  and  I  do  not 
see  why  any  one  should  say  such  things 
about  me !  " 


1884.] 


In  War  Time. 


67 


"  But  you  know  you  look  eighteen, 
my  dear,  —  quite  eighteen.  I  suppose 
your  dress  —  the  way  you  are  dressed 
—  makes  you  look  less  young." 

"  I  dare  say  I  seem  older  than  I  am," 
said  Hester. 

"  But  you  might  be  nineteen,  to  look 
at  you.  You  know  Dr.  Wendell  is  to 
be  my  doctor." 

"  Indeed  ! '  And  Hester  nervously 
crammed  away  rebellious  socks  into  the 
unoccupied  corners  left  by  Mrs.  Grace's 
clumsy  stowage. 

"  I  sent  for  him  because  he  believes 
in  malaria." 

Hester  was  silent,  and  so  aroused 
Mrs.  Grace's  dull  suspicions. 

"  He  does  believe  in  malaria,  does  n't 
he  ?  —  I  mean  in  Germantown.  Dr. 
Mason  says  it 's  nonsense  ;  but  then  I 
never  have  agreed  with  him.  He  did 
say,  though,  that  Sarah  had  malaria,  and 
after  all  it  was  measles ;  but  I  think 
measles  is  malaria,"  she  added,  with  a 
sense  of  triumphant  logic.  "  There 
must  be  an  awful  amount  of  malaria  on 
the  Potomac." 

"  I  hardly  think  I  know  anything 
about  it,"  returned  Hester,  and  went  on 
packing,  her  thoughts  meanwhile  far 
aw;iy  with  Arty  and  the  war ;  for  even 
the  poorest  husbandman  may  effective- 
ly sow  seed. 

"  I  should  say  Arthur  Morton  would 
be  a  right  good  match  for  almost  any 
girl,"  observed  Mrs.  Grace,  with  her 
amazing  capacity  for  dangerous  digres- 
sion. 

Hester  looked  down  resolutely,  won- 
dering if  the  woman  could  know  what 
thoughts  were  in  her  mind.  The  sim- 
ple purity  of  a  nature  trembling  at  the 
gates  of  womanhood  was  disgusted  and 
disturbed  at  this  rude  criticism  of  her 
most  pleasant  relations  in  life. 

But  Mrs.  Westerley,  having  ended 
her*  work,  was  standing  over  them,  and 
had  overheard  the  last  sentence. 

You  are  packing  very  badly,  Hes- 
ter," she  said,  which  was  true.    "  Leave 


that  to  Mrs.  Grace,  and  come  and  copy 
this  list." 

Hester  rose,  with  a  look  of  relief,  and 
went  to.  the  desk. 

"  Oh,  Mrs.  Westerley,"  she  whispered, 
"  what  a  dreadful  person  ! '; 

"Yes,  my  child,  but  never  mind." 

Then  Mrs.  Grace  investigated  Ann 
Wendell's  views  as  to  vaccination,  and 
was  gently  amazed  to  find  that  Ann  had 
no  particular  views  at  all  on  this  matter. 
Not  so,  however,  Miss  Clemson,  her 
neighbor,  a  tall  young  woman,  with  a 
thin,  pugnacious  nose,  and  a  mind  quite 
too  satisfactorily  logical  to  be  attractive 
to  the  common  masculine  mind,  which 
finds  a  mysterious  gratification  in  the  in- 
definiteness  of  young  women. 

"  Vaccination  ?  "  she  said  distinctly, 
while  the  surrounding  persons  looked 
up  with  the  pleased  sense  of  something 
amusing  in  prospect,  —  "  vaccination  ? 
Have  you  ever  made  a  study  of  the  sub- 
ject ?  That  is,  have  you  ever  really  in- 
quired into  the  statistics  ?  '  She  spoke 
with  a  clear  and  deliberate  articula- 
tion. 

"  No  ;  but  I  have  my  opinions." 

"  You  say  No.  Is  that  a  negation  of 
the  value  of  vaccination  ?  Because  you 
must  be  aware,"  she  continued  blandly, 
"  that  that  would  be  a  mere  repetition 
of  what  you  have  just  stated.  Now, 
an  accurate  examination  of  the  statistics 
of  variola  "  — 

"  Of  what  ?  "  asked  Mrs.  Grace. 

"  Of  variola,"  repeated  Miss  Clem- 
son,  not  stopping  to  explain  —  "  would 
show  that  before  Jenner's  time  "  — 

"  Oh,  I  know  ! >;  interrupted  Mrs. 
Grace.  "  I  have  seen  all  that  in  the  pa- 
pers, over  and  over ;  but  I  need  not  say 
that  that  does  n't  satisfy  me.  I  think 
you  will  find  Dr.  Wendell  agrees  with 
me.  Is  n't  it  so,  Miss  Wendell  ?  ' 

Ann  kept  silence.  She  did  not  know 
anything  about  it,  except  that  her 
brother  did  vaccinate  people ;  and  also, 
it  may  be  added,  the  wisdom  and  great 
good  of  holding  her  tongue  had  been 


68 


In  War  Time. 


[July, 


borne  in  upon  her,  as  she  said,  with  ef- 
fective clearness. 

As  she  paused,  unwilling  to  reply, 
Alice  Westerley,  perceiving  her  difficul- 
ty, said,  smiling,  "And  of  course  you 
do  not  have  your  own  children  vacci- 
nated?" 

"  My  children  are  vaccinated  because 
Richard  would  have  it.  Richard  is 
just  too  awfully  obstinate.  Sarah  says 
*  he  's  a  regular  piece  de  resistance.'' 
I've  mostly  forgotten  my  French,  but 
I  guess  that's  about  what  he  is.  But 
that  does  n't  change  my  mind." 

Alice  Westerley  and  Miss  Clemson 
exchanged  furtive  glances  of  amusement, 
and  one  young  woman  fled,  convulsed 
with  suppressed  laughter,  into  the  back 
storeroom. 

At  last  Miss  Clemson  attained  suffi- 
cient composure  to  murmur,  "  Oh,  of 
course  not ;  but  perhaps  you  might  agree 
with  him  if  you  were  to  read  Dr.  Jen- 
ner's  original  treatise." 

"  Oh,  I  presume  you  've  read  it," 
said  Mrs.  Grace. 

"  Yes,  I  have,"  returned  Miss  Clem- 
son, simply.  In  fact,  there  were  few 
things  she  had  not  read  about,  and  her 
memory  made  her  a  dangerous  oppo- 
nent. 

"  Won't  you  ask  for  labels,  Mrs. 
Grace  ?  "  said  Alice,  wishing  to  stop  the 
talk,  and  longing  for  a  solitary  laugh. 

Mrs.  Grace  rose  heavily,  and  saying, 
"  No  one  should  vaccinate  me,"  went 
into  a  back  room  in  search  of  the  de- 
sired articles. 

"  I  do  riot  think  I  envy  Dr.  Wendell, 
Miss  Ann,"  began  an  indiscreet  miss  at 
her  side.     "  They  say  she  has  a  doctor 
j  every  two  months,  and  that  "  — 

"  Hush,"  exclaimed  Alice  Wester- 
ley ;  "  don't  let 's  talk  gossip  here.  We 
are  getting  to  be  as  bad  as  a  Dorcas 
meeting !  ' 

^  Was  that  gossip,  Mrs.  Westerley  ?  " 
asked  the  young  person.  "  I  thought 
anybody  could  talk  about  doctors." 

"  Doctors  ! "  said  Alice,  laughing,  — 


"  doctors,  indeed  !     You  know  that  you 
were  not  discussing  doctors  !  * 

"  Mrs.  Westerley  is  right,"  added  Miss 
Clemson.  "  There  is  no  need  to  talk 
about  persons  at  all,  Susie." 

"  But  were  n't  you  talking  about  a 
Dr.  Jenner  ?  "  replied  the  young  person, 
calmly  triumphant. 

"  Good  heavens  ! "  exclaimed  Miss 
Clemson. 

"  And  what  did  I  say  ? '  went  on 
Miss  Susan  ;  and  there  was  a  burst  of 
laughter,  which  cleared  the  air,  and 
amidst  which  Hester  and  Miss  Wendell 
went  away  with  the  widow. 

Then  Mrs.  Grace  returned  to  the 
room,  having  been  unable  to  find  the 
labels,  "  And  would  n't  Miss  Susie  find 
them  ?  '  which  enabled  that  young  per- 
son to  drop  her  work,  and  chatter  with 
a  clerk  and  two  other  maidens  in  the 
back  room. 

"  What  were  you  all  laughing  at?' 
questioned  Mrs.  Grace,  all  unexplained 
mirth  being  suspiciously  unpleasant  to 
her. 

"  We  were  laughing  at  one  of  those 
chatterbox  girls,"  returned  Miss  Clem- 
son. 

"  Oh,  was  that  all  ?  And  where  is 
*  Alice  Westerley  ?  "  said  Mrs.  Grace, 
who  by  no  means  indulged  in  so  nam- 
ing that  lady  when  present,  but  who 
had  no  objection  to  the  varied  circle 
within  earshot  supposing  her  to  be  on 
terms  of  intimacy  with  the  widow.  Mrs. 
Grace  was  beginning  to  feel  quite  de- 
cisively the  effects  of  that  gradual  fall 
from  a  good  position  which  is  so  com- 
mon a  feature  of  American  life,  and 
which  had  already  begun  to  show  in 
her  parents.  In  colonial  days  her  peo- 
ple had  won  much  money,  and  with  it 
the  chance  of  culture;  but,  as  old  Mr. 
Wilmington  said,  they  were  like  some 
wines,  and  did  n't  take  kindly  to  fining. 
In  another  generation  they  would  'dis- 
appear socially,  having  failed  in  the 
competitions  of  our  uneasy  life.  Mrs. 
Grace  had  in  fact  an  indistinct  sense  of 


1884.] 


In  War  Time. 


69 


lapsing  from  her  rank,  and  her  children 
were  still  sinking,  and  did  not  care  about 
it,  or  perhaps  as  yet  did  not  feel  it. 

"  Don't  you  think  our  Sanitary  should 
have  a  new  president,  since  Mrs.  Mor- 
ton does  n't    appear  to  come  back  ? ' 
asked  this  lady. 

"  I  cannot  see  why,"  replied  Miss 
Clemson.  "  Mrs.  Westerley  is  vice- 
president,  and  that  answers  every  pur- 
pose." 

"  And  a  good  one,"  assented  Mrs.  Bul- 
lock, a  motherly  woman  in  the  corner, 
ceasing  to  count  the  pile  of  garments 
before  her.  u  We  should  only  just 
change  her  title,  if  we  made  her  presi- 
dent, and  of  course  we  could  not  elect 
any  one  else." 

That  was  not  at  all  Mrs.  Grace's  idea. 
She  herself  had  dimly  felt  aspirations 
after  office,  but  she  had  sense  enough  to 
say,  "  Oh,  yes,  of  course  not,"  which 
was  sufficient ;  and  then  she  added, 
"  And  where  is  Miss  Wendell  ?  ' 

"  Gone  with  Mrs.  Westerley." 

"  Oh  !  They  do  say  she  is  going  to 
marry  that  doctor." 

"  Who  do  say  ?  '"  queried  Miss  Clem- 
son  ;  "  and  who  is  to  marry  who  ?  " 

"  Oh,  several  say.  You  know  he  's 
there  all  the  time  ;  and  for  my  part  I  do 
not  see  how  a  young  woman  like  that 
can  be  so  imprudent  as  to  have  an  un- 
married man  for  her  doctor." 

'  Is  she  ever  ill  ?  "  asked  the  matron 
in  the  corner. 

'  Oh,  I  suppose  so,  or  why  should  he 
go  there  ?  " 

*  I  should  not  believe  that  he  went 
there  at  all,  at  least  without  proof.  How 
often  does  he  go  there,  Mrs.  Grace  ? " 

t  was  a  question  for  investigation  with 
Miss  Clemson.  She  was  too  accurate 
for  perfect  manners,  but  was  neverthe- 
less well  bred. 

'  I  suppose  you  would  n't  doubt  my 
word  ?  " 

;<  Oh,  no,"  replied  Miss  Clemson,  who 
was  in  a  high  state  of  disgust,  "not 
your  word ;  only  your  power  of  obser- 


vation, or  perhaps  your  talent  for  arith- 
metic. When  people  are  slandered,  I 
like  to  ask  for  proofs." 

Mrs.  Grace  was  silent  a  moment,  but 
a  rosy  young  woman  came  to  her  aid, 
who  showed  already  a  reasonable  prom- 
ise of  being  in  middle  life  a  bore  of 
great  inertia,  having  the  gift  of  indefi- 
nitely explaining  minute  commonplaces, 
and  being,  as  yet,  so  pretty  that  her  face 
was  a  bribe  to  some  measure  of  endur- 
ance. "  I  think  Mrs.  Grace  means  that 
when  a  doctor  goes  very  often,  and  when 
you  know  he  is  a  young  man,  and  when 
you  see  he  is  handsome,  —  why,  I  think 
it  must  make  a  difference." 

Miss  Clemson  beat  an  impatient  tat- 
too on  the  table  with  her  thimbled  fore- 
finger. 

Then  Mrs.  Grace  announced  with  em- 
phasis, as  if  she  had  really  thought  it 
all  over,  "  Yes,  it  must  make  a  differ- 
ence. It  must  make  a  great  difference." 

"  I  don't  think,"  remarked  Mrs.  Bul- 
lock, "  that  I  understand,  quite." 

"  Who  could !  "  cried  Miss  Clemson. 
"  But  this  much  I  understand  :  that  Mrs. 
Grace  desires  us  to  believe  that  there  is 
some  impropriety  in  Mrs.  Westerley  be- 
ing attended,  when  ill,  by  Dr.  Wendell. 
I  hope  Mrs.  Grace  will  not  feel  hurt  if 
I  say  that  all  this  kind  of  gossip  is  dan- 
gerous." 

"  You  are  right,"  said  Mrs.  Bullock, 
who  felt  that,  true  or  not,  it  was  hardly 
the  kind  of  talk  to  which  young  girls 
should  be  made  to  listen. 

"  All  of  which  does  n't  change  my 
opinion,"  put  in  Mrs.  Grace. 

"  And  are  you  quite  willing  I  should 
tell  Mrs.  Westerley  ? "  asked  Miss  Clem- 
son. 

"  Good  gracious,  no  !  "  returned  Mrs. 
Grace.  "  Why  should  any  one  tell  her  ?  " 

"  Then  why,"  continued  Miss  Clem- 
son, "  need  any  one  say  such  things  ?  I 
hate  gossip  ;  it  is  always  inaccurate." 

"  Oh,  I  don't  think  Mrs.  Grace  meant 
to  gossip,"  exclaimed  the  forward  young 
person  from  her  corner. 


70 


In  War  Time. 


[July, 


"  I  never  gossip,"  said  Mrs.  Grace, 
"  but  I  have  my  own  opinions." 

"  Then  let  us  all  have  our  own  opin- 
ions, and  keep  them,  like  other  precious 
things,  to  ourselves,"  returned  Miss 
Cleinson,  wearily.  "  Where  are  those 
labels,  Susie  ? ' 

If  any  one  had  told  Mrs.  Grace  that 
she  was  maliciously  sowing  a  slander, 
it  would  have  surprised  that  lady.  She 
was  simply  saying  what  came  upper- 
most, and  her  mind,  as  Arty  once  said, 
was  "  like  our  Christmas  grab-bag  :  you 
never  knew  what  you  would  pull  out." 
Nevertheless,  she  had  done  some  evil, 
ignorantly  or  not,  and  evil  has  a  feline 
tenacity  of  life. 

For  the  present  no  more  came  of  it 
than  that  Mrs.  Bullock,  who  had  over- 
heard Mrs.  Grace's  talk  with  Hester, 
thought  it  well  to  say  to  Mrs.  Wester- 
ley  something  about  the  strong  desire 
they  all  felt  that  Mrs.  Grace  should  by 
no  good-nature  of  Mrs.  Westerley  be 
allowed  to  become  the  head  of  their 
branch  of  the  commission. 

"  Rest  easy,  my  dear,"  said  the  widow ; 
"  not  while  I  am  alive." 

"  She  ought  to  be  shut  up,"  returned 
the  matron.  "  I  do  think,  Mrs.  Wester- 
ley,  there  are  some  people  in  the  peni- 
tentiary who  have  done  less  harm  in 
their  lives.  You  should  have  heard  her 
talk  to  Hester  Gray  about  being  en- 
gaged to  young  Morton  !  It  was  sim- 
ply disgusting,  and  "  — 

"  No  doubt,"  broke  in  Alice,  "  but  I 
do  not  think  she  really  wants  to  hurt 
anybody.  For  my  part,  I  hardly  care 
to  hear  what  she  said,  and  for  that  rea- 
son I  interrupted  you.  You  won't  mind 
my  interrupting  you,  but  I  am  really 
ashamed  to  confess  that  sometimes  what 
that  woman  says  has  the  power  to  make 
me  unreasonably  angry." 

"  Well,  it 's  all  right.  I  had  nothing 
else  to  sa}'."  This  was  hardly  more 
true  than  Mrs.  Grace's  gossip  ;  but  the 
speaker  was  glad  to  have  had  time  to 
reflect,  and  had  hastily  concluded  that 


what  she  had  meant  to  add  further  were 
best  left  unsaid. 

The  summer  sped  away,  and  the  war 
went  on  its  unrelenting  course  as  Grant 
drew  tighter  his  paralyzing  lines  around 
Petersburg,  and  the  wearied  rebel  army 
struggled  with  the  vigor  of  a  brave  race 
against  men  as  gallant  and  more  numer- 
ous ;  while  to  the  little  circle  of-  friends 
Arthur's  frequent  and  clever  letters 
brought  a  new  and  anxious  interest  in 
this  dreadful  death-wrestle. 

Hester  was  changing  in  a  way  that 
surprised  Ann  Wendell,  and  both  sur- 
prised and  interested  Alice.  By  de- 
grees the  effects  of  her  former  dreary 
school  life  and  the  subsequent  senso  of 
isolation,  as  well  as  the  shock  and  ter- 
ror of  her  father's  death,  were  wearing 
off.  For  a  long  while,  and  more  and 
more  as  with  larger  knowledge  she  re- 

O  O 

alized  this  novel  experience  of  a  death, 
its  memory  oppressed  the  girl  at  times  ; 
but  time  is  stronger  in  the  young  than 
any  memories,  however  sad,  and  Hester 
was  now  exhibiting  such  joy  of  happy 
thoughtlessness  as  belongs  of  pleasant 
right  to  her  age. 

Alice  Westerley  saw  plainly  that  Hes- 
ter showed,  as  she  grew  older,  a  little  too 
much  tendency  to  be  her  own  mistress,  — 
a  fault  which  was  due  rather  to  the  early 
lack  of  firm  home  training  than  to  any 
uneradicable  peculiarity  in^Hester's  men- 
tal or  moral  structure.  The  widow,  lik* 
Mrs.  Morton,  had  also  her  doubts  as  to 
whether  Ann  Wendell  was  exactly  tl 
person  to  mould  or  manage  a  light 
hearted  girl  of  resolute  nature,  and  felt 
a  certain  anxiety  as  to  whether  Hester 
was  to  look  for  permanent  help  from 
Henry  Gray,  or  was  to  be  dependent 
upon  her  own  exertions.  It  was  best, 
she  thought,  to  assume  that  the  latter 

c5          ' 

was  to  be  the  case  ;  but  yet  it  was  riot 
in  Alice's  kindly  nature  to  be  able  tc 
feel  that  so  young  and  joyous  a  crea- 
ture should  be  on  this  account  made  tc 
know  too  early  the  bitterness  of  havin| 


1884.] 


In  War  Time. 


71 


to  look  forward  into  a  future  of  self- 
sustaining  labor  among  absolute  stran- 
gers. She  would  at  least  take  her  to 
Newport,  and  see,  as  she  said.  Mean- 
while she  wrote  to  Henry  Gray,  who 
was  like  a  bird  on  the  wing  for  restless- 
ness, and  who  for  some  reason  made  no 
reply. 

Yet  whatever  were  Alice's  doubts 
and  fears,  there  were  none  now  for  Hes- 
ter, nor  for  Edward  Morton.  His  health 
was  still  infirm,  and  likely  to  be  so  for 
life ;  but  even  his  occasional  pain  and 
sleeplessness  only  tended  to  make  him 
more  and  more  dependent  upon  Hester's 
gentle  help. 

They  had  gone  out  together  for  an 
afternoon  drive,  which  meant  usually 
a  little  wandering  about  through  lanes 
and  by-roads  behind  a  lazy  old  horse, 
which  they  hitched  to  a  fence  now  and 
then,  while  they  gathered  flowers,  or 
looked  for  grubs  and  beetles,  or  watched 
ant  heaps  by  the  hour.  Hester  had  thus 
come  to  know  by  degrees  the  beauty  of 
that  charming  neighborhood,  happily 
preserved  to-day  by  the  Park  in  closures  ; 
and  it  was  a  fresh  delight  when  her 
friend  could  show  her  some  new  lane, 
or  discuss  with  her,  book  in  hand  and 
map  on  knee,  their  doubts  as  to  the 
track  of  Revolutionary  armies,  or  with 
equal  interest  the  family  name  of  a 
fern  or  a  butterfly.  They  were  both 
somewhat  silent,  as  they  drove  lazily 
along,  on  this  their  last  summer  after- 
noon together,  until  at  last  Edward  said, 
smiling,  "  Queer,  is  n't  it,  Hester,  that 
as  this  is  our  last  chance  for  a  good  gab- 
ble we  should  both  be  mum  as  mice ! 
Let  us  improve  the  occasion,  as  Miss 
Ann's  preacher  says.  Look  down  the 
river.  What  a  leaf  crop  there  is  this 
year !  " 

They  crossed  the  Schuylkill  at  the 
Falls'  Bridge,  and  passed  southward 
along  the  bank,  until  at  last  the  young 
man  said,  "  We  will  try  the  hill  here, 
Hester.  I  want  to  show  you  something  ; 
but  I  shall  need  help.  Give  me  my 


stick,  and  let  us  go  slowly,  and  halt  as 
often  as  the  Potomac  army." 

Then,  tardily  enough,  —  for  he  walked 
with  difficulty,  —  they  crossed  the  Read- 
ing railroad,  and  climbed  up  a  narrow, 
sunken  lane,  brier-set  and  dark  with  su- 
mach and  dogwood.  "  We  are  on  the 
old  inclined  plane  of  the  railway,  Hes- 
ter," he  said,  as  he  paused  for  breath 
near  the  summit.  "  And  this  is  our  way, 
here,  to  the  right ;  "  and  so  saying  he 
broke  through  a  close,  wild  hedge  of  al- 
ders and  judas-trees,  and  turned  with 
pleasure  to  see  the  joy  of  the  eager  young 
face  at  his  side.  Before  them  lay  a  rolling 
bit  of  grass  land,  bounded  on  three  sides 
by  forest,  much  as  it  is  to-day  ;  not  far 
away  rose  a  green  hillside,  above  a  gray 
stone  spring  house,  and  to  their  right, 
in  the  woods,  a  brook  chuckled  merrily 
noisy  answers  to  the  dauntless  catbirds, 
who  love  the  wood  edges,  and  the  wood 
robin,  who  likes  its  darkened  depths. 
The  trees  about  them  stirred  the  girl's 
unaffected  love  of  nature.  "  These  be 
honest  gentlemen,"  said  Edward,  stand- 
ing bareheaded.  Three  matchless  tulip 
poplars,  stateliest  of  trees,  rose  serene, 
with  moveless  shining  leaves,  beside  the 
more  feminine  graciousness  of  a  group 
of  maples,  perfect  as  to  form  and  dense- 
ly clad  in  August  greenery.  "  Ah,  Hes- 
ter," he  said,  "  you  who  love  trees  should 
say  a  prayer  for  him  who  spared  these 
noble  fellows.  But  here  is  my  spring. 
This  is  what  we  came  to  see." 

At  an  angle  of  the  wood  was  a  quiet 
little  pool  of  cold  water,  set  about  with 
narrow  slabs  of  marble  stained  with  the 
fallen  leafage  of  many  an  autumn.  In 
its  depths  pink  willow  rootlets,  which 
our  boys  call  foxtails,  were  tangled  with 
the  white  roots  of  a  sturdy  maple,  which 
rose  in  wholesome  strength  above  the 
surrounding  trees.  Hester  knelt  down, 
and,  smiling,  saw  her  face  set  in  the 
brown  mirror's  little  square  of  mottled 
sun  and  shade. 

As  she  looked,  Edward  stood  over 
her,  and  she  saw  his  face  in  the  still 


72 


In  War  Time. 


[July, 


spring,  beside  her  own.  She  laughed 
prettily,  and  bent  over  to  drink  ;  but 
looked  up  as  she  touched  the  water. 
"  I  have  drunk  you  all  up,  Mr.  Ed- 
ward ! '  she  cried,  still  laughing.  Ed- 
ward shrank  back.  Disease  had  made 
the  once  strong  young  man  unnaturally 
sensitive  and  nervous.  He  remembered 
the  story  of  this  little  forest  well,  and 
how  once  a  fair  maiden,  drinking  here, 
like  this  girl,  had  seen  of  a  sudden,  be- 
side her  own  face,  that  of  a  man ;  and 
how  she  had  come  to  love  that  sombre 
face ;  and  how  in  after  days  its  owner 
had  wrecked  her  life,  and  betrayed  his 
country  in  its  darkest  hour. 

Hester  arose,  seeing  the  trouble  in 
her  friend's  face. 

"  What  is  it  ?  "  she  asked,  «  What  is 
the  matter  ? ' 

"  Nothing,"  he  returned  hastily.  "  A 
little  tired,  I  suppose." 

He  wondered,  indeed,  at  the  strange 
stir  and  tumult  in  himself.  Not  for 
the  world  would  he  have  told  her  that 
grim  legend  of  Arnold's  well.  "  Come 
away ! "  he  exclaimed.  "  Let  us  see  what 
there  is  in  our  bag.  I  am  all  right  now. 
We  have  a  lot  of  jolly  queer  things. 
How  the  doctor  will  like  it!  I  some- 
times wonder  now,  Hester,  how  I  could 
ever  have  so  despaired  of  life.  What 
helpful  things  books  are  !  Don't  you 
marvel  what  sick  folks  did  in  the  Mid- 
dle Ages  ?  I  mean  poor  devils  of  half- 
sick  folks,  like  me." 

"  I  think,"  said  the  girl,  doubtfully, 
"they  must  have  looked  even  more  at 
the  skies  and  the  flowers  than  we  do  ; 
but  I  don't  know,  really.  If  I  were 
sick,  I  should  n't  be  as  patient  as  you. 
Mrs.  Westerley  tells  me  I  am  sometimes 
impatient,  now." 

"  But  why  does  she  say  that  ?  ' 

"  Indeed,  I  don 't  know.  No,  I  hardly 
mean  that :  I  do  know  very  well !  She 
scolded  me  a  little  yesterday,  and  I  sup- 
pose I  was  n't  quite  as  meek  as  I  ought 
to  have  been.  But  I  have  promised  to 
be  so  awfully  good  at  Newport ! ' 


"  Little  scamp  !  It 's  a  nice  place  for 
you  to  begin  a  career  of  goodness.  I 
would  n't  trust  you  ! ' 

"  Yes,  you  would  !  I  should  n't  like 
it  if  you  ceased  to  trust  me.  Oil  there 
is  a  droll-looking  bug  !  I  wonder  what 
it  is  !  " 

"  Let  the  bugs  alone,  little  friend,  and 
come  and  sit  down.  I  am  mortally 
tired." 

Then  the  girl  found  that  perhaps  she 
too  was  tired,  which  was  scarcely  the 
case ;  but  she  was  tenderly  thoughtful 
with  and  for  Edward. 

"  Let  us  read  Arthur's  letter,"  she 
suggested.  "  I  have  been  saving  it,  as 
Miss  Ann  says,  for  <  gooding.' 

"  What  a  nice  old  English  word ! 
There's  a  stump  for  me,  arid  you  can 
lie  on  the  grass.  And  now  for  dear  old 
Arty,"  said  Edward,  as  he  cast  a  pleased 
glance  at  Hester,  who  was  opening  Ar- 
thur's letter  with  that  dainty  care  which, 
to  a  more  experienced  observer  than  her 
companion,  might  have  gone  far  to  tell 
her  modest  secret. 

As  he  looked  down  upon  her.  a 
thought  came  to  him  of  the  contrast  be- 
tween her  vigorous  and  growing  life 
and  his  own  increasing  feebleness  ;  and, 
looking  up,  Hester  saw  him  gazing  past 
her,  dreaming.  What  meaning  there 
was  in  the  profound  sadness  of  his  eyes 
she  did  not  comprehend  ;  but  seeing  the 
sadness,  was  by  instinct  moved  with 
some  sweet  womanly  equality  of  mere 
emotion. 

"  What  is  it,  Mr.  Edward  ?  "  she  said. 

"  Nothing,  dear,"  he  answered ;  but 
there  was  a  look  of  grievous  defeat 
about  the  young  man,  and  when,  in 
after -years,  Hester  stood  before  the 
stricken  lion  of  Lucerne,  some  remem- 
brance of  her  hour  at  the  spring,  be- 
neath the  maples,  came  back  to  her,  and 
with  eyes  full  of  tears  she  turned  away. 
"  Don't  mind  me,"  he  continued  ;  "  go 
on.  What  does  the  living  say  to  the 
dead,  Hester  ?  " 

"  Nonsense ! '     she   answered,   cheer- 


.884.] 


In  War  Time. 


73 


fully.  "  That  does  n't  sound  like  you. 
You  are  worth  some  dozen  of  certain 
live  folks  I  know." 

"  Then  your  acquaintance  must  have 
queer  limitations.  What  does  he  say  ?  ' 

"  Mr.  Arthur  says,"  she  replied,  care- 
fully spreading  out  the  letter  on  her  lap, 

—  "  he  says  "  — 

"  But  why  do  you  say  *  Mr.  Ar- 
thur '  ?  " 

"Oh,  I  am  practicing,"  said  Hester, 
with  a  wicked  deniureness  of  repressed 
fun.  "  That  was  what  Mrs.  Westerley 
lectured  me  about  yesterday." 

"  No  !  not  really  ?  Why,  she  is  worse 
than  mamma." 

"  Yes.  She  orders  authoritatively  that 
I  am  to  call  you  both  '  Mr.  Morton.' 
Mrs.  Westerley  does  not  approve  of 
the  way  young  girls  have  of  calling  men 
by  their  first  names.  Do  you  under- 
stand ?  " 

Edward  whistled.  "  And  when  does 
it  begin  ?  " 

"  Oh,  I  begged  off  till  I  come  back.  I 
said  it  would  n't  seem  so  sudden  then." 

"I  shall  be  told  to  call  you  Miss 
Gray,  nexV 

«  Oh,  no  !  " 

"Oh,  yes!     Why  not?" 

"But  I  won't  like  that,  at  all!  I 
won't  have  it ;  and  Arty —  he"  — 

"  Wait  a  little,  my  dear ;  you  don't 
know  Mrs.  Alice.  She  will  have  her 
way,  you  will  find ;  and  as  to  '  Won't,' 

—  you  know  what  happened  to  him  ?'! 

"  Yes,  I  know.  But  I  like  him  well ; 
and  I  like  all  his  family,  — '  Sha'n't/ 
and  '  Can't,'  and  the  rest." 

"  A  bad  connection,  Miss  Gray,"  he 
said,  smiling.  "  But  what  about  Arty  ? 

—  Mr.  Morton,  I  should  say." 
"  Mr.  Morton  says  :  — 

"DEAR  QUEEN  ESTHER  [that's  for 
short,  I  fancy],  —  I  suppose  the  news- 
papers tell  you  all  about  us  in  general ; 
more,  in  fact,  than  we  know  ourselves. 
Fox  swears  like  our  army  in  Flanders 
(every  one  swears  in  the  army,  —  ex- 
cept me)  when  the  reporters  come  to 


our  bivouac.  And,  by  the  bye,  tell  Ned 
to  send  me  some  onions  and  a  little  old 
Rye.  Don't  forget  the  onions.  He 
knows  where  there  's  some  at  home.  I 
mean  Rye.  Yesterday  we  had  a  little 
relief  from  this  endless  drill  and  loafing. 

O 

The  colonel  gives  us  no  peace  about 
drilling.  There  was  an  alarm  at  day- 
break, and  we  had  a  sharp  affair  with  a 
—  [something  —  it  is  blotted  out]  Con- 
federate regiment."  (He  had  written 
Carolina,  but  remembering  what  eyes 
were  to  see  it  had  erased  the  number 
and  State,  which  would  have  told  Hes- 
ter that  it  was  her  father's  old  regi- 
ment.) 

"Fox  had  a  near  thing  of  it,  and  I 
was  twice  in  among  their  guns.  Had 
to  come  out  again  in  a  hurry.  I  thought 
of"  — 

Here  the  girl  paused,  confused. 

"  Oh,  I  know,"  said  Edward.  "  He 
thought  of  me.  Go  on ;  I  can  stand 
it!" 

Hester  looked  down.  "  I  thought  of 
my  dear  Ned,  and  knowing  how  much 
better  a  soldier  he  would  have  made 
than  I,  wished  he  might  have  been  with 
me.  But  don't  think  I  like  it  at  all. 
Any  one  who  says  they  like  it  is  stupid, 
or  lies.  I  don't.  I  never  realized  until 
now  how  dreadful  is  war ;  but  I  think  I 
know  that  I  ought  to  be  here,  and  why. 
Yet  when  a  fellow  is  in  the  thick  of  one 
of  these  mad  rushes  at  death  through 
smoke,  there  is  something  of  a  wild  joy 
about  it.  At  all  events,  it  does  one  some 
good.  That  is,  it  does  the  decent  fellows 
good.  It  seems  to  me  I  am  older  by 
years  in  these  few  months ;  but  then,  for 
people  who  think  at  all,  there  is  time 
and  material  here  for  thinking,  and 
much  to  learn  about  war  out  of  books 
on  tactics,  and  so  on,  with  practical  les- 
sons at  intervals.  Edward,  who  was 
always  the  boldest  man  I  know,  keeps 
writing  me  not  to  accept  needless  peril. 
Tell  him  I  do  not  mean  to.  It  is  really 
necessary  sometimes  for  officers  to  ex- 
pose themselves  as  examples,  when  men 


74 


In  War  Time. 


[July, 


are  shaky,  but  not  often.  I  think  of 
it  now  because  that  was  just  what  Fox 
did  yesterday.  We  were  all  lying  down, 
or  in  shelter,  having  made  a  stand  after 
what  came  near  being  a  stampede  ;  and 
what  does  Fox  do  but  begin  to  walk  up 
and  down,  with  a  cigarette  in  his  mouth, 
pretending  to  be  using  his  field-glass.  I 
got  up  as  he  passed  me,  and  said,  '  Let 
me  do  that,  sir ; '  and  what  did  he  say 
but  '  Lie  down,  or  you  '11  get  hit ;  and 
when  you  address  me,  sir,  be  good 
enough  to  salute.'  And  the  balls  were 
as  thick  as  mosquitoes  in  a  Jersey  marsh. 
Oh,  Hester,  one  must  see  a  man  in  the 
ennui  of  camp,  and  then  in  the  field,  to 
know  him.  It  seems  to  me  that  what  I 
have  heard  Dr.  Lagrange  say  of  disease 
is  true  of  war.  It  ruins  some  men  mor- 
ally, and  some  it  makes  nobler,  —  like 
my  brother  Ned  !  ' 

"  Oh,  Mr.  Edward,  is  n't  that  just 
like  Arty  !  "  said  Hester,  pausing. 

"  Arty  is  a  dear  old  goose  about  me," 
returned  Edward.  u  He  thinks  I  am  a 
patient  martyr,  but  he  does  n't  know  how 
much  I  have  wriggled  at  the  stake." 

"  I  have  everything,  I  think,"  went  on 
Hester,  rising,  and  standing,  thoughtful- 
ly before  him,  the  letter  in  her  hand,  — 
"  everything ;  but  I  am  not  as  patient 
as  you  who  have  so  little." 

"  You  can't  count  another  man's 
wealth,  child.  I  have  my  little  Hester, 
and  this  August  day,  and  these  woods, 
and  all  the  strange  world  I  am  peeping 
into." 

"  Yes,  I  know,"  murmured  Hester, 
softly,  the  morn  of  womanhood,  that  was 
waking  under  the  fading  dusk  of  child- 
ish indifferences  to  the  larger  trials  of 
life,  beginning  to  glow  with  warmth  of 
appreciative  feeling. 

"  It  is  n't  bad  for  any  one  to  know 
how  much  he  is  a  help  in  other  folks' 
lives,"  continued  Edward.  "  It  makes 
him  better,  too,  I  dare  say.  And  now 
for  more  help.  Give  me  a  hand,  —  now 
a  good  pull.  I  must  heft  pretty  heavy, 
as  Miss  Ann  says.  We  '11  keep  the  rest 


of  Arty's  letter  for  to-night.  There 
seems  to  be  a  lot  of  it,  and  it  is  late.  I 
hope  my  horse  has  kept  quiet.  I  wish 
he  was  nearer ;  I  am  pretty  tired." 

The  next  day  Hester  went  to  New- 
port, whence  she  wrote  to  Edward  of- 
ten, and  to  Arthur  rarely.  Alice  per- 
ceived well  enough  where  this  close  in- 
timacy of  two  attractive  young  folks 
might  end,  but  scarcely  saw  how  to  les- 
sen the  danger ;  and  now,  feeling  more 
and  more  that  she  disliked  the  respon- 
sibility, she  wrote  to  Mrs.  Morton  quite 
frankly,  but  only  to  learn  that  Morton 
would  not  return  until  he  was  fit  for 
dutv,  and  that  of  course  she,  Mrs.  Mor- 

V      ' 

ton,  did  not  fancy  the  idea  of  a  match  of 
this  kind  at  all,  and  knew  Alice  would 
discourage  whatever  might  make  it  a 
possible  event — all  of  which  left  Mrs. 
Westerley  quite  as  helpless  and  more 
anxious  than  before,  and  not  much  com- 
forted by  this  final  phrase  of  her  friend's 
letter. 

"  For  after  all,"  she  wrote,  "  I  dare 
say  you  are  mistaken ;  and  then  boys 
always  have  one  or  two  affairs  of  this 
kind.  They  are  pretty  bad  for  a  girl, 
I  think,  but  they  do  not  hurt  men,"  — 
which  to  Alice,  who  was  very  much  at- 
ta<?hed  to  Hester,  seemed  on  the  whole 
to  partake  rather  strongly  of  the  selfish- 
ness of  maternal  affection,  and  to  be  a 
little  too  like  Helen  Morton,  who  was 
apt  to  think  first  of  her  own  children, 
and  in  their  relations  to  others  of  them 
alone. 

Meanwhile,  Mrs.  Westerley,  as  she 
found,  had  her  hands  full  at  Newport, 
where  she  had  many  friends,  and  where 
it  was  difficult  always  to  leave  Hester 
out  of  the  constant  social  engagements 
of  that  charming  place. 

"  Luckily,"  she  wrote  to  Mrs.  Morton, 
"  most  of  the  nicer  young  men  are  where 
they  should  be,  at  the  war;  but  there 
are  enough  and  too  many  older  lads,  on 
their  vacation  holidays ;  and  even  with 
your  ideas  and  mine,  it  is  hard  to  keep 
this  very  gay  young  lady  from  seeing 


1884.] 


Question. 


75 


that  she  is  admired,  and  from  being 
disappointed  because  I  do  not  allow  her 
to  go  about  as  she  does  at  German- 
town." 

Nevertheless,  Hester  enjoyed  this  new 
life,  and  saw  enough  of  men,  old  and 
young,  in  Mrs.  Westerley's  drawing- 
room  to  widen  her  horizon  as  to  the 
general  opinion  of  Miss  Gray. 

With  some  little  interior  mutiny  of 
criticism,  Hester  came  to  yield  tranquil- 
ly enough  to  her  friend's  social  disci- 
pline, and  to  observe  that  among  the 
class  of  girls  she  sa\f  arid  found  pleas- 
ant, the  most  of  them  were  quite  as 
much  controlled  as  she.  Then  she  be- 
gan, as  Alice  delayed  leaving  Newport, 
to  enjoy  still  more  the  refined  culture  of 
its  lingering  lovers,  and  to  return  with 
fresh  zest  to  outdoor  enjoyments. 

"  Now,"  she  wrote  to  Wendell,  "  there 
is,  as  it  were,  a  new  spring,  —  just  as  if 
the  flowers  had  come  again  to  say  good- 
by ;  and  there  are  golden-rods  above  the 


.beaches,  and  little  dandelions,  smaller 
than  in  spring,  are  here  (I  don't  think 
they  are  true  dandelions,  but  I  left  my 
Gray's  Botany  at  home)  ;  and  then  there 
is  a  purple  flower,  which  an  old  lady 
told  me  was  the  Michaelmas  daisy.  I 
think  it  is  an  aster,  and  so  pretty ;  and 
what  the  people  call  freckled  alders, 
with  red  berries.  And  oh,  you  should 
see  the  cliffs,  and  the  sea  !  I  never  saw 
it  before,  and  now  it  seems  like  an  old 
friend ;  and  if  I  only  had  you  and  Arty 
and  Edward,  I  should  be  just  too  hap- 
py. But  why  does  n't  Arty  write  ?  We 
have  ceased  to  hear  at  all." 

Arty  had  other  business  on  hand,  and 
was  in  the  thick  of  the  savage  fighting 

o         o  o 

that  resulted  in  the  destruction  of  the 
Weldon  railroad,  and  of  which  news 
soon  reached  his  anxious  friends  at  the 
North.  Late  in  September  Mrs.  West- 
erley  returned  to  her  home,  and  Hester 
went  back,  with  no  great  satisfaction,  to 
her  school  life. 

S.  Weir  Mitchell. 


QUESTION. 

WHEN  you  are  old,  and  I  am  old, 

And  Passion's  fires  are  burned  to  embers, 

And  Life  is  as  a  tale  that 's  told, 

And  only  worth  what  Love  remembers, 

If  we  should  meet  —  two  quiet  folk  — 
And  change  opinions  of  the  weather, 

Could  word  or  look  again  provoke 

The  heart  and  eyes  to  speak  together  — 

The  heart  benumbed  with  so  much  ache, 
The  eyes  bedimmed  with  so  much  crying? 

Do  buds  long  blighted  ever  break, 
And  green  the  vine  already  dying  ? 

What  hand  of  skill  shall  draw  the  line 

'Twixt  sordid  love  and  holier  passion  ? 
What  art  shall  fix  the  unfailing  sign, 

O  O      * 

And  bring  its  reading  into  fashion? 


76 


Chimes,  and  How  they  are  Rung. 

What  is  the  meaning  pf  it  all, 

The  chastening  woe,  the  vanished  sweetness, 
If  dark  Oblivion's  night  shall  fall 

Forever  on  its  incompleteness  ? 

When  you  are  dead,  and  I  am  dead, 
Our  faces  lost,  our  names  unspoken, 

Shall  then  the  mystery  be  read? 

Can  Heaven  bind  what  Earth  has  broken? 

In  clearer  light  and  fairer  day, 

With  finer  sense  the  impulse  proving, 

Unfettered  of  this  hindering  clay, 
Oh,  what  must  be  the  joy  of  loving! 


[July, 


Eliot   C.   True. 


CHIMES,   AND   HOvV  THEY  ARE   RUNG. 


No  musical  instruments  have  b';,en 
more  intimately  connected  with  the  duly 
life  of  the  great  mass  of  men  than  oells. 
Our  factories,  schools,  shios  rouses, 
churches,  all  require  'J  ~m.  -udeed, 
they  have  almost  ceaseu  '  -  regarded 
as  musical  instruments  at  all,  —  instru- 
ments which  probably  yield  to  none  in 
the  delicacy  of  skill  required  to  pro- 
duce them.  Except  when  grouped  in 
a  peal  or  chime,  they  are  now  generally 
thought  of  as  mere  mechanical  contri- 
vances ;  necessities,  not  luxuries.  En- 
tirely different,  however,  is  the  popular 
feeling  in  regard  to  chimes.  These 
have  a  deeper  hold  upon  the  heart  of 
the  people  than  ever,  arid  their  number 
is  rapidly  increasing  throughout  the 
,  country.  The  historical  side  of  bells, 
and  the  inscriptions  and  superstitions 
connected  with  them,  are  well  known, 
or  within  easy  reach  of  all ;  but  there 
are  very  few  people  who  know  or  are 
able  to  find  out  what  a  chime  really  is, 
or  how  one  is  rung,  since  nothing  defi- 
nite or  complete  on  the  subject  has  as 
yet  been  published. 

Two  things  are  absolutely  necessary 
for   an    approximately   perfect   chime: 


first,  as  may  be  learned  from  any  dic- 
tionary, the  bells  must  be  tuned  to  each 
other  ;  but  secondly,  —  a  matter  of  far 
greater  importance,  and  one  entirely 
ignored,  if  not  unknown,  —  each  bell 
must  be  tuned  to  itself.  Then,  again, 
the  number  of  bells  must  be  considered. 
Upon  this  point  there  is  a  wide  diver- 
gence of  opinion.  In  this  country  a  set 
of  ,bells  not  less  than  eight  in  number, 
and  arranged  in  the  diatonic  scale,  is 
considered  a  chime.  Any  number  less 
than  eight  is  usually  said  to  constitute  a 
peal.  In  England  any  number  of  bells 
when  played  by  one  person  constitutes 
a  chime ;  when  played  by  several  per- 
sons, a  man  to  each  bell,  or  by  machin- 
ery, the  set  is  generally  termed  a  peal. 
From  an  American  point  of  view  we 
may  accurately  define  a  chime  as  a  set 
of  bells  not  less  than  eight  in  number, 
and  arranged  in  the  diatonic  scale,  each 
bell  being  approximately  true  to  itself 
and  to  the  others. 

The  first  requisite  for  a  chime  is,  then, 
that  each  bell  shall,  in  technical  terms, 
be  true,  or,  in  other  words,  be  in  har- 
mony with  itself.  This  means  that  a 
bell  must  yield  a  note  the  exact  pitch 


1884.] 


Chimes,  and  How  they  are  Rung. 


77 


of  which  any  ordinary  musician  can  at 
once  determine.  This  tone  has  been 
regarded  as  a  combination  of  several 
tones  which  exist  in  every  bell,  and  are 
termed  the  "  octave,"  "  quint,"  and 
"  tierce."  If  these  three  tones  har- 
monize, the  bell  is  supposed  to  be  true, 
arfd  the  note  given  is  the  "  consonant " 
or  key  note.  To  obtain  the  octave  of 
any  bell  it  is  necessary  to  tap  it  on  the 
top,  just  at  the  curve.  Tap  it  one 
quarter's  distance  from  the  top,  and 
the  quint  or  fifth  of  the  octave  results. 
Two  quarters  and  a  half  lower  we  get 
the  tierce,  or  the  third  of  the  octave. 
Tapped  above  the  rim,  where  the  clap- 
per strikes,  the  octave,  quint,  and  tierce 
sound  simultaneously,  giving,  as  stated 
above,  the  consonant  or  key  note  of  the 
bell.  These  three  tones  are  the  only 
ones  spoken  of  in  any  work  as  belong- 
ing to  bells,  and  they  are  also  the  only 
ones  mentioned  as  a  test  of  a  bell.  But 
since  the  most  important  note  of  the 
bell  —  the  "drone,"  as  it  is  called  —  is 
entirely  overlooked,  this  test  is  at  most 
only  interesting,  and  not  at  all  reliable. 

The  fact  is  that  every  bell  gives  two 
prominent  notes,  —  one  the  key  note, 
and  the  other  the  drone  or  "  hum  "  note, 
which  in  foreign  bells  is  usually  an  oc- 
tave, and  in  American  bells  a  major  or 
minor  sixth,  lower  than  the  key  note. 
This  note  always  vibrates  longer  than 
the  key  note,  and  hence  the  same  bell 
at  times  seems  to  give  a  tone  entirely 
distinct  from  the  key  note.  That  is  be- 
cause at  one  time  the  key  note  alone  is 
heard  (usually  at  a  considerable  dis- 
tance), while  at  another  only  the  drone 
is  heard ;  and  since  the  drone  vibrates 
the  longer,  it  frequently  impresses  the 
ear,  especially  when  near,  as  the  fullest 
or  dominant  tone  of  the  bell.  Hence 
an  E-flat  bell  often  will  be  heard  in  the 
key  of  G-flat,  or  an  A-flat  be  heard  as 
an  F  bell. 

The  harmony  of  the  bell  depends, 
therefore,  almost  entirely  upon  the  drone, 
and  the  best  test  of  a  bell  is  the  impres- 


sion  it  gives  the  ear  ;  while  the  fact  re- 
mains that  if  the  drone  does  not  har- 
monize with  the  key  note  the  bell  seems 
harsh  and  discordant.  The  only  upper 
notes,  or  "  over  tones  "  as  they  are  called, 
which  a  bell  gives  are  the  third,  octave, 
twelfth,  and  fifteenth  ;  but  the  harmony 
of  the  bell  does  not  depend  so  much 
upon  these  as  upon  the  drone.  This  is 
the  essential  thing.  Many  bells  are, 
however,  only  slightly  sharp  when  cast, 
and  may  be  thoroughly  tuned  and  made 
harmonious  by  filing  on  the  inside  at  the 
tierce  till  the  desired  tone  results.  Bells 
which  need  no  filing  are  called  "  maiden- 
bells,"  and  in  England  especially  are 
highly  prized.  It  may  thus  be  seen 
what  a  delicate  and  complex  instrument 
a  true  bell  is.  A  set  of  these  true 
bells  constitutes,  as  has  been  explained, 
a  chime. 

It  used  to  be  thought  that  the  best 
bells  were  made  in  Belgium.  Certainly 
the  art  of  making  them  there  culminated 
in  the  eighteenth  century.  In  the  opin- 
ion, however,  of  many  persons  compe- 
tent to  judge,  it  has  declined  somewhat 
in  that  country.  A  verification  of  this 
may  be  found  in  the  fact  that  the  tenor 
(or  lowest)  bell  of  a  peal  recently  made 
by  one  of  the  most  celebrated  firms  of 
Belgium,  and  presented  by  a  gentleman 
of  New  York,  from  whom  the  writer 
has  obtained  much  valuable  informa- 
tion, to  one  of  our  oldest  and  most 
prominent  colleges,  has  been  cast  aside 
as  utterly  unfit  to  use  ;  and  that,  too,  in 
the  face  of  the  fact  that  a  professor  of 
the  University  of  Louvain  certified,  at 
a  charge  of  one  hundred  francs  for  his 
services,  that  "  each  bell  was  in  harmony 
with  itself  and  the  others."  There  is  no 
reason  why  just  as  good  bells  may  not 
be  procured  in  this  country  as  abroad. 
We  have  as  excellent  copper  and  tin, 
and  equally  skillful  workmen  ;  and  the 
art  of  giving  the  proper  shape  and  den- 
sity to  the  metal  is  as  well  known  here 
as  there. 

Bells   may   be    rung   in   two    ways: 


78 


Chimes,  and. How  they  are  Rung. 


[July, 


first,  by  swinging  them  with  rope  and 
wheel ;  and  secondly,  by  striking  them 
either  upon  the  outside  or  inside  with 
hammers,  the  bell  itself  being  station- 
ary. In  England  the  former  method  of 
rope  and  wheel  was  almost  universal- 
ly adopted,  requiring  a  man  for  each 
bell.  From  this  method  we  get  that  in- 
teresting and  peculiarly  English  kind  of 
chime  music  known  as  the  "  changes," 
which  save  England  the  name  of  the 

fj  O 

Ringing  Island.     In  Belgium,  however, 

O        O  " 

the  stationary  method  was  used.   Chimes 
played   in    this   manner  were  rung  by 
one  person  and  were    called   carillons, 
because  the  Italian  quadriglio,  or  qua- 
drille, "  a  dreary  kind  of  dance  music," 
was  the  first  ever  played  upon   them. 
To  play  upon  carillons  the  performers 
used  an  instrument  known  as  the  "  clave- 
cin,"  a   kind   of    rough    key-board   ar- 
ranged in    semitones.     Each   key    was 
connected  by  wire  or  rope  with  a  ham- 
mer, which  struck  the  bell  when  a  sharp 
blow  was  given  the  key  with  a  gloved 
fist.     This  machine  was  necessarily  ex- 
tremely crude  at  first;  and  since  chimes 
have  never  been  played  half  so  well  as 
in  the  days  of  this  invention,  it  is  all 
the  greater  wonder   that   the   art  ever 
progressed  at  all.     Recently  some  great 
masterpieces  in  chime  music  have  been 
found,  which  were  composed  and  played 
at  Louvain  in  the  latter  half  of  the  last 
century,  by  the  most  skillful  and  won- 
derful chimer  who  ever  lived,  Matthias 
van  den   Gheyn.     No  one   in   Europe 
or  America  can  now  be  found  who  is 
able  to  play  this  music,  which  rivals  in 
the  depth  and  subtlety  of  its  composi- 
tion some  of  the  finest  works  of  Bach, 
Mozart,  or  Beethoven.     Hence  the  in- 
ference is  that  the  art  of  playing  caril- 
lons has  sadly  declined,  with  small  pros- 
pect of  ever  recovering  the  lost  ground. 
Another  machine  for  the    automatic 
ringing  of  chimes,  and   used   consider- 
ably in  England  at  the  present  day,  is 
known  as  the  tambour,  or  "  barrel."     It 
consists  of  a  large  wooden  cylinder,  upon 


which   a   certain    number  of   pegs   are 
arranged.      As   this    cylinder   revolves, 
the  pegs  loosen  levers  which  allow  the 
hammers  to  fall  upon   the  bell.      This 
contrivance,  formerly  very  crude,  is  ar- 
ranged on  the  same  principle  as  the  fa- 
miliar music-box,  and  operates  in  nearly 
the  same  manner.     In   recent  years  it 
has  been    greatly  improved   in  various 
ways,  and  is  now  found  in  all  countries, 
though  very  seldom   used  in  America. 
It  is  specially  adapted  to  large  chimes 
—  from  twenty  to  forty  bells  —  where 
there  is  need  of  clock-work  to  ring  them. 
The  art  in  this  kind  of    chime-ringing 
consists  merely  in  the  skill  of  arranging 
the  pegs  in  their  proper  places   and  to 
the  proper  number,  so  as  to  produce  the 
desired  effect. 

By  far   the    most  interesting  of   all 
methods  of  ringing  is  the   English  one 
of  ringing  the  "  changes,"  upon  which 
many    books   have   been    written   with 
the  view  of  thoroughly  explaining  the 
art  and  teaching  it  to\beginners.     To 
ring  these  changes   demanded   unusual 
skill,  acquired  only  after  long  practice. 
It  was  considered  a  high   honor  to  be- 
long to  a  company  of  skillful  ringers. 
Indeed,  it  is  mentioned  as  a  matter  of 
grtat  interest  how  college   students  — 
presumably  before  the  days  of  cricket 
and  boating  —  used  to  take  trips  from 
town  to  town,  ringing  these  changes  and 
"  amusing  the  people  with  their  strange 
antics."   Changes  are  nothing  more  than 
the  ringing  of  a  set  of  bells,  three  or 
more  in  number,  in  every  possible  order 
without  repetition.  Thus  three  bells  may 
be  rung  in  six  different  ways  without  any 
repeat,  four  in  twenty-four  ways,  five  in 
one  hundred  and  twenty,  and  so  on;  till 
with  ten  bells  we  have  3,628,800  changes, 
which  would  require  one  year  and  105 
days    of  constant    ringing    to    complete 
the  peal.    Twelve  bells  would  take  over 
thirty-seven   years  to   complete  it.     In 
fact,  changes   are   based   upon  nothing 
more  than  that  simple  branch  of  higher 
algebra  known  as  "  combinations."  The 


1884.] 


Beaten  ly  a  Griaour. 


79 


art  of  ringing  consists,  first,  in  the  skill 
of  ringing  a  swinging  bell  correctly;  and 
secondly,  in  knowing  when  and  how  to 
alter  the  course  of  the  striking.  The 
different  ways  of  ringing,  or  rather  the 
different  changes,  are  known  by  such 
mysterious  names  as  "  plain  -  bobs," 
"  bob-triples,"  "  bob-majors,"  "  bob-mi- 
nors," '•  grandsire-triples,"  "  grandsire- 
bob-cators,"  etc.,  while  such  terms  as 
"  hunting,"  "  dodging,"  "  snapping,"  are 
only  a  few  of  the  many  terms  connected 
with  the  art.  So  far  as  the  writer  is 
aware,  this  method  of  ringing  has  been 
rarely,  if  ever,  used  in  this  country. 

Our  chimes  are  generally  rung  by  a 
machine  somewhat  akin  to  the  clavecin 
used  in  carillons,  consisting  of  a  series 
of  levers  or  handles  arranged  in  order 
of  the  scale  in  which  the  chime  is  cast, 
which  when  sharply  pushed  down  draw 
the  clapper,  by  means  of  a  connecting 
wire,  against  the  side  of  the  bell.  The 
art  of  ringing  in  this  manner  consists 
in  giving  sharp,  even  blows,  and  also  in 
so  breaking  up  the  long  notes  that  the 
atmosphere  shall  be  filled  with  regular 
and  constant  vibrations  of  sound.  In 
this  last  is  the  secret  of  successful  chim- 
ing, one  which  few  of  our  chimers  have 
yet  found  out.  Contrary  to  general  be- 


lief, to  ring  bells  in  this  manner  requires 
but  little  muscle  and  less  brains ;  it  be- 
ing nothing  more  than  a  knack,  easy  for 
some  arid  difficult  for  others  to  acquire. 
Experiments  have  been  made  with  a 
view  of  ringing  chimes  by  electricity, 
the  player  having  a  simple  piano  key- 
board, and  playing  upon  it  as  if  it  were 
a  piano.  As  yet,  in  the  opinion  of  the 
best  bell-makers,  these  experiments  have 
not  been  successful,  but  there  is  no  rea- 
son why  they  should  not  be  so.  Fire 
and  other  bells  are  so  rung  now,  and 
it  ought  to  be  only  a  question  of  time 
when  chimes  shall  be  satisfactorily  rung 
by  this  method.  What  is  known  to 
players  as  the  "  hand-feeling  "  would  of 
course  be  lacking,  but  this  would  be 
more  than  counterbalanced  by  the  in- 
creased dexterity  and  steadiness  ac- 
quired. If  this  method  is  successful,  the 
art  of  rinafmor  will  become  that  of  mere 

o       o 

piano-drumming,  such  music  alone  being 
played  as  will  not  result  in  discord  from 
the  prolongation  and  mingling  of  a  note 
with  others  following  ;  while,  strangely 
enough,  the  result  will  be  that  chimes 

O      ' 

will  be  better  rung  than  ever  before. 
And  this,  in  the  writer's  opinion,  sums 
up  what  is  to  be  the  future  of  chimes 
and  the  art  of  ringing  them. 

A.  F.  Matthews. 


BEATEN  BY  A  GIAOUR. 


HALF  a  dozen  Zeibeks  were  sitting 
at  the  coffee-shop  under  the  plane-trees 
beyond  the  caravan  bridge  at  Smyrna. 
The  coffee-shop  itself  was  only  a  rough 
hut,  to  shelter  the  kitchen  and  to  screen 
the  mysteries  of  coffee-making  from  in- 
judicious eyes.  Its  accommodations  for 
customers  consisted  of  a  number  of  low, 
square  stools,  disposed  in  the  shade  of 
the  trees.  These  stools  the  Zeibeks  oo 
cupied,  as  they  smoked  their  cigarettes 
and  discussed  the  political  prospects  of 


the  Turkish  Empire  or  the  state  of  their 
flocks  on  the  mountains.  The  place  was 
encouraging  to  idleness,  and  held  these 
men  under  its  spell. 

The  Meles  peacefully  pursued  its 
sluggish  way  among  the  bowlders  of  its 
half-dried  bed.  Beyond  the  plane-trees, 
and  separated  from  them  by  the  roughly 
paved  caravan  road  that  leads  to  all 
Asia  Minor,  was  a  grove  of  heavy  cy- 
presses, screening  the  tangled  mass  of 
tomb-stones  which  commemorate  many 


80                                          Beaten  ly  a  Griaour.                                   [July? 

generations  of  Moslem  rulers.  On  the  about  his  shoulders ;  and  the  bridle, 
other  side  of  the  bridge  were  the  gardens  reins,  and  martingale  of  his  horse,  as 
and  closely  packed  houses  of  Smyrna,  well  as  the  housings  of  his  wide  red 
But  like  all  Turkish  cities  Smyrna  keeps  saddle,  were  bordered  with  red  worsted 
its  bustle  and  its  noise  to  itself,  so  that  fringe.  But  AH  Bey's  face  was  black 
not  a  sound  disturbs  the  placid  region  as  a  thunder -cloud,  much  to  the  dis- 
adjoining  its  outer  limits.  On  the  cara-  quiet  of  the  men  who  had  hurried  to 
van  road  was  a  train  of  camels  led  by  a  meet  him.  The  truth  is  that  Ali  Bey, 
small  donkey,  that  seemed  to  drag  the  though  commonly  polite  in  his  conde- 
whole  caravan  after  it  by  the  rope  at-  scending  way,  was  known  to  be  capable 
tached  to  its  saddle.  Each  camel  bore  of  going  to  great  lengths  when  in  a  pas- 
two  huge  bales  of  Giordes  carpets  on  siori,  —  a  fact  not  at  all  compensated  to 
their  way  to  Smyrna  and  a  market.  The  any  luckless  victim  by  the  fact  that  his 
ungainly  beasts  lunged  awkwardly  along,  hot  wrath  quickly  cooled.  The  great 
each  uncouth  body  swinging  like  a  boat  point  of  anxiety  with  the  Zeibeks  on 
among  waves,  but  each  long,  crooked  this  occasion  was  to  know  whether  Ali 
neck  moving  steadily  forward,  as  if  en-  Bey's  discontent  was  directed  toward 
tirely  independent  of  the  swaying  body,  some  member  of  the  tribe,  or  merely 
Even  the  caravan  was  no  disturbing  in-  toward  some  infidel  of  an  outsider.  For 
fluence  to  the  quiet  of  the  cypresses  and  in  the  latter  case  ill-humor  does  not 
the  plane-trees.  The  solemn  tread  of  count  as  a  violation  of  strictly  gentle- 
the  camels  was  entirely  noiseless,  and  manly  behavior.  No  sane  man  can  well 
the  deep  tone  of  the  heavy  bell  that  avoid  anger  while  dealing  with  misbe- 
marked  the  rhythm  of  each  camel's  gait  lieving  dogs. 

lulled  rather  than  disturbed  the  mental  So    these    Zeibeks   stood,  an   uneasy 

processes   of   the   idlers   at   the  coffee-  semicircle,   until   Ali   Bey   was    safely 

house.  seated  on  one  of  the  low  stools  under  the 

The  Zeibeks  were  listlessly  watching  plane-trees,  and   had   called  for  coffee, 

the  last  of   the   camels   disappear  over  Then   relief   loosed   every  tongue,  and 

the  high  stone  arch  of  the  bridge,  when  Hassan,  Hussein,  Ibrahim,  and  the  oth- 

a  horseman  from  the   city  dashed  rap-  er$  made  haste  to  show  their  devotion 

idly  across  the  bridge  and  drew  up  at  by  loudly  echoing  the  Bey's  command, 

the   little    coffee-shop.     Instantly  these  These  Zeibeks,  though  rough  in  looks, 

serenely    disposed    loiterers     arose    to  knew  by  heart  all  the  rules  of  courteous 

life   and  action.     With  the  ejaculation  behavior  under  the  Oriental  code.  They 

"  There  's  Ali  Bey  ! "  every  man  quickly  had  thrown  away  their  cigarettes  when 

threw  away  his  half-smoked   cigarette,  the    Bey    appeared,    not   because    they 

and  sprang  forward  to  meet  the  new-  were   unwilling   to   be   known    to    use 

comer.  tobacco,  but  in  obedience  to  the  prin- 

The  gentleman  styled  Ali  Bey  was  ciples  of  courtesy.  In  America,  where 
an  uncommonly  sour -looking  Zeibek,  all  men  are  equal,  ladies  only  receive 
who  was  decorated  in  the  highest  style  this  delicate  homage.  In  Turkey  the 
of  village  art.  His  short  jacket  was  women  only  are  all  equal.  The  men 
covered  with  gold  lace  ;  the  weapons  rise  in  successive  grades,  and  those  of 
that  protruded  from  his  wide,  pouch-  each  grade  receive  from  those  of  a  low- 
like  belt  of  red  Russia  leather  were  er  rank  many  subtle  flatteries,  like  the 
crusted  with  silver  and  studded  with  prompt  abandonment  of  cigarettes  by 
garnets  and  turquoises  ;  the  tassel  of  the  Zeibeks  when  they  saw  that  Ali 
his  tall  red  cap,  containing  at  least  two  Bey,  their  chief,  was  not  smoking.  The 
pounds  of  blue  silk  thread,  dangled  one  anxiety  of  the  Zeibeks  now  was  to 


1884.] 


Beaten  by  a  Criaour. 


81 


fail  of  no  opportunity  for  showing  their 
high  consideration  for  the  Bey.  Hence 
their  vociferous  appeals  to  the  coffee- 
house keeper  to  make  haste  with  the 
coffee. 

The  coffee-dealer,  or  cafeji,  being  a 
Greek,  and  being,  therefore,  in  social 
standing  immeasurably  below  the  least 
of  the  Zeibeks,  felt  that  he  too  must 
show  how  truly  he  was  the  humble, 
obedient  servant  of  AH  Bey.  Emerg- 
ing from  his  little  den,  he  approached 
unobtrusively,  and  bending  forward  in 
an  insinuating  manner  he  inquired  in 
the  blandest  of  tones,  — 

"  Will  my  lord  have  it  straight  or 
sugared  ?  ' 

But  Ali  Bey  was  in  no  mood  to  be 
gentlemanly  toward  a  mere  Greek.  He 
flashed  one  glance  at  the  cafeji  that 
wilted  the  poor  wretch  and  sent  him 
scuttling  away  to  his  kitchen  ;  while  he 
thundered  after  the  discomfited  aspirant 
to  favor,  "  Ass  !  Do  you  ask  a  Zeibek 
if  he  will  have  sugar  ?  ' 

Upon  this  the  Bey's  retainers  per- 
mitted themselves  sundry  shrugs  and 
grimaces  of  a  solemnly  deprecatory  or- 
der, and  Ibrahim  even  ventured  to  re- 
mark, "  What  can  you  expect  ?  These 
city  fellows  were  created  so  ! ': 

This  outburst  was  on  the  whole  con- 
ducive to  the  comfort  of  the  company, 
for  it  seemed  to  exercise  a  mollifying 
influence  on  Ali  Bey's  feelings.  Heav- 
ing a  deep  sigh,  that  gentleman  took  out 
a  red  broadcloth  tobacco-bag  and  pre- 
pared to  make  a  cigarette.  Something 
in  the  subtle  fragrance  of  the  golden 
threads  of  tobacco  which  he  rolled  in 
the  thin  paper  softened  him  still  more, 
'and  he  remarked  to  the  audience  in 
general,  — 

"  Well,  he  won't  do  it." 
'  He  won't ! "  replied  his  men  in 
chorus.  Not  being  quite  sure  whether 
or  no  Ali  Bey  expected  them  to  be  in- 
dignant, these  shrewd  courtiers  employed 
a  tone  that  might  represent  either  sur- 
prise or  disgust.  But  the  fact  that  the 

VOL.    L1V.  —  NO.    321.  6 


Bey  had  unbent  enough  to  address  them 
produced  a  most  marked  relief. 

"  No,"  continued  Ali  Bey.  "  First  he 
said  that  he  would  employ  three  men ; 
afterwards  he  made  impossible  condi- 
tions. Pie  is  a  bear,  and  the  son  of  a 
bear." 

"  That  is  the  way  with  foreigners," 
remarked  Hassan,  in  a  tone  of  convic- 
tion. 

"  They  bring  their  railway  here  and 
change  the  course  of  trade,  and  then 
make  light  of  the  ancient  rights  which 
they  have  attacked,"  grumbled  Ibrahim. 

"  What  did  the  fellow  say  to  your 
excellency  ?  "  inquired  Hassan,  with  re- 
spect. 

"  The  miserable  dog  said  that  if  our 
men  receive  the  pay  of  the  railway 
they  must  wear  the  uniform  of  its  ser- 
vants ! ' 

"There's  a  foreigner  for  you!" 
growled  Ibrahim.  "  The  brass  of  him 
can  be  weighed  by  the  ton ! ' 

Meanwhile  Ali  Bey  had  rolled  up 
his  cigarette,  and  held  it  in  his  hand, 
seeming  to  enjoy  the  sensation  caused 
by  his  harrowing  tale.  The  cafeji  now 
came  briskly  forward  with  the  materials 
necessary  for  serving  a  cup  of  coffee. 
In  one  hand  he  brought  the  little  tray, 
with  a  glass  of  water  and  '  a  small 
coffee-cup,  and  a  cup-holder  of  brass  in- 
verted by  the  side  of  the  cup.  In  the 
other  hand  was  a  live  coal  held  with 
tongs,  and  a  long-handled  coffee-pot  full 
of  the  steaming  black  liquid.  The  tray 
he  deposited  on  one  of  the  low  stools  in 
front  of  Ali  Bey  ;  the  coffee,  with  all 
its  rich  brown  foam,  he  quickly  poured 
into  the  cup,  and  then,  with  a  smirk  of 
self-satisfaction,  he  offered  the  coal  of 
fire  to  Ali  Bey. 

Ali  Bey  lighted  his  cigarette  from  the 
coal ;  then  he  took  a  preparatory  sip  of 
water,  and  accepted  the  little  cup  of 
coffee  which  one  of  the  men  now  hand- 
ed to  him  in  its  metal  holder.  But  he 
paused,  with  the  cup  midway  to  his 
lips,  in  order  to  continue  his  story. 


82 


Beaten  ly  a  Giaour. 


[July, 


"  That  uniform,"  said  he,  "  includes 
the  cap  of  the  Christian,  made  with  a 
straight  piece  of  stiff  leather  projecting 
from  the  front.  It  is  the  devil's  own 
invention  to  prevent  men  from  touch- 
ing their  foreheads  to  the  ground  in 
worship,  and  "  —  Here  he  took  a  sip 
of  coffee.  The  effect  was  tremendous. 
Ali  Bey  sprang  to  his  feet,  spat  out  the 
coffee,  flung  the  cup  and  its  scalding 
contents  at  the  head  of  the  unsuspecting 
cafeji,  and  roared  out,  "  The  ass-headed 
idiot  has  sugared  it !  May  ten  thousand 
plagues  light  upon  him  and  his  father 
and  his  mother !  And  he  calls  him- 
self a  cafeji ! ' 

Then  the  Bey  strode  to  his  horse, 
mounted,  and  rode  away  from  the  scene 
of  so  disgusting  an  adventure. 

The  other  Zeibeks  had  made  a  rush 
•with  one  accord  toward  the  unhappy 
(Greek  ;  but  that  clumsy  bungler  was  too 
.quick  for  them,  and  scurried  over  the 
caravan  bridge  like  a  hare,  having 
learned  at  last  that  Zeibeks  take  their 
coffee  "  straight."  The  men  did  not 
pursue  him,  but,  picking  up  the  shoes 
which  had  dropped  from  the  cafeji's 
feet  in  his  flight,  they  hurled  them  after 
him  with  a  few  well-compounded  impre- 
cations, and  then,  mounting  their  horses, 
;they  rode  away  after  their  chief. 

The  next  morning  Ali  Bey  and  two 
of  his  men  were  riding  toward  a  village 
perched  on  the  slopes  of  Mount  Tmolus. 
They  had  slept  three  or  four  hours  on 
the  floor  of  a  wayside  hut,  and  now  the 
clear  morning  air  of  their  own  home 
land  had  dissipated  the  traces  of  what- 
ever discontent  they  had  found  in  the 
city.  In  that  fine  air  Ali  Bey  was  a 
very  different  being  from  the  Ali  Bey 
of  the  streets  of  "  giaour ':  Smyrna. 
Even  so  slight  a  change  of  geographical 
position  had  brought  him  into  a  land 
where  the  infidels  have  no  part,  and 
where  the  very  blades  of  grass  seemed 
more  fresh  and  green  for  their  freedom 
from  the  contaminating  presence.  As 
his  horse  jogged  along,  Ali  Bey  was 


singing  a  love  ditty  in  a  clear  voice,  his 
eyes  lingering  tenderly  upon  the  sheep 
of  the  great  flocks  that  were  busily  crop- 
ping the  short  grass. 

The  place  was  by  no  means  devoid  of 
beauty,  although  hardly  a  tree  could  be 
seen  on  the  ridges  that  stretched  away 
into  the  east.  In  the  valleys  on  either 
hand  were  black  groves  of  olive  ;  far 
below,  toward  the  west,  the  wide  plains 
were  dotted  with  heavy  clumps  of  wal- 
nut-trees ;  here  and  there  on  the  nearer 
slopes  were  patches  of  bright  vineyard, 
or  more  compact  stretches  of  wheat  that 
piled  up  lazily  moving  billows  in  the 
gentle  breeze.  Yellow  butterflies  chased 
each  other  across  the  path,  and  many  a 
caroling  songster  rose  swiftly  from  the 
scrubby  oak  bushes  that  grew  hedge-like 
along  parts  of  the  road.  Not  far  away, 
in  front,  the  little  village  of  sun-dried 
brick  lay  bowered  in  fruit  trees,  with 
a  single  white  minaret  to  testify  to  its 
devout  and  orderly  character.  By  the 
roadside,  just  outside  of  the  village,  was 
a  little  stone  fountain,  shaded  by  two  or 
three  terebinth-trees. 

As  Ali  Bey  approached  this  fountain 
he  stopped  singing,  for  his  eye  fell  upon 
a  girl  who  was  waiting  there  for  her 
water-jug  to  fill  at  the  ever  flowing-tap. 
The  girl  was  dressed  in  a  short  jacket 
of  sky-blue  broadcloth,  open  in  front 
over  a  vest  of  striped  cotton.  Full 
trousers  of  the  same  red  and  white 
striped  material,  thickly  gathered  at  the 
waist,  fell  in  copious  curves  to  the  ankle, 
where  a  tight  band,  concealed  under  the 
overhanging  folds,  held  them  up  from 
the  bare  brown  foot.  Upon  her  head 
she  wore  a  large  white  kerchief,  gay-^ 
ly  embroidered  on  the  edges,  beneath 
which,  reaching  to  her  waist,  was  a  mass 
of  slender  braids  of  jet-black  hair,  each 
separate  braid  adorned  at  its  extremity 
with  a  small  gold  coin.  A  string  of 
similar  gold  coins  marked  the  place 
where  her  collar  should  have  been,  had 
the  various  garments  which  met  at  her 
neck  included  any  such  point  of  definite 


1884.] 


Beaten  by  a  G-iaour. 


83 


termination  as  is  implied  by  a  button  or 
other  fastening.  The  kerchief  covered 
her  head  and  drooped  over  her  fore- 
head; but  her  bJack  eyes  sparkled,  and 
her  full,  well-colored  lips  quivered  into 
a  smile  as  All  Bey's  group  came  up. 
She  quickly  drew  the  kerchief  over  her 
mouth  and  throat,  but  not  so  soon  as  to 
conceal  the  glow  that  suddenly  warmed 
the  tint  of  her  round  dark  cheek. 

"  Who    is   in    the  village,  Emine  ? ' 
asked  Ali    Bey,  drawing   rein   by   the 
fountain. 

"  Hamid  is  there,"  replied  the  girl. 
"  My  father  has  gone  hunting,  and  the 
rest  are  out  with  the  sheep.  Most  of 
the  girls  have  gone  to  get  wood." 

"  Are  you  all  well  ?  "  asked  Ali,  with 
a  caress  in  the  glance  of  his  eyes  as  well 
as  in  his  voice. 

"  Praise  God,"  said  Emine*,  simply, 
dropping  her  eyes  under  the  gaze  of  the 
Bey. 

Ali  Bey  looked  around  uneasily  at 
his  two  companions,  who  had  halted  by 
his  side.  They  understood  their  chief's 
moods  by  intuition,  and  without  a  word 
rode  on  into  the  village.  Then  Ali 
Bey  leaned  over  toward  the  girl  to  whis- 
per the  one  word  "  Dearest ! ' 

Emine  looked  up  quickly,  with  a 
bright  light  in  her  eyes.  Then,  turning 
away,  she  filled  a  gourd  with  water 
from  the  fountain  and  offered  it  to  Ali. 
But  she  still  held  the  kerchief  closely 
drawn  across  her  face.  Only  her  eyes 
smiled  up  at  her  lover. 

Ali  took  the  gourd,  lightly  touching, 
as  he  did  so,  the  little  brown  hand. 
Then  he  said  gently,  "  Don't  hide  your 
face,  Emine.  I  have  n't  seen  you  for  so 
long." 

o 

Yes,"  answered    Emine*,   "  not  for 
three  whole  days  !  " 

Her  hand  relaxed  its  grasp,  so  that 
when  she  reached  up  to  take  the  water- 
gourd  again,  one  corner  of  the  kerchief 
fell  away,  entirely  revealing  her  face. 
For  an  instant  she  looked  up  at  Ali  Bey 
with  a  witching  expression  of  surrender ; 


and  then  she  caught  the  kerchief  to- 
gether again,  and  dropped  her  eyes  to 
the  ground.  * 

"  Emine,  my  heart  is  torn  in  pieces. 
I  am  in  torture  every  moment  that  I 
am  away  from  you.  Your  father  is  too 
hard  on  us,  to  make  us  wait  these 
months  and  months  ! ': 

The  girl's  brow  flushed,  and  her  veiled 
head  bent  lower  as  she  slowly  said, 
"What  do  you  think  that  I  feel,  then,  if 
you  can  feel  so  much  for  me  ?  '  Then, 
nervously  looking  around,  she  added, 
"  But,  Ali,  you  must  not  stay  here. 
People  will  talk." 

"  What  do  we  care  for  what  the  wag- 

o 

chins  say  ?  Are  you  not  promised  to 
me  ?  It  can't  be  long  now  to  our  mar- 
riage day,  although  I  did  not  succeed  in 
Smyrna." 

"  But  you  know  father  would  be  very 
angry  if  he  knew  that  I  have  these  little 
talks  with  you,  Ali.  He  says  that  we 
shall  have  plenty  of  time  to  do  our  talk- 
ing by  and  by  ;  and  that  then  he  won't 
have  the  whole  village  coming  to  him 
every  day  to  ask  him  what  we  talk 
about." 

"  Well,  I  shall  make  you  let  me  see 
your  eyes  enough,  for  once,  when  that 
day  comes  !  Do  you  know  that  I  have  a 
plan  to  get  the  other  fifty  pounds  to  put 
with  the  fifty  I  have  already  ?  That 
will  be  all  your  father  asks." 

"  Father  says  that  Ahmed  Bey  from 
Sarikeriy  has  offered  him  two  hundred 
pounds  for  me." 

"  He  has  gold,"  said  Ali  Bey,  fiercely, 
"  and  he  has  three  wives  besides.  But 
you  know  very  well  that  it  is  n't  for 
lack  of  love  that  I  don't  give  asvmuch. 
The  sheep-tax  eats  up  all  the  money, 
and  now  this  railroad  takes  everybody 
right  by  us  into  the  city,  so  that  there 
is  no  chance  of  finding  a  traveler  with 
five  paras  in  his  pocket." 

"  Yes,  Ali,  I  know  ;  and  father  knows 
very  well  that  1  would  never  marry 
Ahmed  Bey.  He  is  cruel  to  his  wives." 

"  Well,  I  am  going  to  ask  advice  of 


84 


Beaten  l>y  a  Giaour. 


your  father  about  a  plan.  You  see,  if 
the  giaour  merchants  'invent  a  railroad 
to  escape  paying  toll  to  us,  we  must  in- 
vent, too.  There  they  all  are,  shut  up 
in  their  boxes.  Perhaps  we  can  catch 
the  lot  at  once,  instead  of  having  to  lie 
out  night  after  night  on  the  highway 
to  catch  them  one  at  a  time.  Perhaps 
we  may  make  this  railroad  a  means  to 
larger  prolits,  after  all." 

"  That  is  a  brave  man's  plan,"  said 
Emine,  earnestly.  "  God  intends  all 
men  to  have  a  chance  to  live.  Where 
he  shuts  one  door  he  opens  a  thousand ! 
But  you  really  must  go,  Ali.  Some  of 
the  girls  will  be  coming  back." 

"  Dear,  if  I  am  blessed  in  this  plan  of 
mine  I  shall  have  the  gold,  and  then  — 
Ah,  Emine,  I  shall  make  your  father 
promise  that  it  shall  be  within  two 
weeks.  Farewell.  But  first  let  me  see 
your  face  once  more." 

"  No,  Ali,"  said  Emine,  looking  on 
the  ground.  "  I  always  feel  ashamed 
of  myself  for  hours  after  I  have  let  you 
see  my  face  in  this  brazen  way.  Be 
patient,  for  I  am  promised  to  you," 
and  she  turned  her  soft  black  eyes  full 
upon  him. 

The  stern  law  of  the  veil  makes  it 
dangerous  to  good  repute  for  a  girl  to 
be  seen  talking  alone  with  a  young  man. 
Turkish  lovers  therefore  have  to  con- 
tent themselves  with  mere  glimpses, 
hurried  words,  and  a  vivid  imagination, 
which,  after  all,  plays  the  most  impor- 
tant part  in  weaving  the  entanglements 
of  youthful  hearts.  With  eyes  only 
might  these  two  exchange  their  farewell 
salute.  Yet,  even  as  he  touched  spur 
to  his  horse,  Ali  Bey  suddenly  put  forth 
his  hand  and  laid  it  caressingly  upon 
the  forehead  of  Emine.  It  was  only  a 
touch,  but  she  started  back,  chiding  his 
boldness,  and  in  the  quick  movement  her 
kerchief  escaped  her  hand  once  more, 
revealing,  as  in  a  flash,  her  radiant  face. 
The  next  moment  Ali  Bey's  horse  was 
taking  him  up  the  village  street. 

Hafiz  Effendi,  the  father  of  Emine", 


was  the  chief  man  of  the  village.  He 
was  a  kindly  old  gentleman,  with  the 
dignified  air  which  ponderous  motions 
and  a  patriarchal  beard  may  impart  even 
to  a  mountaineer;  and  his  dress  was 
entirely  different  from  that  of  the  less 
learned  members  of  the  community. 
He  might  be  seen  any  day,  at  the  hours 
of  prayer,  entering  the  little  mosque,  his 
stout  form  enveloped  in  a  flowing  gown 
of  crimson,  worn  over  a  close  robe  of 
dark  green  broadcloth.  This  inner  robe, 
bound  at  the  waist  by  a  girdle  of  gay 
cashmere,  hung  several  inches  below  the 
skirt  of  the  gown,  and  well  below  the 
knee.  Here,  however,  the  old  gentle- 
man seemed  to  have  come  to  the  end  of 
his  ingenuity  or  of  his  material,  since  he 
but  illy  screened  his  nether  extremities 
from  the  public  gaze  by  the  protruding 
and  crumpled  ends  of  white  cotton  un- 
der-garments  that  entirely  failed  to  meet 
a  very  disreputable-looking  and  down- 
at-the-heel  pair  of  woolen  socks.  Broad, 
low  red  shoes  with  upturned  points 
completed  the  equipment  of  his  feet. 
To  his  head  more  attention  was  given. 
First  he  wore  a  white  cotton  skull-cap 
next  his  shaven  poll,  then  a  second  skull- 
cap of  felt,  and  outside  of  this  a  thickly 
wadded  and  quilted  cap  of  red  cotton, 
which  overhung  his  head  at  all  points, 
like  the  eaves  of  a  Chinese  pagoda. 
Outside  of  all,  the  badge  of  learning  — 
the  thick,  white  turban  —  was  wound 
in  such  a  way  as  to  leave  exposed  to 
view  only  the  flat  top  of  the  massive  red 
cap.  This  arrangement  certainly  en- 
dowed Hafiz  Effendi  with  the  appear- 
ance of  possessing  a  vast  intellectual  ap- 
paratus, —  an  appearance  which  might 
.or  might  not  be  borne  out  by  the  facts, 
since  his  philosophy  had  little  to  do  with 
any  world  outside  of  his  own  village. 
Whatever  was  not  of  the  order  of  na- 
ture familiar  to  him  he  was  wont  to  at- 
tribute to  supernatural  causes.  All  that 
seemed  to  him  good  he  used  to  ascribe 
to  the  divine  interposition.  All  that 
seemed  evil,  including  infidels,  foreign- 


1884.] 


Beaten  by  a  Giaour. 


85 


ers,  and  their  works,  devices,  and  inno- 
vations, he  attributed  to  the  less  whole- 
some but  still  supernatural  influence  of 
a  very  active  and  personal  devil.  He 
had  no  interest  in  such  matters,  being 
content  to  dwell  among  the  flocks  on 
the  mountain,  to  worship  God,  and  to 
teach  the  young  people  a  sound  moral- 
ity. His  moral  code  was  high,  but  like 
some  more  favored  wise  men  he  held 
that  the  moral  law  had  no  restraints  to 
lay  upon  the  conduct  of  his  people  to- 
ward strangers,  and  particularly  toward 
those  of  a  different  religious  faith.  So 
his  people  were  well  behaved  and  even 
gentle  at  home,  but  did  what  was  right 
in  their  own  eyes  when  outside  of  their 
village.  The  good  Effendi  owed  his 
chief  distinction  to  the  fact  of  his  having 
studied  in  a  Moslem  theological  semi- 
nary somewhere  in  the  misty  past.  The 
respect  paid  to  a  village  priest  in  non- 
Moslem  communities  fell  to  this  old 
gentleman  in  this  Zeibek  village,  by 
reason  of  the  information  on  all  social 
and  religious  problems  supposed  to  lie 
in  the  magazines  outlined  by  that  vast 
head-dress.  It  is  true  that  Ali  Bey  was 
chief,  because  he  belonged  to  a  line 
whose  blood  had  known  no  plebeian  ad- 
mixture since  the  Seljuk  sultans.  But 
to  Hafiz  Effendi  the  Bey  looked  up,  as 
leader  in  worship  and  as  keeper  of  his 
conscience.  As  to  his  retainers,  the 
common  herd  scarce  dared  breathe  in 
the  presence  of  the  lord  of  their  chief. 

That  evening,  after  the  fifth  and  last 
prayer  at  tho  mosque,  Ali  Bey  called  to 
sec  Hafiz  Effendi.  He  had  his  plan 
to  propose  for  extracting  revenue  from 
the  mercantile  community  on  an  entirely 
new  basis.  But,  feeling  somewhat  un- 
certain as  to  his  ground,  he  also  wished 
the  solution  of  a  problem  in  morals. 

llafiz  Effendi  felt  something  like  en- 
thusiasm for  the  young  man  to  whom 
he  had  promised  Emine  for  little  more 
than  half  what  he  might  have  asked  as 
dowry.  He  had  favored  Ali  Bey  be- 
cause of  his  high  descent  and  because 


of  .his  unusual  acuteness  and  energy. 
He  now  felt  that  his  confidence  was  not 
misplaced,  for  the  enterprise  proposed 
was  one  that  moved  his  whole  heart. 
Certain  ladies  of  his  acquaintance  had 
more  than  once  hinted  to  him  that  his 
teaching  was  not  worth  much  if  it  could 

O  » 

not  lead  the  men  of  the  tribe  to  bestir 
themselves  to  provide  for  their  families. 
Scarcity  had  set  in  since  the  opening  of 
the  railway  had  reduced  the  whole  vil- 
lage to  dependence  on  its  flocks  for  its 
luxuries. 

"  Good,  my  son  !  "  said  Hafiz  Effendi. 
"You  will  have  no  difficulty  in  catching 
them  all." 

"  But  one  thing  troubles  me.  What 
will  the  police  say  ?  They  are  becom- 
ing less  and  less  friendly.  I  should  not 
wish  to  have  our  village  visited  by  a 
band  of  mounted  police  sent  to  punish 
a  Bey." 

"  The  police  can  be  managed,  if  you 
return  with  full  hands,  although  the 
government  has  fallen  so  low  as  to  sup- 
port these  new-fangled  notions  as  to 
freedom  of  trade.  The  people  hunger 
because  they  are  not  protected.  My 
wife  told  me  yesterday  how  the  people 
lack  clothing,  and  how  they  have  noth- 
ing to  eat  but  the  butter  and  cheese  of 
our  flocks.  The  story  which  she  told 
would  melt  a  very  heart  of  stone,  and 
cause  it  to  flow  as  tears  from  the  eyes. 
It  is  all  wrong  !  ' 

"  We  used  to  boast  that  no  Christian 
or  Jew  could  trade  in  our  district,  or 
even  pass  through  it,  without  giving 
tribute,"  said  Ali  Bey.  "  Yet  while  the 
government  frowns  on  our  enterprises, 
are  we  right  in  acting  independently  ? 
Can  we  fearlessly  take  from  the  rail- 
road which  the  government  has  allowed 
to  be  built  ?  " 

"  Leave  the  government  to  ruin  it- 
self !  It  is  sold  to  the  aliens,  like  a  cam- 
el, with  its  old  halter  thrown  in.  This 
nonsense  about  equal  rights  and  inter- 
ests will  one  day  destroy  it.  The  foun- 
dation of  all  prosperity  is  the  principle 


86 


Beaten  by  a  Griaour. 


[July, 


that  the  government  should  protect 
the  interests  and  industries  of  its  own 
people  first.  The  rest  of  the  world  has 
no  right  to  enjoy  in  this  land  what  our 
own  people  have  not.  Where  is  the 
railroad  owned  by  our  people  ?  The 
good  of  this  freedom  goes  to  infidels  and 
foreigners,  until  every  Jew  and  every 
Greek  is  like  a  lamb  with  two  dams, 
while  any  Moslem  you  meet  is  as  black 
in  the  face  as  a  kid  disowned  by  its 
mother." 

"  But  if  the  government  calls  us  to 
account  for  attacking  the  railway,  could 
I  maintain  this  principle  in  the  courts  ?  ' 
asked  AH  Bey,  with  a  prudent  foresight 
that  his  daily  associates  would  not  have 
suspected  in  the  fiery  young  chief. 

"No  doctor  of  the  holy  law  could 
condemn  you  for  such  an  act  of  pure 
self-defense,*'  replied  the  wise  man  ear- 
nestly. "  All  authorities  agree  that  the 
sheep  of  the  flock  must  first  be  fed.  It 
is  the  object  in  view  that  settles  the  mo- 
rality of  the  measures  adopted.  Were 
it  not  for  this,  the  faithful  would  have 
no  freedom.  Where  choice  lies  between 
a  Moslem's  suffering  want  and  his  feed- 
ing in  the  pastures  of  more  fortunate  in- 
fidels, the  Moslem  has  a  right  to  take 
measures  to  secure  a  division  of  good 
things  in  accord  with  the  evident  de- 
sign for  which  Providence  has  created 
infidels.  This,  my  son,  is  in  accord  with 
the  usage  of  ages  among  our  brethren 
of  the  Arabian  deserts.  They  hold  it 
lawful,  in  case  of  necessity,  to  attack 
with  armed  force  any  individual,  or  any 
caravan  of  another  tribe,  provided  only 
that  the  attack  be  made  openly  and  in 
daylight,  as  becomes  men,  and  that  the 
victims  are  left  with  enough  provision 
to  secure  them  against  starvation  during 
a  journey  to  the  next  town.  No  court 
whose  judge  is  a  Moslem  could  censure 
you  for  acting  on  this  principle." 

"Well,  I  shall  try  this  thing.  You 
know  that  it  is  for  Emine  that  I  do  it. 
Within  three  days,  by  the  help  of  the 
Prophet,  I  shall  claim  her  under  your 


promise,"  said  Ali  Bey,  as  he  arose  to 
depart. 

"  Go  in  peace,"  replied  the  pious  old 
man.  "  Work  by  daylight,  be  not  too 
exacting,  shed  no  blood  save  in  case 
some  miscreant  forces  you  to  it  in  self- 
defense,  and  the  blessing  of  blessings 
go  with  you  ! ' 

Of  course  the  ladies  could  not  be  vis- 
ible to  persons  of  the  opposite  sex ;  but 
at  such  evening  consultations  they  gen- 
erally contrived  to  be  somewhere  within 
earshot.  So  when  Ali  Bey  had  gone  forth 
into  the  night  he  was  not  surprised  to 
hear  a  slight  "Hem!  "  proceed  from  the 
side  of  the  house,  as  though  some  fem- 
inine creature,  there  walled  up,  was  pre- 
paring to  exercise  her  vocal  organs.  He 
went  quickly  to  the  place,  and  found  a 
small  window  closely  covered  by  a  board 
shutter.  A  light  tap  on  the  shutter 
showed  him  that  some  one  was  within, 
and  a  small  crack  between  two  boards 
offered  him  a  channel  of  communication. 

"  Emine  ! '    whispered  Ali  Bey. 

"Yes,"  came  from  within. 

"  I  am  going  to  try  it  for  your  sake." 

"  Brave,  good  Ali !  Mother  says  you 
are  of  the  real  old  Turkish  stock,  born 
to  be  a  hero." 

"  You  must  be  ready  for  the  wedding 
next  week,  Emiue." 

"  Nonsense  !  You  are  crazy.  It  will 
take  a  week  to  make  ready  the  feast. 
But  I  must  go  back,  or  father  will  be 
coming  to  look  for  me.  Good-night ! ' 

"  Open  the  window  a  little." 

"  No,  I  can't.     Good-night !  " 

"But,  Emine"  — 

«  Well  ?  " 

"  I  am  going  to  insist  about  the  wed- 
ding  "  - 

"  Why,  of  course  we  can't  have  it  so 
soon.  Father  will  tell  you  all  about  it. 
But  go,  quick  ;  somebody  is  coming ! 

"  Listen,  dear :  wait  for  me  at  the 
fountain,  day  after  to-morrow,  a  little 
after  noon." 

"  Yes.  God  bless  you  and  give  you 
the  success  you  deserve.  Good-night ! ' 


1884.] 


Beaten  by  a  Giaour. 


8T 


At  the  same  moment  the  heavy  step 
of  Hafiz  Effendi  was  plainly  heard  cross- 
ing the  floor  within.  Upon  this,  a  sudden 
busy  clatter  of  utensils  having  informed 
Ali  that  Emine  was  duly  prepared  to 
meet  the  ordeal  of  the  old  gentleman's 
inquisitive  eye,  he  thought  it  wise  to  de- 
part. With  so  much  of  an  interview  as 
encouragement,  he  might  be  content  to 
attend  to  the  serious  duties  now  before 
him. 

The  next  night,  Ali   Bey  with    two 

en  rode  into  a  pine  grove  on  the 
Chamli  Yaila,  twenty-five  miles  from 
Smyrna,  and  close  to  the  railway  line. 
He  dismounted,  and  established  himself 
on  a  rug  which  Hassan  spread  under 
one  of  the  trees.  Soon  another  young 
brave  appeared,  and  then  others,  until 
twenty-three  men  had  arrived,  equipped 
for  a  bivouac. 

Once  on  the  ground,  Ali  Bey  began 
to  wish  that  he  had  more  information 
as  to  the  mechanism  and  habits  of  rail- 
way trains.  He  had  come  there  to 
search  the  pockets  of  the  passengers  — 
a  simple  matter,  once  the  passengers 
were  caught.  The  one  difficult  part  of 
the  undertaking,  namely  the  stopping 
of  the  train,  gave  rise  to  a  lively  inter- 
change of  views. 

Yahya,  a  young  and  promising  broth- 
er of  Ali  Bey,  proposed  that  they  all  go 
and  stand  on  the  track  in  front  of  the 
train  and  so  compel  it  to  stop.  He  was, 
however,  speedily  reduced  to  silence  by 
Hassan,  who,  firmly  believing  that  the 
giaours  had  imprisoned  a  genie  for  their 
motive  and  power,  said,  — 

"  Stupid  !  If  we  stand  in  front  of  it, 
it  will  see  us,  and  stop  so  far  off  that  the 
passengers  will  run  away  before  we  can 
get  there." 

'  Besides,"   added    old    Omer,    "  we 
might  get  bruised  ;  it  goes  so  fast." 

"  The  first  thing  we  have  to  do," 
growled  Ibrahim,  "  is  to  teach  our  boys 
to  have  short  tongues  and  wide  ears." 

Hussein  completed  the  boy's  discom- 
fiture by  saying  to  him,  "  Your  tongue 


is  as  long  as  a  baker's  shovel  already ; 
what  will  it  be  when  you  grow  up  ?  ' 

Upon  this  Ali  Bey  interfered  with 
"  Well,  well,  Yahya  is  n't  a  camel,  that 
when  you  want  to  finish  him  you  must 
needs  cut  his  throat  in  seven  places.  It 
does  n't  take  a  whole  tribe  to  silence  a 
boy." 

"  I  did  n't  mean  to  hurt  the  boy's  feel- 
ings," replied  Hussein  humbly.  "  But 
about  the  train  :  the  Jew  peddler  told  me 
that  his  brother  had  it  from  one  of  the 
engineers  that  if  the  fire  goes  out  the 
thing  stops.  Let  us  send  men  for  buck- 
ets, and  have  them  full  of  water  ready 
to  dash  on  the  fire  as  the  train  goes  by. 
That  will  stop  it,  sure." 

"  Or,"  reflectively  added  Ismail,  "  we 
might  get  a  big  rope,  thicker  than  we 
would  use  to  tie  Ahmed  Bey's  great 
bull,  and  with  more  men  we  could  hold 
the  rope  in  front  of  it  and  make  it  stop." 

So  these  innocents  of  the  mountain 
discussed  the  methods  of  controlling  this 
foreign  invention  without  an  idea  of 
that  with  which  they  had  to  do.  They 
had  seen  the  trains  pass  and  repass,  but 
they  had  merely  said,  "  Mashallah !  " 
never  concerning  themselves  to  go  to 
a  station  for  a  nearer  understanding  of 
the  curiosity. 

At  last  Ali  Bey>  after  a  feasible  plan 
had  occurred  to  him,  stopped  their  spec- 
ulations with  a  lofty  air,  as  he  said,  — 

"  Ah,  bah,  men  !  One  may  as  well  ex- 
pect the  blind  to  understand  color  as  a 
peasant  wisdom.  The  train  will  come 
with  more  force  than  ten  bulls.  We 
must  have  something  that  will  hold  such 
a  force.  At  the  same  time  we  must  be 
free  to  act,  ourselves,  for  what  we  do 
we  must  do  quickly." 

Ali  Bey's  auditors  were  filled  with 
admiration  at  his  far-seeing  judgment, 
and  when  he  added  that  he  thought 
a  goodly  heap  of  stones  on  the  track 
would  do  the  business,  the  admiration 
of  his  followers  was  changed  to  enthu- 
siasm over  the  discovery  that  their  little 
village  had  produced  a  man  of  genius. 


Beaten  ly  a  Griaour. 


[July, 


The  great  question  settled,  there  were 
no  burdens  upon  the  minds  of  the  men, 
and  the  evening  passed  away  merrily, 
with  story-telling,  ballad-singing,  and 
even  a  little  dancing.  At  last  the  men, 
wrapped  in  sleeveless  shepherd's  coats 
of  felt,  disposed  themselves  on  the 
ground,  and  slept  the  sleep  of  the  pure 
in  conscience.  In  the  morning,  also,  they 
rested  quietly  among  the  trees  until  the 
down  train  had  passed.  Then  they  fell 
to  work.  They  piled  large  stones  upon 
the  track,  and  then  heaped  a  second  pile 
to  make  things  doubly  sure.  All  Bey  was 
a  little  doubtful  as  to  the  habits  of  loco- 
motives. He  had  once  seen  an  engine 
at  the  station  turn  out,  in  order  to  pass 
cars  that  stood  in  the  way.  If  it  could 
turn  out  to  pass  cars,  why  not  turn  out 
to  pass  a  barricade  ?  So  he  ordered  the 
barricade  to  bo  extended,  wing  fashion, 
to  the  ditch  on  either  side.  The  men 
were  still  at  work  when  the  sound  of 
the  whistle  at  Eshekli  station  brought 
their  hearts  into  their  mouths,  and  sent 
the  whole  band  to  cover. 

"  Now,  remember,"  said  Ali  Bey. 
"  Not  a  man  stirs  until  I  rise  up  ;  then 
every  one  is  to  rush  in  like  a  whirlwind. 
Pistols  and  swords  in  your  hands,  but 
not  a  drop  of  blood  is  to  be  shed  ! ': 

Meanwhile  George  Farr,  the  conduc- 
tor of  the  morning  train,  was  in  the  sta- 
tion at  Smyrna,  answering -the  multifa- 
rious calls  for  the  "  guard,"  as  the  time 
for  departure  arrived.  The  first  bell 
had  rung,  and  the  passengers  came  hur- 
rying from  the  waiting-room  like  a  pack 
of  children  let  out  of  school.  There 
were  government  officials,  sleek  and  smil- 
ing, and  army  officers,  with  servants 
loaded  down  with  bedding.  There  were 
merchants  in  long  robes  and  red  fez 
caps,  going  out  to  buy  opium,  cotton, 
figs,  carpets,  and  what  not.  There  were 
Moslem  theologians  in  white  turbans, 
and  Turkish  ladies  swathed  and  muffled 
into  the  semblance  of  walking  feather- 
beds.  There  were  trim  European  clerks, 
and  black  -  robed  priests,  and  elegantly 


dressed  European  ladies.  Once  or  twice 
Farr  looked  uneasily  toward  the  door  of 
the  waiting-room ;  but  quickly  his  face 
brightened,  and  he  hastened  in  that  di- 
rection, as  Mr.  Thompson,  the  engineer 
at  the  works  on  "  the  point,"  appeared 
in  the  doorway,  followed  by  his  wife 
and  daughter.  There  was  small  time  for 
greetings,  but  a  rosy  smile  from  pretty 
Miss  Thompson  satisfied  all  Farr's  im- 
mediate cravings  in  that  direction,  and 
produced  a  slight  increase  of  color  on 
the  frank  Saxon  face  of  the  young  man. 

The  three  new-comers  were  quickly 
established  in  a  reserved  compartment. 

"Don't  let  your  engine  go  to  play- 
ing any  pranks  to-day,"  cried  Miss 
Thompson  gayly,  as  Farr  was  shutting 
the  door. 

"  The  engine  will  be  on  its  good  be- 
havior while  you  are  on  board,"  laughed 
Farr.  "  It  has  the  reputation  of  the 
road  to  make,  so  that  you  may  want  to 
come  again." 

And  then  the  last  bell  jangled.  Be- 
lated ones  scrambled  into  their  places. 
Farr  hurried  off  to  his  van  in  the  rear 
of  the  train.  Several  individuals  ran 
at  a  breakneck  speed  in  various  direc- 
tions along  the  platform.  The  whistle 
screeched,  and  the  train  moved  slowly 
out  of  the  station  amid  the  plaudits  of 
the  populace. 

George  Farr  was  in  a  state  of  high 
elation.  He  had  induced  the  Thomp- 
son family  to  take  a  trip  out  and  back 
on  his  train  that  day  in  order  to  enjoy 
the  novelty  of  a  railway  excursion,  with 
a  picnic  in  a  certain  cool  grove  at  the 
other  end  of  the  line.  He  had  bv  this 

*. 

means  secured  the  pleasing  .result  of 
having  the  fair-faced  English  girl  near 
him  during  the  whole  day,  and  of  feel- 
ing that  the  responsibility  for  her  corn- 
fort  rested  with  himself  in  a  peculiar 
degree.  His  assiduity  in  making  official 
rounds  of  the  train  on  that  occasion  was 
something  remarkable,  and  he  had  had 
several  pleasant  chats  with  the  occupants 
of  the  particular  carriage  where  his  offi- 


1884.] 


Beaten  "by  a  Griaour. 


89 


cial  duties  seemed  inclined  to  end.  The 
train  had  just  left  one  of  the  little  way- 
stations  when  Farr,  sitting  in  his  van, 
began  to  feel  that  he  could  not  be  easy 
in  his  mind  until  he  had  made  the  tour 
of  the  train  once  more,  in  order  to  make 
sure  that  if  any  passenger  had  slipped 
in  unnoticed,  at  Eshekli,  such  passenger 
was  provided  with  his  proper  ticket. 
So  he  set  forth  again  to  clamber  along 
the  footboards.  As  he  drew  near  the 
compartment  where  his  friends  were  es- 
tablished, he  spied  Miss  Thompson's 
beaming  face  at  the  window,  at  which 
she  was  engaged  in  eating  a  peach.  She 
shook  her  linger  threateningly  at  him, 
but  he  did  not  let  that  daunt  him,  and 
slyly  tossed  a  kiss  to  her  in  return.  By 
this  time  he  was  quite  sure  that  no  one 
had  got  on  board  at  Eshekli.  Hence  he 
concluded  that  there  was  no  need  of  his 
visiting  the  other  carriages,  and  decided, 
on  the  whole,  to  stop  and  chat  with  the 
Thompsons  a  little  while.  He  had  his 
hand  upon  the  key,  to  open  the  door, 
when  the  engine  gave  a  blast  of  the 
whistle  so  frantic  as  to  make  him  pause. 
Then  the  train  stopped.  In  his  wonder 
Farr  actually  forgot  Miss  Thompson. 

He  dropped  to  the  ground,  to  see 
what  was  the  matter.  Matter  enough ! 
"  Some  tomfool  has  been  playing  a 
game,"  he  thought,  as  he  caught  sight  of 
a  heap  of  stones  piled  across  the  track. 
But  he  had  not  run  a  dozen  paces  to- 
ward the  head  of  the  train,  when  the 
air  suddenly  became  thick  with  furious 
yells,  and  a  crowd  of  Zeibeks  rushed 
from  the  bushes  by  the  roadside.  With 
swords  and  pistols  they  charged  the 
train,  from  which  arose  a  vast  hubbub 
of  screams. 

Two  of  the  men  quickly  seized  Farr, 
while  a  third  administered  several  sound- 
ing whacks  upon  his  back  with  the  flat 
of  a  sword. 

"  Open  these  doors  !  '  roared  the 
Zeibek ;  for  the  men  were  vainly  try- 
ing to  force  their  way  into  the  locked 
compartments. 


Farr  was  at  first  too  much  taken  by 
surprise  to  do  anything,  but  a  volley  of 
oaths,  accompanied  by  kicks  and  blows, 
brought  him  to  his  senses,  and  he  began 
to  unlock  the  doors  of  the  train.  Three 
or  four  Zeibeks  sprang  into  each  com- 
partment as  it  was  opened,  hurling  their 
whole  vocabulary  at  the  unfortunate  oc- 
cupants as  a  prophylactic  against  re- 
sistance. Shrieks,  prayers,  curses,  com- 
mands, entreaties,  resounded  on  every 
hand.  One  would  have  supposed  that 
the  whole  body  of  passengers  was  be- 
ing massacred.  Hardly  less  was  the 
turmoil  in  Farr's  own  brain,  as  he  found 
himself  in  front  of  a  compartment  in 
which  he  saw  Susan  Thompson's  white, 
scared  face  ;  while  Mr.  Thompson,  at 
the  window,  was  struggling  with  a  Zei- 
bek who  had  clutched  his  watch.  Farr 
paused,  but  he  paused  only  a  moment, 
for  a  huge  fellow  behind  him  struck 
him  between  the  shoulders,  shouting,  — 

"  Son  of  a  Russian  dog,  open  the 
doors  !  " 

There  was  a  woman's  scream  from 
within  the  carriage  as  Farr  staggered 
forward  under  the  force  of  the  blow. 
But  the  blow  was  a  deliverance,  for  it 
carried  him  past  the  door,  and  so  set- 
tled, for  the  moment,  the  question  of  his 
opening  it.  He  unlocked  the  door  to 
which  he  was  nearest,  and  the  Zeibeks 
rushed  in.  They  were  careless  as  to 
the  order  of  procedure,  since  several 
compartments  yet  remained  to  be  en- 
tered, while  the  supply  of  Zeibeks  was 
nearly  exhausted.  So  the  Thompsons 
were  left  to  themselves. 

Then  occurred  an  incident  of  the  class 
of  accidents  which  sometimes  change 
the  fate  of  surprises.  When  the  Zei- 
beks had  entered  the  compartment, 
Farr,  from  sheer  force  of  habit,  closed 
the  door  after  them.  The  slamming  of 
that  door  startled  him  with  an  idea. 
Three  more  Zeibeks  were  bawling  at 
some  Armenian  merchants  in  the  next 
carriage,  who  were  trying  to  escape 
through  the  opposite  window.  Farr  ad- 


90 


Beaten  by  a  Giaour. 


[July, 


mitted  the  impatient  robbers  and  shut 
the  door.  Then  he  turned,  and  ran 
with  all  his  might  along  the  train,  slam- 
ming the  doors  as  he  passed  by.  The 
Zeibeks  themselves,  in  their  anxiety  to 
keep  their  prey  from  escaping,  had  al- 
ready closed  two  of  the  compartments ; 
never  dreaming  that  they  could  not 
open  what  they  could  so  easily  shut. 
The  rest  were  too  busy  to  heed  what 
was  going  on  outside.  In  a  moment 
the  Zeibeks  were  all  shut  in,  and  Fan* 
had  leaped  upon  the  engine.  In  another 
moment  Ali  Bey,  who  had  just  trans- 
ferred a  frontlet  of  gold  coins  from  a 
Greek  girl's  head  to  his  own  pocket, 
sprang  to  the  window,  shouting,  — 

"  Whose  religion  have  I  got  to  curse 
now?  Who  is  playing  with  this  thing? 
Hassan !  Ibrahim  !  Who  is  moving 

o 

these  cars  ?  Stop  them  !  Mercy  !  they 
can  go  backwards  !  ' 

Events  move  quickly  when  a  band  of 
wild  Zeibeks  furnish  the  final  motive. 
It  was  barely  half  an  hour  after  the 
train  passed  Eshekli  station  going  up 
when  the  officials  at  that  place  were 
amazed  to  hear  it  coming  back.  It 
went  by  like  a  flash.  But  Zeibeks  were 
leaning  out  of  all  the  windows,  and 
mingled  with  the  roar  of  the  wheels  was 
a  great  roar  of  voices,  threatening  and 
entreating.  Snatches  of  sound  even 
came  in  the  form  of  intelligible  Turkish 
cries  :  "Open  the  door  !  '  "  Stop  !  stop, 
I  say  !  "  "  Let  me  out !  "  "I  '11  kill 
you  if  you  don't  stop  it ! '  and  then  the 
train  and  the  hubbub  following  were  gone 
around  the  curve  of  the  hill.  When  the 
people  at  the  station  had  done  craning 
their  necks  at  this  strange  sight,  they 
found  a  lump  of  coal  on  the  platform. 
On  the  coal  was  a  piece  of  paper  bear- 
ing a  scrawl,  which,  when  deciphered 
was  found  to  read  :  — 

"  The  brigands  have  caught  us.  Wire 

o  o 

line  clear,  and  troops  at  station. 

"  G.  FARR." 

In  consequence  of  this  and  sundry 
similar  lumps  of  coal  dropped  at  other 


little  stations  as  the  mad  train  went  by, 
there  were  soldiers  waiting  at  the 
Smyrna  terminus  when  the  Zeibeks  ar- 
rived at  the  end  of  their  unexpected 
journey.  The  line  of  troops  closed  in 
upon  the  train  as  soon  as  it  stopped. 
The  Zeibeks  were  cowed  and  abject. 
Hassan  alone  was  equal  to  the  emer- 
gency. "  It  was  all  a  mistake,"  he  ex- 
plained from  a  window.  "  We  only 
wanted  to  be  taken  on  board  the  train, 
and  the  foolish  fellow  who  opened  the 
doors  got  frightened,  and  came  back  in- 
stead of  going  on.  We  have  n't  done 
anything ! ' 

But  the  fat  colonel  in  command  of 
the  troops  mildly  advised  him  "  not  to 
tire  his  jaw,"  and  ordered  his  men  to 
keep  the  Zeibeks  from  leaving  the  car- 
riages until  the  passengers  had  alighted. 

The  passengers  streamed  forth  with 
great  alacrity ;  and  Farr,  hatless  and 
with  torn  and  muddy  clothes,  became 
the  centre  of  an  admiring  group.  The 
native  passengers,  in  true  Oriental  fash- 
ion, were  grumbling  at  the  man  who  had 
saved  them.  The  merchants  whose  es- 
cape through  the  windows  had  been  cut 
short  when  Farr  opened  the  door  of 
their  compartment  even  went  so  far  as 
to  propose  to  have  "  that  guard  "  arrested 
for  having  admitted  the  Zeibeks  to  the 
train.  But  the  Europeans  pressed  about 
the  young  man  to  shake  hands  and  praise 
his  pluck.  Among  these  appreciative 
remarks,  however,  none  quite  equaled 
in  force,  to  Farr  at  least,  that  of  Susan 
Thompson,  as  she,  coming  through  the 
crowd  with  her  father,  put  out  her  hand 
in  a  timid  way  and  said,  — 

"  You  are  a  very  brave  man,  George ! " 
and  she  gave  him  one  of  the  most  rav- 
ishing smiles  that  he  had  ever  beheld 
on  the  face  of  beauty. 

For  all  answer,  Farr,  forgetful  of  his 
torn  and  hatless  condition,  took  her 
proffered  hand  and  tucking  it  under  his 
arm  marched  off  to  the  waiting-room. 

C5 

Meanwhile  the  Zeibeks  were  brought 
out  from  the  cars,  and,  after  being 


1884.] 


The  Haunts  of  Galileo. 


91 


searched,  were  tied  together,  two  and 
two.  Poor  All  Bey  had  staked  his 
luck  against  that  of  the  Giaour.  As 

o 

usual,  the  bitterness  of  failure  had  over- 
whelmed the  unhappy  Oriental,  while 
the  sweets  of  success  had  fallen  to  the 
pushing,  energetic  foreigner.  To  the 
last  the  Zeibeks  protested  that  they  had 
done  nothing.  Ibrahim  said  pleadingly, 

"  We  are  not  such  boors  as  to  rob 
the  illustrious  people  who  go  on  this 
railroad.  We  took  nothing  from  them." 

In  fact,  the  most  rigorous  search  re- 
vealed no  stolen  goods,  for  the  Zeibeks 
had  been  wise  enough,  after  realizing 
their  position,  to  disgorge  the  various 
articles  which  they  had  appropriated  in 
the  first  flush  of  victory. 

Nevertheless,  the  fat  Turkish  colonel 
remorselessly  marched  them  off  to  the 
police  station.  As  they  were  passing 
down  the  street,  one  of  them,  who  had 
an  unusual  amount  of  gold  lace  on  his 


jacket,  was  heard  to  say  in  a  fierce  un- 
dertone, — 

"  May  owls  roost  on  the  tomb  of  the 
father  of  the  man  who  invented  rail- 
roads !  How  could  I  know  that  the 
thing  could  go  backwards  !  " 

"  Yes,  my  lord,"  feebly  responded  the 
man  to  whom  he  was  bound  with  cords ; 
"  the  mistake  was  that  we  did  n't  put 
the  second  pile  of  stones  at  the  other 
end ! " 

About  the  same  time,  at  the  village 
on  Mount  Tmolus,  a  girl,  singing  like  a 
bird  from  exuberance  of  happiness,  came 
lightly  down  the  path  toward  the  foun- 
tain under  the  terebinths.  There  she 
set  down  her  water-jug,  and  shading  her 
eyes  with  her  hand  she  gazed  steadfast- 
ly across  the  valley  to  southward,  say- 
ing to  herself,  "  Why  is  he  so  long  in 
his  coming  ? ' 

Poor  Emine  !  Her  vigil  at  the  tryst- 
ing-place  was  destined  to  be  a  long  one ! 

0.  H.  Durward. 


THE   HAUNTS  OF   GALILEO. 


THERE  are  few  men  of  science  whose 

« 

lives  offer  so  much  of  picturesqueness 
and  interest  to  the  popular  mind  as  that 
of  Galileo.  Marvelous  genius  though 
he  was,  he  lived  and  did  his  great  works 
among  the  people,  sharing  with  them  in 
all  the  vicissitudes  of  public  and  private 
life :  not  so  absorbed  in  his  mighty 
problems  that  he  could  not  bring  plain 
common  sense  to  bear  upon  the  most 
trivial  daily  matters ;  not  shut  away 
from  contact  and  sympathy,  as  is  often 
the  scientist  of  modern  times  in  conse- 
quence of  the  barriers  which  have  grown 
up  between  the  trades  and  the  liberal 
arts.  In  Galileo's  time  trades  were  arts ; 
the  merchant  and  the  dyer  felt  as  great 
a  pride  and  nearly  as  much  ownership 
in  the  discoveries  of  a  scientific  fellow- 
citizen  as  did  the  discoverer  himself. 


Artistic  expenditure  was  a  necessity  to 
the  beauty-loving  Latin  race,  and  who- 
ever enlarged  the  bounds  of  knowledge 
or  of  pleasure  was  a  benefactor  to  his 
humblest  neighbor.  The  spirit  of  Cim- 
abue's  day  had  not  yet  died  out.  There 
is  a  street  in  Florence  called  Borgo  Al- 
legro, the  Joyful  Street,  because  of  the 
delight  with  which  the  populace  hast- 
ened to  view  a  Madonna  of  surpassing 
beauty  which  Cimabue  had  just  com-] 
pleted  at  his  studio  in  that  street.  II 
Perugino  was  not  ashamed  to  paint  a 
banner,  or  Cellini  to  turn  from  the  mould- 
ing of  a  Perseus  to  the  fashioning  of 
an  inkstand  or  a  key. 

Memories  of  Galileo,  not  only  as  a  man 
of  science,  but  as  a  householder,  a  son, 
a  father,  a  friend,  cluster  about  Flor- 
ence and  its  neighborhood,  — about  Pisa, 


The  Haunts  of  G-alileo. 


[July, 


Padua,  and  Siena.  I  wish  to  recall  them 
in  connection  with  these  places.     Born 
in    Pisa,    the    son    of  an    impoverished 
Florentine   noble,    the  youth   was  des- 
tined by  his  father  to  be  a  tradesman  ; 
but  his  inclinations  were  entirely  averse 
to  this,  and  doubtless  his  father,  himself 
a  man  of  considerable  scientific  culture, 
secretly  sympathized  with  the  longings 
which  he  had  not  the  means  to  encour- 
age.    However,  Galileo  had  his  way  at 
last,  and  was  allowed  to  enroll  himself  as 
a  student  of  medicine  at  the  University 
of  Pisa  ;  the  father  insisting  that  since 
he  would  not  learn  a  trade  he  should  at 
least  adopt  a  lucrative  profession.     He 
was  not  a  favorite  with  his  conservative 
teachers;  his  independence   of  thought 
was  already  beginning  to  be  a  marked 
characteristic  ;   nor  was  he  ignorant  of 
his  unpopularity.    Probably  the  happiest 
hours  of  his  student  life  were  spent  in 
the   cathedral,   now   forever    associated 
with  his  name.    Perhaps  he  had  already 
in  childhood  learned  to  seek  this  refuge 
from  the    sharp  tongue  of   his  mother, 
who    made    his    home   anything   but   a 
peaceful  place. 

There  is  no  more  lovely,  softly  mel- 
ancholy picture  in  all  Italian  scenery 
than  this  group  of  buildings,  —  the  ca- 
thedral, the  baptistery,  and  the  Leaning 
Tower,  —  on  a  sunny  afternoon.  They 
stand  apart  from  all  other  buildings,  — 
a  thing  unusual  in  Italy.  The  short 
pale  grass  grows  all  about  them,  quite 
to  the  cathedral  door ;  their  delicate 
forms  dot  not  seem  to  cut  the  sky,  but 
rather  to  repose  against  it ;  and  their 
marbles,  already  mellowed  by  age  in 
Galileo's  time,  harmonize  with  that  pe- 
culiar blue,  which  here  is  never  hard,  as 
in  northern  countries,  however  deep  its 
tone.  They  seem  enveloped  in  an  at- 
mosphere of  silence  and  rest.  The  in- 
terior of  the  cathedral  is  not  less  harmo- 
nious. The  great  lamp  swinging  before 
the  altar  attracts  our  attention,  as  it 
probably  did  Galileo's,  by  its  marvelous 
beauty.  How  many  problems  besides 


that  of  the  pendulum  may  the  repose 
and  solitude  of  this  temple  have  aided 
him  to  solve  !  His  treatise  on  hydro- 
statics, which  brought  him  the  friendship 
of  many  learned  men,  was  written  while 
he  was  at  Pisa,  and  at  the  asfe  of  twen- 

»  o 

ty-six  he  was  appointed  to  the  chair  of 
mathematics  in  the  university.     Before 
his  father's  death,  in  1591,  Galileo  had 
become  known  beyond  the  Alps,  as  well 
as    throughout    Italy.      But,    with    one 
exception,  the  whole  body  of  professors 
in  the  university  were   hostile  to  him. 
What  did  they  want,  in  their  calm  Aris- 
totelian assurance,  of  a  youngster  who 
not    only    questioned    their    judgments, 
but  dared  to  carp  at  Aristotle  himself ; 
who  was  not  content  with  doubting  in 
his  own  mind,  but  must  put  upsetting 
notions  into  other  people's  heads  ?     In 
these  days,  too,  the   old  cathedral  was 
probably  the  most  peaceful  refuge  for 
him.     But  he  had  to  leave  it  and  Pisa 
on    account   of    this    same    tormenting 
spirit  of  inquiry,  that  would  not  keep  si- 
lence even  before  princes.  He  expressed 
his  opinion  too  freely  as  to  the  demer- 
its of  a  hydraulic  machine  with  which 
Giovanni  de'  Medici  proposed  to  empty 
the  wet   dock  at    Leghorn,  and  which 
justified  the  young  professor's  criticism 
by   complete    failure    to    do   its    work. 
This  was  too  much  to  be  endured,  and 
Galileo,  in  fear  of    dismissal   from    his 
post,  resigned  it  and  quitted  Tuscany. 

Padua  was  his  next  abiding-place. 
He  was  appointed,  thanks  to  the  influ- 
ence of  his  unfailing  friend  the  Marquis 
Guidubaldo  of  Pesaro,  to  be  mathemat- 
ical lecturer  to  tho  university.  Here, 
although  in  exile,  he  lived  at  least  in 

o  ' 

peace  and  honor,  and  with  a  salary  more 
than  double  that  which  he  had  received 
at  Pisa.  He  had  need  of  an  increased 
income,  for  after  his  father's  death  he 
became  the  head  of  the  family,  and  was 
looked  to  not  only  for  counsel,  but  for 
pecuniary  help  in  all  emergencies.  His 
mother's  temper  had  not  been  improved 
by  time.  Galileo's  brother  writes  to 


1884.] 


The  Haunts  of  Galileo. 


93 


him  in  1619,  "I  am  not  a  little  aston- 
ished that  our  mother  is  so  terrible ;  but 
she  is  so  old  that  she  cannot  live  a  great 
while,  and  then  there  will  be  an  end  of 
quarrels."  There  was  an  unmarried 
sister,  Livia,  who  had  been  destined  to 
a  convent;  but  such  was  her  aversion  to 
monastic  life  that  at  the  close  of  her  no- 
vitiate her  tender-hearted  brother  was 
fain  to  provide  her  with  a  dowry  and 
a  husband.  An  elder  sister,  married 
in  her  father's  lifetime,  had  also  looked 
to  Galileo  for  her  dowry;  and  this  be- 
ing in  arrears,  the  husband  was  loudly 
complaining.  As  if  his  sisters  were  not 
a  sufficient  tax  upon  his  purse  and  pa- 
tience, there  was  a  younger  brother, 
Michelangelo,  who  was  the  ne'er-do- 
weel  of  the  family.  He  had  promised 
to  do  something  towards  Livia's  dowry, 
but  instead  of  that  he  got  married  him- 
self, and  his  increasing  wants  led  him  to 
repudiate  all  family  obligations.  "  I 
seem  fated  to  bear  every  burden  alone," 
complains  Galileo  ;  and  Michelangelo 
retorts,  "  I  know  that  you  will  say  I 
should  have  waited  and  thought  of  our 
sisters  before  taking  a  wife.  But,  good 
heavens,  the  idea  of  toiling  all  one's 
life  just  to  put  by  a  few  farthings  to 
give  one's  sisters  ! ): 

Notwithstanding  these  vexations,  the 
eleven  years  that  Galileo  spent  at  Padua 
were  without  doubt  the  most  peaceful 
and  happy  of  his  life.  During  them  he 
invented  the  thermometer,  constructed 
many  telescopes,  and  discovered  the  sat- 
ellites of  Jupiter,  the  ring  of  Saturn, 
the  phases  of  Venus,  and  the  moon's  li- 
bration.  He  made  frequent  journeys  to 
Venice  to  exhibit  his  telescopes,  about 
which  not  only  scientific  men,  but  court- 
iers and  princes,  were  enthusiastic.  His 
fame  spread  throughout  Europe ;  every 
monarch  wished  to  play  the  astronomer, 
and  Marie  de  Medicis  is  said  to  have 
gone  down  on  her  knees  to  look  through 
the  telescope  which  Galileo  had  sent  to 
his  majesty  of  France,  rather  than  wait 
for  it  to  be  adjusted.  Such  were  the 


cares  and  the  satisfactions,  both  as  great 
as  are  granted  to  mortal  lot,  that  walked 
with  Galileo  through  the  streets  of  an- 
cient Padua.  Unhappily,  no  external 
trace  of  him  remains  there  ;  his  dwell- 
ing is  unknown,  and  great  changes  have 
taken  place  in  the  city.  Where  his 
bust  now  stands  in  the  Piazza  Vittorio 
Emanuele  he  probably  many  a  time 
wandered  under  the  trees  in  what  was 
then  called  the  Prato  della  Valle.  In 
the  church  of  St.  Antonio  he  may  have 
sought  compensation  for  the  loss  of  his 
retreat  in  the  Pisan  Duomo. 

But  his  thoughts  continually  turned 
back  to  Tuscany,  and  he  always  consid- 
ered himself  an  exile.  He  was  glad  to 
be  recalled  thither  in  1611  by  the  Grand 
Duke  Cosmo  II.  He  was  offered  a  res- 
idence at  Florence  in  one  of  the  grand 
ducal  villas,  but  after  a  short  residence 
near  Segni  he  fixed  his  habitation  upon 
the  hill  of  Bellosguardo,  in  what  was 
then  the  Villa  Segni,  now  Villa  Albizzi. 
It  was  at  that  time  a  country  retreat  in- 
deed :  the  city  lay  at  his  feet,  the  centre 
of  that  wonderful  panorama  which  is  the 
dearest  remembrance  of  every  visitor  to 
Florence.  Galileo,  exquisitely  sensitive 
to  natural  scenery,  here  saw  the  sunsets 
and  the  moonrises  which  are  nowhere  else 
so  fair ;  here  he  was  free  to  indulge  his 
love  of  country  pleasures,  and  hoped  to 
carry  on  in  tranquillity  his  researches 
and  observations.  He  did  not  love  the 
city,  and  never  felt  well  in  it ;  probably 
he  visited  it  seldom  in  those  days,  too 
content  with  star-gazing  to  long  for  in- 
ferior companionship. 

At  this  time  Galileo  had  three  chil- 
dren, a  sou  and  two  daughters,  born 
during  his  stay  in  Padua.  Their  moth- 
er, a  Venetian  peasant,  afterwards  mar- 
ried a  respectable  man  of  her  own  class. 
What  would  now  be  considered  only  a 
plain  duty  —  the  care  of  these  children 
by  their  father  —  was  in  Galileo's  times 
a  proof  of  his  extraordinary  kindness 
of  heart.  He  did  for  his  daughters  what, 
according  to  Italian  ideas  of  that  period, 


94 


The  Haunts  of  G-alileo. 


[July, 


was  the  best  possible  thing  to  be  done 
for  illegitimate  daughters  :  he  put  them 
at  an  early  age  into  a  convent.  It  is 
from  the  letters  of  the  elder  daughter, 
Polissena,  whose  spiritual  name  was 
Maria  Celeste,  that  we  get  the  most  in-* 
teresting  details  of  Galileo's  private  life. 
Over  one  hundred  letters  from  her  to 
her  father  are  extant,  which  reflect  as 
in  a  glass  the  circumstances  of  his  home 
and  the  traits  of  his  character.  Maria 
Celeste  became  a  highly  accomplished 
and  intellectual  woman,  who  might  have 
been  the  comfort  of  his  home  ;  and  in 
her  devotion  to  her  father  she  exclaims, 
"  Only  in  one  respect  does  convent  life 
weigh  heavily  on  me  :  that  is,  it  pre- 
vents my  attending  on  you  personally, 
which  would  be  my  desire  were  it  per- 
mitted. My  thoughts  are  always  with 
you,  and  I  long  to  have  news  of  you 
daily."  She  is  always  contriving  to  send 
the  convent  steward  with  some  preserved 
citron  or  a  baked  pear,  "  as  an  excuse," 
so  that  she  may  have  news  of  her  be- 
loved father.  She  embroiders  napkins 
for  him,  and  begs  him  to  let  her  get  up 
his  fine  linen ;  and  when  at  last  he  be- 
thinks himself  of  employing  her  to  copy 
his  letters  her  joy  is  at  its  height. 
Galileo  tenderly  loved  her,  and  was  a 
kind  friend  to  the  convent  for  her  sake. 
He  is  asked  to  mend  the  convent  clock, 
to  procure  delicacies  for  the  infirmary, 
to  help  in  its  pecuniary  difficulties  ;  and 
he  seems  to  have  responded  to  all  these 
demands,  heavy  or  trivial,  with  the  same 
gentleness  and  generosity.  The  other 
daughter,  Sister  Arcangela,  was  a  ner- 
vous, irritable  invalid,  of  whom  we  see 
only  the  melancholy  shadow  in  Maria 
Celeste's  letters.  The  son,  Vincenzo, 
was  a  careless  spendthrift,  much  resem- 
bling his  uncle  Michelangelo. 

™  o 

The  convent  of  St.  Matthew,  in  Ar- 
cetri,  was  the  residence  of  the  daugh- 
ters. The  little  village  of  Arcetri  is 
situated  upon  a  hill  about  a  mile  distant, 
in  a  straight  line,  from  the  centre  of 
Florence,  on  the  southern  side  of  the 


Arno.  It  overlooks  a  wide  prospect  of 
the  Val  d'Arno  and  the  Apennines  on 
one  side,  and  the  less  magnificent  but 
peaceful  valley  of  the  Ems  on  the  other. 
I  once  lived  close  by  the  convent  for  a 
month  or  two,  and  always  fancied  that 
Sister  Maria  Celeste  was  looking  at  me 
out  of  its  narrow  windows.  It  is  a 
long,  low,  ugly  building,  probably  little 
changed  outwardly  since  she  lived  in  it, 
and  its  tinkling  bell  still  calls  the  neigh- 

O  O 

borhood  to  prayer.  A  cheerless  abode 
it  was,  even  according  to  the  patient 
and  self-denying  Maria  Celeste.  The 
cells  were  damp  and  ill -lighted  ;  the 
convent  was  exceedingly  poor,  and  the 
food  was  often  bad,  and  scarce  at  that. 
The  good  nun  does  not  complain  for 
herself,  but  she  thinks  it  hard  for  her 
ailing  sister.  She  is  much  concerned 
for  her  father's  health,  and  sends  him 
all  manner  of  convent  syrups  and  sim- 
ple remedies,  with  the  minutest  direc- 
tions for  their  use.  Especially  when 
the  plague  visits  Florence,  in  1631,  she 
is  full  of  anxiety,  and  eagerly  begs  that 
Galileo  will  not  go  into  the  city,  or  ex- 
pose himself  in  any  way  to  the  infec- 
tion. The  plague,  however,  came  to 
him.  One  of  his  workmen,  a  gluss-blow- 
ej",  died,  and  his  son  Vincenzo  fled  with 
his  wife  to  Prato,  leaving  Galileo  alone. 
What  was  poor  Maria  Celeste's  anxiety 
on  hearing  this  news  we  learn  from  the 

O 

following  letter.  Immured  and  forbid- 
den to  care  personally  for  the  safety  of 
her  only  earthly  friend,  she  pours  out 
her  heart  in  this  way  :  "  I  am  troubled 
beyond  measure  at  the  thought  of  your 
distress  and  consternation  at  the  sudden 
death  of  your  poor  glass- worker.  I  en- 
treat you  to  omit  no  possible  precaution 
against  present  danger.  I  believe  you 
have  by  you  all  the  remedies  and  pre- 
ventives which  are  required,  so  I  will 
not  repeat.  Yet  I  would  entreat  you, 
with  all  due  reverence  and  filial  confi- 
dence, to  procure  one  more  remedy,  the 
best  of  all,  to  wit,  the  grace  of  God,  by 
means  of  true  contrition  and  penitence. 


1884.] 


The  Haunts  of  Galileo. 


95 


Tlus  is  without  doubt  the  most  effica- 
cious medicine  for  both  soul  and  body. 
For  if,  in  order  to  avoid  this  sickness, 
it  is  necessary  to  be  always  of  good 
cheer,  what  greater  joy  can  we  have 
in  this  world  than  the  possession  of  a 
good  and  serene  conscience  ?  .  .  .  I  pray 
your  lordship  to  accept  these  few  words, 
prompted  by  the  deepest  affection.  I 
wish  also  to  acquaint  you  of  the  frame 
of  mind  in  which  I  find  myself  at  pres- 
ent. I  am  desirous  of  passing  away  to 
the  next  life,  for  every  day  I  see  more 
and  more  clearly  the  vanity  and  misery 
of  this  present  one.  And  besides  that, 
I  should  then  no  longer  offend  our 
blessed  Lord  ;  I  should  hope  that  my 
prayers  for  your  lordship  would  have  a 
greater  efficacy.  I  do  not  know  wheth- 
er my  desire  be  a  selfish  one  ;  may  the 
Lord,  who  sees  all,  in  his  mercy  supply 
me  where  I  am  wanting  through  igno- 
rance, and  may  he  give  you  true  consola- 
tion." 

Galileo  was  getting  on  in  years,  and 
his  health,  never  firm,  was  beginning  to 
break  down  more  seriously.  Perhaps 
he  longed  as  much  as  his  daughter  for 
more  frequent  interviews  with  her  than 
the  distance  from  Bellosoruardo  to  Ar- 

O 

cetri  permitted ;  at  any  rate,  he  seems 
to  have  been  the  first  to  propose  seek- 
ing a  home  at  Arcetri,  to  which  idea 
Maria  Celeste  joyfully  responded,  and 
with  her  usual  energy  set  about  making 
inquiries  as  to  purchasable  property  in 
the  neighborhood.  She  at  length  found 
a  villa  close  to  the  convent  boundaries 
which  proved  to  be  what  her  father  de- 
sired. It  was  called  II  Gioiello,  and  be- 
longed to  the  Martelleni  family.  -There 
he  would  be  able  to  see  or  hear  from 
his  daughter  daily  ;  the  broad  loggia, 
or  covered  balcony  of  the  house,  looked 
over  towards  the  convent  on  the  hill 
above,  and  he  could  almost  feel  that 
she  was  with  him  as  he  sat  or  walked 
there.  Here,  then,  he  came,  and  two 
years  of  peace  and  comfort,  before  the 
later  troubles  of  his  Hie  thickened  about 


him,  were  yet  in  store  for  him.  His 
biographer,  Viviani,  tells  us  that  at  this 
time  Galileo  was  "  of  cheerful  and  jovial 
appearance  ;  he  was  of  a  square  build, 
of  medium  height,  and  naturally  of  a 
strong  constitution,  but  by  toil  and  dis- 
tress of  mind  and  body  he  was  now 
greatly  debilitated."  Although  he  loved 
the  quiet  and  solitude  of  his  villa,  he 
was  also  very  fond  of  gathering  round 
him  learned  men  and  friends.  Towards 
these  he  exercised  an  abundant  though 

O 

simple  hospitality,  his  only  fastidious- 
ness being  in  regard  to  the  quality  of 
his  wine.  His  vineyard  was  one  of  his 
chief  delights  ;  he  spent  his  leisure  in 
working  with  his  own  hands  at  pruning 
and  tying  up  the  vines,  and  cultivating 
plants  in  his  garden.  Close  by,  too,  was 
a  villa  with  a  high  tower,  called  the 
Torre  del  Gallo,  which  belonged  to  Gal- 
ileo's dear  friend  and  admirer,  the  Can- 
on Girolamo  Lanfredini,  who  was  proud 
to  place  at  the  astronomer's  disposal  a 
room  in  the  tower,  and  indeed  as  much 
of  the  house  as  he  would  honor  with 
his  use.  Thither  Galileo  often  resorted 
with  his  pupils,  and  in  the  chamber  used 
as  his  study  are  now  shown  his  telescope 
and  various  other  souvenirs  of  him. 
From  this  chamber  a  narrow  stair  leads 
to  the  top  of  the  tower,  whence  the  view 
by  day  or  by  night  must  have  charmed 
such  a  lover  of  nature  as  Galileo  was. 
In  this  peaceful  retreat  he  might  have 
passed  his  declining  years  in  tranquillity 
but  for  that  same  old  spirit  of  inquiry 
which  had  begun  to  torment  him  at  Pisa. 
In  1632  his  Dialogue  on  the  Ptolemaic 
and  Copernican  Systems,  which  he  had 
been  trying  to  get  printed  for  two  years, 
finally  obtained  the  Papal  imprimatur, 
on  condition  of  certain  additions  being 
made  to  it  by  way  of  preface  and  ap- 
pendix, written  by  Papal  secretaries, 
and  supposed  to  be  an  antidote  to  any 
heresies  contained  in  the  book  itself. 
Its  publication,  however,  caused  an  out- 
cry of  rage  from  the  Jesuits.  Galileo 
was  denounced,  and  ordered  to  appear 


96 


The  Haunts  of  Q-alileo. 


[July, 


before  the  tribunal  of  the  Holy  Office. 
He  set  out  for  Rome  on  the  26th  of 
January,  1633.  It  was  a  weary  winter 
journey  for  the  infirm  old  man,  already 
threatened  with  blindness  ;  and  the  pros- 
pect of  torture,  imprisonment,  and  per- 
haps death,  if  things  went  against  him, 
must  have  been  ever  present  to  his 
mind.  Thus  he  reached  Rome,  and  was 
conducted  to  the  house  of  the  Tuscan 
ambassador,  Francesco  Niccolini,  who 
proved  a  devoted  friend  to  him  through 
the  trials  that  were  approaching. 

It  appears  probable,  from  manuscripts 
discovered  during  the  last  twenty  years, 
that  at  no  time  was  Galileo's  impris- 
onment severe,  nor  was  torture  ever 
actually  employed,  however  much  it 
may  have  been  threatened.  The  favor- 
ite story  of  his  exclaiming,  as  he  rose 
from  his  knees  after  abjuring  his  here- 
sies, "  Eppure  si  niuove  !  "  was  long  ago 
shown  to  be  a  fable,  like  many  other 
"  historic  sayings  "  of  great  men.  Had 
it  been  true,  Galileo  would  never  have 
quitted  the  Palace  of  the  Inquisition, 
and  his  enemies  would  have  been  only 
too  thankful.  Nor  is  it  necessary,  I  be- 
lieve, to  go  to  the  other  extreme,  and  to 
imagine  that  the  threats  of  torture  re- 
duced Galileo  to  such  a  moral  wreck 
that  he  was  now  ready  to  submit  abject- 
ly to  any  humiliation.  His  own  account 
of  the  matter  in  a  letter  to  Vincenzo 
Renieri,  soon  after  his  return  to  Flor- 
ence, is  simple  enough  :  "  Finally,  I  was 
obliged  to  retract  my  opinions,  as  a  good 
Catholic,  and  as  a  penalty  my  Dialogue 
was  condemned."  There  is  not  one 
word  to  show  that  he  considered  him- 
self either  a  martyr  or  a  reprobate  for 
having  done  this.  It  is  impossible  for 
one  trained  in  the  freedom  of  Protes- 
tantism to  appreciate  the  moral  weight 
which  the  authority  of  the  church  car- 
ries with  it  to  "  a  good  Catholic,"  even 
at  the  present  day  ;  much  less  can  we 
understand  that  state  of  mind  which  can 
separate  belief  entirely  from  the  evi- 
dence of  the  senses  and  of  the  reason. 


What  seems  to  us  dishonesty  and  cow- 
ardice is  to  a  devoted  child  of  the  church 
only  duty  and  submission.  Witness  the 
recent  abjurations  by  Father  Curci  in 
regard  to  his  books,  though  there  is  no 
Inquisition  in  these  clays,  nor  was  even 
the  weight  of  public  opinion  against 
him.  Such  abjurations  are  simply  cer- 
emonial, in  order  that  the  subject  may 
not  be  shut  out  from  the  ordinances  of 
the  church  in  life  and  death  ;  and  to  be 
fairly  judged,  they  must  be  looked  at 
from  the  standpoint  of  those  who  make 
them.  Galileo  was  in  better  health  and 
spirits  when  he  returned  from  the  Pal- 
ace of  the  Inquisition  than  when  he  en- 
tered it ;  and  when  he  left  Rome  for 
Siena,  where  he  was  ordered  to  remain 
for  the  present,  he  went  on  foot  for 
miles  of  the  way,  for  his  own  pleasure. 

Poor  Maria  Celeste,  whose  own  health 
was  failing,  suffered  terribly  while  her 
father's  fate  was  undecided.  When  he 
was  finally  out  of  prison,  she  wrote  to 
him  thus  :  "  The  joy  that  your  last  dear 
letter  brought  me,  and  the  having  to 
read  it  over  and  over  again  to  the  nuns, 
who  made  quite  a  jubilee  on  hearing  its 
contents,  put  me  into  such  an  excited 
state  that  at  last  I  got  a  seveue  head- 
ache. I  give  hearty  thanks  to  God  for 
the  mercies  you  have  hitherto  received. 
You  justly  say  that  all  our  mercies  come 
from  him.  And  though  you  consider 
all  these  now  received  as  an  answer  to 
my  prayers,  yet  truly  they  count  for 
little  or  nothing  ;  but  God  knows  how 
dearly  I  love  you,  and  so  he  hears  me." 
One  of  the  penalties  attached  to  Gali- 
leo's sentence  was  that  he  should  recite 
the  Penitential  Psalms  once  a  week  for 
three  years.  This  his  daughter  took 
upon  herself  to  do  for  him,  "  in  order 
to  be  of  some  slight  use  "  to  him.  "  I 
wish,"  she  wrote  on  the  13th  of  July, 
1633,  "  that  I  could  describe  the  rejoic- 
ing of  all  the  mothers  and  sisters  on 
hearing  of  your  arrival  at  Siena.  On 
learning  the  news,  Mother  Abbess  and 
many  of  the  nuns  ran  to  me,  embracing 


1884.] 


The  Haunts  of  Galileo. 


97 


me  with  joy  and  tenderness."  But  al- 
though she  knew  her  father  to  be  in 
safety,  and  treated  with  every  considera- 
tion by  the  good  Archbishop  of  Siena, 
she  felt  that  she  could  not  be  resigned 
to  end  her  days  without  once  more  look- 
ing upon  his  face.  Cold,  austerities, 
and  privations  had  done  their  fatal  work 
upon  her  delicate  frame,  and  she  felt 
deatli  approaching.  Galileo,  although 
an  honored  guest  rather  than  a  prisoner 
in  the  archiepiscopal  palace  at  Siena, 
longed  to  be  near  his  beloved  daughter. 
The  magnificence  of  the  old  city,  the 
beauty  of  the  Duomo,  ever  before  his 
eyes,  the  congratulations  of  friends,  were 
in  vain  to  divert  him  from  his  impatient 
longing  to  be  at  home  again.  One  sees 
to-day  almost  the  same  picture  in  the 
quiet  old  cathedral  square  upon  which 
his  weary  eyes  fell  in  those  days  of 
waiting :  the  stately  church  with  its 
overwhelmingly  rich  faQade,  the  black- 
robed  priests  and  brethren  of  the  Mis- 
ericordia  flitting  to  and  fro,  the  hospi- 
tal at  one  side  receiving  its  sad  guests ; 
or,  on  a  fete  day,  a  gayer  scene,  —  all 
Siena  trooping  up  to  the  cathedral, 
whence  floated  out  through  the  open 
door  the  strains  of  music  from  the  great 
orgun. 

Happily,  the  intercessions  of  friends 
prevailed  to  obtain  for  Galileo  permis- 
sion to  return  to  his  villa  at  Arcetri,  on 
condition  that  he  should  not  go  into  the 
city,  nor  receive  more  than  two  or  three 
visitors  at  a  time.  "  Here,"  he  says,  "  I 
lived  on  very  quietly,  frequently  pay- 
ing visits  to  the  neighboring  convent, 
where  I  had  two  daughters  who  were 
nuns,  and  whom  I  loved  dearly  ;  but  the 
eldest  in  particular,  who  was  a  woman 
of  exquisite  mind,  singular  goodness, 
and  most  tenderly  attached  to  me.  She 
had  suffered  much  from  ill-health  dur- 
ing my  absence,  but  had  not  paid  much 
attention  to  herself.  At  length  dysentery 
came  on,  and  she  died  after  six  days' 
illness,  leaving  me  in  deep  affliction." 
She  was  only  thirty-three. 

VOL.    LIV.  — NO.    321.  7 


The  translations  of  Sister  Maria  Ce- 
leste's and  other  letters  which  I  have 
quoted  are  taken  from  that  admirably 
prepared  book  The  Private  Life  of  Gal- 
ileo, to  which  I  am  indebted  for  many 
a  pleasant  hour  in  connection  with  the 
places  made  sacred  by  Galileo's  habita- 
tion. Any  improvement  upon  these 
translations  would  be  impossible,  and 
the  whole  book  shows  a  carel'ul  and 
painstaking  study  which  is  too  often 
wanting  in  works  of  this  kind. 

Galileo's  health  declined  so  greatly 
under  the  affliction  of  his  daughter's 

O 

death  that  he  seemed  about  to  follow 
her.  But  he  revived,  and  went  on  with 
his  studies  ;  perhaps  they  kept  him 
alive.  The  fire  of  investigation  was  not 
quenched  by  all  the  terrors  of  the  In- 
quisition. His  sister-in-law  and  three 
children  came  to  live  with  him,  and  the 
old  villa  resounded  with  merry  voices  ; 
but  it  was  only  for  a  short  time.  The 
plague  carried  them  all  off,  and  the  old 
man  was  again  left  alone. 

There  is  one  more  site  in  Florence 
which  is  associated  with  his  life.  In 
1638,  he  was  allowed  to  leave  the  villa 
for  a  short  time,  and  occupy  a  house 
which  he  owned  on  the  Costa  San  Gior- 
gio, in  order  to  be  under  closer  medical 
attendance  than  was  possible  at  Arcetri ; 
but  he  was  keenly  watched,  and  was  not 
even  allowed  to  attend  mass  in  the  little 
church  near  by  without  special  permis- 
sion. This  was  the  last  church  he  ever 
entered.  He  soon  returned  to  Arcetri, 
which  he  never  left  again. 

It  was  in  this  year  that  Milton  visited 
him.  All  that  we  know  of  the  inter- 
view—  for  Galileo's  biographers  do  not 
mention  it  —  is  from  a  passage  of  the 
Areopagitica,  where  Milton  says,  "  I 
could  recount  what  I  have  seen  and 
heard  in  other  countries  where  this  kin<f 
of  inquisition  tyrannizes ;  where  I  have 
sat  among  these  learned  men,  for  that 
honor  I  had,  and  bin  counted  happy  to 
be  born  in  such  a  place  of  Philosophic 
freedom  as  they  supposed  England  was, 


98 


The  Haunts  of  G-alileo. 


[July, 


while  themselvs  did  nothing  but  be- 
moan the  servil  condition  into  which 
lerning  amongst  them  was  brought ;  that 
this  it  was  which  had  dampt  the  glory 
of  Italian  wits,  that  nothing  had  bin 
there  writt'n  now  these  many  years  but 
flattery  and  fustian.  There  it  was  that 
I  found  and  visited  the  famous  Galileo 
grown  old,  a  prisner  to  the  Inquisition, 
for  thinking  in  Astronomy  otherwise 
than  the  Franciscan  and  Dominican  li- 
cencers  thought." 

Galileo's  son  Vincenzo  and  his  wife 
Sestilia  Bocchineri  lived  with  and  took 
care  of  him  in  his  last  days ;  but  the  son 
retained  the  selfish  and  mercenary  hab- 
its of  his  youth.  Father  Fanano,  of 
Florence,  who  was  charged  with  report- 
ing Galileo's  condition  and  doings  to  the 

O  C3 

Inquisition,  writes  that  Vincenzo  may 
be  trusted,  as  "  he  is  under  great  obli- 
gations for  his  father  being  allowed  to 
be  in  Florence  for  medical  treatment, 
and  fears  that  the  least  transgression 
might  cause  the  loss  of  this  favor  ;  for  it 
is  quite  for  his  interest  that  his  father 
should  conduct  himself  well  and  live  as 
long  as  possible,  as  with  his  death  will 
cease  the  pension  of  one  thousand  scudi 
which  the  Grand  Duke  allows  him." 
Probably  Galileo  derived  far  more  com- 
fort from  the  society  and  assistance  of 
his  pupil  Viviani,  then  a  youth  of  eight- 
een, who  was  allowed  by  the  Inquisition 
to  spend  the  last  two  and  a  half  years  of 
the  old  man's  life  in  his  house,  and  who 
acted  as  his  amanuensis.  To  him  Gal- 
ileo dictated,  after  he  became  totally 
blind,  his  last  work,  a  treatise  on  the 
Secondary  Light  of  the  Moon  ;  and  in 
this  manner  he  also  corrected  and  en- 
larged his  Dialogues  on  the  New  Sci- 
ences. 

In  September,  1641,  foreseeing  that 
the  revered  master  could  not  be  much 
longer  with  them,  Castelli  and  Torricelli, 


two  former  pupils  and  friends  of  Galileo, 
came  to  II  Gioiello,  and  did  not  leave 
it  till  he  died,  on  the  8th  of  January, 
1642.  Their  conversation  soothed  the 
long  weeks  of  pain,  and  Galileo  had  also 
the  consolation  of  receiving  the  last  sac- 

o 

raments  and  the  benediction  of  Urban 
VIII. 

But  the  enmity  of  the  Holy  Office  did 
not  cease  with  the  death  of  its  victim. 
It  was  disputed  whether  a  man  under 
condemnation  by  the  Inquisition  had  a 
right  to  burial  in  consecrated  ground. 
As  to  Galileo's  testamentary  desire  to 
be  laid  in  his  ancestral  vault  in  Santa 
Croce,  and  the  wish  of  his  friends  to 
erect  a  monument  to  him,  yielding  to 
these  was  out  of  the  question.  There 
must  be  care  taken  also  about  the  fu- 
neral sermon.  With  these  restrictions 
he  was  finally  allowed  a  place  in  a  side 
chapel  of  Santa  Croce,  with  no  inscrip- 
tion to  denote  whose  remains  were  there 
entombed.  But  Viviani  remembered 
him,  and  as  soon  as  the  times  would 
permit  placed  over  the  door  of  his  own 
house,  in  the  street  of  San  Antonio,  a 
bronze  bust  of  his  master,  with  a  eulo- 
gistic inscription.  He  also  bequeathed 
four  thousand  scudi  for  the  purpose  of 
erecting  a  monument  to  Galileo's  mem- 
ory. It  was  not,  however,  till  1737  that 
his  wishes  were  carried  out.  At  that 
time  Galileo's  remains  were  removed 
with  all  possible  honors  to  the  place 
where  they  now  rest  in  the  Florentine 
Pantheon. 

"In  Santa  Croce's  holy  precincts  lie 

Ashes  which  make  it  holier,  dm-t  which  is 
Even  in  itself  an  immortality, 

Though  there  were  nothing  save  the  past,  and 

this, 

The  particle  of  those  sublimities 
Which  have  relapsed  to  chaos :  —  here  repose 

Angelo's,  Aln'eri's  bones,  and  his, 
The  starry  Galileo,  with  his  woes ; 
Here  Machiavelli's  earth  returned  to  whence  it 
rose." 

D.  It.  Bianciardi. 


1884.] 


The  Underworld  in  Homer,  Virgil,  and  Dante. 


99 


THE   UNDERWORLD   IN   HOMER,   VIRGIL,   AND   DANTE. 


i. 

THE  association  of  these  three  names 
is  not  a  fortuitous  one.  The  closeness 
with  which  they  themselves  have  inter- 
linked their  works  is  one  proof  of  their 
greatness.  They  rise  so  high  above 
ephemeral  men,  above  all  petty  jealous- 
ies and  rivalries,  that  they  recognize  and 
hail  one  another  across  the  centuries  as 
brethren. 

Dante's  relation  to  Virgil  is  well 
known.  The  plan  of  the  greater  part 
of  the  Commeclia  is  a  constant  tribute 
to  the  master,  and  in  each  successive 
canto  Dante  acknowledges  his  indebted- 
ness with  ever  fresh  variety  of  poetic 
forms.  Indeed,  most  lovers  of  the 
younger  poet  will  feel  that  his  debt 
to  Virgil  is  not  quite  so  great  as  he 
himself  would  have  us  believe.  What 
he  does  borrow  usually  becomes  his  own 
by  royal  right ;  for  it  is  better  where 
he  sets  it  than  where  he  found  it.  This 
is  well  illustrated  by  the  incident  of 
Polydorus  (^Eneid  III.  19-48)  com- 
pared with  the  magnificent  canto,  Infer- 
no XIII.  The  striking  fancy  of  Virgil 
has  here  been  developed  into  a  complete 
poem.  It  is  Dante's  now  as  truly  as  an 
incident  from  an  Italian  story-teller,  or 
from  some  drv  chronicle  of  forgotten 

v  O 

kings,  becomes  Shakespeare's  when  it 
has  grown  under  his  hand  to  Hamlet  or 
The  Merchant  of  Venice. 

When  Virgil  and  Dante  enter  the 
Elysianhome  of  the  poets  (Inferno  IV.) 
the  former  hails  the  mightier  master's 
shade  :  — • 

"Questo  e  Omero,  poeta  sovrano." 

Homer  leads  the  way  and  bears  the 
sword,  while  Dante  in  proud  humility 
follows  sixth  in  the  illustrious  line.  It 
is  certainly  remarkable  that  Dante's  fine 

1  The  translations  in  this  paper  are  quoted 
chiefly  from  Cranch,  Longfellow,  Butcher,  and 
Lang.  Any  variations  from  them  which  may  be 


instinct  should  have  recognized  the  su- 

O 

premacy  of  the  Greek,  since  Homer  was 
the  dimmest  of  ghosts  to  him,  not  even 
a  voice,  —  umbra  et  prceterea  nihil ;  for 
Dante  never  learned  Greek,  and  the 
Homeric  poems  were  not  translated  iii 
the  fourteenth  century. 

V 

In  his  own  works  Virgil  does  not  so 
expressly  acknowledge  his  indebtedness. 
The  epic  form  hardly  permitted  it.  The 
numerous  passages  in  which  he  imitates 
or  translates  Homer  can,  however,  by 
no  means  be  regarded  as  plagiarisms. 
The  audience  for  which  an  Augustan 
poet  wrote  were  as  familiar  with  Greek 
literature  as  with  Latin.  The  Italian 
youth  repaired  to  Athens  to  complete 
their  education  as  they  do  now  to  Ber- 
lin and  Paris.  Rome  was  full  of  Greek 
books  and  teachers.  "  Every  school- 
boy "  will  remember  how  Cicero's  circle 
of  younger  friends  at  the  Tusculan  villa 
followed  his  Socratic  lectures  as  easily 
in  Greek  as  in  Latin.  The  striking  pas- 
sage in  the  Pro  Archia  will  recur  to  our 

O 

minds:  "For  if  any  one  supposes  less 
fame  is  acquired  from  Greek  poetry  than 
from  Latin,  he  is  greatly  mistaken  ;  for 
Greek  is  read  among  nearly  all  nations, 
whereas  Latin  is  confined  within  our 
own  rather  narrow  boundaries." 

A  comparison  in  the  ^Eneid  itself, 
perhaps,  appeals  to  the  familiarity  of 
the  poet's  hearers  with  the  masterpieces 
of  Greek  drama  :  — 

"As  the  crazed  Pentheus  sees  the  Eumenides, 
And  two  twin  solar  orbs  display  themselves, 
And  double  images  of  Thebes  ;  or  as  when 
Orestes,  son  of  Agamemnon,  runs 
Excited  on  the  stoye,  and,  maddened,  flies 
His  mother,  armed  with  torches  and  with  snakes; 
And  at  the  door  the  avenging  Furies  sit."  * 

(JEn.  IV.  469-473.) 

When  Virgil,  then,  in  his  general 
plot,  his  incidents,  and  his  similes,  con- 
noticed  are  intended  merely  to  render  the  origi- 
nal more  precisely. 


100 


The  Underworld  in  Homer,  Virgil,  and  Dante. 


[July, 


stantly  and  openly  follows  Homer's  foot- 
steps, it  is  most  fairly  to  be  taken  as  a 
loyal  acknowledgment  of  his  supremacy. 
Incidents  like  the  passing  of  Circe's 
island,  at  the  beginning  of  -ZEneid  VII., 
and  the  scene  on  the  shore  by  JEtna 
(III.  588-681)  are  expressly  intended 
to  remind  us  that  we  are  in  the  track  of 
Odysseus'  ships.  Many  a  noble  line  re- 
quires its  pendant  from  Homer  to  bring 
out  its  full  beauty  :  as,  for  example, 

"Our  last  day  comes,  the  inevitable  hour 
Of  Troy!  " 

recalls  unmistakably  Hector's  foreboding, 

"  The  day  shall  come  when  sacred  Troy  shall  per- 

ish; " 

and  Andromache's  words  of  farewell  to 
the  child  Ascanius, 

"  O  sole  surviving  image  of  my  boy 
Astyanax  !     Such  eyes,  such  hands,  had  he, 
Such   features;  and  his   budding  youth  would 

just 
Have  equaled  thine  in  years," 

n.  III.  489-491) 


rely  for  their  force  on  our  remembrance 
of  the  famous  parting  scene  in  Iliad 
VI.  Precisely  because  the  tale  of  Troy 
divine  was  the  most  illustrious  of  Hel- 
lenic legends,  the  Roman  poets  were 
most  anxious  to  work  out  a  plausible 
connection  between  their  ancestors  and 
the  Ilians,  that  they  might  cast  upon 
their  own  origin  at  least  a  far-reflected 
ray  of  that  primeval  glory.  Virgil  is 
far  from  being  a  servile  imitator.  Some- 
times he  meets  the  Greek  in  bold  rivalry 
on  his  own  ground.  This  is  splendidly 
exemplified  in  the  passage  (^Eneid  IV. 
612—629)  where  Dido  curses  her  recreant 
lover,  and  predicts  the  future  appearance 
of  one  who  will  avenge  her  wrongs 
upon  Eneas'  descendants.  The  form  is 
avowedly  that  of  the  Cyclops'  impreca- 
tion upon  Odysseus  (Odyssey  IX.  528- 
535),  but  the  introduction  of  Hannibal 
raises  the  passage  to  a  wholly  superior 
plane.  There  could  hardly  be  a  more 
instructive  study  of  literary  methods 
than  an  exhaustive  comparison  of  Vir- 
gilian  passages  with  their  Homeric  mod- 
els, to  show  us  just  where  the  polished 


bookish  Roman  courtier  shines  or  pales 
beside  the  unconventional  minstrel  of  a 
ruder  age. 

We  cannot  but  fancy  that  the  world 
has  lost  something  it  could  ill  spare,  be- 
cause the  sad-eyed  Tuscan  never  really 
knew  blind  Melesigenes.  On  evil  days 
though  fallen,  embittered,  even  if  un- 
broken, by  lifelong  exile  undeserved, 
fiercely  disdainful  of  his  contemporaries, 
Dante  yet  retained  to  the  last  a  sweet, 
tender  poet's  heart.  The  poet  of  the 
Odyssey,  with  his  exuberant  delight  in 
life  and  sunshine,  would  have  been  a 
fitter  comrade  for  him  than  the  melan- 
choly and  world-weary  Mantuan.  Re- 
membering how  many  fine  lines  we  owe 
to  Virgil's  companionship,  we  cannot 
but  think  reregretfully  how  many  more 
lovely  flowers  would  have  blossomed 
along  the  pathway 

"Upon  the  mountain  that  the  souls  doth  heal, 
And  when  descending  into  the  dead  world," 

(Par.  XVII.) 

with  such  a  comrade. 

The  voices  of  great  poets  are  the  cries 
of  warders  high  above  us  on  the  watch- 
towers  of  time.  In  the  dust  and  tur- 
moil of  the  struggle  for  existence,  we 
hardly  catch  a  glimpse  of  our  true  rela- 
tions, nor  of  the  goal  toward  which  our 
efforts  tend.  Every  true  poet  answers 
humanity's  cry :  — 

"To  tell  the  purport  of  our  pain, 
And  what  our  silly  joys  contain, 
Come,  poet,  come! " 

It  is  a  lingering  fancy,  which  men  would 
be  sorry  wholly  to  relinquish,  that  these 
same  lofty  watchers  may  perhaps  catch 
a  glimpse  even  of  what  is  within  the  veil. 
We  are  tempted  to  cry  to  them, — 

"  Where  are  now  those  silent  hosts, 
Where  the  camping-ground  of  ghosts  ?  ' 

But  it  is  not  the  purpose  of  these 
pages  to  discuss  the  general  subject  of 
the  conceptions  which  have  been  formed 
of  the  future  life.  Our  object  is  the 
humbler  one  of  gathering  up  whatever 
hints  these  great  poets  have  let  fall 


1884.] 


The  Undertvorld  in  Homer,  Virgil,  and  Dante. 


101 


upon  a  question  we  have  all  asked  our- 
selves :  "  Do  our  dead  know  what  is 
occurring  in  this  world  ?  ' 

II. 

In  the  crowded  battle  scenes  of  the 
Iliad  there  is  rarely  a  moment  to  think 
of  the  dead.  The  warrior  falls  with 
clanging  armor;  the  soul,  issuing  from 
the  wound  (Iliad  XIV.  518,  519),  flees  at 
once  to  Hades,  grieving  to  leave  so  soon 
the  joys  of  life  and  youth  (XVI.  856, 
857).  But  the  foe  press  close  ;  their 
war-shout  rings  in  the  ears  of  the  surviv- 
ors ;  it  is  time  to  fight  or  to  fly,  not  to 
weep.  The  shadow  of  death  lies  upon 
the  path  of  the  young  hero  as  he  rides 
forth  to  battle,  but  he  silences  tho  pro- 
phetic voice,  and  only  plunges  the  more 
fiercely  into  the  fray. 

"  'Xanthos,  why  prophesiest  thou  my  death? 
Nowise  behoveth  it  thee.  Well  know  I  of  my- 
self that  it  is  appointed  me  to  perish  here,  far 
from  my  father  dear  and  mother  ;  howbeit  any- 
wise I  will  not  refrain  till  I  give  the  Trojans  sur- 
feit of  war.' 

"He  said,  and  with  a  shout  among  the  fore- 
most guided  his  whole-hooved  steeds."  (XIX. 
420-424.) 

When  we  do  get  glimpses  of  the  fu- 
ture existence,  they  are  but  the  crude 
fancies  of  a  rude,  life-loving  race.  The 
dead  exult  in  the  vengeance  inflicted  on 

their  foes  :  — 

"Ah,  verily,  not  unavenged  lies  Asios  ;  nay, 
methinks  that  even  on  his  road  to  Hades,  strong 
warden  of  the  gate,  he  will  rejoice  at  heart,  since, 
lo,  I  have  sent  him  escort  for  the  way."  (XIII. 
414-410.) 

The  living  sacrifice  food  and  animals  to 

o 

the  departed,  as  if  their  needs  were  still 
the  same :  — 

"And  he  set  therein  two-handled  jars  of  honey 
and  oil,  leaning  them  against  the  bier;  and  four 
strong-necked  horses  he  threw  swiftly  on  the  pyre, 
and  groaned  aloud.  Nine  house-dogs  had  the  dead 
chief  :  of  them  did  Achilleus  slay  twain,  and  throw 
them  on  the  pyre."  (XXIII.  170-174*) 

The  body,  not  the  fleeing  soul,  is 
usually  spoken  of  as  the  man  himself, 
though  there  are  exceptions  to  the  rule. 
Hades  is,  naturally  enough,  the  pitiless, 
inexorable  tyrant,  most  detested  of  all 
gods. 


"Hades,  I  ween,  is  not  to  be  softened,  neither 
overcome,  and  therefore  is  he  hatet'ulest  of  all 
gods  to  mortals."  (IX.  158,  159.) 

In  the  pause  of  the  action  around  Pa- 
troklos  slain,  there  is  for  the  first  time 
space  upon  the  scene  for  the  soul  of  the 
departed.  If  the  thought  were  not  too 
modern,  we  should  say  that  Achilleus, 
educated  by  suffering,  learns  in  his 
bereavement  and  grief  to  think  more 
deeply  and  earnestly  of  the  future. 

It  is  actually  the  soul  of  Patroklos, 
no  mere  dream,  that  revisits  his  friend, 
and  bids  him  hasten  the  funeral  rites. 

The  spirit  has  the  shape  and  voice  of 
the  living  Patroklos,  and  even  wears  his 
costume :  — 

"In  all  things  like  his  living  self,  in  stature 
and  fair  eyes  and  voice,  and  the  raiment  of  his 
body  was  the  same."  (XXIII.  66,  67.) 

He  retains  his  affection  for  his  com- 
rade, and  memory  of  their  earthly  life 
together.  He  foresees  his  friend's  death, 
as  he  did  not  when  alive  :  — 

"Yea,  and  thou  too  thyself,  Achilleus,  peer  of 
gods,  beneath  the  wall  of  the  noble  Trojans  art 
doomed  to  die." 

A  most  striking  touch  is  that  he  does 
not  yet  realize  that  he  cannot  clasp  his 
friend's  hand. 

This  visit,  however,  is  possible  only 
because  the  funeral  rites  are  incom- 
plete. When  once  the  body  is  burned, 
the  soul  will  cross  the  river  (of  Charon 
there  is  as  yet  no  mention),  enter  the 
gates,  and  revisit  the  living  no  more. 
Whether  in  the  spirit  land  he  will  still 
see  what  is  passing  on  earth  Achilleus 
does  not  know.  Neither,  perhaps,  did 
Homer. 

"  Patroklos,  be  not  vexed  with  me  if  thou  hear 
even  in  the  house  of  Hades  that  I  have  given 
back  noble  Hector  unto  his  dear  father."  (XXIV. 
592-594.) 

The  arrival  of  Hector's  shade  might 
alone  suffice  to  show  Patroklos  that 
Achilleus  had  given  up  the  body  for 
burial.  At  any  rate,  Patroklos  makes 
no  response,  and  the  pages  of  the  Iliad 
close  without  a  full  answer  to  our  ques- 
tion. 


102 


The  Underworld  in  Homer,  Virgil,  and  Dante. 


[July, 


in. 


In  reading  the  story  of  Odysseus'  vis- 
it to  Hades,  we  must  remember  that  it 
is  part  of  the  marvelous  tale  of  his  own 
adventures  with  which  he  entertained 
the  Phaiakians.  On  other  occasions, 
the  truth  rarely  falls  from  Odysseus' 
lips  unmixed  with  cunning  falsehoods. 
The  poet  does  not  distinctly  vouch  for 
his  veracity  on  this  occasion.  The  por- 
tions of  the  story  related  by  the  poet 
in  his  own  person,  and  those  put  into 
the  mouth  of  Nestor  and  Menelaos,  show 
an  acquaintance  with  the  actual  con- 
formation of  the  Mediterranean  not 
easily  reconcilable  with  Odysseus'  self- 
told  trackless  wanderings. 

Moreover,  in  the  opening  scene  of  the 
Thirteenth  Book,  the  poet  has  doubtless 
given  us  a  covert  warning  not  to  take 
too  seriously  the  episode  of  the  Phaia- 
kians and  the  stories  told  at  their  court. 
Homer  himself  seems  to  have  felt  that 
the  fabric  of  his  airv  fancies  must  not 

^ 

come  too  closely  in  contact  with  the  re- 
alistic pictures  of  Greek  home-life  which 
follow.  The  voyage  from  Phaiakia  to 
Ithaka  is  the  journey  from  Dreamland 
into  Reality.  All  night  long  the  weary 
wanderer  lies  in  an  untroubled  sleep. 
All  night  the  wondrous  bark  glides  on 
her  way  swifter  than  the  falcon  flies, 
—  the  bark  "  that  had  no  rudder,  like 
other  ships,  but  knew  the  thoughts  and 
will  of  the  mariners,  and  knew  the  cities 
and  fertile  lands  of  all  men,  and  passed 
swiftly  over  the  billows,  shrouded  in  mist 
and  cloud."  When  Odysseus  wakes,  he 
is  alone  upon  his  own  shore.  The  bark 
and  her  crew  have  vanished  forever. 
We  are  listening,  then,  to  an  old  sailor's 
story. 

This  ancient  mariner  taxes  our  cre- 
dulity at  the  outset.  We  are  tempted 
to  repeat  his  own  words  :  — 

"  No  man  ever  yet  sailed  to  Hades  in  a  black 
ship."  (Od.  X.  502.) 

We  did  not  expect  to  find  the  spirit 
world  across  the  sea.  The  conception 
of  a  Hades  beneath  our  own  feet  had 


been  made  familiar  to  us  by  the  famous 
passage  of  the  Iliad  :  — 

"And  the  lord  of  those  in  the  underworld, 
Aidoneus,  was  affrighted  below,  and  in  his  terror 
leaped  from  his  throne  and  cried  aloud,  lest  the 
earth  be  cloven  above  by  Poseidon,  shaker  of 
earth,  and  his  dwelling-place  be  laid  bare  to  mor- 
tals and  immortals, — grim  halls,  and  vast,  and 
lothly  to  the  gods."  (II.  XX.  62-66.) 

The  solemn  form  in  the  oath 

"  And  ye  rivers  and  thou  earth,  and  ye  that  un- 
derneath punish  men  outworn,  whosoever  swear- 
eth  falsely  "  (II.  III.  278,  279), 

sounds  as  if  older  than  the  poet  of  the 
Iliad.     Expressions  like 

"In  the  house  of  Hades,  beneath  the  secret 
places  of  the  earth," 

are  found  in  the  Odyssey  itself. 

In  obedience  to  Circe's  directions, 
Odysseus  sails  to  the  sunless  land  of 
the  Kimmerians,  shrouded  in  mist  and 
gloom.  Here,  on  the  bounds  of  ocean, 
he  digs  a  trench,  into  which  he  pours 
honey,  wine,  water,  barley,  and  the 
blood  of  sacrifices.  The  forceless  ghosts 
of  the  dead  come  thronging  about  the 
trench.  Odysseus'  comrade,  Elpenor, 
knows  and  addresses  him,  but  this  he 
can  do  because  his  body  is  still  un- 
buried.  The  blind  seer  Teiresias,  also, 
by  especial  kindness  of  the  gods,  re- 
gains the  powers  he  had  in  life  ;  yet 
even  he  fears  Odysseus'  sword,  and  begs 
to  drink  of  the  sacrificial  blood,  which 
gives  him  strength  to  foretell  to  the 
hero  the  trials  still  awaiting  him  in  life. 
As  for  the  rest  of  the  ghosts,  their 
existence  is  a  most  pitiful  one.  Odys- 
seus' own  mother  had  been  hovering 
near  the  trench,  in  a  form  which  he 
had  recognized  at  once  ;  but  she  did  not 
know  her  own  son,  nor  had  she,  appar- 
ently, even  the  power  of  speech,  until 
by  Teiresias'  direction  she  also  is  per- 
mitted to  drink  of  the  blood.  Then  in- 
deed she  knows  Odysseus,  and  perceives 
that  he  is  alive  ;  yet  her  first  words 
show  she  knows  nothing  of  him  since 
he  left  Ithaka  :  — 

"  Dear  child,  how  didst  thou  come  beneath  the 
darkness  and  the  shadow,  who  art  a  living  man? 


1884.] 


The  Underworld  in  Homer,  Virgil,  avid  Dante. 


103 


.  .  .  Art  them  but  now  come  hither  with  thy  ship 
and  thy  company,  in  thy  long  wanderings  from 
Troy  ?  And  hast  thou  not  yet  reached  Ithaka, 
nor  seen  thy  wife  in  thy  halls  V  "  (Od.  XL  155, 
156,  160-162.) 

The  other  ghosts  are  equally  feeble. 
The  mighty  Agamemnon  appears  :  — 

"  And  he  knew  me  straightway,  when  he  had 
drunk  the  dark  blood." 

He,  too,  knows  nothing  of  his  own  fam- 
ily, except  that  Orestes  cannot  be  dead, 
because  he  would  have  joined  his  father 
in  Hades  :  — 

"But  come,  declare  me  this  and  plainly  tell  it  all, 
If  haply  ye  hear  of  my  son  as  yet  living.  .  .  . 
For  goodly  Orestes  hath  not  yet  perished  on  the 
earth.""  (Od.  XI.  457,  458,  461.) 

Achilleus  also  asks  with  the  utmost  solic- 
itude after  his  son  and  aged  father ;  and 
when  he  hears  how  worthily  Neoptole- 
mos  has  borne  himself  upon  the  Trojan 
battle-fields, 

"  The  spirit  of  the  son  of  Aiakos,  fleet  of  foot, 
passed  with  great  strides  along  the  mead  of  aspho- 
del, rejoicing  in  that  I  had  told  him  of  his  son's 
renown."  (Od.  XI.  538-540.) 

The  latter  portion  of  the  Eleventh 
Book,  describing  the  punishment  of  Tan- 
talos,  Sisyphos,  and  other  mythical  he- 
roes, is  generally  believed  to  be  a  later 
interpolation,  and  is  certainly  difficult  to 
reconcile  with  the  previous  picture  of 
Odysseus  sitting  beside  the  trench,  com- 
muning with  the  throng  of  helpless,  flit- 
ting ghosts.  However,  the  passage  does 
not  affect  our  general  sketch,  and  we 
mention  it  only  for  the  sake  of  Hera- 
kles,  whose  eidolon  appears  here,  though 
he  himself  sits  with  his  fair  wife  Hebe 
at  banquets  with  the  gods  who  live  for- 
ever. The  passage  reminds  us  of  Achil- 
leus' exclamation  after  the  vision  of  Pa- 
troklos  :  — 

"  Ay  me,  there  remaineth  even  in  the  house  of 
Hades  a  spirit  and  phantom  of  the  dead  !  "  (II. 
XXIII.  103,  104.) 

It  would   appear    that    the    invisible 

That  Achilleus  had  never  before  heard  the  ac- 
count of  his  own  funeral  rites  is  merely  one  of 
those  dramatic  fictions  which  we  must  constantly 
grant  to  poetry.  So,  when  we  hear  Priam,  in  the 
tenth  year  of  the  war,  inquiring  the  names  of  the 
Greek  chieftains,  the  incongruity  does  not  offend 


soul  (psyche),  passing  from  the  dead 
body  to  the  land  of  shades,  was  invested 
with  an  eidolon,  a  likeness  of  its  former 
body,  which  could  be  seen  and  recog- 
nized even  by  living  men.  It  is,  how- 
ever, plain  that  this  existence  was  a  most 
limited  and  aimless  one ;  and,  in  spite  of 
Plato's  stern  reproof,  we  can  hardly  con- 
demn, under  such  circumstances,  Achil- 
leus' exclamation  :  — 

"Nay,  speak  not  comfortingly  to  me  of  death, 
O  great  Odysseus  !  I  would  rather  live  on  earth 
and  labor  for  another,  for  a  landless  man  with  lit- 
tle means  of  livelihood,  than  rule  over  all  the  de- 
parted dead  that  have  perished."  (Od.  XI.  488- 
491.) 

The  prehistoric  Greeks  were  too  hap- 
py in  life,  too  closely  attached  to  out- 
ward nature,  too  fully  in  possession  of 
a  harmonious  development  of  body  and 
mind,  to  form  any  very  vivid  conception 
of  the  continued  existence  of  the  soul 
after  its  separation  from  the  body. 

The  beginning  of  the  last  book  of  the 
Odyssey  has  been  regarded  by  the  crit- 
ics, from  Aristarchos  down,  as  one  of 
the  latest  additions  to  the  poem.  The 
appearance  of  Hermes  conducting  the 
souls  of  the  suitors,  the  absence  of  sac- 
rifices at  Achilleus'  funeral  contrasted 
with  the  slaughter  of  animals  and  hu- 
man captives  at  Patroklos'  tomb,  may  be 
pointed  out  among  the  indications  of 
more  recent  origin. 

With  the  exception,  however,  of  an 
impression  of  greater  dignity  here  im- 
parted to  Achilleus  and  Agamemnon, 
the  scene  does  not  contradict  the  con- 
ception formed  from  reading  the  Elev- 
enth Book.1 

It  is  noteworthy  that  the  difficulty 
about  the  location  of  the  spirit  world  re- 
mains to  the  last.  In  the  opening  account 
of  the  passage  of  the  souls  there  is  no 
hint  of  a  descent :  — 

until  the  analytical  critic  insists  on  calling  our  at- 
tention to  it. 

No  use  has  been  made  here  of  the  famous  pas- 
sage Od.  IV.  563-569,  because  it  is  not  clear  that 
in  Homer,  at  any  rate,  the  'HAvo-io^  neSiov  is  the 
"dead  man's  plain."  It  seems  rather  a  far-off 
Western  El  Dorado  in  the  world  of  the  living. 


104 


TJie  Underworld  in  Homer,  Virgil,  and  Dante. 


[July, 


"Hermes,  the  helper,  led  them  along  the  dank 
ways.  Past  the  streams  of  Oceanus  and  the  White 
Rock,  past  the  gates  of  the  sun,  they  sped,  and 
the  land  of  dreams,  and  soon  they  came  to  the 
mead  of  asphodel,  where  dwell  the  souls,  the 
eidola  of  men  outworn  "  (Od.  XXIV.  9-14) ; 

while  the  closing  words  of  the  scene  are, 

"  Even  so  they  spake  one  to  another,  standing 
in  the  house  of  Hades,  beneath  the  secret  places 
of  the  earth."  (Od.  XXIV.) 

In  Virgil's  time  the  commoner  con- 
ception of  an  "  underworld  '  was  too 
fully  fixed,  or  the  actual  geography  too 
well  known,  to  venture  upon  sending 
his  hero  on  such  a  voyage,  and  accord- 
ingly JEneas  lands  and  enters  a  cavern. 
Dante  found  it  necessary  to  avoid  alto- 
gether the  question  of  the  actual  point 
where  the  underworld  is  entered. 

IV. 

The  passages  in  the  -ZEneid  bearing 
upon  our  subject  may  be  disposed  of  in 
a  few  words.  Eneas'  old  companions- 
in-arms  whom  he  meets  in  Hades  (VI. 
482-485)  had  known  nothing  of  him 
since  their  own  death.  This  may  be  gath- 
ered from  the  words 

"  They  delight  to  linger, 

And  onward  pace  with  him,  and  learn  what  cause 
Has  brought  him  hither,"  (JEn.  VI.  487,  488) 

and  still  more  clearly  when  Deiphobus 

asks,  — 

"But  thou,— 

Tell  me  what  fortune  brings  thee  here,  alive. 
Comest  thou  driven  by  wanderings  o'er  the  seas, 
Or  b}'  the  mandate  of  the  gods  ?     What  chance 
Pursues  thee,  that  to  these  sad  sunless  realms 
Of  turbid  gloom  thou  com'st  ?  " 

(^En.  VI.  531-534.) 

Palinurus,  indeed,  knows  the  fate  of  his 
own  body  in  the  upperworld,  but  that 
was  sufficientlv  evident  from  Charon's 

•/ 

refusal  to  row  him  across  the  Styx.  On 
the  other  hand,  Anchises  had  watched 
with  anxiety  his  son's  varying  fortunes 
since  his  own  death, 

1  It  may,  however,  be  mentioned  that  dreams  in 
the  modern  sense,  that  is,  as  phenomena  caused 
by  mere  subjective  conditions,  are  clearly  recog- 
nized by  Virgil,  though  it  would  probably  be  dif- 
ficult to  point  out  an  example  in  the  Homeric 
poems.  (See,  for  example,  JEn.  IV.  465-468.) 
"  The  cruel  ^Eneas  himself  pursues 

Her  footsteps  in  her  dreams  ; 


"  What  lands,  what  seas,  thou  hast  traversed,  O 


my  son 


! 


Amid  what  dangers  thou  wert  tost  about  ! 
What  harm  from  Libyan  realms  I  feared  for 
thee  !  " 

(JEn.  VI.  692,  694) 

had  foreseen  his  descent  to  the  lower 
world, 

"  Thus  in  my  mind  I  reckoned, 
And  numbered  o'er  the  intervening  times. 
Nor  have  my  anxious  wishes  been  deceived," 

(JEn.  VI.  690,  691) 

and  foretells  his  destiny  :  — 

"  He  tells  him  of  the  wars  that  shall  be  waged, 
The  city  of  Latinus,  and  the  lands 
Of  the  Laurentian  tribes,  and  how  to  bear, 
How  shun,  the  hardships  of  his  future  lot." 

n.  VI.  890-892.) 


But  it  is  clear  that  Anchises'  powers 
are  exceptional,  and  necessary  to  his 
part  in  the  machinery  of  the  poem.  The 
whole  episode  of  -ZEneas'  descent  into 
Hades  is  apparently  introduced  chiefly 
in  order  that  Anchises  may  show  him 
their  Roman  posterity.  It  would  seem 
probable  that  Anchises  had  actually 
returned  to  the  living  world  previous- 
ly (V.  722-742).  At  least,  his  appear- 
ance is  not  called  a  dream,  nor  is  he 
sent  by  a  god.  It  is  not  said  that  -ZEueas 
was  asleep.  Moreover,  the  information 
he  had  given  his  son  on  that  occasion 
was  quite  true,  and  was  one  ground 
for  the  expectation  of  ^Eneas'  coming 
shown  by  him  in  the  passage  quoted 
above.  Hector  also  seems  to  have  re- 
ally returned  to  earth  (II.  270-297)  to 
warn  .ZEneas  of  the  imminent  fall  of 

Ilios.1 

v. 

The  visit   to  Hades  is   but  a  single 

~ 

incident  in  Odysseus'  account  of  his 
marvelous  adventures.  JEneas'  descent 
into  the  world  of  the  dead  is  also  one 
episode,  merely,  in  Virgil's  poem,  and 

And  even  unattended  and  alone 

She  seems,  traveling  along  a  lengthening  road, 

Seeking  her  Tyrians  in  a  desert  land." 

In  Homer,  a  dream  may  be  vain  and  meaning- 

less   (oveipoi   (iju.TJxai'Oi.  aitpiTOfjivOoi,  Od.    XIX.  560), 

but  still  "a  god  hath  sent  the  dreams,"  or  at  least 
they  have  come  forth  through  the  ivory  gate  to 
delude  mortals. 


1884.] 


The  Underworld  in  Homer,  Virgil,  and  Dante. 


105 


raised  to  vital  importance  only  by  the 
vision  of  the  future  glories  of  Rome.  In 
the  Commedia,  on  the  other  hand,  the 
avowed  subject  is  the  pilgrimage  through 
the  abode  of  souls.  So  real  is  this  world 
to  the  poet,  so  clearly  does  he  make  us 
see  it  with  his  eyes,  that  whoever  has 
made  the  journey  step  by  step  with  him 
must  ever  after  find  many  of  these 
ghosts  more  real  than  any  other  charac- 
ters of  fiction  or  history.  They  have 
become  part  of  our  own  life. 

And  yet  we  are  haunted  throughout 
by  one  perplexing  doubt,  namely,  Just 
how  far  is  the  poem  allegorical  ?     We 
never  wholly  forget  that  the  true  sub- 
ject is  Man,  "  Subjectum  est  homo  ;  "  * 
that  the  most  real  Inferno  is  sin  and  re- 
morse, the  truest  Purgatorio  repentance. 
From  canto  to  canto  of  the  Inferno  the 
outlines  of  the  fearful  picture  are  more 
and   more   firmly  drawn,  and    Hebrew 
prophecy,  Hellenic  mythology,  history, 
tradition,  the  miseries  of  contemporary 
Italy,  are  fused  in  the  fire  of  poetic  gen- 
ius into  a  harmonious  whole  ;  but  it  is 
impossible   that  Dante  believed  this  to 
be  a  true  picture  of  the  actual  torments 
of  the  damned.     No  one  knew  so  well 
as  he  that  here  was  a  creation  of   his 
own    imagination.      Yet   it   is   equally 
clear  that  he  was  terribly  in  earnest,  and 
believed  himself   the  inspired  voice   of 
warning,  raised  in  the  midst  of  a  blinded 
and  misguided  world.     Over  the  rift  be- 
tween these   two  truths  is    spread   the 
mantle  of  allegoric  significance.     Every 
grotesquely  fit  form  of  torture  which  he 
devised  symbolized  the    effect  on    man 
of  his  own  sin.     Even  the    most  mon- 
strous shapes  of  the  Greek  myths  find 
their  fitting  place,  because  they  assume 
in  the  poet's  eyes  a  deeper  figurative 
meaning. 

For  example,  Virgil  is  Dante's  guide 
through  the  Inferno,  his  companion  on 
the  Purgatorial  mountain.  The  real 
Virgil  could  hardly  have  left  his  eternal 

1  Quotation  from  Dante's  letter  to  Can  Grande, 
in  which  he  explains  the  purport  of  his  poem. 


abode  to  wander  with  a  living  man 
through  all  the  mysteries  of  the  under- 
world. Still  less  could  he  have  previ- 
ously descended  into  deepest  hell  mere- 
ly in  obedience  to  a  witch's  incantations. 
(Inf.  IX.  22-24.)  But  Virgil  personi- 
fies Human  Philosophy  :  Human,  that 
is,  as  contrasted  with  Revealed  Theol- 
ogy. We  cannot,  then,  draw  any  con- 
clusions from  the  fact  that  this  compan- 
ion always  reads  the  heart  of  Dante, 
and  answers  the  unuttered  doubt.  We 
must  turn  to  spirits  more  thoroughly 
human  to  seek  reply  to  our  question. 

On  opening  the  Inferno 
"  Thou  wilt  find,  after  not  many  pages," 

the  most  realistic  and  unheroic  figure 
of  Ciacco  the  glutton,  a  Florentine,  and 
an  elder  contemporary  of  the  poet.  He 
had  died  in  1285,  fifteen  years  before 
the  time  when  Dante's  journey  is  sup- 
posed to  occur.  The  poet  asks  him,  — 

"  But  tell  me,  if  thou  knowest,  to  what  shall  come 
The  citizens  of  the  divided  city; 
If  any  there  be  just ;  and  the  occasion 
Tell  me  why  so  much  discord  has  assailed  it." 

(Inf.  VI.  60-63.) 

Ciacco's  answer  is  so  important  that  we 
cite  it  in  full :  — 

"  They,  after  long  contention, 
Will  come  to  bloodshed ;  and  the  rustic  party 
•    Will  drive  the  other  out  with  much  offense. 
Then  afterwards  behoves  it  this  one  fall 
Within  three  suns,  and  rise  again  the  other 
By  force  of  him  who  now  is  on  the  coast. 
High  will  it  hold  its  forehead  a  long  while, 
Keeping  the  other  under  heavy  burdens, 
Howe'er  it  weeps  thereat  and  is  indignant. 
The  just  are  two,  and  are  not  understood  there; 
Envy  and  arrogance  and  avarice 
Are  the  three  sparks  that  have  all  hearts  en- 
kindled." (Inf.  VI.  64-75.) 

Ciacco,  then,  knows  of  the  troubles  in 
Florence  since  his  own  death ;  sees  the 
treacherous  policy  of  Pope  Bonifazio  at 
the  very  moment  he  is  speaking ;  looks 
into  the  inmost  hearts  of  the  living 
Florentines ;  foresees  the  events  of  the 
next  year,  the  year  following,  and  the 
more  remote  future.  Moreover,  a  'mo- 
ment later  Dante  inquires  about  some 
of  the  great  Florentines  of  his  time,  and 


106 


The  Underworld  in  Homer,  Virgil,  and  Dante. 


[July, 


Ciacco,  by  his  answer,  shows  that  he 
knows  the  various  divisions  of  the  In- 
ferno, and  who  are  tortured  in  each  :  — 

"  They  are  among  the  blacker  souls; 
A  different  sin  downvveighs  them  to  the  bottom; 
If  thou  so  far  descendest,  thou  canst  see  them." 

(Inf.  VI.  85-87.) 

There  is  evidently  no  bound  set  to  the 
superhuman  vision  of  this  disembodied 
soul.  We  hope  not  to  lack  in  reverence 
for  Dante  if  we  say  it  is  perfectly  clear 
that  when  he  wrote  these  lines  he  had 
no  thought  of  any  such  limitation.  In 
composing  this  canto  it  suited  his  pur- 
pose to  put  into  Ciacco's  mouth  a  proph- 
ecy of  his,  the  poet's,  exile.  Afterward, 
while  the  famous  dramatic  scene  with 

f 

Farinata  and  Cavalcanti  was  shaping 
itself  in  his  imagination,  he  found  it 
necessary  to  limit  the  knowledge  of  the 
latter ;  and  he  then  put  into  Farina- 
ta's  mouth  a  passage  evidently  intended 
as  a  complete  exposition  of  the  sub- 
ject. Neither  the  speech  of  Ciacco  nor 
that  of  Farinata  is  an  essential  part  of 
the  elaborate  general  framework  of  the 
poem.  They  seem  to  have  sprung  from 
Dante's  desire  to  touch  upon  events  just 
occurring  and  men  still  living  at  the 
time  he  wrote.  Dante  is  always  the 
scholar,  the  lover  of  truth  and  light ; 
the  highest  bliss  of  his  Paradise  is  to 
contemplate,  in  the  mirror  of  the  God- 
head, absolute  truth,  freed  from  all 
limitations  of  time  and  space.  If,  then, 
his  purpose  here  had  been  merely  the 
artistic  one  of  portraying  the  misery  of 
these  souls  forever  cut  off  from  God,  it 
seems  likely  that  their  one  greatest  tor- 
ture would  have  been  mental  darkness. 
We  quote  here  the  words  of  Farinata 
(Inf.  X.  100-108):  — 

"  We  see,  like  those  that  have  imperfect  sight, 
The  things  .  .  .  that  distant  are  from  us; 
So  much  still  shines  on  us  the  Sovereign  Ruler. 
When  they  draw  near,  or  are,  is  wholly  vain 
Our  intellect,  and  if  none  brings  it  to  us 
Not  anything  know  we  of  your  human  state. 
Hence  thou  canst  understand  that  wholly  dead 
Will  be  our  knowledge  from  the  moment  when 
The  portal  of  the  future  shall  be  closed." 

(That  is,  after  the  Last  Judgment,  be- 


yond which  there  will  be  no  divisions  of 
time,  no  Past  or  Future.) 

This  answer  removes  the  perplexity 
of  Dante,  who  had  wondered  that  Caval- 
canti asked  anxiously  if  his  Guido  was 
still  living,  while  Farinata  saw  clearly 
the  future  of  Florence  and  of  Dante 
himself. 

In  the  remainder  of  the  Inferno  the 
limitations  here  established  are  usually 
remembered.  Farinata's  own  knowl- 
edge of  the  cruelty  shown  his  descend- 
ants by  their  fellow-citizens  — 

"  Say  why  that  people  is  so  pitiless 
Against  my  race  in  each  one  of  its  laws  "  — 

(Inf.  X.  83,  84) 

might  have  been  acquired  from  some 
Florentine  recently  dead,  as  indicated 
by  his  own  phrase,  "  s'altri  non  ci  ap- 
porta."  Pier  delle  Vigne,  who  is  trans- 
formed into  a  tree,  knows  the  fate  await- 
ing him  and  the  other  suicides  at  the 

O 

Judgment  Day  :  — 

"  Like  others  for  our  spoils  shall  we  return, 
But  not  that  any  one  mav  them  revest." 

(Inf.  XIII.  103,  104.) 

Bruuetto  Latini  gives  his  old  pupil  fur- 
ther information  about  the  reverses  of 
fortune  to  come  (XV.  61-72),  but  the 
words 

f       "  If  well  I  judged  in  the  life  beautiful  " 

(Inf.  XV.  57) 

remind  us  that  he  has  no  knowledge  of 
what  Dante  has  done  since  death  parted 
them. 

In  Canto  XVI.  three  citizens  of  Flor- 
ence inquire  as  to  the  present  state  of 
the  city,  saying  distinctly  that  their  in- 
formation is  obtained  from  a  companion 
lately  descended  from  earth. 

"  For  Guglielmo  Borsier,  who  is  in  torment 
With  us  of  late,  and  goes  there  with  his  com- 
rades, 
Doth  greatly  mortify  us  with  his  words." 

(Inf.  XVI.  70-72.) 

The  whole  conversation  is  in  striking 
contrast  with  that  of  Dante  and  Ciacco. 
In  Canto  XIX.  the  two  poets  come 
upon  Pope  Niccolo,  planted  head  down- 
ward in  a  crevice  of  the  rock.  He  has 


1884.]  The  Underworld  in  Homer,  Virgil,  and  Dante. 


107 


been  able  to  read  in  the  scroll  of  the 
future  that  Bonifazio  is  to  come  three 
years  later  to  take  his  place,  but  hear- 
ing Dante's  footsteps,  and  being  unable 
to  see  him,  he  supposes  that  it  must  be 
Bonifazio,  and  cries  out,  — 

"  Dost  thou  stand  there  already,  Boniface  ? 
By  several  years  the  record  lied  to  me; " 

(Inf.  XIX.  53,  54) 

and  he  is  not  undeceived  until  Dante, 
prompted  by  Virgil,  exclaims,  — 

"  I  am  not  he,  I  am  not  he  thou  thinkestl  " 

(XIX.  62.) 

So,  again,  Guido  da  Montefeltro  asks, 
with  the  utmost  eagerness,  after  the  fate 
of  his  beloved  Romagna  :  — 

"  Say,  have  the  Romagnuoli  peace  or  war  ?  " 

(XXVII.  28) 

and  Mosca  does  not  know  that  his  own 
family  had  become  extinct  during  the 
convulsions  of  recent  years ;  while  the 
detestable  Pistoian  Vanno  Fucci  can 
prophesy  of  Dante's  future  misfortunes 
merely  out  of  malicious  delight  in  the 
poet's  unhappiness. 

An  incident  of  Canto  XXX.  is  di- 
rectly opposed  to  Ciacco's  exact  knowl- 
edge of  the  fate  of  his  contemporaries. 
Maestro  Adamo  is  tortured  by  dropsy 
so  that  he  can  never  move  from  his 
seat.  The  consolation  for  which  he  is 
eager  is  to  see  the  punishment  of  his 
enemies,  the  Counts  of  Romena.  One 
of  them  is  actually  in  the  same  circle, 
but  Adamo  only  knows  it  by  report. 

Our  closing  citations  from  the  Inferno 
require  a  mention  of  the  most  terrible 
fancy  in  Dante.  When  a  treacherous 
murder  has  been  committed,  the  assas- 
sin's soul  is  instantly  hurled  to  the  bot- 
tom of  the  Inferno,  where  it  remains 
frozen  into  a  sheet  of  ice.  The  man 
may  apparently  live  on  in  the  upper- 
world,  but  his  body  is  occupied  by  a 
demon,  who  controls  it  in  the  soul's 
stead.  With  such  a  lost  spirit,  Fra 
Alberigo,  Dante  conversed.  The  wretch 
had  no  idea  of  the  whereabouts  of  his 
own  living  body ! 


We  said  that  from  Canto  X.  on,  the 
knowledge  displayed  by  Dante's  spirits 
was  usually  consistent  with  the  limits 
there  established.  In  the  case  here  al- 
luded to,  there  seems  to  be  a  striking 
discrepancy.  Cavalcanti  did  not  know 
if  Guido  were  dead  or  living,  and  none 
of  the  shades  we  have  since  met  had 
any  information  as  to  past  or  present 
not  obtainable  through  the  senses.  Fra 
Alberigo,  however,  goes  on  to  say  of  his 
next  neighbor  in  the  frozen  lake,  — 

"  Within  the  moat  above,  of  Malebranche, 
There  where  is  boiling  the  tenacious  pitch, 
As  yet  had  Michel  Zanche  not  arrived, 
When  this  one  left  a  devil  in  his  stead 
In  his  own  body,*'  etc. 

(Inf.  XVIII.  142-146.) 

Here  it  appears  that  Alberigo  is  familiar 
with  the  exact  form  of  punishment  in 
a  wholly  different  part  of  the  Inferno, 
and  knows  that  a  certain  man  was  con- 
signed to  it.  This  is  doubly  unaccount- 
able, because  the  murder  of  Michel 
Zanche  occurred  in  1275,  or  twenty 
years  before  the  deed  from  which  Al- 
berigo's  own  punishment  dated:  so  that 
it  is  impossible  that  his  knowledge  was 
gained  by  superhuman  foresight  since  he 
was  in  the  lower  world. 

VI. 

After  leaving  the  Inferno,  we  are  no 
longer  on  classic  ground.  There  is,  in- 
deed, toward  the  close  of  Virgil's  account 
of  ^Eneas'  visit  to  Hades,  a  description  of 
a  sort  of  purgatorial  process  undergone 
bv  the  souls  of  the  dead.  It  is,  however, 

%/ 

intended  to  remove  all  traces  of  their 
earthly  life,  and  thus  fit  them  for  re- 
incarnation ;  for  Virgil  clearly  teaches 
the  doctrine  of  the  transmigration  of 
souls.  In  this  passage  (JEneid  VI.  735- 
751)  he  is  following  Greek,  but  not 
Homeric,  models.  It  offers  an  interest- 
ing comparison  with  the  Dantesque  Pur- 
gatory, and  especially  the  connection  in 
which  Lethe  is  mentioned  might  well 
have  caused  Matilda  to  say,  — 

"  They  who  sang  in  ancient  times  .  .  . 
Dreamed  of  this  place  perchance  uponParnassos." 


108 


The  Underworld  in  Homer,  Virgil,  and  Dante. 


If  the  expression  "  et  pauci  Iceta  arva 
tenemus  "  means  that  the  worthiest  souls 
are  eventually  released  altogether  from 
the  perpetual  round  of  birth  and  death, 
and  relegated  to  a  permanent  happier 
state,  the  comparison  becomes  much 
more  complete.  Nevertheless,  the  Pur- 
gatorio  is  a  distinctively  Christian  con- 
ception. This  is  plainly  shown  by  the 
changed  nature  of  Virgil's  companion- 
ship. His  feet  are  upon  new  ground. 
He  is  reproved  by  Cato  at  the  very  por- 
tal for  language  unsuited  to  the  place. 
He  repeatedly  inquires  his  way,  or  bids 
Dante  do  so.  He  appeals  to  Statius  for 
an  explanation  of  phenomena  he  does 
not  comprehend,  and  in  reply  to  the 
exposition  of  the  latter  frankly  acknowl- 
edges that  he  now  for  the  first  time  un- 
derstands the  nature  of  the  mountain. 

"Now  I  see  the  net 

That  snares  you  here,  and  how  ye  are  set  free, 
Why  the  earth  quakes,  and  wherefore  ye  rejoice." 

(Purg.  XXI.  76-78.) 

In  fact,  Virgil  tells  Dante  most  plainly 
(XVIII.  46-48),  — 

"  What  reason  seeth  here 
Myself  can  tell  thee ;  beyond  that  await 
For  Beatrice,  since  'tis  a  work  of  faith." 

What  we  have  seen  to  be  true  of  the 
doomed  spirits  is  not,  then,  necessarily 
true  of  those  in  Purgatory.  They  are 
indeed  both  tortured,  and  they  are  pro- 
vided for  the  purpose  with  similar  bod- 
ies ;  but  the  Inferno  is  sunk  deep  in 
earth  and  gloom,  the  Purgatorio  rises 
high  into  eternal  sunshine.  The  air  of 
the  one  is  heavy  with  curses,  that  of  the 
other  with  prayers.  The  agony  of  the 
condemned  souls  is  embittered  by  de- 
spair ;  the  pains  of  Purgatorio  are  light- 
ened by  the  prospect  of  that  bliss  for 
which  they  are  the  needed  preparation. 

Nevertheless,  in  the  Purgatorio,  as  in 
the  Inferno,  Dante  appears  to  have 
given  his  spirits  a  varying  degree  of 

1  In  the  latter  passage  is  a  hint  that  they  were 
not  free  to  reveal  to  Dante  all  they  could  them- 
selves see :  — 

..."  Shall  be  clear  to  thee 
That  which  my  speech  no  farther  can  declare." 

(Purg.  XXIV.  89,  90.) 


knowledge,  according  to  the  dramatic 
exigencies  of  each  scene.  Statius  shows 
acquaintance  with  the  penalties  suffered 
in  the  Inferno, — 

"Revolving  I  should  feel  the  dismal  jousting?," 

(Purg.  XX I L  42) 

that  is,  the  punishment  of  misers  and 
prodigals.  There  are  several  examples 
of  prophetic  vision,  as  where  Corrado 
Malaspina  foretells  the  kindly  reception 
his  kinsmen  will  give  the  poet  six  years 
later  (Purg.  VIII.  136-139),  and  Forese 
Donati  foresees  his  brother's  tragic  death 
(XXIV.  82-87).1 

That  all  did  not  possess  this  foresight 
seems  clear  from  Canto  XIV.  Here. the 
friends  Guido  and  Riniero  sit  side  by 
side,  sharing  their  suffering.  Riniero 
hears  the  story  of  the  future  crimes  of 
his  own  nephew  from  the  lips  of  Guido, 
(Purg.  XIV.  58-66)  with  evident  sur- 
prise and  regret :  — 

"So  I  beheld  that  other  soul,  that  stood 
Turned  round  to  listen,  grow  disturbed  and  sad, 
When  it  had  gathered  to  itself  the  word." 

(Purg.  XIV.  70-72.) 

Passages  like 

"  And  he  has  one  foot  in  the  grave  already  " 

(Purg.  XVIII.  121) 

point  to  an  ability  to  see  what  is  occur- 
ring at  the  moment  in  the  living  world ; 
and  in  the  sweeping  denunciation  of  his 
own  descendants  put  into  the  mouth  of 
Hugh  Capet,  the  poet  has  quite  forgot- 
ten to  set  any  limit  to  his  knowledge. 

It  is  plain  that  Corrado  Malaspina 
has  no  news  from  home.  His  inquiry, 

"  If  some  true  intelligence 
Of  Valdimagra  or  its  neighborhood 
Thou  knowest,  tell  it  me,  who  once  was  great 
there,"  (Purg.  VIII.  115-117) 

is  very  like  that  of  Guido,  quoted  above 
(Inf.  XXVII.  28).  The  latest  and  most 
thorough  commentator,  Scartazzini,  who 
considers  that  the  vision  of  spirits  in  the 
Purgatorio  is  not  limited,  as  in  the  In- 

"  For  other  things 

The  Destinies  forbid  that  thou  shouldst  know, 
Or  Juno  wills  not  that  I  utter  them." 

n.  III.  379,  380.) 


1884.] 


The  Underworld  in  Homer,  Virgil,  and  Dante. 


109 


ferno,  suggests  that  this  ignorance  of 
Corraclo  is  peculiar  to  the  Yale  of  Kings, 
where  the  poets  are  at  this  time.  The 
theory  is  hardly  defensible,  because  in 
this  very  valley  Sordello,  while  pointing 
out  the  shades  of  famous  monarchs  re- 
cently deceased,  shows  equal  familiarity 
with  their  living  successors  (Purg.  VII. 
91-136),  and  Visconti  knows  that  his 
widow  has  put  off  her  mourning  and  is 
about  to  remarry,  — 

"I  do  not  think  her  mother  loves  me  more, 
Since  she  has  laid  aside  her  wimple  white;  " 

(Purg.  VIII.  73-74) 

while  on  the  other  hand,  in  a  wholly 
different  portion  of  the  Purgatorio, 
Forese  knew  nothing  of  the  fortunes  of 
his  kinsman  Dante,  though  he  does  fore- 
see Corso's  fate,  and  so  far  .discerns  the 
ways  of  Providence  as  to  know  that 
his  good  wife's  prayers  have  shortened 
his  penance.  Scartazzini  is  unwilling 
to  admit  the  possibility  of  an  oversight 
on  Dante's  part.  "  As  I  cannot  con- 
cede that  Dante  wrote  thus  through  in- 
advertence." (Note  on  Purg.  VIII. 
115.) 

VII. 

In  the  Paradiso,  the  eyes  and  thoughts 
of  the  blest  spirits  are  never  diverted  to 
the  earth  that  lies  so  far  beneath  them. 
They  are  absorbed  in  eternal  contem- 
plation of  God.  But  God  is  the  source 
of  all  love  and  of  all  truth.  Hence  in  the 
light  radiating  from  Him  each  worthy 
earthly  affection  is  clarified  and  strength- 
ened, not  lost.  Dante's  own  love  for 
Beatrice  in  Paradise  is  no  allegory;  it 
is  still  the  real  passion  which  had  been 
the  guide  and  guardian  of  his  youth. 
And  knowledge  is  limited,  in  Paradise, 
only  by  the  capacity  for  receiving  it. 
Not  even  the  archangels  fathom  all  the 
depths  of  His  purposes.  The  humblest 
soul  dwells  contented  in  the  light  of  His 
presence. 

VIII. 

It  is  the  aim  of  the  preceding  pages 
to  bring  together  all  the  important  pas- 
sages bearing  upon  the  question  pro- 


posed, namely,  "  How  far  do  the  dead 
know  what  happens  here  ?  "  We  have 
passed  as  lightly  as  possible  over  every- 
thing which  does  not  directly  illustrate 
this  subject.  The  results  may  be 
summed  up  very  briefly.  In  the  Ho- 
meric poems,  the  dead,  after  they  have 
reached  their  permanent  abode,  have 
no  knowledge  of  earthly  events.  The 
same  statement  is  true  of  the  JEneid, 
with  the  important  exception  of  Anchi- 
ses,  who  can  perhaps  hardly  be  regarded 
as  primarily  an  illustration  of  the  poet's 
religious  belief.  In  the  Commedia,  all 
the  spirits,  even  the  damned,  have  a 
more  or  less  perfect  knowledge  of  what 
occurs  on  earth. 

In  both  the  classic  poets,  the  future 
life  is  a  pale  reflection  of  the  present 
one.  In  Dante,  on  the  other  hand,  the 
disembodied  soul,  wherever  it  may  be, 
has  much  greater  intellectual  powers 
than  when  incarnate.  In  other  words, 
the  Hellenic  delight  in  physical  life,  the 
sense  of  the  inseparable  harmony  of 
body  and  mind,  is  lost,  and  in  its  stead 
we  have  the  Hebrew  belief  that  the 
flesh  is  the  prison-house  of  the  soul. 
Of  course  such  a  belief  is  not  unknown 
to  the  Hellenes ;  perhaps  no  one  has 
given  it  so  striking  and  imaginative  ex- 
pression as  Plato  ;  but  it  is  quite  op- 
posed to  the  spirit  of  the  Hellenic 
prime. 

The  problem  of  the  origin  of  the 
Homeric  poems  does  not  concern  us 
here.  We  may  at  least  use  the  term 
"  Homer "  or  "  the  poet,"  as  the  Hel- 
lenes themselves  often  did,  to  designate 
the  mass  of  verse  which  was  transmitted 
to  the  age  of  Perikles  under  the  rubrics 
Iliad  and  Odyssey,  without  implying  that 
it  was  all  the  work  of  one  man  or  one 
generation.  It  is  so  informed  through- 
out by  the  spirit  of  the  age  which  gave 
it  birth,  and  that  age  is  so  largely  foreign 
to  the  life,  the  institutions,  the  thoughts, 
of  the  historic  Hellenes,  that  for  our 
purposes,  at  least,  it  is  a  unit. 


110 


The  Growing  Power  of  the  Republic  of  Chile. 


[July, 


That  Virgil's  greatness  has  been  some- 
what exaggerated  is  perhaps  generally 
agreed.  One  of  his  strongest  claims 

O  O 

upon  our  gratitude  and  regard  is  the 
peculiar  manner  in  which  he  forms  a 
link  between  the  two  loftiest  poets  of 
all  time.  In  this  he  is  typical  of  Latin 
literature  as  a  whole.  How  often  have 
we  reason  to  rejoice  that  the  Romans 
hold  a  mirror,  dim  and  uncertain  though 
it  be,  wherein  we  discern  some  outlines 
of  their  Hellenic  models  now  lost !  Per- 
haps we  might  apply  more  truly  in  this 
connection  the  beautiful  figure  put  into 
the  mouth  of  Statius  : 

"  Thou  didst  as  he  who  walketh  in  the  night, 
Who  bears  his  light  behind,  which  helps  him  not, 
But  maketh  wise  the  persons  after  him." 

We  have   expressed   the   wish   that 


Dante  might  have  known  the  Odyssey. 
Not,  indeed,  that  he  could  have  been 
greatly  different  from  what  he  was.  The 
gentler  side  of  his  nature  might  have 
been  brought  out  more  fully,  but  for 
such  a  man  in  such  an  age  life  could  be 
nothing  but  war.  The  church  militant 
is  no  mere  figure  for  him.  He  must 
drop  the  lyre  for  the  trumpet ;  must  be, 
not  the  sweet-voiced  minstrel,  but  the 
grim  prophet  of  wrath.  The  uproar  of 
battle,  the  tumult  of  life,  are  in  his 
verse. 

In  history  and  literature  Dante's  po- 
sition is  unique.  In  him  we  find  the 
crystallized  expression  of  all  the  vague 
strivings  and  conflicting  currents  of  the 
ages  we  call  dark,  yet  he  is  also  the  clear- 
voiced,  eagle-eyed  herald  of  the  dawn. 

William  C.  Lawton. 


THE  GROWING  POWER  OF  THE  REPUBLIC  OF  CHILE. 


THE  American  Geographical  Society 
has  just  printed  in  a  neat  pamphlet1  of 
eighty-eight  pages  an  address  delivered 
before  the  society  in  New  York,  on  the 
eighteenth  day  of  February  last,  by  Mr. 
Albert  G.  Browne,  Jr.,  formerly  a  dis- 
tinguished member  of  the  Suffolk  bar. 
The  title  of  the  address  is  that  which 
heads  this  article.  A  few  months  ago 
Mr.  Browne  visited  the  republics  of 
South  America,  and  made  a  special  and 
careful  study  of  Chile  under  circum- 
stances exceptionally  favorable  for  ob- 
servation and  judgment.  Some  of  the 
ripest  fruit  of  this  study  is  garnered  in 
this  brief  brocliure.  Mr.  Browne's  style 
is  admirable  in  its  vividness,  succinct- 
ness, and  lucidity,  and  his  treatise,  though 
packed  as  full  of  learning  and  informa- 
tion as  an  egg  is  full  of  meat,  is  highly 
entertaining.  The  keen  interest  which 

1  Bulletin  (No.  1)  of  the  American  Geographi- 
cal Society.    No.  11  West  29th   St.,  New  York. 

Printed  for  the  Society. 

i 


its  perusal  will  command  in  all  intelli- 
gent readers  cannot  fail  to  be  mixed  in 
Americans  with  a  lively  sense  of  shame 
and  irritation.  Altogether  the  publica- 
tion is  noteworthy,  and  the  reading 
thereof  will  make  an  era  in  the  expe- 
rience of  a  great  many  cultivated  per- 
sons. 

Chile  is  a  wonderful  country,  and  its 
brief  life  has  abounded  in  extraordinary 
and  romantic  incidents.  Leaving  out 
of  account  the  nitrate-bearing  districts 
of  Peru  and  Bolivia,  which  were  the 
cause  of  the  recent  five  years'  war  and 
which  have  become  the  spoil  of  the 
victor,  Chile  is  substantially  a  long,  nar- 
row strip  of  land,  lying  wholly  within 
the  temperate  zone,  between  the  Andes 
and  the  Pacific  Ocean.  Its  most  south- 
ern point  is  in  latitude  corresponding  to 
that  of  New  York  ;  and  "  then  the  coast 
breaks  up  into  a  labyrinth  of  islands 
which  reach  as  far  as  the  Straits  of 
Magellan."  All  of  these  islands,  Cape 


1884.] 


The  G-r owing  Power  of  the  Republic  of  Chile. 


Ill 


Horn  being  a  part  of  one  of  them, 
belong  to  Chile.  In  territory  Chile  is 
the  smallest  but  two,  and  in  population 
probably  the  smallest  but  three,  of  the 
South  American  states.  It  covers  upon 
the  map  about  the  same  space  as  Dako- 
ta, and  its  population,  by  the  census  of 
1875,  was  very  nearly  that  of  Missouri, 
beins:  but  a  little  in  excess  of  two  mil- 

o 

lions.  This  is  the  state  which  has  re- 
cently defeated,  in  a  long  and  almost  un- 
interruptedly successful  war,  the  allied 
powers  of  two  South  American  nations, 
either  of  which  was  its  apparent  equal 
in  resources  ;  which  has  torn  away  from 
the  conquered  states  the  richest  part  of 
their  possessions,  without  compensation 
or  the  promise  of  compensation,  and  has 
thus  made  itself  the  wealthiest  govern- 
ment of  its  size  in  the  world ;  which  has 
now  become  "  the  first  American  pow- 
er in  the  Pacific,"  and  in  its  progress 
to  this  position  has  administered  to  the 
United  States  a  snub  as  complete  and 
successful  as  was  ever  given  by  one  na- 
tion to  another. 

Mr.  Browne's  essay  deals  rapidly,  but 
clearly  and  convincingly,  with  the  causes, 
both  near  and  remote,  of  this  remark- 
able growth.  During  all  the  period  of 
the  Spanish  supremacy  in  America, 
Chile  was  regarded  as  a  barren  and  un- 

O 

rewarding  region,  and  was  "  a  poor  and 
humble,  almost  a  despised,  dependency 
to  the  vice-royalty  of  Peru."  Mexico 
and  Peru,  with  their  comparatively  ad- 
vanced civilization  and  developed  min- 
eral wealth,  drew  to  themselves  most  of 
those  European  noblemen  and  adventur- 
ers who  sought  the  Spanish  possessions 
in  the  New  World,  while  Chile  was  col- 
onized by  hardy  immigrants, mostly  from 
the  northern  provinces  of  Spain.  Court 
favorites  sought  appointments  where  the 
spoils  were  richest.  Upon  the  west  coast 
"  Lima  was  the  point  where  greed  and 
ambition  centred,"  while  Santiago  di 
Chile  "  was  esteemed  as  undesirable  a 
post  ;is  a  British  governor  might  deem 
St.  John's  in.  Newfoundland  in  compari- 


son with  Ottawa."  Chile,  "  thus  escaping 
foreign  rapacity,  was  abandoned  more 
to  self-government  than  were  the  other 
Spanish  dependencies."  It  also  suffered 
peculiar  hardships  ;  its  chief  coast  town, 
Valparaiso,  being  sacked  by  buccaneers 
in  the  seventeenth  century,  and  thrice 
in  the  two  succeeding  centuries  nearly 
destroyed  by  earthquake.  The  conse- 
quence of  these  disasters  was  that  "  the 
colonists  smelted  with  the  vigorous  In- 
dians, and  a  new  race  was  developed." 
The  Araucanian  Indians,  who  were  in- 
digenous to  the  Chilean  soil,  were  an 
exceedingly  powerful  people,  and  had 
been  the  last  of  the  native  South  Amer- 
ican tribes  to  yield  to  the  prowess  of 
Spanish  arms.  An  almost  perfect  union 
of  these  two  absolutely  unrelated  races 
took  place.  The  population  of  Chile, 
quite  unlike  that  of  Peru,  which  includes 
thirteen  half-castes,  is  now  made  up 
simply  of  the  pure-blooded  descendants 
of  the. Spanish,  who  number  one  fifth  of 
the  whole,  and  a  single  half-caste  of 
Spanish  and  Indians,  who  are  the  re- 
maining four  fifths.  **  Indian  blood  per- 
vades not  only  the  middle  and  lower 
classes  of  the  people,  but  many  of  the 
most  powerful  and  wealthy  families  also, 
and  no  such  contempt  attaches  to  the 
mixture  as  does  in  most  other  Spanish- 
speaking  countries."  Nothing  like  this, 
or  of  ethnological  significance  compara- 
ble with  this,  has  happened  anywhere 
else  in  modern  times.  The  general  re- 
sult of  the  operation  of  these  and  other 
causes  is  succinctly  indicated  in  one  of 
Mr.  Browne's  neatest  sentences  :  "  Lima 
was  the  Athens  of  Spanish  America  ; 
Santiago  became  its  Sparta."  In  the 
wars  for  independence  which  were 
waged  with  Spain  at  the  beginning  of 
this  century  the  fighting  capacity  of  the 
Chilean  race  was  displayed  ;  and  after 
Chile,  with  the  help  of  its  Argentine  al- 
lies, had  achieved  its  liberty,  it  at  cnca 
joined  its  forces  with  those  of  Bolivar 
and  Sucre  for  the  liberation  of  Peru, 
which  was  proclaimed  at  Lima  in  1821. 


112 


The  Growing  Power  of  the  Republic  of  Chile. 


[July, 


After  the  final  expulsion  of  Spain  from 
the  continent  in  1824,  the  republic  of 
Bolivia  was  organized,  and  the  creation 
of  this  state,  Mr.  Browne  says,  "  was 
an  event  which  lies  at  the  foundation  of 
almost  all  the  modern  political  and  mili- 
tary history  of  the  west  coast  of  South 
America.  From  that  time  Chile  has 
steadilv  aimed  to  restrain  Bolivia  and 

V 

Peru  from  a  union,  and  twice  has  gone 
successfully  to  war  to  prevent  it." 

After  the  perfection  of   its    national 
independence,  the  Chilean   government 
soon    passed    into    the  permanent   con- 
trol of  civilians,  "  while  the  other  gov- 
ernments   of   the  west   coast   remained 
prizes  for  military  chieftains."    Its  pres- 
ent  constitution    was  framed    in   1833, 
and  though  it  is  only  half  a  century  old 
"  it  is  the  oldest  written  national  constitu- 
tion in  force  in  all  the  world  except  our 
own,  unless  the  Magna  Charta  of  Eng- 
land be  included  in  the  category."    The 
political  history  of  Chile  during  the  fifty 
years  of  its  life  has  been  that  of  a  well- 
ordered   commonwealth,  but    one   of   a 
most  unusual  and  interesting  sort.     Its 
government  has  never  been  forcibly  over- 
thrown, and  only  one  serious  attempt  at 
revolution  has  been  made.     Chile  is  in 
name  and  in  an  important  sense  a  re- 
public, and  yet  its  government  is  an  oli- 
garchy.    Suffrage  is  restricted  to  those 
male  citizens  who  are  registered,  who 
are  twenty-five  years  old  if  unmarried 
and  twenty-one  if  married,  and  who  can 
read   and   write ;  and    there    is    also    a 
stringent    property    qualification.      The 
consequence    is    that    the    privilege    of 
voting  is  confined  to  an  aristocracy  :  in 
1876,  the  total  number  of  ballots  thrown 
for  president  was  only  46,114  in  a  pop- 
ulation of  about  two  and  a  quarter  mil- 
lions.    The  president  of  Chile  has  im- 
mense   powers    of   nomination    and  ap- 
pointment, and  when  he  is   a   man   of 
vigorous  will  he  tyrannically  sways  pub- 
lic policy,  and  can   almost   always  dic- 
tate  the   name  of   his  successor.     The 
government  has  thus  become  practically 


vested  in  a  comparatively  small  number 
of    leading  Chilean  families.     There  is 
no  such   thing   as    "  public   opinion  "  in 
the  sense  in  which  we   use  the  phrase, 
and    the  newspapers,  though  ably  con- 
ducted, do  not  attempt,  as  they  do  not 
desire,  to  change   the  existing  order  of 
things.     "  History,"  says  Mr.  Browne, 
"  does  not  furnish  an  example  of  a  more 
powerful  political  '  machine  '  under  the 
title  of    republic ;  nor,  I  am  bound  to 
say,  one  which  has  been   more   ably  di- 
rected so  far  as  concerns  the  aggrandize- 
ment of  the  country,  or  more  honestly 
administered  so  far  as  concerns  pecuniary 
corruption."     The  population   of  Chile 
doubled   between   1843   and   1875;  the 
quantity  of  land  brought  under  tillage 
was     quadrupled ;    copper    mines    were 
discovered,  and    so    worked    that  Chile 
became  tho  chief  copper-producing  coun- 
try in    the  world  ;  some   of    the  silver 
mines  rivaled  the  Comstock  lode  ;  more 
than    one    thousand    miles    of  -railroad 
were   built;  a  foreign  export   trade  of 
$31,695,039  was  reported  in  1878  ;  and 
two    powerful    iron  -  clads,   which    were 
destined  to  play  a  most  important  part 
in   Chilean  affairs,  were   built  in  Eng- 
land.    Meanwhile,  the  constitution  was 
officially  interpreted  so  as  to  guarantee 
religious    toleration,   and    the    political 
power  of  the  Roman  Catholic  priesthood 
diminished.     Almost    everything   good, 
except  home  manufactures  and  popular 
education,  flourished.    The  development 
of   the  nation  in  these  years  was  on  a 
wonderful  scale  for  a  South  American 
state,  and  the    contrast   between  Chile 
and  Peru  was  peculiarly  striking.   Com- 
parative   purity  and    strength   of   race, 
born    out    of    hardship    and    producing 
political  stability  and  honesty  and  per- 
sonal courage,  seemed  to  be  the  prime 
factors  in  the  Chilean  distinction.     And 
yet  the  two  peoples  were  the  descend- 
ants of  the  same  European  race  and  of 
kindred    Indian    races.     Doubtless    the 
difference  in  climate  was  entirely  favor- 
able to  Chile.   Apropos,  one  recalls  Mr. 


1884.] 


The  Growing  Poiver  of  the  Republic  of  Chile. 


113 


Edward  Everett  Hale's  rule  for  deter- 
mining in  advance  the  length  of  a  South 
American  outbreak  :  "  Multiply  the  age 
of  the  president  by  the  number  of  stat- 
ute miles  from  the  equator  ;  divide  by 
the  number  of  pages  in  the  given  con- 
stitution :  the  result  will  be  the  length 
of  the  outbreak  in  days.  This  formula 
includes  an  allowance  for  the  heat  of 
the  climate,  the  zeal  of  the  leader,  and 
the  verbosity  of  the  theorists." 

Early  in  1879  began  the  great  series 
of  events  which  were  to  make  the  for- 
tune of  Chile.  We  use  the  word  "  great" 
in  its  low,  superficial  sense,  and  without 
the  attribution  of  any  moral  significance 
to  the  adjective.  The  aggressor  in  the 
war  between  Chile  and  Peru  was  in- 
spired by  the  most  purely  selfish  mo- 
tives, and  it  remains  to  be  seen  whether 
the  just  gods  will  not  win  in  the  long 
run,  even  though  the  game  of  their  an- 
tagonists be  played  with  heavily  plated 
irori-clads.  There  is,  however,  some- 
thing quite  refreshing  in  the  frankness 
of  Chilean  belligerency  as  compared 
with  the  reserve  and  duplicity  of  mod- 
ern European  war  -  making.  South 
American  character  is  by  no  means  dis- 
tinguished by  candor,  it  is  true,  but  the 
conditions  and  needs  of  the  southern 
portions  of  the  New  World  are  in- 
comparably simpler  than  those  of  the 
Old  ;  and  the  European  diplomatist  may 
here  behold  with  an  admiring  shudder 
a  contest  unblushingly  prosecuted  in 
that  spirit  of  greed  and  hatred  which 
he  has  long  and  well  known  at  home, 

O  * 

but  always  under  some  disguise  of  face 
or  name.  At  the  date  last  mentioned 
Chile  was  suffering,  like  many  other  na- 
tions, from  a  general  depression  in  busi- 
ness pursuits.  Its  people  were  in  no 
serious  trouble,  but  as  a  government  it 
was  in  a  bad  way.  Its  treasury  accounts 
had  for  several  years  shown  a  deficit, 
which  was  increasing.  The  public  in- 
come in  1878  was  about  $14,000,000 ; 
the  outgo  $21,000,000.  There  was  a 
domestic  debt  of  $16,916,022,  and  a  for- 
VOL.  LIV.  —  NO.  321.  8 


eign  debt  of  $46,481,000.  The  means 
to  keep  up  a  sinking  fund  for  the  for- 
eign debt  had  failed,  and  the  Chilean 
five  per  cents  were  quoted  in  London  at 
sixty-four.  "  A  political  cloud  also  was 
darkening  again  in  the  north  in  the  re- 
newal of  something  like  a  confederation 
between  Peru  and  Bolivia."  In  this 
state  of  things  the  governing  oligarchy 
of  Chile  decided,  rather  suddenly  Mr. 
Browne  thinks,  upon  a  scheme  which 
was  sure  to  result  either  in  splendid 
prosperity  or  absolute  ruin,  and  which 
contemplated  nothing  less  than  a  war  of 
conquest  against  Peru  and  Bolivia,  with 
a  view  to  seizing  the  most  valuable  ter- 
ritory of  the  former  country.  There  is 
a  certain  strip  of  land  bordering  upon 
the  Pacific  and  about  four  hundred  miles 
long,  of  which  the  northern  three  quar- 
ters belonged  to  Peru  and  Bolivia,  the 
remaining  one  quarter  to  Chile.  Upon 
this  land  a  heavy  rain  never  falls,  and 
often  years  pass  in  which  the  soil  does 
not  feel  a  shower.  It  is  of  course  void 
of  vegetation,  and  the  fresh  water  used 
by  its  people  is  either  distilled  from  the 
sea,  or  brought  up  or  down  the  coast  on 
shipboard.  Yet  this  hideous  region 
blooms  and  blossoms  like  a  rose  in  the 
eye  of  the  capitalist-  and  economist.  Its 
money  value  is  immense.  "  From  this 
region  the  world  derives  almost  its  whole 

O 

supply  of  nitrates  —  chiefly  saltpetre 
—  and  of  iodine  ;  "  its  mountains,  also, 
are  rich  in  metals,  and  great  deposits 
of  guano  are  found  in  the  highlands  bor- 
dering the  sea.  The  nitrate-bearing 
country  is  a  plain,  from  fifty  to  eighty 
miles  wide,  the  nitrate  lying  in  layers 
just  below  a  thin  sheet  of  impacted 
stones,  gravel,  and  sand.  The  export  of 
saltpetre  from  this  region  was  valued 
in  1882  at  nearly  $30,000,000,  and  the 
worth  of  the  Peruvian  section,  which 
is  much  the  largest  and  most  productive, 
is  estimated,  for  government  purposes, 
at  a  capital  of  $600,000,000.  Chile 
was,  naturally,  well  aware  of  the  wealth 
which  lay  so  close  to  her  own  doors,  and 


114 


The  Growing  Power  of  the  Republic  of  Chile. 


[July, 


to  possess  herself  thereof,  and  thus  to 
rehabilitate  her  national  fortunes,  she  ad- 
dressed herself  to  war.  The  occasion 
for  war  was  easily  found.  Bolivia  was 
first  attacked,  a  difficulty  which  arose 
at  her  port  of  Antofagasta,  with  respect 
to  her  enforcement  of  a  tax  upon  some 
nitrate  works  carried  on  by  a  Chil- 
ean company,  affording  a  good  pretext ; 
and  when  Peru  attempted  intervention 
her  envoy  was  confronted  with  Chile's 

V 

knowledge  of  a  secret  treaty  between 
Peru  arid  Bolivia,  and  war  was  formally 
declared  by  Chile  upon  Peru,  April  5, 
1879. 

This  war  lasted,  with  some  breathing 
spaces,  for  almost  exactly  five  years. 
At  the  outset  the  two  belligerent  pow- 
ers —  Bolivia  being  soon  practically  out 
of  the  contest — seemed  to  be  about 
equal  in  ships,  soldiers,  and  resources ; 
but  the  supremacy  which  Chile  soon 
gained  upon  the  seas  substantially  de- 
termined the  war  in  her  favor.  Each 
nation  owned  two  powerful  iron-clads, 
and  six  months  were  employed  in  set- 
tling the  question  of  naval  superiority. 
•"  This  process,"  to  quote  Mr.  Browne's 
.•graphic  paragraph  verbatim,  "  was  like 
.a  game  of  chess  when  the  board  has 
•been  cleared  of  all  the  pieces  except  two 
bishops  and  a  few  pawns  on  one  side, 
and  two  knights  and  a  few  pawns  on 
the  other.  The  wooden  ships  of  Peru 
and  Chile  corresponded  with  the  pawns, 
and  the  two  iron-clads  on  each  side  with 
the  knights  and  bishops."  On  the  21st 
of  May,  1879,  the  Peruvian  fleet  at- 
tacked and  almost  destroyed  the  Chil- 
ean wooden  frigates  which  were  block- 
ading Iquique  ;  but  in  chasing  a  Chilean 
corvette  the  larger  Peruvian  iron-clad  — 
the  Indeperidencia  —  ran  too  near  the 
shore,  and  was  fatally  wrecked.  "  So 
Peru  lost  one  of  her  knights.  The 
:game  she  played  with  the  other  —  the 
Huascar  —  was  admirable,  but  a  losing 

1  Most  of  these  battles  were  sanguinary,  and  all 

•  of  them  were  horribly  brutal.    In  the  figures  of 
loss  it  is  common  to  find  the  number  of  the  killed 

•  equaling  the  number  of  the  wounded,  a  fact  which 


one  ; "  and  on  the  8th  of  October  of  the 
same  year  the  Huascar  was  attacked  by 
the  Chilean  fleet,  which  included  two 
iron-clads,  and  was  finally  captured  "  af- 
ter a  desperate  resistance,  in  which  the 
one  martial  hero  of  Peru,  Admiral  Don 
Miguel  Grau,  was  blown  to  pieces  by  a 
shell ;  and  of  the  four  officers  next  in 
rank  two  were  killed  and  two  wounded." 
From  this  moment  the  Peruvian  coast 
was  at  Chile's  mercy  :  the  Chilean  arms 
prevailed  in  every  pitched  battle,  at  San 
Francisco,  at  Tacna,  at  Arica  ;  and  final- 
ly, on  the  17th  of  January,  1881,  after 
a  series  of  actions  which  resembled  in 
some  of  their  details  the  engagements 
that  preceded  our  capture  of  the  City 
of  Mexico,  the  victorious  army  of  Chile 
took  possession  of  Lima,  the  capital  of 
Peru.1 

A  few  months  before  the  Chilean  oc- 
cupation of  Lima,  the  government  of 
the  United  States  of  America  entered 
upon  the  abortive  series  of  attempts  at 
mediation  or  intervention  which  consti- 
tute as  a  whole  one  of  the  most  ludi- 
crous —  or  melancholy  —  failures  in  di- 
plomacy that  have  been  seen  in  modern 
times.  To  appreciate  the  fullness  of 
the  Chilean  triumph  in  these  transac- 
tions, it  is  necessary  to  know  something 
of  the  financial  situation  of  Peru.  This 
was  very  bad  indeed.  Peru  had  long 
suffered  from  intestinal  feuds  and  fac- 
tions, and  had  scarcely  known  the  mean- 
ing of  the  word  "  stability  "  since  the  in- 
auguration of  its  first  president.  The 
rapacity  and  corruption  of  its  officials 
had  been  intensified  by  their  sense  of 
insecurity.  But  the  pecuniary  resources 
of  the  country  were  seen  to  be  so  vast 
after  the  discovery  of  the  guano  and 
nitrate  districts  that  the  state  had  been 
able  to  be  a  large  borrower  in  Europe. 
In  1872  Peru  had  a  foreign  debt  of 
about  two  hundred  million  dollars,  the 
greater  part  of  which  was  due  to  citizens 

proves  that  cold-blooded  butchery  was  practiced 
upon  the  wounded  on  the  battle-field.  The  pro- 
portion of  killed  to  wounded  in  our  battle  of  Get- 
tysburg was  less  than  one  to  five. 


1884.] 


The  Growing  Power  of  the  Republic  of  Chile. 


115 


of  England  arid  France;  and  one  hun- 
dred and  eighty  million  dollars  of  this 
amount  had  been  raised  upon  bonds 
which  expressly  hypothecated  to  the  hold- 
ers all  its  guano  and  nitrate  fields  dis- 
covered and  to  be  discovered,  and  the  in- 
come derived  therefrom.  And  so  badly 
were  the  Peruvian  finances  managed 
that,  in  spite  of  the  enormous  wealth 
of  the  country,  interest  upon  its  public 
debt  ceased  to  be  paid  in  187G,  and  has 
never  been  resumed.  This  was  the 
condition  of  things  when,  by  the  fall  of 
Arica,  the  complete  military  success  of 
Chile  seemed  practically  assured.  And 
it  was  at  this  point  of  time,  in  October, 
1880,  that  there  occurred  the  fruitless 
conference  between  envoys  of  the  bellig- 
erents on  board  a  United  States  corvette 
in  the  harbor  of  Arica,  under  the  media- 
tion of  Messrs.  Christiancy,  Adams,  arid 
Osborn,  President  Hayes's  ministers  to 
Chile,  Peru,  and  Bolivia  respectively. 
At  this  conference.  Chile's  prime  de- 
mands as  conditions  of  peace  were  a 
money  indemnity  of  twenty  million  dol- 
lars and  the  absolute  cession  to  itself 
of  the  entire  Bolivian  littoral  and  the 
great  Peruvian  nitrate-producing  prov- 
ince of  Tarapaca.  Peru  and  Bolivia 
rejected  the  demand  for  territorial  ces- 
sion, and  offered  instead  a  money  in- 
demnity. They  also  offered  to  submit 
the  question  of  terms  of  peace  to  the 
arbitration  of  the  United  States,  —  a 
proposal  which  was  promptly  and  per- 
emptorily declined  by  Chile.  It  will  be 
seen  at  a  glance  that  the  parties  deeply 
interested  in  the  settlement  were  not 
only  the  three  belligerent  powers,  but 
also  the  unsatisfied  European  holders  of 
Peruvian  bonds.  And  it  was  the  hope 
of  Peru,  as  well  as  the  apprehension  of 
Chile,  that  "  Great  Britain  or  France, 
one  or  both,  might  intervene  for  the  as- 
sertion of  the  financial  rights  of  their 
subjects,"  especially  as  Chile  had  now 
seized  and  proposed  to  hold  the  nitrate 
region  which  had  been  mortgaged  to  the 
European  holders  of  Peruvian  securities. 


The  government  at  Lima  was  in  a  des- 
perate state,  but  after  some  vacillation 
fixed  its  hopes  upon  the  projects  of  the 
Credit  Industriel,  a  French  corporation 
representing  nearly  all  the  foreign  debt 
not  raised  in  England,  which  proposed 
to  help  Peru  to  a  treaty  of  peace  with- 
out a  cession  of  its  territory,  by  per- 
suading Chile  to  accept  a  large  money 
indemnity  simply.  The  sum  needed  for 
this  purpose  was  to  be  advanced  by  the 
Credit  Industriel,  which  in  turn  was  to 
receive,  as  trustee  first  for  itself  and  its 
own  great  advantage,  and  then  for  Peru, 
an  assignment  of  the  entire  guano  and 
nitrate  district.  And  to  this  project,  or 
something  like  it,  with  a  contemplated 
"  guaranty  or  protectorate  by  the  United 
States  of  the  Credit  Industriel's  posses- 
sion of  the  guano  and  nitrates,  to  insure 
the  stability  of  the  project,"  Mr.  Hayes's 
administration  through  Mr.  Evarts  sub- 
stantially committed  itself. 

But  Chile,  as  capable  in  diplomacy  as 
in  war,  was  more  than  equal  to  the  situ- 
ation, and  managed  matters  with  an  ad- 
mirable combination  of  cunning  and  au- 
dacity. In  the  first  place,  she  played  on 
the  disgust  of  the  outraged  creditors  of 
Peru  in  Europe,  and  made  a  large  num- 
ber of  the  English  and  other  bondhold- 
ers believe  that  they  would  fare  better 
at  the  hands  of  Chile  than  of  Peru,  even 
if  the  latter  nation  were  stripped  of  all 
its  wealth  by  the  former.  But  Chile's 
master  stroke  was  made  in  her  use  of 
the  United  States.  There  was  nothing 
she  so  much  dreaded  as  active  European 
intervention,  and  this  she  defeated  by 
encouraging  our  government  to  mediate, 
and  stimulating  us*  to  such  a  vigorous 
assertion  of  the  Monroe  doctrine  that 
neither  England  nor  France  thought  it 
best  to  interfere  ;  and  having  accom- 
plished this  she  turned  upon  our  govern- 
ment, snapped  her  fingers  in  our  face, 
and  went  forward  to  the  complete  de- 
spoiling of  Peru  according  to  the  plan 
she  had  originally  proposed  to  herself. 
The  issue  with  us  was  not  sharply  made 


116 


The  Growing  Power  of  the  Republic  of  Chile. 


until  after  the  close  of  the  Hayes  ad- 
ministration. Mr.  Garfield  had  then 
become  President,  and  Mr.  Blaine  had 
succeeded  Mr.  Evarts.  Mr.  Christiancy 
was  promptly  superseded  in  our  mission 
to  Peru  by  General  Hurlbut,  an  inti- 
mate friend  of  Mr.  Blaine ;  and  our 
Secretary  of  State  —  acting  from  mo- 
tives which  we,  following  Mr.  Browne, 
•'will  not  debate"  —  entered  upon  a 
highly  vigorous  and  aggressive  policy, 
the  apparent  aim  of  which  was  to  carry 
through,  in  favor  of  Peru,  the  Credit 
Industrie!  scheme  already  described. 
General  Hurlbut,  on  his  arrival  in  Lima, 
had  found  the  Peruvians  almost  ready 
to  purchase  peace  by  any  sacrifice  ;  but 
recognizing  as  the  government  the  fac- 
tion which  was  least  disposed  to  make 
territorial  cession,  he  succeeded  in  fill- 
ing its  leaders  with  confidence,  and  pub- 
licly proclaimed  to  Admiral  Lynch,  the 
Chilean  commander  then  in  possession 
of  Lima,  that  "  the  United  States  would 
support  Peru  in  refusing  to  cede  a  foot 
of  her  territory  to  Chile  until  proof 
should  be  afforded  of  the  inability  of 
Peru  to  furnish  a  war  indemnity  in 
some  other  form."  Admiral  Lynch's 
response  to  this  proclamation  was  soon 
made  in  the  suspension  of  the  Peru- 
vian government  which  Mr.  Hurlbut  had 
inspired,  and  by  the  transportation  of 
Senor  Calderon,  its  soi-disant  president, 
to  Chile,  where,  until  a  few  weeks  ago, 
he  was  closely  imprisoned.  At  this  junc- 
ture of  affairs  President  Garfield  died. 
Mr.  Blaine  began  to  "  wind  up  "  the  busi- 
ness of  his  office ;  telegraphed  to  General 
Hurlbut,  "  The  influence  of  your  posi- 
tion must  not  be  used  in  aid  of  the  Credit 
Tndnstriel,  or  any  other  financial  or  spec- 
ulative association,"  but  sent  Mr.  Tres- 
cot,  one  of  our  most  experienced  diplo- 
matists, as  a  special  envoy  to  the  three 
belligerents,  with  instructions  which 
might  have  resulted  in  yet  deeper  en- 
tanglements. At  Santiago  Mr.  Tres- 
cot  met  the  president  of  Chile,  and  was 
informed  that  his  country  would  accept 


war  with  the  United  States  rather  than 
submit  to  our  dictation  of  the  terms  of 
peace.  Whether  Chile  was  sincere,  and 
whether  she  would  have  been  firm  in 
this  position,  no  one  knows  or  will  ever 
know.  Mr.  Frelinghuysen  came  into 
office  under  President  Arthur,  and  at 
once  revoked  "  any  and  all  discretion 
given  to  Mr.  Trescot  to  press  Chile  to 
a  peace  without  territorial  cession  of 
Peruvian  territory."  And  this  revoca- 
tion was  first  communicated  to  Mr.  Tres- 
cot by  the  Chilean  minister  of  foreign 
relations  at  Vina  del  Mar,  —  "a  per- 
sonal humiliation  as  great,"  in  Mr. 
Browne's  opinion,  "as  any  to  which  one 
of  our  envoys  ever  was  subjected." 

The  results  of  the  war  have  thus  far 
exceeded  the  wildest  hopes  of  Chile. 
She  has  taken  absolute  possession  of  the 
whole  nitrate  region,  has  cut  Bolivia  off 
from  the  sea,  and  achieved  the  perma- 
nent dissolution  of  the  Peru-Bolivian 
confederation.  As  a  consequence,  her 
foreign  trade  has  doubled,  the  revenue 
of  her  government  has  been  trebled, 
and  the  public  debt  greatly  reduced. 
The  Chilean  bonds,  which  were  sold  at 
sixty-four  in  London  in  January,  1879, 
and  fell  to  sixty  in  March  of  that  year, 
a*t  the  announcement  of  the  war,  were 
quoted  at  ninety-five  in  January,  1884. 
She  now  owns  three  iron-clads  of  the 
first  force,  any  one  of  which  would  sink 
every  wooden  vessel  in  our  navy,  and 
she  is  preparing  to  buy  others.  The 
behavior  of  our  government  towards  the 
late  belligerents  has  entirely  ruined  our 
prestige  in  South  America ;  and  if  we 
were  to  go  to  war  with  Chile  to-mor- 
row our  Pacific  coast  would  be  entirely 
at  her  mercy.  A  single  but  important 
point  connected  with  the  territorial  ces- 
sions of  Peru  is  not  finally  settled.  It 
is  probable  that  at  the  outset  Chile  did 
not  dream  of  appropriating  the  nitrate 
fields  without  a  recognition  of  the  for- 
eign debt  for  which  they  had  been  mort- 
gaged by  Peru,  the  equity  of  redemp- 
tion being  ample  to  satisfy  her  early 


1884.] 


Recent  Poetry. 


117 


greed.  But  now  for  a  long  time  Chile 
has  refused  to  admit  any  claim  on  the 
part  of  the  European  mortgagees,  hold- 
ers of  Peruvian  securities,  citing  as  a 
precedent  for  her  course  the  behavior  of 
Germany  in  annexing  Als'ace  and  Lor- 
raine without  assuming  any  part  of  the 
French  national  debt.  But  since  the 
delivery  of  Mr.  Browne's  address,  the 
English  and  French  governments  have 
entered  a  formal  remonstrance  and  pro- 
test against  the  course  of  Chile  in  this 
regard ;  and  perhaps  Chile  may  yet  be 


obliged  to  recede  from  her  extremely 
selfish  construction  of  her  rights  and 
duties. 

It  hardly  need  be  said  that  such  a 
brief  summary  as  that  which  has  been 
presented  of  Mr.  Browne'  s  essay  does 
the  author  and  his  treatise  great  injus- 
tice. Our  attempt  and  hope  have  been 
simply  to  inspire  the  readers  of  The 
Atlantic  with  an  interest  in  the  subject, 
and  to  convince  them  of  the  brilliant 
and  masterly  character  of  Mr.  Browne's 
presentation  of  the  same. 


RECENT  EOETRY. 


OP  the  minor  works  for  the  stage 
which  Lord  Tennyson  has  at  last  put 
forth  in  book  form,1  the  first  is  called  a 
tragedy,  and  the  second  is  offered  with- 
out any  sub-title  to  indicate  what  man- 
ner of  piece  the  author  considers  it  to 
be.  The  Cup,  although  moulded  in  two 
acts,  would  perhaps  be  better  described 
as  a  sketch  for  a  tragedy  than  as  a  full- 
grown  play.  There  are,  of  course,  two 
ways  in  which  it  may  be  considered :  as 
a  composition  expressly  intended  for 
acting,  or  simply  as  a  poem  in  dramatic 
form.  But,  taken  under  either  category, 
it  falls  short  of  success,  and  remains  un- 
impressive. Structure  it  certainly  pos- 
sesses, and  some  merit  of  scattered 
phrase,  —  one  would  hardly  expect  less 
from  Tennyson,  even  in  these  days ; 
but  strong  characterization,  true  and 
moving  passion,  dramatic  action,  are  all 
absent  from  its  pages.  There  is  a  sin- 
gle dramatic  point,  at  the  end,  but  what 
precedes  does  not  go  towards  that  point 
with  force ;  and  the  climax  itself  is 
weakened  by  an  excess  of  vague  and 
broken  utterance. 

1  The  Cup,  and  The  Falcon.  By  ALFRED,  LORD 
TENNYSON,  Poet  Laureate.  New  York:  Macmil- 
lan  &  Co.  1884. 


Synorix,  an  ex-tetrarch  of  Galatia, 
who  had  been  driven  away  by  his  peo- 
ple, returns  with  the  Roman  forces  as 
their  traitorous  ally.  He  is  in  love  with 
Camma,  wife  of  his  successor  in  the  tet- 
rarchy,  whom  he  had  seen  three  years 
before, 

"  A  maiden  slowly  moving  on  to  music, 
Among  her  maidens  to  this  Temple; " 

and  now  he  sends  her  as  a  gift  a  cup  of 
the  kind  used  in  Galatian  marriage  ser- 
vices. He  makes  acquaintance  with  her 
husband,  Sinnatus,  and  prepares  to  win 
her  away  from  him.  His  plot  results  in 
the  death  of  Sinnatus  and  Gamma's  re- 
tirement as  a  priestess  in  the  temple  of 
Artemis.  Synorix  woos  her,  however, 
and  on  the  very  day  when  he  is  crowned 
King  of  Galatia  she  accepts  him,  only  to 
poison  him,  at  the  wedding  ceremony, 
with  wine  from  the  cup  he  had  given 
her.  This,  certainly,  is  a  situation 
proper  to  the  theatre ;  but  the  plot  is 
worked  out  with  a  scantiness  of  inven- 
tion that  makes  it  seem  bare  and  inad- 
equate. So  far  as  Synorix  is  a  person- 
ality at  all  he  is  a  very  unpleasant  one ; 
he  unmasks  the  villainy,  also,  of  his 
brutal  and  treacherous  passion  with  a 
cool  frankness  that  robs  him  of  inter- 


118 


Recent  Poetry. 


[•July, 


est ;  while  the  husband,  Sinnatus,  who 
should  be  opposed  to  this  dull  villain  as 
an  object  of  strong  sympathy  or  admira- 
tion, is  too  lightly  sketched  as  a  "  rough, 
bluff,  simple-looking  fellow "  to  excite 
a  spark  of  concern  in  the  reader,  or,  if 
we  may  judge,  in  the  imagined  audi- 
ence. Gamma  alone  stands  out  with  a 
decree  of  distinctness  as  an  actual  be- 

o 

ing,  a  woman  of  pure,  strong  character, 
*  having  the  charm  which  is  lacking  in 
the  others ;  and  charm,  or  its  substitute 
fascination,  is  indispensable  in  the  per- 
sonages of  a  drama.  Camma,  by  the 
way,  is  given  a  brief  song  — 

"  Moon  on  the  field  and  the  foam, 
Moon  on  the  waste  and  the  wold"  — 

which  recalls  in  a  measure  the  tender 
and  rolling  melody  of  the  earlier  Tenny- 
son. Elsewhere  the  language  is  some- 
times commonplace,  as  in  the  aside  of 
Synorix  when  watching  Camma :  — 

"  The  bust  of  Juno,  and  the  brows  and  eyes 
Of  Venus ;  face  and  form  umnatchable !  " 

In  this,  as  in  Queen  Mary  and  Har- 
old, the  lines  seldom  strike  those  rich 
concords  that  formerly  gave  the  author 
his  supremacy  in  blank  verse  over  all 
poets  since  Milton.  Gamma's  eloque-nce 
makes  an  exception,  when,  speaking  to 
Sinnatus,  she  recalls,  — 

"  That  there,  three  years  ago,  the  vast  vine-bowers 
Ran  to  the  summit  of  the  trees,  and  dropt 
Their  streamers  earthward,  which  a  breeze  of 

May 

Took  ever  and  anon,  and  open'd  out 
The  purple  zone  of  hill  and  heaven:  there 
You    told    your  love  ;   and   like  the  swaying 

vines  — 
Yea  —  with  our  eyes  —  our  hearts,  our  prophet 

hopes 

Let  in  the  happy  distance,  and  that  all 
But  cloudless  heaven  which  we  have  found  to- 
gether." 

But  what  could  be  weaker  than  the  end- 
ing of  the  chopped  verse  with  which 
Sinnatus  answers  ?  — 

11  First  kiss.    There  then.    You  talk  almost  as  if  it 
Might  be  the  last." 

Technical  carelessnesses  which  would 
be  natural  enough  in  Byron  seem  to 
have  been  introduced  from  choice  in 
this  latter-day  work  of  Tennyson's ;  and 


throughout  The  Cup,  when  the  Laureate 
writes  well,  the  play  lags ;  while  as  soon 
as  an  attempt  is  made  at  action,  the  dic- 
tion declines. 

The  Falcon  is  so  slight  a  perform- 
ance that  it  requires  little  consideration. 
Founded  on  the  same  story,  from  the 
Decameron,  which  supplied  Longfellow 
with  his  Falcon  of  Ser  Federigo,  in  the 
Tales  of  a  Wayside  Inn.  it  develops  the 
one  incident  of  that  pleasing  little  fic- 
tion not  ungracefully  so  far  as  the  hero 
and  heroine  are  concerned,  and  with  a 
mixture  of  the  poet's  own  invention. 
But  the  effort  at  humor  in  the  parts  of 
the  two  servants  is  so  spiritless  as  to 
mar  the  effect,  instead  of  furnishing  the 
advantageous  contrast  they  were  meant 
to  givo  to  the  sentiment  of  the  lovers. 
A  mannerism  of  repeating  the  same 
words  in  close  conjunction  is  so  dili- 
gently practiced  that  even  in  the  short 
space  of  one  act  it  becomes  excessively 
wearisome  ;  and,  on  the  whole,  we  can- 
not see  that  anything  has  been  gained 
by  putting  the  tale  into  dramatic  form, 
when  it  could  easily  have  been  wrought 
into  a  captivating  idyl.  To  the  stage 
it  is  perhaps  as  well  adapted  as,  for 
example,  Coppee's  Le  Passant,  but  it 
'denies  itself  the  half -lyrical  quality 
which  the  French  writer's  little  episode 
in  verse  shares  in  common  with  genuine 
acting  poems  like  Milton's  Comus.  We 
can  conceive  that  The  Cup,  witii  scenic 
aid,  might  be  rendered  with  an  effect 
akin  to  that  of  a  series  of  tableaux  ac- 
companied by  metrical  explanation,  and 
that  The  Falcon  might  serve  agreeably 
in  private  theatricals ;  but,  regarded  as 
serious  dramatic  productions,  they  must 
be  criticised  for  the  constraint  and  tim- 
idity that  have  befallen  a  master  poet 
who  has  chosen  of  late  years  to  appear 
as  an  amateur. 

In  Mr.  Bunner  New  York  has  a  poet 
whose  first  book  of  verse  1  may  suggest, 

1  Airs  from  Arcfirfji  and  Elsewhere.  By  H.  C. 
BUXNER.  New  York  :  Charles  Scribner's  Sons. 
1884. 


1884.] 


Recent  Poetry. 


119 


to  some  minds  fond  of  looking  at  diver- 
gent lines  as  parallel,  that  another  Hal- 
leek  has  come  to  light.  Such  a  sugges- 
tion might  be  inspired  by  the  twofold 
strain  of  serious  song  and  lightly  play- 
ful rhyme  contained  in  the  volume  ;  but 
Mr.  Bunner's  pen  is  more  agile  and  his 
art  more  fastidious  than  Halleck's,  and 
the  writer  whose  influence  has  been  par- 
amount with  him  would  seem  to  be 
Austin  Dobson.  Mr.  Dobson  has  tilled 
his  chosen  field  with  such  perfection  of 
skill  as  makes  it  difficult  for  a  fresh 
hand  to  cultivate  any  flower  of  poesy,  on 
the  same  soil  and  under  similar  condi- 
tions, which  shall  not  be  named  of  the 
Dobson  variety.  Mr.  Bunner,  however, 
enters  upon  the  competition  with  very 
sufficient  resources  of  his  own.  His 
poetic  faculty  is  evidently  inborn,  but 
his  manner  has  been  acquired  and  ap- 
plied more  than  it  has  grown  out  of 
that  faculty. 

Arcady,  which  was  first  given  to  read- 
ers of  The  Atlantic  a  few  months  ago, 
is  also  the  first  of  these  poems,  arid  is 
likely  to  be  thought  by  many  readers 
the  best;  for  it  is  quaintly  graceful,  it 
sings  itself,  and  rises  well  to  a  climax 
that  is  at  once  a  lesson  and  a  tender 
sentiment.  But  The  Appeal  to  Harold 
has  more  of  intensity  and  fire  in  its  em- 
bodiment of  a  distinctly  original  concep- 
tion, by  which  a  man  is  made  to  appeal 
to  the  king  for  redress  against  a  woman 
who  has  wasted  his  life.  There  are 
boldness  and  the  strength  of  despair  in 
these  lines :  — 

'  Haro  !  Haro  ! 

Tell  thou  me  not  of  a  greater  judge, 
Haro  ! 

It  is  He  who  hath  my  sin  in  grudge. 

Ye;i,  from  God  I  appeal  to  thee  ; 

God  hath  no  part  or  place  for  me. 

Thou  who  hast  sinned,   judge  thou   my  sin- 
ning." 

The  execution  of  this  poem,  however, 
is  hardly  so  good  as  that  shown  in  hand- 
ling less  ambitious  motives.  Holiday 
Home  is  unmistakably  a  song,  and  where 
Mr.  Bunner  approaches  the  song-form 


his  aptitude  gives  him  success.  This  is 
exemplified  again  in  Robin's  Song,  — 

"  Up,  up,  my  heart !  up,  up,  my  heart, 
This  day  \vas  made  for  thee  !  "  — 

which  is  delightfully  buoyant  and  breezy ; 
and  it  should  be  borne  in  mind  that  the 
purely  lyrical  note  thus  sounded  is  a 
very  rare  one.  Among  the  pieces  in- 
cluded in  the  division  called  Philistia, 
Candor  is  excellent  for  its  crispness  and 
its  "cunning'3  purport,  though  coming 
under  the  head  of  rhyme,  not  of  poetry. 
The  group  entitled  Bohemia  will  per- 
haps commend  itself  less  to  the  author 
as  time  goes  on ;  but  his  Betrothed  deals 
skillfully  with  an  unpleasing  theme  and 
a  deliberately  morbid  mood.  A  writer 
chiefly  engaged,  as  Mr.  Bunner  is,  in 
comic  journalism,  naturally  incorporates 
some  of  his  humorous  pieces  with  the 
rest ;  and  his  travesties  of  Swinburne, 
Bret  Harte,  Pope,  and  Walt  Whitman, 
illustrating  how  these  might  have  writ- 
ten Home,  Sweet  Home,  are  worth  pre- 
serving. But  in  the  nondescript  story  of 
a  school-girl  who  cuts  her  throat  because 
her  boy-love  is  offended  with  her,  the 
author  seems  not  to  have  been  sure  as 
to  his  aim  or  method.  It  is  difficult  to 
understand  such  an  error  of  choice  in  a 
writer  of  so  much  discrimination,  —  ono 
who  could  give  us  the  fine  stanzas  of 
Triumph,  with  its  conclusion  :  — 

"For  the  space  of    a  heart-beat    fluttered    her 

breath, 

As  a  bird's  wing  spread  to  flee  ; 
She  turned  her  weary  arms  to  Death, 
And  the  light  of  her  eyes  to  me." 

A  defect  of  judgment  is  also  apparent  in 
Strong  as  Death,  perhaps  the  noblest  of 
the  serious  poems.  As  originally  print- 
ed in  this  magazine,1  the  third  and 
fourth  lines  pf  the  second  stanza  read,  — 

"Let  no  faint  perfume  cling  to  thee 
Of  withered  roses  on  thy  brow." 

This  has  now  been  changed  to  — 
"  Come  not  with  graveyard  smell  on  thee, 
Or  withered  roses,"  etc.,  — 

an  alteration  which  not  only  sacrifices 

the  gentle  flow  of  syllables  in  the  first 

i  See  Atlantic  Monthly  for  July,  1882. 


120 


Recent  Poetry. 


[July, 


version,  but  also  brings  up  a  very  dis- 
agreeable suggestion.  The  mistake  made 
is  that  of  supposing  that  ugliness  is  sy- 
nonymous with  strength.  But  Mr.  Bun- 
ner  at  least  shows  a  greater  range  of 
voice  than  any  of  our  younger  poets  ; 
and  if  he  continues  to  give  only  the  best 
of  his  quality  he  may  fulfill  the  expec- 
tations which  the  Airs  from  Arcady  lead 
us  to  form. 

The  careers  of  Theodore  Winthrop 
and  Fitz-James  O'Brien  were  alike  in 
that  both  were  men  of  uncommon  prom- 
ise, with  a  dash  of  the  gayly  heroic  in 
their  characters ;  both,  by  a  destiny  re- 
sembling that  of  the  German  poet  Kor- 
ner,  whose  fate  was  also  theirs,  becamo 
soldiers ;  and  both  fell  early  sacrifices 
in  the  war  for  the  Union.  They  were 
born  in  the  same  year,  1828,  and 
O'Brien  received  his  death-wound  less 
than  a  twelvemonth  after  the  author  of 
John  Brent  was  laid  low  at  Big  Bethel, 
when  only  thirty  -  three  years  of  age. 
The  brilliant  Irish-American  had  made 
his  reputation  as  a  story-writer  before 
he  volunteered,  while  Winthrop's  repu- 
tation had  to  wait  for  the  posthumous 
appearance  of  the  novels  he  had  left  in 
manuscript.  Yet  O'Brien's  Poems  and 
Tales  were  not  collected  until  1881, 
and  it  is  only  in  the  present  year  that 
the  fragmentary  poems  of  Winthrop 
have  been  published,  with  a  memoir  by 
his  sister.1  Winthrop,  though  he  had 
not  attained  to  the  fluency  and  finish 
that  mark  the  style  of  O'Brien,  was 
much  the  more  powerful  man  of  the 
two  :  indeed,  we  can  hardly  accord  to 
the  latter  anything  more  than  an  excep- 
tional talent,  but  Winthrop  had  the  gift 
of  genius.  It  was  not  genius  if  meas- 
ured by  the  absurd  gauge  proposed  by 
Anthony  Trollope,  —  a  m#n's  power  of 
"  sitting,"  —  for  Winthrop  was  restless, 
active,  a  sufferer  from  ill-health,  and, 
during  some  years  of  his  short  life,  a 

; 

1  The  Life  and  Poems  of  Theodore  Winthrop. 
Edited  by  his  Sister.  With  Portrait.  New  York : 
Henry  Holt  &  Co.  1884. 


wanderer ;  but  it  was  genius  of  a  more 
nervous  and  penetrating,  a  higher,  kind. 
His  parentage  and  ancestry  were  of 
the  purest  American  stock,  for  he  was 
descended  from  John  Winthrop  and  the 
Long  Island  Woolseys.  With  such 
blood  in  his  veins,  and  an  intermixture 
from  the  Huguenot  Lispenards,  it  was 
natural  that  he  should  have  been  of  a 
religious  nature,  and  have  developed  a 
literary  faculty,  a  taste  for  adventure, 
strong  patriotism,  and  an  inclination  to- 
wards soldierlv  achievement.  It  is  a 

V 

curious  reflection  that  his  gallantry  and 
his  large  mental  grasp  might,  had  his 
life  been  spared,  have  opened  to  him  on 
the  field  a  way  to  some  wholly  different 
renown  from  that  which  now  attaches 
to  his  memory,  and  one  that  possibly 
would  have  caused  the  suppression  of 
the  works  that  survive  him.  But  he 
seems  to  have  been  often  haunted  by  a 
feeling  akin  to  a  premonition  that  his 
life  would  be  frustrated  ;  and,  by  an  odd 
coincidence  which  his  sister  mentions, 
while  he  was  almost  the  first  Union  offi- 
cer who  died  in  battle,  the  last  officer 
lost  on  the  same  side  was  his  cousin, 
General  Frederic  Winthrop,  killed  at 
Seven  Pines.  This  record  of  Theodore 
Winthrop's  life  is  principally  made  up 
from  his  letters  and  journals.  At  twenty- 
one  he  went  to  Europe,  and  some  of  his 
scattered  observations  made  there  are 
trenchant  and  disclose  an  early  maturity. 
He  also  went  twice  to  the  Isthmus  of 
Panama,  visited  California  and  Oregon, 
and  rode  East  across  the  plains ;  absorb- 
ing on  the  way  material  which  he  after- 
wards used  with  power  in  his  prose. 
The  extracts  from  his  journal  are  mea- 
gre, and  of  interest  only  as  illustrating 
his  clear  and  manly  spirit. 

The  editor,  we  think,  makes  a  mis- 
take in  hinting  a  kinship  of  genius,  on 
his  part,  with  Hawthorne,  notwithstand- 
ing the  support  of  Professor  NicolPs 
opinion.  His  line  of  imagination  was 
different ;  his  whole  mode  of  evolving 
problems  was  different.  But  it  is  on  his 


1884.] 


^Recent  Poetry. 


121 


wild  and  original  fictions  and  on  his 
fresh,  vigorous,  though  harsh  and  broken 
style,  that  whatever  fame  accrues  to  him 
must  rest.  The  poems,  which  are  intro- 
duced at  various  stages  of  the  Life,  were 
never  revised  ;  manv^  are  incomplete ; 
and  only  two  have  appeared  in  print 
before.  They  can  add  nothing  to  his 
reputation.  In  prose  he  had  the  am- 
bition "  to  form  a  truly  American  style, 
good  and  original,  not  imitated ; "  but 
in  these  hasty  passages  of  verse  there 
is  almost  nothing  original,  excepting  the 
blank-verse  story,  Two  Worlds.  Twice 
we  encounter  this  fragment  :  — 

O 

"'T  is  the  wild  battle,  't  is  the  crashing  charge, 
The  shout  of  victory,  the  maddened  shout, 
The  ecstatic  agony  of  victor  death." 

Two  Worlds  is  also  full  of  warlike  im- 
agery. Its  narrative  is  vague  and  in- 
terrupted, and  the  verse  is  monotonous, 
spasmodic ;  but  here  and  there  occur 
strong  and  felicitous  touches  of  descrip- 
tion, like  the  following  :  — 

"  At  last  in  moonlit  glory  overhead 
Suddenly   shone   the  mount    like  God's  calm, 
face." 

•  *••••••• 

'  Then  silence  felt  the  rustling  of  a  tone 
Soft  as  the  shiver  of  moonlighted  leaves  ;  " 

or  of  statement,  like  this  one  :  — 

"  A  thought  had  quivered  like  a  dagger  drawn  ; 
A  thought  and  word  had  stolen  from  man  to 

man, 
And  whispers  grew  to  shouts." 

The  sister  of  the  novelist  has  preferred 
to  make  the  aim  of  her  biography  a  les- 
son in  the  worth  to  others  of  an  aspir- 
ing life  and  an  unselfish  patriotism.  She 
has  accomplished  it  well,  in  a  modest 
and  loving  spirit,  so  that  it  is  impossible 
to  read  it  without  being  touched,  or  with- 
out recognizing  in  it  a  gain  t6  the  sim- 
ple annals  of  American  literature.  One 
recalls  Matthew  Arnold's  lines  on  Early 
Death  and  Fame:  — 

"  But  when  immature  death 
Beckons  too  earl}-  the  guest 
From  the  half  tried  banquet  of  life, 

•  •  •  •  •  •  • 

Fuller  for  him  be  the  hours  ! 

Give  him  emotion,  though  pain  ! 

Let  him  live,  let  him  feel  :  /  have  lived." 


Winthrop  did  not  taste  the  fame  which 
this  wish,  if  fulfilled,  would  have  given 
him,  but  he  had  the  life  of  full  emo- 
tion :  he  knew  that  he  had  striven  well, 
and  his  guerdon  is  remembrance. 

What  we  have  said  touching;  the  er- 

c5 

ror  of  mistaking  ugliness  for  strength 
may  find  exemplification  on  almost  every 
page  of  Miss  Robinson's  new  volume,1 
and  might,  in  fact,  with  such  a  text,  be 
expanded  into  a  long  critical  essay.  But 
we  shall  content  ourselves  with  briefly 
pointing  out  the  manner  in  which  this 
English  poetess  has  gone  astray.  The 
main  part  of  her  volume  consists  of  sto- 
ries of  country  life ;  but  they  are  very 
far  from  being  idyllic.  On  the  contrary, 
they  are  chosen  expressly  as  illustra- 
tions of  the  evil  and  the  misery  which 
exist  amid  rural  scenes.  The  authoress 
says  with  truth,  and  not  without  force 
in  her  way  of  saying  it,  — 

"Alas,  not  all  the  greenness  of  the  leaves, 
Not  all  their  delicate  tremble  in  the  air, 
Can   pluck  one   stab  from  a  fierce   heart  that 

grieves. 

The  harvest-moon  slants  on  as  sordid  care 
As  wears  its  heart  out  under  attic  eaves, 
And  though  all  round  these  folded  mountains 

sleep, 
Think  you  that  sin   and  heart-break  are  less 

deep  ?  " 

In  passing  it  may  be  questioned  whether 
any  power  could  ever  pluck  "  a  stab  ; " 
but  the  gist  of  Miss  Robinson's  idea  is 
plain,  and  the  metrical  pieces  forming 
The  New  Arcadia  are  all  designed  to 
enforce  that  idea.  In  our  judgment  it 
is  a  wholly  unpoetical  one  ;  riot  because 
poetry  need  be  what  Carlyle  once  ve- 
hemently declared  that  all  poetry  in  this 
age  must  be,  —  namely,  "  lies,"  —  but  be- 
cause there  is  a  great  deal  of  beauty  in 
nature,  which  has  a  refreshing  and  en- 
nobling influence  upon  most  minds,  and 
accordingly  aids  the  true  function  of  the 
poetic  art,  which  is  to  lift  up,  refine, 
and  inspire  us.  Moreover,  those  whose 
homes  are  placed  in  surroundings  of 

1  The  New  Arcadia  and  Other  Poems.  By  A. 
MARY  D.  F.  KOBIKSON.  Boston:  Roberts  Broth- 
ers. 1884. 


122 


Recent  Poetry. 


[July, 


natural  beauty  often  show  in  their  lives 
much  of  worth  and  virtue  ;  and  to  select 
only  detestable  or  painful  traits  of  human 
nature  in  such  scenes,  for  the  theme  of 
verso,  is  unfair  as  well  as  unpoetic.  But 
Miss  Robinson  seems  to  have  gone  into 
the  country  with  a  very  artificial  notion 
that  existence  among  the  fields  and  hills 
must  be  quite  devoid  of  sin  or  wretch- 
edness. She  was  greatly  shocked  at  dis- 
covering the  reverse,  and  so  decided  to 
wreak  her  disappointment  upon  the  pub- 
lic :  — 

"  For  I  do  not  sing  to  enchant  you  or  beguile: 
I  sing  to  make  you  think  enchantment  vile  ; 
I  sing  to  wring  your  hearts,  and  make  you  know 
What  shame  there  is  in  the  world,  what  wrongs, 
what  woe." 

This  is  the  announcement  made  in  her 
Prologue.  But  it  may  as  well  be  said 
at  once  that  she  succeeds  in  wringing. 

O        O' 

not  our  hearts,  but  only  our  patience. 
In  the  first  piece,  The  Hand-Bell  Ringers, 
the  authoress  gives  a  very  good  picture 
of  some  peasants  who  come  to  celebrate 
Christmas  by  ringing  bells.  She  sees 
them  through  the  window,  and  wonders 
what  their  lives  may  be.  It  is  a  picture 
colored  by  her  own  mood,  nothing  more  ; 
and  in  so  far  the  result  is  good.  But 
when  she  comes  to  deal  with  particular 
stories,  as  in  the  poems  that  follow,  she 
fails  entirely  of  artistic  effect.  In  one 
instance  she  treats  the  misery  of  an  old 
woman  who  has  decided  to  go  to  the 
poorhouse  with  her  blind  husband,  rath- 
er than  be  dependent  on  their  married 
son  ;  in  another  she  relates  how  a  young 
woman,  deserted  by  her  father  and 
brothers,  botakes  herself  to  a  life  of 
shame,  merely  for  the  sake  of  compan- 
ionship. But  in  both  cases  we  are  re- 
pelled by  the  subject  and  by  the  treat- 
ment, instead  of  finding  our  sympathies 
enlisted.  Janet  Fisher  is  a  narrative 
showing  how  an  imbecile  girl  carried  a 
deserting  soldier,  who  had  sought  her 

C?  '  O 

aid  in  making  his  escape,  out  to  sea  in 
a  boat,  drowning  both  the  soldier  and 
herself.  It  may  well  be  asked  what 
there  is  in  thi»  haphazard  incident  to 


sustain  Miss  Robinson's  versified  indict- 
ment against  life  in  the  country ;  but, 
further,  there  is  nothing  in  such  an  oc- 
currence to  furnish  the  basis  of  a  poem, 
be  the  aim  what  it  may.  Of  the  next 
piece,  The  Rothers,  the  theme  is  as  ab- 
horrent as  possibte,  and  is  developed 
with  a  minuteness  of  loathsome  detail 
which  finds  no  justification  in  any  canon 
of  true  poetry.  Cottar's  Girl  is  equally 
disgusting  ;  being  simply  a  recital  of  the 
murder  of  a  young  woman  by  her  moth- 
er, who  administers  a  dose  of  shot  to 
save  the  girl  from  disgrace.  Now,  all 
these  things  may  be  realities,  but  if 
they  are  subjects  for  poetry  at  all  — 
which  we  very  much  doubt —  Miss  Rob- 
inson certainly  proves  her  inability  to 
render  them  poetic  by  her  mode  of  pres- 
entation. One  cannot  positively  con- 
clude that  this  is  due  to  incapacity,  be- 
cause here  and  there,  in  the  landscape 
portions  above  all,  the  writer  manifests 
a  graphic  quality  which  could  come  only 
with  observation  and  some  skill  in  the 
handling  of  words.  Take,  for  example, 
this  sunset  scene  from  The  Rothers  :  — 

"The  country  caught  the  strange  bright  light; 
The  tufts  of  trees  were  yellow,  not  green; 
Gray  shadows  hung  like  nets  between. 

*    "Such  yellow  colors  on  bush  and  tree! 

Such  sharp-cut  shade  and  light  I  saw! 
The  white  gates  white  as  a  star  may  be; 

But  every  scarlet  hip  and  haw, 
Border  of  poppies,  roof  of  red, 
Had  lost  its  color,  wan  and  dead  ! 

"  So  strange  the  east,  that  soon  I  turned 

To  watch  the  shining  west  appear. 
Under  a  billow,  of  smoke  there  burned 

A  belt  of  blinding  silver,  sheer 
White  length  of  light,  wherefrom  there  shone 
A  round,  white,  dazzling,  rayless  sun." 

Miss  Robinson's  error  consists  in  an 
ill-advised  selection,  and  in  her  obvious 
but  feeble  imitation  of  Browning's  man- 
ner. The  same  faults  obtrude  them- 
selves in  the  miscellaneous  poems  which 
compose  the  second  section  of  this  vol- 
ume ;  and  for  confirmation  of  our  opin- 
ion we  need  only  refer  readers  to  the 
tedious  monologue,  Jiitzi  Schultheiss, 
which  both  by  its  title  and  execution 


1884.] 


Recent  Poetry. 


123 


justifies  the  belief  that  Miss  Robinson, 
whether  consciously  or  not,  has  suc- 
cumbed to  the  enticement  which  Brown- 
ing's dullest  mood  apparently  has  for 
certain  minds. 

The  technique  of  this  feminine  ver- 
sifier is  so  bad  that  it  is  impossible  to 
criticise  it  in  detail.  Her  rhythm  halts 
and  hobbles  ;  her  verses  are  redundant 
where  she  evidently  intends  them  to  be 
strictly  within  rule  ;  and*  her  rhymes 
are  deliberately  and  copiously  atrocious. 
For  example,  she  forces  '•  incommuni- 
cable "  to  chime  with  k'  well  ;  "  she  at- 
tempts to  bring  into  companionship,  at 
the  ends  of  lines,  "gone,"  "  on,"  "  moan," 
and  in  another  place  "  rough,"  "  enough," 
and  "  of."  Altogether,  in  stumbling 
over  these  strange  verses,  one  is  made 
to  think  of  the  remark  of  Schaunard,  in 
Miirger's  Vie  de  Boheme  :  "  Truly,  my 
rhymes  are  not  millionaires,  but  I  did 
not  have  time  to  make  them  richer." 
It  is  possible  that  Miss  Robinson,  if  she 
takes  more  time,  may  not  only  improve 
her  verses,  but  may  also,  by  eliminating 
that  which  appertains  only  to  prose,  es- 
tablish her  claim  to  the  title  of  poetess. 

There  ape  men  and  women  who,  from 
time  to  time,  are  singled  out  and  greeted 
by  the  discerning  critic  because  of  some 
spark  of  promise  emitted  from  their  first 
book  of  verse.  Most  frequently  the 
promise  thus  recognized  remains  unful- 
filled ;  but  although  we  may  not  be  led 
to  found  vast  expectation  on  Miss  Gui- 
ney's  tentative  volume,1  it  certainly  de- 
serves more  than  passing  consideration. 
These  firstlings  of  the  Muse  bring  with 
them  not  a  little  of  genuine  merit  and 
charm.  So  far  as  the  tone  and  the  ex- 
ecution are  concerned,  their  inspiration 
comes  largely,  we  incline  to  think,  from 
Longfellow  and  Lowell,  with  a  slight 


nt  the   Start.    By    LOUISE    IMOGEN 
GULSEY.    lioston:  Cupples,  Upham  &  Co.    1884. 


side-influence  from   the   latest  English 

O 

school  in  sundry  details  of  versification 
and  expression.  But  the  poem  which 
begins  the  collection,  Gloucester  Har- 
bor, is  none  the  less  a  successful  and 
semi -pathetic  exposition  of  the  spell 
which  broods  over  a  New  England  sea- 
side community,  prompting  the  children 
always  to  follow  the  path  of  the  waves, 
notwithstanding  the  disaster  that  has 
overtaken  the  fathers.  The  Cross-Roads 
is  a  more  ambidous  effort,  describing  the 
escape  of  a  prisoner,  who  is  driven  by 
desperation  to  suicide  in  the  sea.  One 
of  the  most  noticeable  things  about  Miss 

*— ' 

Guiney's  verse,  because  it  is  unusual  in 
beginners  is  the  careful  completeness  of 
her  ventures  in  the  sonnet  form  ;  but 
the  critical  reader  will  be  quito  as  much 
struck  by  the  neatness,  the  finish,  the 
well-nigh  epigrammatic  turn  of  certain 
bits  of  rhyme  contained  in  these  Songs 
at  the  Start.  Among  them  we  may  men- 
tion the  three  stanzas  On  Not  Reading 
a  Posthumous  Work  (a  propos  of  Haw- 
thorne's Doctor  Grimshawe),  the  title 
of  which  is  in  itself  so  unexpected  that 
it  has  the  value  of  a  witticism,  and  the 
six  lines  which  appear  under  the  head- 
ing of  Vitality  :  — 

"  When  I  was  born  and  wheeled  upon  my  way, 
As  fire  in  stars  my  ready  life  did  glow, 
And  thrill  me  through,  and  mount  to  lips  and 

lids: 

I  was  as  dead  when  I  died  yesterday 
As  those  mild  shapes  Egyptian,  that  we  know, 
Since  Memnon  sang,  are  housed  in  pyramids." 

Miss  Guiney's  motive  is  generally 
sufficient,  and  her  lines  are  for  the  most 
part  carefully  polished.  That  she  should 
sometimes  betray  crudity  is  not  surpris- 
ing. Within  its  limits,  Miss  Guiney's 
work  is  good ;  and  if  one  judges  by  the 
standard  of  pure  poetry,  these  pages  are 
much  more  deserving  of  praise  than 
Miss  Robinson's. 


124 


Peter  the   Great. 


[July, 


PETER   THE   GREAT. 


MR.  SCHUYLER'S  Peter  the  Great,1 
which  has  finally  appeared,  is  equally 
creditable  to  American  typographical 
art  and  to  American  historical  scholar- 
ship. A  strict  criticism  might  indeed 
complain  that  the  illustrations  detract 
somewhat  from  the  dignity  of  the  work, 
while  also  unnecessarily  increasing  its 
cost.  But  this  is  a  question  of  taste. 
The  illustrations  are  generally  good  and, 
with  some  marked  exceptions,  pertinent; 
and  the  author  makes,  perhaps,  a  mgd- 
est  concession  to  the  nature  of  his  sub- 
ject when  he  consents  to  encourage  the 
interest  of  the  reader  by  pictorial  stim- 
ulants. 

We  can  meet  Mr.  Schuyler's  frank- 
ness by  conceding  in  return  that,  if  the 
subject  is  obscure,  he  is  probably  the 
only  writer  outside  of  Russia  who  is 
competent  to  take  it  up  successfully. 
We  say  this,  too,  in  full  knowledge  of 
the  great  impetus  which  has  been  given 
in  recent  years  to  the  study  of  Russian 
history,  Russian  institutions,  and  even 
Russian  antiquities ;  in  full  recognition 
of  the  merits  of  Frenchmen  like  Ram- 
baud,  Leroy-Beaulieu,  and  Molinari,  of 
Englishmen  like  Ralston  and  Wallace. 
Some  of  these  also  show  in  special  lines 
of  investigation  gifts  which  are  perhaps 
wanting  in  Mr.  Schuyler.  M.  Rambaud, 
whose  two  volumes  cover  the  whole  pe- 
riod of  Russian  history,  has  a  dispas- 
sionate judgment,  and  great  skill  in  con- 
densation, combined  with  no  little  power 
of  graphic  narration.  Mr.  Wallace  has 
unrivaled  powers  of  observation  and 
analysis.  Mr.  Ralston  has  thrown  much 
light  upon  the  early  folk-lore  of  Russia, 
and  M.  Anatole  Leroy-Beaulieu's  great 
work  is  the  most  complete  account  of 
Russian  governmental  forms  and  meth- 
ods which  the  literature  of  any  country 

1  Peter  the  Great,  Emperor  of  Russia.  A  Study 
of  Historical  Biography.    By  EUGENE  SCHUYLER, 


has  produced.  But  Mr.  Schuyler  needed 
for  the  accomplishment  of  his  task  not 
so  much  the  attainments  of  the  special- 
ist as  those  of  the  general  historian, 
—  patience  in  investigation,  knowledge 
of  trustworthy  sources,  familiarity  with 
languages,  an*  exact  eye  for  the  springs 
of  political  and  diplomatic  action  ;  and 
the  possession  of  these  qualifications  is 
abundantly  revealed  in  his  Peter  the 
Great.  It  mijjht  even  be  said  that  in 

o 

one  respect  no  Russian  is  fully  qualified 
to  furnish  just  the  life  of  Peter  which 
the  present  age  requires.  The  art,  or 
at  least  the  science,  of  history  has 
doubtless  made  great  advances  in  Rus- 
sia; the  Imperial  Historical  Society  is  a 
worthy  sister  of  similar  institutions  in 
other  countries.  But  when  we  find  even 
in  Prussia  writers  like  Droysen,  Treit- 
schke,  and  Ranke  studiously  and  sys- 
tematically defending,  or  at  least  excus- 
ing, every  act  of  Frederic  the  Great,  it 
is  folly  to  expect  Russians  to  rise  tri- 
umphantly above  all  national  prejudices, 
all  impulses  of  patriotism,  in  the  treat- 
ment of  their  own  historical  hero.  The 
least  trustworthy  of  all  of  Peter's  bi- 
ographers are  still,  however,  foreigners, 
like  Voltaire  and  Segur. 

There  are  few  great  characters  as 
recent  as  Peter  who  have  so  long  re- 
mained enshrouded  in  myths,  and  have 
so  long  resisted  the  process  of  modern 
historical  criticism ;  there  are  few  who 
have  been  painted  in  such  different  col- 
ors. He  has  been  described  as  a  Cali- 
ban and  as  a  Bluebeard  ;  as  an  enlight- 
ened statesman,  far  ahead  of  his  age; 
as  a  blunt,  rough,  honest  man,  somewhat 
narrow-minded  and  subject  to  outbursts 
of  passion;  as  a  gifted,  poetical  nature, 
though  cast,  like  his  people,  in  a  rough 
mould.  Mr.  Schuvler  knows  that  none 

*/ 

Ph.  D.,  LL.  D.  Two  vols.  New  York:  Charles 
Scribner's  Sons.  1884. 


1884.]                                         Peter  the   Great.  125 

of  these  portraits  are  true ;  some  are  are  not  sure  that  the  Germany  of  the 
overdrawn,  some  are  inadequate.  But  last  century  would  not  have  put  him  on 
he  provokes  no  quarrel  with  rival  artists,  his  guard  against  a  too  great  distrust  of 
however  gross  their  errors.  "  I  have  pictdrial  effect,  of  color  and  warmth,  in 
told  the  story  of  Peter's  life  and  reign  historical  writing.  The  so-called  prag- 
as  I  understand  it,"  he  observes  mod-  made  histories,  which  were  the  terror 
estly  in  the  preface.  of  Carlyle's  life,  were  the  highest  tri- 
Yet  it  must  be  said  that  while  Mr.  umphs  of  the  purely  documentary  style 
Schuyler  tells  this  story  fully,  and  as  we  of  recording  events.  From  the  materials 
believe  accurately,  his  two  elaborate  vol-  which  these  furnished  could  be  worked 
umes  furnish  not  so  much  a  portrait  as  up  graphic  narratives,  full  of  feeling,  of 
the  material  for  a  portrait.  The  events  discrimination,  when  necessary  even  of 
in  Peter's  life  which  are  historically  passion,  and  yet  without  any  sacrifice  of 
established  are  related  with  justifiable  truth  or  judgment.  Mr.  Schuyler  has 
confidence.  Familiar  statements  which  not  fully  adopted  either  of  these  meth- 
are  true  are  carefully  distinguished  from  ods.  The  systematic  avoidance  of  inter- 
others  which  are  unsupported  by  evi-  pretation,  of  anything  like  complete  por- 
dence,  which  are  improbable,  or  which  traiture,  suggests  the  pragmatic  order  of 
are  false.  Thus  the  story  of  Peter's  treatment;  while,  on  the  other  hand,  the 
visit  to  Holland,  to  learn  the  art  of  ship-  orderly  division  of  the  topics  and  the 
building,  is  reduced  to  its  true  propor-  continuous  narrative  indicate  the  writer, 
tions.  The  account  given  by  the  viva-  and  not  the  mere  compiler.  In  a  work 
cious  Princess  Wilhelmina  of  Bayreuth  designed  for  popular  readers,  the  pictur- 
of  the  Tsar's  visit  to  Berlin  is  pro-  esque,  sympathetic,  interpretative  style 
nounced,  on  the  authority  of  the  best  would  unmistakably  have  been  the  bet- 
German  criticism,  to  be  greatly  over-  ter;  and  we  are  the  more  free  to  express 
drawn.  The  ancient  fable  that  Gather-  this  opinion  because  there  is  internal  ev- 
ine  sold  her  jewels  in  the  campaign  of  idence  that  Mr.  Schuyler's  method  was 
the  Pruth,  in  order  to  bribe  the  grand  not  forced  upon  him  by  any  limitations 
vizier  to  accept  a  peace,  is  calmly  dis-  of  his  own  powers,  but  was  deliberately 
missed.  And  where  there  is  doubt,  as  adopted  as  an  act  of  choice, 
in  regard  to  the  fate  of  Peter's  son  One  of  the  results  of  a  careful  corn- 
Alexis,  between  the  common  story,  parison  of  Mr.  Schuyler's  hero  with 
which  puts  him  to  death  by  order  of  the  some  of  the  contemporary  rulers  will 
Tsar,  and  the  later  more  charitable  ver-  probably  be  the  discovery  that  the  Hus- 
sion, which  attributes  his  death  to  the  sian  was  a  less  abnormal  product  than 
hardships  and  cruelties  of  his  prison  life,  has  commonly  been  supposed.  He  was 
Mr.  Schuyler  simply  gives  the  author!-  emphatically  the  child  of  his  time.  It 
ties  on  one  side  and  the  other,  without  is  chiefly  when  contrasted  with  his  own 
advancing  any  opinion  of  his  own.  The  people  that  Peter's  peculiarities  become 
firm  grasp  of  facts,  wherever  facts  are  ac-  so  conspicuous.  He  seemed  eccentric  to 
cessible,  is  everywhere  apparent.  Some-  Russians  because  he  was  himself  so  lit- 
thing  may  be  said,  too,  in  defense  of  that  tie  of  a  Russian,  because  he  was  almost  a 
school  of  historical  writing  which,  delib-  foreigner  in  his  own  country.  For  out- 
erately  discarding  art  and  pathos,  hu-  side  of  Russia  many  of  his  characteristics 
man  sympathy  and  human  indignation,  can  be  found  reproduced.  His  fondness 
aims  only  at  the  discovery  and  presenta-  for  practical  jokes  was  almost  an  uni- 
tion  of  unimpassioned  facts.  The  influ-  versal  passion  at  the  Northern  courts, 
ence  of  Germany  is  apparent  in  Mr.  If  Peter  had  his  court  fool  crowned  king 
Schuyler's  choice  of  a  method.  Yet  we  of  Sweden,  Frederic  William  I.  of  Prus- 


126 


Peter  the   Great. 


[July, 


sia  made  a  court  fool  rector  of  a  univer- 
sity, and  Charles  XII.  of  Sweden  found 
amusement  as  a  youth  in  knocking  down 
innocent  pedestrians  on  the  street.  'Au- 
gustus the  Strong  of  Saxony  had  more 
illegitimate  children  and  was  a  greater 
drinker  than  the  Tsar.  The  wisest 
measure  connected  with  Peter's  reign, 
although  by  no  means  the  most  popular, 
was  the  introduction  of  foreigners  into 
the  different  branches  of  the  Russian 
service ;  yet  even  for  this  policy  he  had 
the  example  of  other  rulers.  It  was  the 
policy  of  the  house  of  Prussia  at  a  very 
early  day,  and  was  continued  under  sev- 
eral generations,  to  attract  useful  for- 
eigners —  artisans,  capitalists,  scholars, 
soldiers  —  to  that  country,  and  when 
necessary  the  most  liberal  inducements 
were  offered  them.  Prussia  welcomed 
the  French  Huguenots ;  Peter  took  the 
Germans,  whom  they  displaced,  together 
with  Frenchmen,  Dutchmen,  English- 
men, and  others,  and  thus  gave  a  certain 
European  varnish  to  the  surface  of  Rus- 
sian society. 

Yet  the  Tsar  was,  on  the  other  hand, 
enough  of  a  barbarian  to  arouse  the 
most  piquant  interest  whenever  he  trav- 
eled in  the  west.  His  curiosity,  his 
application,  his  simplicity,  his  tastes,  his 
appetite,  his  arrogance,  were  as  notice- 
able outside  of  Russia  as  were  the  liber- 
ality and  the  rationalism  which  in  Russia 
cut  off  beards  and  long  sleeves,  adopted 
European  dress,  and  smote  the  preju- 
dices of  his  people  with  so  firm  and 
heavy  a  hand.  Hence  while  the  coffee- 
houses of  Holland  and  England  gossiped 
about  the  caprices  of  a  Muscovite  sav- 
age, the  boyars  and  monks  and  priests 
of  Moscow  had  only  stories  of  a  Tsar 
who  had  forsaken  the  path  of  his  fathers, 
and  fallen  into  the  traps  of  the  infidels. 
In  his  own  land  and  in  foreign  countries 
Peter  had,  however,  schools  of  admirers 
as  well  as  schools  of  detractors.  Both 
alike  went  to  ridiculous  lengths  of  exag- 
geration, and  the  material  left  by  both 
needs  to  be  sifted  with  great  care. 


Peter's  activity  was  apparent  in  every 
sphere  of  public  affairs,  and  nearly  al- 
wa}rs  as  a  constructive  reformer.  We 
may  briefly  call  attention  to  some  of  his 
reforms. 

The  earliest  manifestation  of  his  indi- 
viduality was  his  love  of  the  sea  and  of 
ships.  From  the  mere  boyish  pastime 
of  building  sail-boats  on  the  Russian 
lakes  he  gradually  rose  to  the  concep- 
tion of  a  great  naval  policy,  and  pursued 
it  with  singular  ardor  to  the  last  mo- 
ment. Even  his  wars  had  this  end 
largely  in  view  ;  for  the  possession  of 
the  Crimea  was  essential  to  the  main- 
tenance of  a  fleet  on  the  Black  Sea,  and 
the  conquest  of  the  Swedish  provinces 
on  the  southern  coast  of  the  Baltic  gave 
him  the  secure  ports  of  Riga  and  Kron- 
stadt,  with  the  opportunity  to  found  the 
present  capital  of  the  empire.  But  he 
did  not  succeed  in  making  Russia  a 
great  maritime  power;  the  natural  and 
other  obstacles  were  too  formidable 
even  for  his  strong  will.  In  the  work 
of  stimulating  commerce  and  domestic 
industry,  —  by  bounties,  by  franchises, 
by  monopolies,  and  by  crude  though  im- 
proved fiscal  regulations,  —  he  was  in- 
deed more  successful,  though  even  this 
success  had  the  insecure  support  of  the 
false  economical  principles  then  univer- 
sally adopted  in  Europe. 

First  in  the  order  of  importance  and 
of  success  we  should  place  Peter's  ad- 
ministrative reforms.  Mr.  Schuyler  has 
some  admirable  chapters  on  this  subject 
the  one  in  which  his  style  appears  to  the 
best  advantage.  Some  of  these  meas- 
ures were  extremely  hazardous,  like  the 
disbandment  of  the  streltsi,  or  national 
guard,  —  the  pretorians,  —  by  a  young 
prince  who  was  hardly  yet  assured  of 
his  throne.  Another  class  struck  at  the 
privileges  of  the  boyars  and  the  great 
nobles,  and  provoked  opposition  from 
them.  Still  a  third  group  of  reforms, 
those  aimed  at  the  monks  and  priests, 
created  another  class  of  enemies,  who 
were  indeed  non-combatants,  but  had 


1884.] 


Peter  the   Great. 


127 


many  means  of  annoyance,  and  were 
supported  by  all  the  ignorance  and  su- 
perstition of  Russia.  Peter  committed, 
in  the  course  of  this  policy,  some  errors 
of  judgment,  was  often  harsh  and  cruel, 
and  needlessly  shocked  the  national  feel- 
ings. But  he  had  on  the  whole  a  quick 
eye  for  the  evils  of  old  systems,  and 
generally  a  just  perception  of  the  reme- 
dies which  ought  to  be  applied. 

Peter's  wars,  though  not  uniformly 
successful,  yielded  in  the  end  good  re- 
sults, both  in  territory  and  in  prestige. 
As  a  conqueror,  his  career  reached  its 
culmination  in  the  final  overthrow  of 
Charles  XII.  at  Stralsund;  for  although 
the  capture  of  the  city  was  actually  ef- 
fected without  the  aid  of  Russian  troops, 
and  although  the  diplomacy  of  Ilgen,  the 
Prussian  minister,  was  rather  finer  than 
that  of  Dolgoruky,  the  military  prepon- 
derance of  the  Tsar  was  not  the  less  in- 
dispensable to  the  allies.  For  a  time 
Peter  was  nearly  a  dictator  in  Northern 
Europe.  A  few  years  later  he  openly 
interfered  in  behalf  of  the  Grand  Duke 
of  Mecklenburg,  whose  assault  upon  the 
liberties  of  the  estates  had  been  con- 
demned by  the  emperor  and  nearly  all 
the  princes  of  the  empire ;  and  on  other 
occasions  he  spoke  in  tones  of  authority 
strangely  prophetic  of  those  of  Nicholas, 
a  century  later. 

Peter's  military  triumphs,  and  the  in- 
troduction of  occidental  culture  among 
his  people  fairly  ushered  Russia  into 
the  family  of  European  states.  It  is  the 
opinion  of  Mr.  Schuyler  that  this  was 
an  error.  "  One  blame  may,  we  think, 
be  rightly  attached  to  Peter,"  he  says, 
in  one  of  the  few  places  where  he  pro- 
nounces a  judgment  on  his  hero  :  "  that 
he  brought  Russia  prematurely  into  the 
circle  of  European  politics.  As  to  the 
effect  upon  Europe,  contemporary  na- 
tional rivalries  hinder  a  fair  conclusion. 
As  to  that  upon  Russia,  there  can  be  but 
one  opinion.  The  result  has  been  to 
turn  the  rulers  of  Russia  away  from 
home  affairs  and  the  regular  develop- 


ment of  home  institutions  to  foreign  pol- 
itics and  the  creation  of  a  great  mili- 
tary power.  In  this  sense  it  cannot  be 
deemed  beneficial  to  Russia." 

This  judgment  is  probably  in  the  main 
correct.  The  evil  was  felt  during  Pe- 

o 

ter's  own  life  ;  his  constant  preoccupa- 
tion in  foreign  wars  and  foreign  diplo- 
macy lamed  the  energy  of  home  reforms. 
Even  the  reforms  themselves  were  not 
rendered  more  popular  by  being  intro- 
duced under  foreign  auspices,  or,  at  least, 
under  the  influence  of  impressions  which 
Peter  had  received  abroad.  Twenty 
years  after  his  death  his  own  daughter, 
Elisabeth,  on  her  accession,  swept  away 
the  hated  foreign  element,  and  won  the 
hearts  of  her  subjects  by  returning  to  the 
old  national  Russian  methods.  Yet  there 
is  one  obvious  qualification  to  this  view. 
If  it  be  granted  that  reform  was  nec- 
essary, could  it  proceed  otherwise  than 
along  the  general  course  already  trav- 
ersed by  more  advanced  nations  ?  Or, 
again,  would  Peter  have  received  the 
impulse  to  reform  and  the  secret  of  its 
method,  if  he  had  not  sought  and  uti- 
lized that  very  contact  with  western  civ- 
ilization which  proved  in  so  many  ways 
to  be  an  evil  ?  The  case  is  in  effect  one 
of  those,  so  frequent  in  politics,  where 
it  is  difficult  to  say  what  is  cause  and 
what  effect.  The  aggressions  of  James 
II.  of  England  were  undoubtedly  an 
evil.  Yet  without  those  aggressions 
England  might  not  have  had  the  Bill  of 
Rights. 

Our  own  estimate  of  Peter  as  a  states- 
man is  rather  enhanced  than  lessened  by 
Mr.  Schuyler's  work.  The  man  remains 
much  as  the  world  had  regarded  him 
before ;  the  change,  if  any,  is  only  quan- 
titative, not  qualitative.  He  may  drink 
and  eat  somewhat  less,  may  have  less 
numerous  liaisons,  may  send  fewer  men 
to  the  block,  than  in  earlier  biographies ; 
but  even  in  the  book  before  us,  where 
nothing  is-  extenuated,  nor  aught  set 
down  in  malice,  the  Tsar  is  still  a  glut- 
ton and  a  drunkard,  a  lover  of  low  com- 


128 


SMiemanri 's  Troja. 


[July, 


pany,  male  and  female,  a  cruel  and 
bloody  tyrant.  It  is  only  as  a  statesman 
that  he  rises  enlarged  and  ennobled  from 
Mr.  Schuyler's  pages.  And  this  is  not 
so  much  by  reason  of  what  he  actually 
achieved,  though  his  achievements  were 
striking  and  valuable,  as  by  reason  of 
the  formidable  obstacles  that  he  had  to 


surmount,  and  the  almost  heroic  labors 
by  which  he  surmounted  them.  It  is 
not  necessary  to  enumerate  these.  They 
are  given  by  Mr.  Schuyler  with  a  full- 
ness and  clearness  not  to  be  found  else- 
where except  perhaps  in  Russian  works, 
and  which  leave  little  to  be  desired  by 
the  inquiring  reader. 


SCHLIEMANN'S  TROJA. 


IN  Troja  1  Dr.  Schliemann  has  pub- 
lished the  results  of  his  later  excava- 
tions at  Hissarlik  and  its  neighborhood 
in  1882,  and  they  prove  an  important 
correction  and  amplification  of  his  pre- 
vious work,  Ilios  ;  in  a  new  edition  of 
the  latter  the  substance  of  the  present 
volume  must  finally  be  embodied.  With- 
out restating  the  theories  that  have  been 
superseded,  it  is  enough  to  say  that  the 
Homeric  Troy,  which  was  formerly  sup- 
posed to  be  the  third  of  the  prehistoric 
settlements  whose  debris  have  been  cut 
through  and  partially  uncovered  in  the 
great  mound,  is  now  identified  with  the 
second,  and  that  the  description  of  this 
last  has  been  modified  in  essential  par- 
ticulars. Unlike  the  others,  it  may  be 
styled  a  city,  without  suggesting  any  mis- 
conception of  its  extent  and  consequence. 
It  consisted  of  the  small  acropolis,  or 
upper  city,  strongly  guarded  by  massive 
towered  walls,  with  gates  opening  into 
the  lower  city  and  of  difficult  approach, 
within  which  were  inclosed  a  few  tem- 
ples and  other  buildings,  apparently  pal- 
aces. Close  under  the  shelter  of  this 
fortification,  on  the  plain  to  the  east, 
south,  and  southwest,  stretched  the  broad 
streets  of  the  town  ;  and  that,  too,  was 
defended  by  a  wall,  which  sprang  from 

l  Troja.  Results  of  the  Latest  Researches  and 
Discoveries  on  the  Site  of  Homer's  Troy,  and  in 
the  Heroic  Tumuli  and  Other  Sites,  made  in  the 
year  1882,  and  a  Narrative  of  a  Journey  in  the 
Troad  in  1881.  By  Dr.  HENRY  SCHLIEMANN, 


and  returned  to  the  acropolis.  In  the 
citadel  itself,  which  alone  has  been  thor- 
oughly explored,  the  ruins  show  two 
stages  in  the  building  activity  of  the 
inhabitants  of  this  period  :  in  the  first, 
the  irregular  plateau  of  the  summit  was 
artificially  leveled  by  filling  up,  and  tem- 
ples, houses,  and  gateways  were  erected ; 
in  the  second,  these  structures  were  re- 
built, with  a  different  axis  and  general 
arrangement,  and  the  approaches  were 
somewhat  changed  and  greatly  strength- 
ened and  improved.  The  material  used, 
except  for  the  foundations,  which  were 

of  stone,  was  bricks,  fired  after  the  walls 
i 

were  up,  according  to  a  custom  prac- 
ticed by  primitive  peoples  from  Babylon 
to  Wisconsin.  Of  especial  architectural 
interest  is  the  fact  that  the  front  ends 
of  lateral  walls  were  faced  with  wooden 
beams,  which,  starting  from  a  secure 
stone  foundation,  helped  to  protect  and 
consolidate  them,  and  to  support  the 
roof  of  beams,  rushes,  and  clay.  Here 
is  seen,  for  the  first  time,  the  original 
constructive  use  of  the  ornamental  anice 
of  the  Greek  temple.  That  all  these 
buildings  were  destroyed  at  once  by  a 
great  fire  there  is  ample  and  overwhelm- 
ing evidence,  —  such,  indeed,  that  this 
fact  cannot  be  regarded  as  materially 

Hon.  D.  C.  L.  Oxon.,  etc.  Preface  by  Professor 
A.  H.  SAYCE.  With  one  hundred  and  fifty  wood- 
cuts and  four  maps  and  plans.  New  York :  Har- 
per &  Brothers.  1884. 


1884.] 


SMiemann*s  Troja. 


129 


strengthened  even  by  the  speaking  testi- 
mony of  the  multitude  of  new  objects 
found  with  marks  of  the  tierce  conflagra- 
tion they  survived.  For  the  most  part, 
these  articles,  although  interesting  in 
detail,  do  not  differ  sufficiently  from 
those  illustrated  in  Ilios  to  affect  a  gen- 
eral view  ;  but  it  should  perhaps  be  ob- 
served that  no  relic  was  discovered  that 
is  incompatible  with  the  generally  re- 
ceived conclusion  of  archaeologists  that 
the  civilization  of  this  city  was  prehis- 
toric, and  unaffected  by  either  Hellenic 
or  Phosnician  influence.  The  compar- 
atively slight  excavation  of  the  lower 
city  disclosed  little  more  than  the  smooth 
bed  on  which  the  defensive  wall  ran, 
and  masses  of  the  lustrous  black  pottery, 
which,  by  its  peculiar  character,  proves 
this  settlement  on  the  plain  to  have 
been  contemporaneous  with  the  exist- 
ence of  the  second  city  on  the  hill.  In 
this  outer  wall  Dr.  Schliemann  supposes 
that  there  was  but  one  gate,  the  Scsean, 
through  which  the  old  road  descended 

O 

by  the  fig-tree  and  the  springs  in  the 
rock,  now  entirely  excavated,  out  toward 
the  sea.  „ 

Such,  in  the  barest  outline,  is  the  plan 
of  the  city  of  Priam  as  it  is  now  inferred 
from  a  few  foundation  walls  covered 
with  heaps  of  burnt  ruins  ;  and  certainly 
it  is  far  more  credible  than  the  idea  of 
Troy  which  Dr.  Schliemann  formerly 
asked  us  to  accept,  when  he  confined 
its  limits  to  the  narrow  platform  of  the 
acropolis.  Indeed,  this  second  city  on 
Hissarlik  corresponds  too  remarkably 
with  Homer's  description  to  allow  of 
much  doubt  that  it  is  the  site  he  had  in 
mind,  and  few  will  hesitate  longer  to  be- 
lieve that  its  utter  and  violent  destruc- 
tion by  fire  was  the  calamity  that  tradi- 
tion so  wonderfully  preserved  and  ex- 
alted. One  has  but  to  remember  how 
small  the  walled  towns  in  the  East  usu- 
ally are  in  proportion  to  their  impor- 
tance, to  recognize  in  a  city  of  the  size 
indicated  by  these  remains  a  seat  of 
power  and  wealth,  whose  possessors  not 

VOL.  LIV  — NO.  321.  9 


only  must  have  dominated  the  Troad, 
but  were  of  consequence  enough  to  be 
named  among  the  associated  invaders  of 
Egypt  in  the  reign  of  Ramses  III.,  and 
in  their  turn,  a  century  later,  to  call  to 
their  aid  numerous  allies  to  resist  their 
own  enemies  from  Europe.  At  any  an- 
cient time  this  was  the  only  city  in  the 
Troad  which  could  have  been  the  object 
of  a  long  and  doubtful  national  war.  In 
addition  to  this  fact,  the  topography  of 
the  citadel,  its  temples,  palaces,  towers, 
and  walls,  as  well  as  the  lay  of  the 
ground  in  its  neighborhood,  answer  as 
closely  as  could  be  expected  to  the  tradi- 
tionary description  of  Homer.  In  this 
rediscovery  of  the  actual  ground  which 
a  noble  legend  has  consecrated  there  is 
a  certain  satisfaction  to  the  literary 
mind,  not  merely  because  of  an  increase 
of  emotion  due  to  a  sympathetic  local 
attachment  to  the  soil  on  which  great 
deeds  have  been  done,  but  because  an 
element  of  reality  is  added  to  the  poems 
themselves.  They  will  seem  more  truth- 
ful to  ordinary  men ;  they  will  make 
their  way  better  in  this  age,  if  Achilles 
and  Patroclus  are  regarded  not  as  pure- 
ly ideal,  but  as  the  Roland  and  Oliver 

•^  » 

of  antiquity. 

To  the  scientific  mind,  however,  Dr. 
Schliemanu's  work  means  a  great  deal 
more.  In  the  first  place,  he  has  justified 
the  tradition  of  the  Greek  world,  and  ac- 
credited it  as  the  guide  of  investigation ; 
in  other  words,  he  has  dealt  a  death- 
blow to  the  scholarship  that  would  re- 
solve the  history  of  the  world  before 
Herodotus  into  a  sun-myth.  As  Pro- 
fessor Sayce  well  remarks  in  his  fine 
preface,  science  is  now  adding  to  our  con- 
ception of  the  antiquity  of  the  globe  and 
of  man  that  of  the  antiquity  of  civiliza- 
tion. In  this  field  the  contents  of  the 
mound  of  Hissarlik  have  a  different  and 
wider  interest,  entirely  independent  of 
the  Iliad  or  the  Odyssey.  In  the  city 
immediately  below  Troy,  and  belonging 
to  the  late  Stone  Age,  objects  were  found 
that  go  to  indicate  that  its  inhabitants 


130 


Schliemann' s  Troja. 


were  of  the  same  race  as  the  people 
of  the  same  period  in  Southern  Europe. 
Of  more  certain  meaning  is  the  discov- 
ery, in  the  tumulus  of  Protesilaos,  on 
the  shore  of  the  Thracian  Chersonese, 
of  pottery  and  other  objects  contempo- 
raneous with  those  found  at  Troy,  such 
as  have  been  unearthed  nowhere  else. 
Professor  Sayce  regards  this  fact  as  an 
important  and  well-nigh  conclusive  addi- 
tion to  the  evidence  that  the  Trojans  were 
originally  from  Thrace,  and  of  Aryan 
blood.  On  the  other  hand,  their  civil- 
ization was  derived  from  their  Asian 
neighbors  on  the  east.  This  is  deter- 
mined, of  course,  by  the  character  of  the 
art  shown  on  the  objects  of  ivory,  gold, 
bronze,  porcelain,  or  stone  found  in  the 
ruins.  To  sum  up  the  matter,  nothing 
of  the  Greek  age,  either  in  coins,  inscrip- 
tions, or  pottery,  is  to  be  discerned  in  the 
relics.  Porcelain  arid  ivory,  it  is  true, 
might  have  been  brought  from  Egypt  by 
the  Phoenicians,  but  as  there  is  no  trace 
either  of  Phoenician  or  Assyrian  work- 
manship a  still  earlier  source  must  be 
sought.  There  remains  only  the  great 
nation  of  the  Hittites  (our  knowledge 
of  which  may  be  said  to  be  a  thing  of 
yesterday),  and  to  this  people  Professor 
Sayee  attributes  the  tutelage  of  the  Tro- 
jans in  their  early  culture  mainly  on  the 
ground  (1)  that  the  idols  of  the  Trojan 
goddess  Ate  (identified  by  the  Greeks 
with  Athena)  have  the  well-known  char- 
acteristics of  the  Hittite  'Athi,  a  modi- 
fied form  of  the  Babylonish  deity ;  (2) 
that  the  stone  cylinders  indicative  of 
primitive  Chaldaic  influence  occur  to  the 
exclusion  of  the  lentoid  seal  of  the  As- 
syrian age  ;  and  (3)  that  the  ornamenta- 
tion of  some  of  the  vases  and  gold-work 
points  to  the  same  art  origin.  The  Tro- 
jans, then,  if  these  inferences  be  accept- 
ed, were  an  Aryan  tribe  from  Europe, 
civilized  by  influences  coming  from  prim- 
itive Chaldee  by  way  of  the  Hittites, 
whose  rule  extended  from  Cappadocia 
to  the  Euxine,  and  from  the  Euphrates 
to  the  Hellespont.  This  conclusion, — 


which  harmonizes  with  the  little  that 
is  known  of  the  art,  language,  race, 
time,  and  locality  involved,  —  would 
fix  the  date  of  Troy  in  the  twelfth  cen- 
tury B.  c. 

No  particular  interest  attaches  at 
present  to  the  four  upper  layers  of  pre- 
historic ruins  on  Hissarlik,  or  to  the 
wreck  of  the  ^Eolic  Ilium  that  lies  above 
these.  The  ancient  Troy  was  never  re- 
built ;  for  the  little  settlements  on  the 
rock,  although  they  continued  the  relig- 
ious and  art  tradition,  can  be  regarded 
only  as  the  merest  villages.  The  stones 
of  the  wall  of  the  lower  city  were  prob- 
ably carried  off  by  Arkhaianax  to  build 
Sigeion,  as  Dr.  Schliemann  observes  on 
the  authority  of  Strabo.  No  mark  of 
Greek  occupancy  is  met  with,  except 
after  the  period  of  the  peculiar  pottery 
ascribed  wholly  hypothetically  to  the 
Lydians ;  and  after  the  -ZEolic  settlers 
arrived  they  did  not  build  on  the  plain 
until  a  long  time  had  elapsed.  These 
various  facts  reconcile  the  conflicting  tes- 
timony in  classical  authors  that  the  site 
of  Troy  was  a  waste,  and  that  it  was  in- 
habited by  a  remnant  of  men.  All  this 
is  accepted  by  scholars  of  note,  except 
Professor  Jebb,  of  Glasgow,  to  whose 
'criticism  Professor  Sayce  plainly  refers 
(though  not  by  name)  when  he  ends  his 
protest  against  the  ignorance  and  pre- 
sumption of  English  scholars,  who  sup- 
pose they  understand  archaeology  be- 
cause they  can  write  Greek  verses,  by 
saying  that  "  to  look  for  a  Macedonian 
city  in  the  fifth  prehistoric  village  of 
Hissarlik  is  like  looking  for  an  Eliza- 
bethan cemetery  in  the  tumuli  of  Salis- 
bury plain." 

Dr.  Schliemann  also  publishes  in  this 
volume  the  results  of  several  excava- 
tions in  the  neighboring  tumuli  of  the 
Trojan  plain,  but  these  were  for  the 
most  part  fruitless.  In  an  appendix  he 
adds  a  narrative  of  a  journey  through 
the  Troad,  which  is  of  much  interest ; 
but  to  keep  up  the  distinction  hitherto 
observed,  it  stirs  the  literary  rather  than 


1884.] 


An  American  Story  Writer. 


131 


the  scientific  spirit.  On  the  summit  of 
Gargarus,  from  which  Zeus  looked  on 
the  great  battle  and  launched  his  light- 
nings to  plow  the  ground  before  the 
chariot  of  Diomed,  there  is  still  the  an- 
cient throne-like  rock,  and  in  its  crevices 
hyacinths  and  violets  still  blossom,  as 
when  they  sprang  to  strew  the  couch  of 
Zeus  and  Hera.  Near  Sarikis,  the  other 
peak  of  Mt.  Ida,  at  the  foot  of  its  north- 
ward wall,  just  below  the  topmost  crag, 
still  lies  the  marble  slab  of  an  altar  ;  and 
what  is  more  likely  than  that  it  is  the 
last  fragment  of 


"the  altar  to  ancestral  Zeus, 
Upon  the  hill  of  Ida,  in  the  sky," 


of  which  JEschylus  sang  ?  On  the  slope 
the  crocus  and  the  lotus-leaf  flourish,  as 
when  ^Enone  fed  her  flocks  among  the 
pines.  To  the  scientific  mind,  looking 
off  hence  to  the  famous  mound  lying 
like  a  button  in  the  far  distance,  there 
may  rise  a  vision  of  new  knowledge  to 
be  conquered  from  the  past ;  but  to  the 
imagination  there  is  a  finer  possession  in 
the  reflection  that  the  most  enduring  of 
human  works  on  yonder  plain  were  the 
poet's  song  and  heaps  of  broken  shards. 


AN  AMERICAN  STORY  WRITER. 


How  much  American  literature  would 
gain  in  freshness,  variety,  and  local  col- 
or, were  it  not  systematically  discour- 
aged by  an  unjust,  unpatriotic,  and 
myopic  policy  on  the  part  of  the  gov- 
ernment, is  occasionally  hinted  by  the 
appearance  of  some  new  writer,  who 
persists  under  adversity,  and  finally  suc- 
ceeds in  producing  delightful  results 
from  phases  of  our  life  which  other- 
wise would  remain  unchronicled  and  un- 
known. Of  such  writers  the  most  no- 
ticeable are  Bret  Harte  and  George  Ca- 
ble ;  but  we  must  name,  as  instancing 
similar  native  and  independent  tenden- 
cies, Miss  Jewett  and  Charles  Egbert 
Craddock,  the  latter  of  whom  has  re- 
cently issued  his  stories  in  collected 
form.1 

To  most  readers  the  title  chosen  for 
this  charming  and  unusual  volume  will 
convey  no  very  clear  idea  of  the  con- 
tents ;  but  Atlantic  readers  will  know 
that,  instead  of  being  a  book  of  travels 
or  an  essay  on  geology,  In  the  Tennes- 
see Mountains  is  a  series  of  tales,  the 

1  In  the  Tennessee  Mountains.  By  CHARLES 
EGBERT  CRADDOCK.  Boston:  Houghton,  Mifflin 
&  Co.  The  Riverside  Press,  Cambridge.  1884. 


subjects  and  the  artistic  worth  of  which 
are  uncommon. 

Within  these  covers  there  are  eight 
short  stories,  every  one  of  which  has  an 
idea,  a  motive,  amply  qualified  to  sus- 
tain its  interest.  They  are  told  with  a 
sincerity,  a  simplicity  of  manner,  and  a 
closeness  of  observation  that  recall  at 
moments  the  rare  gift  of  Thomas  Hardy  ; 
they  are  as  unpretentious,  as  mellow  and 
quiet  in  tone,  as  Miss  Jewett's  narra- 
tives ;  and  they  describe  an  existence  as 
curious  and  unusual  as  that  of  the  Cre- 
ole society  which  Mr.  Cable  has  taken 
for  his  province.  Yet  the  author's  at- 
mosphere is  completely  his  own  :  we  do 
not  detect  any  trace  of  imitation  in  his 
conception  or  his  manner.  If  his  ef- 
fects are  less  pointed  and  his  pathos  is 
less  deep  than  Mr.  Cable's,  he  has  the 
advantage  of  being  less  artificial  in  his 
method  than  the  Louisiana  novelist. 
On  the  other  hand,  the  situations  that 
he  chooses  are  more  intense  than  those 
which  we  have  grown  used  to  expect 
from  Miss  Jewett.  Possibly  Mr.  Harte's 
success  with  Californian  themes  may  havo 
inspired  the  writer  who  veils  his  iden- 
tity under  the  name  of  Craddock;  but 


132 


An  American  Story  Writer. 


[July, 


if  that  be  so,  there  is  nothing  servile  in 
the  inspiration,  and  we  are  inclined  to 
think  that  Mr.  Craddock  is  a  great  deal 
truer   to   the   dialect   and    the   general 
probabilities  of  the  region  in  which  he 
is  an  explorer  than  Mr.  Harte  is  in  his 
studies  of  humanity  on  the  Pacific  slope. 
Drifting  Down  Lost  Creek  is  presuma- 
bly   the    author's   favorite    production, 
since  it  is  placed  first  in  order,  though 
this  may  be  due  simply  to  its  primacy 
in  length.     Certainly  it  is  a  very  thor- 
ough   piece   of   work,  and   embodies  a 
situation  abounding  in  elements  of   in- 
terest which  are  all  thoroughly  brought 
out ;  and  it  is  no  more  than  fair  to  re- 
mark that,  while  the  scene  and  the  study 
of   dialect  are  somewhat    like  those  of 
Joel  Chandler  Harris's  story  At  Teague 
Poteet's,  Mr.  Craddock  preempted  the 
field  some  time  before  Mr.  Harris  was 
heard  of  at  all.    The  motive  in  this  deli- 
cate and  affecting  miniature  romance  is 
quite  Mr.  Craddock's  own  ;  and  all  the 
accessories  are  touched  in  with  so  per- 
fect a  regard  for  the    total    impression 
that  the  every-day  feminine  tragedy  of 
Cynthia  Ware's  history,  gilded '  by  the 
light  of  her  trustful  heroism,  will  be  apt 
to  live  long  in  the  mind  of  the  reader. 
Electioneerin'  on  Big  Injun  Mounting 
is  an  episode  of  a  sturdier  kind,  which 
contains  more  of  the  dramatic,  both  in 
matter   and   manner,  than    any  of   the 
other  sketches.     It  strikes  at  the  close 
a  chord  of  feeling  so  true  to  the  better 
part  of  human  nature  that  one  is  thrilled 
by  a  certain  elation,  at  the  same  time 
that  the  sudden  tenderness  of  the  rude 
mountaineers    towards   the   man  whom 
they    had    misunderstood    touches    the 
springs   of    pathos.      The   study,    also, 
which  the  author  has  here  made  of  an 
aspiring   young  politician,  whose   stern 
sense  of   justice  makes  him  unpopular 
with  the  lawless  constituency  from  which 
he  sprang,  strikes  us  as  being  a  careful, 
original,  and  very  suggestive  one. 

In  Old  Sledge  at  the  Settlemint,  again, 
a  group  of  card-players  is  presented,  one 


of  whom  is  gambling  away  everything 
that  he   owns  —  even   to  his  corn  and 
hogs,  and  his  house  and  land  —  in  play 
with  the  man  whom  his  wife  had  jilted. 
The  way  in  which  this  picture  of  the 
gamblers  throwing  their  cards  on  the  in- 
verted splint  basket,  by  the  light  of  a 
tallow  dip  and  a  pitch-pine  fire,  while 
the  moon  shines  without  and  the  uncan- 
ny echoes  ring  back  from  the  rocks  and 
woods,  is  highly  imaginative,  yet  as  re- 
alistically  graphic   as    one    of    Spagno- 
letto's  paintings.      Indeed,  we  are  con- 
stantly reminded  of  the  pictorial  art  by 
the  effects  which  Mr.  Craddock  evolves 
from  the  use  of  words,  from  his  sense 
of  color  and  his  keen  vision  of  the  sig-  . 
nificant  traits  in  the  physical  surround- 
ings. 

These  are  especially  to  be  remarked  in 
the  descriptions  of   mountain    scenery, 
with  all  the  shifting  phases  of   spring 
and  autumn,  of  sunset,  mist,  and  forest 
fires,  which  he  introduces  so  aptly.    Ac- 
cessories of  this  kind  are  lavished  with 
a  free  hand  that  discloses  the  range  and 
minuteness  of  the  author's  observation  ; 
and   although   in    each    story   we    find 
three   or  four   carefully  wrought   land- 
scapes in  little,  no  one  in  the  whole  gal- 
lery of    the  volume  repeats  any  other. 
Here,  for   example,  is   a   night-piece: 
"  The    foliage    was   all   embossed  with 
exquisite  silver  designs  that  seemed  to 
stand  out  some  little  distance  from  the 
dark  masses  of   leaves  ;    now  and  then 
there   came   to  his    eyes    that   emerald 
gleam  never  seen  upon  verdure  in  the 
daytime,  and  only  shown  by  some  arti- 
ficial light,  or  the  moon's  sweet  uncer- 
tainty."    Here    is    another,  nearly   the 
same,  yet  different :  "  The  moon's  ideal- 
izing glamour  had  left  no  trace  of  the 
uncouthness    of    the    place    which    the 
daylight  revealed  ;  the  little  log  house, 
the  great  overhanging  chestnut-oaks,  the 
jagged    precipice    before    the    door,   all 
suffused  with  a  magic  sheen,  might  have 
seemed  a  stupendous  alto-relievo  in  sil- 
ver repousse."     We  are  incessantly  yet 


1884.] 


An  American  Story  Writer. 


133 


unobtrusively  reminded  of  the  large  and 
solemn  presence  of  nature.  The  moment 
any  lull  occurs  in  the  action  of  the  per- 
sonages, the  mountain  solitudes  come  in 

o         ' 

to  play  their  part :  the  sylvan  glades, 
the  foaming  cataracts,  the  springing 
flowers  at  their  due  season,  and  the  wild 
birds  and  animals  all  assume  the  func- 
tion of  dramatis  personce,  that  say  noth- 
ing, but  carry  on  a  strange,  inarticulate 
chorus,  which  seems  to  interpret  the 
melancholy  or  the  emotion  of  the  hu- 
man actors.  In  this  utilization  of  forces 
not  human  Mr.  Craddock,  we  incline  to 
think,  is  not  surpassed  by  any  writer  of 
the  time. 

But,  more  than  this,  each  particular 
story  holds  some  idea  of  striking  value 
in  its  bearing  on  sentiment  or  conduct, 
yet  arising  spontaneously  out  of  the 
conditions  of  the  peculiar  community 
depicted  by  the  writer.  We  have  the 
mountain  girl,  who,  by  the  most  terrible 
exertions  and  by  long  journeys  on  foot, 
secures  the  pardon  of  the  unjustly  im- 
prisoned man  whom  she  loves,  only  to 
find  that  he  does  not  even  know  who 
rescued  him,  and  to  pine  away  in  lonely 
maidenhood  while  he  marries  some  one 
else.  We  have,  again,  the  weak  and 
slender  Celia  Shaw,  who  painfully  toils 
through  the  wintry  woods  for  many 
miles,  at  night,  to  warn  and  save  the 
men  whom  her  father  and  his  friends 
had  decided  to  "  wipe  out ;  "  and  the 
case  of  the  brave  ex-chaplain,  who  by 
his  coolness,  though  unarmed,  prevents 
a  murderous  affray  at  a  rough  up-coun- 
try "  dancin'  party."  This  last  story 
ends  with  a  touch  of  grim  humor.  The 
young  man  who  has  been  restrained 
from  killing  the  outlaw,  Rick  Pearson, 
who  had  stolen  a  bay  filly,  expresses 
gratitude  at  being  saved  from  the  crime  ; 
for,  he  says,  "  the  bay  filly  ain't  sech 


a  killin'  matter,  nohow ;  ef  it  war  the 
roan  three-year-old,  now,  't  would  be 
different."  But  in  every  instance  there 
is  a  strong  idea ;  a  good  lesson  is  mod- 
estly taught ;  the  heart  is  stirred  with 
refining  pity  and  admiration.  Not  less 
excellent  is  the  artist's  exposition  of  the 
lonely,  self-reliant,  and  half-mournful 
life  of  the  mountain  folk ;  and  partic- 
ularly of  the  sweet,  pure,  naive  young 
women,  arid  the  faded  older  women 
"  holding  out  wasted  hands  to  the  years 
as  they  pass,  —  holding  them  out  always, 
and  always  empty."  The  dialect  is  em- 
ployed well  and  without  effort,  although 
at  times  the  speeches  assigned  to  the 
characters  are  a  trifle  prolix.  One  or 
two  other  limitations  upon  the  author's 
ability  in  carrying  out  his  plans  sug- 
gest themselves  :  such  as  that  in  the  de- 
lineation of  his  heroines  he  leaves  us 
with  a  somewhat  slight  and  unsatisfac- 
tory account  of  them  ;  and  that,  while  he 
chooses  situations  full  of  dramatic  pos- 
sibilities, he  too  often  obscures  the  cli- 
max by  his  own  quiet  reflections,  instead 
of  leaving  it  to  affect  us  by  its  inherent 
strength.  These  defects,  however,  may 
be  pardoned  to  one  who  writes  with  so 
much  sincerity,  so  much  poetic  feeling, 
and  such  exquisite  art  of  detail  as  are 
manifested  in  this  volume.  It  is  odd  that 
the  American  people  as  a  whole  have 
little  genuine  appreciation  for  the  most 
delicate  and  deserving  productions  of 
native  literary  artists,  notwithstanding 
that  American  imaginative  writers  are 
to-day  distinguished  above  their  English 
fellows  for  refinement  of  idea,  phrase, 
and  effect ;  but  we  cannot  do  otherwise 
than  hope  that  Mr.  Craddock  will  take 
his  place  among  the  exceptions  which 
prove  that  genius  in  this  country,  even 
when  unassuming,  need  not  always  be 
debarred  from  popularity. 


134  The  Contributors'  Club.  [July, 


THE    CONTRIBUTORS'   CLUB. 

FRESH  from  reading  Professor  "Wood's  if  it  should  be  known  that  I  have  seen 

ingenious  paper  on  The  Trail   of   the  the  sea-serpent,  I  should  never  hear  the 

Sea-Serpent  in  the  last  Atlantic,  I  light-  last  of  it,  but  wherever  I  went  should 

ed  on   the   following   passage   in  Tho-  have   to  tell  the  story  to  every  one  I 

reau's   new  volume,  Summer,  —  a  vol-  met.'     So   it   has   not   leaked   out    till 

ume  wholly  made  up  from  the  author's  now." 

unpublished  manuscripts,  and  filling  one          —  I  lost  myself  for  an  hour  or  two  the 

with  a  desire  instantly  to  have  further  other  day  —  and  very  pleasantly  —  over 

draughts   from   those    seemingly   inex-  the  thirty-fifth  volume  of  the  No  Name 

haustible    fountains.     The    passage   in  series.      My  studies  in  that  quiet  walk 

question,  which  would  admirably  have  of  literature  had  been  suspended  for  a 

served  Professor  "Wood's  purpose,  had  good  while.     I  had,  in  fact,  almost  for- 

he  chanced  upon  these  pages,  is  dated  gotten  that  the  procession  of  the  "  great 

at   Plymouth,  Massachusetts,  June  14,  unknown  "  was  still  defiling  away   over 

1857  :  "  B.  M.  W tells  me  that  he  the    sands    of    time,    when    there    ar- 

learns  from  pretty  good  authority  that  rived  this  new  anonyma,  clasped  with 
Webster  once  saw  the  sea-serpent.  It  the  horseshoe  and  wreathed  with  the 
seems  it  was  first  seen  in  the  bay  be-  clover  as  of  old,  and  having  a  tale 
tween  Manomet  and  Plymouth  Beach  to  tell  full  of  freshness  and  charm, 
by  a  perfectly  reliable  witness  (many  Though  new  to  the  American  public, 
years  ago),  who  was  accustomed  to  look  the  author  of  Diane  Coryval  is  evi- 
out  on  the  sea  with  his  glass  every  morn-  dently  not  new  to  her  work.  To  great 
ing  the  first  thing,  as  regularly  as  he  ate  natural  vivacity  she  adds  the  ease  of 
his  breakfast.  One  morning  he  saw  this  a  thoroughly  practiced  writer,  and  her 
monster,  with  a  head  somewhat  like  a  pictures  of  French  rural  life,  especially 
horse's,  raised  some  six  feet  above  the  of  purely  provincial  types  of  character, 
water,  and  his  body,  the  size  of  a  cask,  like  Madame  Brae  and  the  Brothers  By- 
trailing  behind.  He  was  careering  over  arson,  are  delightful.  The  heroine  of  the 
the  bay,  chasing  the  mackerel,  which  little  story  is  a  dear  creature,  too  ;  the 
ran  ashore  in  their  fright,  and  were  hero  (why  is  this  so  often  the  case,  in  the 
washed  up  and  died  in  great  numbers,  novels  of  women  ?)  a  rather  poor  one. 
The  story  is  that  Webster  had  appoint-  There  is  a  terrible  mortality  among  the 
ed  to  meet  some  Plymouth  gentlemen  secondary  characters,  but  that,  happily 
at  Manomet  and  spend  the  day  fishing  or  unhappily,  is  not  unnatural.  What 
with  them.  After  the  fishing  was  over  is  so  is  the  hero's  resuscitation  after  he 
he  set  out  to  return  to  Duxbury  in  his  had  been  a  year  or  two  drowned.  I  am 
sail-boat  with  Peterson,  as  he  had  come,  sure  that  the  skilled  author  of  Diane 
and  on  the  way  they  saw  the  sea-serpent,  Coryval  never  intended  this.  I  recog- 
which  answered  to  the  common  account  nized  the  miracle,  on  the  instant,  for 
of  this  creature.  It  passed  directly  a  publisher's  denoument ;  and  it  is  this 
across  the  bows  only  six  or  seven  rods  rattling,  clanking  descent  of  the  deus  ex 
off,  and  then  disappeared.  On  the  sail  machina  against  which  I  here  take  occa- 
homeward,  Webster,  having  had  time  to  sion  seriously  to  protest,  both  on  the 
reflect  on  what  had  occurred,  at  length  writer's  behalf  and  the  reader's.  Pub- 
said  to  Peterson,  *  For  God's  sake,  never  lishers  are  a  great  deal  too  tender- 
say  a  word  about  this  to  any  one ;  for  hearted,  as  a  class ;  and  they  credit  the 


1884.] 


The   Contributors'    Club. 


135 


reading  public  with  a  similar  weakness. 
They  think  that  the  average  "  consumer  " 
of  novels  would  rather  see  two  young 
people  preposterously  made  happy  than 
have  his  own  artistic  instincts  gratified  ; 
but  I  venture  to  think  that  they  are  en- 
tirely wrong.  The  world  —  that  is  to 
say,  the  reading  world  —  is  so  very  much 
more  artistic  nowadays  than  it  is  roman- 
tic !  The  veracious  author  of  John  Bull 
et  son  He,  in  his  brief  but  brilliant  review 
of  the  aesthetic  movement,  informs  us 
that  en  1881  on  s'est  mis  a  adorer  le  beau, 
and  ever  since  then  art  for  art's  sake 
has  been  as  common  as  dandelions  in 
May.  The  comparison  is  exact.  It  is 
like  Lord  Tennyson's  weed:  — 

"  Most  can  grow  the  flowers  now, 
For  all  have  got  the  seed." 

When,  therefore,  the  exigencies  of  high 
art  plainly  require  it,  let  the  novelist  slay 
his  creatures  without  mercy,  and  sternly 
resist  their  galvanization.  "  Three  hulk- 
ing brothers  more  or  less  don't  matter  ;  " 
but  "  form  "  does  matter,  and  "  sym- 
metry," and  "unity,"  and  "tone,"  and 
"chiar-oscuro,"  —  especially  oscuro  ! 

—  At  a  recent  meeting  of  the  Club  a 
contributor  became  truly  pathetic  over 
the  fate  of  the  letters  h  and  r  in  the 
"  American '  language,  and  referred 
very  neatly  to  a  kind  of  color-deafness 
as  the  cause  of  the  evils  he  laments. 
This  color-deafness,  I  take  it,  is  the 
source  of  all  that  differentiation  of  sound 
which  finally  results  in  clearly  marked 
dialects.  I  have  heard  some  very  amus- 
ing experiments  with  persons  from  a 
certain  capital,  who  can  no  more  see 
why  Bostonians  laugh  at  them  for  call- 
ing bird  "  byud  '  and  first  "  fyust  " 
than  the  Bostonian  can  see  why  the 
Westerner  is  scandalized  at  hearing 
"  bu-u-hd  "  instead  of  "  bir-r-rd."  My 
especial  grief  is  for  the  danger  which 
threatens  our  short  o.  A  very  careful 
teacher  in  the  grammar  school  taught 
me  that  o  has  two  sounds,  —  o  as  in 
"  no,"  and  o  as  in  "  not ; "  and  until  lately 
it  seemed  quite  clear  how  "  not  "  was  to 


be  pronounced.  If  here  and  there  one 
heard  the  sound  "  naht "  one  wrinkled 
one's  nose,  said  scornfully  "  New  York !  " 
and  dismissed  the  barbarism.  Now, 
however,  it  is  really  getting  dangerous. 
I  heard  a  lady  say  that  a  certain  gentle- 
man must  surely  be  named  "  Martin," 
for  she  had  heard  members  of  his  family 
call  him  "  Mart."  The  name  proved  to 
be  "  Mott."  A  professor  of  German  in 
Harvard  College  tells  his  students  that 
the  German  word  "  hat  "  is  pronounced 
like  the  English  word  "hot."  The 
family  referred  to  was  from  Philadel- 
phia, the  professor  was  from  New  York. 
These  are  cases  of  oral  transmission  of 
an  error.  But  now  comes  Life,  with 
its  keen  eyes  and  ears,  to  add  the  force 
of  the  printed  word  to  the  destructive 
power  of  color-deaf  conversation.  In 
its  gentle  satire  on  Boston  pronuncia- 
tion, it  can  find  no  better  expression  for 
the  local  "  papa  "  than  "  popper,"  and 
enforces  the  point  by  an  illustrated 
"  joke,"  as  follows :  Small  boy  to  sis- 
ter popping  corn  :  "  You  've  got  two 
papas,  —  your  real  papa  and  your  corn- 
popper."  Now  why  not  "cahrn-pahp- 
per,"  and  done  with  it  ?  Let  any  one 
carefully  pronounce  "  corn  "  and  then 
"  pop  "  as  it  should  be  pronounced,  and 
he  will  find  that  the  vocal  organs  are  in 
precisely  the  same  position  in  the  two 
cases.  In  other  words,  the  o  in  "  pop  " 
pronounced  like  the  o  in  corn,  but  held 
during  a  shorter  interval,  gives  the  true 
short  o.  Let  us  have,  therefore,  either 
"  corn-popper  "  or  "  cahrn-pahpper."  In 
the  former  case,  the  lips,  in  pronouncing 
both  words,  are  carried  forward,  and 
slightly  approach ;  in  the  latter,  they  are 
drawn  backward  and  slightly  apart.  All 
that  is  needed  is  a  little  training  of  the 
ear  in  early  life,  so  that  the  true  value  of 
sounds  shall  become  fixed.  A  learned 
gentleman,  who  has  always  lived  in 
Eastern  New  England,  assured  me  that 
both  the  Life  jokes  were  wholly  un- 
intelligible to  him,  while  a  young  man, 
belonging  west  of  the  Connecticut  in 


136 


The   Contributors'   Club. 


[July, 


Massachusetts,  being  asked  how  he  would     seems  to  know  how  he  works.     M.  La- 
express  the  sound  of  "  papa,"  promptly     biche,  when  he  has  no   idea,  bites  his 


answered  "  popper,"  in  complete  agree- 
ment with  the  New  York  journal. 

But  the  worst  remains.  My  own 
household  is  invaded  !  My  daughter, 
the  descendant  of  an  almost  unbroken 
line  of  New  England  sailors  on  the  one 


nails  and  invokes  Providence ;  when 
he  has  an  idea,  he  still  invokes  Prov- 
idence, but  with  less  fervor,  for  he 
thinks  he  can  get  along  without  its  aid. 
Having  an  idea,  he  writes  out  a  detailed 
plan  of  the  play,  scene  by  scene,  from 


side,  and  of  New  England  farmers  on  the  rising  of  the  curtain  until  the  final 
the  other,  now  in  the  second  year  of  falling  thereof.  Finally,  declares  M. 
her  life,  is  devoted  to  her  "  dahllies  "  Labiche,  to  make  a  gay  play  you  must 


" 


and  her  "  dahggy. 

Is  there  no  remedy  ?  Must  this  really 
valuable  sound  be  lost  to  our  language, 
because  a  fraction  of  our  people  are  too 
indolent  to  throw  their  lips  forward 
when  they  come  to  it  ?  Where  is  the 
missionary  who  will  march  through  the 


M.  Legouve's 


have  a  good  digestion, 
advice  is  like  unto  M.  Labiche's  :  In  a 
play  you  begin  at  the  end  ;  or  in  other 
words,  while  a  novel  may  ramble  about 
whithersoever  it  will,  a  play  should  be 
a  straight  line,  the  shortest  distance  be- 
tween two  points.  The  nearest  ap- 
land  and  teach  the  color-deaf  how  they  proach  to  a  formula  was  furnished  by 
may  be  healed  ?  M.  Dennery  :  "  Take  an  interesting 

—  In  the  Revue  Politique  et  Litteraire  starting-point,  a  subject  neither  too  old 
of  April  oth,  M.  Abraham  Dreyfus,  one  nor  too  new,  neither  too  commonplace 
of  the  most  promising  of  the  younger  nor  too  original,  so  that  you  may  not 
Parisian  playwrights,  prints  a  lecture  shock  either  the  stupid  or  the  clever." 
recently  delivered  by  him  in  Brussels,  The  perusal  of  M.  Dreyfus's  clever 
on  the  Art  and  Mystery  of  Writing  pages  may  be  recommended  to  the  new 
Plays.  The  lecture  owes  its  chief  inter-  school  of  American  dramatists, 
est  to  the  letters  it  contains  from  the 
leading  dramatists  of  France,  in  answer 
to  M.  Dreyfus's  request  that  they  should 
set  down  for  him  in  writing  the  secret  4d  the  Saturday  Review  to  a  declaration 
of  their  success.  Oddly  enough,  the  let-  of  the  Ethics  of  Plagiarism.  The  writer 
ters  all  agree  in  declaring  that  a  play  begins  by  girding  at  the  American  liter- 
makes  itself  somehow,  and  that  no  rules  ary  detectives  who  are  always  on  the 

alert  to  catch  the  tripping  Briton  ;  and 
then,  a  little  later,  justifies  the  existence 
of  this  detective  force  by  speaking  of 
"  the  cultured  city  of  Michigan."  Nor 


—  The  recent  discussion  as  to  the 
origin  and  adventures  of  Mr.  Charles 
Reade's  story  The  Picture  has  proinpt- 


The 


is    he   quite  frank   in  referring   to  the 


can  be  laid  down  for  its  making, 
younger  Dumas  writes  that  he  once 
asked  his  father  how  to  write  a  play, 
and  that  the  elder  Dumas  answered, 
"  It  is  very  simple  :  the  first  act  clear, 
the  last  act  short,  and  interest  every-  English  novelist  accused  of  plagiarism 
where."  M.  Einile  Augier  declares  that  because  he  borrowed  a  bit  of  local  color 
he  knows  no  more  about  the  methods  of  from  an  obscure  description  of  the  South- 
play-making  than  M.  Dumas,  and  he,  ern  States.  The  allusion,  we  take  it,  is 
too,  quotes  from  another,  who  prescribed  to  Mr.  Thomas  Hardy's  unavowed  ap- 
"  the  steeping  of  the  last  act  in  gentle  propriation  for  use  in  an  English  novel 
tears,  and  the  sprinkling  of  the  preced-  of  a  comic  sketch  of  a  militia  muster, 
ing  acts  with  wit."  M.  Labiche  says  that  from  Judge  Longstreet's  Georgia  Scenes. 
his  method  is  simple  ;  strangely  enough,  But  these  slips  on  the  part  of  the  Eng- 
the  frank  humorist  is  almost  the  only  lish  journalist  do  not  impugn  the  sound- 
one  of  M.  Dreyfus's  correspondents  who  ness  of  the  three  principles  which  he 


1884.] 


The   Contributors'   Club. 


137 


lays  down  :  (1.)  "In  the  first  place,  we 
would  permit  any  great  modern  artist 
to  recut  and  to  set  anew  the  literary 
gems  of  classic  times  and  of  the  Middle 
Ages."  (2.)  "  Our  second  rule  would 
be  that  all  authors  have  an  equal  right 
to  the  stock  situations  which  are  the 
common  store  of  humanity."  (3.)  "  Fi- 
nally, we  presume  that  an  author  has 
a  right  to  borrow  or  buy  an  idea,  if  he 
frankly  acknowledges  the  transaction." 
Under  the  first  head  come  the  borrow- 
ings of  Virgil  from  Homer,  of  Plautus 
from  Menander,  of  Shakespeare  from 
Plutarch,  of  Moliere  from  Plautus ;  and 
in  more  recent  times,  of  Gray,  Tenny- 
son, and  Longfellow  from  the  poets  of 
the  past.  Gray's  great  poem,  for  in- 
stance, may  be  shown  to  be  but  little 
more  than  a  cento,  but  it  is  not  the  less 
Gray's  own.  Of  course  the  difficulty 
lies  in  the  application  of  the  law.  Who 
is  to  declare  whether  a  writer  is  great 
enough  to  be  allowed  to  annex  the  out- 
lying property  of  his  predecessor  ?  And 
who  is  to  declare  the  date-line  which  di- 
vides conquering  from  theft  ?  Poe  was 
severe  on  Mr.  Longfellow  and  Other 
Plagiarists,  but  he  borrowed  for  his 
Marginalia  Sheridan's  joke  about  the 
phoenix,  and  Whitbread's  poulterer's  de- 
scription of  it ;  yet  we  should  not  hesi- 
tate to  excuse  Poe's  use  of  Mudford's 
Iron  Shroud  as  an  incident  in  his  own 
The  Pit  and  the  Pendulum,  the  funda- 
mental idea  of  which  may  be  Mudford's, 
while  the  appalling  effect  is  Poe's.  A 
very  important  question  is  the  relative 
value  to  the  borrower  of  the  thing  bor- 
rowed. The  man  of  genius  touches 
nothing  that  he  does  not  adorn,  and  he 
may  be  allowed  the  dangerous  privilege 
of  u  resetting  gems."  The  plagiarist  is 
he  who  steals  his  brooms  ready  made. 
M.  Sardou  had  read  Poe  to  advantage 
when  he  wrote  his  Pattes  de  Mouche, 
but  it  is  absurd  to  call  that  delightful 
comedy  a  plagiarism  from  The  Pur- 
loined Letter. 

The  second  rule  is  indisputable.     No 


man  has  a  monopoly  of  the  Lost  "Will, 
of  the  Missing  Heir,  or  of  the  Infants 
Changed  at  Nurse.  Whoso  will  may 
get  what  effect  he  can  out  of  these  well- 
worn  properties  of  the  story-teller.  The 
law  is  clear,  but  it  is  a  question  of  fact 
for  the  jury  whether  or  not  any  given 
situation  is  common  property.  It  is  to 
be  remembered  also  that  when  a  wri- 
ter makes  a  new  combination  of  the 
stock  situations,  it  is  plainly  enough  pla- 
giarism to  repeat  this  combination,  how- 
ever old  may  be  the  single  situations  of 
which  it  is  composed.  The  third  rule  is 
even  more  difficult  to  apply  exactly. 
All  depends  on  the  frankness  and  full- 
ness of  the  acknowledgment  of  obliga- 
tion. M.  Sardou  once  brought  out  a 
farcical  tomedy  which  was  at  once  seen 
to  be  an.  adaptation  of  one  of  Charles  de 
Bernard's  stories.  M.  Sardou  met  this 
exposure  by  proof  that  he  had  the  per- 
mission of  the  owner  of  the  Bernard 
copyright,  for  which  he  was  paying  a 
share  of  his  royalties  from  the  play. 
This  was  an  inadequate  defense,  as  the 
transaction  had  been  secret,  and  would 
have  remained  secret  but  for  the  expos- 
ure, and  M.  Sardou  would  have  received 
credit  for  a  humorous  invention  not  his. 
In  like  manner,  Charles  Reade  sought 
to  meet  the  charge  that  he  had  taken 
the  plot  of  Hard  Cash  from  the  Pauvres 
de  Paris  of  MM.  Nus  and  Brisebarre 
by  the  assertion  that  he  had  bought  the 
right  to  adapt  the  play  from  the  French 
authors.  This,  of  course,  is  not  an  ad- 
equate defense,  even  if  Mr.  Reade  had 
paid  MM.  Nus  and  Brisebarre,  which, 
in  fact,  he  never  did,  —  so  M.  Nus  in- 
formed the  present  writer  ten  years  ago. 
We  are  not  altogether  sure  that  the 
three  rules  of  the  Saturday  Review  may 
not  be  contained  in  two,  or  rather  in  one 
with  a  double  clause,  namely  :  A  writer 
is  at  liberty  to  use  preexisting  material 
as  he  will,  provided  always,  (1)  that  he 
does  not  take  credit  (even  by  implica- 
tion) for  what  he  did  not  invent,  and 
(2)  that  he  does  not  interfere  with  the 


138 


Tlie   Contributors'    Club. 


[July, 


pecuniary  rights  of  the  original  owner. 
It  was  this  second  clause  that  M.  Sar- 
dou  obeyed  in  arranging  with  the  hold- 
ers of  the  Bernard  copyright,  and  that 
Charles  Reade  respected  in  agreeing  to 
pay  for  the  use  of  the  plot  of  the  Pauvres 
de  Paris.  But  when  Reade  made  his 
play  Shilly-Shally  out  of  a  novel  of 
Trollope's,  and  his  play  Joan  out  of  a 
novel  of  Mrs.  Burnett's,  in  each  case 
against  the  will  of  the  original  novelist, 
he  violated  this  second  clause.  The 
charge  of  plagiary  is  very  easy  to  bring 
and  very  hard  to  refute  ;  it  ought  there- 
fore to  be  brought  with  the  greatest 
circumspection,  and  when  unsubstanti- 
ated it  ought  to  recoil  heavily  to  the 
lasting  discredit  of  the  bringer. 

—  If  I  owned  Pegasus  and  a  few  acres 
of  good  upland,  not  too  cold  and  dry, 
I  would  go  plowing ;  and  as  I  shaped 
the  course  and  depth  of  the  furrow, 
grasping  the  stilts  with  firm  hands, 
I  would  sing  a  paean  for  the  plow. 
Every  great  plowman,  from  the  founder 
of  Rome  to  the  finder  of  the  mountain 
daisy  crushed  by  the  share,  should  be 
celebrated  in  my  song ;  and  I  would 
teach  that  there  is  still  something  sacred 
about  the  furrow,  as  there  was  when 
Romulus  marked  out  the  walls  of  his 
city  and  lifted  the  share  over  the  places 
designed  for  gateways. 

The  heroic-romantic  interest  which 
some  attach  to  an  old,  dismantled,  peace- 
enduring  cannon  I  find  in  the  plow  dur- 
ing its  winter  vacation.  All  its  features, 
if  I  may  so  speak,  express  the  idea  of 
enforced  idleness  :  the  out-thrust  handles 
assert  its  impatience  to  be  taken  afield  ; 
the  share  and  the  mould-board,  though 
they  have  gathered  rust,  signify  their 
readiness  and  avidity. 

I  would  like  to  see  again  certain 
plowed  fields  of  my  childhood's  haunting, 
—  fields  next  the  woods,  slowly,  by  re- 
peated grubbing  and  burning,  won  over 
from  wild  nature.  Here  and  there  are 
beds  of  ashes ;  also,  charred  stumps, 
out  of  whose  hollow  centres  dart  occa- 


sional slender  flames,  pale  in  the  sun- 
shine :  one  might  fancy  that  these  are 
some  species  of  harmless  small  snake 
native  in  such  places.  The  plow  works 
its  way  among  the  stumps,  and  leaves  un- 
touched many  a  defiant  oasis  of  weeds 
and  wild  grass.  Would  it  not  be  well 
to  remodel  the  verse  which  represents 
the  soil  as  "  patient  of  the  bending 
plow  "  ?  Here,  the  bending  plow,  or 
rather  the  plowman,  must  be  patient  of 
the  soil.  But  the  scent  of  the  fresh- 
turned  earth,  of  baked  clods  and  charred 
wood,  with  now  and  again  whiffs  of 
smoke  brought  along  by  the  moist  wind, 
is,  memory  declares,  incense  most  grate- 
ful to  the  rural  deities. 

To  some  extent,  new-uncovered  land 
satisfies  my  desire  to  visit  new-discov- 
ered land.  The  plowed  field  which  I 
visit  to-day  was  a  meadow  last  year. 
Such  turning  and  reshaping  of  the  old 
garment  of  the  soil  should  give  this  spot 
of  earth  span-new  attractiveness  in  my 
eyes.  As  I  listen  to  the  snapping  of 
grass  roots  (stout  stitches  in  the  old  gar- 
ment !),  as  small  stones  tinkle  against 
the  plowshare,  and  as  I  see  the  turf 
quickly  and  cleanly  turned  by  the  invis- 
ible iron  or  steel  toothed  rodent,  I  am 
re&dy  to  applaud :  "  Well  said,  old  mole ! 
Canst  work  i'  the  earth  so  fast?  A 
worthy  pioneer  ! " 

The  furrow-slice,  —  does  it  not  look 
appetizing  to  a  hungry  eye  ?  And  the 
field,  when  it  is  plowed,  —  does  it  not 
somehow  suggest  a  giant  brown-loaf,  or 
gingerbread,  methodically  cut  in  impar- 
tial pieces  ?  How  cordially  the  earth 
invites  the  husbandman  !  It  is  either, 
"  Ho  !  here  is  your  racy  soil  for  corn  ; v 
or,  "  Here  is  your  choice  land  for 
wheat ; '  else,  "  Why  seek  you  further 
for  a  vegetable  garden  plot  ? ': 

As  this  dry-land  keel  pursues  its 
course,  lifting  the  brown  waves  around 
it  and  leaving  a  permanent  wake,  scores 
of  adventurers  flock  hither.  What  bird 
of  the  air  spread  the  news  among  his 
kind  that  this  field  was  to  be  plowed  to- 


1884.]                                The  Contributors'   Club.  139 

day  ?     Before    one   furrow's   length   is  page,  —  or  at  least  to  a  ruled  page,  in 

completed  the  farmer  has  a  following  of  which  sundry  themes  of  great  antiquity 

blackbirds  and  robins  ready  to  share  the  are    copied   in   endless   repetition  ?     A 

toils  and  profits    of  tillage.     Say  what  plowed  field  is  a  writing  of  the  palimp- 

you  will,  this  is  cooperation  :  the  birds  sest  sort,  in  which  year  after  year  one 

have  man  to  thank  for  to-day's   enter-  theme  is  erased  to  give  place  to  another, 

tainment,    and   man    has    the   birds    to  not  a  trace  of  the  earlier  hieroglyphic 

thank  for  their  services  in  behalf  of  fu-  remaining.     In  the  "  rotation  of  crops," 

ture  harvests.     Down    these   feathered  the    order    is,    commonly,    corn,    oats, 

throats,  almost  too  much  engrossed  with  wheat,  grass  or  clover,  to  which  proces- 

the  pleasures  of  the  palate  to  exchange  sion  the  plow  fixes  the  period.     To  me, 

the  civilities  of  the  day,  goes  the  angle-  there  is  something  of  poetic  justice  in 

worm,  with  all  its  knots  and  kinks  ;  item,  the  precedence  given,   in   this    agricul- 

cutworm,  slug,  beetle,  and  mischievous  tural  series,  to  the  red  man's  plant :  it  is 

larvae  unnumbered.     Some  one  with  a  as  though  the  virgin  soil  refused  to  be 

turn  for  numerical  statistics  has  by  cal-  propitiated,  or  tamed  to  other  use,  until 

culation  ascertained  that  "  a  redbreast  Indian  Mondamin  had  been  commem- 

requires  daily  an  amount  of  food  equal  orated  in  the  plumed  and  pennoned  ranks 

to  an   earthworm   fourteen   feet  long."  of  the  maize.     At  any  rate,  it  is  recog- 

Consider,  0  man  of  toil,  how   greatly  nized  as  good  farming  strategy  to  set 

thy  own  welfare  depends  upon  this  sur-  the  native  plant  to  subdue  the  soil  for 

prising  appetite  :  if  the  redbreast  should  the  adoptive  cereals, 

be  out  of  health  but  for  a  single  season,  Not  all  the  fields  which  I  have  seen 

what  ill  fortune  might  befall  thee  and  plowed  this  season  are  to  be  sown  or 

thine !  planted.     Some  must  run  a  course  of 

The  ground  that  was  broken  this  discipline  under  the  harrow,  to  rid  them 
morning  is,  long  before  sunset,  disputed  of  the  weeds  they  have  gathered.  Some 
over  by  wandering  clans  of  gnats.  These  worn  fields,  for  good  service  done,  are 
fretful  children  of  the  earth  have  not  granted  a  time  for  rest,  to  lie  in  the  sun- 
yet  learned  that  their  air  privilege  ex-  shine  and  mellow  during  the  longest 
tends  beyond  the  limits  of  the  furrow  days  of  the  year ;  though  no  harvests 
whence  they  come.  Flies  lazily  sail  be  ripened  here,  this  season,  the  soil  it- 
hither  and  thither,  their  wings  glimmer-  self  is  ripening.  With  these  seemingly 
ing  in  the  sunshine ;  fireflies  of  the  day-  idle  fields  I  have  great  sympathy.  Peg- 
time,  I  see,  carrying  sparks  of  argent  asus  plows  for  summer  fallow, 
light  and  leading  fancy  along  the  sylph  — "  All  signs  fail,"  we  say  in  seasons  of 
trail.  In  a  few  hours  after  the  plowing  particularly  bad  weather,  and  the  proverb 
the  ground  is  often  covered  with  fine  applies  equally  well  to  times  of  disturb- 
webs ;  delicate  springes,  perhaps,  with  ance  in  the  world's  moral  atmosphere : 
which  to  catch  the  swarming  gnats  and  we  recognize  the  impossibility  of  predict- 
flies.  ing  accurately  what  changes  may  occur 

Cannot   you    read   yonder   furrowed  in  periods  of  political  strife  and  social 

field  ?     If  the  early  Greeks  wrote  their  disorder,  when  old  laws  and  precedents 

language  from  right  to  left  and  from  left  have  lost  authority  and  prestige,  while 

to  right,  alternately,  the  system  resem-  no    new  ones  are  yet  formed  to  serve 

bling,  as  they  thought,  the  turnings  made  in    their    place.      The    French   war   of 

by  the  oxen  in  plowing  (Boustrophedon),  the  Fronde  in  the  seventeenth  century, 

why  should  not  the  plowshare   be  lik-  though    not    without    significance,   was 

ened  to  an  immense  pen  or  style,  and  one  of  party  rather  than  of  principle : 

the  field  which  it  traverses  to  a  written  neither  side  was  urged  to  the  struggle 


140 


The   Contributors'   Club. 


[July, 


by  any  deep   moral  convictions  ;   each  nity  and  the  self-respect  that  implies  re- 
strove  for  place  and  power,  indifferent  spect  for  others  ? 

as  to  the  means  by  which  these  were  to  Half  the  people  who  are  called   ec- 

be  gained.     So  when  La  Rochefoucauld  centric  deserve  to  have  a  much  worse 

took    his    seat    in    M.    Mazarin's    car-  epithet    applied    to    them.     Here    and 

riage,  beside  his  late-reconciled  enemy,  there  a  man  or  woman  is  found  whose 

with  the  remark,  "  Everything  happens  oddities  of  opinion  and  erratic  conduct 

in  France,"  he  described  in  a  word  the  are  genuine,  and  the   outcome  of  some 

nature   of  the    contest   just  come  to  a  real  inborn  twist   in   their  mental  and 

close,  and  in  so  doing  characterized  him-  moral   disposition.      Such    persons    are 


self  and  other  participants  in  it.  We 
do  not  imagine  that  his  remark  was 
made  to  cover  the  least  embarrassment 


generally  tolerable,  and  sometimes  very 
likable,  their  idiosyncrasies  serving  as  a 
gentle  entertainment  rather  than  as  an 


with  the  situation;  his  own  easy  change  annoyance  to  us.  We  feel  that  they  are 
of  attitude  seemed  to  him  the  most  fit  quite  unaware  of  their  own  queerness, 
and  natural  thing  possible.  The  pliant  which  is  the  result  of  a  native  inca- 
duke  appears  to  me  a  type  of  a  good  pacity  to  comprehend  the  ordinary  con- 
many  people  less  famous  than  he,  of  ventions  of  society.  But  there  are  other 
whom  the  world  will  never  be  without  a  people  whose  eccentricities  are  not,  or 
fair  proportion,  and  La  Rochefoucauld's  ought  not,  to  be  endured.  They  are  not 
saying  applies  to  individuals  as  well  as  innocently  ignorant,  but  willfully  dis- 


to  nations  and  political  crises. 


regardful  of  a  reign  of  law  in  the  social 


Everything  happens  with  certain  per-  world.     The  world's  judgments  are  no 

sons  ;  they  may  do  or  say  almost  any  doubt  superficial,  and  therefore  very  com- 

conceivable  thing,  and  the  explanation  monly  defective  or  false  ;  but  the  world's 

of  their  aberrations  is  to  be  found  with-  conventions  —  that   is,  its   rules    tacitly 

out  much  searching.     It  is  simply  that  agreed  on  for  the  preservation  of  the 

such  persons  are  without  character,  in  order  and  decency  of  social  intercourse — 

the  true  sense  of  the  term.    Their  words  are  on  the  whole  respectable  and  to  be 

and  acts  cannot  be  taken  to  mean  what  observed.    But  the  unendurable  "  eccen- 

they   would  in   the   mouths    of  others,  tmc "  prides  himself  upon  being  a  law 

as  indications  of  permanent  convictions  to  himself  in  these  matters.     He  likes 

and  settled  habits  of  feeling,  but  only  as  to  know  that  his  acquaintance  are  say- 

the  expression   of  temporary,   fluctuat-  ing  of  him,  "  Oh,  that  is  Mr.  B.'s  way, 

ing  opinions  and  impulses.     Character  is  you  know.     He  is  not  like  other  people  ; 

good  or  bad ;   but  of  whatever  sort  it  he  always  does  and  says  just  what  he 

may  be,  character  is  always  force,  and  pleases."     And  the  notable  fact  is  that 

whenever  we  find  it  we  recognize  it  as  so  many  persons  are  imposed  on  by  this 

the  index  of  conduct.     What  may  not  absurd  affectation  that  they  will  let  cer- 

the  man  do  who  has  no  sense  of  hon-  tain  behavior  pass  for  independence  and 

or,  no   loyalty   to  principle,  no   stead-  originality  which  is  nothing  but  simple 

fastness  in  friendship  ?     And  what  may  rudeness,  the  expression  of  egotism  and 

the  woman  not  do  who  is  without  dig-  ill-breeding. 


1884.] 


Books  of  the  Month. 


141 


BOOKS   OF   THE   MONTH. 


History.  Mr.  H.  H.  Bancroft's  thirteenth  vol- 
ume of  History  of  the  Pacific  States  of  North 
America  is  the  first  volume  in  the  subdivision 
California.  (A.  L.  Bancroft  &  Co.,  San  Francisco.) 
The  history  is  brought  down  to  1860  in  this  vol- 
ume, and  the  minuteness  of  detail  makes  one 
somewhat  apprehensive  of  the  number  of  volumes 
which  will  be  required  to  complete  the  set.  What- 
ever may  be  said  of  Mr.  Bancroft's  plan  of  work, 
there  can  be  no  doubt  that  he  is  putting  an  im- 
mense amount  of  material  into  a  shape  accessible 
to  historical  students.  —  Marcus  Aurelius  Antoni- 
nus, by  Paul  Barren  Watson  (Harpers),  is  a  care- 
ful study  of  all  the  printed  material  relating  to 
the  Emperor,  with  ample  foot-notes,  fortifying  the 
author's  position  and  making  the  book  an  admira- 
ble thesaurus  for  the  student.  The  book  necessa- 
rily invojves  a  study  of  Christianity  in  the  second 
century,  and  Mr.  Watson  has  treated  his  theme 
with  a  reserve  and  a  patient  search  for  the  true  facts 
which  impress  one  with  a  sense  of  his  honesty  and 
candor.  He  does  not  often  allow  himself  to  com- 
ment upon  his  subject,  and  the  conclusions  which 
he  draws  have  therefore  a  higher  value.  He  has, 
for  example,  a  suggestive  passage  upon  the  rela- 
tion of  the  Thoughts  to  the  time  in  which  they  ap- 
peared, in  comparison  with  modern  religious  spec- 
ulation. The  work  is  not  a  brilliant  one,  but  it  is 
every  way  creditable  to  the  industry  of  the  au- 
thor. —  Our  Chancellor,  sketches  for  a  historical 
picture,  by  Moritz  Busch  (Scribners),  is  a  Boswell- 
ian  report  of  Bismarck  and  an  entertaining  and 
personal  reading  of  modern  European  history.  To 
Mr.  Busch  history  is  a  capital  story,  with  Bis- 
marck for  the  central  hero.  —  James  and  Lucretia 
Mott,  Life  and  Letters,  edited  by  their  grand- 
daughter, Anna  Davis  Hallowell  (Houghton,  Mif- 
flin  &  Co.):  a  family  memorial  of  two  people 
whose  life  was  a  public  life  in  the  best  sense.  The 
Motts  were  as  devoted  to  humanity  as  two  reli- 
gituses  might  be  to  the  Church.  Their  work  was 
done  within  the  pale  of  the  Society  of  Friends, 
and  as  they  enjoyed  a  reputation  for  heresy  one 
may  read  of  conflicts  with  that  most  peaceful  sect 
which  appear  to  differ  chiefly  in  name  from  simi- 
lar religious  controversies  among  the  people  whom 
the  Quakers  protested  against.  The  personality 
of  Lucretia  Mott  is  very  vividly  shown,  and  if  the 
circumstance  of  life,  as  reproduced  in  this  book, 

ms  somewhat  limited,  all  the  more  significant 
is  the  power  of  the  woman  who  rose  above  it. 
Nowhere  else,  perhaps,  can  one  find  so  clear  a 
picture  of  Quaker  life  as  developed  upon  its  most 
protest  ant  and  aggressive  side.  —  In  the  Ameri- 
can Men  of  Letters  series  (Houghton,  Mifflin  & 
Co.)  the  latest  volume  is  Margaret  Fuller  Ossoli, 
b}'  T.  W.  Higginson.  Mr.  Higginson  has  the  ad- 
vantage of  coming  after  other  writers,  of  having 
much  interesting  material  not  heretofore  made 
public,  and  of  being  permitted  by  the  scope  of  the 
series  in  which  it  appears  to  treat  the  theme  in  oth- 
er than  a  strictly  biographical  manner.  The  free- 


dom of  handling  is  one  of  the  agreeable  character- 
istics of  the  book.  Mr.  Higginson  has  sketched  a 
fine  portrait  of  a  notable  woman  ;  he  has  added  a 
great  many  touches  which  increase  one's  percep- 
tion of  the  character,  and  he  has  filled  in  the 
background  with  details  which  do  not  distract  the 
attention  from  the  portrait,  but  give  it  greater 
value.  Of  course  it  is  Margaret  Fuller  as  Mr. 
Higginson  sees  her,  but  that  is  just  what  gives 
value  to  a  portrait  and  makes  it  superior  to  a  pho- 
tograph.—In  the  series  of  Biographies  of  Musi- 
cians which  Jansen,  McClurg  &  Co.  are  publish- 
ing, the  latest  number  is  NohPs  Life  of  Liszt, 
translated  by  George  P.  Upton.  The  book  is 
more  anecdotal  and  chatty  than  the  previous 
books  in  this  series  have  been.  The  author  has 
wisely  forborne  to  make  a  formal  biography  of  a 
living  man,  and  has  contented  himself  with  sketch- 
ing his  characteristics  as  they  strike  those  who 
come  into  contact  with  him.  —  Wendell  Phillips 
is  a  commemorative  discourse  by  H.  W.  Beecher 
(Fords,  Howard  &  Hulbert),  and  has  a  value  for 
its  personal  reminiscences,  not  so  much  of  Mr. 
Phillips  as  of  the  anti-slavery  movement.  —  The 
lover  of  Americana  will  be  certain  to  add  to  his 
collection  A  Journal  Kept  in  Canada  and  upon 
Burgoyne's  Campaign  in  1776-77,  by  Lieutenant 
James  M.  Hadden.  (Joel  Munsell's  Sons,  Albany, 
N.  Y.)  General  Rogers's  explanatory  chapter 
and  notes  are  very  valuable,  though  their  value 
lies  chiefly  in  the  material  rather  than  in  the  style, 
which  lacks  clearness  and  precision. 

Science.  Dr.  Elliott  Coues's  Key  to  North 
American  Birds  (Estes  &  Lauriat)  appears  in  a 
second  edition,  revised  to  date,  and  entirely  re- 
written. The  first  edition  was  published  twelve 
years  ago,  and  the  present  represents  the  author's 
studies  as  enlarged  and  ripened.  The  work  has 
grown  in  dimensions,  and  includes  his  General 
Ornithology,  an  outline  of  the  structure  and  classi- 
fication of  birds,  and  Field  Ornithology,  a  manual 
of  collecting,  preparing,  and  preserving  birds. 
The  work  is  thoroughly  illustrated,  and  like  other 
books  which  have  grown  under  favoring  condi- 
tions makes  for  itself  a  commanding  place. — 
The  six  numbers  of  Science  Ladders  (Putnams),  to 
which  we  have  referred  in  their  separate  form, 
have  now  been  gathered  into  a  single  fat  volume. 
The  author  is  the  lady  wno  writes  under  the  pseu- 
donym of  N.  D'Anvers.  — Brain  Exhaustion,  with 
some  preliminary  considerations  on  Cerebral  Dy- 
namics, by  J.  Leonard  Corning,  M.  D.  (Apple- 
tons),  treats  in  a  more  technical  and  comprehen- 
sive manner  of  the  subject  popularly  illustrated  by 
Dr.  S.  Weir  Mitchell  in  his  admirable  little  tract 
Wear  and  Tear.  This  work  is  not,  however,  for 
professional  readers  alone,  but  of  value  to  all  stu- 
dents who  watch  their  own  and  other  people's 
symptoms,  indicative  of  vital  exhaustion  through 
excessive  brainwork.  The  study  involves  some 
curious  researches  into  social  life  —  The  True 
Theory  of  the  Sun,  by  Thomas  Baesnett  (Put- 


142 


Books  of  the  Month. 


[July, 


nams),  has  the  further  descriptive  title  Showing 
the  common  origin  of  the  solar  spots  and  corona, 
and  of  atmospheric  storms  and  cyclones,  with  the 
necessary  formulas  and  tables  for  computing  the 
maximum  and  minimum  epochs  of  solar  activity, 
and  the  passages  in  time  and  place  of  the  chief 
disturbers  of  the  weather  from  the  equator  to  the 
poles  in  both  hemispheres.  —  Machinery  of  the 
Heavens,  a  system  of  physical  astronomy,  by 
A.  P.  Pichereau  (Plaindealer  Printing  Co.,  Gales- 
burg,  111. ) :  a  series  of  essays,  with  an  introduc- 
tory letter,  in  which  the  author  offers  his  revolu- 
tionary views  upon  the  subject  of  worlds,  comets, 
tides,  and  such  universal  themes  with  an  airy 
lightness  which  would  become  a  young  man  who 
should  dig  his  father's  grave  with  a  tennis  racket. 
Poetry  and  the  Drama.  Pine  Needles,  or  Son- 
nets and  Songs,  by  He"loise  Durant  (Putnams):  a 
volume  of  a  hundred  short  poems,  in  which  the 
author  appears  rarely  to  have  strayed  away  from 
her  own  self-consciousness.  Surely  the  poetry 
which  lives  in  the  help  of  others  springs  from  the 
power  to  see  others.  —  Legends,  Lyrics,  and  Son- 
nets, by  Frances  L.  Mace  (Cupples,  Upham  & 
Co.),  has  passed  to  a  second  edition.  The  legends 
are  especially  graceful,  that  of  The  Two  Doves 
being  simply  and  sweetly  told.  —  Above  the  Grave 
of  John  Odenswurge,  a  cosmopolite,  is  the  mys- 
terious title  of  a  volume  of  verse  by  J.  Dunbar 
Hylton,  M.  D.  (Howard  Challen,  New  York.) 
The  late  Mr.  Odenswurge  does  not  appear  in  the 
volume  except  in  the  most  incidental  manner,  and 
the  poems  are  none  of  them  elegiac.  With  the 
poems  is  bound  up  another  work  of  art,  The  Prae- 
sidicide  and  Battle  of  Antietam.  Dr.  Hylton 
with  just  pride  tells  his  readers  that  the  title  is  a 
word  of  his  own  coining,  and  "is  not  to  be  found 
in  any  dictionary  published  up  to  this  date." 
However,  a  general  explanation  is  vouchsafed  in 
the  opening  lines  on  the  poem  entitled  Poets, 
where  we  are  told, 

"  Poets  are  a  wild,  mysterious  race, 

The  world  is  all  their  own  ; 
They  throw  a  darkness  o'er  the  brightest  place, 

And  make  fair  the  drear  and  lone." 

Dr.  Hylton  does  all  but  the  last.  — The  Parlor 
Muse  is  a  selection  of  vers  de  societe  from  modern 
poets.  (Appleton.)  It  would  certainly  seem  that 
the  editor  might  have  made  a  better  selection. 
In  the  Conservatory  belongs  to  the  kitchen- 
parlor  muse,  and  An  Idyl  of  the  Period  also  be- 
longs downstairs.  — Plantation  Lays  and  other 
Poems,  by  Belton  O'Neall  Townsend.  (Charles 
A.  Calvo,  Jr.,  Columbia,  S.  C.)  Mr.  Townsend 
surely  need  not  have  published  these  verses.  They 
show  so  much  general  talent  of  another  sort  than 
poetical  that  among  his  qualities  should  have  been 
some  reverence  for  poetry  as  an  art.  He  has 
treated  poetry  as  if  it  were  an  accident.  — Lyrics 
of  the  Law  (Whitney,  San  Francisco)  is  a  collec- 
tion of  songs  and  verses  pertinent  to  the  law  and 
legal  profession,  selected  from  various  sources.  It 
is  curious  how  many  of  these  poems  came  from 
other  than  lawyers  themselves.  —  Charles  Brother 
&  Co.,  of  Philadelphia,  send  us  a  large  pamphlet 
entitled  Hamlet,  Prince  of  Denmark,  an  Earth- 
quake of  Critic  and  Criticisms,  by  Professor  C.  C. 


Schaeffer.  This  Shakespearean  study,  which  in- 
volves a  consideration  of  the  Brooklyn  Bridge,  is 
further  described  as  "an  Engine  sent  ahead  to 
clear  the  track  for  Professor  Schaeffer' s  New  Sys- 
tem of  Teaching  Languages,"  which  it  appears  is 
done  by  steam,  or  possibly  by  electricity,  since 
the  professor  undertakes  to  impart  a  full  knowl- 
edge of  the  French  verb  (he  does  not  say  which 
verb)  in  ten  minutes.  —Ballads  and  Verses  Vain 
(Scribner's  Sons)  is  the  title  of  a  collection  of 
highly  finished  lyrics,  chiefly  in  old  French  meas- 
ures, by  A.  Lang,  selected  and  arranged  by  his 
friend  Austin  Dobson,  who,  in  a  bit  of  very  grace- 
ful verse,  introduces  the  volume  to  the  American 
reader. 

Fiction.  Mr.  Crawford's  novel  A  Roman  Sing- 
er has  been  published  in  book  form  by  Hough- 
ton,  Mifflin  &  Co.  The  style  of  dress  is  very 
agreeable.  —  Dearly  Bought,  by  Clara  Louisa 
Burnham  (Sumner,  Chicago),  is  a  youngish  story. 
—  Miss  Toosey's  Mission  and  Laddie  (Roberts 
Bros.),  two  little  English  stories  charmingly  told, 
and  with  the  pathos  which  comes  from  contrasts 
of  social  life.  —  The  Surgeon's  Stories,  by  Z.  To- 
pelius  (Jan sen,  McClurg  &  Co.),  approaches  com- 
pletion. The  fifth  and  penultimate  volume  is 
Times  of  Linnaeus.  With  leisure  enough  one  could 
extract  much  pleasure  out  of  these  minute  pic- 
tures of  life.  —  Stratford  by  the  Sea  is  the  fourth 
number  in  Holt's  American  Novel  series.  It  is 
an  excess  of  patriotism  which  would  prefer  it  to 
any  of  the  Leisure  Hour  series.  —  The  Entailed 
Hat,  or  Patty  Cannon's  Times,  a  Romance,  by 
George  Alfred  Townsend  (Harpers) :  a  story  au- 
tour  de  mon  chapeau,  and  with  as  many  turns  and 
embarrassing  creeks  as  the  Eastern  shore  which  it 
celebrates.  —  Thorns  in  Your  Sides,  by  Harriette 
A.  Keyser  (Putnams),  is  a  novel  founded  on  dy- 
namite. There  is  some  rough  force  in  the  novel, 
too.  —  Archibald  Malmaison,  by  Julian  Haw- 
thorne (Funk  &  Wagnalls),  is  prefaced  by  an  ad- 
mirable bit  of  easy  philosophy.  The  story  itself 
is  a  strong  piece  of  work.  —  A  Commercial  Trip 
with  an  Uncommercial  Ending,  by  George  H. 
Bartlett  (Putnams),  is  a  lively  story,  the  hero  of 
which  is  a  bachelor  commercial  traveler.  The 
business  in  which  he  was  engaged  clearly  affected 
his  literary  style.  —  Good  Stories  of  Man  and  oth- 
er Animals,  by  Charles  Reade,  appears  in  Har- 
per's Franklin  Square  Library.  —  The  third  vol- 
ume of  Stories  by  American  Authors  (Scribner's 
Sons)  contains  The  Spider's  Eye,  by  Fitz-James 
O'Brien;  A  Story  of  the  Latin  Quarter,  by  Mrs. 
Burnett;  Two  Purse  Companions,  by  G.  P.  La- 
throp;  Poor  Ogla-Moga,  by  D.  D.  Lloyd;  A  Mem- 
orable Murder,  by  Celia  Thaxter  ;  and  Venetian 
Glass,  by  Brander  Matthews. — Bound  Together 
and  Doctor  Johns  (Scribner's  Sons)  are  the  latest 
two  volumes  added  to  the  new  edition  of  Donald 
G.  Mitchell's  complete  writings.  Bound  Together 
is  the  title  of  a  group  of  miscellaneous  papers,  and 
Doctor  Johns,  which  the  elder  readers  of  The  At- 
lantic will  recall  pleasantly,  is  the  author's  most 
elaborate  attempt  at  fiction.  Since  these  lines 
were  in  type,  a  third  volume  of  the  series  has  been 
issued  —  a  collection  of  rural  and  architectural 
studies  under  the  title  of  Out-of-Town  Places. 


1884.] 


Books  of  the  Month. 


143 


Education  and  Text-Books.  The  thirtieth  An- 
nual Report  of  the  Superintendent  of  Public  In- 
struction for  the  State  of  New  York  has  been 
received.  The  letters  from  the  various  county 
superintendents  are  often  curious  reading,  since 
each  superintendent  writes  independently  of  all 
the  rest.  It  will  surprise  some  to  know  that  New 
York  educates  over  a  thousand  Indian  children.  — 
The  Art  of  Oratory,  system  of  Delsarte,  has  been 
translated  from  the  French  of  the  Abbe*  Delau- 
mosne  and  Madame  Arnaud,  who  were  pupils  of 
Delsarte.  The  volume  also  includes  Delsarte's 
solitary  essay  on  The  Attributes  of  Reason.  The 
work  is  translated  by  Frances  A.  Shaw  and  Abby 
L.  Alger.  It  is  a  second  edition  of  a  work  which 
we  have  already  noticed,  and  has  an  interest  for 
students  of  psychology  as  well  as  students  of 
oratory.  (Edgar  S.  Werner,  Albany.)  —  Word 
Lessons,  a  complete  speller,  adapted  for  use  in 
the  higher  primary,  intermediate,  and  grammar 
grades.  In  this  work  all  the  complications  and 
ingenuities  of  our  fearful  English  speech  are  set 
before  the  child  in  a  manner  designed  to  lure  him 
into  correctness.  ( Clark  &  Maynard. )  —  The  same 
firm  has  added  to  their  school  series  of  English 
classics  a  selection  of  Lamb's  Tales  from  Shake- 
speare, Bryant's  Thanatopsis  and  other  poems, 
and  passages  from  Shakespeare  adapted  to  decla- 
mation. —  The  Academic  Orthoepist  is  the  title  of 
a  useful  little  number  in  the  same  style  as  the 
preceding,  in  which  words  most  likely  to  be  mis- 
pronounced are  given  with  their  correct  and  their 
incorrect  pronunciation.  The  work  is  not  final, 
however.  In  spite  of  it,  good  speakers  may  still 
say  hurth  for  hearth,  and  economical.  Walter 
Bagehot  also  was  called  by  his  nearest  relations 
Baj'ut,  not  Ba'jut,  unless  we  are  greatly  mis- 
taken. The  little  book  will  offer  endless  oppor- 
tunities for  social  wrangling.  (Clark  &  May- 
nard.)—  Hazen's  Complete  Spelling-Book,  for  all 
grades  of  public  and  private  schools,  by  M.  W. 
Hazen.  (Ginn,  Heath  &  Co.)  Like  other  improved 
spelling-books  it  combines  dictation  exercises  and 
synonyms.  —  A  revised  and  enlarged  edition  of 
Warren  Colburn's  First  Lessons/ has  been  pub- 
lished. (Houghton,  Mifflin  &  Co.)  The  grada- 
tion has  been  made  more  even,  the  number  and 
variety  of  examples  have  been  increased,  the  an- 
tiquated and  thus  unfamiliar  forms  have  been 
dropped,  but  in  no  essential  particular  has  a  sys- 
tem been  discarded  which  has  stood  the  test  of 
sixty  years'  use,  and  been  made  the  basis  of  many 
other  mental  arithmetics.  In  its  present  form  the 
book  gives  promise  of  an  equally  long  and  useful 
life. —  Scott's  Quentin  Durward,  edited  by  Char- 
lotte M.  Yonge,  has  been  added  to  Ginn,  Heath  & 
Co.'s  excellent  series  of  classics  for  children. 
Miss  Yonge's  introduction  and  notes  are  not  es- 
pecially adapted  to  the  intelligence  of  children, 
and  we  think  it  would  have  been  well  to  add  a 
table  of  pronunciation  of  the  many  foreign  names 
and  words.  —  History  Topics  for  the  Use  of  High 
Schools  and  Colleges,  by  William  Francis  Allen. 
(Ginn,  Heath  &  Co.)  It  is  a  useful  little  manual 
for  teachers  who  desire  to  give  out  topics  for  study. 
We  wish  that  Professor  Allen  would  draw  up  a 
similar  manual,  designed  to  teach  the  logic  of  his- 


tory. —  Professor  John  W.  Burgess,  of  Columbia 
College,  has  written  an  esssay  on  The  American 
University,  When  shall  it  be?  Where  shall  it 
be  V  What  shall  it  be  V  (Ginn,  Heath  &  Co.)  It 
is  an  interesting  contribution  to  the  subject,  but 
strikes  us  as  too  doctrinaire  in  treatment,  with 
not  sufficient  consideration  of  those  elements  of 
national  and  social  life  which  must  determine  the 
conclusion  rather  than  the  actual  precedents  of 
Germany. 

Books  of  Reference.  The  Globe  Pronouncing 
Gazetteer  of  the  World,  descriptive  and  statistical, 
with  etymological  notices,  being  a  Geographical 
Dictionary  for  popular  use,  with  thirty-two  maps. 
(Putnams.)  The  titles  are  very  brief,  and  as 
regards  the  United  States  not  always  accurate. 
Massachusetts  is  not  bounded  on  the  south  by 
Long  Island.  It  is  natural  that  Amherst,  a  town 
of  800  inhabitants  in  Australia,  should  be  admitted, 
and  one  also  in  Nova  Scotia,  while  the  seat  of  an 
influential  college  is  omitted.  —  A  brief  Hand- 
book of  American  Authors,  by  Oscar  Fay  Adams 
(Houghton,  Mifflin  &  Co.),  is  a  companion  volume 
to  the  same  editor's  Handbook  of  English  Authors, 
and  is  even  better  done.  Those  who  consult  it 
will  be  surprised  at  the  number  of  living  authors 
whom  Mr.  Adams  has  caught  for  his  collection. 
Our  only  criticism  is  upon  his  occasional  judgment 
upon  books  and  authors.  These  judgments  are  too 
brief  to  be  thorough,  and  occur  just  often  enough 
to  irritate.  It  would  have  been  better  to  have  re- 
frained altogether  from  comment.  —  The  United 
States  Art  Directory  and  Year  Book,  compiled  by 
S.  R.  Koehler  (Cassell),  has  reached  its  second 
year.  It  is  a  practical  guide  for  all  interested  in 
the  progress  of  art.  It  contains  an  Artist  Direc- 
tory and  very  full  alphabetical  list  of  art  schools, 
with  sufficient  details  to  characterize  them.  It 
contains  also  a  record  of  exhibitions  and  a  great 
deal  of  useful  information.  If  Mr.  Koehler  is  able 
to  keep  his  work  up  each  year,  making  it  more 
and  more  accurate,  he  will  render  great  service.  — 
A  Complete  Index  to  LittelPs  Living  Age,  by  Ed- 
ward Roth  (1135  Pine  Street,  Philadelphia),  is  in 
process  of  publication.  It  is  classified  and  printed 
only  on  one  side  of  the  leaf,  so  that  it  can  be  ex- 
tended and  annotated  by  the  owner. 

Politics  and  Political  Economy.  Politics,  an 
Introduction  to  the  Study  of  Comparative  Consti- 
tutional Law,  by  William  W.  Crane  and.  Bernard 
Moses  (Putnams) :  an  admirable  treatise,  full  of 
suggestive  thought.  It  may  be  doubted  if  the 
authors  have  given  sufficient  attention  to  the  in- 
nate force  of  the  commonwealth,  when  they  point 
out  the  gradual  fusion  of  the  States  into  one  nation 
which  is  going  on.  That  is,  there  is  in  the  com- 
monwealth a  power  which  may  be  recovered  by 
the  people  and  still  used  for  defense  against  a 
possible  tyranny  of  the  general  government.  — 
Six  Centuries  of  Work  and  Wages,  the  history 
of  English  labor,  by  James  E.  Thorold  Rogers. 
(Putnams.)  Mr.  Rogers,  in  this  valuable  his- 
torical work,  reaches  some  very  interesting  con- 
clusions as  to  the  political  vitality  of  the  English 
people  as  distinguished  from  the  merely  adminis- 
trative operations  of  the  government.  He  is  dis- 
posed to  rest  the  development  of  modern  society 


144 


Books  of  the  Month. 


[July. 


upon  industrial  occupation,  and  in  his  study  of 
wages  and  prices  never  loses  sight  of  the  polit- 
ical relations.  —  The  Woman  Question  in  Europe, 
a  series  of  original  essays,  edited  by  Theodore 
Stanton,  with  an  introduction  by  Frances  Power 
Cobbe.  The  several  papers  are  by  special  author- 
ities. Mrs.  Fawcett,  for  example,  writes  of  Eng- 
land. They  are  all  interesting,  and  give  an  admira- 
ble means  of  taking  a  general  survey.  (Putnams.) 
—  Wages  and  Trade  in  Manufacturing  Indus- 
tries in  America  and  in  Europe,  by  J.  Schoenhof, 
is  a  tract  published  for  the  New  York  Free  Trade 
Club  (Putnams),  and  directed  chiefly  against  Mr. 
Robert  P.  Porter's  letters  to  the  New  York  Trib- 
une. —  Repudiation,  by  George  Walton  Green,  is 
a  tract  published  by  the  Society  for  Political  Edu- 
cation in  New  York. 

Travel.  The  High  Alps  of  New  Zealand,  or 
a  Trip  to  the  Glaciers  of  the  Antipodes,  with  an 
ascent  of  Mount  Cook,  by  William  Spotswood 
Green.  (Macmillan.)  Mr.  Green  has  the  enthu- 
siasm of  the  mountain-climber.  This  took  him 
to  New  Zealand,  and  he  gives  an  animated  ac- 
count of  his  excursions  there,  with  incidental  pic- 
tures of  colonial  life.  —  Fifth  Avenue  to  Alaska  is 
the  work  of  another  lover  of  adventure.  Mr. 
Edward  Pierrepont  left  Fifth  Avenue  the  last  day 
of  May,  1883,  and  in  four  months  had  made  a 
tour  of  between  twelve  and  thirteen  thousand 
miles.  He  kept  a  full  note-book,  and  has  printed 
it  with  some  enlargement.  It  is  a  boyish  sort  of 
book,  but  we  wish  other  boys  would  spend  their 
time  as  sensibly.  —  In  the  Heart  of  Africa,  by  Sir 
Samuel  W.  Baker.  (Funk  &  Wagnalls.)  The 
author's  name  is  attached  to  the  book,  on  the 
ground  that  he  wrote  the  larger  works  from  which 
this  is  condensed.  There  is  a  slight  disingenuous- 
ness  in  the  title.  —  The  Historical  Monuments  of 
France,  by  James  F.  Hunnewell  (J.  R.  Osgood  & 
Co.),  is  notable  for  its  intention  and  its  illustra- 
tions rather  than  for  its  letterpress. 

The  House  and  Household  Economy.  M}r 
House,  an  Ideal,  by  Oliver  B.  Bunce  (Scrib- 
ners):  an  agreeable  little  book,  in  which  a  man 
who  has  seen  many  houses,  and  has  not  lost  his 
reason,  draws  off  upon  paper  his  views  as  to  the 
house  he  would  build  for  himself.  As  he  is  a 
sensible  man,  open  to  impressions  of  beauty,  but 
not  carried  away  by  the  latest  craze  into  whimsi- 
cal notions,  he  succeeds  in  suggesting  a  very  rea- 
sonable house,  both  without  and  within.  —  Vir- 
ginia Cookery-Book,  compiled  by  May  Stuart 
Smith,  professes  to  contain  recipes  drawn  from 
the  experience  of  old  Virginia  housekeepers;  and 
tradition  makes  Virginia  the  aunt  of  the  family  of 
States  as  well  as  the  mother  of  Presidents.  (Har- 
per's Franklin  Square  Library.)  —  The  Franco- 
American  Cookery-Book,  by  Felix  I.  Belize  (Put- 
nams), is  a  complete  kitchen  library  in  itself.  The 
volume  contains  upwards  of  two  thousand  receipts, 
and  gives  an  admirably  arranged  menu  for  each 
day  in  the  year.  The  work  has  been  prepared 
with  great  care  and  a  thorough  knowledge  of  the 
subject.  Mr.  De'We  has  long  been  known  as  an 
experienced  chef  and.  caterer. 

Literary  History  and  Criticism.  The  Goethe 
Jahrbuch,  published  in  Frankfurt  by  Riitten  & 


Loening,  contains  a  translation  into  German  of  a 
paper  by  Horatio  S.  White,  on  Goethe  in  America, 
which  gives  a  summary  of  Goethean  scholarship 
here.  —  Dr.  Anton  Schonbach  sends  us  from  the 
University  at  Graz  his  Beitriige  zur  Charakter- 
istik  Nathaniel  Hawthorne's. — Mr.  S.  E.  Daw- 
son's  A  Study,  with  Criiical  and  Explanatory 
Notes  of  The  Princess,  has  passed  to  a  second  edi- 
tion (Dawson  Brothers,  Montreal),  which  has  an 
added  value  in  containing  a  letter  from  Tennyson, 
which  takes  up  several  points  discussed  by  Mr. 
Dawson.  The  Study  is  not  so  scientific  as  Mr. 
Genung's  Study  of  In  Memoriam,  but  it  will  inter- 
est many  students.  — A  Printer's  Hints  to  Authors 
is  the  title  of  a  little  book  in  boards,  sent  out  from 
the  Riverside  Press,  and  designed  for  authors  who 
are  about  to  print.  It  conveys  in  a  delicate  and 
considerate  way  hints  with  regard  to  the  prepara- 
tion of  copy,  and  the  politeness  of  the  little  book 
ought  to  turn  away  a  great  deal  of  wrath.  —  Essays 
and  Leaves  from  a  Note  Book  by  George  Eliot. 
(Harpers.)  The  essays  are  chiefly  on  literary 
topics,  and  the  notes  have  a  reflective  turn  by  an 
author  upon  her  vocation.  The  book  served  its 
end  in  its  original  form  of  contributions  to  maga- 
zines, but  it  is  doubtful  if  it  will  now  gain  many 
readers,  even  from  the  admirers  of  George  Eliot.  — 
In  the  English  Men  of  Letters  series  (Harpers), 
R.  W.  Church  contributes  the  volume  devoted  to 
Bacon.  He  sums  up  well  the  great  offense  of 
Bacon  in  the  words,  "It  was  the  power  of  custom 
over  a  character  naturally  and  by  habit  too  pliant 
to  circumstances." — Ralph  Waldo  Emerson,  a 
paper  read  before  the  New  York  Genealogical  and 
Biographical  Society,  with  Afterthoughts,  by  Will- 
iam Hague,  D.  D.  (Putnams.)  Dr.  Hague  gives 
personal  reminiscences,  and  also  makes  an  exami- 
nation of  the  general  drift  of  Emerson's  philoso- 
phy, which  he  pronounces  in  its  issue  anti-Chris- 
tian. —  The  fifth  and  sixth  volumes  of  Bryant's 
cbmplete  works  (D.  Appleton  &  Co.)  contain  his 
literary,  biographical,  and  descriptive  essays,  and 
his  sketches  of  travel  at  home  and  abroad.  Though 
Bryant  was  the  master  of  a  singularly  clear  and 
compact  prose  style,  it  is  his  poetry  that  will  give 
him  his  rank  in  American  literature.  The  ad- 
mirable Life  of  Bryant,  by  Parke  Godwin,  which 
occupied  the  first  two  volumes  of  this  edition,  was 
reviewed  in  The  Atlantic  for  September,  1883. 

Theology.  Sermons  to  the  Spiritual  Man,  by 
W.  G.  T.  Shedd.  (Scribners.)  The  work  is  a 
complement  to  the  author's  sermons  to  the  natural 
man.  The  difficulty  which  some  readers  will  find 
lies  in  the  separation  of  the  two  bodies  of  hearers. 
There  is  a  spiritual  man  and  there  is  a  natural 
man,  but  is  he  necessarily  two  citizens  ?  —  The 
interesting  and  suggestive  Teaching  of  the  Twelve 
Apostles  has  been  printed  in  a  neat  pamphlet,  the 
Greek  text  and  English  translation  being  accom- 
panied by  very  brief  introduction  and  notes  by 
Professors  Hitchcock  and  Brown.  (Scribners.)  - 
The  Clew  of  the  Maze  and  The  Spare  Half  Hour, 
by  Rev.  Charles  H.  Spurgeon.  (Funk  &  Wag- 
nails.)  The  former  part  of  the  work  is  a  rhetorical 
plea  for  faith  as  a  guide  in  life  ;  the  latter  part  is 
made  up  of  incidents  and  reflections  of  a  homely 
sort  relating  to  the  religious  life. 


THE 


ATLANTIC    MONTHLY: 


of  literature^ 


,  and 


VOL.  LIV.  —  AUGUST,  1884.  —  No.  COCXXII. 


IN  WAR  TIME. 


XV. 


FOR  Wendell  and  his  sister  the  winter 
brought  little  visible  change.  The  great 
plan  for  an  essay  on  American  diseases 
somehow  faded  away,  and  was  as  yet 
without  a  successor.  Dr.  Lagrange  had, 
however,  been  ordered  from  the  hospi- 
tal, and  a  new  and  alert  volunteer  sur- 
geon, with  his  head  full  of  improve- 
ments, was  making  it  uncomfortable  for 
Wendell ;  so  that  his  hours  had  to  be  re- 
arranged, and  he  felt  that  it  would  be 
much  more  pleasant  to  be  free  from  the 
shackles  of  even  as  little  army  discipline 
as  his  relations  to  a  hospital  involved. 

Ann,  of  course,  altogether  disapproved 
of  a  resignation  by  her  brother.  The 
money  loss  of  eighty  dollars  a  month 
seemed  to  her  a  very  serious  matter ; 
but  to  Wendell  his  personal  convenience 
was  far  more  important,  and  overruled 
for  the  time  all  other  considerations. 
He  was  cautious  not  to  allow  his  sister 
to  suspect  that,  beside  the  difficulty  she 
found  in  meeting  their  daily  expenses,  — 
for  Ann  allowed  no  bills  to  accumulate 
unpaid,  —  he  was  annoyed  by  the  results 
of  his  own  folly  in  buying  new  lenses 
and  expensive  books,  an<J  now  and  then 
some  rare  engraving. 

Had  young  Morton  understood  the 
true  state  of  things,  he  would  have  been 
quick  to  aid  his  friends;  but  he  knew 
that  he  paid  them  liberally  for  the  home 


and  the  care  that  they  gave  him,  and 
as  Wendell  never  considered  or  talked 
about  what  things  cost,  and  Ann  was 
too  proudly  self-sustaining  to  allow  of 
a  stranger  seeing  her  growing  necessi- 
ties, Edward  lived  on  without  suspicion, 
and  was  the  more  likely  to  be  free  from 
it  because  he  had  always  been  so  lifted 
above  money  cares  that  the  possibility 
of  them  was  the  last  thing  he  would 
have  been  likely  to  think  about. 

It  was  well  into  January  when  Ann 
said  to  her  brother,  "I  am  sorry  to 
trouble  you,  brother  Ezra,  —  I  know 
how  you  dislike  it,  —  but  I  must  have 
more  money.  I  save  what  I  can,  but 
Mr.  Edward  needs  all  sorts  of  luxuries. 
I  did  think  that  when  Hester  was  so 
nicely  provided  for,  we  should  go  along 
more  comfortably." 

"I  don't  see  where  the  money  all 
goes,  Ann,"  he  returned  helplessly.  "  I 
am  sure  I  spend  very  little." 

"  Are  you  certain  of  that,  Ezra  ? 
There  was  that  microscope,  and  "  -— 

"  Oh,  Ann,  am  I  never  to  hear  the 
last  of  that  microscope ! ' 

"  And  those  new  lenses,  —  were  n't 
they  very  dear  ?  ' 

"  No.  I  can  always  sell  them  for  what 
they  cost.  A  good  lens  is  just  like  gold." 

"  But  that  cyclopedia." 

"  A  man  really  must  have  the  tools 
of  his  profession,  Ann  ;  and  I  gave  up 
all  idea  of  the  carriage." 


Copyright,  1884,  by  HOUGHTON,  MIFFLLN  £  Co. 


146 


In  War  Time. 


[August, 


Ann  groaned.  "  I  do  wish  I  could 
help  you  more.  I  sometimes  think  I  am 
of  less  use  to  you  than  I  was  "  — 

Being  a  woman,  and  therefore  auto- 
matically sacrificial,  she  could  not  esti- 
mate the  immense  proportion  of  energy 
she  thrust,  somehow,  into  his  daily  life, 
Dor  recall,  in  her  self-negation,  how  often 
she  remembered  his  engagements,  or 
urged  him  to  leave  his  microscope  to 
face  the  winds  of  a  cold  night  to  make 
some  professional  visit  which  he  would 
next  day  have  found  an  easy  excuse  for 
having  left  unpaid.  The  wonder  was 
that  he  did  not  seem  to  recognize  the 

o 

force  that  helped  to  give  to  his  intelli- 
gence, which  was  competent  enough, 
what  practical  utility  was  possible  for  it. 
Of  course  there  are  many  failures  in 
such  relationships,  and  despite  her 
watchful  interest  Wendell's  professional 
life  was  far  from  reaching  an  ideal 
standard  of  efficient  duty. 

"  You  are  of  great  use  to  me  always," 
he  said  ;  "  and  as  to  the  money,  I  have 
many  good  bills,  and  I  can  jog  the  mem- 
ory of  one  or  two  patients.  Now  there 
is  Jones." 

He  made  things  so  easy  with  his  com- 
fortable outlook  that  Ann  was  satisfied 
for  the  time,  or  appeared  to  be. 

"  You  won't  forget  ?  "  she  entreated. 

"  No." 

"  Ezra,  is  your  practice  growing?  ' 

"I  —  I  guess  so.  I  am  told  I  have 
been  unusually  successful,  for  a  new- 
comer. People  do  leave  one,  you  know  ; 
but  that  is  what  every  man  has  to  ex- 
pect. They  say  a  doctor's  whole  prac- 
tice changes  every  ten  years." 

"  That  seems  strange  to  me,"  re- 
marked Ann.  "  If  ever  I  needed  to 
have  a  doctor,  I  should  n't  want  to 
change  him." 

"  Well,  people  do,"  returned  Ezra. 

In  fact,  he  had  been  fortunate.  At 
the  time  we  speak  of,  certain  country 
neighborhoods  were  suffering  for  want 
of  physicians,  a  good  many  men  who 
were  just  on  the  borders  of  success  in 


practice  having  been  tempted  into  army 
service  ;  so  that  those  who,  like  Wendell, 
stayed  at  home  sometimes  profited  by 
the  opportunities  thus  left  open.  The 
Mortons  were  pleased  with  his  services, 
and  Mrs.  Westerley,  although  of  late 
she  had  become  guarded  in  mentioning 
him,  had  often  enough  spoken  freely  of 
his  skill ;  so  that  he  had  picked  up  a 
fair  number  of  well-to-do,  patients,  who 
felt  that  the  new  doctor  was  to  be  taken 
more  or  less  on  trial.  As  time  went  on 
he  lost  a  larger  proportion  of  such  pa- 
tients than  he  should  have  done.  He 
was  in  every  way  an  agreeable  and 
amusing  visiter,  but  when  he  had  to  sus- 
tain the  courage  of  the  sick  and  satisfy 
watchful  friends  through  grave  illness 
he  failed.  For  some  reason,  he  did  not 
carry  confidence  to  others ;  perhaps  be- 
cause he  was  unable  to  hide  his  mental 
unstableness,  which  showed  in  too  fre- 
quent changes  of  opinion.  Moreover, 
his  love  of  ease  made  impossible  for 
him  the  never-ending  daily  abandon- 
ment of  this  moment  of  quiet,  or  that 
little  bit  of  tranquil  home  life,  which 
every  wise  physician  counts  upon  once 
for  all  as  a  part  of  the  discomforts  which 
^ie  must  accept  if  he  means  to  win  suc- 
cess. Some  men  overestimate  what 
they  give,  and  think  little  of  what  they 
get  in  return.  Wendell  liked  to  be- 
lieve that  his  professional  life  was  made 
up  of  sacrifices ;  so  that  when  a  patient 
left  him,  and  sent  for  another  more 
decisive  attendant,  he  felt  a  certain  fool- 
ish resentment,  into  which  the  notion 
of  ingratitude  entered,  and  which  made 
him  regard  with  bitterness  his  more 

o 

lucky  successor.  Let  us  add  that  Alice 
Westerley,  whose  interest  in  him  was 
fatally  growing,  was,  as  to  all  these  mat- 
ters, an  unfortunate  friend.  She  was 
quite  too  widely  sympathetic  to  be  a 
good  moral  tonic,  and  knew  really  too 
little  of  his  less  interesting  qualities  to 
acquire  the  sad  conviction  that  he  was 
designed  by  nature  to  illustrate,  soon 
or  late,  the  certainty  of  failure  where, 


1884.] 


In  War  Time. 


147 


although  the  machine  be  competent,  its 
driving  power  is  inadequate. 

But  a  man  must  be  very  blind  indeed 
not  to  recognize  sometimes  that  he  is 
drifting  from  the  course  he  meant  to  take, 
and  Wendell  was,  as  I  have  said,  by  no 
means  defective  in  intellect.  There  come 
to  most  of  us,  in  fact,  times  of  unpleasant 
illumination,  when  we  are  forced  to  see 
things  as  they  would  appear  to  an  unin- 
terested or  abler  observer ;  but  some  men 
are  always  so  near  their  moral  mirror 
that  their  breath  obscures  the  image 
they  ought  to  see.  The  talk  with  Ann 
made  her  brother  unhappy  for  a  time, 
and  brought  upon  him  one  of  the  dark 
moods  which  she  so  much  dreaded  ;  nor 
indeed  was  he  otherwise  without  good 
cause  for  unhappiness.  From  time  to 
time  he  had  borrowed  small  sums  from 
Edward  Morton,  whose  generosity  made 
it  so  easy  that  somehow  the  weight  of 
this  gathering  debt  seemed  to  Wendell 
to  be  of  little  importance.  But  there 
was  another  matter  which  was  of  graver 
moment.  Wendell  had,  after  some  doubt 
as  to  what  was  best,  taken  Wilmington's 
advice,  and  invested  in  his  own  name,  as 
trustee,  the  ten  thousand  dollars  depos- 
ited in  his  hands  by  Henry  Gray.  The 
investment  being  in  government  bonds 
at  a  low  rate,  their  rise  towards  the  year 
1865  made  the  doctor  feel  that  there 
was  a  comfortable  margin  of  profit, 


which  with  the  passage  of  time  must  en- 
large. At  first,  he  set  this  aside,  as  be- 
longing to  Hester;  but  by  and  by,  as 
his  own  difficulties  increased,  he  began 
to  think  that  he  was  entitled,  as  Gray 
had,  no  doubt,  meant  him  to  be,  to  some 
share  in  her  good  fortune.  There  was 
reason  in  this,  but  Wendell  did  not  take 
the  first  positive  practical  step  without 
moral  discomfort,  nor  until  urged  to  it  by 
unrelenting  circumstances.  His  own  and 
his  sister's  inheritance  amounted  to  but 
six  thousand  dollars,  and  was  invested 
a  well-secured  mortgage  which  Mr. 
rilmin£ton  had  recommended,  and  in 

O  ' 

fact  found  for  him.     The  rise  in  Hes- 


ter's securities  fatally  tempted  him  to 
seek  for  some  more  brilliant  return  from 
his  own  and  Ann's  little  property,  and 
after  much  hesitation  he  bought  stock  in 
a  Western  road  which  had  been  rapidly 
rising  in  price.  The  January  dividend, 
however,  had  not  been  paid,  and  the 
stock  had  fallen.  Then,  at  last,  when 
Ann  asked  him  for  the  usual  semi-an- 
nual interest  on  their  mortgage,  which 
habitually  he  resigned  to  her  entire  for 
her  household  uses,  he  found  himself  in 
trouble.  If,  says  a  monkish  adage,  you 
let  a  thin  devil  slip  through  the  key- 
hole, a  fat  devil  will  unlock  the  door. 

I  should  do  an  interesting  but  weak 
nature  a  wrong  to  presume  that  it  cost 
him  nothing  to  reason  himself  into  bor- 
rowing enough  of  Hester's  capital  to 
enable  him  to  give  to  Ann  the  money 
she  had  habitually  received.  The  rebel 
cousin  had  meant  to  give  his  relation  a 
certain  sum,  but  owing  to  Wendell's 
wise  investment  it  now  much  exceeded 
that  amount.  The  excess  seemed  al- 
most as  much  his  as  Hester's.  It  was 
characteristic  of  him  that  he  put  in  his 
little  tin  box  of  private  papers  an  ac- 
knowledgment of  the  amount  thus  trans- 
ferred, but  soon  he  found  it  convenient 
to  add  to  it  a  second  receipt ;  and  these 
papers  were,  in  some  fashion,  a  comfort 
to  the  troubled  man,  who  by  habit  dwelt 
within  an  ever-widening  horizon  of  hope- 
ful possibilities,  as  inexhaustible  as  the 
growing  zone  of  successive  mornings. 
Like  all  who  tread  this  evil  path,  he 
honestly  meant  to  replace  what  he  took, 
and  nothing  could  have  surpassed  the 
force  of  his  conviction  that  he  would 
do  so ;  indeed,  to  have  been  told  that  he 
would  not  would  have  been  felt  by  him 
as  the  deepest  insult. 

Meanwhile,  he  went  about  his  work 
with  a  certain  renewal  of  vigor,  and 
found  time  to  see  Alice  Westerley  often. 
She  had  begun  to  be  present  in  his  day 
dreams  as  one  of  the  brighter  planets 
that  were  slowly  rising  above  that  hori- 
zon of  which  we  have  spoken.  To  do 


148 


In  War  Time. 


[August, 


him  full  justice,  he  never  thought  of  her 
in  relation  to  money.  This  would  have 
been  unlike  his  gentle  and  poetic  tem- 
perament. He  of  course  knew  that  she 
had  means,  but  how  great  he  did  not 
know,  and  he  timidly  approached  her  in 
a  growing  tenderness  of  relation  which 
his  sister  did  not  suspect,  and  which  he 
himself  was  very  slowly  coming  to  ap- 
prehend might  result  in  something  still 
more  tender. 

Early  in  March  Miss  Pearson's  school 
broke  up,  on  account  of  fever  in  the 
neighborhood,  and  Hester  was  sent 
away  in  haste,  while  the  doctor  was 
called  on  to  settle  a  number  of  bills  for 
her  clothing  and  tuition. 

Nevertheless,  he  was  sincerely  glad 
to  see  her,  for  at  each  return  home  she 
was  a  novel  and  charming  surprise  to 
the  little  circle. 

"  A  butterfly,  indeed  ! '  exclaimed 
Edward  Morton.  "  Could  any  one  have 
imagined  Hester  would  develop  into  such 
a  noble-looking  woman  ! ': 

Ann,  who  had  followed  with  her  eyes 
the  retreating  figure,  with  its  straight 
carriage  and  walk  of  liberal  strength, 
said  quietly :  — 

"  Indeed,  the  girl  has  grown."  Ann 
had  a  sense  of  odd  uneasiness  at  the 
sight  of  this  suddenly  completed  trans- 
formation. What  should  she  do  with 
her  ?  Then  the  girl  reappeared,  happy 
at  the  escape  from  school. 

"  Won't  some  one  walk  with  me  to 
Mrs.  Westerley's  ?  "  she  asked.  "  Come, 
uncle,  you  have  nothing  to  do." 

Wendell  had  something  to  do,  but  it 
was  not  in  him  to  say  no. 

"  Come,"  he  said. 

"  And  don't  forget  Mrs.  Grace,"  re- 
marked Ann. 

"  No,  of  course  not." 

"  And  now,  uncle,"  cried  Hester,  cling- 
ing to  his  arm,  "  how  is  everybody  ? 
And  why  does  n't  rny  cousin  write? 
And  how  is  Mr.  Arthur  ?  And  you,  — 
last  and  best,  —  how  are  you  ?  ' 

"  If  you  go  on,  I  shall  want  an  index 


to  your  inquiries,"  laughed  Wendell. 
"  Cousin  Gray  is  probably  engaged  in 
the  laudable  occupation  of  blockade 
running,"  he  added. 

"  And  why  not  laudable  ?  "  queried 
Hester,  who  had  found,  during  the  last 
school  term,  another  Carolinian,  strand- 
ed like  herself  among  what  the  better 
instructed  young  woman  called  with  em- 
phasis "  those  Yankees."  "  I  am  sure 
you  will  understand  why  I  must  have 
my  own  feelings  about  the  South.  But 
I  think  you  always  did  understand." 

"  Yes,  yes,  dear,  well  enough,"  he 
said  ;  "  but  don't  talk  more  than  you 
can  help  about  the  war.  It  makes 
trouble,  in  these  days." 

"  No,"  she  replied,  looking  up  at  him, 
and  lightly  pressing  his  arm,  "  that 
would  be  disloyal  to  you.  lam  a  feath- 
erhead,  Miss  Pearson  says,  and  Mrs. 
Westerley  lectures  me  ;  but  there  are 
some  things  I  can  never  forget, — nev- 
er !  What  a  stupid  child  I  must  have 
been,  when  Miss  Ann  took  me  home ! 
—  and  it  seems  such  a  home  now  !  But 
as  I  grow  older,  I  think  about  my  fa- 
ther's death,  and  Miss  Ann's  kindness 
and  yours  come  back  to  me,  and  I  now 
know  what  an  unusual  and  noble  thing 
you  did.  Ah,  I  know  it  well  now  ! ' 

"  I  think  I  have  heard  a  little  of  this 
before  from  a  certain  young  woman," 
said  Wendell,  who  liked  but  yet  was  al- 
ways embarrassed  by  praise. 

"  Yes,  I  know ;  but  a  certain  young 
woman  is  certain  she  can  never  say  all 
that  she  feels  about  it." 

"  Let  it  be,  then,"  he  said,  tenderly, 
"  as  of  a  service  from  "  —  and  he 
paused  a  moment ;  he  was  about  to  say 
"  an  uncle,"  but,  looking  aside  at  her 
face  turned  towards  him  in  its  stir  of 
feeling,  why  did  the  nominal  relation- 
ship he  assumed  seem  all  of  a  sudden 
absurd  ?  Then  he  amended  his  phrase, 
"  Like  a  brother's  service ;  to  be  remem- 
bered, not  paid  for  with  thanks." 

"  I  wish  I  could  say  things  as  pret- 
tily as  you  do !  Mr.  Arthur  says  it 


. 


1884.] 


In  War  Time. 


149 


is  because  you  have  a  poet's  tempera- 
ment." 

"  Arty  is  a  stupid  boy,"  returned  the 
doctor,  not  displeased. 

"  But  then,"  cried  the  girl,  laughing 
merrily,  and  pretending  for  a  moment 
to  survey  him  critically,  "  you  are  too 
old  for  a  brother.  I  should  like  one 
about  Mr.  Edward's  age.  I  should  n't 
like  old  brothers." 

Wendell  felt  that  at  thirty-two  it  was 
rather  hard  to  be  doomed  to  senility  by 
those  pretty  lips. 

"  Well,"  he  said,  after  they  had  chat- 
ted somewhat  longer  about  the  Mortons, 
and  had  stopped  to  look  at  and  to  un- 
roll the  varnished  covers  of  some  horse- 
chestnut  buds,  "  here  is  Mrs.  Wester- 
ley's,  and  I  shall  appeal  from  slander- 
ing youth  to  the  charity  of  a  woman  as 
to  the  awful  question  of  my  antiquity." 

"I  don't  think  Mrs.  Westerley  will 
agree  with  me  ;  at  least,  she  never  does," 
returned  Hester,  demurely.  She  had 
heard  a  little  about  the  two  friends,  per- 
haps, and  had  not  left  unused  her  own 
uncomfortably  keen  powers  of  observa- 
tion. Decidedly,  Miss  Gray  was  grow- 
ing in  many  ways  ! 

"  I  will  join  you,"  he  remarked,  "  af- 
ter I  have  seen  Mrs.  Grace." 

"  Oh,  is  that  dreadful  lady  alive  yet  ?  " 
exclaimed  Hester. 

"  Did  you  suppose  that  I  had  killed 
her  by  this  time  ?  '  he  returned. 

'  If  I  were  her  doctor,"  said  Hester, 
merrily,  "  it  would  be,  '  Short  her  shrift, 
and  soon  her  lift ! '  " 

"What  a  depth  of  wickedness,"  he 
said,  "  and  so  young,  too ! ' '  and,  laugh- 
ing, he  left  her  at  Mrs.  Westerley's 
gate. 

Mrs.  Grace's  drawing-room,  as  she 
liked  to  call  her  parlor,  was  filled  with 
a  sad  inheritance  of  sepulchral  grimness 
in  the  way  of  mahogany  furniture  of 
the  fashion  of  some  fifty  years  back. 
Her  daughters  and  herself  had  striven 
in  vain  to  induce  Mr.  Grace  to  replace 


it  with  something  of  more  modern  form  ; 
but  black  haircloth  and  brass  nails  do  not 
wear  out,  and,  as  he  said,  "  What  is  the 
use,  Martha,  of  new  furniture,  when 
this  is  perfectly  good?"  Efforts  had 
been  made  to  hide  it  with  tidies  of  divers 
workmanship,  but  the  mournful  sheen 
of  the  haircloth,  polished  by  much  sit- 
ting, remained,  and  no  art  could  conceal 
the  sombre  scrolls  of  sofa  and  chair 
back,  which  Alice  Westerley  said  looked 
as  if  they  had  been  put  up  in  primeval 
curl-papers  before  the  flood.  The  paint 
was  a  little  dingy,  and  on  the  wall-paper, 
which  was  recent  and  much  gilded,  were 
hung  two  prints :  one  of  the  death-bed 
of  Daniel  Webster ;  the  other  of  Hen- 
ry Clay,  in  evening  costume,  addressing 
a  morbidly  attentive  Senate.  "  Daniel 
Webster  was  a  friend  of  our  family," 
explained  Mrs.  Grace  to  a  too  critical 
young  person,  "  and  then  my  husband  is 
such  a  tariff  man,  you  know." 

Wendell  looked  around  with  a  sensi- 
tive shudder,  and,  gasping  in  the  blast  of 
dry  heat  from  a  furnace  began  to  won- 
der why  the  opening  from  which  it  came 
should  have  been  called  a  register. 

"  I  give  it  up,"  he  muttered  to  him- 
self, as  Mrs.  Grace  entered  the  room. 

Sarah  was  not  well,  and  it  must  be 
malaria.  Did  not  Dr.  Wendell  think 
it  was  malaria  ?  He  did  not,  but  he 
knew  by  this  time  that  it  was  unwise  to 
dispute  Mrs.  Grace's  opinions,  and  also 
useless.  He  therefore  advised  her  im- 
passive and  sallow  daughter  to  eat  less 
and  walk  more,  and  prescribed  some  one 
of  the  mild  remedies  which  neither  help 
nor  hurt ;  and  then  Sarah  was  dismissed, 
and  Mrs.  Grace,  now  that  she  had  him 
alone,  began  to  take  a  little  real  com- 
fort out  of  his  visit  in  the  shape  of  xa 
flow  of  disconnected  talk,  made  up  of 
inquiries  as  to  other  people's  maladies 
and  her  own  complaints.  Wendell  had 
a  reasonable  habit  of  reticence  about 
patients,  but  it  was  not  very  easy  to 
escape  this  practiced  inquisitor  without 
vexing  her. 


150 


In  War  Time. 


[August, 


"  So  Hester  has  come  home." 

"  How  on  earth  did  she  know  that  ?" 
marveled  the  doctor. 

"  And  I  do  hope  you  '11  keep  her 
back.  I  did  think  myself  she  was  rath- 
er forward,  when  I  last  saw  her.  You 
know,  of  course,  I  speak  as  a  friend." 

"  I  believe,"  returned  Wendell,  "  that 
my  sister  is  quite  equal  to  the  care  of 
the  girl,  and  to  us  she  seems  much  im- 
proved ;  and  then  her  good  friend,  Mrs. 
Westerley  "  — 

"Oh,  Mrs.  Westerley?"  said  his 
hostess,  with  rising  inflection,  interrupt- 
ing him.  "  Now  do  you  quite  think  she 
is  —  well,  just  the  kind  of  person  "  — 

"  She  is  the  best  woman  I  know,"  re- 
plied Wendell,  annoyed.  "  You  know, 
I  am  sure,  that  she  is  a  friend  to  whom 
we  owe  a  great  deal  of  kindness." 

"  Oh,  I  thought  you  were  her  doc- 
tor !  " 

This  was  rather  confusing  to  Wen- 
dell, and  he  had  to  conceal  a  smile. 

"  But,"  he  said,  "  she  is  never  ill." 

"  Indeed  ?  I  thought  I  noticed  that 
you  went  there  a  good  deal." 

"  Yes,  I  see  her  now  and  then.  She 
is  a  very  good  friend  of  ours,  as  I  said, 
and  my  sister  and  she  have  so  much  in 
common,"  a  statement  which  would  have 
amazed  equally  either  of  the  women  in 
in  question. 

"  Sisters  are  pretty  convenient,  you 
know,"  broke  in  Mrs.  Grace,  feeling  that 
she  had  said  a  brilliant  thing  and  wise. 
"  I  do  think  I  ought  to  tell  you,  as  a 
friend,"  she  added,  "  that  when  she  was 
younger  Mrs.  Westerley  was  thought 
to  be  a  bit  of  a  flirt,  you  know,  doctor  ; 
and  then  she  made  such  a  sad  match." 

"  I  have  never  seen  anything  in  her 
to  make  me  think  for  a  moment  she  de- 
serves such  a  character,"  he  replied,  en- 
deavoring to  answer  coolly. 

"  Well,  you  can't  change  my  opin- 
ions," said  Mrs.  Grace  ;  "  and  may  be  it 's 
a  question  of  time.  You  will  find  out 
some  day.  What  I  know  I  know, 
and  if  my  own  family  had  n't  suffered 


I  might  think  I  was  not  called  on  to 
speak  ;  but  I  guess  my  poor  cousin  Fox 
could  tell  a  different  story." 

"What?  Colonel  Fox?  Impossi- 
ble ! " 

"  Well,  you  may  think  so." 

"  I  am  sure  you  will  not  want  to  take 
away  from  me  the  liberty  to  think  no  ill 
of  Mrs.  Westerley,"  he  said.  "  But  I  am 
late,"  he  added,  glancing  at  his  watch 
as  he  rose.  "  I  must  go." 

"  And  of  course,"  returned  Mrs.  Grace, 
"what  I  have  mentioned  was  just  be- 
cause I  have  a  friendly  interest  in  my 
doctor.  You  know  I  need  hardly  ask 
you  not  to  repeat  it.  Sarah  says  peo- 
ple do  so  misunderstand  things." 

Wendell  moved  toward  the  door  little 
dreaming  that  Sarah,  who  had  thus  come 
in  at  the  close,  should  have  had  a  place 
at  the  beginning  as  the  text  of  this  little 
sermon.  It  had  occurred  to  Mrs.  Grace 
that  if  things  came  to  the  worst  a  rising 
doctor  might  be  better  for  Sarah  than 

<D 

no  one  ;  and  Colonel  Fox  did  not  ap- 
pear to  look  upon  Sarah  with  even  a 
second-cousinly  regard,  as  she  had  once 
feebly  hoped  he  might  do. 

When  Wendell  found  himself  in  Mrs. 
Westerley's  drawing-room,  he  felt  as  if 
He  had  come  from  under  a  pall  into  sun- 
light. Alice  and  Hester  were  chatting 
merrily,  and  the  elder  woman  was  ad- 
vising Hester  to  take  French  and  draw- 
ing lessons.  "  You  know,  dear,  you 
have  quite  money  enough." 

"  Mr.  Edward  has  promised  to  read 
German  with  me.  I  think  I  shall  like 
that.  Do  you  know,  Miss  Pearson  does 
not  mean  to  open  her  school  until  fall ! " 

"  Well,  I  hope  by  that  time  Mr. 
Gray  will  be  heard  from,"  said  Mrs. 
Westerley.  "He  certainly  will  have 
something  to  say  as  to  your  future." 

"And,"  asked  Wendell,  "have  you 
ever  thought  it  possible  he  might  want 
to  take  Hester  away  ?  I  —  we  would  n't 
like  that,  Hester." 

"  I  should  n't,  —  not  at  all !  But," 
springing  to  her  feet,  "  I  promised  Miss 


1884.] 


In  War  Time. 


151 


Ann  to  be  at  home   before  this  time ! 
May  I  come  and  dine  to-morrow  ?  ' 

"  Any  day,  every  day,  my  dear." 

"  Will   you  walk   home  with  me  ?  ' 
said  the  girl  turning  to  Wendell. 

"  No ;  I  have  some  patients  to  see." 
He  had  reflected  that  he  would  like  to 
linger  in  Mrs.  Westerley's  pleasant 
room,  and  efface  a  little  the  remem- 
brance of  his  last  visit.  Then  Hester 
went  away. 

"  You  have  been  to  see  Mrs.  Grace  ?  " 
queried  Alice.  "  Was  she  as  charming 
as  usual  ? ' 

The  doctor  colored  slightly.  He  had 
but  small  control  over  his  face,  a  grave 
defect  in  a  physician. 

"  Oh,  I  see  ! "'  she  continued.  "  I  am 
a  favored  subject." 

"  She  would  not  dare  to  speak  ill  of 
you  to  me,"  returned  Wendell,  who  hard- 
ly knew  what  to  say. 

"  Dare  ! "  repeated  Alice.  "  She  would 
dare  to  say  anything  to  anybody  of  any- 
body. I  sometimes  marvel  at  the  cour- 
age of  such  people." 

"  I  think  a  woman  would  have  to  be 
both  very  bad  to  abuse  you  and  very 
brave  to  abuse  you  to  your  friends,"  he 
said,  —  "  you  who  are  so  good  and  just 
to  every  one." 

"  Do  you  really  think  that  ?  What 
an  imaginative  man  ! '' 

"  I  may  not  be  as  good  as  —  as  all 
your  friends  ought  to  be,  but  I  don't 
think  I  am  too  stupid  to  understand 
Mrs.  Grace." 

"  I  don't  know,"  she  returned  gayly. 
"  '  I  have  my  opinions,'  as  Mrs.  Grace 
would  say.  But  how  goes  your  work  ? 
I  mean  the  new  subject  you  mentioned." 

"  Oh,  very  well,"  he  answered.  "  But 
I  find  my  hospital  getting  to  be  some- 
what in  the  way,  and  I  do  suppose  I 
should  be  better  able  to  attend  to  what 
is  of  permanent  value  if  I  gave  it  up." 

"  Then  why  not  give  it  up  ? '' 

"  Partly,"  he  answered,  with  some 
hesitation,  "  because  the  money  is  con- 
venient." 


"  Oh,  but  that  can't  matter  with  you 
now,"  said  Alice,  who  had  never  felt 
what  it  meant  to  want  money  ;  "  and  I 
should  think  you  would  do  far  better, 
even  in  the  way  of  money,  if  your  time 
were  more  your  own." 

"  I  hardly  know,"  he  replied.  "  I 
sometimes  wish  that  I  could  give  myself 
up  to  research  altogether." 

"  It  does  seem  hard  that  you  cannot, 
with  your  capacities." 

"  How  good  you  are  to  me,  and  how 
well  you  appear  to  be  able  to  enter  into 
a  man's  life  and  ambitions !  So  few 
people  have  that  power.  I  can  never 
thank  you  enough.  But  good-by.  I 
must  go." 

"  You  are  going  ?  And  why  do  you 
go?" 

"  Do  you  want  me  to  stay  ?  " 

"  Of  course  I  want  you  to  stay.  I 
am  always  glad  to  see  my  friends,"  she 
added,  rather  promptly,  perhaps  a  little 
scared  at  what  she  had  said.  "  But 
don't  let  me  keep  you  if  you  are  busy." 

"  I  ought  to  go.  Indeed,  I  must  go," 
looking  at  the  clock.  "  Thank  you 
once  more,"  and  he  glanced  at  her  face 
with  eyes  which  were  of  a  pleasant  ha- 
zel, and  now  strangely  wistful.  "You 
have  the  divine  gift  of  healing."  Then 
he  suddenly  and  passionately  kissed  the 
hand  he  had  taken.  She  drew  it  away. 
The  natural  recoil  was  enough  to  alarm 
a  man  so  sensitive.  "  I  have  offended 
you  !  "  he  said. 

u  No  —  no  —  not  deeply,  but  go 
away.  Don't  stay,  —  pray  don't." 

"  Oh,"  he  exclaimed,  "  there  are  no 
women  like  you,  —  none  ;  "  and  so  left 
her  standing  thoughtful  by  the  wood- 
fire.  She  turned  thence  to  the  window, 
and  keeping  back  a  little  glanced  after 
him,  with  tender  softness  in  her  gaze. 

"  I  don't  know  whether  I  want  to 
love  him  or  not,"  she  murmured,  "  but 
I  am  afraid  I  do.  Oh,  I  am  afraid  I 
do  !  And  what  is  it  makes  me  afraid? 
I  wish  I  knew." 

Alice  Westerley  had  begun  her  early 


152 


In  War  Time. 


[August, 


social  life  in  New  York  by  marrying  a 
man  who  would  not  have  excited  an 
emotion  in  her  three  years  later.  He 
gave  her  all  that  money  could  buy  ;  and 
money  was  as  abundant  with  him  as  a 
successful  gambler  on  Wall  Street  may 
make  it.  He  died,  and  Alice  learned 
that  another  woman  and  her  children 
had  made  for  a  coarse-minded  man  his 
real  home  through  the  three  years  of  her 
own  married  life,  and  long  before.  At 
the  end  of  a  year,  when  the  executors 
turned  over  to  Alice  her  large  share  of 
his  estate,  she  did  at  once  what  she  had 
meant  to  do  from  the  moment  she  knew 
of  her  husband's  domestic  treachery. 
She  sent  for  the  woman  who  had  been 
his  mistress,  and  who  had  been  left  un- 
cared  for,  and  said,  "  I  have  asked  you 
to  come  here  because  I  look  upon  you 
as  Mr.  Westerley's  wife,  in  God's  eyes, 
and  I  have  made  arrangements  to  turn 
over  to  you  his  property."  This  she 
did,  to  the  woman's  amazement  and  to 
the  disgust  of  her  own  friends.  Then 
she  took  the  little  fortune  her  mother 
had  left  her,  and  went  abroad.  Her 
father  was  alive,  and,  being  a  singular 
person,  said  she  was  right ;  that  it  was 
a  nasty  business,  and  she  was  well  out 
of  it.  A  year  later  he  died,  and  the 
widow  was  again  a  rich  woman.  An  ac- 
cidental visit  to  Helen  Morton  resulted 
in  her  learning  to  like  the  quiet  town, 
where  soon  after  she  bought  a  house. 
This  was  the  woman  who  now  sat  down 
on  a  stool,  and,  looking  into  the  fire,  be- 
gan to  try  to  analyze  her  own  feelings 
and  true  desires.  Why.  was  she  afraid  ? 
He  was  very  pleasant  to  her,  with  his 
large  eyes,  his  gentle  ways,  his  wide 
range  of  knowledge,  and  his  tender  de- 
pendence upon  her.  Was  it  that  after 
all  she  did  not  entirely  like  this  resting 
upon  her  opinions  ?  Then  she  stirred 
up  the  failing  fire,  and  took  counsel  with 
it.  It  was  a  delicate  flattery  now,  but 
would  it  be  always  so  grateful  ?  "  Per- 
haps I  expect  too  much,"  she  said  to  her- 
self ;  and  after  a  good  deal  of  perplexed 


thinking,  it  came  to  her  how  delightful 
it  would  be  to  release  this  man  from  all 
trammels,  and  have  him  free  to  realize 
his  intellectual  dreams.  She  well  knew 
that  she  had  been  in  a  measure  unwise 
to  allow  him  to  anticipate  her  decision  ; 
for  now  it  was  plain  enough  that  she  had 
at  least  given  him  the  permission  to  be- 
lieve that  he  might  love  her  with  some 
distinct  hope  of  success.  Then  she 
laughed  aloud,  in  a  little  scornfully  de- 
fiant way,  thinking  how  her  English 
friends  would  cry,  "  A  medical  man  !  * 
when  they  learned  that  she  had  married 
a  country  doctor.  "  A  medical  man,  my 
dear,"  she  repeated  aloud.  "  But  I  am 
not  married  yet,"  she  murmured,  as  she 
rose,  —  "  not  yet !  I  would  like  to  have 
a  little  time  to  myself !  "  and  with  this 
she  promptly  went  to  her  desk,  and 
wrote  to  Hester  that  she  had  some  er- 
rands in  New  York,  and  should  be  back 
within  a  few  days.  Of  course  Wendell 
would  know  of  this ;  but  she  had  se- 
cured for  herself  a  respite,  without  which 
she  felt  that  she  was  unwilling  to  face 
him  anew.  At  one  minute  all  seemed 
to  her  to  be  clear ;  at  another  her  mind 
was  obscured  by  a  doubt.  The  process 

of   mental   filtration  was   unsuccessful, 
i 

and  more  and  more  she  came  to  recog- 
nize the  fact  that  she  was  too  agitated 
to  consider  with  useful  calmness  a  mat- 
ter into  which,  she  began  to  discover,  she 
had  gone  too  far  for  honorable  retreat. 


XVI. 

On  the  day  after  this  interview,  Dr. 
Wendell  had  two  unpleasant  surprises. 
He  learned  that  Mrs.  Westerley  had 
gone  to  New  York,  and  was  foolish 
enough  to  recall  uneasily  for  an  instant 
what  Mrs.  Grace  had  said  of  her.  How- 
ever, he  went  into  the  hospital,  and 
came  out  early.  Ann  found  him  seated 
by  himself,  as  if  in  thought.  She  knew 
him  well. 

"What     troubles    you,    Ezra,"    she 


1884.] 


In  War  Time. 


153 


asked,    "  and   why   are    you    home   so 
soon  ?  " 

"  I  was  tired,"  he  returned ;  "  and, 
Ann,  I  am  to  be  dropped  out  of  service 
next  week.  They  are  cutting  down  the 
number  of  contract  surgeons." 

Ann  had  been  anticipating  this,  though 
now  it  had  come  it  gave  her  a  sharp 
pang  ;  but  she  said  promptly,  with  sweet 
and  helpful  cheerfulness,  "  Well,  we 
ought  not  to  be  altogether  sorry.  It 
will  give  you  more  time  to  see  patients, 
and  you  know  you  thought  about  re- 
signing." 

"  Yes,  but  one  thinks  a  good  deal  be- 
fore taking  so  decided  a  step.  It  does 
seem  to  me,  Ann,  that  we  are  very  un- 
fortunate." 

"  Do  you  think  we  have  a  right  to 
say  that,  Ezra  ?  ' 

"  I  don't  know  about  the  right,"  he 
returned,  impatiently.  "  I  have  the 
blues,  Ann.  I  feel  like  Saul  in  his  tent. 
Best  let  me  alone  ! ' 

"  Ah,  but  you  can't  be  let  alone," 
said  Hester,  from  the  parlor.  "  Here 
is  Mr.  Morton  ;  and  have  you  heard 
the  news  ?  Mrs.  Morton  is  coming 
home  in  April." 

"  Indeed  ! '  exclaimed  Wendell,  now 
forced  to  rouse  himself. 

"  But  are  you  sick  ?  ' '  said  Hester,  in 
guick  alarm,  as  she  entered  with  Ed- 
ward. "  Is  he  sick,  Miss  Ann  ?  " 

"  No ;  he  has  only  had  some  bad 
news,  and  may  have  to  leave  his  hos- 
pital." 

To  Hester  this  did  not  represent  any 
grave  calamity,  but  Edward  looked  seri- 
ous. He  had  now  begun  to  suspect  that 
the  Wendells  were,  for  some  reason, 
straitened  as  to  money. 

"  It  had  to  come,  of  course,"  said 
Wendell.  "  Soon  or  late  it  had  to  come. 
Don't  let  us  talk  about  it  any  more.  It 
has  its  good  side,  like  many  evils."  But 
after  they  had  gone,  he  still  sat  mood- 
ily thinking.  He  had  already  used,  little 
by  little,  fifteen  hundred  dollars  of  Hes- 
ter's money,  —  borrowed  it,  he  said  to 


himself,  —  and  the  stock  he  had  bought 
was  still  falling,  and  now  he  was  about 
to  lose  his  contract  surgeoncy  !  He  was 
with  reason  afraid  at  times  of  the  con- 
stancy with  which  ideas  haunted  him 
during  his  moods  of  despondency.  It 
seemed  to  him  as  if  there  were  some 
mechanism  of  torture  in  his  mind,  which 
presented  troubles  over  and  over  in  new 
and  horrible  relations ;  for  he  was  imag- 
inative, as  we  have  seen,  and  imagina- 
tion for  such  men  as  he  is  to-day  a  stern 
prophetess  of  evil,  and  to-morrow  a 
flattering  mistress.  Do  what  he  would, 
—  and  the  thought  immeasurably  dis- 
tressed this  sensitive  being,  —  he  kept 
thinking  about  Mrs.  Westerley's  money, 
and  how  surely  it  would  rescue  him,  and 
how  often  it  had  come  before  him  that 
now  he  need  have  no  fear  as  to  repay- 
ment of  what  he  had  borrowed  from 
Hester's  means.  There  was  a  fiend's 
cruelty  in  the  conception  that  a  noble, 
honest  creature  like  Alice  was  ignorant- 
ly  making  it  easy  for  him  to  do  a  shame- 
ful thing,  and  not  suffer  for  it.  If  she 
should  ever  come  to  know  of  his  guilt, 
what  then  ?  Already  a  deepening  affec- 
tion was  creating  for  him  a  clearer  sense 
of  his  own  moral  degradation.  He  got 
up,  went  out  into  the  street,  and  walked 
rapidly,  as  was  his  wont  when  depressed, 
and  in  an  hour  came  back,  more  quiet  in 
mind. 

"  Come  in,  brother,"  said  Ann,  as 
she  looked  out  of  the  parlor  window. 
"Here  is  a  message  to  see  Mr.  Wil- 
mington." 

"  Indeed  !  "  exclaimed  Ezra.  Mr. 
Wilmington  had  never  before  claimed 
his  care,  and  so  little  a  thing  as  this 
made  him  feel  unreasonably  comforta- 
ble. "  I  will  go  at  once." 

"  Oh,  do  take  your  tea  first.  There 
is  no  hurry  about  it,  they  told  me." 

"And  here  is  a  letter  from  Arty," 
said  Edward.  "  No,  it  is  not.  It  must 
be  from  Fox.  Yes,  it  is  from  Fox." 

"  Open  it,"  said  Hester,  shortly. 
"  How  slow  you  are ! ' 


154 


In  War  Time. 


[August, 


"  Why,  what 's  the  matter,  Hester  ?  ' 
returned   Edward,   slowly  dividing  the 
envelope,  and  playfully  retreating. 

"  I  must  know,"  she  said.  "  What 
does  he  say  ?  Who  is  it  from  ?  Why 
don't  you  look  ?  " 

"  Ah,"  replied  Edward,  "  let  me  sit 
down.  Wait  a  moment,  —  I  must  read 
it  first,"  and  he  checked  her  with  his 
raised  hand,  while  he  read  a  few  lines. 
"  It  is  n't  very  —  bad,  Hester.  I  was 
dreadfully  afraid,"  he  cried,  looking  up. 
"  Tell  me  at  once,"  she  demanded  im- 
peratively. 

"  Hester  ! '  exclaimed  Ann.  "  Hes- 
ter !  " 

"Arty  is  wounded,"  said  Edward; 
"  not  badly,  —  not  badly  at  all ;  a  flesh 
wound.  Colonel  Fox  writes  because 
Arty  can't  use  his  arm.  Oh,  the  dear 
old  fellow  has  put  in  a  slip  for  Hester  ! 
Why,  where  is  she  ?  * 

"  She  went  out  of  the  room,"  re- 
turned Ann  ;  "  I  heard  her  go  upstairs. 
Something  has  got  to  be  done  about 
these  tempers  of  hers.  Something  has 
got  to  be  done ! ' 

Ann  had  never  pursued,  in  her  educa- 
tional duties,  the  letting-alone  system, 
and,  having  been  shocked  and  surprised 
at  Hester's  abruptness,  thought  well  to 
knock  at  her  chamber  door  shortly  after 
herself  hearing  to  the  end  Colonel  Fox's 
letter.  If  all  this  little  display  of  short 
temper  were  about  the  war,  Hester  must 
be  told  to  repress  it,  for  every  one's 
sake  ;  and  if  it  were  simply  impatience, 
of  which  Hester  had  her  fair  share,  it 
was  Ann's  business,  as  her  present  guar- 
dian, to  reprove  it. 

At  first  there  was  no  answer  to  Ann's 
knock. 

"  Hester  !  "  she  called.  "  Hester,  open 
the  door  !  " 

Still  there  was  no  reply. 
Then  Ann  shook  the  door-knob,  a  lit- 
tle angry,  and  a  very  little  uneasy. 

"  Open  the    door   at  once.     Do  you 
hear  me  ?     Hester,  dear  Hester  ! ' 
The  door  opened  suddenly,  and  Hes- 


ter appeared  on  the  threshold,  drawn  up 
to  her  full  height,  an  angry  light  in  her 
eyes. 

"  What  is  the  meaning  of  all  this  ?  ' 
asked  Ann,  severely.    "  Are  you  sick  ? 
And  why  did   you  go   away  so  rudely 
while  Mr.  Morton  was  reading  ?  " 

o 

"I  —  I  wanted  to,"  said  Hester.  "  I 
went "  — 

"  Goodness !  '  Went ! '  I  know  you 
went !  And  you  call  that  an  answer ; 
and  pray,  child,  do  you  think  you  are  be- 
having yourself  properly  now  ?  What 
does  it  all  mean  ?  I  must  say  I  never 
saw  you  act  in  this  way  before." 

"  I  don't  know,"  murmured  Hester. 
"  Cannot  I  just  be  let  alone,  Miss  Ann  ? 
I  want  to  be  alone." 

"  And  why  on  earth  do  you  want  to 
be  alone  ?  Is  it  because  you  were 
alarmed  about  Arthur  ?  That  was  nat- 
ural enough  ;  but  really,  child,  I  don't 
see  why  there  should  be  all  this  fuss. 
Colonel  Fox  says  there  is  no  chance 
of  his  losing  his  arm.  Upon  my  word, 
Hester,  a  little  real  trouble  would  do 
you  no  harm  ! ' 

"  No  harm."  repeated  Hester,  faintly, 
—  "  no  harm  !  "  and  began  retreating 
backward  into  her  bedroom,  with  her 
*palms  raised  and  her  arms  extended 
towards  Ann,  and  a  face  flushing  rap- 
idly. 

"  Good  gracious,  what  a  fool  I  am  !  " 
cried  Ann,  seizing  her  in  time  to  guide 
her  fall  on  to  a  lounge.  "  Ezra  ! '  she 
cried.  "  Ezra,  come  here  quick  !  Hester 
is  sick  ! ' 

Wendell  was  at  her  side  in  a  mo- 
ment. 

"It  is  only  a  nervous  attack,"  he 
said  ;  "  don't  be  worried.  Run  and  get 
some  ice." 

While  Ann  was  gone  he  hastily  loos- 
ened the  girl's  dress,  and  waited,  watch- 
ing her. 

Meanwhile,  poor  Edward,  who  had 
climbed  the  stairs  wearily,  and  in  such 
haste  as  was  unusual  to  him,  reached 
the  door  of  Hester's  room. 


1884.] 


In  War  Time. 


155 


"  What  is  it,  doctor  ?  "  he  asked,  anx- 
iously, and  with  a  tremor  in  his  voice. 
« Is  she  ill  ?  " 

"  No,"  answered  Wendell,  turning ; 
"but  give  me  that  pitcher.  I  can't 
leave  her,  or  she  will  fall  off  the  lounge." 

Edward  came  in,  and  did  as  he  was 
desired.  Then  he  saw  for  a  moment 
the  white  sweep  of  the  girl's  neck  and 
shoulders,  flushed  with  moving  islets  of 
blood  that  came  and  went,  the  signals 
of  a  nervous  system  shaken  by  a  storm 
beyond  its  power  to  bear.  He  drew 
back  with  a  sense  of  awe  at  the  sight, 
ashamed,  as  it  were,  in  trouble  for  her 
that  she  should  be  thus  and  so  undis- 
turbed. 

"  Here  is  Miss  Ann,"  he  said,  hastily. 
"  For  Heaven's  sake,  don't  let  Hester 
know  I  was  here.  I  will  be  in  my 
room,  if  you  need  me." 

Then  he  limped  out,  a  little  dizzy,  as 
happened  to  him  at  times  if  moved  by 
strong  emotion,  and  supporting  himself 
by  a  hand  on  the  walls  he  reached  his 
room,  and  fell  into  the  nearest  chair. 
The  patient,  tender-hearted  man  had  re- 
ceived a  new  hurt.  Of  late  he  had  been 
mending,  and  a  hope  had  come  to  him ; 
but  now  he  was  like  one  who,  after 
shipwreck  in  a  strange  land,  awaking, 
sees  a  color  in  the  sky,  and  knows  not 
yet  if  it  be  dusk  or  dawn. 

The  gay-hearted  girl  who  had  grown 
up  by  his  side,  who  with  him  was  never 
impatient,  who  had  shared  his  books  and 
his  new  pursuits,  and  had  filled  his  crip- 
pled life  with  a  new  and  wholesome 
sweetness,  was  to  be  his  no  more  even 
in  thought ;  for  now  it  was  all  plain  to 
the  gaunt  young  fellow,  made  over-sen- 
sitive by  pain,  until  he  had  attained  a 
more  than  womanly  appreciation  of  the 
feelings  and  griefs  of  others. 

"  What  a  blind  idiot  I  have  been  !  It 
is  Arty  she  loves  ! ):  he  cried,  as  he  sat 
with  his  hands  on  his  knees,  looking 
with  wide  eyes  far  away,  like  Brown- 
ing's lion,  into  the  drear  desert  of  his 
doubly  sterile  life. 


Then  tears  came  to  his  help,  and  he 
laughed  as  with  a  quick  hand  he  cleared 
them  from  his  eyelids,  —  laughed  to 
think  that  he  had  become  physically  so 
feeble  as  to  recognize  without  a  man's 
shame  the  strange  easement  of  tears. 
But  of  a  sudden  the  future  leaped  upon 
him,  and  tore  him  with  the  claws  of 
brutal  realities  that  were  to  be  ;  and  he 
saw  before  him  lonely  years  of  pain  and 
slow,  enfeebling  sickness,  and  had  a  pro- 
phetic sense  of  the  fading  of  his  appe- 
tite for  the  new  things  with  which  of 
late  he  had  learned  to  sweeten  the  mea- 
gre cup  of  life.  He  also  saw  Hester,  tall 
and  blushing,  a  bride,  and  then  a  ma- 
tronly woman.  It  did  seem  to  him  that 
no  possible  pang  had  been  spared  him. 
For  his  country  in  her  bloody  struggle 
he  had  felt  as  those  feel  who  say  little. 
He  had  been  condemned  to  possess  in 
patience  a  soul  meant  for  lordship  where 
death  was  nearest,  and  now  had  come 
this  rival  anguish. 

It  is  not  wonderful  that  where  their 
religion  does  not  give  men  a  woman-god 
in  whose  lap  to  cry,  they  manage  in  some 
way  to  create  such  a  resource,  or  at 
least  some  approach  to  the  sweet  piti- 
fulness  of  a  god-like  maternity.  It  was 
his  mother  the  young  man  thought  of 
now ;  wishing,  in  his  fresh  agony,  that 
he  could  bury  his  head  in  her  lap  and 
be  her  little  Ned  again,  and  weep  out 
unquestioned  this  great  sorrow. 

At  last  he  rose  unsteadily,  and  tried 
to  walk  about,  and  seeing  his  own  face 
in  the  glass  was  shocked  at  its  expres- 
sion. 

"  Oh,  this  won't  do  !  "  he  cried  impa- 
tiently, and  set  himself  to  quiet  with 
resolute  self-rule  the  storm  within  him. 

By  and  by  Wendell  knocked  at  his 
door. 

"  Come  in,"  he  answered.  "Is  —  is 
she  all  right  ?  " 

"  Why,  of  course,"  returned  Wendell. 
"  It  was  merely  a  nervous  turn.  But 
what  is  the  matter  with  you,  Edward  ?' 

"  Nothing  much.  I  am  not  very  strong, 


156 


In  War  Time. 


[August, 


and  I  suppose  Hester's  little  upset  was 
too  much  for  me.  That  and  the  letter, 
you  know.  I  think  I  shall  lie  down." 

"  Well,  I  would,"  assented  Wendell. 
"  Hester  will  be  well  enough  to-mor- 
row. I  suppose  that  she,  too,  was  taken 
aback  by  the  colonel's  letter;  but  girls 
are  so  easily  made  nervous,  and  I  fancy 
Ann  was  rather  sharp  with  her.  It  is 
really  curious  how  little  patience  or 
sympathy  the  best  of  women,  if  they  are 
strong,  have  with  a  woman's  nervous- 
ness !  I  do  certainly  hope  the  child 
is  not  going  to  be  a  nervous  young  wo- 
man. J  can't  imagine  a  worse  fate  for 
any  one." 

"  I  hope  not,"  replied  Edward ;  and 
the  doctor  left  him. 

Mrs.  Westerley  returned  three  days 
later,  and  found  quite  enough  to  employ 
all  her  energies.  Wendell,  who  knew 
from  her  servants  when  she  was  expect- 
ed to  return,  was  foolish  enough  to  meet 
her  at  the  station.  He  was  in  that  state 
of  uneasiness  and  doubt  which  the  pas- 
sage of  time  is  sure  to  bring  to  a  man 
who  feels  that  enough  has  been  said  to 
give  him  hope,  but  not  enough  to  se- 
cure what  has  become  more  and  more  a 
yearning  need  in  life.  Also,  there  had 
arisen  in  his  singularly  constituted  na- 
ture another  trouble.  He  began  to  feel 
a  strange  bitterness  at  the  thought  that 
if  he  married  Alice,  or  perhaps  in  any 
case,  he  would  lose  out  of  his  life  the 
proportion  of  affectionate  comradeship 
which  Hester  had  brought  into  it.  Her 
beauty  of  form,  her  alert  intelligence, 
even  her  little  mutinies,  were  very  pleas- 
ant to  him.  Like  Edward,  but  less  dis- 
tinctly, he  had  comprehended,  or  at 
least  suspected,  the  meaning  of  Hester's 
reception  of  the  news  of  Arthur's  wound; 
and  as  he  was  right-minded  enough  about 
women,  and  by  reason  of  his  refinement 
of  character  a  man  of  more  than  com- 
mon purity  of  word  and  deed  where 
they  were  concerned,  he  was  troubled 
at  his  own  state  of  mind.  Was  he  jeal- 


ous ?  he  asked  himself.  Had  he  been  a 
more  profound  and  experienced  student 
of  peculiar  human  Matures,  he  might 
have  known  that  his  feeling  in  regard 
to  Hester  was  merely  one  of  those  brief 
despotisms  which  an  idea  sometimes  cre- 
ates in  persons  of  his  mental  constitu- 
tion. The  mystery  of  it  was,  however, 
far  beyond  his  power  to  explain,  and 
the  fact  itself  simply  shocked  him. 

His  wish  to  meet  Mrs.  Westerley  at 
the  station  was  brought  about,  in  part 
at  least,  by  his  almost  painful  disgust  at 
his  own  state  of  mind,  and  his  hasty  re- 
solve to  end  his  doubt,  and  reach  a 
point  where  indecision  would  be  impos- 
sible. 

The  station  was  crowded,  and  the  air 
full  of  excitement.  Men,  women,  sol- 
diers, and  officials  thronged  the  platforms, 
and  the  newsboys  were  crying,  "  Great 
news  from  the  front ! '  Sherman  was 
driving  Johnston  before  him,  and  Grant 
was  enveloping  Lee's  fated  army. 

Amidst  the  crowd  Wendell  found 
Mrs.  Westerley.  She  colored  as  he 
came  up  to  her.  She  was  both  pleased 
and  vexed. 

"  Why  did  you  come  ?  *  she  asked, 
speaking  low.  "  My  maid  is  with  me." 

Wendell  was  annoyed  and  embar- 
rassed. He  saw  his  mistake. 

"  Make  some  excuse,"  she  added,  gen- 
tly, "  and  leave  me ;  and  don't  be  dis- 
pleased," she  continued,  seeing  his  trou- 
bled face. 

"  I  beg  pardon,"  said  Wendell,  cut 
down  to  a  lower  level  by  this  calming 
reception.  "  I  was  looking  for  some 
one,"  he  stammered.  "  Sorry  to  leave 
you.  Good-by." 

"Good-by,"  she  said,  as  Wendell 
turned  and  went  away,  showing  but  too 
clearly  the  discomfiture  he  so  profound- 
ly felt. 

"  These  men  !  These  men  ! *  mur- 
mured the  widow,  smiling.  Then  she 
went  home  and  wrote  Hester  a  note, 
asking  her  to  dine  with  her  next  day  ; 
and  would  Dr.  Wendell  kindly  see  Mrs. 


1884.] 


In  War  Time. 


157 


Westerley  about   some  Sanitary  Com- 
mission business  at  one  o'clock. 

At  eleven  the  next  morning  Alice 
was  called  downstairs  to  see  Miss  Clem- 
son, who  had  come  on  business.  They 
had  been  having,  said  Miss  Clemson,  no 
end  of  trouble,  the  last  few  days,  about 
Mrs.  Grace,  and  several  ladies  thought 
that  Mrs.  Westerley  should  become  pres- 
ident. 

"  But,"  replied  the  widow,  "  Mrs. 
Morton  will  be  at  home  by  the  20th ; 
and  indeed  I  would  much  rather,  on  the 
whole,  not  come  into  contact  with  Mrs. 
Grace.  She  has  been  amusing  her  lei- 
sure with  my  affairs,  I  learn,  and. if  I 
had  to  cross  her  I  should  probably  say 
more  than  I  want  to  say.  I  will  gladly 
resign,  if  you  think  best." 

"  But  that  would  be  most  undesir- 
able. The  woman  is  in  a  small  minor- 
ity, but  she  seems  to  be  so  made  that 
really  the  competence  of  numbers  ap- 
pears not  to  affect  her.  I  do  not  doubt 
that  there  are  times  when  she  believes 
one  and  one  make  nine  !  " 

"  I  have  my  opinions  ! '  exclaimed 
Alice,  laughing. 

"  I  would  go  to  the  office  to-day,  Mrs. 
Westerley.  She  told  us  on  Friday  that 
she  had  taken  home  your  account  book, 
- 1  mean  the  treasurer's  accounts,  which 
you  have  so  kindly  kept  since  Miss  Gra- 
ham's illness." 

"  What !  "  cried  Alice  ;  "  she  took  it 
home !  " 

"  Yes.  I  hesitated  to  tell  you  about 
it,  but  I  thought  you  should  be  told." 

"  And  what  else  ?  "  inquired  Alice. 

"  She  informed  us  on  Saturday  that 
she  and  Sarah  —  imagine  it,  my  dear ! 
she  and  Sarah  —  could  not  make  it  bal- 
ance ! " 

"  And  is  this  all  ?  "  asked  Mrs.  Wes- 
terley. 

"  Yes." 

Then  wait  a  moment,"  said  the 
widow,  ringing  the  bell  sharply.  "  My 
ponies,  John,  and  make  haste.  I  will 
be  down  in  a  minute,  Miss  Clemson." 


On  their  way  to  the  office,  Mrs.  Wes- 
terley called  at  Mrs.  Grace's,  somewhat 
to  the  alarm  of  her  friend,  who  began 

'  O 

to  be  conscious  that  Mrs.  Westerley's 
quietness  was  simply  the  enforced  calm 
which  hides  for  a  time  some  latent  anger. 

Mrs.  Grace's  was  never  a  well-man- 
aged house,  and  it  was  not  until  after 
several  vigorous  pulls  at  the  bell  that 
the  door  was  opened  by  an  untidy  maid, 
who  ushered  the  ladies  into  the  mourn- 
ful splendor  of  Mrs.  Grace's  parlor. 

Alice  looked  at  Miss  Clemson,  with 
amusement  in  her  eyes.  Evidently 
there  had  been  a  hasty  escape  effected 
from  the  back  room,  since  two  empty 
rocking-chairs  were  still  in  active  mo- 
tion. 

"  What  a  touch  that  would  be  on  the 
stage  !  "  said  Alice. 

"And  what  an  awful  bit  of  circum- 
stantial evidence  !  "  returned  Miss  Clem- 
son. 

"  We  have  given  Sarah  an  occasion 
for  a  little  exercise." 

By  this  time  the  maid,  much  rear- 
ranged as  to  her  dress,  returned  with  a 
statement  that  Mrs.  Grace  was  at  the 
Sanitary  ;  and  thither,  accordingly,  they 
drove,  Miss  Clemson  remarking  on  the 
way, — 

"  You  will  not  let  that  woman  disturb 
you,  Mrs.  Westerley  ?  " 

"  Oh,  no  !  I  mean  to  disturb  her. 
Is  n't  it  dreadful  to  think  that  we  wo- 
men have  no  weapon  bu^  our  tongues  ? ': 

"  The  men  are  no  better  off,"  re- 
turned Miss  Clemson.  "What  more 
can  they  .do,  nowadays,  than  we  ?  The 
duel  is  dead." 

"  If  I  were  a  man,  1  could  wish  it 
were  not.  Theoretically  I  am  in  favor 
of  it." 

"  Oh,  no,  dear,"  protested  Miss  Clem- 
son ;  "  it  is  so  illogical." 

"  And  so  am  I,"  said  Alice.  "  I  hate 
logical  people ;  and  that  must  be  just  the 
time  when  one  wants  the  duel,  when  one 
feels  illogical." 

«  Well,  here  we  are,"  said  Miss  Clem- 


158 


In  War  Time. 


[August, 


son,  as  they  drew  up  in  front  of  the 
local  office  of  the  famous  Commission. 
The  great  news  of  the  fight  at  Five 
Forks  had  just  come  in.  Mrs.  Wester- 
ley  found  Mrs.  Grace  discussing  the 
matter  with  one  or  two  other  ladies. 

"  We  have  lost  twenty  thousand  men," 
said  she,  "  and  soon  we  shall  have  no  sol- 
diers to  fight  with.  There  won't  be  one 
left." 

"  Nonsense,"  returned  Miss  Susan,  to 
whom  difference  of  years  was  of  small 
moment.  "  Lee  will  surrender  in  a 
month.  Pa  says  so." 

"  I  think,"  answered  Mrs.  Grace, 
"  that  we  have  just  begun.  No  one 
knows  where  it  will  end." 

Mrs.  Westerley  touched  her  on  the 
shoulder.  "  Come  into  the  back  room," 
she  said,  in  a  clear,  sharp  voice,  while 
every  one  looked  wp,  startled. 

"  What  do  you  want  ?  "  inquired  Mrs. 
Grace. 

"  Just  a  little  talk,"  rejoined  Alice. 
"You,  too,  Miss  Clemson." 

As  they  entered  the  empty  room  Alice 
closed  the  door. 

Sudden  calls  on  her  emotions  made 
this  woman  cool  and  effective,  if  her 
affections  were  not  concerned.  With- 
out raising  her  voice,  but  with  an  accu- 
rate distinctness  of  speech,  she  said,  — 

"  Mrs.  Grace,  you  took  home  my  ac- 
counts last  week  without  authority,  and 
were  so  good  as  to  say, — you  will  cor- 
rect me,  Miss^Clemsou,  if  I  am  wrong, 
—  you  were  so  obliging  as  to  say  that 
the  accounts  do  not  balance.  May  I 
ask,  was  that  assertion  meant  to  give 
the  idea  that  I  had  been  careless,  or 
what  ?  " 

Mrs.  Grace,  like  large  masses,  was 
not  easily  moved,  and  having  been  in 
similar  troubles  before  knew  that  with 
most  people  it  was  possible  to  escape  at 
no  larger  cost  than  words,  which  with 
her  were  abundant,  and  of  no  fixed  or 
unchangeable  value. 

"  Oh,  but  I  never  supposed  there  could 
be  such  a  fuss.  I  just  thought  I  had  a 


right ;  and  Sarah,  she 's  so  apt  at  arith- 
metic." 

"  You  do  not  answer  me,"  said  Alice. 
"  What  did  you  mean  ?  ' 

"  I  did  n't  mean  anything,  and  I  guess 
I  'd  better  go." 

"  This  will  not  do,"  exclaimed  Alice, 
placing  herself  between  Mrs.  Grace  and 
the  door.  "You  have  done  a  mean 
and  dishonorable  act.  You  have  slan- 
dered me  grossly,  and  now  you  have  not 
the  courage  to  stand  by  your  actions ! 
If  we  wero  men,  madam,  I  should  use 
something  more  than  words ;  and  you 
would  have  deserved  it,  too." 

Mrs.  Grace  was  angry,  but  she  was 
also  alarmed.  Alice  looked  as  if  her 
sex  might  not  always  enable  her  to  re- 
sist a  desire  so  earnestly  stated. 

"  I  won't  stay  here  to  be  insulted  !  * 
cried  Mrs.  Grace.  "I  —  I  Ml  call  the 
police ! " 

"  Stuff !  We  are  not  men,  luckily 
for  you,  but  still  you  must  hear  what  I 
have  to  say.  You  must  either  apologize 
to  me  before  the  women  in  the  outer 
room,  or  retire  from  the  Commission." 

"  And  if  I  won't  do  it  ?  " 

"  Do  what,  madam  ?  " 
,    "  Why,  just  either  !  " 

"Then  I  must  resign,  and  we  shall 
see  which  of  us  the  board  will  choose 
to  lose." 

Mrs.  Grace  knew  pretty  well  what 
would  happen  in  this  case,  it  having  been 
made  clear  to  her  the  week  before  by 
several  outspoken  women. 

"  And  what  do  you  want  me  to  say  ? ' 

"Anything,"  replied  Alice.  "Tell 
them  you  are  sorry.  I  don't  want  you 
to  clear  my  character  for  me  ;  but  one 
word  more.  I  had  not  meant  to  say  to 
you  anything  of  another  matter  touching 
which  you  have  been  pleased  to  gossip 
of  late,  but  let  me  add  only  this  :  that  it 
must  stop,  and  that  if  I  ever  again  hear 
that  your  tongue  has  been  busy  with 
my  affairs,  I  shall  be  able  to  find  a  man 
somewhere  who  will  talk  to  your  hus- 
band." 


1884.] 


In  War  Time. 


159 


"  Oh,  no  doubt ! '  Mrs.  Grace  re- 
joined recovering  herself  a  little. 

Alice  looked  at  her  with  a  faint 
smile  of  scorn,  and  saying,  "  I  shall  be 
as  good  as  my  word.  Thank  you,  Miss 
Clemson,"  swept  out  of  the  room  and 
through  the  office  to  her  ponies,  leaving 
her  foe  to  say  what  she  pleased,  and 
Miss  Clemson  to  see  that  justice  was 
done. 

Mrs.  Grace,  inwardly  thankful  that 
this  high  judgment  had  been  pronounced 
apart,  managed,  on  Miss  Clemson's  ap- 
peal, to  make  some  kind  of  disjointed 
apologetic  statement,  and  then  went 
home,  as  dully  angry  as  her  nature  al- 
lowed her  to  be.  She  really  had  not  the 
power  to  feel  that  she  had  been  guilty 
of  a  crime,  and  with  her  sense  of  having 
been  put  down  and  lectured  unjustly 
came  a  sluggish  desire  for  something 
which  in  the  mind  of  a  quicker  being 
would  have  been  called  revenge.  Mrs. 
Grace  felt  that  it  would  be  nice  if  she 
could  stick  pins  into  the  widow,  and 
physically  hurt  her  a  good  deal. 

The  next  day  she  had  occasion  to 
wail,  by  letter  to  Colonel  Fox,  over  her 
temporary  failure  to  receive  certain 
moneys ;  as  by  this  time  she  had  lost  a 
little  of  her  dread  of  Mrs.  Westerley, 
it  was  not  in  her  nature  to  omit  all 
mention  of  her  among  the  bits  of  news 
with  which  she  enlivened  her  letters  of 
business.  Mrs.  Grace  was  cautious,  how- 
ever, and  only  expressed  her  pity  that 
Alice  Westerley  was  going  to  marry  a 
poor,  unsuccessful  doctor  like  Wendell ; 
certainly,  her  friends  must  regret  it.  Not 
that  she,  Mrs.  Grace,  knew  it  herself, 
but  she  believed  there  was  n't  much 
doubt  of  it.  And  did  Colonel  Fox  know 
that  Morton  would  n't  come  home,  there 
being  an  Italian  lady  in  the  case,  and 
that  Helen  Morton  was  expected  to 
come  alone,  poor  thing,  and  she  was  so 
unhappy  ? 

This  letter  did  not  reach  Fox  for 
several  days.  In  command  of  a  brigade 
of  Ord's  division,  he  was  following 


Lee's  retreat,  and  was  urging  on  his 
men  with  an  energy  that  left  them  little 
repose.  Arthur,  with  his  arm  in  a  sling, 
and  now  a  captain,  would  listen  to  no 
prudent  counsels,  and  Fox  had  it  not  in 
him  to  keep  the  young  soldier  out  of 
the  last  scenes  of  the  tragedy  which 
was  closing  in  blood  and  despair  on  the 
Appomattox. 

Such  of  us  as  lived  through  those 
days,  and  had  dear  ones  in  that  awful 
joust  of  arms,  may  yet  recall  the  never- 
ending  anxiety  with  which  we  opened 
the  morning  paper,  and  the  thrill  with 
which,  in  the  dead  of  night,  the  cry  of 
the  newsboy  on  the  street  made  us  sit 
up  and  listen.  To  the  little  circle  of 
Arthur's  friends  the  closing  days  of  the 
Confederacy  were  full  of  dread.  At  any 
moment  a  telegram  from  New  York 
might  warn  them  of  Mrs.  Morton's  ar- 
rival, and  out  of  this  savage  death  wres- 
tle what  news  might  meet  her  ! 

Hester  was  quiet  and  preoccupied, 
and  helped  Ann  at  her  work  with  a 
fervid  restlessness.  Edward  had  gone  to 
New  York  to  meet  his  mother.  He  had 
written  to  his  brother  as  soon  as  he  had 
felt  able  to  use  a  pen,  and  had  said,  "I 
think,  Arty,  that  if  by  any  chance  you 
are  hurt  again,  or  perhaps  in  case  of 
any  trouble,  you  or  Fox  had  better 
write  under  cover  to  Wendell,  or  to 
Mrs.  Westerley.  The  account  of  your 
hurt  upset  Hester  so  much  that  I  feel 
it  would  not  be  wise  to  have  to  tell  her 
again  any  bad  news ;  and  then  there 
is  mother,  too.  But,  please  God,  there 
will  not  be  any  more  bad  news !  Hester 
is  all  right  now." 

Alice  Westerley  had  seen  Dr.  Wen- 
dell more  than  once  since  her  return ; 
but  she  had  been  busy  in  opening  the 
Morton  house,  and  had  managed  with 
more  or  less  success  to  keep  her  lover 
from  exacting  an  absolute  promise.  She 
felt  that  she  was  exercising  over  him  a 
control  which  was  for  her  desirable,  but 
which  in  her  secret  heart  she  wished  he 
submitted  to  with  less  patience. 


160 


In  War  Time. 


[August, 


On  the  morning  of  April  9th  came  a 
letter  from  Arthur  to  Mrs.  Westerley. 
He  wrote :  "  I  do  not  trouble  you  often 
with  letters,  but  Ned  tells  me  that  the 
colonel's  letter  upset  Hester,  which  is 
very  annoying,  because  I  had  it  read 
over  to  me  to  be  sure  it  would  n't  shock 
any  one.  I  suffered  little  until  the  after- 
noon of  the  5th,  when  we  were  pushed 
on  by  Ord,  along  with  a  squadron  of 
cavalry,  to  burn  the  bridges  at  Farm- 
ville  on  the  Appomattox.  It  was,  as  we 
know  now,  a  race  for  the  river.  General 
Read  gathered  a  lot  of  dismounted  cav- 
alry about  the  bridge,  and  some  of  ours, 
my  company  and  another,  got  on  it, 
but  had  no  time  to  burn  it  or  to  make 
any  covers,  because  in  a  few  minutes 
Lee's  advance  was  on  us,  and  I  knew 
what  a  hopeless  and  gallant  thing  poor 
Read  had  done.  The  rebels  streamed 
down  on  the  bridge  and  just  swept  us 
away  like  flies.  Read  was  killed,  and 
for  a  moment  it  was  a  wild,  free  fight, 
for  we  did  not  let  them  off  easy ;  but 
they  were  too  many  for  us,  and  the  few 
not  killed  were  pushed  over  into  the 
river.  Tell  Ned  it  was  n't  any  worse 
than  a  rush  at  football  at  St.  Paul's. 
I  was  down  and  up  twice,  and  as  my 
right  arm  was  no  good  I  had  a  bad 
time.  Luckily  I  was  not  hit,  but  I  was 
knocked  over  into  the  mud  of  the  river 
just  as  they  swept  by  at  the  end  of  the 
row  and  saw  fellows  shooting  at  me  as 
if  I  were  a  mud  turtle.  I  can  tell  you 
I  wriggled  out  into  the  stream  pretty 
quick,  and  in  a  moment  got  under  the 
bridge,  on  a  stump  near  the  water ;  and 
you  won't  believe  it,  but  I  laughed  when 
the  rebs  tore  over  the  bridge  they  had 
won.  I  got  caught  as  I  was  trying  to 
find  my  way  somewhere ;  but  our  people 
were  hard  after  them,  and  the  poor  fel- 
lows were  so  near  dead  of  fatigue  that  I 
got  off,  and  on  the  morning  of  the  7th 
fell  in  with  Humphrey's  advance.  By 
George,  I  was  glad !  I  told  the  general 
all  about  how  the  rebs  were  used  up, 
but  somehow  they  gave  him  a  sound 


dressing,  I  hear,  just  after  I  went  to  the 
rear.  I  was  all  sore  bones  and  Appo- 
mattox mud,  and  well  played  out ;  so 
are  the  Johnnies,  but  I  shall  be  all  riorht 

7  o 

in  a  week,  and  they  won't,  poor  fellows ! 
I  am  told  by  the  surgeon  that  I  must  go 
home,  and  as  the  row  is  about  over  I 
am  glad  enough.  So  hurrah  for  clean 
sheets  and  a  good  dinner !  My  regards 
to  Hester.  I  have  n't  the  pluck  to  write 
another  letter.  Fox  lost  a  bit  of  his 
]reft  whisker,  and  of  course  got  in  the 
way  of  a  minie,  and  has  a  trifling  flesh 
wound.  He  ought  to  hang  his  uniform 
up  in  Twelfth  Street  Meeting  House,  as 
the  Romans  did  their  shields  in  the  tem- 
ple of  Mars." 

Hester  was  on  her  guard  this  time, 
and  heard  the  young  man's  characteristic 
letter  with  equanimity.  Then  she  said 
to  Alice  that  she  would  like  to  read  it 
to  the  doctor  and  Miss  Ann,  and  Mrs. 
Westerley  saw  that  letter  no  more. 

Mrs.  Morton  drove  out  to  her  home 
on  the  memorable  night  of  the  9th  of 
April  under  skies  ablaze  with  rockets, 
amidst  the  craze  of  joy,  the  clangor  of 
bells,  and  the  shriek  of  engines,  with 
which  a  happy  city  sought  to  find  some 
adequate  expression  of  its  sense  of  re- 
iief. 

"  What  a  welcome  ! "  she  cried,  as 
with  a  throbbing  heart  she  ran  up  the 
steps  of  her  own  house,  which  was  full 
of  cheerful  light.  Then  she  saw  on 
the  piazza  a  strong,  bronzed  young 
officer,  with  one  arm  in  a  sling.  She 
paused  a  moment. 

"  Why,  mother,  it  is  Arty  ! "  cried 
Edward. 

"  Arty ! '"  she  exclaimed,  with  amaze- 
ment. "  Ah,  this  is  too  much  ! '  and 
she  had  him  in  her  arms  in  a  moment. 

"  Take  care,  mother,"  he  said,  "  my 
arm  "  —  And  then  she  held  him  off, 
and  looked  at  him  with  eager  satisfac- 
tion, while  the  doorway  filled  up  with 
Alice  Westerley,  the  doctor,  Hester,  and 
Mr.  Wilmington  ;  and  there  were  warm 
greetings,  which  soothed  Mrs.  Morton's 


1884.] 


In  War  Time. 


161 


troubled  heart.  Then  very  soon,  as  it 
grew  late,  some  of  her  guests  went 
away  ;  and  the  young  men  having  slipped 
off  to  the  library  for  a  smoke  and  war 
talk,  Mrs.  Morton  was  left  alone  with 
Alice. 

"  I  am  glad  you  have  come  back," 
said  Mrs.  Westerley,  stirring  the  hick- 
ory fire,  which  a  cool  April  night  made 
desirable,  —  "I  am  glad  you  have  come 
back  ;  and  it  is  none  too  soon.  After 
all,  where  is  one  as  comfortable  as  at 
home  ?  For  every  reason  you  must  be 
glad  to  be  here.  I  shall  feel  greatly  re- 
lieved." 

"  Why,  my  dear,  are  you  still  annoyed 
about  Arty  ?  '  said  Mrs.  Morton.  "  I 
supposed  his  long  absence  and  a  year's 
growth  might  have  made  them  forget. 
It  seemed  to  me  a  mere  doll  love  af- 
fair." 

"  Absence  has  made  it  worse,  I  fancy," 
replied  Alice.  "  I  don't  know  how  far  it 
has  gone  with  him,  but  his  being  in  the 
war  and  in  constant  peril  has,  I  suppose, 
helped  to  keep  him  in  Hester's  mind. 
She  is  seventeen,  and  of  course  has  the 
romance  of  her  age ;  and  if  you  look 
at  Arty,  —  I  suppose  you  did  look  at 
Arty,"  she,  added  smiling,  —  "  there  is 
excuse  enough  in  his  face  for  any  girl's 
folly." 

"  Oh,  of  course,"  replied  Mrs.  Mor- 
ton. "  But  I  shall  settle  all  that,"  she 
went  on,  remembering  with  what  ease 
her  decisions  had  been  wont  to  be  car- 
ried out.  "  I  shall  speak  to  Arty  at 
once." 

"  I  think  I  would  n't,"  returned  Alice. 
She  felt  just  now  a  peculiar  tenderness 
for  people  in  his  position.  "  You  left 
him  simply  Arty,  Helen.  He  is  now 
Captain  Arthur  Morton,  3d  Regiment 
Pennsylvania  Volunteers,  promoted  for 
gallantry  at  Weldon  Cross  Roads." 

"  But  he  is  still  my  son,  and  I  never 
knew  him  to  disobey  me." 

"  Then,  my  dear,  you  may  prepare 
yourself  for  an  enlargement  of  your  ma- 
ternal experience  !  You  are  thinking 

VOL.    LIV. NO.    322.  11 


only  of  him.     Look  at  the  other  argu- 
ment against  you  ! ': 

"  What  other  argument  ? ' 

"  Miss  Hester  Gray,"  said  Alice. 

"  Yes,  she  seems  immensely  changed. 
Much  improved,  I  may  say.  Quite  a 
nice  girl." 

"  Why,  Helen  Morton,  the  girl  is  a 
beauty  ! " 

u  Well,  yes,  perhaps  so.  But  Arty  is 
too  young  ;  and  simply,  I  will  not  have 
it,  Alice.  She  has  n't  a  cent  in  the 
world  ;  and  though  that  might  not  matter 
if  it  were  poor  Ned,  who  is  out  of  the 
question,  Arty  is  absolutely  dependent 
on  Colonel  Morton." 

"  But  after  all,  Arthur  may  not  care 
for  her,"  observed  Alice,  artfully,  "  and 
you  may  be  making  a  nice  little  trouble 
for  yourself.  Wait,  my  dear,  —  wait  a 
little." 

"  But  I  never  did  like  to  wait.  Why, 
then,  Alice,  did  you  say  he  was  in  love 
with  her  ?  " 

"  But  I  never  did  say  so." 

"  Well,  if  it 's  only  the  girl,  I  can 
afford  to  bide  my  time." 

"  But  remember,  Helen,  I  did  not  say 
how  far  this  had  gone,  or  who  was  to 
blame,  if  any  one  is  ;  I  only .  said  that 
there  was  danger." 

"Now,  really,  my  dear,  don't  you 
think  that  you  are  a  little  exasperat- 
ing ? "  said  Mrs.  Morton. 

"  No  ;  I  don't  want  to  be.  I  shall 
feel  easy  now  that  you  are  here;  that 
is  all.  And  how  is  the  colonel  ?  ' 

Even  Mrs.  Morton's  well-trained  fea- 
tures showed  some  trace  of  disturbance 
as  she  replied, — 

"I  have  no  doubt,  Alice,  that  you 
have  guessed  more  than  I  have  cared  to 
write  you.  John  will  stay  in  Europe  . 
until  he  is  tired  of  it.  He  says  that  he 
has  nothing  to  do  here,  and  that  it  bores 
him.  When  men  are  bored  women  must 
continue  to  bear  the  consequences.  Men 
are  bored  and  women  must  weep.  As 
long  as  he  does  not  want  to  come  home 
he  will  stay  abroad.  Unluckily,  there 


162 


In  War  Time. 


[August, 


is  his  wound,  which  gives  him  a  con- 
stant excuse.  If  it  were  well  and  he  fit 
for  service,  nothing  on  earth  would  keep 
him  from  going  back  into  the  army; 
but  he  is  not  fit,  and  the  claim  of  his 
boys,  or  my  wish  to  return,  seems  not 
to  have  the  slightest  value." 

"  You  were  very  brave  to  make  the 
voyage  without  him,"  said  Alice. 

"  Was  I  ?  That  was  a  trifle.  It  had  to 
come.  When  I  told  him  that  I  must  go 
home  and  see  my  boys,  he  said  that  was 
quite  natural,  and  in  fact  was  as  sweet 
and  helpful  about  all  my  arrangements 
as  he  could  be.  Really,  he  wondered  I 
had  not  thought  of  it  before." 

"  Where  did  you  leave  him,  Helen  ?  " 

"  At  Dijon.  He  came  that  far  with 
me.  Do  you  know,  Alice,  he  said  such 
an  odd  thing  to  me  when  we  parted.  I 
had  said,  'You  will  come  home  soon, 
John  ?  '  To  this  he  answered,  '  I  dare 
say,  soon  enough.  You  won't  want  me 
when  you  have  those  boys;'  and  then 
he  said  he  had  been  very  irritable,  and 
at  times  outrageous,  which,  dear  Alice, 
we  must  admit  to  have  been  the  case. 
Of  course,  I  answered,  '  Oh,  no,'  and 
that  I  did  n't  mind  it,  and  all  that  sort 
of  thing  we  women  always  have  on  hand 
to  say ;  and  then  what  did  he  add  but 
this  :  that  it  was  largely  my  fault,  and 
that  if  I  had  exacted  my  own  rights  more 
sharply  we  would  both  of  us  have  been 
happier." 

"  How  brutal,  Helen  !  " 

"  No,  John  Morton  is  never  that.     It 


was  true,  —  quite  true.     I  see  it  now, 
My  life  has  been  a  mistake." 

"  Well,  I  think  I  understand  it ;  but 
just  as  you  were  leaving,  to  say  such  a 
thing  !  And  what  did  you  reply  ?  ' 

"  I  told  him  that  it  was  a  very  nice 
theory,  and  true,  but  that  he  never  would 
have  stood  it,  and  that  is  also  true.  I 
have  no  idea  that  he  will  ever  come  home. 
He  will  discuss  it,  as  he  does  everything 
unpleasant,  but  when  the  time  comes  he 
will  find  some  excuse  to  remain." 

"  And  you  will  go  back  to  him, 
Helen  ?  "  returned  her  friend. 

"  I  don't  know.  I  suppose  so.  I  do 
not  see  how  I  ever  can  unless  I  take 
Ned,  and  for  him  to  be  wil^h  his  father 
is  one  long  misery.  But  there  are  worse 
things  in  life,  I  suppose." 

"  I  am  very,  very  sorry.  But  it  is 
late,  and  I  must  go  to  bed,  and  I  have  n't 
asked  you  a  tithe  of  the  questions  I  had 
ready.  Promise  me  that  you  will  do 
nothing  hasty  about  Arty." 

"  I  will  do  nothing  in  haste.  Here  is 
your  candlestick ;  but  I  have  brought 
you  a  charming  one'  from  Holland,  so 
odd,  with  an  angel  for  a  holder  and  a 
devil  for  an  extinguisher.  I  am  told 
that  it  is  very  old  Dutch  silver.  John 
found  it  in  Leyden." 

"  What  a  quaintly  unpleasant  notion ! " 
murmured  Alice  to  herself,  as  she  went 
up  the  staircase  to  bed.  "  I  wonder  if 
John  Morton  knew  that  she  meant  to 
give  it  to  me.  It  would  be  rather  like 
him." 

S.  Weir  Mitchell. 


CAKPE   DIEM. 

How  the  dull  thought  smites  me  dumb, 
"  It  will  come !  "  and  "  It  will  come  !  " 
But  to-day  I  am  not  dead ; 
Life  in  hand  and  foot  and  head 
Leads  me  on  its  wondrous  ways. 
'T  is  in  such  poor,  common  days, 


1884.]  The  Twilight  of  Greek  and  Roman  Sculpture,. 

Made  of  morning,  noon,  and  night, 
Golden  truth  has  leaped  to  light, 
Potent  messages  have  sped, 
Torches  flashed  with  running  rays, 
World-runes  started  on  their  flight. 

Let  it  come,  when  come  it  must ; 
But  To-Day  from  out  the  dust 
Blooms  and  brightens  like  a  flower, 
Fair  with  love,  and  faith,  and  power. 
Pluck  it  with  unclouded  will 
From  the  great  tree  Igdrasil. 


163 


E.  R,  Sill. 


THE  TWILIGHT  OF   GREEK  AND   ROMAN   SCULPTURE. 


IN  the  gallery  of  the  Vatican  may  be 
seen  a  statue  which  for  more  than  three 
centuries  and  a  half  has  been  considered 
one  of  the  most  precious  products  of  the 
ancient  chisel.  The  greatest  artists  have 

~ 

made  it  an  object  of  study,  archaeologists 
and  historians  of  sculpture  have  written 
of  it  with  enthusiasm,  critics  of  every  na- 
tion have  come  to  view  it,  and  all  have 
united  in  regarding  it  as  one  of  the  no- 
blest works  of  those  master  spirits  of 
the  past,  whose  feelings,  struggling  irre- 
sistibly for  expression,  found  utterance 
in  the  enduring  language  of  marble  and 
bronze.  It  is  of  colossal  proportions,  and 
represents  a  man  at  the  zenith  of  his 
strength.  Although  everything  about 
the  figure  indicates  a  state  of  the  most 
profound  and  peaceful  repose,  the  broad 
and  massive  shoulders,  the  expanded 
and  powerful  chest,  the  strongly  devel- 
oped limbs,  the  muscles  lying  in  huge 
musses  beneath  the  integument,  all  speak 
of  that  period  of  life  when,  for  sturdy 
vigor,  toughness  of  h'bre,  and  ability  for 
powerful  achievement,  the  forces  of  the 
body  have  reached  the  highest  point. 
But  the  work  has  been  abused  and  in- 
jured to  the  last  degree  short  of  entire 
destruction.  The  head  is  wanting,  the 
arms  have  been  broken  off  at  the  shoul- 


ders and  the  legs  at  the  knees,  and  these 
precious  fragments  have  never  been 
found.  Only  the  grand  torso  remains 
to  indicate  to  modern  eyes  what  the  full 
beauty  of  the  perfect  statue  must  have 
been.  A  reposing  Herakles  we  call  it, 
—  a  deified  Herakles  many  of  the  high- 
est authorities  prefer  to  say  ;  but  beyond 
this  general  understanding  of  its  char- 
acter the  mutilation  renders  it  impossi- 
ble to  go. 

We  may  look  upon  this  figure  as  an 
epitome  and  brief  chronicle  of  the  vicis- 
situdes through  which  ancient  art  has 
passed.  In  its  battered  and  disfigured 
form  is  wrapped  up  the  history  of  ages 
of  change  and  desolation.  In  gazing 
upon  it  we  seem  to  see  unfolded,  as  in 
a  most  vivid  panorama,  the  events  of 
more  than  twenty  centuries,  —  events 
which  have  shaken  the  structure  of  so- 
ciety to  its  centre,  and  have  moulded 
the  plastic  substance  of  human  institu- 
tions from  ancient  to  modern  ideals.  In 
this  wonderful  alembic,  as  in  the  magic 
cauldron  of  Medea,  have  been  mingled 
elements  of  the  most  dissimilar  nature. 
Among  them,  cast  in  by  the  hand  of 
that  greatest  of  sorceresses,  whose  in- 
fluence is  felt  in  the  insatiable  cravings 
of  mankind  for  power,  progress,  and 


164 


The  Twilight  of  Crreek  and  Roman  Sculpture.         [August, 


change,  were  the  precious  products  of 
Greek  and  Roman  art.  That  they  were 
in  part  consumed  need  cause  us  no  sur- 
prise. From  the  entire  mass  the  .ZEson 
of  humanity  has  come  forth  restored 
to  youthful  strength,  and  like  the  youth 
of  that  old  heroic  age  has  entered  once 
more  upon  the  career  of  dauntless  and 
magnanimous  achievement. 

o 

The  external  changes  through  which 
art  has  passed  form  one  of  the  most  in- 
teresting and  striking  episodes  in  the 
transition  from  ancient  to  modern  soci- 
ety. Here,  as  in  so  many  other  depart- 
ments of  history,  it  is  revolution  rather 
than  evolution  which  meets  the  eye  of 
the  investigator.  Of  statues  of  the  clas- 

O 

sic  era  there  is  not  one,  perhaps,  which 
stands  to-day  upon  its  ancient  base. 
Carried  from  city  to  city  and  from  land 
to  land  ;  transported  across  seas  ;  set  up 
this  year  in  Athens,  the  next  in  Antium, 
Tibur,  or  Rome ;  removed  from  temples 
to  porticoes,  from  porticoes  to  theatres, 
from  theatres  to  imperial  villas,  palaces, 
or  baths,  they  were  at  last  thrown  from 
their  pedestals  to  lie  shattered  and  for- 
gotten, till  the  dust  of  centuries  gradu- 
ally covered  them  from  sight. 

Art  in  antiquity  flowed  in  two  distinct 
channels,  the  religious  and  the  secular. 
Originating  in  an  attempt  to  represent 
to  the  eye  the  divinities  men  had  been 
taught  to  adore,  it  passed  by  a  natural 
transition  to  those  half-fabulous  ances- 
tors who,  springing  from  the  union  of 
gods  and  mortals,  were  scarcely  more 
human  than  divine.  But  the  aBsthetic 
impulse  was  too  strong  to  stop  here. 
Once  awakened,  it  sought  similar  ex- 
pression for  the  entire  range  of  feelings 
and  ideals,  whether  patriotic,  domestic, 
social,  or  superstitious,  and  also  extend- 
ed over  a  considerable  realm  in  which 
beauty  seemed  to  be  cultivated  merely 
for  its  own  sake.  This  twofold  aspect 
of  art  should  be  constantly  kept  in  mind. 
It  bears  an  important  relation  to  the  sub- 
ject under  consideration. 

It  might  naturally  be  supposed  that 


those  works  which  were  connected  with 
the  worship  of  the  gods  would  by  the 
sacredness   of   their   character   be   pro- 
tected from  violence.     Such  to  a  great 
degree  was    the    case.     In    the   nobler 
periods  of  Grecian  history,  indeed,  the 
principle  was  never  disregarded  by  the 
different  states    in  their   dealings  with 
each  other.     This  was  due  to  the  fact 
that,  whatever  hostilities  might  exist  be- 
tween them,  they  all  possessed  the  same 
gods  in  common.     The  Zeus,  Here,  and 
Athene  of  Athens  were  the  Zeus,  Here, 
and  Athene  of  Thebes,  Argos,  and  Spar- 
ta, and  an  insult  offered  to  these  deities 
in  the  conquest  of  one  city  was  sure  to 
be  visited  upon  the  heads  of  the  offend- 
ers in  their  own  land.  The  statues  of  the 
gods,  therefore,  were  never  considered 
a  proper  object  of  plunder.     So  strong 
was  the  feeling  in  this  regard  that  when 
the  destruction  of  a  town  was  decided 
upon  it  was  customary  to  carry  them 
away  to  a  place  of  safety,  after  first  ad- 
dressing them  with  prayers  and  suppli- 
cations to  avert   their  wrath    for  what 
would  ordinarily  be  an  act  of  sacrilege. 
Demetrios  Poliorketes,  in  the  siege  of 
Rhodes,  even  abstained  from  attacking 
the  city  on  the  most  favorable  side,  for 
fear  of  injuring  the  works  of  Protogenes, 
whose  studio  was   situated   there.     An 
instance  of  nobler  regard  for  art  it  would 
be  difficult  to  find. 

In  conflicts  between  nations  of  dif- 
ferent religious  beliefs,  however,  such 
restraints  were  little  felt.  Accordingly 
in  the  Persian  wars  multitudes  of  stat- 
ues were  plundered  or  destroyed,  both 
in  Greece  itself  and  in  the  Ionic  cities 
of  Asia  Minor.  In  the  latter,  indeed, 
there  was  not  a  temple,  except  that  of 
the  Ephesian  Artemis,  which  Xerxes 
did  not  sack  and  demolish. 

The  second  social  war,  which  broko 
out  in  220  B.  c.,  presents  a  new  phase 
of  Hellenic  feeling  toward  art.  Statues 
carved  by  the  hands  of  Greeks  now  be- 
gan to  be  destroyed  by  the  degenerate 
offspring  to  whom  their  name,  but  not 


1884.]  The   Twilight  of  G-reek  and  Roman  Sculpture. 


165 


their  finer  instincts,  had  descended.  The 
war  was  carried  on  between  two  states 
which,  neither  in  art  nor  in  literature, 
had  ever  won  a  place  in  the  bright  fir- 
mament of  Grecian  genius.  On  the  one 
side  were  the  ./Etolians,  a  race  of  con- 
temptible freebooters,  who  lived  chiefly 
by  depredations  committed  against  their 
neighbors ;  on  the  other,  the  Achaeans, 
a  people  brave  and  hardy,  but  lacking 
those  high  mental  and  spiritual  qual- 
ities which  had  won  immortality  for  the 
Athenians.  With  the  former  were  al- 
lied the  Lacedaemonians,  with  the  latter 
Philip  V.  of  Macedon.  The  ^Etolians, 
taking  possession  of  Dion  in  Macedonia, 
leveled  a  portion  of  it  to  the  ground, 
burned  the  porticoes  of  the  temple,  de- 
stroyed the  votive  offerings  and  all  the 
statues  of  the  kings.  The  sacredness  of 
its  oracle  did  not  preserve  the  ancient 
Dodona  from  a  similar  fate.  Its  colon- 
nades were  set  on  fire,  many  of  its  conse- 
crated gifts  were  consumed,  and  the  fane 
itself  was  razed  to  its  foundations.  The 
JEtolians  also  laid  waste  the  temple  of 
the  Itonic  Pallas,  of  Poseidon  at  Taena- 
rum  and  Mantinea,  of  Artemis  at  Lusi, 
and  of  Here  at  Argos.  The  other  army 
was  not  slow  in  retaliating.  Marching 
into  Therinon  on  two  different  occasions, 
Philip  vented  his  rage  upon  the  offerings, 
burned  the  porticoes  of  the  temple,  and 
tore  down  the  ruins.  He  spared  the  stat- 
ues of  the  gods,  however,  and  those  which 
bore  inscriptions  consecrating  them  to 
any  deity.  All  others,  not  less  than  two 
thousand  in  number,  were  mutilated  and 
overthrown.  At  Nikephorion  he  demol- 
ished the  temples  and  images  of  the 
gods  alike.  At  Pergamos  not  only  were 
the  sacred  edifices  and  altars  prostrated, 
but  even  the  stones  were  broken  into 
pieces,  that  the  buildings  might  never 
again  be  erected. 

The  Athenians,  also,  were  destined  to 
suffer  from  the  malicious  violence  of 
Philip.  Having  quitted  his  alliance  for 
that  of  the  Romans  in  the  war  which 
broke  out  between  him  and  the  latter 


nation  in  200  B.  c.,  they  found  their  ter- 
ritory invaded  by  the  Macedonian  mon- 
arch, who  plundered  the  temples  and 
ravaged  the  gardens,  the  tombs  of  the 
Attic  heroes,  the  Academy,  and  other 
buildings  in  the  suburbs.  In  a  second 
incursion  he  broke  in  pieces  a  large 
number  'of  statues,  and  demolished  the 
shrines  which  he  had  previously  des- 
ecrated, here  also,  as  at  Pergamos,  re- 
ducing the  stones  to  fragments,  that  the 
edifices  might  not  be  rebuilt.  The  Athe- 
nians, enraged  at  this  wantonness,  passed 
an  ordinance  that  the  statues  of  Philip 
and  all  members  of  his  family  should 
be  destroyed,  and  the  places  containing 
inscriptions  in  his  honor  regarded  as  un- 
holy and  infamous. 

For  more  than  two  hundred  years 
works  of  art  seem  to  have  suffered  little 
beyond  the  losses  and  breakages  occa- 
sioned by  transporting  them  from  place 
to  place,  and  by  the  wear  and  tear  to 
which  fragile  marbles  would  naturally 
be  exposed  in  public  thoroughfares, 
baths,  theatres,  circuses,  and  market- 
places. But  darker  days  were  coming. 
The  night  which  settled  over  the  Ro- 
man world  during  the  ghastly  period  of 
imperial  crime  was  not  less  disastrous  to 
art  than  to  humanity.  Scarcely  twenty- 
five  years  had  elapsed  after  the  death 
of  Augustus  when  Caligula  ordered  the 
statues  of  eminent  Romans,  which  had 
been  removed  by  that  emperor  from 
the  overcrowded  Capitol  to  the  Campus 
Martius,  to  be  thrown  down  and  broken 
to  pieces.  Subsequently  he  struck  the 
heads  from  the  finest  images  of  the  gods, 
and  replaced  them  with  his  own  repul- 
sive features.  He  even  wished  to  con- 
vert the  Olympian  Zeus  of  Pheidias  into 
a  likeness  of  himself,  but,  failing  to  it- 
move  it  from  Greece,  did  not  carry  out 
his  intention.  After  his  death  his  stat- 
ues were  destroyed  by  order  of  the  Sen- 
ate, and  it  is  probable  that  many  antique 
works,  then  regarded  merely  as  imperial 
portraits,  were  demolished  with  the  rest. 
Claudius  cut  out  the  head  from  two 


166 


The  Twilight  of  Greek  and  Roman  Sculpture.        [August, 


paintings  of  Alexander  the  Great,  and 
substituted  that  of  Augustus  instead. 
Nero,  who  personally  took  part  in  the 
public  games  of  Greece  and  aspired  to 
be  the  most  skillful  charioteer  of  his 
day,  threw  down  the  figures  of  former 
victors  at  Olympia,  and  according  to 
Suetonius  cast  some  of  them  into  the 
sewers.  His  reign,  however,  witnessed 
a  still  more  serious  disaster  to  art  in  the 
great  conflagration  at  Rome  in  64  A.  D. 
Of  the  fourteen  sections  of  the  city  only 
four  escaped  injury.  In  this  fire  num- 
berless statues  must  have  perished,  the 
tract  burned  over  being  that  in  which 
many  of  the  finest  works  were  collected. 
In  the  conflicts  that  took  place  in  the 
time  of  Vitellius,  Sabinus,  the  brother 
of  Vespasian,  shut  himself  up  in  the 
Capitol  and  protected  himself  with  a 
barricade  of  statues.  Being  besieged 
by  the  imperial  party,  he  defended  him- 
self by  breaking  in  pieces  the  ancient 
marbles  and  hurling  them  down  on  the 
heads  of  his  assailants.  At  length  Vi- 
tellius ordered  the  Capitol  to  be  set  on 
fire,  and  burned  in  it  Sabinus  and  his 
followers.  Among  the  works  thus  con- 
sumed was  Lysippos'  bronze  figure  of  a 
dog  licking  its  wounds,  which  stood  in 
the  cella  of  Juno,  and  was  considered 
such  a  miracle  of  art  that  the  custodians 
were  responsible  for  it  with  their  lives. 
Domitian,  like  Caligula,  made  himself 
so  odious  to  all  classes  that  after  his  as- 
sassination the  Senate  ordered  his  like- 
nesses to  be  utterly  destroyed.  Those 
of  bronze  were  therefore  melted  and 
sold,  and  those  of  marble  were  reduced 
to  fragments,  only  one  —  or  according 
to  some  authorities  three  —  remaining. 
The  torso  of  one,  all  battered,  cut,  and 
hacked,  was  discovered  near  Frascati  in 
1758,  showing  the  violence  with  which 
the  sentence  against  him  had  been  ex- 
ecuted. His  wife,  Domitia,  seems  to 
have  been  treated  with  similar  indignity. 
Other  portraits  of  the  emperor,  however, 
were  subsequently  made.  It  was  no  un- 
common thing  to  treat  in  this  way  the 


effigies  of  eminent  persons  who  had  for- 
feited the  good-will  of  the  people.  The 
Athenians  in  a  single  year  erected  three 
hundred  and  sixty  statues,  mostly  eques- 
trian, to  Dernetrios  Phalereus,  but  on 
the  loss  of  his  popularity  destroyed  them 
all  in  a  single  day.  The  same  fate  be- 
fell those  of  Marius  Gratidianus,  which 
had  been  set  up  in  all  the  public  places 
of  Rome.  Commodus  converted  the  co- 
lossus of  Nero  into  a  likeness  of  himself, 
and  according  to  an  improbable  story 
by  later  chrouographers  even  placed  his 
head  upon  that  of  Rhodes,  which  was 
reputed  to  have  been  set  up  by  Vespa- 
sian or  Hadrian  after  lying  prostrate 
for  three  hundred  years.  The  inhuman 
Maximin  not  only  stripped  the  temples 
of  their  gold  and  silver  offerings,  but 
melted  alike  the  statues  of  gods,  heroes, 
and  emperors,  coining  them  into  money 
to  satisfy  his  own  avarice  and  the  greed 
of  his  soldiers.  At  length,  in  the  fourth 
century,  it  became  the  common  practice, 
whenever  a  tyrant  was  overthrown,  for 
the  victor  to  strike  off  the  heads  of  all 
his  statues  and  substitute  his  own,  leav- 
ing the  other  portions  of  the  figure  un- 
touched. 

The  reign  of  Constantine,  however, 
marks  a  new  era  in  the  mutilations  of 
ancient  art.  The  conversion  of  the  em- 
peror to  Christianity  resulted  in  an  im- 
mense development  of  the  power  of  the 
clergy,  who  for  the  most  part  saw  in  the 
representations  of  ancient  deities  only 
the  symbols  of  an  abominable  idolatry. 
Clement  of  Alexandria,  Tertullian,  and 
Augustine  had  written  with  severity 
against  both  painting  and  sculpture.  The 
influence  of  the  councils,  beginning  with 
that  of  Illiberis  about  the  year  300  A.  D., 
was  especially  bitter  against  the  hitter. 
So  long  as  the  statues,  or,  as  they  were 
regarded,  the  idols,  of  the  gods  remained, 
they  would  be  worshiped ;  and  so  long 
as  they  were  worshiped,  men  would  go 
thronging  to  perdition.  To  those  who 
cherished  such  a  belief,  the  path  of  duty 
could  not  be  doubtful :  destroy  the  idols. 


1884.]  The  Twilight  of  Greek  and  Roman  Sculpture. 


167 


and  save  the  souls  of  men.  But  this 
was  impossible  without  the  imperial  au- 
thority, and  although  Constantine,  in 
making  Christianity  the  religion  of  the 
state,  had  issued  an  edict  exhorting  his 
subjects  to  embrace  the  new  faith,  he 
was  too  experienced  a  man  of  affairs  to 
alienate  the  affections  of  a  large  por- 
tion of  his  subjects  by  striking  wanton- 
ly at  the  things  which  they  held  sacred. 
But  Christianity  was  all  the  while  grow- 
ing, not  only  through  the  power  of  the 
gospel  on  the  hearts  of  men,  but  also 
through  accessions  from  that  portion  of 
the  population  whose  conscience  would 
not  allow  them  to  be  at  variance  with  the 
party  for  the  time  being  in  the  ascen- 
dency. At  length,  in  the  latter  part 
of  his  reign,  the  natural  development  of 
events  and  the  increasing  influence  of 
the  church  won  from  the  emperor  a  man- 
date that  the  snare  of  idolatry  should 
be  removed  from  before  the  feet  of 
men.  Agents  were  accordingly  sent  out 
through  the  cities  and  rural  districts  of 
the  realm,  who,  armed  with  royal  au- 
thority, commanded  the  priests  to  bring 
forth  the  images  of  the  gods  from  their 
inmost  shrines.  Such  as  were  of  silver 
or  gold  were  thrown  into  the  crucible  to 
be  reconverted  into  bullion.  Those  of 
gold  and  ivory  were  stripped  of  their 
precious  materials,  but  the  useless  and 
unsightly  kernel  was  left  as  a  grim  ad- 
monition to  the  deluded  worshipers  of 
the  worthlessness  of  these  manufactured 
gods.  Such  as  were  of  bronze  were  car- 
ried away  entire  to  adorn  the  streets, 
forums,  and  palaces  of  the  imperial  city. 
Among  these  were  the  Sminthian  and 
the  Delphic  Apollo,  the  Delphic  tripod, 
the  Muses  from  Mount  Helikon,  and 
the  celebrated  Pan  which  Pausanias  the 
Spartan  and  the  states  of  Greece  ded- 
icated at  the  close  of  the  Persian  war. 
In  certain  cases  the  temples  were  re- 
consecrated as  churches  under  the  pat- 
ronage of  some  saint.  In  others  they 
were  stripped  of  their  doors  and  roofs, 
and  allowed  to  fall  gradually  into  ruin. 


The  shrine  of  Venus  on  Mount  Labauus, 
however,  and  that  of  Asklepios  at  ^Eg£e, 
in  Cilicia,  were  wholly  destroyed,  with 
the  statues  they  contained.  Near  the 
Forum  Tauri  in  Constantinople  stood  a 
temple  built  by  Severus,  adorned  with 
marble,  ivory,  bronze,  and  silver  statues 
of  all  the  deities,  which  were  known  as 
the  gods  of  Severus.  These  were  ap- 
propriated by  Constantine,  who  caused 
the  marble  to  be  chiseled  over  into  sub- 
jects of  a  less  objectionable  character. 
Eusebius  relates  with  pious  satisfaction 
that,  on  beholding  their  fanes  every- 
where laid  waste,  many  of  the  people 
embraced  the  true  faith,  while  others, 
though  by  no  means  convinced  of  its 
superiority,  openly  derided  the  old,  when 
they  saw  inside  the  images  they  had 
held  so  sacred  dirty  rags  and  straw 
which  had  been  crammed  into  them,  or 
the  bones  and  skulls  of  human  beings 
that  had  been  used  by  soothsayers  in 
their  divinations. 

It  must  be  confessed  that  in  his  re- 
lation to  Christianity  Constantine  dis- 
played in  a  remarkable  manner  that  far- 
seeing  sagacity  which  contributed  so 
largely  to  his  wonderful  success.  Stand- 
ing on  the  border  of  two  great  eras,  he 
was  the  first  to  see  the  resistless  inner 
power  of  the  new  religion,  and  to  con- 
vert it  into  a  mighty  engine  for  the  ac- 
complishment of  his  will.  His  eye  it 
was  which,  in  a  purely  secular  sense, 
discerned  the  truth  that  by  the  cross  he 
was  to  conquer,  and  his  ei/  rovrto  viKrja-cis 
was  but  the  projection  upon  the  heavens 
of  that  great  fact  which  his  comprehen- 
sive mind  had  already  grasped.  Nom- 
inally accepting  the  principles  of  Chris- 
tian belief,  it  was  only  just  before  his 
death  that  he  discovered  his  need  of 
baptism,  and  availed  himself  of  its  hal- 
lowed efficacy  in  time  to  save  his  soul 
and  secure  an  unquestioned  place  among 
the  heroes  of  the  faith.  Professedly 
the  champion  of  the  gospel,  he  was  not 
less  the  fosterer  of  pagan  philosophy, 
and  under  his  patronage  the  schools  of 


168 


The  Twilight  of  Grreek  and  Roman  Sculpture.        [August, 


Athens  were  once  more  thronged  with 
pupils  from  all  parts  of  the  empire.  Ac- 
knowledging as  true  the  God  who  was 
revealed  in  the  teachings  of  the  Naz- 
arene,  he  was  not  insensible  to  the 
deities  of  ancient  art,  and,  while  adorn- 
ing his  capital  with  the  more  enduring 
works  of  marble  and  bronze,  contrived 
to  satisfy  the  church  by  the  destruction 
of  such  figures  of  silver  and  gold  as 
could  most  readily  be  converted  into 
coin  to  enrich  the  imperial  treasury. 
Despite  the  statement  of  the  old  his- 
torians and  biographers,  we  are  com- 
pelled to  regard  his  iconoclastic  meas- 
ures as  far  more  limited  than  many  are 
accustomed  to  believe.  They  probably 
did  not  extend  beyond  Greece  in  the 
West  and  the  coasts  of  Asia  Minor  in 
the  East,  and  certainly  did  not  reach 
Africa,  Gaul,  or  even  Italy.  Much  less 
can  they  be  supposed  to  have  been  car- 
ried out  in  the  more  distant  provinces 
of  the  empire.  His  sons,  Constans  and 
Constantius,  found  it  necessary,  after  his 
death,  to  pass  severe  enactments  against 
sacrifices  to  idols,  yet  for  over  fifty 
years  more  than  four  hundred  temples 
and  shrines  remained  in  the  city  of 
Rome  alone,  in  which  the  heathen  wor- 
ship still  prevailed,  and  the  lives  of  vic- 
tims were  offered  up  on  the  altars  of  the 
ancient  faith.  Image-worship,  indeed, 
was  the  most  natural  expression  of  the 
religious  feeling  of  the  times.  In  this 
.respect  the  Christians  were  not  much  in 
advance  of  their  pagan  brethren,  and 
the  great  Constantine,  who  had  broken 
statues  and  denounced  idolatry  in  his 
life,  died  to  have  lamps  burned  before 
his  own  effigy  and  to  be  addressed  in 
prayers  by  his  devout  subjects,  in  whose 
estimation  he  had  become  scarcely  less 
a  deity  than  Herakles  and  Theseus  had 
been  to  the  Greeks. 

Other  emperors  continued  the  policy 
which  Constantine  had  begun.  About 
the  year  375  Gratian  overthrew  many 
statues  of  the  gods,  and  in  383  great 
numbers  were  demolished  in  Greece, 


under  Valentinian  II.,  among  them,  ac- 
cording   to   some   accounts,    being    the 
Olympian  Zeus  of  Pheidias.     Probably, 
however,  it  was  the  statue  in  the  Olym- 
pieion  at  Athens  which  was  really  de- 
stroyed, as  this  and  the  renowned  work 
of  Pheidias  are   sometimes  confounded 
by  historians.    But  it  was  in  the  reign  of 
Theodosius  the  Great  that  the  general 
spoliation  of  works  of  art  in  the  West 
began.     This  emperor,  whose  zeal  for 
orthodox    Christianity  found   scope  for 
activity  in  measures   against    both  pa- 
gans and  Arians,  and  whose  abhorrence 
of  the  latter  heresy  led  him  to  erect  in 
the  forum  at  Constantinople  a  statue  of 
its  great  champion   so  near  the  ground 
that  it  could  be  maltreated  and  defiled 
with  every  sort  of  filth  by  the  passers- 
by,  at  length  issued  an  order  that  the 
temples  should  be  closed  and  offerings 
abolished  throughout  the  Roman  world. 
Though  this  was  no  more  than  Constans 
and  Constantius   had  previously  done, 
the  strength  of  the  ecclesiastical  party 
was  now  able  to  give   to  the  command 
an  effectiveness  which  before  it  had  not 
possessed.     The  monks  and  clergy,  call- 
ing upon  the  faithful  of  their  flocks,  ac- 
cordingly proceeded  to  carry  the  decree 
4nto    execution   in    their  own   fashion ; 
breaking  in  pieces  the   statues,  shutting 
up  or  demolishing  the  temples,  and  burn- 
ing the  libraries  connected  with  them. 
These  violent   outbreaks   were  at  first 
directed  against  the  seats  of  obscene  or 
mystic   worship,  as    temples    of  Venus 
and  Bacchus,  Mithras  caverns,  and  the 
like,  but  eventually  extended  to  other 
shrines    as    well.      The    conversion   of 
temples  into  churches  in  some  instances 
saved  them,  but  their  precious  contents 
were  doomed.     Rufinus,  in  his  continu- 
ation of   the  Ecclesiastical   History  of 
Eusebius,  has  graphically  described  the 
destruction  of  the  great  statue  of  Jupi- 
ter Serapis  at  Alexandria.    The  attend- 
ants of  the  temple  had  announced  that 
the  god  himself  would  protect  this  ven- 
erable fane.    In  391  A.  D.,  however,  the 


1884.] 


The  Twilight  of  Greek  and  Roman  Sculpture. 


169 


mob,  led  on  by  Archbishop  Theophilus, 
stormed  and  took  the  edifice.  Then  it 
was  that  the  priests  made  known  the 
dreadful  will  of  the  deity.  If  sacri- 
legious hands  were  lifted  against  the 

o  o 

statue,  the  heavens  would  fall,  the  earth 
would  yawn  asunder,  and  all  nature 
would  sink  back  into  the  primeval  chaos. 
The  Christians,  imbued  with  the  super- 
stition of  the  age,  hesitated,  and  the  de- 
vout worshipers  of  Serapis  waited  in 
awe-struck  silence.  At  length  one  of 
the  soldiers,  bolder  than  the  rest,  seized 
an  axe  and  dealt  the  image  a  blow  upon 
the  cheek.  A  great  shout  —  apparently 
of  horror  on  the  one  side  and  of  nervous 
uncertainty  on  the  other  —  burst  from 
the  lips  of  the  assembled  multitude ;  but 
when  neither  the  heavens  fell  nor  the 
earth  showed  signs  of  opening,  the  cour- 
age of  the  Christians  was  restored.  A 
cloud  of  dust  arose  from  the  interior  of 
the  statue,  as  blow  succeeded  blow,  un- 
til at  length  the  ill-fated  god  lay  pros- 
trate on  the  pavement  of  the  temple. 
Ropes  were  then  placed  around  it  and 
it  was  broken  in  pieces.  The  mem- 
bers were  carried  in  triumph  through 
the  streets,  while  the  great  torso  was 
burned  in  the  presence  of  the  assem- 
bled people  in  the  forum.  The  sacred 
utensils  and  those  mystic  symbols  of 
procreation  with  which  the  student  of 
ancient  religions  is  familiar  were  raised 

o 

aloft  and  borne  amid  jeers  and  mockery 
through  the  market-place,  and  no  indig- 
nity was  omitted  which  could  degrade  the 
god  or  humiliate  his  worshipers.  The 
populace,  enraged  beyond  endurance  by 
these  needless  insults,  at  length  made  an 
attack  upon  the  Christians,  who,  in  the 
struggle  which  followed,  came  off  far 
from  victorious.  But  the  emperor  was 
on  their  side,  and  the  issue  could  not 
be  doubtful.  Armed  with  his  authority, 
they  went  throughout  the  city,  tearing 
down  the  busts  of  the  god  which  were 
attached  to  the  walls  of  houses,  or  set  up 
in  the  vestibules  and  windows  or  above 
the  doors,  and  replacing  them  with  the 


sign  of  the  cross.  From  Alexandria  the 
movement  spread  throughout  Egypt,  till 
in  every  city,  village,  and  fortified  place, 
in  every  rural  spot,  along  every  river 
and  stream,  and  even  in  the  deserts,  the 
altars  were  broken  and  demolished,  and 
the  land  which  had  been  consecrated 
to  demons  was  restored  to  cultivation. 
Similar  scenes  were  enacted  elsewhere. 
Martin  of  Tours  pursued  the  same  de- 
structive course  in  France,  and  for  at 
least  eight  years  fanatical  outbreaks  in 
various  localities  were  of  frequent  oc- 
currence. While  it  would  be  wrong  to 
attribute  these  extreme  measures  to  any 
direct  command  of  the  emperor,  it  is  nev- 
ertheless true  that,  by  giving  loose  rein 
to  the  ecclesiastical  party,  and  deciding 
in  their  favor  when  conflicts  arose  be- 
tween them  and  his  pagan  subjects,  as 
in  the  attack  on  the  temple  of  Dionysos 
at  Alexandria,  Theodosius  threw  his 
authority  directly  upon  their  side. 

It  is  probable,  however,  that  this 
work  of  destruction  was  confined  chiefly 
to  places  remote  from  the  two  capitals 
of  the  empire,  as  cities  in  Gaul,  Asia, 
Africa,  and  Spain.  At  Rome  it  seems 
to  have  been  limited  to  the  private  mu- 
tilation of  statues  by  over-zealous  indi- 
viduals, or  to  the  pillaging  carried  on 
by  the  eunuchs  of  the  imperial  court, 
who  were  in  the  habit  of  decorating 
their  palaces  with  marbles  plundered 
from  the  temples.  To  prevent  these 
abuses  an  officer  was  appointed,  called 
the  Centurion  of  Beautiful  Objects, — 
Centurio  Nitentium  Rerum,  —  whose 
duty  it  was  to  have  the  city  patrolled 
nightly  by  his  soldiers,  in  order  that  its 
treasures  of  art  might  not  be  molested. 
At  length,  in  399  A.  D.,  Honorius  issued 
a  decree  which,  though  again  prohibit- 
ing sacrifices,  forbade  the  further  de- 
struction of  temples  or  sculpture  ;  but, 
so  far  as  numberless  works  were  con- 
cerned, the  order  came  too  late.  Nine 
years  afterwards,  by  a  complete  change 
of  policy,  he  commanded  the  statues  to 
be  removed,  not  only  from  the  temples, 


170 


The  Twilight  of  Greek  and  Roman  Sculpture.        [August, 


but  from  all  the  palaces  and  public 
buildings.  The  testimony  of  subsequent 
historians,  as  well  as  of  modern  excava- 
tions, compels  us  to  believe  that  this  de- 
cree was  not  fully  carried  out.  Three 
years  after  his  death,  Theodosius  the 
Younger  ordered  the  demolition  of  all 

O 

the  temples  of  Illyria. 

The  autumn  of  the  year  in  which 
Honorius  issued  his  last-mentioned  de- 
cree saw  the  Roman  capital  invested 
by  the  army  of  Alaric,  and  subjected  to 
the  unspeakable  horrors  of  famine  and 
disease.  The  terms  of  capitulation  ex- 
acted by  the  Gothic  king  are  well 
known.  They  included  thirty  thousand 
pounds  of  silver  and  five  thousand  of 
gold.  To  obtain  this  sum  the  precious 
metal  was  stripped  from  the  images  of 
the  gods  and  thrown,  with  many  statues 
of  solid  gold  and  silver,  into  the  cruci- 
ble. Among  the  works  which  were  de- 
stroyed in  this  way  was  a  celebrated  fig- 
ure of  the  goddess  Virtus,  but  the  quality 
which  she  represented  had  long  since 
fled  from  the  degenerate  countrymen  of 
Caesar  and  Scipio. 

In  455  A.  D.,  the  Vandal  Genseric, 
having  avenged  the  murder  of  Valen- 
tinian,  stripped  the  bronze  tiles  from 
the  roof  of  the  Capitol,  collected  all  the 
imperial  treasure,  and,  placing  his  plun- 
der with  a  large  number  of  bronze 
statues  on  board  a  ship,  sent  the  whole 
to  Africa  to  adorn  the  city  of  Carthage, 
which  he  had  made  the  capital  of  his 
kingdom.  But  a  severe  storm  arose, 
and  the  vessel  was  lost  before  reaching 
the  southern  shore  of  the  Mediterranean. 
Two  years  later  an  earthquake  over- 
threw many  large  buildings  at  Rome, 
burying  a  considerable  number  of  stat- 
ues in  their  fall. 

When  the  Goths,  under  Vitiges,  be- 
sieged Rome  in  537,  the  Mole  of  Ha- 
drian, now  the  Castle  of  St.  Angelo,  was 
converted  into  a  fortress,  in  which  the 
soldiers  of  Belisarius  defended  them- 
selves with  great  valor.  Being  hard 
pressed  by  the  enemy,  they  broke  up 


the  statues  with  which  the  structure 
was  adorned,  and  hurled  them  down  on 
the  heads  of  their  assailants.  Among 
the  works  that  met  this  fate  were  no 
doubt  the  celebrated  Barberini  Faun 
and  the  statue  of  Septimius  Severus, 
both  of  which  were  found  lying  in  the 
ditch  surrounding  the  castle,  when  it 
was  cleared  out  by  Urban  VIII.,  eleven 
centuries  later.  The  same  use  had  been 
made  of  the  statues  of  ancient  Byzanti- 
um, when  it  was  invested  by  the  troops 
of  the  same  Severus,  in  196.  Rome  also 
suffered  severely  in  the  war  between 
Henry  IV.  and  Gregory  VII.  Two 
thirds  of  the  city  were  then  burned,  the 
conflagration  being  the  greatest  that  had 
visited  it  from  the  time  of  Nero.  As 
the  quarters  traversed  by  the  fire  were 
chiefly  those  around  the  Coliseum,  the 
Forum,  and  the  Capitol,  there  is  every 
reason  to  believe  that,  with  the  ancient 
buildings,  many  valuable  works  of 
sculpture  must  also  have  perished. 

It  has  been  the  custom  to  describe 
the  conquest  of  Rome  by  the  Northern 
nations  as  especially  disastrous  to  art, 
and  historians  have  found  opportunity 
for  many  brilliant  passages  in  portray- 
ing the  destruction  of  ancient  marbles 
a<f  their  hands.  To  a  limited  degree,  uo 
doubt,  this  is  true,  and  we  may  with 
safety  picture  to  ourselves  scenes  in  the 
sack  of  the  city  in  which  the  reckless 
soldier  would  lift  his  battle-axe  to  dash 
in  pieces  some  precious  statue  that  the 
modern  world  would  gladly  purchase 
at  almost  its  weight  in  gold  ;  but  such 
occurrences  are  to  be  regarded  as  acts 
of  individual  wantonness  rather  than  as 
part  of  any  regular  system  of  devasta- 
tion. It  was  plunder,  not  destruction, 
that  the  conquerors  sought,  and  such 
plunder  as  could  most  easily  be  trans- 
ported by  an  army  on  the  march.  Works 
of  gold  and  silver,  and  to  some  extent 
of  bronze,  must  therefore  have  suffered 
most  at  their  hands,  since  these  could  be 
immediately  coined  into  money,  or  the 
metal  disposed  of  anywhere  at  a  ready 


1884.] 


The   Twilight  of  Greek  and  Roman  Sculpture. 


171 


sale.  With  the  exception  of  the  aque- 
ducts, which  were  frequently  cut  to  in- 
tercept the  supply  of  water  when  the 
city  was  besieged,  the  buildings  and  the 
public  works  were  for  the  most  part 
left  uninjured,  and  were  standing  long 
after  they  are  commonly  supposed  to 
have  been  destroyed.  Art  was  equally 
fortunate.  Procopius,  at  the  middle  of 
the  sixth  century,  cites  as  ocular  proof 
of  the  magnificence  of  Rome  after  the 

O 

expulsion  of  the  Goths  its  immense 
quantity  of  antique  sculpture,  which  in- 
cluded masterpieces  by  Pheidias,  Lysip- 
pos,  and  Myron,  the  famous  bronze  cow 
of  the  latter  being  yet  in  existence.  He 
declares,  indeed,  that  the  city  had  two 
populations,  equally  numerous,  —  one  of 
people,  and  the  other  of  statues.  To- 
ward the  end  of  the  s?,me  century,  Cas- 
siodorus,  the  minister  of  Theodoric  the 
Great,  speaks  with  enthusiasm  of  the 
works  still  to  be  seen  there,  thus  show- 
ing conclusively  that  the  invasions  of 
the  barbarians  were  far  less  destructive 
to  art  than  it  has  been  the  fashion  to 
believe.  The  smaller  cities,  however, 
and  the  villas  of  emperors  and  wealthy 
Romans  were  in  many  cases  less  fa- 
vored, and  those  which  dared  oppose  the 
progress  of  the  invaders  were  often  lev- 
eled to  the  ground.  Puteoli  was  sub- 
jected to  the  most  wanton  violence  at 
the  hands  of  Alaric,  Genseric,  and  To- 
tila,  the  latter  of  whom  also  destroyed 
Perusia  and  numerous  other  towns.  A 
similar  calamity  befell  those  that  re- 
fused to  open  their  gates  to  the  victo- 
rious Attila.  In  such  cases  there  can 
be  no  doubt  that  works  of  art  shared 
in  the  general  devastation.  While  en- 
camped at  Tibur,  preparatory  to  the 
siege  of  Rome,  the  army  of  Totila  laid 
waste  a  great  part  of  the  town  and  the 
;  splendid  villa  of  Hadrian,  in  which  for 
four  centuries  had  been  garnered  up 
some  of  the  most  precious  monuments 
of  antiquity.  The  sculptures  found  here 
in  modern  times,  broken,  cut,  and  bat- 
tered by  the  strokes  of  axes,  show  how 


vindictive  these  barbarians  could  be, 
while  the  multitudes  of  statues  which, 
in  the  last  three  centuries  and  a  half, 
have  been  taken  from  the  ruins  to  adorn 
almost  all  the  museums  of  Europe  in- 
dicate what  a  vast  treasure-house  of  art 
this  imperial  villa  had  been  made.  The 
conquests  of  the  Saracens,  too,  were  not 
less  disastrous.  The  luxurious  Baise, 
whose  magnificent  villas  contained  many 
an  ancient  masterpiece,  was  sacked  by 
them,  and  their  fierce  hatred  of  images 
must  have  found  free  exercise  in  shat- 
tering alike  the  effigies  of  gods  and  the 
statues  of  eminent  men.  Capua,  An- 
tium,  CumaB,  and  other  towns  were 
entirely  destroyed  by  them.  The  cel- 
ebrated Venus  and  Psyche  of  the  Na- 
ples Museum  are  doubtless  to  be  looked 
upon  as  memorials  of  their  desolating 
career,  as,  probably  also  are  the  Apollo 
Belvedere  and  the  Borghese  Gladiator, 
both  of  which  adorned  the  imperial  pal- 
ace of  the  favorite  seaside  resort  of  La- 
tiuin. 

What  has  been  said  of  the  barbarians 
in  Italy  may  apply  with  equal  truth  to 
their  career  in  Greece.  Here,  too,  the 
accounts  of  their  ravages  seem  to  have 

O 

been  greatly  exaggerated.  Notwith- 
standing the  statement  that  Alaric  de- 
molished all  the  temples  which  had  hith- 
erto been  spared,  it  is  unreasonable  to 
suppose  that,  coming  from  a  career  of 
wanton  devastation  in  the  Hellenic  terri- 
tory, his  army  would  so  suddenly  have 
acquired  the  temperance  and  moder- 
ation which  they  displayed  in  Italy. 
Evidence  exists,  too,  that  the  buildings 
said  to  have  been  destroyed  by  him  were 
standing  many  years  after  his  death. 
Indeed,  it  was  in  Athens  that  the  monu- 
ments of  antiquity  remained  longest  un- 
injured. The  story  of  the  terror  which 
caused  him  to  lead  away  his  troops  on 
beholding  the  lofty  figure  of  the  Athene 
Promachos  frowning  on  him  from  the 
Acropolis  is  no  doubt  a  fiction,  born  in 
the  imagination  of  the  pagan  writer 
Zosimos,  who  transferred  to  the  breast 


172 


The   Twilight  of  Greek  and  Roman  Sculpture.        [August, 


of  Alarlc  emotions  which  might  have 
been  natural  enough  to  his  own.  The 
Christian  Goth  was  not  a  man  to  be  so 
easily  frightened,  and,  still  more,  he 
showed  similar  forbearance  on  other  oc- 
casions, when  there  was  no  Athene  whose 
frown  he  had  to  dread. 

The  condition  of  art  during  the  medi- 

c5 

aeval  period  forms  one  of  the  saddest 
chapters  in  its  eventful  history.  By  the 
time  the  Western  empire  became  extinct 
Italy  had  passed  completely  under  the 
domination  of  ecclesiastical  ideas.  The 
struggle  of  orthodoxy  with  Arianism 
and  other  heresies  of  the  age  had  called 
into  exercise  the  intellects  of  the  ablest 
fathers  of  the  church,  and  their  learning 
and  eloquence,  permeating  every  chan- 
nel of  thought  and  feeling,  had  drawn 
the  attention  of  the  entire  Christian 
world  to  the  consideration  of  religious 
truths.  In  addition  to  this,  the  ascetic 
views  of  these  great  leaders  —  which 
grew  out  of  a  literal  interpretation  of 
the  command  to  mortify  the  deeds  of 
the  flesh  and  separate  themselves  from 
the  world  —  had  been  accepted  as  mat- 
ters of  unquestioned  belief.  This  life, 
to  most  men  only  a  snare  and  a  delu- 
sion, was  at  best  but  an  uncertain  prep- 
aration for  a  dread  and  awful  eternity. 
No  time  in  its  fleeting  hours  for  the 
pleasures  of  taste  and  the  delights  of 
the  imagination,  when  the  austerest  use 
of  all  its  moments  barely  sufficed  to 
snatch  the  soul  from  perdition  and  win 
a  humble  place  in  heaven.  The  mas- 
terpieces of  ancient  art  were  therefore 
regarded  as  but  the  vain  and  profitless 
toys  of  worldly  gratification.  But  this 
was  not  all.  They  were  the  embodi- 
ment of  a  religion  antagonistic  to  the 
principles  of  the  gospel,  and  many  of 
them  were  associated  with  rites  of  the 
grossest  immorality.  The  hard  battle 
which  the  champions  of  Christianity  had 
so  lately  won  was  still  vivid  in  their 
remembrance,  and  the  wounds  which 
they  had  received  in  the  conflict  had 
not  yet  lost  their  soreness. 


Under  the  influence  of  teachings  like 

o 

these  it  is  not  surprising  that  a  general 
indifference  to  works  of  art  should  grad- 
ually have  been  brought   about.     Val- 
ued scarcely  more  than  so  many  blocks 
of  uncut  marble  from  the  quarries,  the 
most  precious  statues  were  left  to  totter 
from  their  bases  through  age  or  neglect, 
to  be  mutilated  at  the  pleasure  of  the 
passer-by,  to  be  torn  down  by  the  over- 
zealous  partisans  of   an    unenlightened 
faith,  and,  when  thus  overturned,  to  be 
gradually  covered  up  beneath  the  accu- 
mulations of  earth  which  hid  from  view 
their  broken  and  disfigured  forms.    Ghi- 
berti  tells   of   an  antique  statue  which 
was  discovered  in  digging  for  the  foun- 
dations of  a  house  at  Siena,  about  the 
middle  of  the  fourteenth  century,  and  was 
erected  with  great  honor  above  the  pub- 
lic fountain.     After  suffering  many  re- 
verses in  war  with  the  Florentines,  the 
citizens   in  public  council  decided  that 
their  misfortunes    were  a  visitation    of 
divine  wrath,  sent  upon  them  because  of 
their  leniency  to  this  idol,  which  would 
continue   as  long  as  it  was  allowed  to 
remain   in   the  city.     At  the  advice  of 
one  of  their  number,  it  was  accordingly 
broken  to  pieces  and  buried  by  stealth 
'in  the  Florentine  territory,  that  even  its 
fragments  might  not  pollute  the  Sienese 
soil.     In    a   similar   spirit  Carlo  Mala- 
testa  threw  the  statue  of  Virgil  into  the 
Mincio,  because  the  people  paid  to  the 
great  poet  the  honor  which  should  have 
been    reserved  for  the  saints.     Manuel 
Chrysoloras,  near  the  close  of  the  same 
century,  says  that  many  figures  of  illus- 
trious men,  with  their  laurels  and  tro- 
phies  were  to  be  seen  in  Rome,  over- 
thrown and  rolling  in  the  mud  and  filth 
of  the  streets,  some  were  hopelessly  shat- 
tered, not  a  few  fulfilled  the  oifice  of 
stones  for  the  foundations  and  walls  of 
buildings,  others  were  used  as  mounting- 
blocks  for  horses,  or  employed  to  build 
inclosures  for  cattle    and   asses ;  while 
many  were  burnt  into  lime,  and  count- 
less numbers  covered  up  beneath  thorns 


1884.]  The  Twilight  of  Grreek  and  Roman  Sculpture.  173 

and  brambles  and  growing  trees,  or  bur-  they  were  only  needless  encumbrances 

ied  out  of  sight  in  the  ground.  of  the  ground.      Why  transport  stone 

These  results  were  promoted  by  the  from  distant  quarries,  when  here  were 

unsettled  character  of   the  times.     All  materials  ready  fashioned  to  hand?    To 

the  abler  and  more  energetic  intellects  the  unimaginative  masters  of  medieval 

outside  the  ranks  of   the  clergy  found  Rome  this  seemed  the  height  of  folly, 

employment  in    the  profession  of   war.  Yet    there    were    other    considerations 

Italy    was    for   centuries    the    muster-  which  influenced  them  no  less.     Upon 

ground  of  hostile  armies,  whose  achieve-  the  ancient  buildings,  as  upon  the  an- 

ments  have  been  indelibly  etched  upon  cient    statues,    anathema    was    written, 

the  pages    of   European    history.     The  They  were  not  merely  useless.     They 

cities,    divided    between    rival    factions  were  tainted  with  the  hopeless  curse  of 

which  were    liable    at   any  moment   to  paganism.     The   Flavian   amphitheatre 

break  out  into  deadly  strife,  were  filled  had   been    polluted  with   the   blood  of 

with   impregnable    towers    and   castles,  martyrs,  the  temples  were  the  dwelling- 

whose  frowning  walls  looked  down  on  places  of  idols,  the  theatres  had  been 

the    peaceful    citizens    at    every    turn,  consecrated  to  the    obscene  and   sinful 

Perched  like  birds'-nests  upon  the  hill-  pleasures   of    a   licentious    drama,    the 

tops  and  inaccessible  rocks  of  the  open  baths  were  still  reeking  with  pestilential 

country,  these  strongholds  in  the  towns  memories    of    orgies    which    put    high 

were  built  on  precipitous  slopes,  in  the  heaven  to  the  blush.    To  this  was  added 

public  squares,  along  the  narrow  streets,  a  feeling  of  superstitious  awe,  begotten 

or  amid  the  ruins  and  massive  structures  within  the   mediasval    mind  at  sight  of 

of    republican    and   imperial   grandeur,  those  stupendous  structures  of  the  past. 

Not   only    so,  but    the    ancient  edifices  No    human    hands    had    reared    their 

themselves  were  often  used  for  the  same  mighty  sweep  of  walls,  or  poised  those 

purpose.     The  mausoleums  of  Hadrian,  massive  vaults   and   arches  in  the   air. 

Augustus,  and  Cecilia  Metella,  the  tri-  Demons  alone  could  have  done  the  work, 

umphal    arches    of   Titus,    Constantino,  and  by  demons  must  the  work  have  been 

and  Septimius  Severus,  the  Septizonium  performed.     Virgil  and  the  other  poets 

of   the    latter   emperor,    the    Coliseum,  had  possessed  the  potent  charm  which 

the  theatre  of  Marcellus,  the  baths  of  summoned  these  lost  spirits  from    the 

Constantine,  and  the  ruins  of  the  Pala-  abyss,  and  by  their  infernal  power  the 

tine  Hill  were  converted  into  fortresses  huge  stones   had  been  piled,  block  on 

by  the  Roman  nobility.     So  intolerable  block,  into    those    time-defying    monu- 

did  this  strife  of   factions  become  that  ments  of  the  ancient  world.     Whatever 

in  1258  the  senator  Brancaleone,  who  reverence  might  have  been  felt  for  such 

was  invested  with  dictatorial  power  in  structures   as    the   triumphs   of  human 

order  to  check  the  evil,  found  it  neces-  skill  was  therefore  destroyed,  and   the 

sary  to  demolish  a  hundred  and  forty  only  motive  which  could  have  prompted 

of  these  strongholds,  among  them  tern-  their  preservation  was  wanting.     As  a 

pies,  palaces,  baths,  and  other  venerable  result,  the  crowbar   and    the  axe  were 

monuments  of  antiquity.     Such  statues  called  into  requisition,  and  edifices  the 

as  they  contained  must  have  been  de-  like  of  which  the  world  has  never  be- 

stroyed  at  the  same  time.  held  were   torn   down   by    ecclesiastics 

But  another  method  of  utilizing  the  and  nobles,  to  furnish  materials  for  the 

ancient  structures  readily  suggested  it-  churches  and  secular  buildings  of  Rome ; 

self.     They  were  standing  vacant,  they  while  such   masterpieces  as   the  Niobe 

were    falling   into   ruin,  they  were    no  and  Farnese  Flora  were  buried  beneath 

longer  of  any  use  either  to  gods  or  men,  falling  masonry,  or  left,  shattered  and 


174 


The  Twilight  of  Greek  and  Roman  Sculpture.        [August, 


overthrown,  to  be  covered  by  the  de- 
bris of  crumbling  roofs  and  walls,  or  by 
the  sand  which  the  wind  slowly  sifted 
over  their  disfigured  loveliness.  From 
the  Coliseum  alone  have  been  erected 
the  Palazzo  di  Venezia,  the  Cancelleria, 
the  Palazzo  Farnese,  and  it  would  be 
difficult  to  say  with  certainty  how  many 
other  palaces  and  houses  of  the  modern 
city.  Nicholas  V.  quarried  the  Temple 
of  Peace  for  his  own  buildings,  Sixtus 
IV.  destroyed  the  circular  temple  of 
Hercules,  and  Innocent  VIII.  author- 
ized his  architects  to  make  use  of  what- 
ever antique  masonry  they  chose.  For 
these  new  works  lime  must  be  obtained, 
and  material  for  its  manufacture  was 
ready  at  hand  in  the  statues  and  mar- 
ble  ornaments  which  existed  in  such 
profusion  on  every  side.  No  care  was 
taken  to  preserve  these.  They  were 
at  the  mercy  of  any  one  who  chose  to 
use  or  abuse  them,  and  none  questioned 
him  for  so  doing.  In  the  Basilica  Julia 
alone  kilns  and  stone-cutters'  yards  have 
been  found  at  three  different  points ; 
and  here  and  in  other  parts  of  the  city 
and  vicinity  not  only  inscriptions,  mar- 
ble columns,  and  the  incrustations  of 
buildings,  but  also  the  most  precious 
statues  of  the  ancient  chisel,  were  re- 
duced to  lime.  So  universal  was  this 
custom  that  Petrarch  declared  that  all 
the  modern  Rome  of  his  day,  great  and 
beautiful  as  it  was,  and  adorned  with 
palaces,  churches,  and  other  edifices,  had 
been  cemented  with  lime  made  from  an- 
tique marbles.  Although  an  earthquake, 
described  by  the  poet,  overthrew  many 
monuments  in  1349,  there  seems  to  be 
no  method  of  accounting  for  the  dis- 
appearance of  the  innumerable  statues 
which  he  alleges  were  still  in  the  city 
except  on  the  supposition  that  they 
were  utilized  in  this  way.  So  complete 
was  the  destruction  that  Poggio,  not 
more  than  seventy-five  years  later,  de- 
clared that,  out  of  all  the  colossi  and 
statues  erected  to  eminent  men  in  mar- 
ble and  bronze,  only  six  remained. 


These  were  the  equestrian  figure  of 
Marcus  Aurelius ;  the  Tiber,  now  in 
the  Louvre ;  the  Nile  of  the  Vatican  ; 
the  Marforio ;  and  the  horsemen  of 
Monte  Cavallo,  then  looked  upon  as  rep- 
resenting two  of  the  ancient  philoso- 
phers. Poggio  excepts,  however,  vari- 
ous works,  intended,  as  he  says,  merely 
to  cater  to  the  taste  for  art,  —  a  statement 
which,  it  must  be  confessed,  is  capable 
of  considerable  elasticity  of  interpreta- 
tion. The  practice  of  burning  statues 
for  lime  had  begun  as  early  as  the 
fourth  century,  if  not  before.  Constan- 
tius  II.  found  it  necessary  to  pass  a  law 
against  it  in  349,  and  more  stringent 
measures  were  subsequently  adopted  by 
Valentinian  II.  During  the  mediaeval 
peaiod  these  decrees  were  no  longer 
available.  At  length,  about  the  middle 
of  the  sixteenth  century,  Paul  III.  for- 
bade the  practice  under  penalty  of  death, 
and  gave  orders  that  statues  should  not 
be  taken  from  Rome  without  the  espe- 
cial permission  of  the  Pope.  Remem- 
bering that  this  was  in  the  age  of  Ra- 
phael and  Michael  Angelo,  when  enthu- 
siasm for  antiquities  was  at  its  height, 
we  may  form  some  conception  of  that 
mad  rage  for  destruction  which  could 
be  restrained  only  by  so  severe  a  penal- 
ty as  this.  In  the  same  century  antique 
heads  and  fragments  were  often  found 
built  into  walls,  like  common  stones. 
From  the  masonry  of  a  house  near  the 
church  of  St.  Lorenzo  outside  the  Walls 
were  taken  eighteen  or  twenty  heads  of 
imperial  personages,  which  went  to  en- 
rich the  famous  collection  of  the  Car- 
dinal Farnese.  Even  Paul  III.,  though 
loving  and  protecting  art,  added  to  the 
rubbish  resulting  from  the  previous  de- 
struction of  towers  and  fortresses  in 
the  Forum  by  demolishing  three  small 
churches  and  over  two  hundred  houses 
and  other  buildings  between  the  arches 
of  Titus  and  Constantine,  when  he  con- 
structed his  triumphal  street  from  the 
Porta  San  Sebastiano  to  the  Capitol,  pre- 
paratory to  the  reception  of  Charles  V., 


1884.] 


The  Twilight  of  Greek  and  Roman  Sculpture. 


175 


in  1536.  The  debris  from  the  neigh- 
boring hills  was  also  deposited  here 
when  the  old  foundations  were  cleared 
for  the  erection  of  new  structures,  until 
the  accumulation  in  some  places  reached 
a  depth  of  forty  feet,  and  such  works 
as  had  escaped  destruction  were  buried 
hopelessly  beneath  it.  A  similar  state 
of  things  existed  in  other  parts  of  the 
city.  The  scarcity  of  metal,  too,  caused 
the  bronzes  of  antiquity  to  be  in  equal 
demand  for  the  needs  of  the  times.  Six- 
tus  IV.  destroyed  the  most  ancient 
bridge  across  the  Tiber  for  cannon-balls. 

o 

Urban  VIII.  removed  the  bronze  from 
the  beams  and  ceiling  in  the  portico  of 
the  Pantheon,  and  converted  it  into  the 
columns  which  support  the  canopy  of 
the  high  altar  of  St.  Peter's,  and  into 
cannon  for  the  defense  of  the  papal 
fortress  of  St.  Angelo.  There  is  no  rea- 
son to  suppose,  indeed,  that  these  pon- 
tiffs would  feel  toward  sculptures  in 
bronze  a  tenderness  which  those  in  mar- 
ble had  failed  to  awaken  within  them, 
and  masterpieces  by  Myron  and  Lysip- 
pos  may  have  been  among  the  works 
that  disappeared  forever  in  the  melting- 
pot  of  the  founder.  Sunt  idola  anti- 
quorum,  —  "  They  are  the  idols  of  the 
ancients,"  —  growled  Adrian  VI.,  as  he 
walked  through  the  Belvedere  gallery 
after  his  election  to  succeed  the  muni- 
ficent Leo  X.  Pius  V.,  nearly  half  a 
century  later,  debated  the  question  of  re- 
moving the  statues  of  the  gods  from  the 
Vatican,  and  Sixtus  V.,  at  the  expiration 
of  twenty  years  more,  ordered  all  such 
to  be  thrown  from  the  Capitol.  The 
importance  of  keeping  in  mind  the  dis- 
tinction between  sacred  and  secular  art 
is  here  seen.  In  antiquity  it  was  the 
latter  which  suffered  most,  the  figures  of 
the  gods  being  generally  preserved  by 
the  Greeks  and  Romans  in  their  foreign 
and  domestic  wars.  In  later  times  the 
reverse  was  true.  The  statues  of  the 
ancient  deities  were  the  most  obnoxious 
to  the  champions  of  the  Christian  faith, 
and  hence  were  frequently  destroyed 


when  those  of  heroes  and  eminent  men 
escaped.  Barggeus,  professor  of  belles- 
lettres  at  Pisa  in  the  latter  half  of  the 
sixteenth  century,  and  the  defender  of 
papal  iconoclasm  as  directed  against 
the  works  of  classic  art,  mentions  the 
fact  that  almost  all  the  statues  found  in 
his  time  overturned  upon  the  ground 
were  those  of  Venus,  Apollo,  Jupiter, 
Mercury,  Bacchus,  satyrs,  and  similar 
subjects  relating  to  the  superstitions  and 
fables  of  the  pagan  religion.  From  this 
he  infers  that  the  motive  of  their  de- 
struction was  a  purely  ecclesiastical  one ; 
and  such,  no  doubt,  it  was.  Thrown 
down  and  broken  partly  by  command 
of  the  Popes,  partly  by  the  zeal  of  the 
people  ;  jeered  and  mocked  at  and  spit 
upon  by  those  within  whose  bosoms 
their  beauty  could  awaken  no  responsive 
feeling ;  made  the  target  of  missiles ; 
their  shattered  fragments  employed  to 
prop  the  pots  of  the  housewife  or  to 
stop  the  chinks  of  walls  ;  their  heads 
rolled  about  by  boys  in  sport,  or  used, 
it  may  be,  as  cannon-balls  to  subserve 
the  needs  of  mediaeval  artillery,  —  what 
crime  had  these  frail  beings  of  the  im- 

o 

agination  committed  ?  The  crime  of 
surviving  an  age  which  could  appreciate 
their  worth.. 

One  cannot  dwell  upon  considerations 
like  these  without  emotions  of  the  deep- 
est sadness.  As  we  think  of  those  mas- 
terful creations  in  which  the  ancient  ar- 
tist had  embodied  the  choicest  feelings 
of  his  soul,  and  in  imagination  see  them 
shivered  by  the  axe  and  sledge-hammer, 
then  stand  by  the  kiln  and  look  upon 
the  fragments  as  they  gradually  crum- 
ble into  lime,  or  beside  the  furnace  of 
the  bronze-moulder,  and  watch  the  metal 
of  exquisite  hands  and  limbs,  or  of 
fair,  sweet  features  that  have  calmly 
looked  the  centuries  in  the  face  and  felt 
no  change,  slowly  melting  to  a  liquid 
mass,  in  which  their  delicate  outlines 
and  still  more  delicate  spiritual  qualities 
are  forever  lost,  we  involuntarily  ex- 
claim, in  the  language  of  the  Northern 


176 


The  Twilight  of  Greek  and  Roman  Sculpture.        [August, 


mythology,  Surely  the  twilight  of  the 
gods  has  come. 

But  it  was  not  at  Rome  alone  that 
works  of  sculpture  met  such  a  fate.  In 
the  capital  of  the  East  a  similar  series  of 
calamities  overtook  them.  The  Fortuna 
Urbis,  borne  in  the  chariot  of  the  sun, 
which  was  erected  by  Constantine  in  the 
Hippodrome,  was  ordered  by  Julian  to 
be  thrown  into  a  pit  and  covered  with 
earth,  on  account  of  the  cross  that  the 
champion  of  Christianity  had  caused 
to  be  engraved  upon  its  forehead.  It  is 
probable  that  other  works,  equally  ob- 
jectionable to  the  restorer  of  paganism, 
met  a  like  doom,  though  their  loss  in  an 
artistic  point  of  view  cannot  have  been 
great.  The  effigy  of  Julian  himself, 
which  he  had  erected  in  front  of  the 
mint,  was  subsequently  broken  to  pieces 
by  Theodosius  the  Great,  through  abhor- 
rence of  one  whom  he  regarded  only  as 
a  detestable  apostate.  The  Arians,  on 
coming  into  power,  under  the  patronage 
of  Constantius  and  Valens  threw  into 
the  fire  the  statues  of  Alexander,  Me- 
trophanes,  Mary,  Jesus,  and  Paul,  which 
Constantine  had  placed  near  his  great 
column  in  the  Forum.  During  a  confla- 
gration, in  the  reign  of  Theodosius  the 
Younger,  a  triple  statue  of  porphyry, 
said  to  represent  Constantine,  Constan- 
tius, and  Constans,  was  stolen  and  car- 
ried from  the  city.  The  emperor  sent 
out  a  messenger  into  remote  parts  and 
along  the  sea-coasts,  with  threats  of  ven- 
geance if  it  was  not  returned.  The  rob- 
bers, on  being  overtaken,  threw  them- 
selves and  their  plunder  into  the  sea. 
Ropes  and  boats  were  brought,  divers 
were  secured,  and  great  rewards  were 
offered,  but  the  statue  could  not  be 
recovered.  Among  the  many  works 
brought  to  Constantinople  was  one  of 
Menander,  made  of  wrought  silver,  eight 
cubits  wide  and  fifteen  cubits  long.  This 
was  appropriated  by  the  Emperor  Mar- 
cianus,  who  converted  it  into  coin  for 
the  royal  treasury,  or,  as  Codinus  says, 
for  distribution  among  the  poor. 


During  the  reign  of  Leo  I.  his  gen- 
eral, Ardaburius,  while  in  Thrace,  came 
upon  a  statue  of  Herodiafi,  hump-backed 
and  fat,  and  so  hideous  that  he  demol- 
ished it ;  whereupon  he  found  in  it  a 
hundred  and  thirty-three  pounds  of  gold. 
Elated  at  his  good  fortune,  he  hastened 
to  announce  it  to  his  sovereign.  The 

o 

emperor,  either  from  cupidity,  or  for  the 
purpose  of  conveying  a  salutary  rebuke 
for  such  an  invasion  of  the  royal  pre- 
rogative, ordered  him  to  be  put  to  death. 
Anastasius  melted  many  of  the  bronze 
statues  which  adorned  the  city,  and  even 
one  of  Constantine  himself,  to  obtain 
metal  for  his  own  colossal  equestrian 
figure.  This  was  placed  in  the  Forum 
Tauri,  upon  the  column  on  which  the 
statue  of  Theodosius  the  Great  formerly 
stood,  the  latter  having  been  prostrated 
by  an  earthquake  in  476.  This  magni- 
ficent column,  which  was  mounted  upon 
a  socle  of  white  marble  twenty  feet  high, 
consisted  of  six  enormous  blocks  of 
porphyry,  each  eleven  feet  in  diameter 
and  ten  feet  thick.  These  were  perfo- 
rated vertically  with  a  cochleary  passage, 
which,  when  the  sections  were  placed  in 
position,  formed  a  continuous  winding 
staircase  from  the  bottom  to  the  top. 
When  it  is  remembered  that  this  stone 
is  so  hard  as  to  require  two  entire  years 
for  the  chiseling  and  polishing  of  an  or- 
dinary statue,  some  conception  may  be 
formed  of  the  enormous  task  of  con- 
structing a  work  like  this.  The  figure 
of  Anastasius  was  itself  succeeded  by 
that  of  Apollo,  which  was  attributed  to 
Pheidias,  and  remained  till  the  reign  of 
Alexis  Comnenos  in  the  twelfth  century. 
Justinian  overthrew  the  leaden  column 
supporting  the  silver  statue  of  Theodo- 
sius in  the  Forum  Augusteuin,  convert- 
ing the  lead  into  water-pipes  for  the 
public  aqueducts,  and  using  the  precious 
metal,  which  weighed  over  seven  thou- 
sand pounds,  to  defray  the  expense  of 
his  own  equestrian  figure.  This  was 
made  out  of  the  bronze  tiles  of  the 
Chalke,  and  was  erected  upon  a  por- 


1884.]  The  Twilight  of  Greek  and  Roman  Sculpture. 


177 


phyry  pillar  in  the  place  in  which  its 
predecessor  had  stood.  In  the  Hippo- 
drome was  a  colossus  of  hewn  stones 
sheathed  with  plates  of  bronze.  These 
were  stripped  off  in  the  barbarian  inva- 
sions, but  the  rest  of  the  structure  was 
to  be  seen  there  as  late  as  the  sixteenth 
century.  At  the  close  of  the  sixth,  Mau- 
ritius broke  in  pieces  all  the  statues  of 
the  Hexakionion,  and  also  the  Fortuna 
Urbis  which  Constantine  had  brought 
from  Rome,  and  which  for  two  centuries 
and  a  half  had  stood  above  the  arch  of 
the  palace.  It  was  probably  this  same 
figure  whose  hands  Michael  Rhangabe 
ordered  to  be  cut  off,  that  factions  against 
the  emperor  might  not  prosper. 

In  the  Forum  Bovis  was  the  bronze 
figure  of  a  bull,  erected  by  Valentinia- 
nus,  the  chamberlain  of  Constans.  This, 
like  the  famous  bull  of  Phalaris  at 
Agrigentum,  was  used  as  a  furnace  in 
which  criminals  were  burned  to  death. 
It  is  said  to  have  been  frequently  em- 
ployed by  Julian  in  ridding  himself  of 
the  Christians,  and  continued  to  con- 
sume its  human  victims  till  the  time  of 
Phocas,  at  the  beginning  of  the  seventh 
century.  This  emperor  was  overthrown 
and  thrust  into  it  by  his  rival  Herakleios, 
aud  the  statue  was  afterward  melted 
and  coined  into  money  for  the  enroll- 
ment of  troops  in  Pontus.  On  the  right 
side  of  the  Forum  of  Constantine  stood 
twelve  porphyry  statues  and  twelve 
gilded  sirens.  Two  of  these  were  de- 
molished, three  carried  to  the  church  of 
St.  Mamas,  and  the  rest  left  for  a  long 
time  in  situ.  Not  without  touches  of 
grim  humor  did  these  old  iconoclasts  set 
about  their  destructive  task,  laughing 
and  cracking  many  a  joke  as  the  works 
of  ancient  genius  disappeared  beneath 
their  hands.  "  Come,  Herakles,"  said  a 
certain  Diagoras,  as  he  placed  on  the 
fire  the  fragments  of  a  fine  old  wooden 
statue  of  the  hero  which  he  had  split  up 
for  fuel,  '"  you  have  already  performed 
twelve  labors;  now  undertake  a  thir- 
teenth, and  cook  me  a  dish  of  lentils." 

VOL.  LIV.  —  NO.  322.  12 


It  is  curious  to  reflect  that  this  sally 
constitutes  its  author's  sole  claim  to  im- 
mortality. But  for  it  his  very  name 
would  long  since  have  become  extinct, 
—  so  high  a  value  do  men  place  on 
that  rare  quality,  wit. 

In  the  Zeugma  —  a  place  so  called 
because,  when  the  bones  of  St.  Stephen 
the  martyr  were  brought  to  the  city,  the 
mules  at  this  point  were  yoked  to  the 
chariot,  and  drew  it  thence  to  the  baths 
of  Constaiitine  —  was  a  figure  of  Venus 
standing  upon  a  twisted  column.  This 
was  regarded  not  only  as  the  protecting 
deity  of  the  lupanar,  situated  near  by, 
but  also  as  an  infallible  test  of  female 
virtue.  Whenever  in  a  given  .case  the 
latter  quality  was  called  in  question,  it 
was  the  custom  to  conduct  the  culprit  to 
the  Zeugma,  and  set  her  face  to  face 
with  the  statue  of  the  goddess.  If  in- 
nocent, she  departed  unharmed;  if  not, 
her  clothing  was  suddenly  torn  from  her 
by  a  mysterious  and  irresistible  power, 
and  her  guilt  was  made  manifest  to  the 
world.  At  last  the  wife,  or  according 
to  certain  accounts  the  sister-in-law, 
of  Justinus  Curopalates,  having  encoun- 
tered the  same  experience  while  mere- 
ly riding  past  the  spot  on  horseback, 
on  her  way  to  the  baths  of  Blachernae, 
destroyed  the  statue  which  had  cast  so 
heavy  a  reproach  upon  her  good  name. 
The  lupaiiar  was  afterwards  converted 
into  a  convent,  and  subsequently  into  a 
hospital. 

Many  ancient  statues  also  perished  in 
the  destruction  of  ecclesiastical  images 
under  Leo  the  Isaurian.  Bardas  Caesar 
removed  from  the  Strategiou  a  Fortuna 
Urbis  and  a  prophetic  tripod  capable  of 
revealing  the  past,  present,  and  future, 
and  demolished  the  other  statues  which 
stood  there.  In  the  time  of  this  same 
Caesar  the  Chrusocamera  was  robbed 
of  the  precious  golden  statue  which  gave 
the  building  its  name,  and  which  seems 
never  to  have  been  recovered.  Over 
the  western  arch  of  the  Forum  Tauri 
were  bronze  figures  of  a  fly,  gnat,  flea, 


178 


The  Tioilight  of  Greek  and  Roman  Sculpture.        [August, 


and  other  insects,  reputed  to  have  been 
made  by  direction  of  that  arch-quack 
Apollonios  of  Tyaua  on  one  of  his  visits 
to  Constantinople.  As  long  as  they  re- 
mained there,  say  the  old  chroniclers, 
neither  flies,  gnats,  nor  fleas  entered  the 
city.  They  were  thrown  down  and 
broken  to  pieces,  however,  by  Basil  the 
Macedonian  in  the  latter  half  of  the 
ninth  century,  either  because,  like  the 
modern  traveler,  he  had  not  experienced 
entire  immunity  from  those  vivacious 
pests,  or  because  he  regarded  such  a 
concession  to  the  powers  of  darkness  as 
a  greater  evil  than  that  which  it  was 
designed  to  obviate.  The  statue  of  Con- 
stantine,  which  stood  on  the  great  por- 
phyry pillar  in  the  Forum,  after  remain- 
ing unharmed  for  more  than  seven  hun- 
dred years,  at  length  fell  in  a  gale,  in 
the  reign  of  Alexis  Comnenos,  break- 
ing into  fragments  and  killing  several 
persons. 

In  the  fifth  century  Constantinople 
was  desolated  by  no  less  than  four  great 
conflagrations.  In  the  reign  of  Arca- 
dius  one  of  the  senate-houses  and  its  ad- 
jacent buildings  were  destroyed.  Under 
Leo  I.  fire  twice  swept  over  the  city, 
and  a  large  part  of  it  was  laid  in  ashes, 
including  the  great  senate-house  in  the 
Forum  of  Constantine  and  all  its  wealth 
of  statues.  In  the  time  of  Basiliskos 
two  of  the  largest  porticoes,  the  mint, 
the  Lausos  with  its  inestimable  collection 
of  ancient  bronzes  and  marbles,  the 
statues  of  the  Forum  Augusteum,  the 
Cistern  Basilica,  and  the  great  library  of 
a  hundred  and  twenty  thousand  volumes 
were  consumed.  Among  the  treasures 
of  the  latter  was  the  famous  book,  a  hun- 
dred and  twenty  feet  in  length,  made 
from  a  dragon's  intestines  and  contain- 
ing the  entire  Iliad  and  Odyssey.  In 
the  riot  of  the  circus  factions  under 
Justinian  the  town  was  again  set  on  fire, 
and  the  Chalke  and  the  baths  of  Zeux- 
ippos,  both  so  richly  stocked  with  stat- 
ues, were  destroyed.  In  one  of  these 
great  calamities,  when  nearly  the  entire 


city  had  been  leveled  to  the  ground,  a 
two-faced  seated  female  figure  in  the 
Castrum  Panormum  was  protected  as 
if  by  divine  power.  The  fire  repeated- 
ly swept  up  to  the  spot,  and  it  seemed 
on  the  point  of  being  consumed ;  but 
each  time  the  flames  receded  to  the 
distance  of  fifteen  ells,  and  it  was  pre- 
served. It  was  subsequently  carried  to 
Persia  by  Chosroes,  and  dedicated  as 
an  object  of  worship  there.  In  564,  740, 
and  861  the  fire -fiend  again  wrought 
desolation,  and  much  that  before  had 
escaped  was  now  consumed.  Constanti- 
nople was  also  visited  by  about  a  dozen 
severe  earthquakes,  in  several  of  which 
not  only  statues  and  buildings  but  almost 
the  entire  city  was  destroyed.  In  one 
of  these  a  bronze  elephant,  which  stood 
near  the  great  column  of  Constantine 
in  the  Forum,  was  overturned  and  one 
of  its  hind  legs  broken  off.  On  running 
to  set  it  up,  the  custodians  found  in  it 
the  complete  skeleton  of  a  human  body 
and  a  tablet  on  which  were  engraved 
the  words,  "  From  Venus,  hallowed  vir- 
gin, not  even  in  death  am  I  separated." 
The  adjectives  in  the  original  denote 
by  their  agreement  that  the  remains 
were  those  of  a  woman.  So  dreadful 
an?  act  of  idolatry  could  not  be  over- 
looked, and  the  statue  so  hopelessly 
cursed  was  melted  and  coined  into  money 
for  the  public  treasury.  It  was  an 
earthquake,  too,  which  in  224  B.  c.  over- 
threw the  famous  Colossus  of  Rhodes. 
Some  conception  of  the  size  of  this  fig- 
ure may  be  formed  from  the  statement 
of  Pliny  that  few  persons  could  em- 
brace its  thumb,  while  the  fingers  alone 
were  larger  than  most  entire  statues. 
After  lying  on  the  ground  till  the  seventh 
century  of  our  era,  it  was  broken  into 
fragments  and  sold  to  a  Jew  for  old 
metal.  The  weight  of  the  bronze  is  es- 
timated to  have  been  three  hundred  and 
sixty  tons,  and  nine  hundred  camels  are 
said  to  have  been  required  to  remove  it. 
The  capture  of  Constantinople  by 
the  Crusaders  in  1203  and  1204  was  the 


1884.]  The  Twilight  of  G-reek  and  Roman  Sculpture. 


179 


occasion  of   two  more  of  those  terrific 
conflagrations  with   which  the  unfortu- 

O 

nate  capital  of  the  East  had  become 
familiar.  The  flames,  kindled  by  some 
Flemish  pilgrims  in  a  synagogue  or 
mosque,  continued  to  rage  for  eight  days 
and  nights,  traversing  the  city  from  the 
harbor  to  the  Bosphorus.  In  the  siege 
of  the  following  year  it  was  again  set 
on  fire,  and  in  the  language  of  Gibbon 
a  space  equal  to  the  measure  of  three  of 
the  largest  cities  of  France  was  con- 
sumed. The  town  was  also  given  up 
for  several  days  to  the  pillage  of  the 
soldiers.  At  this  time  there  still  stood 
in  the  forum  a  colossal  figure  of  Juno, 
so  large  that,  according  to  Niketas  Aco- 
minatos,  four  yoke  of  oxen  could  scarce- 
ly draw  the  head  to  the  palace.  This 
statement  is  unquestionably  exaggerated, 
but  it  is  possible  that  the  author  intend- 
ed to  express  merely  his  opinion  of 
what  the  weight  would  have  been  found 
to  be  if  the  attempt  to  remove  it  had 
actually  been  made.  Here  also  was  a 
group  representing  Paris  proffering  to 
Venus  the  golden  apple  as  the  prize  of 
beauty.  On  a  lofty  square  pyramid, 
erected  under  Theodosius  the  Great  or 
Leo  the  Isaurian,  was  an  elegant  female 
figure  in  bronze,  called  the  Anemodou- 
lion,  or  Slave  of  the  Winds.  This  had 
been  brought  from  Dyrrachium  by  a 
woman  who  had  received  it  as  a  dower. 
The  statue,  as  its  name  implies,  served 
the  purposes  of  a  weather-vane,  and  was 
so  nicely  pivoted  that  it  was  turned 
about  by  the  slightest  breezes.  The 
sides  of  the  pyramid  were  covered  with 
sculptures  representing  singing  birds ; 
nude  Cupids,  in  groups  of  two  or  three, 
laughing  and  pelting  each  other  with 
apples ;  husbandmen  engaged  in  their 
various  pursuits,  with  rustic  pipes,  milk- 
pails,  bleating  sheep,  and  skipping  lambs  ; 
the  sea  with  its  fish,  some  of  which 
were  swimming  about,  some  caught  in 
nets,  and  others  escaping  from  the 
meshes  and  plunging  again  to  the  bot- 
tom. Near  by  were  the  statues  of  the 


twelve  winds,  four  of  which,  of  colossal 
size,  had,  like  the  Anemodoulion,  been 
brought  from  Dyrrachium.  In  the  Fo- 
rum Tauri  stood  an  equestrian  statue  of 
immense  size,  commonly  regarded  as 
the  figure  of  Bellerophon  seated  upon 
Pegasus.  In  the  opinion  of  some,  how- 
ever, it  represented  Joshua  commanding 
the  sun  to  stand  still,  the  outstretched 
hand  being  interpreted  as  engaged  in  a 
gesture  to  the  descending  orb.  In  the 
Hippodrome  was  the  Herakles  of  Taren- 
tum,  which  had  been  brought  from  Rome 
by  Constantine.  The  son  of  Alkmene 
was  seated  upon  a  basket,  over  which 
was  spread  the  lion's  skin.  His  right 
arm  and  leg  were  extended  to  their 
full  length,  but  the  left  leg  was  bent  at 
the  knee  and  supported  the  correspond- 
ing elbow,  while  the  head  reclined  in 
the  hollow  of  the  left  hand.  The  hero 
was  portrayed  with  broad  chest  and 
shoulders,  massive  legs,  powerful  arms, 
and  hair  curling  in  ringlets,  but  was 
without  quiver,  bow,  or  club,  and  gazed 
gloomily  downward,  filled  with  grief  at 
the  hardship  and  injustice  of  his  lot. 
This  statue  was  of  such  size  that,  ac- 
cording to  Niketas,  a  cord  which  en- 
circled the  thumb  was  large  enough  for 
the  girdle  of  a  man,  while  the  length  of 
the  leg  from  the  knee  down  was  equal 
to  the  height  of  an  ordinary  person. 
Here  again  an  error  is  evident  from  the 
fact  that  the  two  proportions  would  not 
be  right  for  different  parts  of  the  same 
figure.  The  second  dimension  being 

^? 

taken  as  the  correct  one,  the  entire 
height  would  be  something  under  twen- 
ty-five feet,  —  a  size  by  no  means  im- 
probable. In  the  same  place  stood  the 
statue  o'f  a  braying  ass,  loaded  with  a 
burden  and  followed  by  his  driver. 
This  had  been  erected  by  Augustus  at 
Actium  after  his  victory  over  Antony 
and  Cleopatra.  The  story  is  that,  going 
out  by  night  to  view  the  enemy's  posi- 
tion, he  encountered  a  peasant  leading 
a  donkev.  On  being  asked  his  name 

v  _ 

and  destination,  the  man  replied,    '  My 


180 


The  Twilight  of  Greek  and  Roman  Sculpture.        [August, 


name  is  Nicon  and  my  ass's  name  Nican- 
der,  and  I  am  going  to  join  the  army 
of  Caesar."     So  pleased  was  Augustus 
with   this  naive  answer  that   after  the 
battle  he  caused  bronze  statues  to  be 
erected  to  man  and  beast,  thus  confer- 
ring on  them  in  the  history  of  art  an 
immortality   which    their  achievements 
could  hardly  have  secured  in  any  other 
way.     JSTiketas  also  mentions  figures  of 
Scylla,  girt  with  savage  monsters  and 
devouring  the   companions    of  Ulysses, 
the  wolf  which  had  suckled  Romulus  and 
Remus,  a  sow,  a  Nile-horse,  sphinxes, 
an  elephant  swinging  its  trunk,  an  un- 
bridled horse  pricking  up  its  ears  and 
plunging  fiercely,  a  man  fighting  with  a 
lion,  and  an  eagle  clutching  a  serpent 
in  its  talons.  The  latter,  like  the  bronze 
insects  in  the  Forum  Tauri,  was  reputed 
to  have    been    made  by   Apollonios   of 
Tyana,  to  drive  away  the  reptiles  with 
which  the  city  was  infested.     By  means 
of  lines  engraved  upon  the  wings  of  the 
bird  it  served  the  additional  purpose  of 
a  sun-dial.     Here,  too,  were  still    to  be 
seen  the  statues  of   the  charioteers  of 
the  circus,  a  remarkable  group  of  two 
fighting  animals,  and  a   seated  female 
statue,  of  youthful  aspect  and  beautiful 
form.     In  its  outstretched  hand  it  held, 
entirely  without  support,  the  equestrian 
figure  of  a  warrior ;  and  although  the 
rider   was   of   robust    proportions,   the 
horse  on  which  he   sat  was  as  lightly 
sustained  as  one  would  hold  a  cup. 

Among  the  most  celebrated  works  at 
this  time  in  Constantinople  was  the 
statue  of  Helen  of  Troy,  who  was  rep- 
resented as  standing  clad  in  the  chi- 
ton. The  brow,  crowned  with  gold  and 
gems,  seemed  almost  transparent.  The 
flowing  hair  was  stirred  gently  by  the 
wind,  and  wns  so  long  that,  though  bound 
with  a  fillet  and  caught  up  on  the  crown, 
it  nevertheless  fell  in  rich  masses  below 
the  knees.  The  lips,  slightly  parted, 
like  the  opening  petals  of  a  flower, 
seemed  to  be  breathing  forth  sound,  and 
the  smile  which  played  about  the  mouth 


filled  the  beholder  with  delight.      The 
tender  grace  of  the  eyes,  the  beauty  of 
the  arching  brows,  the  loveliness  of  the 
whole  form,  no  words  could  adequately 
paint   and    no    description    transmit   to 
posterity.      Such  is  the  glowing  account 
given  of  it  by  Niketas,  to  whom  it  must 
have  been  as  familiar  as  the  Apollo  Bel- 
vedere or  the  Yenus  of  Melos  is  to  us. 
These  works,  which  were  all  of  bronze, 
were  melted  by  the  Crusaders  and  coined 
into  money  for  their  own  use.     In  re- 
gard to  the  Bellerophon,  or  Joshua,   a 
rumor  had  long  been  current  that  in  the 
left  fore-foot  of  the  horse  was  concealed 
the  figure  of  a  man.     According  to  one 
report,  it  was  that  of  a  member  of  the 
Venetian  or  blue  faction  of  the  Hippo- 
drome ;    according   to   another,   a   Bul- 
garian, or  some   one  belonging  to  the 
Western  nations  not  in  alliance  with  the 
Romans.     When  the  statue  was  broken 
in  pieces  preparatory  to  being  cast  into 
the  furnace,  sure  enough  it  was  found 
to  contain  a  figure  of  bronze,  clad  in  a 
woolen  mantle.     The  Latins,  however, 
caring  little  for  the  import  of  the  in- 
scription, threw  it  into  the  fire  with  the 
rest.     Besides  the  works  thus  destroyed 
a  great  many  were  carried  to  Venice, 
prominent  among  them  being  the  four 
bronze  horses  which  now  adorn  the  por- 
tal of  St.  Mark's.     These   are  said   to 
have  stood  originally  on  a  lofty  tower 
above  the  carceres,  or  barriers,  of  the 
Hippodrome,  from  whose  summit  a  cer- 
tain Agarenos,  emulous  of  the  ill-fated 
Icarus,  leaped  into  the  air  on  wings  and 
met  death  on  the  pavement  below.     In 
regard  to  the  foregoing  works  it  should 
be  borne  in  mind,  as  has  already  been 
intimated,  that   Niketas  and  the   other 
Byzantine   chroniclers   are  not   always 
trustworthy  in  the  names  of  statues  de- 
scribed by  them,  though  doubtless  re- 
flecting truthfully  enough  the  most  en- 
lightened opinion  of  their  times. 

In  spite  of  all  vicissitudes,  however,  a 
considerable  amount  of  sculpture  still  re- 
mained in  the  Eastern  capital.  Manuel 


1884.] 


TJie  Twilight  of  Greek  and  Roman  Sculpture. 


181 


Chrysoloras,  nearly  two  centuries  after 
the  conquest  of  the  city  by  the  Crusaders, 
declares  that  he  himself  had  seen  there 
many  works  which  were  subsequently 
carried  off.  He  mentions  especially  two 
seated  figures  of  porphyry  at  a  point 
where  three  ways  met,  and  a  reclining 
statue  of  marble,  probably  represent- 
ing a  fountain  nymph,  placed  near  the 
head  of  a  small  stream  which  flowed 
through  the  city.  There  were  many 
others  of  a  similar  character,  he  says, 
with  which  he  was  not  personally  famil- 
iar, but  of  which  he  had  learned  through 
those  who  had  seen  them.  He  also 
cites,  evidently  as  well  known,  certain 
statues  which  were  before  the  Golden 
Gate,  and  representations  of  the  labors 
of  Herakles,  the  tortures  of  Prometheus, 
and  other  excellent  works,  apparently  in 
bas-relief.  The  latter  existed,  at  least 
in  a  fragmentary  condition,  as  late  as 
the  sixteenth  century,  when  they  were 
seen  there  by  Gylles,  Leunclavius,  and 
Bullad.  Indeed,  we  have  direct  testi- 
monv  that  numerous  statues  were  stand- 

• 

ing  in  the  city  on  its  capture  by  the 
Turks,  when  a  large  Herakles,  still  in 
position  on  one  of  the  columns  of  the 
Hippodrome,  was  among  the  works  de- 
stroyed. 

The  great  pillar  in  the  Forum  Augus- 
teum  supporting  the  equestrian  figure 
of  Justinian  was  stripped  of  its  bronze 
sheathing  by  the  barbarians,  and  re- 
mained in  this  condition  for  centuries. 
It  was  under  the  left  fore-foot  of  this 
horse,  which  was  lifted  from  the  pedes- 
tal, that  the  head  of  Constantino  XIII., 
the  last  emperor  of  the  East,  was  ex- 
hibited to  the  people  by  Mahomet  II.  in 
1453.  The  column  was  destroyed  by 
the  Turks  about  half  a  century  later, 
but  the  statue  was  preserved  in  the 
court  of  the  palace  some  thirty  years 
more.  It  was  then  broken  and  carted 
away  to  the  bronze-foundry  to  be  cast 
into  cannon.  Two  lions  near  the  harbor 
known  as  the  Neorion  were  standing  in 
their  ancient  position  in  the  first  half  of 


the  present  century,  and  may  be  there 
still.  The  group  which  was  placed  not 
far  from  this,  and  represented  a  lion 
fighting  with  a  bull,  disappeared,  how- 
ever, long  ago. 

The  conquest  of  .Constantinople  by  the 
Turks  marks  its  practical  disappearance 
from  the  history  of  art.  The  hostility 
of  their  religion  to  all  representations  of 
living  beings  led  them  for  the  most  part 
to  demolish  such  objects  wherever  found, 
and  deprived  mankind  of  those  scanty 
remnants  of  ancient  sculpture  which  still 
survived  in  the  once  brilliant  capital  of 
Constantine. 

Of  the  fate  of  statues  in  other  parts 
of  the  world  little  need  be  said.  Such 
works  as  had  not  been  carried  away 
from  Greece  and  Asia  Minor  probably 
perished  through  the  common  vicissi- 
tudes of  war,  the  rapacity  of  invaders, 
the  wantonness  of  Roman  emperors,  and 
the  iconoclasm  of  the  early  Christians. 
At  Olympia,  in  addition  to  the  outrages 
committed  by  Nero,  other  rulers  substi- 
tuted their  own  statues  in  the  treasuries 
of  the  different  states  for  those  origi- 
nally dedicated  there.  The  Olympic 
Games  were  suppressed  by  Theodosius 
the  Great  in  394,  and  many  figures  of 
the  gods  were  undoubtedly  broken  to 
pieces  through  the  zeal  of  unenlightened 
ecclesiastics.  In  the  following  year  Elis 
was  overrun  and  plundered  by  the  army 
of  Alaric,  and  here,  as  in  Italy,  works  of 
bronze  and  the  more  precious  metals 
were  probably  melted  for  coin.  The 
pediment  figures  of  the  temple  of  Zeus 
were  cast  down  by  an  earthquake  at  an 
early  period  of  Byzantine  history,  and 
portions  of  them,  with  other  statues  and 
reliefs,  were  incorporated  into  a  rampart 
for  the  defense  of  settlers.  In  a  similar 
manner  the  celebrated  Hermes  of  Prax- 
iteles was  built  into  a  brick  wall  in  the 
temple  of  Here,  and  the  body  of  the  in- 
fant Dionysos  into  another  in  a  remote 
part  of  the  Altis,  while  the  head  of  the 
child  was  thrown  upon  a  heap  of  rubbish 
at  some  distance  from  both.  At  length 


182 


The  Twilight  of  Greek  and  Roman  Sculpture.        [August, 


the  whole  Olympian  plain  was  covered 
with  an  alluvial  deposit,  brought  down 
from  the  surrounding  hills  and  left  by 
the  overflowing  waters  of  the  Alpheios 
and  its  tributaries,  till  the  layers  of  clay 
and  gravel  were  from  ten  to  fifteen  feet 
in  thickness. 

In  other  places  similar  events  oc- 
curred. At  Athens  fragments  of  ancient 
architecture  and  sculpture  were  built  at 
hap-hazard  into  the  wall  of  Valerian. 
The  disappearance  of  the  immense  quan- 
tities of  rubbish  from  the  OJympieion, 
moreover,  is  to  be  accounted  for  upon 
the  supposition  that  these  stupendous 
ruins  gradually  melted  away  beneath 
the  hammer  and  chisel  of  mediaeval  and 
Turkish  masons,  the  latter  of  whom 
regularly  employed  the  ancient  struc- 
tures of  Athens  as  quarries.  The  great 
temple  of  Artemis  at  Ephesus  was 
burned  by  the  Goths  about  262  A.  D. 
After  this  the  columns  were  probably 
thrown  down  by  earthquakes,  such  as  in 
the  last  few  months  have  desolated  that 
unhappy  region,  while  the  ruins  fur- 
nished materials  for  all  the  Byzantine 
edifices  subsequently  erected  there.  At 
length  the  Kaystros  and  its  tributaries, 
overflowing  their  banks,  buried  the  spot 
beneath  twenty-two  feet  of  alluvial  earth. 

But  it  is  needless  to  multiply  in- 
stances. The  facts  in  this  mournful  his- 
tory have  a  wonderful  similarity,  and 
with  slight  variations  of  detail  may  ap- 
ply to  one  locality  as  well  as  to  another. 
Amid  these  vicissitudes  attempts  were 
occasionally  made  to  preserve  favorite 
works  from  destruction.  Ghiberti  speaks 
of  an  antique  statue  found  at  Florence, 
which,  on  the  triumph  of  the  Christian 
faith,  was  placed  in  a  sepulchre  of  brick 
constructed  for  the  purpose,  and  there 
left  in  the  belief  that  a  better  day 
would  come  when  it  would  again  receive 
the  homage  of  mankind.  In  like  man- 
ner the  Mastai  Hercules  was  discovered 
at  Rome,  carefully  built  over  with  ma- 
sonry, at  a  depth  of  two  feet  below  the 
ancient  level.  The  Venus  of  Melos  was 


concealed  for  some  eighteen  centuries  in 
a  niche  covered  with  stones  and  rubbish, 
and  the  Capitoline  statue  of  the  same 
goddess  was  found  at  Rome  walled  up 
in  an  unoccupied  room  of  an  old  house 
in  the  Suburra. 

In  addition  to  the  losses  already  de- 
scribed, a  number  of  ancient  works  have 
disappeared  or  been  mutilated  in  modern 
times.  In  the  war  between  the  Vene- 
tians and  Turks,  in  1 687,  Count  Konigs- 
marck,  a  Swedish  officer  in  the  employ 
of  the  former  nation,  planted  a  battery 
on  the  Pnyx  at  Athens,  and  two  mor- 
tars near  the  Latin  convent  at  the  foot 
of  the  Acropolis,  and  turned  his  guns 
against  the  ancient  citadel.  In  the 
bombardment,  which  lasted  for  several 
days,  the  temple  of  the  Nike  Apteros 
was  destroyed,  and  the  Parthenon  se- 
verely injured.  At  length  a  shell  pene- 
trated the  powder  magazine  located  in 
the  latter  building,  and  a  terrific  explo- 
sion followed.  The  walls  of  the  cella 
and  the  central  columns  of  the  peristyle 
were  blown  down ;  much  of  the  sculpture 
was  defaced,  and  some  hopelessly  shat- 
tered. The  statue  of  Poseidon  and  the 
chariot  of  Athene  driven  by  Nike  were 
also  broken  by  the  Venetians,  in  attempt- 
ing to  lower  them  from  the  western  pedi- 
ment for  the  purpose  of  carrying  them 
to  Italy.  The  removal  of  the  Elgin 
marbles  in  1802  came  near  proving  not 
merely  a  spoliation,  but  an  entire  de- 
struction. The  ship  conveying  them  to 
England  was  wrecked  near  Cerigo,  the 
ancient  Cythera,  and  it  was  only  after 
remaining  there  for  several  months  that 
Mr.  W.  R.  Hamilton,  Lord  Elgin's  pri- 
vate secretary,  succeeded  in  rescuing 
them  from  the  sea,  and  proceeding  with 
them  to  their  destination.  Winckel- 
mann  mentions  a  torso  of  Herakles,  or 
Asklepios,  by  Apollonios,  son  of  Nestor, 
of  Athens,  which  was  formerly  in  the 
Massimi  Palace  at  Rome,  but  in  some 
unaccountable  manner  had  been  lost. 
The  same  fate,  he  declares,  had  befallen 
very  many  glorious  pieces,  among  them 


1884.] 


The  Twilight  of  Greek  and  Roman  Sculpture. 


183 


a  Hermes  by  Speusippos ;  the  head  of 
Xenocrates ;  a  picture  of  the  goddess 
Roma,  described  by  Spon ;  a  relief  which 
represented  Painting  making  the  por- 
trait of  Varro,  formerly  belonging  to  the 
celebrated  antiquary,  Ciampirii ;  and  nu- 
merous other  reliefs  from  the  Baths  of 
Pozzuoli.  It  is  possible  that  these  and 
other  works  are  lying  hidden  and  for- 
gotten in  the  closets  and  cellars  of  Ital- 
ian palaces,  from  which  they  may  yet 
come  forth  with  all  the  freshness  of 
original  discoveries.  A  colossal  trunk 
of  Jupiter  unearthed  at  Velleia,  of  which 
the  head  also  was  in  existence,  was 
worked  over  into  two  modern  statues 
to  adorn  the  ducal  garden  at  Parma. 
Those  who  have  visited  the  Castle  of 
St.  Angelo,  in  Rome,  will  remember  the 
busts  of  Hadrian  and  Cicero,  standing 
in  the  stairway  near  the  entrance,  and 
mutilated  by  the  bayonet-stabs  of  papal 
soldiers.  When  Madrid  was  captured 
by  the  allied  armies,  in  the  war  of  the 

«/  J 

Spanish  Succession,  a  fine  bust  of  Clau- 
dius, which  had  been  discovered  at  Fra- 
tocchie  and  carried  to  Spain  by  Cardinal 
Colonna,  was  found  in  the  Escurial  sus- 
pended as  the  principal  weight  to  the 
church  clock,  and  was  conveyed  by  Lord 
Galway  to  England.  By  a  similar  sar- 
casm of  fortune  a  beautiful  hollow  me- 
dallion of  Hadrian  was  used  for  many 
years  as  a  mule-bell  by  an  Italian  cart- 
driver  in  the  suburbs  of  Rome. 

In  view  of  all  the  facts  of  this  strange 
history  it  seems  surprising,  not  that  so 
many  works  of  ancient  art  have  been 
destroyed,  but  that  any  at  all  have  re- 
mained until  the  present  day.  Trans- 
ported from  place  to  place,  shattered  by 
accidents,  overthrown  by  earthquakes, 
consumed  by  conflagrations,  subject  to 
the  destructive  malice  of  Macedonian 
and  Roman  emperors,  exposed  to  the 
violence  of  wars,  buried  beneath  falling 
walls ;  delivered  to  the  axe  of  the  icono- 
clast, the  hammer  of  the  mason,  the  kiln 
of  the  lime-maker,  and  the  melting-fur- 


nace of  the  bronze-moulder ;  torn  from 
their  bases,  trampled  in  the  mire  and 
filth  of  the  streets,  broken  into  frag- 
ments, and  gradually  overwhelmed  and 
hidden  from  view  beneath  the  earth, 
how  slight  was  the  chance  that  produc- 
tions of  the  golden  age  of  Athenian 
sculpture  should  ever  meet  the  eyes  of 
that  far-off  nineteenth  century  in  which 
we  have  our  being !  With  what  rever- 
ence may  we  justly  stand  before  a  work 
which,  surviving  such  vicissitudes,  has 
traversed  the  vast  reaches  of  bleak,  bar- 
ren centuries  that  lie  between  us  and 
antiquity,  to  greet  us  with  its  matchless 
loveliness  to-day  !  Perikles  may  have 
gazed  upon  it ;  Sokrates,  Plato,  Aristotle, 
and  Zeno  may  have  taught  their  dis- 
ciples in  its  presence ;  Euripides  ajid 
Sophokles  may  have  paused  in  the  com- 
position of  their  stately  lines  to  rest  the 
eye  and  brain  on  the  symmetry  of  its 
proportions  and  the  spotless  purity  of 
its  marble ;  Herodotos  may  have  recited 
his  histories  and  Demosthenes  have  thun- 
dered his  eloquence  before  it ;  Cicero 
may  have  turned  aside  from  the  delights, 
of  poetry  and  the  comforts  of  philosophy 
to  contemplate  in  it  the  evidence  of  a 
finer  genius  than  his  countrymen  could 
ever  hope  to  attain ;  Virgil,  Horace,  and 
Ovid  may  have  found  their  perceptions 
of  beauty  elevated  and  made  nobler  by 
its  influence  ;  the  glance  of  Paul  may 
have  wandered  over  it  as  he  proclaimed 
to  the  people  the  mysteries  of  the  new 
birth  and  the  hope  of  the  resurrection  ; 
Marcus  Aurelius  may  have  seen  in  it  a 
reflection  of  that  heavenly  truth  and 
harmony  in  which  his  lofty  soul  found 
consolation  ;  and  still  to  -  day  the  con- 
noisseur may  dwell  upon  it  with  ever- 
increasing  delight,  and  find  the  subtle 
sympathy  of  art  lifting  him  closer  and 
closer  into  communion  with  those  mas- 
ter souls  of  the  past,  — 

"The  dead  but    sceptred    sovereigns,   who  still 

rule 
Our  spirits  from  their  urns." 

William  Shields  Liscomb* 


184 


The  Zig  Zag  Telegraph. 


[August, 


THE   ZIG  ZAG   TELEGRAPH. 


FOR  nearly  nineteen  years  I  have 
been  waiting  for  some  one  to  write  the 
history  of  this  line  ;  but  during  all  this 
time  no  account  of  its  origin,  or  the 
manner  in  which  it  performed  its  work, 
has  been  published,  and  so  far  as  I  can 
learn  no  hint  even  of  its  existence  has 
appeared  in  print.  Can  it  be  possible 
that  I  was  sole  proprietor  and  operator ; 
that  my  weary  messages  alone  went 
creeping  over  the  wires ;  that  its  faith- 
ful, patient  services  were  given  to  me 
only  ?  If  so,  upon  me  clearly  devolves 
the  task  of  writing  its  history.  And 
yet,  to  own  the  truth,  this  task  is  not  an 
easy  one.  The  Zig  Zag  was  such  an 
anomaly  among  telegraphs,  such  a  bi- 
zarre affair  altogether,  that  it  sets  at  de- 
fiance all  ordinary  methods  of  descrip- 
tion. It  was  behind  the  times ;  it  was 
slow  with  its  messages  ;  it  carried  them 
a  long  way  around,  and  stopped  with 
them  in  unexpected  places  ;  there  was 
an  air  of  mistiness  about  it  that  made 
me  sometimes  suspect  that  it  was  only 
the  ghost  of  a  telegraph,  —  the  phan- 
tom, perhaps,  of  some  incompleted,  early 
invention  left  an  orphan  by  the  death  of 
the  inventor. 

But  stay  ;  I  must  be  more  explicit. 
This  telegraph  was  not  composed  of 
solid  material  substance ;  it  did  not  con- 
sist of  actual  posts  and  wires.  It  was  a 
phenomenon  of  an  exceptional  condition 
of  body  or  mind,  a  phase  of  mental  ac- 
tion in  a  given  direction,  a  system  of 
exploration  in  the  realms  of  memory,  a 
—  well,  I  will  admit  it  at  once,  a  some- 
thing that  I  never  quite  understood  ;  a 
problem,  the  solution  of  which  I  have 
many  times  almost  reached,  but  that  has 
always  eluded  me  by  dodging  around 
unexpected  corners  and  disappearing 
when  I  thought  I  had  forced  it  into  a 
cul  de  sac.  I  will  therefore  make  pub- 
lic my  experience  with  this  line,  and 


transfer  to  others  the  solution  of  the 
problem  ;  and,  as  the  condition  of  body 
and  mind  was  doubtless  a  factor  neces- 
sary to  the  solution,  I  will  make  known 
this  condition  by  briefly  telling  a  small 
portion  of  my  life's  history. 

On  the  6th  of  March,  A.  D.  1865, 
with  other  paroled  prisoners,  I  crossed 
Broad  River,  twelve  miles  from  Wil- 
mington, N.  C.,  and  stood  once  more, 
with  bared  head  and  thankful  heart,  be- 
neath the  flag  of  our  country.  The 
emotions  awakened  by  the  sight  of  this 
emblem  of  all  we  held  dear  I  shall  not 
venture  to  describe.  I  should  blush  to 
bring  the  poor  tribute  of  words  to  the 
flag  sanctified  by  baptism  in  the  tears 
of  our  tenderest  and  the  blood  of  our 
bravest.  For  more  than  ten  months  I 
had  been  a  prisoner  at  Andersonville 
and  Florence.  In  this  article  I  shall 
make  no  attemp't  to  portray  the  horrors 
of  Andersonville.  The  evidence  under 
seal  furnished  by  those  thirteen  thou- 
sand graves  needs  no  corroboration  by 
parole  testimony.  When  the  storm  has 
passed,  the  wrecks  on  the  beach  are  surer 
records  of  the  force  of  the  tempest  than 
all  the  figures  at  the  signal  stations. 
I  had  fought  the  battle  for  life  for  more 
than  ten  mouths  in  those  prison  pens, 
and  I  was  conscious  that  I  had  fought  it 
well.  I  had  lost  ground  daily,  it  is  true, 
but  I  had  contested  it  foot  by  foot  and 
inch  by  inch.  My  resistance  had  been 
steady,  unfaltering,  systematic.  At  the 
time  I  was  paroled  I  was  suffering  from 
scurvy  and  general  debility,  and  had 
also  endured  most  of  the  minor  sick- 
nesses of  the  camp  ;  but  thus  far  I  had 
escaped  those  fearful  fevers  that  had 
wrecked  so  many  of  my  companions. 
Shortly  after  I  reached  Wilmington  a 
strange  dullness  took  possession  of  me. 
My  mind  refused  to  act  with  its  accus- 
tomed vigor.  Owing  to  the  ravenous 


1884.] 


The  Zig  Zag  Telegraph. 


185 


appetites  of  some  of  the  men,  orders  had 
been  given  to  issue  extra  rations  to  all 
who  required  them  ;  and  although  the 
regular  daily  ration  was  more  than  suf- 
ficient for  me,  I  fell  into  line  with  the 
others  and  drew  the  extra.  This  I  took 
to  my  tent-mate  for  safe -keeping,  and 
again  fell  in  and  repeated  the  process, 
over  and  over,  as  long  as  the  drawing 
lasted.  About  this  time,  too,  racking 
pains  assailed  me,  and  I  longed  inex- 
pressibly for  home.  Then  the  vessel 
came  to  take  us  to  Annapolis,  and  we 
struggled  and  pushed  and  jostled  each 
other  in  our  eagerness  to  get  on  board ; 
and  at  last  I  wa£  fortunate  enough  to 
get  tumbled  on  to  the  deck,  just  as  the 
captain  announced  that  he  had  a  load, 
and  could  take  no  more.  My  recollec- 
tions of  the  voyage  are  confused.  I  re- 
member being  rolled  about,  and  crowd- 
ed, and  lain  on  by  other  passengers.  I 
also  remember  staggering  up  to  draw 
rations,  although  I  could  not  eat.  Then 
I  was  helped  off  the  vessel,  and  some 
one  took  me  by  the  arm  and  led  me 
away.  Then  we  stopped,  and  a  voice 
said,  "  Wash  him."  And  then  — blank- 
ness. 

How  long  the  blank  lasted  I  do  not 
know.  When  my  consciousness  returned 
I  was  in  a  clean  bed  with  white  sheets. 
A  light  burned  in  the  room,  but  I  saw 
no  one.  I  closed  my  eyes,  and  was  lost 
again.  When  I  awoke  it  was  broad 
day,  and  a  young  man  dressed  in  a  fresh 
suit  of  army  blue  was  standing  by  the 
bedside.  He  expressed  no  surprise  as 
his  glance  met  mine.  I  lifted  my  right 
hand,  and  was  astonished  at  the  effort  so 
slight  an  action  required.  I  gazed  at 
the  skeleton  fingers,  and  vaguely  won- 
dered where  I  had  been  while  that  hand 
was  growing  so  thin.  I  said,  "  What 's 
the  matter  ? "  He  replied,  "  You  've 
had  the  fever.  You  're  all  right  now. 
Don't  talk."  His  voice  was  low  and 
even  ;  it  expressed  no  sympathy,  no  anx- 
iety ;  he  moved  away,  and  I  slept  again. 
My  recovery  was  rapid.  The  hospital 


surgeon  visited  me  at  intervals  :  he  asked 
me  no  questions  ;  he  merely  looked  at 
me  and  passed  on.  I  had  a  ravenous 
appetite,  and,  with  the  regularity  of 
clockwork,  a  tray  was  placed  before  me 
on  which  were  a  cup  of  tea  and  a  delicate 
piece  of  toast  crowned  with  a  poached 
egg.  As  I  gazed  at  this  dainty  repast, 
I  thought  it  a  meal  fit  for  a  god,  —  that 
is,  for  a  very  small  god.  After  a  few 
days  the  pyramid  on  the  plate  was  in- 
creased in  altitude  by  the  insertion  of 
another  slice  of  toast  under  the  ovarious 
crown,  and  flanked  by  a  bottle  of  por- 
ter. Next  came  the  order  for  admission 
to  the  full-diet  table,  and  soon  after 
the  certificate  entitling  me  to  a  furlough. 
During  all  this  period  of  convalescence 
I  was  conscious  of  no  derangement  of 
the  mind's  action.  My  main  interests 
in  life  centred  in  the  present,  or  reached 
forward  to  the  future ;  but  still  memo- 
ries of  the  past,  mostly  of  home  and 
early  life,  came  to  me  naturally.  I  had, 
however,  made  no  attempt  to  recall  past 
events,  as  the  admirable  system  of  un- 
questioning treatment  practiced  at  St. 
Mary's  College  Green  Hospital  had  sug- 
gested no  such  effort;  and  it  was  only 
when  called  upon  to  answer  questions, 
at  the  time  I  applied  for  a  furlough,  that 
I  discovered  the  singular  phase  of  men- 
tal aberration  which  forms  the  subject 
of  this  narrative.  I  have  said  that  my 
recovery  was  rapid ;  perhaps  I  ought  to 
add  that  as  I  threw  off  the  fever  I  be- 
gan to  suffer  with  a  difficulty  in  my  feet, 
probably  scurvy,  —  a  difficulty  that  in- 
creased daily,  until  each  foot  felt  like 
an  immense  bruise.  But  as  this  dis- 
ease did  not  trouble  me  seriously  while 
I  was  in  the  hospital,  I  did  not  mention 
the  matter  to  any  one,  fearing  that  to 
do  so  would  delay  my  departure  for 
home.  This  brief  portion  of  personal 
history  is,  I  believe,  all  that  is  necessary 
to  put  the  public  in  possession  of  facts 
that  have  any  bearing  on  the  problem 
under  discussion. 

And  now  I  come  to  the  most  difficult 


186 


The  Zig  Zag  Telegraph. 


[August, 


part  of  my  task,  the  portrayal  on  paper 
of  tins  abnormal  action  of  the  miud  ;  and 
in  order  successfully  to  do  this,  I  must 
describe  the  normal  action  in  the  same 
direction  in  sucli  a  way  that  it  will  be 
clearly  recognized  by  all,  and  yet  in 
such  a  way  as  will  enable  the  reader  to 
comprehend  the  abnormal. 

Hold  !  I  have  it !  I  will  materialize 
this  action,  and  if  the  materialization 
lacks  an  arm,  or  even  a  leg  to  stand  on, 
as  is  not  unusually  the  case,  if  it  but 
serve  my  purpose  before  vanishing  in 
thin  air,  I  shall  be  content.  I  will  rep- 
resent memory  as  a  network  of  tele- 
graph wires,  the  main  line  connecting 
the  mind  with  the  beginning  of  con- 
scious existence,  and  side  wires  connect- 
ing this  line  with  each  event,  each  inci- 
dent, each  thought,  of  past  life.  When 
the  mind  is  unimpaired  and  the  lines  are 
in  perfect  working  order,  information 
can  be  obtained  instantly  from  any  of 
these  out-lying  stations.  The  question 
is  flashed  over  the  wires,  and  the  answer 
is  returned,  and  the  combined  messages 
constitute  a  thought.  In  many  instances, 
however,  no  perceptible  action  of  the 
mind  seems  required ;  the  mind  is  un- 
questioning and  at  rest;  and  yet,  from 
the  various  depots  in  which  our  experi- 
ences of  the  past  are  stored,  the  mes- 
sages come  trooping  in,  and  we  call  them 
memories.  These  are  phases  of  the  nor- 
mal action  of  the  intellect  and  the  un- 
disturbed working  of  the  lines.  But  I 
am  also  familiar  with  many  phases  of 
abnormal  action,  and  various  stages  of 
wreck  in  the  lines  of  communication  :  — 

First,  the  poor  wretch  with  the  wires 
all  down  behind  him,  and  the  past  a 
blank. 

Second,  where  the  main  line  is  cut  at 
a  given  point  in  the  past.  Back  to  this 
point  the  communications  are  perfect 
and  the  side  lines  complete,  but  beyond 
—  nothingness. 

Third,  where  the  main  line  is  com- 
plete and  the  side  lines  are  in  order  near 
the  farther  end,  but  mostly  broken  or 


impaired  from  childhood  to  the  present. 
This  is  a  common  case.  The  gray- 
haired  man  prattles  of  the  scenes  of  his 
youth,  but  does  not  recall  the  events  of 
manhood.  Every  word  of  the  prayer 
his  mother  taught  him  is  familiar,  but 
he  cannot  remember  a  sentence  of  the 
speech  that  made  him  famous  ten  years 
ago.  He  does  not  recognize  an  acquaint- 
ance of  yesterday,  but  the  faces  of  the 
friends  of  his  boyhood  stand  out  clear 
and  distinct.  I  need  not  particularize 
further ;  every  one  is  familiar  with  the 
gaps  in  sections,  where  the  storms  of 
life  have  beaten  down  the  side  lines,  and 
with  the  downfall  of  individual  wires. 
Neither  will  it  be  worth  while  to  call  at- 
tention to  the  slight  derangement  of  a 
particular  wire  that  does  not  respond  as 
promptly  as  we  wish,  but  leaves  our 
question  unanswered,  while  the  operator 
at  the  other  terminus  apparently  takes 
a  short  nap,  and  we  scratch  our  heads 
in  vexation.  My  object  in  writing  this 
article  is  to  describe  this  well-known 
system  of  communication  only  so  far  as 
may  be  necessary  to  explain  the  work- 
ing of  the  other  line,  that  no  one  but 
myself  appears  to  have  used  ;  and  as  I 
made  use  of  both,  I  will  designate  the 
fdrmer  as  the  Direct  Line,  and  the  lat- 
ter as  the  Zig  Zag.  The  Direct  Line  was 
always  at  my  service  one  way :  it  would 
bring  messages,  but  could  not  be  relied 
on  to  carry  them ;  it  would  transmit 
one  and  refuse  the  next  in  what  I  then 
thought  a  most  captious  manner ;  and 
sometimes  it  would  apparently  grow 
sulky  and  refuse  them  altogether.  But 
the  patient  Zig  Zag  was  not  captious ;  it 
did  not  sulk  when  called  upon  to  do  the 
work  refused  by  its  rival ;  it  went  stead- 
ily, ploddingly,  at  its  task,  and  never 
rested  till  its  work  was  done.  These 
two  lines  were  distinct  in  almost  every 
respect,  and  in  order  to  make  the  dis- 
tinction plain  I  will  describe  as  concise- 
ly as  possible  the  peculiarities  of  the 
Zig  Zag. 

First,  it  never  took  a  dispatch  straight 


1884.] 


The  Zig  Zag  Telegraph. 


187 


to  its  destination,  but  went  zigzagging 
through  the  past,  making  short  flights 
from  point  to  point,  and  sending  back 
messages  from  every  station.  These 
messages  were  dim  pictures  of  familiar 
scenes,  that  approached  slowly  and  grew 
plainer  until  they  reached  a  certain  uni- 
form point  of  distinctness,  when  they 
vanished  instantly. 

Second,  these  return  messages  never 
contained  the  information  I  was  seeking, 
and  some  of  them  appeared  to  have  no 
possible  connection  with  it ;  and  yet  I 
was  conscious  that  each  of  these  dissolv- 
ing views  brought  me  nearer  the  object 
of  my  search. 

Third,  no  communication  ever  came 
back  over  the  Zig  Zag  from  the  station 
where  it  finally  delivered  my  dispatch, 
but  instead  the  answer  came  flashing 
over  the  Direct  Line.  This  was  the  most 
perplexing  part  of  the  whole  transac- 
tion ;  for,  although  assured  that  each  re- 
turning message  by  the  Zig  Zag  brought 
me  one  station  nearer  the  station  contain- 
ing the  object  sought,  I  never  knew  how 
many  still  intervened,  and  the  answer 
by  the  Direct  Line  invariably  caught  me 
puzzling  over  the  last  message  by  the 
Zig  Zag,  arid  gave  me  a  little  shock,  like 
that  experienced  by  a  person  when  an- 
other jumps  out  suddenly  behind  him 
and  cries,  "  Boo  ! ' 

Fourth,  the  number  of  stations 
stopped  at  varied,  and  this  variation  ap- 
peared to  have  no  relation  with  the  re- 
moteness or  nearness  of  the  intelligence 
desired.  To  make  this  clear,  suppose  A 
and  13  to  be  stations  on  the  Direct  Line, 
—  A  containing  stores  deposited  five 
years  and  B  those  deposited  six  months 
before :  messages  to  B  would  sometimes 
be  carried  further  around  and  stop  at 
more  stations  than  messages  to  A. 

Fifth,  to  each  dispatch  the  return  mes- 
sages came  at  regular  intervals  after  the 
first,  which  took  about  twice  the  time  of 
each  of  the  others. 

Sixth,  the  length  of  the  intervals 
varied  with  the  varying  dispatches  ;  the 


answers  to    some    coming  very  slowly, 
and  to  others  quite  rapidly. 

Seventh,  sending  and  receiving  mes- 
sages by  this  line  produced  a  certain 
strain  on  mind  and  body  that  was  not 
felt  when  using  the  Direct  Line. 

And  now,  having  partially  described 
the  working  of  this  line,  I  will  go  back 
to  the  time  when  I  discovered  it.  I  had 
been  notified  that  a  furlough  would  be 
given  me  by  applying  at  a  certain  office, 
to  which  I  was  directed,  and,  with  vis- 
ions of  home  floating  before  my  mind, 
I  walked  into  the  room  and  stopped 
at  the  desk.  A  grave,  stern  -  looking 
officer,  with  a  pen  in  his  hand  and  a 
book  before  him,  sat  by  the  table.  He 
looked  up,  and  said,  "Your  name."  I 
gave  it,  and  then  supposed  he  would  fill 
out  my  furlough  ;  but  instead  he  record- 
ed my  name  in  the  book,  and  then  in- 
quired, "  What  regiment  do  you  belong 
to  ?  '  Of  course  I  knew  perfectly  well 
that  the  information  sought  was  among 
my  stores,  but  when  I  turned  to  the  past 
with  the  question,  "  What  regiment  do 
I  belong  to  ?  '  I  was  amazed  to  find  that 
the  Direct  Line  did  not  respond.  My 
dispatch  was  off  on  the  Zig  Zag,  and  soon 
the  misty  messages  came  back  :  — 

First  message  by  Zig  Zag.  A  bleak 
field,  with  a  swamp  extending  from  side 
to  side  near  the  centre ;  the  field  in- 
closed with  a  stockade,  and  crowded 
with  wretched,  dirty,  ragged  men  ;  out- 
side the  dead-line,  a  long  row  of  skel- 
eton forms,  with  dead  faces  turned  to  the 
sky. 

Second  message  by  Zig  Zag. '  A  long 
line  of  Union  soldiers  charging  through 
an  open  field,  with  a  forest  before  them  ; 
the  line  is  broken  and  jagged,  as  if  it 
had  met  a  blizzard  of  lead ;  there  are 
empty  saddles,  and  fallen  flags,  and  a 
blue-and-red  wind-row  of  dead. 

Third  message  by  Zig  Zag.  A  reg- 
iment of  soldiers  on  dress  parade ;  the 
soldiers  wear  blue  coats  ;  there  are  fig- 
ures on  the  fronts  of  their  caps. 

By  the  Direct  Line,  76th  New  York. 


188                                     The  Zig  Zag  Telegraph.  [August, 

I  gave  the  name  of  my  regiment,  and  By  the   Direct   Line,    Captain  God- 

the  officer  dashed  it  down,  and  asked  dard. 

brusquely,  "  What  company  ?  "  I  ought  The  officer  took  down  the  name,  and 

to  have  been  prepared  for  this  question,  inquired  impatiently,  "  When  did  you 

but  I  was  not.     My  mind  was  so  dazed  enlist  ?  *     I  had  noted  his  growing  irri- 

with  the  strange  workings  of   the  two  tability,  and    it   increased   my  distress, 

lines   that  I  thought  of  nothing  else  till  Other  patients  were  waiting  to  be  ques- 

the  question  was  put.     Again  I  turned  tioned.     The   fear   that   my   mind  was 

to  the  past,  and  inquired,  "  What  com-  hopelessly  shattered  was   growing  into 

pany  ?  "  and  again  the  Zig  Zag  took  the  certainty.  The  strain  on  mind  and  body 

question.  incident  to  sending  and  receiving  mes- 

First  message  by  Zig  Zag.  A  river  sages  was  intense.  My  knees  shook  un- 
spanned by  a  bridge  ;  beyond  the  bridge  der  me,  and  great  drops  of  sweat  stood 
an  arch  of  evergreens  and  flags  ;  a  on  my  forehead ;  but  I  turned  doggedly 
throng  of  men  hurrying  over  the  bridge  to  the  past  with  the  inquiry,  "  When  did 
and  under  the  arch  ;  the  men  are  ema-  I  enlist  ?  "  The  Direct  Line  rejected  the 
ciated  and  half  naked,  but  their  faces  message,  as  it  had  the  others,  but  the 
glow  with  joy.  faithful  Zig  Zag  did  not  desert  me ; 

Second  message  by  Zig  Zag.     A  for-  although  evidently  overworked,  it  came 

est ;   Union  soldiers   grouped   round   a  bravely   to   the   rescue,    and   took   my 

dead  cavalry  man  ;  a  sergeant  with  face  message.    The  first  response  was  longer 

turned  toward  the  group,  as  if  about  to  than  usual  in  coming,  but   it   came  at 

give  an   order  ;  a   line  of  Confederate  last, 

troops  in  front.  Message  by  Zig  Zag.     A  large  sheet 

By  the  Direct  Line,  Company  F.  of  water  with  a  river  emptying  into  it ; 

I  named  the  company,  and  the  officer  a  snug  harbor  ;  a  grove  of  oaks  with  a 

jotted  it  down,  and  said,  "  Your  captain's  speaker's  stand  in  the  centre  ;  the  grove 

name  ?  '      Again  the  Zig  Zag  took  the  and  stand  crowded  with  people, 

question.  At  this  point  the  officer  repeated  the 

First  message  by  Zig  Zag.  A  long  question,  "  When  did  you  enlist  ?  '  The 
line  of  Union  soldiers,  with  a  group  of  interruption  broke  the  connection  on 
officers  on  horseback  in  front ;  the  offi-  the  Zig  Zag.  The  tone  of  the  question 
cers  with  field-glasses  to  their  eyes ;  the  demanded  an  immediate  answer  of  some 
ground  in  front  descending  to  a  small  sort.  I  made  one  desperate  effort  to 
stream,  then  ascending  to  a  ridge  ;  the  force  the  answer  from  the  Direct  Line, 
ridge  crowned  with  a  line  of  Confeder-  then  I  said  sadly,  "  I  can't  tell."  The 
ate  earth-works  and  batteries ;  sharp-  officer  laid  down  his  pen,  and  said  pet- 
shooters  deployed  as  skirmishers  be-  ulantly,  "  I  can't  give  you  a  furlough  if 
tween  the  lines.  you  can't  tell  when  you  enlisted."  Oh, 

Second  message  by  Zig  Zag.    A  pris-  the  agony  of  that  moment !     I  was  not 

on  pen  ;  a  scaffold ;  six  men  with  ropes  to   go    home,    after   all  !     Was    it   not 

around  their  necks  and  meal  sacks  drawn  enough  that  I  was  shattered  in  body  and 

over  their  heads  ;  a  sea  of  faces  turned  mind,  but  must  this  very  ruin  cut   off 

up  toward  the  scaffold.  my  last  chance  for  recovery  ?  I  thought 

Third  message  by  Zig  Zag.     A  bri-  not  of  the  forms  of  respect  due  from  a 

gade  drawn  up  in  hollow  square  ;  a  man  private  to  a  superior  ;  I  felt   only  the 

kneeling  on  a  coffin,  with  a  file  of  sol-  injustice  of  fate.     The  instinct  of  self- 

dkrs  before   him ;  an   officer   standing  preservation   asserted   itself.     The    old 

stern  and  pale,  his  extended  right  hand  spirit  of  resistance  that  had  carried  me 

holding  a  white  handkerchief.  through  so  many  trials  blazed  out  afresh 


1884.] 


The  Zig  Zag  Telegraph. 


189 


for  a  moment,  and  I  exclaimed  pas- 
sionately, "  Can't  you  make  some  al- 
lowance ?  Can't  you  see  what  a  wreck 
I  am  ?  I  've  been  in  prison,  God  knows 
how  long,  and  I  Ve  had  the  fever,  and  I 
can't  think  ! '  The  protest  began  al- 
most fiercely,  but  it  ended  in  a  wail. 
I  broke  down  utterly,  and  cried  like  a 
child.  For  a  moment  the  silence  of  the 
room  was  broken  only  by  sobs ;  then  a 
gentle  voice  said,  "  I  can  make  allow- 
ance ;  don't  distress  yourself."  Could 
this  be  the  voice  of  that  stern  official  ? 
I  glanced  at  him  through  my  tears,  and 
from  that  instant  I  have  had  a  truer 
understanding  of  the  story  of  the  trans- 
figuration. His  face  was  as  tender  as  a 
woman's.  With  the  utmost  gentleness, 
he  assured  me  that  the  matter  could  be 
arranged,  that  I  must  take  time,  and  give 
the  date  as  nearly  as  possible.  Thus 
encouraged  I  commenced  again  on  the 
Zig  Zag,  and  found  the  year,  and  then 
the  month,  but  not  the  day.  The  fur- 
lough was  granted,  however,  and,  stor- 
ing the  paper  safely  in  my  pocket,  I  took 
the  first  train  for  home. 

At  first  I  was  a  good  deal  troubled 
about  the  peculiarities  of  the  Zig  Zag, 
but  I  soon  made  a  discovery  that  proved 
it  to  be  a  friend,  and  also  showed  that 
the  Direct  Line,  in  refusing  some  of  my 
messages  and  taking  others,  was  acting 
according  to  law  instead  of  in  a  spirit 
of  caprice,  as  I  at  first  supposed.  The 
work  of  the  Zig  Zag  was  to  open  com- 
munication with  the  stations  on  the  Di- 
rect Line,  and  it  had  only  to  convey  one 
message  to  each  station  to  accomplish 
this.  When  the  message  was  received 
and  the  answer  sent  back  by  the  Direct 
Line,  the  connection  with  that  station 
by  the  Direct  Line  was  established,  and 
messages  flashed  back  and  forth  with 
their  former  regularity.  I  have  be- 
fore spoken  of  the  messages  that  came 
unbidden  ;  these  also  opened  communi- 
cation on  the  Direct  Line,  and  to  these 
two  sets  of  stations  my  messages  went 
straight.  Stimulated  by  this  discovery, 


I  operated  the  Zig  Zag.  cheerfully,  for  I 
knew  that  each  returning  message  en- 
larged the  area  of  the  reconquered  ter- 
ritory. By  means  of  the  voluntary  mes- 
sages and  the  efforts  of  the  Zig  Zag,  I 
was  soon  in  direct  communication  with 
most  of  the  stations,  and  the  use  of  the 
Zig  Zag  became  the  exception.  At  this 
time,  I  used  to  ponder  a  good  deal  on 
the  subject,  and  strive  to  comprehend 
the  working  of  these  lines.  One  thing 
that  perplexed  me  greatly  was  the  gap 
between  the  last  message  by  the  Zig 
Zag  and  the  return  message  by  the  Di- 
rect Line.  On  exploring  these  stations 
after  direct  communication  had  been  es- 
tablished, I  found  that  some  of  the  Zig 
Zag  messages  approached  very  nearly 
the  information  required ;  for  example, 
the  one  in  regard  to  the  company.  It 
will  be  recollected  that,  in  the  last  pic- 
ture presented  by  the  Zig  Zag,  a  ser- 
geant stood  as  if  about  to  give  an  order. 
Now  the  order  really  given  was,  "  Com- 
pany F  into  line  ;  "  but  as  no  inkling  of 
what  this  order  was  reached  me  at  the 
time,  by  either  line,  the  gap,  though  ap- 
parently small,  could  not  be  filled  up. 
At  other  times,  I  could  not,  by  the  most 
careful  examination,  find  the  least  con- 
nection between  the  last  message  by  the 
Zig  Zag  and  the  answer  by  the  Direct 
Line.  This  puzzled  me,  and  I  imagined 
that  some  of  the  messages  by  the  Zig 
Zag  had  miscarried,  and  had  found 
their  way  to  some  unknown  dead-letter 
office ;  but  I  finally  became  satisfied  that 
the  gap,  in  each  instance,  extended  only 
from  the  last  station  on  the  Zig  Zag  to 
the  station  on  the  Direct  Line  contain- 
ing the  information  sought.  I  now  give 
the  course  of  reasoning  by  which  this 
conclusion  was  reached.  Since  the  mes- 
sages by  the  Zig  Zag,  came  at  regular 
intervals  after  the  first,  and  the  first 
took  double  the  time  of  each  of  the  oth- 
ers, I  concluded  that  the  dispatch  I  sent 
traveled  at  exactly  the  same  rate  of 
speed  as  the  return  messages.  Thus  if 
A,  B,  and  C  represent  stations  on  the 


190 


The  Hose  and  the  Oriole. 


[August, 


Zig  Zag,  and  D  the  desired  point  on  the 
Direct  Line,  and  the  interval  of  time 
between  messages  was  five  seconds,  my 
message  would  be  five  seconds  in  reach- 
ing A,  and  the  return  message  from  A 
would  reach  me  five  seconds  later,  or  at 
the  exact  time  that  my  dispatch  reached 
B ;  while  the  message  from  B  would 
reach  me  at  the  same  instant  that  my 
dispatch  reached  C,  and  consequently 
the  message  from  C  would  reach  me  at 
the  same  time  that  my  dispatch  reached 
D,  the  point  on  the  Direct  Line  ;  and  as 
the  transmission  of  messages  on  the  Di- 
rect Line  occupied  no  appreciable  time, 
this  view  of  the  case  was  sustained  by 


the  fact  that  the  answer  by  the  Direct 
Line  always  came  to  me  while  I  was  ex- 
amining the  last  message  by  the  Zig 
Zag. 

And  now  the  history  of  this  strange 
line  is  finished,  at  least  so  far  as  my 
knowledge  of  it  extends.  I  bid  farewell 
to  the  Zig  Zag  forever.  Ah  !  but  is  it 
forever  ?  As  I  sit  in  the  twilight  and 
watch  the  gathering  shadows,  and  think 
of  the  time  in  the  not  distant  future 
when  the  shadows  shall  gather  for  the 
last  time,  and  when  perhaps  the  parting 
soul  will  long  to  send  the  final  messages 
of  love,  I  ask  myself,  "  Shall  I  not  find 


it  again 


Lloyd  G.  Thompson. 


THE   ROSE  AND  THE   ORIOLE. 


A    FABLE    WITHOUT   A   MORAL. 

ROSE  of  Damascus  !  rose  of  all, 
Queen  of  the  roses  of  the  world ! 

The  only  flower  that  ere  his  fall 
Adam  thought  fit  to  pluck  for  Eve, 
As  once  she  lay  in  slumber  curled, 

And  he,  though  half  afraid  to  speak, 
Said,  "  Lovely  being,  by  your  leave, 

Your  husband  gives  you  this,  and  this: 

Then  laid  a  rose  upon  her  cheek, 

A  damask  rose,  and  kiss. 

The  rose  before  was  not  so  red : 
But  Eve  awoke  ;  and  such  a  blush, 

With  her  smile  mingling,  overspread 
Her  face  that  instantly  the  flower 
Felt  through  its  veins  new  coloring  rush, 

Till  every  petal  showed  the  stain  ! 
And  so  in  the  most  radiant  hour, 

Of  midsummer's  resplendent  morn, 

The  queen  of  all  the  rosy  train, 

The  damask  rose,  was  born! 

Soon  as  this  woman,  flower  in  hand, 
Led  Adam  where  the  strawberries  grew, 
An  oriole  from  a  palm  that  fanned 


1884.] 


A   Cook's  Tourist  in  Spain.  191 

These  earliest  lovers,  on  the  rose 
Lighted,  and  straight  his  natural  hue 
Of  gold,  that  red  to  orange  turned  ! 
Then  the  sly  bird  his  moment  chose, 
Snatched  tho  rose  from  her  hand,  and  fled 
Far  as  an  amethyst  cloud  that  burned 

t 

In  the  bright  blue  o'erhead. 

Now  when  thou  watchest  in  the  west 
The  splendors  of  the  dying  day, 

Think  of  the  damask  rose  that  prest 
Her  cheek  whom  we  our  Mother  call, 
As  dreaming  in  her  bower  she  lay  ; 

Remember,  too,  the  oriole's  theft, 
(First  theft  that  was,  ere  Adam's  fall) 
And  in  the  crimson  clouds  behold, 

Unless  thy  heart  all  faith  have  left, 
His  orange  and  his  gold. 

Thomas  William  Parsons. 


A   COOK'S   TOURIST  IN   SPAIN. 


II. 


MADRID  is  not  a  place  to  stimulate 
the  imagination.  There  are  great  pic- 
tures besides  those  in  the  Royal  Gallery, 
and  show-palaces,  and  several  sights 
which  I  have  not  enumerated ;  but  the 
Naval  Museum,  with  its  relics  and  rec- 
ollections of  Spain's  glorious  days  of  dis- 
covery and  conquest,  which  link  her  his- 
tory so  closely  with  ours,  and  the  Royal 
Armory  are  almost  the  only  spots  where 
one  is  tempted  to  linger  and  muse.  The 
armory  is  a  magnificent  collection,  and 
the  first  sight  of  it  roots  the  traveler  to 
the  ground  as  he  enters  the  lofty  hall, 
nearly  three  hundred  feet  long,  filled 
with  a  mute  and  motionless  assemblage 
of  mailed  figures  on  foot  and  on  horse- 
back, amongst  panoplies  and  trophies  of 
armor,  weapons,  and  banners.  Those 
wooden  counterfeits  of  knights  and 
chargers  bear  the  helmets  and  cuirasses 
of  the  Cid,  of  Ferdinand  the  Saint  and 
Ferdinand  the  Catholic,  of  Columbus 


and  Cortes  and  Pizarro,  of  Charles  V., 
of  Gonsalvo  de  Cordova,  El  gran  Capi- 
tan,  of  the  Duke  of  Alva.  There  is  the 
history  and  the  ballad  poetry  of  Spain 
written  in  silver  and  gold  and  iron  and 
steel,  from  the  Visigothic  crown,  a  rude 
golden  circlet  stuck  full  of  uncut  jew- 
els, through  centuries  of  elastic  Toledo 
blades  damascened  like  a  satin  robe, 
of  Moorish  scimitars  frosted  with  fili- 
gree, of  inlaid  and  embossed  shields  and 
breastplates  of  Italian  guattro  and  cinque 
cento  workmanship  (some  of  them  no 
doubt  designed  by  Benvenuto  Cellini), 
of  saddles  and  weapons  for  hunting  and 
tilting,  clown  to  the  sword  of  Ferdinand 
VIL,  which  never  knew  blood.  Much 
of  the  armor,  even  of  the  bravest,  was 
not  made  for  battle,  but  for  parade. 
There  is  Charles  V.'s  splendid  array, 
which  he  wears  in  his  equestrian  portrait 
by  Titian  ;  there  is  a  rich  and  beau- 
tiful suit,  chased  and  inlaid  with  gold 
and  silver,  worn  by  Columbus,  probably 
when  he  came  to  lay  the  new-found 


192 


A  Cook1  s  Tourist  in  Spain. 


[August, 


world  and  its  sample  treasures  at  the 
feet  of  Leoii  and  Castile ;  and  there  is  a 
costly  barbarous  casque,  with  a  fabulous 
beast  by  way  of  crest,  which  belonged  to 
Don  John  of  Austria.  It  is  a  boundless 
field  for  memory  and  fancy,  as  broad  as 
the  past  and  as  indefinite  as  the  future. 
It  is  not  the  great  names  of  Europe  only 
which  are  invoked  in  the  review;  the 
thought  of  our  own  poets  and  histori- 
ans, of  Irving,  Prescott,  Motley,  Tick- 
nor,  of  Longfellow  and  Lowell,  recurs  to 
the  mind  of  their  countryman  with  fond 
pride  and  almost  importunate  regret. 
But  one  remains  of  that  illustrious  band ; 
will  new  names  arise  to  lengthen  the 
list  hereafter  ? 

It  is  not  without  a  pang  that  even  a 
Cook's  Tourist  turns  his  back  on  Ma- 
drid, for  his  time  of  grace  would  be 
short  enough  to  devote  to  the  picture- 
gallery  alone ;  but  Seville  and  Cordova 
are  on  his  coupon-ticket,  and  the  longest 
month  has  but  thirty-one  days.  This 
consideration  partly  reconciles  him  to 
the  inevitable  night- journey,  whereby  he 
loses  no  daylight  hours.  On  the  17th 
April,  1883,  the  first  sleeping-car  ran 
from  Madrid  to  Seville.  It  was  com- 
fortable and  clean  with  a  brand-new 
cleanliness ;  every  place  was  taken  a 
week  in  advance,  and  through  the  live- 
long night  every  station  platform  was 
crowded  with  people  come  to  see  the 
curiosity.  The  17th  was  the  eve  of  a 
great  annual  fair  at  Seville,  which  gath- 
ers together  all  sorts  of  people  —  peas- 
ants from  the  villages,  stock-breeders 
from  Xeres  and  Cadiz,  gypsies  from  the 
mountains,  and  fast  fine  folk  from  Ma- 
drid —  to  see  the  cattle-shows,  the  bull- 
fights, and  the  horse-races.  The  train 
was  full  of  representatives  of  the  noblest 
names  in  the  country,  and  the  station  at 
Seville  thronged  with  their  friends  who 
had  come  to  meet  them :  old  ladies  and 
gentlemen,  pretty  women  in  mantillas, 
with  fans  and  fresh  bouquets,  children 
hopping  and  skipping  with  the  excite- 
ment of  an  arrival.  Coming  to  welcome 


\ 


or  bid  farewell  is  almost  a  canon  of 
courtesy,  and  one  of  the  pleasant,  friend- 
ly native  customs.  This  informal  re- 
ception was  the  opening  of  a  long  gala. 
Our  week  in  Seville  was  an  unbroken 
holiday,  which  knew  no  stay  or  interrup- 
tion, even  during  the  moonlight  nights. 
The  acacias  which  border  the  principal 
streets  hung  full  of  milk-white  clusters 
of  bloom;  the  orange-trees  in  the  courts 
and  squares  were  full  of  blossoms  ;  the 
flat  roofs  were  bordered  with  carna- 
tions, geraniums,  heliotrope,  and  roses 
of  every  shade,  forming  a  delicate  many- 
colored  cornice  between  the  white  walls 
and  the  blue  sky  ;  in  the  narrow  streets 
every  doorway  gave  a  glimpse  of  a  pil- 
lared courtyard,  with  long-leaved  tropi- 
cal foliage,  and  oleanders,  pomegranates, 
and  gardenias  flowering  around  a  marble 
statue  or  fountain  ;  the  air  was  balmy 
with  their  mingled  fragrance.  Every 
man  had  a  flower  in  his  hat,  every  wo- 
man had  one  in  her  hair,  every  horse  and 
donkey  had  one  at  his  ear.  Our  hotel, 
the  Fonda  de  Madrid,  is  a  very  fine 
building,  evidently  an  old  palace,  but 
we  were  unable  to  learn  anything  about 
its  origin..  The  patio,  or  central  court- 
yard, is  almost  a  grove  of  palms  and 
feananas  wreathed  with  jessamine  and 
climbing  roses ;  it  is  surrounded  by  a 
marble  colonnade  of  slender  pillars  with 
remarkably  graceful  capitals  ;  the  sec- 
ond story,  which  is  reached  by  a  wide 
terra-cotta  staircase  inlaid  with  dark 
blue  tiles,  has  a  similar  gallery,  now 
inclosed  to  form  corridors.  Many  of  the 
rooms  are  fifty  or  sixty  feet  long  and 
proportionately  high,  with  huge,  elab- 
orately paneled  folding-doors ;  the  ves- 
tibule by  which  one  enters  the  dining- 
room  is  wainscoted  six  feet  high  with 
beautiful  old  Moorish  tiles.  In  the 
morning  peasants  station  themselves  un- 
der the  colonnade  with  great  open  bas- 
kets curving  outwards  at  each  end,  and 
bordered  with  a  twisted  rope  of  wicker 
which  also  forms  the  handle,  full  of 
crimson,  white,  pink  and  yellow  roses ; 


1884.] 


A   Cook's  Tourist  in  Spain. 


193 


in  the  evening  the  guests  leave  the  hot 
table  d'hote  to  sit  under  the  arcade  and 
drink  their  coffee,  smoke  their  cigars, 
eat  oranges,  and  look  at  the  fountain 
twinkling  in  the  moonlight  among  the 
broad  banana  leaves,  until  the  humor 
takes  them  to  stroll  out  into  the  moon- 
lit streets  and  squares.  But  if  the  trav- 
eler feels  the  indisposition  to  stir,  the 
disposition  to  do  nothing,  which  is  the 
ruling  passion  of  the  Spaniard,  and  so 
potent  an  influence  of  the  country  that 
even  strangers  soon  yield  to  it,  he  can- 
not do  better  than  take  his  post  on  his 
little  balcony,  —  every  window  has  one, 
and  large  enough  for  an  arm-chair, — 
and  watch  the  ever -varying  spectacle 
which  passes  under  his  eyes  all  day.  The 
Fonda  de  Madrid  stands  on  the  Plaza 
de  la  Magdalena  at  the  corner  of  two 
important  streets,  among  the  few  in 
Seville  through  which  two  carriages  can 
pass  abreast,  so  that  all  the  active  life 
of  the  town  circulates  through  these  ar- 
teries for  business  or  pleasure.  From 
sunrise  to  sunset  there  is  an  unending 
procession,  in  which  no  two  figures  are 
alike,  from  the  Andalusian  peasant  and 
his  donkey  to  the  Duchesse  de  Mont- 
pensier  with  her  four-in-hand.  The  noise 
begins  at  dawn,  when  peasants  begin  to 
pass  with  long  lines  of  beasts  of  burden, 
bringing  their  wares  to  town.  Every- 
thing which  is  carried  in  carts  or  wag- 

o  o 

ons  and  sold  in  shops  in  America  is 
hawked  about  on  donkeys  here.  .It 
would  be  impossible  to  enumerate  even 
the  classes  of  produce  and  merchandise 
which  are  carried  in  this  manner,  the 
narrowness  of  the  streets  practically 
prohibiting  traffic  on  wheels.  One  of 
the  most  common  is  charcoal.  A  long 
train  of  donkeys  laden  with  a  huge 
panier  of  yellow  matting  on  each  side, 
filled  with  the  dull  black  fuel  and  light- 
ly covered  with  palm-branches  or  long 
sprays  of  boxwood,  is  a  pretty  sight ; 
so  is  the  shaggy  brown  or  gray  mule 
bedizened  with  an  embroidered  head- 
band, with  a  load  of  golden  oranges  in 

VOL.    LIV.  —  NO.    322.  13 


hampers,  and  a  well-built  driver  in  short 
black  velveteen  jacket  and  breeches, 
with  a  red  sash,  leather  gaiters,  a 
broad  -  brimmed  hat,  and  a  cigarita  in 
his  mouth ;  so  is  the  handsome  Anda- 
lusian peasant  astride  a  big  gray  horse, 
half -hidden  in  violet  and  scarlet  sad- 
dle-bags, fringed  and  tasseled,  a  black- 
haired  girl  in  a  gay  flowered  shawl,  with 
a  head  full  of  carnations,  perched  be- 
hind him  clasping  his  waist.  These  are 
among  the  earliest  arrivals  ;  then  follow 
venders  of  milk,  fresh  eggs,  cheese,  fish, 
bread,  each  a  separate  industry,  and  a 
great  many  more.  All  day  long  women 
go  by  dressed  as  if  to  sit  for  their  pic- 
tures. It  is  generally  some  cheap  and 
simple  combination  which  produces  the 
effect :  one  of  the  most  striking  was  a 
pink  calico  gown  with  one  deep  flounce, 
a  long  black  shawl,  and  a  bright  pink 
rose  stuck  into  a  coil  of  blue -black 
plaits,  on  a  head  with  heavy  dark  brows 
over  eyes  rimmed  in  thick  black  lashes ; 
another  was  a  salmon-colored  Canton 
crape  shawl,  covering  the  wearer  like  a 
long  cloak,  leaving  a  glimpse  of  a  black 
stuff  dress,  and  this  lady  had  a  bunch 
of  scarlet  geraniums  in  her  hair.  A 
group  of  gypsies  passed  one  day :  a  man 
with  a  blue  fez-shaped  cap,  a  loose  gray 
jacket,  and  full  blue  Turkish  trousers- 
reaching  only  to  the  calf  of  the  leg,  fol- 
lowed by  a  woman  so  tall  arid  muscular, 
so  dark  and  fierce,  so  majestic  and  sibyl- 
line, that  she  might  have  posed  for  Meg 
Merrilies  had  it  been  possible  to  imag- 
ine her  in  English-speaking  parts ;  but  in 
a  dark-red  woolen  petticoat  and  striped 
blanket  for  a  cloak  she  was  the  true 
Zingara.  A  lithe  lad  of  twelve  or  four- 
teen brought  up  the  rear,  in  bright  rags 
dulled  by  dirt :  he  was  bronze-color,  with 
wild  black  eyes  and  elf  locks,  and  looked 
like  a  half-tamed  animal.  They  did  not 
speak  to  each  other,  nor  look  at  each 
other,  but  marched  along  in  single  file, 
bound  together  only  by  their  isolation 
from  everybody  else.  Once  a  bleating 
made  me  look  down,  and  I  saw  a  Seville 


194 


A  Cook's   Tourist  in  Spain. 


[August, 


woman  with  a  basket  on  her  arm,  evi- 
dently out  on  household  errands,  ac- 
companied by  a  lamb,  trotting  at  her 
side  like  a  pet  dog.  Again,  an  enormous 
sheep  went  by,  —  a  merino,  I  suppose,  — 
with  a  long,  thick,  flaky  fleece,  bestrid- 
den by  a  baby  boy  two  or  three  years 
old,  his  fat,  brown  legs  sunk  deep  in 
the  white  wool ;  the  peasant  father  and 
mother  walked  unconcernedly  on  either 
side,  and  the  passers  paid  no  heed  to  the 
pretty  picture.  The  middle-class  Sev- 
illanas,  like  their  whole  order  in  Spain, 
are  incorrigible  slatterns,  but  by  two 
o'clock  in  the  afternoon  every  woman 
has  dressed  her  hair  carefully  (some- 
times in  the  old  Andalusian  fashion, 
parted  at  the  side  and  braided,  like  the 
princesses  who  sat  to  Velasquez  ;  more 
often  nowadays  banged  and  frizzed  and 
puffed),  and  stuck  in  a  rose,  carnation, 
or  white  or  yellow  flower,  or  a  whole 
bunch  of  them.  In  addition  to  this  she 
generally  wears  a  mantilla  of  white  or 
black  lace  or  gauze,  and  unless  she  is 
very  poor,  a  Canton  crape  shawl,  that  ob- 
ject of  every  common  Spanish  woman's 
ambition.  One  sees  every  variety  of 
them,  —  black,  white,  scarlet,  pale  blue, 
pale  rose,  yellow  fringed,  and  often  em- 
broidered with  a  large  pattern  of  the 
most  brilliant  colors.  The  indispensable 
fan,  never  at  rest  for  an  instant,  com- 
pletes the  toilet,  the  wearer  being  to  all 
appearance  supremely  indifferent  to  her 
cheap,  dirty  cotton  gown  and  shabby 
shoes.  It  is  a  long  while  since  the  Span- 
ish women  gave  up  the  national  dress 
with  the  exception  of  the  mantilla.  Gau- 
tier  lamented  over  it  forty  years  ago, 
and  it  is  still  to  be  deplored ;  for  al- 
though the  women  of  the  middle  and 
lower  classes  contrive  to  make  them- 
selves very  picturesque  in  the  manner 
just  described,  as  costume  it  is  nonde- 
script, and  women  of  higher  station  can- 
not dress  themselves  at  all  ;  only  the 
charm  of  the  fan  and  mantilla  redeems 
them  from  being  the  greatest  dowdies 
in  Europe.  Every  afternoon  brought  out 


hundreds  of  women  of  the  upper  mid- 
dle class  attired  like  caricatures  of  last 
year's  fashion  -  plates,  and  hundreds  of 
women  of  rank  in  their  carriages,  who 
looked  no  better  for  toilets  fresh  from 
Paris;  they  do  not  know  how  to  put 
them  on.  If  there  is  a  mantilla,  espe- 
cially when  worn  over  a  high  comb,  its 
graceful  folds  drape  and  harmonize  the 
rest,  but  if  the  lady  has  ventured  upon 
a  bonnet  the  misfortune  is  complete  ;  no 
matter  how  pretty  and  elegant  it  may 
be,  it  does  not  seem  to  belong  to  her ; 

*  O 

the  low  dark  brows  and  marked  features 
of  most  Spanish  women  are  at  variance 
with  the  ephemeral  structures  of  tulle, 
silk,  feathers,  and  artificial  flowers 
which  are  so  becoming  to  their  French 
and  American  sisters.  The  best  attempt 
which  I  saw  at  combining  present  fash- 
ions with  a  national  tradition  was  made 
by  the  Duchesse  de  Montpensier,  no 
longer  the  gazelle-like  bride  of  Louis 
Philippe's  son,  but  a  stout,  plain,  sal- 
low, middle-aged  woman,  and  her  lady 
in  waiting,  who  both  wore  handsome 
black  dresses  with  deep  basques,  very 
large  black  mantillas  of  old  Spanish  lace 
over  high  combs,  with  immense  black 
fans,  and  bouquets  of  gold-colored  flow- 
ers at  their  breasts.  These  ladies  at- 
tracted general  notice,  seated  in  a  ba- 
rouche lined  with  dark  blue  satin,  with 
a  four-in-hand  of  two  grays  and  two 
chestnuts,  the  harness  enriched  with 
gold  and  dark  blue,  postilion,  coach- 
man, and  footmen  in  plain  liveries  of 
blue  and  drab.  White  is  in  great  favor 
with  young  ladies,  married  or  single,  and 
every  afternoon  there  were  several  to 
be  seen  in  rich  white  silk  or  satin,  with 
white  Spanish  blonde  mantillas  ;  but  this 
fashion,  although  pretty  and  elegant,  is 
ineffective. 

Theophile  Gautier  says  that  he  has 
three  tests  of  the  degree  of  a  nation's 
civilization,  —  its  pottery,  straw  and 
wicker-work,  and  mode  of  harnessing; 
for  civilized  people  cannot  make  jars, 
matting,  or  harness.  Spain  meets  the 


1884] 


A  CooUs  Tourist  in  Spain. 


195 


three  tests  bravely,  and  better  at  each 
stage  southward.  The  beautiful  pottery 
of  Andalusia  is  to  be  found  only  in  a  re- 

V 

mote  suburb  of  Seville,  but  the  trappings 
of  the  beasts  of  burden  will  strike  any 
stranger  by  their  variety  and  taste,  the 
first  time  he  looks  out  of  the  window. 
There  is  no  end  to  the  caprices.  In 
France  and  America  there  is  an  affec- 
tation of  simplicity  in  these  matters,  the 
English  standard  being  the  only  one 
recognized,  and  it  is  sensible  enough  for 
us  who  have  no  national  or  traditional 
fashions  ;  but  it  would  be  a  pity  if  the 
Anglomania  now  prevalent  in  high  Span- 
ish society  should  banish  the  pretty  har- 
ness and  trappings  of  the  provinces  ;  the 
most  elegant  equipages  in  Seville  are 
those  which  preserve  them,  modified  for 
utility's  sake.  There  were  knowing 
tandem  and  unicorn  teams,  very  well 
driven  by  the  polios  through  the  slits  of 
streets  or  crowded  parade  of  Las  Deli- 
cias,  and  four-in-hand  breaks  and  drags, 
worthy  of  Rotten  Row  on  the  annual 
muster  of  the  Coaching  Club.  But  there 
was  far  more  real  style  about  the  har- 
ness which  had  not  been  stripped  of  all 
its  finery,  and  the  prettiest  turnout  of 
all  was  a  sort  of  wagonette  called  break 
espanola  (in  contradistinction  to  the 
break  inglesia),  holding  three  on  a  side 
and  two  on  the  driver's  seat,  with  cush- 
ions, curtains,  and  a  square  standing-top 
of  striped  linen ;  a  coachman  in  Anda- 
lusian  costume  driving  four  mules,  or  a 
pair,  or  three  abreast,  with  a  collar  of 
little  silver  bells,  their  head  and  shoul- 
ders covered  with  a  network  of  worsted 
tassels  of  two  colors,  —  green  and  gold, 
crimson  and  black,  or  blue  and  white, 
being  the  favorite  combinations.  They 
drive  at  a  tearing  pace,  with  a  perpet- 
ual cracking  of  whips,  but  no  lashing 
the  beasts.  The  saddles  and  bridles 
are  profusely  stitched  and  embroidered ; 
many  horsemen  use  housings  and  saddle- 
bags of  buff  leather  thickly  worked  and 
fringed  with  scarlet  and  purple,  and  or- 
namented steel  stirrups,  which  give  the 


cavalier  a  most  gay  and  gallant  aspect 
even  when,  as  usual,  he  is  bent  on  busi- 
ness, and  not  on  adventure.  The  Span- 
iard has  a  conscious  attitude  on  horse- 
back, as  he  also  has  when  on  his  two 
legs,  but  his  seat  is  as  firm  as  an  Eng- 
lishman's, and  his  hand,  in  general,  much 
lighter.  It  is  beautiful  to  see  one  of 
those  heavy-looking  horses  checked  at 
full  gallop  without  being  thrown  on  his 
haunches,  or  turned  without  a  percepti- 
ble motion  of  the  rider's  little  finger,  — 
no  curb  or  snaffle  to  champ  and  froth  at, 
the  bit  being  replaced  by  a  small  strap 
round  the  nose.  Every  man  in  Spain 
rides,  and  nobody  walks,  and  the  saddle- 
horse  is  in  requisition  for  business,  pleas- 
ure, or  traveling.  Women  seldom  mount, 
except  upon  a  pillion  ;  a  few  ladies  ride, 
some  even  hunt,  but  they  are  rare  enough 
to  be  conspicuous.  The  universal  brand 
on  the  horses  in  Spain  is  a  great  blem- 
ish for  us,  but  not  in  their  own  country. 
Each  of  the  great  estates  has  its  stock 
farm  and  famous  breed,  for  which  the 
brand  is  a  voucher.  The  noble  owners 
of  these  estates  take  great  interest  in 
the  operations  of  cattle-raising,  and  at 
the  time  of  the  branding  make  a  sport 
of  holding  the  animal  down  during  the 
process,  and  springing  to  its  back  as  it 
starts  to  its  feet  and  rushes  away  in 
agony. 

The  delights  of  the  balcony  and  of 
doing  nothing  are  so  great  that  it  re- 
quired resolution  to  come  down  into  the 
lively,  motley  crowd,  which  is  always 
picturesque,  never  theatrical.  If  Bur- 
gos is  the  Spain  of  the  sixteenth  and 
seventeenth  century  painters,  in  Seville 
one  finds  the  field  of  the  contemporary 
school,  Fortuny,  Escosura,  Pasini,  arid 
the  rest.  The  brown  of  Velasquez  van- 
ishes before  the  light,  gay  tints  of  the 
houses,  the  gaudy  harness,  and  the  dress 
of  the  people  ;  black  and  the  sober  colors 
are  mere  points  of  contrast.  Most  of 
the  streets  are  narrow,  short,  and  crook- 
ed ;  in  driving  across  the  town  one  seems 
to  be  executing  a  figure  in  cat's-cradle ; 

O  O 


196 


A  Cook's  Tourist  in  Spain. 


[August, 


yet  they  are  as  light  and  cheerful  as 
boulevards.  The  houses  are  of  one  pat- 
tern, two  or  three  stories  high,  with  flat 
roofs  railed  with  iron,  light  balconies  at 
every  upper  window,  often  painted  green, 
the  lower  windows  heavily  barred,  and 
deep  arched  doorways  giving  entrance 
to  vestibules  closed  by  an  inner  grating 
of  graceful  arabesque  pattern,  through 
which  the  flowers  and  foliage  of  the 
patio  are  visible.  They  are  almost  uni- 
formly whitewashed ;  a  pale  yellow  or 
blue  front  appears  now  and  then  at  long 
intervals.  There  are  no  high  walls  to 
shut  out  the  strong  light  which  pervades 
places  untouched  by  the  sunshine,  pour- 
ing down  from  the  cerulean  sky,  and  re- 
flected by  the  universal  whitewash  so 
powerfully  as  almost  to  obliterate  shad- 
ow ;  there  is  a  transparent  blue  or  lilac 
penumbra  on  the  sunless  side  of  things, 
and  that  is  all.  Houses  of  the  most 
modest  pretensions  have  their  little  patio, 
where  a  large  vase  replaces  the  fountain, 
and  some  rows  of  flower-pots  the  gar- 
den. In  the  poorer  quarters  the  vesti- 
bule and  court  are  used  as  workshops, 
where  the  shoemaker  or  carpenter  plies 
his  craft,  in  view  of  the  street.  This  is 
one  of  the  many  reminiscences  of  the 
East  with  which  one  meets  in  southern 
Spain  :  the  principal  dry-goods'  shop  of 
Seville  is  reached  by  a  passage  too  nar- 
row for  wheels,  and  is  shut  off  from  the 
street  only  by  curtains  and  pillars,  al- 
though within  it  is  a  prosaic  place  of 
buying  and  selling,  with  shelves  and 
counters  and  civil  shopmen.  There  is 
nothing  remarkable  in  the  architecture 
of  the  town  :  the  beautiful  windows  and 
galleries  of  the  remaining  Moorish  tow- 
ers have  been  ruthlessly  walled  up;  there 
are  a  few  buildings  and  fragments  in 
plateresque  style,  a  sort  of  rococo  in  im- 
itation of  goldsmiths'  work,  without  a 
good  architectural  line ;  here  and  there 
an  open  terra-cotta  belfry  or  doorway 
inlaid  with  tiles  and  marble  rises  above 
the  roofs  ;  the  dark  spires  of  cypress 
trees  and  plumes  of  palms  lift  them- 


selves above  the  dusty  squares  ;  the  pale 
pink  fretted  shaft  of  the  peerless  Giral- 
da,  crowned  by  the  triple  tiara  of  its 
bell-tower,  overlooks  the  looming  mass 
of  the  cathedral.  But  there  are  none 
of  those  quaint  and  beautiful  ancient 
bits  which  are  seen  in  every  old  town 
of  other  European  countries.  It  is  the 
sky,  the  sunshine,  the  delicious  climate, 
the  light  colors,  the  infinite  variety  of 
the  street  life,  which  make  the  attrac- 
tion of  Seville  as  a  city. 

The  cathedral  is  a  vast  mountain  of 
stone,  incomplete  and  inchoate.  As 
the  stranger  passes  under  the  beautiful 
horseshoe  arch  of  the  Moorish  gateway, 
a  remnant  of  the  ancient  mosque,  into 
the  Court  of  Orange-Trees,  and  lifts  his 
eyes  to  the  unfinished  south  front,  where 
huge  stone  joists  jut  out  between  two 
flamboyant  jambs  of  immense  height,  its 
first  effect  is  stupendous.  On  two  other 
sides  there  are  noble  pointed  Gothic 
doorways  lined  with  scriptural  figures 
of  the  most  earnest  and  devout  expres- 
sion, in  simple,  graceful  niches  ;  but  the 
exterior  of  the  building  bears  no  ex- 
amination, the  earliest  and  latest  styles, 
the  purest  and  worst  taste,  are  so  jum- 
bled and  jostled  together.  On  one 
side  the  view  is  obstructed  by  low  pro- 
jecting walls,  equally  useless  and  ugly, 
surmounted  by  rows  of  urns  filled  with 
flames  in  stone.  The  interior  of  the 
cathedral  is  overwhelming.  In  its  vast, 
solemn  spaces  details  disappear  and  are 
lost.  There  are  famous  legendary  pic- 
tures ;  there  are  marvels  of  marble  and 
wood-carving  and  wrought  metal ;  the 
light  sifts  through  a  hundred  painted 
windows,  but  it  melts  into  the  dimness 
of  the  immense  sanctuary  as  our  percep- 
tions are  absorbed  by  a  sense  of  awe. 
The  religious  emotions  and  aspirations 
of  centuries,  the  faith,  the  fervor,  the 
submission,  the  sacred  ecstasy,  of  twenty 
generations,  fill  the  place  like  an  atmos- 
phere. It  is  dedicated  not  only  to  pub- 
lic worship  and  great  church  ceremonies, 
but  to  profound  prayer  and  solitary 


1884.] 


A   Cook's   Tourist  in  Spain. 


197 


meditation,  to  momentous  vows  and  sub-  thanksgiving  on  his  triumphant  return, 

lime  self-sacrifice.    The  oftener  one  goes  The  passage  leads  to  a  dusty  quadrangle, 

thither,  the  longer  one  tarries  there,  the  on  which  stands  the  other  great  sight  of 

deeper  and  more  solemn  is  the  impres-  Seville,  the  Alcazar,  or  palace  of   the 

sion,  and  the  less  can  be  said.  Moorish  kings,  which  has  been  a  royal 

Emerging  into  the  sunshine,  warmth,  residence  for  every  succeeding  dynasty 

and  fragrance,  and  the  view  of  the  per-  down  to  the  ex-Queen  Isabella,  who  was 

feet,  rosy-pale  Giralda,  slender,  stately,  staying  there  at  the  time  of  my  visit. 


and  elegant  in  outline,  and  simple  not- 
withstanding a  profusion  of  exquisite  or- 
nament, one  passes  a  stone  pulpit  in  the 
cloister  close  to  the  sacristy  door.  Here 
St.  Vincent  Ferrer  preached  the  autos 
dafe.  It  causes  a  terrible  shock  and  re- 
vulsion to  come  upon  such  a  monument 
in  such  a  spot,  and  I  hurried  away  to 
the  chapter  library  to  look  for  the  me- 
mentos of  Columbus  which  are  sacredly 
guarded  there.  They  were  locked  in  a 
glass  case,  but  it  was  easy  to  have  it 
opened.  The  assistant  librarian  yielded 
to  the  plea.  "  Soy  Amerigano."  There 
lie  the  discolored  chart  and  the  ancient 
treatise  on  geography  which  he  had  with 
him  in  his  cabin  ;  there,  written  in  a 
fair,  current  hand,  is  the  Latin  letter, 
filled  with  quotations  from  Scripture, 
which  he  addressed  to  Ferdinand  and 
Isabella  to  justify  ttye  orthodoxy  of  his 
scientific  theories  against  the  Inquisi- 
tion. I  could  nob-  refrain  from  laying 
a  reverent  hand  on  the  page  where  his 
hand  had  rested,  and  there  was  comfort 
in  the  thought  that  the  same  faith  which 
inspired  St.  Vincent  Ferrer  to  kindle  the 
piles  for  heretics  had  strengthened  and 
guided  the  noble  heart  of  Columbus. 
The  smiling  librarian  said  that  he  never 
refused  this  privilege  to  Americans,  and 


Alcazar,  as  the  guide-books  will  tell 
you,  means  Al  Kasr,  the  house  of  Cassar, 
—  that  title  which  has  passed  through 
so  many  languages,  ancient  and  modern, 
without  losing  its  imperial  significance. 
On  three  sides  the  external  square  is 
surrounded  by  common  buildings  of 
comparatively  recent  date,  to  judge  by 
their  appearance  ;  the  fourth,  although 
much  altered  and  defaced,  preserves  its 
beautiful  Moorish  second  story  and  main 
gateway.  Within,  in  spite  of  the  addi- 
tions and  alterations  of  successive  ages 
and  sovereigns,  the  memory  of  the  Arab 
still  reigns  supreme ;  the  traveler,  to 
whom  this  is  the  first  revelation  of  the 
East,  stands  bewildered  and  enchanted, 
doubting  his  eyes,  and  asking  himself  if 
it  is  a  dream,  or  a  waking  vision  of  the 
Arabian  Nights,  or  Solomon's  palace  at 
Lebanon.  It  is  more  like  an  immaterial 
creation  of  fancy  made  visible  in  form 
and  color  by  a  magic  spell  than  a  struc- 
ture of  solid  or  tangible  properties.  I 
passed  through  many  colonnades,  courts, 
halls,  and  porches,  and  whatever  their 
size  they  all  had  the  same  architectural 
characteristics,  simplicity  and  symmetry 
of  outline,  with  a  prodigality  of  orna- 
ment on  the  flat  surfaces.  There  is  a 
constant  tendency  al  fresco :  one  is  al- 


that  they  often  kissed  the  manuscripts  ;  ways  going  out  of  doors  into  open  gal- 

but  the  sight  of  the  open  case  brought  leries,   or  arcades,   or  inner  courts,   or 

together  the  Spaniards  who  were  loung-  inmost  gardens,  which  are  as  much  part 

ing  about  the  fine  hall,  and  it  was  closed  of   the  abode    as    the    roofed  portions  ; 


» 
in  haste. 


From  the  cathedral  it  is  but     they  bring   the    sky  and  sunshine    and 
a  step   to  a  long,  arched  carriage-way, 
beneath  which  is    an  old  image  of  the 
Virgin,  now  enshrined  in  an  ornate  tab-     of    the   color  and   delicate 


air  of  heaven  into  the  heart  of  the  dwell- 
ing.    The  numerous  courts   have  walls 


richness  of 

ernacle,  before  which  it  is  said  that  Co-  old  point-lace.  The  finest  of  them  is 
lumbus  offered  his  last  prayer  on  the  called  the  Hall  of  the  Hundred  Maidens, 
eve  of  that  fateful  voyage,  and  his  first  where,  according  to  tradition,  fifty  rich 


J98                                 A  Cook's  Tourist  in  Spain.  [August, 

girls  and  fifty  poor  ones,  the  most  beau-  colors.     Some  rooms  are  vaulted  into  a 
tiful  in  the  kingdom,  were  presented  to  peculiar  dome  called  the  media  naraja, 
the  Moorish  king,  that  he  might  choose  or  half  orange,  and  the   decoration    of 
his  wives   from  among   them.     It  is  a  these  is  still  more  lavish.     One  ceiling 
beautiful  parallelogram,  about  a  hundred  is  really  of  ebony  and  ivory,  inlaid  with 
feet  by  seventy-five,  with  a  fountain  in  gold   and  dark   yet   gem-like   colors,  a 
the  centre,  open  to  the  sky,  paved  with  miracle  of  handiwork  equal  to  an  Indian 
white  marble,  surrounded  by  a  cloister  casket.     The  doors  and  lattices,  which 
and  colonnade  of  twin  pillars  at  equal  are   frequently    open-work,   are   carved 
distances,  with  a  cluster  at  each  corner,  with  the  same  delicacy ;    and  some   of 
supporting  scalloped  horseshoe   arches,  them  being  exactly  the  color  of  sandal- 
The  ivory  tint  of  the  outer  walls  con-  wood,  their  resemblance  to  the  precious 
trasts  felicitously  with  the  lovely  green,  carvings  of  Hindostan  is  complete.    The 
blue,  and  amber  of  the  old  tiled  wain-  methodical  vagaries  of  the  kaleidoscope 
scot,  and  the  pearl  and  turquoise  of  the  alone  can  give  a  notion  of  the  character 
modern  restorations  above  the  doorways  of    Moorish   ornamentation.      There   is 
and  windows  ;   a  soft,  fawn   color  pre-  no  ground  of  flat  color  to  be  detected, 
vails  in  the   ceilings  and  doors  of   the  The  design  is  a  repetition  of  regular  lines, 
cloisters,    relieved   with    turquoise-blue  as  fantastic  and  delusive  as  frost-work ; 
and  touches  of  gold.     The  arms  of  the  the  basis  of  them  is  a  geometrical  figure, 
Spanish  kings  are  inserted  among  this  but  so  involved  in  intricate  and  complex 
moresco-work.     The  proportion    every-  combinations  as  almost  to  defy  analysis, 
where  preserved  in  the  decoration  has  An  artist  friend,  who  is  familiar  with 
much  to  do  with  the  general  charm  of  the  style,  pointed  out  to  me  how  often 
the  building.    The  inner  walls  are  divid-  the  whole  pattern  is  changed  by  merely 
ed  into  lateral  compartments  :  the  lower  lengthening   or  shortening   the   central 
one,  or  wainscot,  is  from  four  to  eight  figure,  and  how  a  different  distribution 
feet  wide,  according  to  the  height  and  of  colors  on  the  same  pattern  produces 
size  of  the  hall,  and  is  covered  with  old  an  entirely  new  effect.     Inscriptions  in 
Moorish  enameled  tiles,  deep  blue  and  Arabic,    the   lettertS    being    beautifully 
green,  like  the  dominant  tones  of  nature,  modified  for  decoration,  are  introduced 
or  violet-purple,   or  a   combination   re-  among  the  mural  ornaments ;   the  pan- 
sembling  tortoise-shell,  all  of  the  richest,  els  are  bordered  by  bands  of  a  different 
coolest  shades  ;  the  next  space  is  twice  design  ;  the  intervals  between  the  arches 
as  wide,  and  is  filled  with  arabesque  de-  are    filled    with   arabesques  ;    the   main 
signs  in  many-colored  stucco,  or  a  smooth  surfaces  are  set  in  plain  and  ornamental 
layer   of   creamy  whitewash  of   a  tint  mouldings  of  various  depth  and  width, 
and  surface  unknown  to  us  in  America ;  like  an  artistic  picture  frame  ;  the  walls 
above  this  is  a  frieze  of  tiles  as  wide  as  are  divided  from  the  ceiling  by  a  frieze 
the  wainscot.     The  result  of  this  distri-  and  cornice,  and  just  where  the  redun- 
bution   is  most  happy  and  harmonious,  dance  might  become  wearisome  or  op- 
Some  of  the  lower  tiling  looks  like  In-  pressive  it  is  relieved  by  a  line  of  the 
dian    matting,  but   catches  and  reflects  simplest  invention,  like  a  twisted  rope 
the  light  in  gleams  of  pearl  and  bronze,  or  a  row  of  balls.     The  controlling  prin- 
like  the  inside  of  sea-shells.     The  ceil-  ciple  is  order,  and  despite  the  richness 
ings  are  extraordinarily  rich  :  they  are  there  is  none  of  the  excess  and  extrava- 
of  dark  cross-beams,  carved  as  elaborate-  gance,  there  are  none  of  the  freaks  and 
ly  as  Chinese  fan  handles,  the    spaces  whims,  of  the  Gothic  and  Renaissance 
between    wrought   into  rosettes  or  loz-  styles.  .  Every  portion  of  the  apartment 
enges,  brightened    by  gilding   and  gay  is  finished  with  the  same  care  and  com- 


1884.] 


A  Cook's  Tourist  in  Spain. 


199 


pleteness.  There  reign  throughout  an 
inimitable  coolness,  freshness,  subdued 
lightness  and  brightness,  which  never  be- 
comes too  brilliant  or  vivid.  There  has 
been  a  deal  of  alteration  and  restoration 
about  the  Alcazar,  but  the  only  changes 
which  have  actually  disfigured  it  were 
made  by  Charles  V.,  who  added  a  mod- 
ern gallery  above  one  of  the  loveliest 
colonnades.  The  redecoration  of  the 
present  century  is  too  heavy  and  gaudy 
in  color,  but  it  is  not  all  bad  :  there  is 
one  room  in  tender  green  and  pale  coral 
color,  not  to  be  surpassed  in  delicacy 
and  refinement  of  taste. 

There  are  other  Moorish  houses  in 
Seville,  but  the  only  one  which  com- 
pares with  the  Alcazar  in  pretension  and 
preservation  is  the  so-called  House  of 
Pilate,  now  the  property  of  the  Duke 
of  Mediiia-Celi,  but  built  early  in  the 
sixteenth  century  by  the  Marquis  of 
Tarifa,  one  of  the  Ribera  family,  on  his 
return  from  a  pilgrimage  to  Palestine. 
The  house,  being  a  copy  of  a  sham,  has 
no  intrinsic  interest  beyond  its  beauty ; 
it  was  no  doubt  built  by  Moorish  archi- 
tects, and,  more  fortunate  than  the  Al- 
cazar, escaped  alteration.  The  garden 
is  like  a  page  from  Lalla  Rookh.  I  sat 
there  by  a  marble  fountain  in  a  grove 
of  old  lemon-trees  woven  into  a  bower 
by  a  luxuriant  climbing  white  rose,  until 
the  hour  and  the  century  were  forgotten. 
The  reflections  and  retrospections  of  the 
Gothic  cathedral  have  no  place  amid 
such  scenes  ;  the  spirit  of  Moorish  art, 
even  at  this  distant  day,  breathes  of 
earthly  enjoyment,  of  the  poetry  and 
pleasure  of  existence,  and  for  the  mo- 
ment life  becomes  a  dream  of  delight. 
After  the  vision  of  such  a  terrestrial 
paradise  even  the  palace  of  San  Telmo, 
the  Duke  of  Montpensier's  residence, 
seems  prosaic  and  a  mere  abode  of  care. 
I  was  greatly  disinclined  to  reenter  the 
every-day  world,  so  I  made  half  the 
circuit  of  the  city  to  reach  the  Triana, 
or  gypsy  quarter,  on  the  other  side  of 
the  Guadalquivir.  The  road  lay  along 


Las  Delicias,  the  favorite  drive  of  the 
Sevillians,  tropical  gardens  and  clusters 
of  palms  and  cypresses  on  one  hand,  on 
the  other  a  belt  of  oaks  and  elms  edging 
the  river  and  a  long  line  of  schooners 
and  sloops  moored  to  the  shore.     One 
after    another    the    salient   features   of 
Seville  came  into  view  :  the  queenly  Gi- 
ralda,  an  immense  castellated  structure, 
which  looks  like  a  medieval  fortress,  but 
is  only  the  tobacco  factory  made  famous 
by  Merimee's  story  and  Bizet's  opera  of 
Carmen  ;  the  Torre  d'Oro,  an  octagonal 
tower,  with  three  crenelated  stories  of 
diminishing  size,  said  to  take  its  name 
from    the   golden   hoards    of  the    New 
World  which  were  unladed  and  deposit- 
ed there ;  the  vast  amphitheatre  of  the 
bull-ring ;  and  at  length  the  bridge.     In 
crossing  it  I  had  a  lovely  view,  bathed  in 
limpid  light,  of  the  river,  curving  away 
above  and  below,  fringed  with  masts  and 
sails  and  flags ;  the  city  and  its  towers, 
on  one  side  ;  on  the  other,  a  narrow  white 
suburb  scattering  into  the  verdant  sun- 
ny plain,  walled  in  by  a  range  of  pur- 
ple hills.     I  found   the   gypsy  quarter 
very  different  from  the  huddle  of  pic- 
turesque squalor  which  I  had  expected. 
It  is  more  like  a  neat  village,  the  houses 
being  white,  and  low  like  cottages.    The 
few  shop  doors  and  windows  are  given 
up  to  the  gay  appurtenances  of  the  An 
dalusian  horsemen,  and  to  coarse  pottery 
of  the  most  beautiful  antique  Eastern 
forms.      Before    one    of    the    saddlers' 
shops  stood  a  drove  of  patient-faced  don- 
keys.    Their  driver,  in  black  velveteen, 
with  a  crimson  sash  round  his  waist,  a 
crimson  handkerchief  knotted  about  his 
head  and  falling  upon  his  shoulder,  his 
peaked  hat  in  the  hand  that  rested  on 
the  back  of  a  pet  mare,  was  bargaining 
for  a  pair  of  purple  and  orange  saddle- 
bags.    My  errand  was  for  earthenware, 
and  I  entered  a  small  shop  where  great 
bulging  oil-jars  of  dark  shining  green, 
with  a  deep  projecting  rim  and  three 
curved  handles,  stood  in  rows  ;  the  walls 
were  lined  with  shelves  bearing  dark  red 


200                                  A   Cook's   Tourist  in  Spain.  [August, 

terra-cotta  water-cruses,  with  taper  necks  The  master  of  the  shop  lighted  a  ciga- 

and    trefoil    lips,  others   of  a  delicious  rita  and  began  to  discuss  the  matter,  his 

cream-color,  covered  with  a  graceful  in-  part  of   the  argument  consisting  in  al- 

cised  design,  and  others  delicately  beaded  most  total  silence.     Presently  his  wife 

over  with  a  raised  pattern  ;  some  had  one  joined  us ;  then  an    old    man  who  was 

arm  akimbo,  or  a  long,  eccentric  spout,  smoking  in  the  shop  ;  then  an  old  wo- 

There  were  flat  flasks  and  oval  dishes  man ;  then  they  called  the  carpenter.  At 

boldly  decorated  in  majolica  colors  with  last  there  were  seven  persons,  sitting  on 

bull-fights  or  scenes  from  peasant  life,  doorsteps   or   slowly  pacing  about    the 

and  kitchen  platters  big  enough  to  hold  packing-cases,  as  if  measuring  them  for 

a  sirloin,  with  the  designs  and  colors  of  a  carpet.    It  was  pronounced  impossible 

old  Moorish  tiles ;  there  were  tiles,  too,  to   make   larger   or  thicker  boxes,  and 

of  such  novel  and  bewitching  hues  and  that  if  made  they  could  not  be  lifted  by 

patterns  that  everything  of  the  sort  to  mortal  men.    My  kind  artist  friend,  who 

be  seen  in  France  or  England  is  vul-  played  interpreter  with  a  patience  that 

gar  by  comparison.  I  lost  my  head  over  exasperated  me,  represented  that  grand- 

this  display,  and  recklessly  ordered  big  pianos  and  colossal  statues  are  packed 

pieces  by  the  pair  and  smaller  ones  by  in  single  boxes  and  sent  round  the  world ; 

the  dozen.     My  imagination  showed  me  but  the  Spaniards  paid  no  attention  to 

the  steps  of  a  familiar  country-house,  anything    that  we  said.     Monosyllabic 

thousands  of  miles  away,  flanked  with  objections,    insuperable    obstacles     ex- 

the  great  green  jars  holding  oleanders  pressed  in  a  single  word,  were  their  only 

and   pomegranate    shrubs,  and    an    old  answers.     For  three  quarters  of  an  hour 

mahogany  sideboard  adorned  with  the  the  debate  was  carried  on,  until  I  finally 

ivory-tinted  water-coolers,  and  the  hearts  broke    off    negotiations,    declaring    the 

of  aesthetic  friends  made  glad  by  small  Portland  vase  itself  was  not  worth  so 

reproductions    of    the    more    exquisite  many  words.     The  Spaniard  impertur- 

shapes.     The   gypsy  merchant,    only  a  bably  professed  himself  ready  to  refund 

degree  more  brown,  stately,  and  silent  the  money  and  forfeit  the  value  of  the 

than  the  ordinary  Andalusian,  betrayed  cases,  which  were  on  the  bill,  but  not  to 

no  emotion  at  my  prodigality,  although  make  another  box.     I  had  not  brought 

I  am  persuaded  that  he  had  never  made  the  bill  with  me,  and  asked  him  to  refer 

such  a  sale  before,  for  the  bill  amounted  to  his   books  for  the   amount.     There 

to  several  hundred  reals,  which  reduced  were  no  books,  no  slate,  no  memoranda 

to  pesetas  was  just  twelve  dollars.     The  of  any  sort.     He  promised  to  cull  at  the 

purchases  were  to  be  safely  packed  in  a  Fonda  de  Madrid  that  evening,  see  the 

strong  box,  sent  down  the  river  to  Ca-  bill,  and  repay  the  amount.     I  depart- 

diz,  and  shipped  for  America.     The  next  ed,  skeptical,  but  preferring  to  lose  the 

day,  doubting  his  promptness,  I  made  a  money  rather  than  more  time  ;  but  that 

second  expedition  to  the  Triana  to  see  evening  the  grave  shopkeeper  presented 

if    he  had  been  as   good   as  his  word,  himself,  the    transaction  was  annulled, 

Sure  enough,  there  in  a  little  grass-grown  and  he  replied  to  my  renewed  regrets 

yard  were  three  cases,  about  as  large  and  at  losing  the  pottery  by  saying  that  he 

as  strong  as  common  tea-chests.    A  hor-  must  lose  his  cases.    An  English  friend, 

rible  vision  of  rough  stevedores,  and  cus-  who  was  standing  by,  said  that  he  would 

torn-house  officers  not  a  whit  less  sly  and  take  the  big  green  jars,  which  could  be 

sharp  than  gypsies,  rose  to  my  mind,  and  shipped   direct  to  London.     The  shop- 

I  said  that  there  must  be  but  one  box,  keeper  answered  that  to  transport  those 

and  that  a  strong  one,  as  these  would  jars  and  nothing  more  the  boxes  must 

hardly  hold  together  to  reach  the  river,  be  made  smaller,  which  would   not  be 


1884.] 


A  Cook's  Tourist  in  Spain. 


201 


worth  his  while  ;  and  wishing  us  good- 
evening  with  the  utmost  courtesy,  he  re- 
turned contented  to  his  unsold  wares. 
Some  friends  who  have  lived  long  in 
Spain  witnessed  this  scene,  and  found 
nothing  extraordinary  in  it ;  they  said 
that  most  Spaniards  would  rather  starve 
than  work,  and  that  even  the  industrious 
would  rather  lose  much  money  than  take 
a  little  trouble.  It  is  hard  to  reconcile 
their  laziness  in  these  matters  with  their 
activity  in  others,  and  I  was  constantly 
struck  by  similar  inconsistencies  and 
contradictions  in  their  conduct.  In  the 
hotels  they  pretend  to  have  a  fixed  price 
for  rooms  and  fare,  which  includes  every- 
thing except  the  first  morning  meal 
(coffee,  milk,  or  chocolate,  and  a  roll), 
which  is  the  same  everywhere,  service 
and  lights.  The  sum  is  always  high, 
and  often  extortionate  ;  my  only  at- 
tempt at  beating  it  down  effected  a  re- 
duction of  fifteen  pesetas,  or  three  dol- 
lars a  day,  a  third  of  the  amount  first 
mentioned.  But  at  the  end  of  a  week, 
instead  of  the  foolscap  sheets  of  the 
usual  English  or  Continental  hotel-bill, 
doubling  or  trebling  the  expected  ex- 
pense, the  traveler  receives  a  single  page, 
in  which  it  is  easy  to  decipher  the  few 
details,  and  on  which  no  unstipulated 
extras  or  omitted  items  are  added  at  the 
last  instant.  There  is  the  same  inconsis- 
tency between  their  ferocity  at  the  bull- 
fights and  cock-fights  and  the  kindly  re- 
lations which  exist  between  them  and 
their  domestic  animals.  Another  is  be- 
tween the  inordinate  pride  of  birth  of 
their  nobility  and  the  inconceivable  de- 
mocracy of  manners  to  be  observed  in 
public  places,  where  gentle  and  simple 
mix  together.  Another  is  in  the  arro- 
gant, unprovoked  assumption  of  equality 
of  the  lower  classes  towards  purchasers, 
employers,  and  all  persons  occupying 
what  is  generally  called  ~a  superior  po- 
sition, and  their  stately  urbanity  and 
politeness  ;  the  cab-drivers  bow  to  each 
other  from  their  boxes  with  profound 
and  graceful  salutations  worthy  of  Louis 


XIV.'s  courtiers.  Another  incongruity 
is  in  the  slovenliness  of  their  dress  and 
carelessness  in  some  household  matters, 
and  the  cleanliness  which  in  many  re- 
spects is  unequaled  out  of  Holland.  In 
the  more  frequented  streets  and  squares 
of  Burgos,  Madrid,  and  Seville  there 
is  a  certain  quantity  of  dust  and  litter ; 
but  even  in  the  side-streets  of  those 
cities,  and  throughout  Cordova  and  To- 
ledo, there  is  a  spotless  nicety  inexpli- 
cable where  horses  and  mules,  or  even 
human  feet,  are  constantly  passing.  A 
lady  might  walk  through  them  in  white 
satin  shoes.  Dirt  is  driven  out  of  every 
nook  and  corner ;  neither  sight  nor  smell 
is  offended  out-of-doors.  Both  in  this 
respect  and  in  the  decency  and  decorum 
of  the  native  habits  there  is  a  strong 
contrast  between  Spain  and  all  other 
parts  of  the  Continent.  I  was  struck 
with  the  difference  in  going  up  to  the 
top  of  the  Giralda,  my  last  ascension 
having  been  to  the  roof  of  the  cathedral 
of  Milan,  the  cleanest  city  in  Italy. 

As  a  general  rule,  climbing  towers  is 
a  futile  feat ;  the  city  below  becomes  a 
mere  plan  and  the  surrounding  country 
as  flat  and  featureless  as  a  map.  There 
are  memorable  exceptions :  the  campa- 
nile of  St.  Mark's  at  Venice,  the  Leaning 
Tower  of  Pisa,  and  the  beautiful  Giralda. 
The  last,  like  the  other  two,  is  a  wide, 
easy  slope,  without  steps,  lighted  at  in- 
tervals by  arched  and  pillared  openings 
with  marble  balconies  and  balustrades, 
the  view  growing  at  every  stage ;  at  the 
belfry  the  balcony  becomes  an  arched 
porch,  entirely  surrounding  the  tower. 
On  three  sides  I  had  it  to  myself ;  on 
the  fourth  a  crowd  of  men,  women,  and 
children,  with  opera-glasses  arid  small 
telescopes,  were  literally  climbing  on 
each  other's  backs  to  watch  a  bull-fight 
which  was  going  on  nearly  half  a  mile 
away.  The  white  town  lay  at  my  feet, 
its  dark  roofs  gilded  by  a  small  wild- 
flower  which  overspread  them,  its  level 
broken  by  church-towers  and  crenelated 
walls,  green  garden  areas,  and  dusky 


202                                A  Cook's  Tourist  in  /Spain.  [August, 

spears  of  palm  and  cypresses ;  here  and  It  was  three  o'clock  in  the  morning 
there  a  fountain  sparkled  like  a  diamond,  when  I  reached  Cordova,  and  I  had 
The  Guadalquivir,  dazzling  in  the  sun-  never  supposed  that  even  at  that  hour  a 
shine,  winds  idly  through  the  grassy  town  could  be  so  silent.  It  seemed  to 
plain ;  the  sierras,  every  shade  of  violet,  be  uninhabited.  The  moon  had  not  set, 
from  the  palest  lilac  to  the  deepest  and  as  we  drove  through  a  network  of 
plum-color,  show  their  sharp  white  teeth  narrow  streets  there  was  not  a  light  to 
against  the  eifulgent  sky.  The  doves  be  seen.  The  only  living  things  we  met 
and  hawks,  which  make  their  nests  peace-  were  a  man  shrouded  in  a  cloak  and  the 
ably  in  nooks  of  the  tower,  flew  to  and  donkey  he  bestrode ;  he  had  to  squeeze 
fro  on  their  errands  ;  the  sound  of  the  himself  into  a  doorway  to  let  the  car- 
city  rose  sleepily,  like  the  hum  of  a  riage  go  by,  and  then  went  on,  casting  a 
great  hive,  as  if  its  only  occupants  were  Doresque  shadow  on  the  white  walls,  in 
bees  feeding  on  the  blossoms  which  filled  which  man  and  beast  were  indistinguish- 
the  air  with  perfume.  It  was  my  last  able.  The  sun  was  high  before  I  was 
look  at  Seville :  that  night  I  turned  my  up  and  on  my  way  to  the  cathedral.  The 
face  northward,  leaving  her  asleep  under  city  was  almost  as  deserted  by  day  as  by 
the  still,  warm  moonlight,  like  a  bride  night :  the  streets  were  empty ;  nobody 
in  her  white  robe  and  wreath  of  orange-  went  in  or  out  of  the  houses,  which  were 
flowers.  for  the  most  part  only  a  story  high ; 
And  the  fair,  and  the  museum,  and  there  were  no  open  doorways,  as  at  Se- 
the  other  sights  and  shows  of  the  town,  —  ville  ;  the  few  patios  of  which  I  had  a 
is  there  nothing  to  say  about  them  ?  A  glimpse  were  simple  courtyards,  with  a 
great  deal  might  be  said,  but  it  would  few  flower-pots.  Following  the  guide- 
be  superfluous,  as  the  greater  contains  book  map,  I  found  my  way  to  a  sort  of 
the  less,  and  there  is  nothing  so  beauti-  narrow  plaza  bounded  by  a  blank  wall 
ful  and  wonderful  in  Seville  as  Seville,  of  great  height,  fortified  with  square 
The  fair  was  more  correctly  a  cattle-  towers  embattled  in  the  Moorish  style 
show,  and  its  chief  local  peculiarity  was  with  tongues  of  flame.  The  sun  beat 
a  smell  of  frying,  which  quenched  the  down  from  a  cloudless  sky  on  the  cob- 
fragrance  of  the  groves  and  gardens  for  ble-stones  of  the  pavement,  and  glanced 
half  a  mile  around,  and  which  proceeded  back  from  the  shadowless  walls  with 
from  the  production  of  millions  of  frit-  midsummer  fierceness,  although  it  was 
ters  like  little  doughnuts,  called  bunuelos.  but  the  end  of  April.  The  walk  seemed 
The  pictures  are  delightfully  and  fitly  very  long  before  I  reached  a  lofty  tower, 
lodged  in  an  ancient  convent.  The  en-  heavily  crowned  with  a  belfry  and  cu- 
trance  is  through  a  cloister,  with  a  fine  pola,  and  a  great  triple  gateway,  through 
carved  red  cedar  roof,  and  two  courts,  —  which  I  descended  by  several  steps  into 
one  containing  an  old  well  such  as  aqua-  a  spacious  inclosure  planted  with  im- 
rellists  love,  the  other  a  maze  of  orange  mense  orange-trees.  A  round-arched 
and  pomegranate  trees.  The  collection  colonnade  follows  the  walls  on  the  inner 
has  only  about  two  hundred  paintings,  side.  Men  were  lounging,  women  draw- 
but  among  them  are  some  of  the  noblest  ing  water,  and  children  playing  beside 
Murillos  in  the  world  and  the  best  Zur-  a  large  fountain,  and  eating  the  fruit 
barans.  There  are  things  which  the  which  fell  from  the  great  glossy-leaved 
stranger  pays  to  see  and  stare  at  in  Se-  orange-trees,  said  to  be  as  old  as  the 
ville  as  elsewhere,  but  they  are  swal-  caliphs.  Of  the  exterior  of  the  sacred 
lowed  up  by  the  great  composite  spec-  building  I  have  no  recollection.  I  walked 
tacle  of  the  city  itself,  and  leave  no  across  the  grove,  which  is  acres  in  ex- 
separate  recollections.  tent,  absorbed  in  the  contemplation  of 


1884.] 


A  Cook's  Tourist  in  Spain. 


203 


mutability.  Here,  in  ancient  times,  stood 
a  temple  of  Janus;  early  Christians  built 
a  basilica  on  its  site ;  the  Moors  took 
the  city,  and  bought  the  ground  of  the 
conquered  Christians  for  good  gold  to 
build  a  mosque,  permitting  the  priests 
to  depart  with  the  honors  of  war,  car- 
rying away  their  sacred  objects  undes- 
ecrated.  For  five  hundred  years  the 
mild  Moslem  reigned  and  worshiped 
here,  with  large  tolerance  of  Jews  and 
Christians.  Then  the  followers  of  the 
Lamb  came  back  and  cast  forth  all  un- 
believers. The  crucifix  stands  again  on 
the  high  altar,  and  the  missal  has  re- 
placed the  Koran  ;  but  as  I  crossed  the 
threshold  I  exclaimed  to  myself,  "  This 
is  Islam  ! "  It  was  like  entering  a  new 
land,  a  new  world.  On  every  side,  far 
as  the  eye  could  reach,  arcades  opened 
before  me  intersected  by  other  arcades, 
innumerable  smooth,  slender  columns 
supporting  double  Moorish  arches,  one 
above  the  other,  with  an  open  space  be- 
tween, —  a  labyrinth  of  parallel  pillared 
avenues  constantly  crossing  other  ave- 
nues. As  I  walked  on,  looking  right 
and  left,  seeing  no  end,  no  exit,  nothing 
but  successive  colonnades  of  many-col- 
ored marble  shafts,  porphyry  and  jasper, 
with  waving  palm-branches  and  feathery 
tree-ferns  for  capitals,  and  horseshoe 
arches  of  broad  alternate  bands  of  red 
and  white  interminably  repeated,  a  dark 
vaulted  roof  overhead  in  a  summer  twi- 
light obscurity,  a  sensation  half-strange, 
half  familiar,  made  me  wonder  in  what 
dream  I  had  paced  these  aisles  before. 
Then  I  found  myself  thinking  of  the  rows 
of  a  great  field  of  Indian  corn  in  which 
I  had  lost  myself  when  I  was  a  child. 
The  effect  of  sameness  and  endlessness 
is  almost  identical ;  the  impression  on 
the  imagination  is-  of  a  vast  plantation 
of  palms  turned  to  stone.  There  are  in 
fact  a  thousand  pillars,  —  once  there 
were  many  more,  —  and  the  ground  plan 
is  four  acres  ;  the  roof  is  forty  feet  high, 
but  is  lowered  to  the  eye  by  the  absence 
of  soaring  lines  and  long  curves,  the 


Moorish  arches,  tier  on  tier,  being  united 
above  by  upper  rows  of  pillars  and  pilas- 
ters springing  from  the  capitals  of  the 
lower  columns.  As  one  advances  into 
this  mysterious  marble  forest  the  appar- 
ent uniformity  disappears  :  there  is  great 
variety  of  detail  in  the  pillars,  although 
they  are  nearly  of  the  same  size ;  they 
are  Greek,  Roman,  Lombard,  as  well 
as  Moorish.  Penetrating  further,  one 

O  7 

espies  grotto-like  chapels,  where  the 
Moorish  architect  has  given  his  fancy 
freer  play  than  in  the  adjacent  aisles. 
Here  the  lavish  decoration  abounds  in 
new  caprices  and  combinations.  The 
arches  bend  into  curves,  such  as  are 
sometimes  formed  for  a  moment  in  a 
thick  silken  sash,  or  a  long,  narrow  pen- 
non waving  in  the  wind ;  but  as  the  re- 
semblance strikes  one  the  interlacing 
folds  stiffen,  and  present  only  a  series  of 
scallops  or  semi-rosettes  diversified  with 
arabesques.  These  were  the  hallowed 
places  of  the  Mohammedan ;  and  here 
are  enameled  tiles,  gilding,  variegated 
colors,  inscriptions  from  the  Koran  in 
letters  like  heavy  lace,  glittering  Byzan- 
tine mosaics  sent  from  Constantinople 
by  one  of  the  Ceesars  of  the  Lower  Em- 
pire, and  cupolas  of  cedar  and  ebony 
carved  and  inlaid.  At  length  the  heart 
of  the  fane  is  reached,  and  enormous 
columns,  which  might  uphold  a  moun- 
tain, open  the  way  into  a  great  Renais- 
sance cathedral :  the  roof  is  gold  and 
white  ;  the  choir  can  seat  a  hundred 
priests ;  the  pulpits  are  piles  of  dark 
wood  carving  and  wrought  brass ;  the 
marble  floor  is  covered  with  gorgeous 
Turkish  carpets.  It  is  a  fine  monument 
of  mundane  devotion.  Authorities  dif- 
fer as  to  whether  this  interloping  church 
was  built  upon  a  central  open  court  or 
on  a  space  torn  from  the  mosque  itself. 
Most  people  follow  the  emperor  Charles 
V.  in  bewailing  the  disfigurement  of  an 
ancient  arid  unique  edifice  for  the  sake 
of  a  comparatively  modern  one,  by  no 
means  the  best  of  its  kind.  The  ca- 
thedral, however,  is  very  handsome  in 


204                                 A  Cook's  Tourist  in  Spain.  [August, 

its  way,  spacious,  imposing,  and  rich  gladly  have  idled  as  many  days  there ; 
enough  in  ornament  to  hold  its  own  be-  but  in  my  pocket  there  was  a  coupon- 
side  the  Moslem  temple  at  its  elbow,  ticket,  as  fatal  in  its  nature  as  Balzac's 
The  very  disparity  is  a  great  element  of  peau  de  chagrin  ;  each  pleasure  curtailed 
interest,  and  enhances  the  effect  of  the  its  surface,  and  warned  me  to  make  the 
Moorish  architecture,  adding  a  spell  to  most  of  its  limited  capability.  So  I 
the  strange,  mythical  influence  of  the  took  the  afternoon  train  for  Madrid, 
whole.  Mutilated  it  may  be  in  its  pres-  glad  of  a  chance  to  see  the  country  over 
ent  condition,  but  it  is  more  than  ever  a  which  I  had  previously  passed  at  night, 
wonder  of  the  world.  I  was  told  that  The  day  was  cloudless,  and  earth  and 
the  Moors  of  Africa  still  cherish  the  sky  wore  the  vernal  smile  of  a  new- 
recollection  of  their  splendid  rule  in  created  universe,  although  the  temper- 
Spain,  and  that  their  poetry  commem-  ature  was  that  of  June.  At  first  we 
orates  the  glories  of  Cordova  and  the  glided  through  gardens,  orange-groves, 
delights  of  Grenada  after  five  hundred  and  olive-orchards,  inclosed  in  straggling 
years'  return  to  the  soil  whence  they  hedges  of  huge  cactus  or  aloes.  Here 
originally  came.  The  exiled  Jews,  of  and  there  a  small  white  house  gleamed 
whom  many  were  transported  to  Moroc-  amidst  cypresses,  myrtles,  and  a  tangle 
co,  cling  to  the  memory  of  Andalusia  of  roses ;  so  small  that  it  could  hardly  be 
as  of  old  they  remembered  Zion  by  the  more  than  a  laborer's  cottage,  so  pretty 
waters  of  Babylon.  A  curious  story  and  elegant  that  it  had  the  air  of  a  min- 
was  told  to  the  present  Duke  de  Frias,  iature  villa.  By  degrees  the  gardens 
by  his  father,  of  a  Jewish  family  in  Af-  and  groves  gave  place  to  grain  fields  of 
rica,  in  which  the  tradition  had  been  vivid  green,  and  meadows  where  the 
handed  down  from  generation  to  gener-  grass  was  hidden  under  sheets  of  flow- 
ation  that  at  a  certain  time,  known  only  ers,  —  plots  of  yellow,  pink,  light  blue, 
to  the  head  of  the  house,  the  family  dark  blue,  or  all  mingled ;  there  was  a 
should  return  to  their  home  in  Toledo,  warm  purple  species  which  I  saw  sev- 
The  probation  expired  during  the  life-  eral  times  set  in  a  border  of  white,  with 
time  of  the  late  duke.  The  Hebrew  fa-  the  most  splendid  effect.  As  the  after- 
ther  confided  the  family  secret  to  his  eld-  no6n  wore  on,  a  few  clouds  drifted  slow- 
est son,  giving  him  a  key  which  had  been  ly  across  the  sky,  and  their  shadows, 
treasured  for  centuries,  and  bade  him  go  followed  by  sweeps  of  sunshine,  made 
to  Toledo  and  destroy  a  wall  in  a  situa-  the  flowery  fields  sparkle  like  beds  of 
tion  which  he  minutely  described  ;  a  jewels  laid  bare  to  the  light.  The  rail- 
door  would  thus  be  disclosed,  which  the  way  banks  blazed  with  poppies  ;  in  the 
key  would  open,  and  the  Jew  would  distance  there  were  low,  fawn-colored 
have  access  to  the  home  of  his  ancestors,  towns,  with  embattled  walls ;  at  long  in- 
which  had  been  lost  to  sight  and  to  the  tervals  a  ruined  castle  on  a  hilltop.  The 
memory  of  all  men  save  one  since  they  river  wound  through  the  landscape  red 
were  driven  out,  in  the  days  of  Ferdi-  as  blood.  The  sun  was  sinking  when 
nand  and  Isabella.  The  Jew  went,  and  we  passed  Javalquinto,  the  site  of  a 
found  the  wall,  the  door,  the  keyhole,  great  battle  with  the  Moors.  The  ern- 
and  the  concealed  house,  but  what  more  erald  meadows  in  the  foreground  rolled 
he  found  the  deponent  saith  not.  gently  upward  as  they  receded,  hiding 
Two  or  three  hours  slipped  away  as  I  the  Guadalquivir  ;  beyond  lay  a  zone  of 
wandered  among  the  pillars,  trying  to  land,  striped  like  a  tiger-skin,  at  the  foot 
guess  the  date  and  nationality  of  some  of  steep  heights  covered  with  dull  green 
of  them,  or  to  disentangle  the  devices  cork  forests  ;  above  them  towered  the 
of  the  arabesque  tracery,  and  I  would  peaked  and  serrate  mountain  ridge,  first 


1884.] 


A  Cook's  Tourist  in  Spain. 


205 


the  color  of  amethyst,  then  changing  to 
a  delicate  pink,  finally  glowing  with  a 
deep  peach-color,  while  the  ravines  were 
veiled  by  shadows  too  soft  for  a  name. 
The  aloe  hedges  were   no  more    to  be 
seen,  but  here  and  there  a  single  gigan- 
tic plant  brandished  its   spiked,  sword- 
like  leaves  and  uplifted  its    tall  flower 
stem,  which  in   form  and  color  recalls 
the  golden  candlestick  of  the  temple  at 
Jerusalem.     The  lovely  hues  and  velvet 
down  of  springtime  softened  the  sever- 
ity of  the  outlines,  which,  as  in  all  the 
Spanish   landscapes   that   I    saw,    were 
stern  and  grand  rather  than  beautiful ; 
it  was  a  scene  never  to   be  forgotten. 
In  a  few  moments  the  sun  had  set ;  be- 
fore an  hour  was  over  the  last  vestige 
of  tropical  vegetation  had  vanished,  and 
we  had  drawn  nearer  to  the  mountains, 
so  that  their  rugged  sides    and  broken 
pinnacles  were  visible  through  the  gath- 
ering  gloom.     For  a  short  time    there 
was  darkness ;  then  a  glorious  full  moon 
rose  above  the  rocky  gorge  of  the  Des- 
penaperros  just  as  we  plunged  into  the 
first  of  eight  long  tunnels,  which  robbed 
us  of  half  the  savage  grandeur  of  the 
pass.     Emerging  for  a  brief   time,  we 
saw  far  above  us  tremendous  natural  em- 
brasures and   battlements  of  dark  crag 
against  the  clear,  pale  night  sky,  black 
masses  of  foliage  clinging  to  the  walls 
of  the  cliffs,  and  below  us  flashed  the 
swift  rush  of   a  mountain    torrent.     It 
was  the  Gateway  of  the  Lost  Dogs,  so 
called  from  a  retreat  of  the  vanquished 
Arabs,  and  it   is    the  passage  between 
Andalusia  and  La  Mancha.     As  we  is- 
sued from  it  we  found  ourselves  in  a  dif- 
ferent region ;    wide,  uninhabited,  tree- 
less plains,  strewn  with    rocks,  opened 
before  us  for  long  hours,  lying  as  clear 
as  day  under  the  tranquil  moon.     The 
temperature  grew  colder  constantly,  un- 
til I  was  obliged  to  walk  to  and  fro  in 
the  railway-carriage  to  avoid  becoming 
thoroughly  chilled.     From  midnight  un- 
til daybreak  the  country  offered  only  a 
spectacle  of  the  most  despairing  sterility 


and  desolation,  increased  by  the  pallid 
light  of  the  setting  moon  in  her  struggle 
with  dawn.  Suddenly,  across  the  dreary 
waste,  a  dark  expanse  of  woodland  came 
in  sight,  and  presently  we  began  to  pass 
fine  groups  of  oaks,  elms,  and  beeches, 
reminding  one  of  an  English  park,  in- 
tersected by  wide,  straight  avenues  and 
formal  canals  and  ponds,  emptying  into 
two  pretty  streams  winding  about  this 
sylvan  realm.  The  noble  forms  of  the 
trees  were  undisguised  by  verdure,  but 
their  branches  and  twigs  were  fringed 
by  bursting  buds  and  tiny  leaves,  mak- 
ing a  dark  lace  pattern  against  the  sky, 
which  was  now  beginning  to  redden ; 
through  the  boughs  we  caught  glimpses 
of  stately  buildings  and  monumental 
gateways.  The  place  had  a  royal  and 
storied  aspect  befitting  its  name,  for  it 
proved  to  be  Aranjuez.  The  trees  were 
brought  from  England  by  Philip  II., 
and  have  been  witnesses  to  three  centu- 
ries of  historical  romance,  from  the  days 
of  Schiller's  Don  Carlos  and  that  one- 
eyed  Venus  the  Princess  of  Eboli  to  the 
more  recent  adventures  of  the  ex-Queen 
Isabella.  It  has  been  deserted  of  late 
years,  and  is  not  open  even  to  the  peo- 
ple of  Madrid,  for  whom  it  would  make 
a  delightful  holiday  resort.  The  Tagus 
kept  us  company  for  a  little  while  after 
we  left  the  groves  and  brooks  of  Aran- 
juez ;  then  bent  its  course  away,  and  left 
us  to  traverse  the  stony  wilderness  which 
surrounds  Madrid.  In  an  hour  more 
the  city  rose  above  the  horizon,  and  my 
Spanish  trip  was  at  an  end.  The  re- 
maining days  of  the  month  were  but  as 
the  last  sands  of  an  hour-glass,  and  my 
Cook's  ticket  gave  me  leave  to  go  back 
to  Paris,  with  no  further  privilege  than 
to  stop  at  the  frontier. 

I  have  a  word  or  two  of  advice  for 
readers  who  have  followed  me  through 
these  pages,  and  who  may  some  day  fol- 
low in  my  footsteps.  As  luggage  is 
charged  very  high  in  Spain,  the  amount 
allowed  to  a  first-class  passenger  scarce- 
ly reaching  the  weight  of  the  lightest 


206 


Dinky. 


[August, 


trunk,  it  is  well  to  travel  with  as  little 
as  possible.  Books  are  burdensome  com- 
panions, as  I  found  to  my  cost,  having 
taken  a  traveling  library  for  reference, 
—  Augustus  Hare,  Gautier,  and  Amicis, 
besides  Murray's  guide-book.  Gautier's 
letters,  although  written  forty  years  ago, 
are  so  true  to-day  that  there  can  be  no 
better  proof  how  little  the  country  has 
changed  ;  but  in  this  volume  he  is  only 
the  most  brilliant  and  original  of  news- 
paper correspondents,  arid  his  informa- 
tion about  ways  and  means  is  valueless, 
as  he  traveled  before  the  days  of  rail- 
wavs  and  hotels.  His  Voyage  en  Es- 

•/  *•       O 

pagne  is  a  book  to  read  before  going  to 
Spain,  or  after  coming  back,  or  by  all 
means  if  you  do  not  go  at  all,  but  not 
to  take  with  you.  Amicis,  although 
he  went  to  Spain  very  lately,  traveled 
in  Gautier's  track,  and  his  Spagna  is 
scarcely  more  than  a  free  translation  of 


Gautier's  book,  with  the  addition  of  a 
few  whimsies  and  personal  adventures 
and  much  verbiage  of  his  own.  Hare, 
who  begins  his  Wanderings  in  Spain 
with  a  lengthy  introduction  and  itinerary 
of  what  he  meant  to  see,  made  the  most 
cockney  tour ;  keeping  to  the  beaten 
track,  and  scarcely  visiting  a  place  of 
capital  interest  not  mentioned  by  Gau- 
tier. He,  too,  cribs  unconscionably  from 
the  Frenchman,  and  pads  his  poor 
book  with  ill-translated  quotations  from 
French  letter-writers  of  the  seventeenth 
century  and  trite  legends  or  historical 
anecdotes.  It  is  stale,  flat,  and  unprofit- 
able, and  bad  English  into  the  bargain. 
Murray's  guide-book  is  a  full,  entertain- 
ing, and  accurate  manual,  as  far  as  my 
experience  goes,  and  that,  or  O' Shea's, 
is  the  only  one  needed  on  a  journey 
where  every  ounce  must  be  taken  into 
account. 


DINKY. 


I. 


THERE  was  a  tradition  that  his  mother 
had  been  a  "  yaller  free  nigger."  The 
children  who  lived  in  Jail  Alley  were 
seldom  provided  with  fathers  of  any 
color. 

Dinky  and  Spot  were  comrades. 
They  were  always  seen  together,  and 
shared  alike  the  scraps  thrown  them 
by  the  neighbors.  During  the  daytime 
they  roamed  through  the  city,  going 
where  they  pleased,  and  accountable  to 
no  man.  When  the  days  were  warm  and 
sunny  they  rejoiced  in  the  gladness  of 
nature,  and  leaving  behind  them  the  hot 
bricks  and  dusty  houses  of  the  city  the 
two  vagabonds  would  wander  off  to  the 
green,  untenanted  fields,  and  lie  for 
hours  under  some  leafy  shelter,  blinking 
up  in  the  sky,  or  sleeping  the  summer 


hours  away.  When  aroused  by  hunger 
th'ey  stole  if  they  could,  and  if  there  was 
nothing  to  steal,  Dinky  would  beg  for 
food ;  but  this  he  hated  to  do,  and  never 
importuned  save  where  the  houses  were 
small  and  their  inhabitants  almost  as 
poor  as  himself.  During  the  chill  and 
cheerless  days  of  winter  —  which,  thank 
Heaven,  are  but  few  and  far  between 
in  Richmond  on  the  James  —  Dinky 
and  Spot  kept  close  together  in  their 
home ;  for  Jail  Alley,  that  narrow  and 
ill-smelling  beehive  of  human  misfor- 
tune, was  the  only  home  the  two  friends 
knew. 

Aunt  Sally,  who  lived  in  the  tumble- 
down hovel  at  the  corner,  might  have 
been  called  their  patroness,  for  it  was 
beneath  her  broken  and  trembling  shed 
that  they  were  permitted  to  sleep  in 
peace  during  the  winter  months.  It 


1884.] 


Dinky. 


207 


was  whispered  in  the  alley  that  she  knew 
what  had  become  of  Dinky's  mother, 
when  she  had  disappeared  five  years 
before;  and,  wonder  of  wonders,  it  was 
also  said  that  Aunt  Sally  could  tell,  if 
she  chose,  the  name  of  Dinky's  father. 
She  was  kind  by  fits  and  starts  to  her 
two  proteges  ;  sometimes  giving  Dinky 
a  very  ragged  garment  that  she  had 
found  while  plying  her  trade,  and  some- 
times beating  the  two  friends  cruelly 
with  a  short,  thick  chair-round  which 
she  kept  convenient  for  the  purpose. 
She  was  very  old  and  very  black.  She 
had  but  one  tooth  left,  which  projected 
and  gave  her  an  ugly  nickname  among 
her  associates.  She  was  a  rag-picker, 
a  fortune-teller,  and  a  vender  of  drugs. 
This  last  means  of  support  was  reserved 
for  a  night-business,  and  a  very  dark 
night-business  it  generally  proved  to  be. 
Girls  in  shawls  and  veils  stole  guiltily 
down  the  dark  and  slippery  alley,  and 
knocked  with  trembling  fingers  at  Aunt 
Sally's  worm-eaten  and  blistered  door, 
"to  have  their  fortunes  told."  When 
the  old  crone  had  been  rewarded,  the 
fortune  was  carried  off  in  a  black  bottle. 
Aunt  Sally  was  her  own  mistress.  She 
hired  herself  from  her  master,  and  paid 
him  fifty  dollars  a  year  for  the  privilege 
of  earning  her  living. 

One  morning  in  late  October  a  report 
was  circulated  around  the  alley  that 
Dinky  was  ill,  and  that  Aunt  Sally  had 
put  him  in  her  own  bed  and  was  nurs- 
ing him.  The  "  nursing  "  consisted  of  a 
good  deal  of  shaking,  many  hard  words, 
and  repeated  doses  of  camomile  tea  and 
senna.  Spot  sat  beside  the  bed,  a  living 
and  muddy  embodiment  of  faithful  dis- 
tress. The  sun  was  shining  very  invit- 
ingly outside,  and  Aunt  Sally's  chair- 
round  was  in  frequent  juxtaposition  to 
Spot's  back,  within  doors ;  but  Spot 
never  wavered  in  that  allegiance  which 
he  owed  his  sick  friend,  and  sat  like  a 
sentinel  at  his  side.  Frequently  he  was 
driven  away  from  his  post  by  the  chair- 
round  ;  but  he  always  promptly  came 


back,  showing  his  white  teeth  in  what 
he  meant  as  a  reassuring  smile  for 
Dinky's  encouragement. 

Before  many  days  Dinky  was  able  to 
be  up  and  about,  and  tempted  by  a 
fireman's  parade,  one  morning,  the  two 
friends  walked  up  the  main  street  to  see 
the  play  of  the  engines.  When  the 
glittering  display  was  over  Dinky  stood 
weak,  but  exultant,  leaning  on  a  fire- 
plug. Spot  spied  two  big  dogs  fighting 
over  a  tempting  bone  which  lay  un- 
claimed between  them.  The  little  fel- 
low had  been  shut  up  for  a  week,  and 
was  wild  with  curiosity,  acquisitiveness, 
and  the  new-found  sense  of  freedom. 
He  started  off  to  join  the  two  contest- 
ants. Dinky  saw  something  terrible 
come  rumbling  around  the  corner.  It 
was  a  large  black  iron  cage  on  wheels, 
drawn  by  fiery  black  horses,  in  which 
numberless  dogs  were  howling,  fighting, 
and  barking.  Two  brawny  negroes, 
carrying  nets  on  long  poles,  preceded 
the  cart  to  gather  up  all  peripatetic 
curs  lacking  medals  and  masters.  With 
a  cry  of  anguish  Dinky  darted  away  to 
claim  and  protect  his  only  friend.  But 
alas  for  poor  Spot!  before  Dinky's 
trembling  legs  had  accomplished  half 
the  distance  the  negroes  had  hurled 
their  nets  at  the  three  unfortunates, 
and  thrown  them  all  together  in  the 
cart,  which  disappeared  in  a  cloud  of 
dust. 

Desperate  and  weeping,  Dinky  made 
his  way  to  Aunt  Sally. 

"  De  dog-ketchers  dun  took  Spot. 
Please,  please,  Aunt  Sally,  gie  me  de 
money  ter  git  him  out !  " 

"  Git  long,  lazy-bones.  I  'm  glad  dat 
pesky  dog  is  whar  he  orter  bin  long 
ago." 

"Oh,  Aunt  Sally,  I'll  wuk  — I'll 
wuk  fer  you  day  en  night !  Gie  me  de 
money." 

"  Whar  you  tink  I  gwine  ter  git  two 
dollars  en  a  haf?  Git  long,"  and  the 
old  woman  hobbled  after  the  chair- 
round.  Dinky  fled  to  his  own  corner 


208 


Dinky. 


[August, 


of  the  shed.  There  was  the  place  Spot 
had  occupied  so  lately.  Here  they  had 
been  hungry  ;  here  they  had  rejoiced 
over  some  windfall  of  fortune,  in  the 
shape  of  cheese  rind  and  knuckle-bone  ; 
here  Dinky  had  so  often  slept  with 
Spot  curled  in  his  arms;  here  Spot's 
had  been  the  only  breast  on  which  the 
little  outcast's  head  had  ever  been  pil- 
lowed. With  streaming  eyes  Dinky  re- 
membered each  charm  of  his  lost  com- 
panion :  how  long  and  black  the  little 
terrier's  hair  was,  and  how  warm  a  com- 
forter during  the  long  chill  nights  :  his 
faithful  eyes,  brown  as  a  berry,  some- 
times so  mournful,  and  often  fairly 
snapping  with  delight ;  and  that  beauti- 
ful white  spot  on  his  nose  !  Oh  !  Dinky 
felt  that  he  could  stand  silence  and  in- 
action no  longer.  "  I  '11  go  to  Horse 
Heaben ! "  he  cried  aloud  in  his  pain, 
and  started  off  as  fast  as  his  poor  little 
legs  could  carry  him. 

Horse  Heaven,  the  place  where  all  un- 
paid-for  dogs  caught  by  the  dog-catchers 
were  put  to  death,  lay  a  short  distance 
east  of  Poor-House  Hill.  When  Dinky 
left  Jail  Alley  he  had  to  pass  a  spot 
where  there  was  a  lively  negro  auction 
going  on.  As  he  approached,  Dinky 
could  hear  the  auctioneer's  stentorian 
voice  chanting  the  praises  of  the  slaves 
of  which  he  was  disposing,  and  the  voices 
of  the  traders  in  reply.  Soon  Dinky 
saw  the  auctioneer  exhibiting  his  mer- 
chandise, and  the  buyers  and  traders  ex- 
amining their  new-made  property.  Near 
the  auctioneer  stood  a  tall,  handsome 
man,  who  seemed  to  be  taking  no  active 
part  in  the  sale.  A  brilliant  thought 
struck  Dinky.  He  hurried  forward 
through  the  dusky  crowd,  and  grasping 
the  auctioneer  by  the  hand  said,  — 

"  Mars,  mars,  put  me  on  de  block 
nex ;  please  put  me  on  de  block,  en  sell 
me  fer  two  dollars  en  a  haf." 

"  Sell  you,  child  !  To  whom  do  you 
belong  ?  '  inquired  the  auctioneer. 

"  I  belongs  ter  myself.  I  'se  a  free 
nigger.  Sell  ine  quick,  mars,  befo  dey 


kills  Spot!  "  cried  the  little  yellow  boy, 
with  swollen  and  flushed  face. 

«  Who  is  Spot  ?  " 

"  Spot 's  rny  dog,  en  de  dog-ketchers 
took  him.  Sell  me  quick,  en  gie  me  de 
money,  and  lemme  go  to  Horse  Heaben. 
I  'm  right  smart,  gentlemens,"  said 
Dinky,  addressing  the  crowd.  "  I  kin 
dance,  en  sing,  en  crack  bones,  en  play 
de  Jew's-harp.  See  me  cut  de  pigeon 
wing ;  "  and  climbing  up  on  the  block, 
Dinky  began,  and  tried  to  "  jump  Juba  " 
as  he  sang  :  — 

"  De  cotton  is  a  blowin', 
De  nigger  is  a  hoein' 

De  lowlan  groun'. 
De  yaller  gal  is  waitin', 
De  tomtit 's  matin', 

De  sun  's  goin'  down. 

"  Molly  Cottontail  is  settin* 
Crackin'  nuts,  en  bettin' 

Nobody  nigh. 
De  flat  boat 's  comin', 
Wid  de  rowers  hummin' 
'  Heaben  bimeby.' 

"  De  cotton  done  pickin', 
Nigger  start  deir  kickin' 

On  de  kitchen  floo. 
De  fiddle  am  scrapin', 
De  crowd  am  gapin' 

At  de  open  doo. 

"  Jump  Juba,  high  en  higher, 
De  yaller  gal 's  a  flyer, 
Mornin'  comes  prancin', 

De  sun 's  in  de  sky. 
Hear  de  horn  fer  de  pickin', 
Nigger '11  git  a  lickin', 
If  daylight  cotch  him  dancin' 
'Root  hog  er  die.'  " 


II. 


Mr.  Joseph  Chace  lived  in  Newtown, 
Rhode  Island.  A  republican,  a  well-to- 
do  lawyer,  a  man  of  education  and  ideas, 
he  had  been  traveling  through  the  South. 
Actuated  by  curiosity,  he  had  gone  that 
morning  to  witness  a  negro  slave  market. 
Mr.  Chace  felt  his  heart  swell  with  pity 
for  the  seven  years'  old  child,  who  was 
sobbing  and  dancing,  and  offering  his 
freedom  in  exchange  for  his  little  dog's 
life.  The  auctioneer  had  his  business  to 


1884.] 


Dinky. 


209 


attend  to.  He  waved  Dinky  awajr,  and 
soon  the  waif  was  pouring  his  woes  into 
Mr.  Cliace's  friendly  ear. 

Mr.  Chace's  only  child,  a  boy  of 
twelve,  was  a  hopeless  cripple.  His  fa- 
ther had  done  everything  in  his  power 
to  relieve  the  suffering  which  he  could 
not  remove.  While  Dinky  was  relat- 
ing his  story,  his  life  in  Jail  Alley,  his 
friendless  and  woe-begone  condition,  the 
thought  of  the  pleasure  which  his  son 
Arthur  might  find  in  Dinky  struck  Mr. 
Chace  very  agreeably,  and  the  philan- 
thropist wished  that  he  might  educate 
the  boy,  and  make  him  the  Moses  of  his 
enslaved  people. 

"  Here,"  said  Mr.  Chace,  —  "  here  are 
five  dollars.  I  will  go  with  you  to  Horse 
Heaven." 

Dinky,  ignorant  of  the  forms  of  a 
polite  civilization,  threw  himself  into  the 
stranger's  arms  and  embraced  him  rap- 
turously. 

A  convenient  carriage  was  found,  and 
soon  the  street  Arab  and  the  well-dressed 
Northern  lawyer  were  seated  side  by 
side  in  pursuit  of  Spot.  It  was  late  in 
the  afternoon  when  the  carriage  reached 
Horse  Heaven.  In  the  centre  of  the 
ring  lay  a  heap  of  newly  slaughtered 
victims.  Several  negroes  were  busy 
dispatching  their  prey,  and  their  dying 
yelps  smote  the  ear  of  the  stranger. 
With  a  bound  Dinkv  left  the  carriage. 

v  O      * 

and  not  seeing  his  treasure  among  the 
living  began  to  search  for  him  among 
the  dead.  There  he  lay  in  the  middle 
of  the  pile,  dead,  but  not  yet  cold. 
Screaming  with  impotent  rage,  and  wild 
with  grief,  Dinky  hugged  Spot  to  his 
heart.  Then,  as  though  felled  by  un- 
seen hands,  Dinky  dropped  senseless  at 
Mr.  Chace's  feet. 

What  was  Mr.  Chace  to  do  with  his 
self-imposed  protege?  He  could  not 
leave  him  at  the  mercy  of  those  dog- 
killers,  and  would  not  take  him  back  to 
Jail  Alley.  He  dared  not  carry  him  to 
the  hotel,  and  place  him  in  his  bed ;  for 
in  1847  that  would  have  been  a  procla- 

VOL.  LIV.  —  NO.  322.  14 


mation  of  abolition  sentiment,  meriting 
the  rough  handling  of  a  mob,  perhaps. 

Mr.  Chace  held  a  long  colloquy  with 
the   negro    hackman.     The    result  was 

O 

that  Dinky  was  lifted  into  the  carriage 
and  securely  covered  with  a  shawl.  Mr. 
Chace  went  to  his  hotel,  paid  his  bill, 
and  drove  straight  to  the  railroad  sta- 
tion. The  Northern-bound  train  started 
a  few  minutes  after  he  entered  the  car. 
No  one's  attention  was  specially  direct- 
ed to  the  child,  who  lay  swathed  in  the 
shawl.  When  Dinky  recovered  con- 
sciousness he  ate  ravenously  of  the  food 
which  Mr.  Chace  had  thoughtfully  se- 
cured ;  and  then  he  sank  into  a  heavy 
sleep  which  lasted  many  hours.  When 
they  had  passed  through  Baltimore  Mr. 
Chace  breathed  more  freely.  He  had 
no  desire  to  be  arraigned  for  kidnapping. 
In  Philadelphia  he  stopped  long  enough 
to  provide  Dinky  with  clothes  and  more 
food.  The  child  was  stupid  with  illness, 
fatigue,  and  the  unwonted  excitement  of 

O         ' 

travel.  A  few  days  after  his  arrival  in 
Newtown,  when  he  was  somewhat  re- 
covered from  his  illness,  Din'ky  was  pre- 
sented to  Arthur  Chace,  who  had  been 
pining  to  see  the  child  his  father  had 
rescued  from  the  wretchedness  of  Jail 
Alley. 

Mr.  Chace's  household  consisted  of 
himself,  his  motherless  boy  Arthur,  and 
Miss  Aurelia  Chace.  Miss  Aurelia  was 
aged  sixty  ;  was  high-nosed,  high-mind- 
ed, bigoted,  dogmatic,  skinny,  and  spec- 
tacled, Mr.  Chace's  sister  and  house- 
keeper. 

To  Arthur,  Dinky  at  once  became 
the  source  of  an  endless  succession  of 
delights.  Such  tales  as  Dinky  told  Ar- 
thur about  Jail  Alley  !  How  Arthur's 
eyes  sparkled,  and  how  he  loved  his  yel- 
low sprite ! 

Dinky  stole  everything  he  wanted,  it 
is  true,  and  had  not  the  slightest  regard 
for  the  truth  ;  he  had  not  the  first  idea 
of  law  or  order.  What  a  subject  to 
be  introduced  into  a  prim,  well-ordered 
Yankee  family  !  One  day  the  handsom- 


210 


Dinky. 


[August, 


est  vase  in  the  parlor  was  found  smashed. 
Who  did  it  ?  Dinky,  of  course.  Why  ? 
To  gain  possession  of  a  large  painted  red 
rose,  its  central  ornament.  He  broke  the 
eighth  commandment  whenever  he  saw 

O 

anything  that  he  thought  Arthur  would 
fancy  ;  and  he  presented  his  stolen  treas- 
ures with  graceless  innocence  of  virtue 
and  ignorance  of  vice.  Dinky's  most 
skillful  depredations  were  committed 
upon  the  neighbors.  Woe  betide  the 
housewife  who  left  her  jelly  cooling  in 
the  basement  window,  or  put  her  custard 
out  to  freeze  itself  in  the  snow !  The 
spirit  of  mischief  was  rampant  in  Dinky, 
who  was  as  slippery  as  an  eel,  as  adroit 
as  Cartouche,  and  as  unrepentant  as  — 
Dinky. 

To  Mr.  Chace,  he  was  the  incarnate 
representative  of  a  national  enigma  ;  to 
Arthur,  a  deep  delight ;  to  Miss  Aure- 
lia,  the  object  she  had  been  chosen  to 
convert.  '  To  Mr.  Chace,  Dinky  was 
affectionately  respectful ;  to  Arthur,  an 
adoring  slave ;  but  to  Miss  Aurelia's  ad- 
monitions he  turned  a  deaf  ear  and  a 
smiling  face.  When  Miss  Aurelia  be- 
gan to  read  the  Bible  to  him.  and  tried 
to  teach  him  the  difference  between 
Tight  and  wrong,  he  was  not  very  at- 
tentive; but  when  Arthur  relieved  his 
aunt  of  her  pupil,  Dinky  became  all 
alive  with  attention  and  regard.  Every 
morning  for  two  hours  Arthur  strug- 
gled with  Dinky,  teaching  him  his  let- 
ters, reading  to  him,  and  trying  to  in- 
.terest  him. 

It  was  indeed  some  time  before  Dinky 
grew  really  interested  in  Arthur's  read- 
ing from  the  good  book.  One  morning 
Arthur  chanced  to  read  that  canticle  of 
Solomon's  which  begins,  "  Black  am  I, 
though  comely,  ye  daughters  of  Jerusa- 
lem." When  Arthur  had  finished  his 
reading  Dinky  gave  a  sigh  of  pleas- 
ure and  relief.  "  Mars  Arty,"  he  said, 
"I'se  mighty  glad  you  read  me  'bout 
dat  Bible  nigger  dat  was  king  of  de 
.Jews.  Aunt  Sally  said  dere  was  no 
place  in  de  Bible  fer  niggers,  an  now 


I  'se  monstous  glad  ter  hear  you  read 
out  of  de  white  folks'  Bible  'bout  de 
nigger  king." 

Every  clay  after  that  he  listened  at- 
tentively ;  and  when,  under  Mr.  Chace's 
direction,  Arthur  read  those  portions  of 
the  New  Testament  most  intelligible 
and  interesting  to  children,  Dinky  was 
really  impressed,  and,  to  quote  Miss  Au- 
relia, "  showed  a  more  moral  disposi- 
tion." 

Some  time  previous  Miss  Aurelia  had 
lost  a  ten-dollar  gold  piece.  She  had 
taxed  Dinky  with  the  theft,  and  he  had 
rolled  his  eyes  up  and  sworn  that  he 
did  not  have  the  money.  Miss  Aurelia 
turned  his  pockets  inside  out,  and  found 
nothing.  "  You  little  wretch,  you  will 
never  go  to  heaven,"  she  said,  as  she 
banged  the  door  behind  her. 

"  Mars  Arty,"  said  Dinky  confiden- 
tially, when  he  found  himself  alone  with 
the  lame  boy,  "  is  Miss  'Rely  gwine  ter 
heaben  ?  " 

"  Yes,"  replied  Arthur,  "  of  course 
she  is." 

"  Den  I  does  n't  want  ter  go,"  replied 
Dinky  firmly. 

"  Oh,  Dinky,  dear !  "  said  Arthur, 
patting  Dinky's  curly  head,  which  lay 
against  the  bed  as  he  crouched  beside 

o 

it.  "  I  hope  that  I  am  going  to  heaven, 
and  there  are  many  little  children  there." 

"  What,  nigger  chillun  ?  '  inquired 
Dinky. 

"  Yes,  indeed,"  replied  Arthur  eager- 
ly ;  "  all  sorts  of  children." 

"  I  specks  de  colored  chillun s  hev  ter 
pick  up  trash  en  run  roun  waitin  on  de 
quality.  I  reckon  I  '11  stay  here  wid 
Mars  Joe.  Does  you  speck  Miss  'Rely 
gwine  ter  start  soon  ?  Mars  Arty,"  con- 
tinued Dinky  reflectively,  "  Miss  'Rely 
all  de  time  'cusin  me  o'  sumthin'.  Dis 
time  't  is  de  money.  Now  I  nebber  stole 
dat  money.  I  was  jes  a-standin  by  de 
table,  en  de  little  yaller  thing  kept  up 
sech  a  shiuin'  I  jes  put  my  finger  on  it, 
en  all  at  onct  de  shiny  piece  pintedly 
riz  up  en  stuck  ter  my  hand." 


1884.] 


Dinky. 


211 


"  Oh,  Dinky  !  give  aunt  Aurelia  her 
money.  It  is  not  right  for  you  to  keep 
it." 

"  Mars  Arty,  I  hopes  I  may  nebber  fall 
down  ef  I  'se  got  Miss  'Rely's  money," 
and  Dinky  walked  away  from  Arthur's 
pleading  eyes  and  entreating  hands. 

Months  afterwards  Mr.  Chace  heard 
accidentally  that  Dinky  had  given  the 
money  to  Sady  Small,  the  poor,  half- 
starved,  wretched  daughter  of  a  drunken 
cobbler.  Mr.  Chace  also  heard  the  rea- 
son of  Dinky's  usual  hatless  and  shoeless 
condition,  and  how  the  child  was  always 
ready  to  distribute  his  clothes  among 
the  poor  children  in  the  neighborhood. 
Generous,  warm-hearted,  undisciplined 
Dinky,  —  Dinky,  who  had  never  entire- 
ly recovered  from  the  fever,  which  had 
left  him  with  a  hollow  cough  ;  Dinky, 
who  told  stories,  and  smiled  sweetly  as 
he  gave  his  last  stolen  treasure  away ; 
Dinky,  whose  big  black  eyes  got  bigger 
and  blacker  as  his  little  yellow  face  be- 
came thin  and  worn ;  Dinky,  who  came 
home  weekly  almost  naked  through  frost 
and  snow,  to  which  his  feet  were  little 
accustomed,  and  refused  to  account  for 
the  lack  of  vesture  ;  unquiet,  restless 
Dinky ;  Dinky,  on  whose  little  frame 
the  Northern  winter  was  telling  hardly; 
in  a  word,  naughty  Dinky,  whom  every- 
body loved. 

There  was  a  large  colored  photograph 
of  Christ  blessing  little  children  which 
hung  beside  Arthur's  bed.  Dinky  al- 
ways arranged  his  little  chair  so  that  he 
might  face  the  picture  during  his  les- 
sons and  the  Bible  reading. 

"Mars  Arty,"  he  said  one  evening, 
when  everything  was  quite  still,  and 
only  the  flickering  wood  fire  lent  its 
light  to  the  room,  "  dat  's  a  monstous 
pitiful-looking  gentlemun  up  dar  in  dat 
picture  frame.  I  likes  him  mightily, 
'specially  sence  you  dun  tole  me  he 
nebber  slighted  poo  folks.  I  specks  I 
knows  what  he's  a-t'inkin'  ter  hisself 
dis  minute,  while  his  hans  is  a  layin'  on 
dat  white  boy's  head." 


"  "What  do  you  believe  him  to  be 
thinking  of,  Dinky  ?  " 

"  I  specks  he 's  a-t'inkin'  of  Jail 
Alley,  en  a-wishin'  de  little  chilluns 
dere  was  es  clean  en  white  es  dese  in 
de  picture  frame." 

Arthur  smiled  and  sighed. 

O 

One  cold,  bleak  day  in  March  Arthur 
had  been  feeling  very  unwell,  and  to 
amuse  him  Dinky  had  been  playing  all 
sorts  of  tricks,  and  turning  somersaults 
on  the  wolfskin  which  lay  beside  the 
bed.  All  at  once  the  child  stopped,  and 
put  his  hands  to  his  lips,  from  which  the 
red  life  blood  was  pouring. 

Arthur's  cries  summoned  Miss  Aurelia, 
and  Dinky,  at  Arthur's  earnest  entreaty, 
was  made  comfortable  on  a  sofa  pushed 
close  to  the  bed.  When  the  haemorrhage 
was  stopped  the  physician  administered 
an  anaesthetic,  and  Dinky  slept  undis- 
turbed for  some  hours.  The  household 
came  in  and  went  out  with  cat-like  tread, 
and  Arthur  was  almost  afraid  to  breathe, 
fearing  to  disturb  the  little  patient.  Mr. 
Chace  looked  very  sad  and  nervous. 

About  sunset  Dinky  awoke,  bright- 
eyed,  flushed,  delirious  ;  and  the  nervous 
fingers  went  restlessly  picking  about  the 
bright  squares  of  Miss  Aurelia's  satin 
quilt. 

"  Hey,  Spot,  ole  dog ;  hey,  Spot,  come 
long.  Aunt  Sally  ain't  dar, — no,  no. 
I  darsn't  steal  de  pie.  Mars  Arty  say 
dat 's  wrong.  Heylo,  Spot !  de  green 
trees  ;  oh  !  de  nice  runnin'  water.  Lady, 
gie  a  poo  nigger  a  cent,  —  one  cent, 
lady,  ter  buy  a  flower  fer  Mars  Arty, 
lame  Mars  Arty,  lady.  Don't  hit  so 
hard,  Aunt  Sally.  I  wish  I  was  dead. 
Ha-ha-ha,  who  put  de  skeercrow  on  de 
fence  ?  Nice,  nice  gentlemun."  The 
child  babbled  on,  picking  at  the  quilt, 
and  gazing  intently  at  the  far  corner  of 
the  room.  "  Dinky  's  sorry.  Miss  'Rely 
say  ef  I  come  home  barefoot  agin  she 
gwine  ter  lock  me  up.  I  could  n't  keep 
de  money.  Sady's  foot  was  all  bloody 
in  de  snow.  Mars  Arty,  Mars  Arty ! ' 

"  Dear,  dear  Dinky,  I  am  here,  and  so 


212 


Nathaniel  Parker  Willis. 


[August, 


is  papa,"  cried  Arthur,  sobbing  and  try- 
ing to  catch  Dinky's  fluttering  fingers. 

"  Oh,  gentlemun,  nice  gentlemun  ! ' 
Dinky  said,  still  gazing  into  the  corner, 
and  stretching  out  his  hands.  "  Whar 
you  come  fom,  wid  Spot  ?  Thankee, 
mars,  thankee.  Spot,  Spot,  I  'se  glad. 
I  'se  so  glad.  Miss  'Rely  got  heap  ov 
goodies  in  de  pantry.  No,  no,  Miss 
'Rely,  I  won't  steal.  I  gwine  ter  ax  you 
'er  sumptiu.  Gie  Spot  a  dollar  —  fer 
Aunt  Sally  —  poor  Aunt  Sally  in  Jail 
Alley  —  she  don't  know  you,  gentlemun 
—  but — Mars  Arty  say  you  is  so  piti- 
ful you  lub  her  all  de  same.  What 
Mars  Arty  say  ?  *  When  your  fader  and 
your  in  udder  forsake  you  de  —  Lord  — 
will  —  pick  —  you  —  up.'  Dinky  got  no 
mudder,  gentlemun.  Is  you  my  fader  ? 
You  is  n't  de  Lord  come  a-standin  by 
a  yaller  chile  like  dis  ?  Who  is  you  ?  I 
ain't  stole  nuthin'  ter-day.  I  ain't  stole 


nuthin  sence  —  Nobody  ebber.  told 
Dinky  befo.  Marster,  I  'm  sorry,"  and 
Dinky's  eyes  looked  pleadingly  at  his 
invisible  friend.  Miss  Aurelia  had  taken 
off  her  spectacles,  and  was  crying  softly, 
ashamed  and  contrite.  The  little  ne<rro 

o 

boy  was  teaching  the  bigot  that  there 
are  many  paths  leading  to  the  house  of 
God. 

Simple,  well-meaning  Mr.  Chace  !  He 
had  hoped  to  be  the  humble  instrument 
of  giving  a  Moses  to  his  people.  Poor 
man,  his  eyes  were  blinded  with  tears, 
but  "  it  was  well  with  the  child." 

"  Oh,  papa,  he  won't  look  at  me,  he 
won't  speak  to  me ! '  sobbed  Arthur. 
"  What  is  he  looking  at  ?  What  does 
he  see?'1 

"  Spot,"  cried  Dinky  rapturously, 
"  I  'm  coming  wid  de  gentlemun.  Spot, 
my  Spot "  —  and  he  fell  back  on  the 
pillow. 

Mary  Beale  Brainerd. 


NATHANIEL   PARKER   WILLIS. 


SEVENTEEN  years  ago  Willis  was  laid 
at  rest  in  Mount  Auburn.  It  would  al- 
most seem  as  if  his  books  had  been  bur- 
ied in  the  same  grave  with  him.  One 
small  collection  of  his  poems  remains  in 
circulation,  and  that  is  all.  The  present 
generation  knows  him  not,  or  knows  him 
vaguely.  At  the  period  of  his  death 
Willis  had  already  outlived  his  best  in- 
spiration ;  between  him  and  his  spark- 
ling work  the  war  had  drawn  that  red 
line  which  had  the  effect  of  giving  an 
air  of  obsoleteness  to  everything  on  the 
further  side.  New  men  and  new  liter- 
ary fashions  had  sprung  up  :  only  the 
fittest  of  the  old  survived.  It  was  nat- 
ural that  so  delicate  a  talent  as  Willis's 
should  fall  into  neglect.  I  think  that 
some  of  the  neglect  is  undeserved,  and 
is  therefore  temporary.  There  are  many 
persons  still  living  who  have  not  quite 


outgrown  a  feeling  of  attachment  for 
that  bright  personality  which  at  one 
time  did  so  much  to  influence  our  un- 
formulated  social  and  literary  tastes. 
Certainly,  Willis  was  too  individual  a 
figure  in  our  literature,  too  peculiarly 
American  in  spite  of  all  his  foreign  ai-rs 
and  acquaintanceship,  and  too  richly  en- 
dowed with  that  rare  faculty  of  interest- 
ing and  attaching  readers  to  himself,  to 
be  permanently  passed  by.  His  very 
faults  and  foibles  are  engaging,  and 
should  not  blind  us  to  the  real  manliness 
beneath  the  surface.  He  has  a  distinc- 
tive literary  quality,  a  tone  and  manner 
entirely  his  own.  There  is  in  all  that 
he  has  written  a  rich  personal  flavor, 
which  affects  one  as  a  charm,  and  makes 
the  man  a  part  of  his  most  trivial  pro- 
duction. The  reader  comes  at  last  to 
feel  as  if  he  had  known  the  writer,  and 


1884.] 


Nathaniel  Parker  Willis. 


213 


been  taken  into  his  very  confidence.  He 
had  a  rare  gift  of  communicating  his  in- 
dividual standpoint  of  thought  and  feel- 
ing, and  could  invest  even  trifles  with 
a  living  and  familiar  interest.  This 
was  more  than  the  effect  of  his  swift, 
light  stroke,  as  it  was  also  more  than  a 
mere  literary  trick.  Rather,  it  was  a 
native  facility  and  inborn  instinct  of  ap- 
proach, which  gave  him  ready  entrance 
to  the  heart.  He  was  always  sure  of  a 
response,  —  too  fatally  sure,  too  cruelly 
favored  by  fortune  in  all  his  beginnings, 
to  be  equally  certain  .of  his  best  achieve- 
ment. Nature  might  have  done  more 
for  him  if  she  had  done  less.  Like  Leigh 
Hunt,  whom  in  some  respects  he  re- 
sembled, he  lacked  the  early  discipline 
of  rebuff  and  patient  labor  done  in  pri- 
vacy. His  flowering  was  premature, 
and  the  instant  pressure  of  demand  to 
which  the  undergraduate  glory  of  Scrip- 
ture Sketches  subjected  his  powers  put 
silent  preparation  out  of  the  question. 

Hence,  at  times,  a  certain  extrava- 
gance and  want  of  proportion  in  his 
work,  a  general  lightness  of  tone  that 
often  amounts  to  deliberate  injustice  to 
himself  and  to  his  subject.  Hence,  too, 
an  inability,  which  at  last  became  consti- 
tutional, to  undertake  and  carry  on  any 
systematic  and  sustained  labor,  together 
with  a  frankly  confessed  indifference  to 
the  peculiar  consideration  and  rewards 
of  such  a  course.  His  jaunty  reply  to 
the  friends  who  begged  him  to  concen- 
trate his  powers  and  write  something  for 
posterity  but  partially  tells  the  story  of 
Willis's  apparent  insensibility  to  fame. 
Doubtless  he  was  sincere  when  he  said 
that  he  would  be  glad  to  do  so  if  poster- 
ity would  make  up  a  purse  for  him,  — 
as  sincere,  perhaps,  as  his  English  con- 
temporary Praed,  when  he  thus  sings  of 
himself  to  the  same  purpose  :  — 

"  For  he  was  born  a  wayward  boy, 

To  laugh  when  hopes  deceive  him; 
To  grasp  at  every  fleeting  joy, 
To  jest  at  all  that  leave  him; 
To  love  a  quirk  and  loathe  a  quarrel, 
And  never  care  a  straw  for  laurel." 


But  circumstances  as  well  as  tempera- 
ment had  conspired  in  his  case  to  bring 
about  the  short-sighted  result.  As  Wil- 
lis himself  clearly  shows,  there  was 
peculiar  temptation  for  a  facile  pen  like 
his  to  devote  itself  to  popular  work,  when 
as  yet  American  publishing  had  made  lit- 
tle or  no  headway  against  the  deeply  felt 
need  of  an  international  law  of  copy- 
right, and  American  journalism  was  be- 
ginning to  offer  prices  which  well  might 
seem  to  him  "  extravagant."  Naturally 
enough,  to  quote  his  own  words,  will 
"  necessity  plead  much  more  potently 
than  the  ambition  for  an  aclult  stature  in 
literary  fame ; '  nor  does  one  wholly 
wonder  at  that  "difficult  submission  to 
marketableness  '  which  led  him  to 
"  break  up  his  statues  at  the  joints,  and 
furnish  each  fragment  with  head  and 
leg's  to  walk  alone.' 

O 

But  this  method  of  spontaneity,  which 
so  well  fitted  his  gifts  in  prose,  became 
the  fatal  limitation  of  his  poetry.  With 
no  lack  of  native  equipment,  Willis  never 
got  beyond  the  promise  of  his  early  suc- 
cesses in  versification,  although  he  con- 
tinued to  enjoy  the  reputation  of  a  poet 
during  his  lifetime.  The  Scripture  po- 
ems, published  while  he  was  yet  a  stu- 
dent at  Yale,  had  an  instant  and  cordial 
reception.  Henceforth  we  find  little  ad- 
vancement upon  the  standard  thus  fixed 
by  this  immature  fruitage  of  his  youth. 
The  hasty  touch  could  hardly  be  ex- 
pected to  suffice  for  the  wider  reputation 
and  riper  demand  of  middle  life,  and 
we  seem  to  see  in  much  of  the  poetical 
work  which  followed  onlv  another  case 

p 

of  arrested  development.  An  occasional 
happy  effect  in  some  of  the  minor  pieces 
still  keeps  the  tradition  of  his  power 
alive,  even  while  the  more  exacting  tests 
of  to-day  have  ruled  out  the  larger  share 
of  his  poetry.  Neither  Willis  nor  John 
Pierpont  succeeded  in  justifying  the 
attempt  at  a  modern  reproduction  of 
Scripture  narratives. 

Unevenness  of  workmanship  and  want 
of  painstaking  toil  to  supplement  his  un- 


214 


Nathaniel  Parker  Willis. 


[August, 


doubted  aptness  also  kept  Willis  from  the 
rank  he  miirht  otherwise  have  reached 

O 

among  the  acknowledged  masters  of 
English  society  verse.  Willis  never  at- 
tained that  airy  firmness  of  touch  so 
native  to  Praed,  Locker,  Dobson,  and 
our  own  Holmes,  which  fairly  imprisons 
a  thought  or  fancy  without  effort  or  ap- 
parent intention.  Nowhere  is  shown 
more  consummate  tact  and  skill  than  in 
the  cutting  of  these  exquisite  jeweled 
bits  called  vers  de  societe,  which  reflect, 
without  a  Hue  too  much  or  too  little,  the 
fleeting  lights  and  shadows  of  graceful 
sentiment.  Even  in  his  more  serious 
flights  of  fancy  Willis  too  often  skirts 
the  dangerous  line  that  divides  sentiment 

o 

from  sentimentality.  His  Dedication 
Hymn  and  the  Death  of  Harrison  will 
live,  and  there  is  still  a  pathetic  power 
in  the  Reverie  at  Glenmary  and  that 
Invocation  he  addresses  to  his  mother 
on  bringing  home  his  English  bride. 
But  we  are  after  all  forced  to  look  be- 
yond his  poetic  achievement  for  the 
secret  of  Willis's  undoubted  capacity  for 
holding  the  popular  heart. 

Willis  himself  had  none  of  the  com- 
mon affectation  of  authorship,  arid  took 
no  pains  to  create  an  atmosphere  of  re- 
serve or  secrecy  as  to  the  sources  of  his 
power.  He  was  the  frankest  of  littera- 
teurs, and  barely  escaped  being  a  hack 
by  the  independence  of  his  pen.  He 
disarmed  criticism  at  the  outset  by  the 
unblushing  confession  that  the  readiness 
of  the  public  to  read  and  reward  him 
for  his  work  constituted  his  best  excuse 
for  writing  at  all.  And  somehow,  in 
reading  Willis,  one  never  thinks  of  abus- 
ing so  flattering  a  mark  of  confidence  on 
'  his  part. 

This  power  of  making  others  feel  with 
him,  this  free,  fresh  charm  of  engaging 
familiarity,  is  nowhere  better  shown  than 
in  the  little  sketch  To  the  Julia  of  Some 
Years  Ago,  supposed  to  have  been  writ- 
ten from  Saratoga.  The  thing  is  per- 
fect and  quite  inimitable  in  its  way.  I 
can  call  it  nothing  but  sympathetic,  so 


swift  and  sure  is  it  to  enlist  the  feel- 
ing of  the  reader.  And  then  the  little 

o 

undercurrent  of  pathos  that  flows  so 
gently  beneath  the  sparkle  and  appar- 
ent trifling  of  his  manner !  It  all  makes 
one  think  what  a  Thackerayan  mastery 
of  the  sadder  sides  of  sentiment  our  au- 
thor might  have  had,  with  something 
more  of  constructive  skill  and  genius  for 
labor. 

Whatever  else  he  was,  Willis  was  first 
of  all  a  journalist,  with  a  trained  and 
instinctive  equipment  in  some  respects 
second  to  none  this  country  has  ever 
produced.  With  no  taste  for  Franklin's 
thrift,  and  none  of  that  genius  for  polit- 
ical leadership  which  has  marked  the 
other  great  masters  of  the  art  in  this 
country,  Willis  always  had  the  feeling 
of  a  correspondent  and  the  judgment  of 
an  editor.  His  knowledge  of  the  public 
taste  was  unerring,  and  his  faculty  of 
instant  adjustment  to  its  demands  some- 
thing phenomenal.  Indeed,  it  almost 
amounted  to  another  sense,  this  instinc- 
tive adaptation  to  just  the  degree  of  the 
solid  and  soluble  it  is  well  to  mingle  in 
pabulum  designed  for  the  multitude. 
For  he  never  sacrificed  to  any  audience 
his  moment  of  serious  aside,  nor  the 
classical  allusion  of  which  he  was  so  fond, 
while  at  the  same  time  no  one  could 
more  gracefully  beat  a  retreat  from  the 
threatening  danger  of  things  abstruse 
or  profound.  With  his  sensitive  appre- 
ciation of  the  public  appetite,  he  could 
tell  precisely  how  far  to  go,  —  could 
make  a  spurt  or  a  dash,  and  appear  to 
have  exhausted  a  subject  which  he  had 
in  reality  hardly  more  than  touched  in 
passing. 

There  was  a  strong  inherited  journal- 
istic flavor  in  Willis's  blood.  At  the  time 
of  his  birth,  in  Portland,  January  20, 
1806,  his  father,  Nathaniel  Willis,  was 
editing  the  Eastern  Argus ;  and  ten  years 
later  we  find  him  in  Boston,  —  where  he 
died  May  26,  1870,  at  the  ripe  age  of 
ninety,  —  continuing  the  work  which 
was  to  link  his  name  with  the  early  his- 


1884.] 


Nathaniel  Parker  Willis. 


215 


tory  of  journalism  in  this  country.  To 
him  will  always  belong  the  credit  of 
establishing,  in  1816,  our  first  religious 
newspaper,  the  Boston  Recorder;  as 
well  as  of  founding,  in  1827,  the  Youth's 
Companion,  that  first  of  the  many  pe- 
riodicals since  devoted  to  the  interests 
of  the  young.  Before  the  son  had 
fairly  finished  his  course  at  Yale,  in  the 
year  last  mentioned,  the.  availability  of 
the  rising  collegian  had  been  marked 
by  the  versatile  Peter  Parley,  and  his 
patli  made  easy  from  the  university 
benches  to  an  editorial  chair.  Immedi- 
ately upon  graduation,  Willis  assumed 
the  charge  of  the  Token  and  Legendary, 
which  inaugurate  that  long  list  of  jour- 
nalistic ventures  which  have  been  con- 
nected with  his  name,  beginning  with 
the  American  Monthly  Magazine,  af- 
terward merged  in  General  George  P. 
Morris's  New  York  Mirror,  and  end- 
ing with  the  Home  Journal.  Here  was 
the  familiar  role  of  pioneer  newspaper 
work  in  which  his  father  before  him  had 
been  so  conspicuous,  only  in  his  case 
it  was  enlarged  and  individualized  by  a 
keener  insight,  a  broader  culture,  and  a 
readier  literary  gift.  Always  reaching 
out  for  something  novel  and  attractive, 

O  * 

Willis  had  finally  added  to  instinct  an 
experience  which  made  him  easy  mas- 
ter in  this  by  no  means  easy  field  of 
writing. 

"  It  is  a  voyage,"  he  says,  in  speak- 
ing of  the  launching  of  a  new  periodical, 
"  that  requires  plentiful  stores,  much 
experience  of  the  deeps  and  shallows  of 
the  literary  seas,  and  a  hand  at  every 
halyard.  .  .  .  No  one  who  has  not  tried 
this  vocation  can  have  any  idea  of  the 
difficulty  of  procuring  the  light  yet 
condensed,  the  fragmented  yet  finished, 
the  good-tempered  and  gentlemanly  yet 
highly  seasoned  and  dashing,  papers 
necessary  to  a  periodical."  It  is  also 
interesting  to  us  now  to  note  that  he 
thinks  Edward  Everett  "  the  best  maga- 
zine writer  living,"  and  considers  Crit- 
tenden  and  Calhoun  of  the  Senate  capa- 


ble of  brilliant  results  in  this  direction  ; 
while  he  goes  on  to  say  that  there  is  "  a 
younger  class  of  writers,  —  among  them 
Felton  and  Longfellow,  both  professors 
at  Cambridge,  and  Sumner  and  Henry 
Cleaveland,  lawyers  of  Boston,  —  who 
sometimes  don  the  cumbrous  armor  of 
the  North  American  Review,  but  who 
would  show  to  more  advantage  in  the 
lighter  livery  of  the  monthlies." 

Willis  was  himself  a  consummate  il- 
lustration of  this  art,  a  born  magaziuist, 
and  able  to  live  up  to  its  most  exacting 
demands.  What  a  fine  little  specimen 
of  what  he  calls  his  "  babble  "  is  this ! 
"  I  was  sitting  last  night  by  the  lady 
with  the  horn  and  the  glass  umbrella  at 
the  Alhambra,  —  I  drinking  a  julep,  she 
(my  companion)  eating  an  ice.  The 
water  dribbled,  and  the  moon  looked 
through  the  slits  in  the  awning,  and  we 
chatted  about  Saratoga.  My  companion 
has  a  generalizing  mind,  situated  just  in 
the  rear  of  a  very  particularly  fine  pair 
of  black  velvet  eyes,  and  her  opinions 
usually  come  out  by  a  little  ivory  gate 
with  a  pink  portico,  —  charming  gate, 
charming  portico,  charming  opinions  !  I 
must  say,  I  think  more  of  intellect  when 
it  is  well  lodged." 

O 

Willis  was  often  called  upon  to  defend 
this  choice  of  the  lighter  tone,  about 
which,  he  maintained,  there  was  no  real 
choice  in  the  then  condition  of  Ameri- 
can literature.  His  reply  to  the  remon- 
strance against  his  "  wasting  time  upon 
trifles  "  is  still  very  good  reading ;  and 
many  will  agree  with  him  that,  in  the 
abundance  of  encyclopaedias  and  books 
of  reference,  "  few  things  are  easier  or 
more  stupid  than  to  be  wise  —  on  paper." 
One  can  readily  see  that  it  would  indeed 
be  less  difficult,  to  quote  his  own  words 
again  and  apply  them  in  his  own  case, 
"  to  go  to  the  ship  chandler  for  a  cable 
than  to  find  a  new  cobweb  in  a  much- 
swept  upper  story."  Then  that  little 
clincher  by  way  by  close,  that  "  Par- 
thian fling  "  from  Addison,  which  he  so 
gayly  "  tosses  under  the  nose  '•'  of  his 


216                                     Nathaniel  Parker  Willis.  [August, 

critics  :  "  Notwithstanding  pedants  of  a  the  great,  the    unblushing  chronicle  of 

pretended  depth  and  solidity  are  apt  to  passing  speech,  appearance,  and  opinion, 

decry  the  writings  of  a  polite  author  as  is  so  far  tolerated  in  almost  any  literary 

flash  and  froth,  they  all  of  them  show  company  as    to  pass  for  the  most  part 

upon  occasion  that  they  would  spare  no  without    either   challenge    or   apology, 

pains  to  arrive  at  the  character  of  those  Where   once  Willis   accorded  a  hostile 

whom  they  seem  to  despise."  meeting  to  Captain  Marryat,  in  justifi- 

Willis  was  the  first   in  this  country  cation  of  his  course  in  this  direction,  the 

to  work   that   vein    of   society- writing  luckless  correspondent  of  to-day  has  only 

which  affects  the  present  literary  tone,  to  answer  the  more  prosaic  summons  of 

and  was  already  in  vogue  in  England  the  court.     This  drawing  aside  the  veil 

under  the  fitting  appellation  of  "  polite  that  protects  private  sanctity  has  made 

literature."  personal  detail  the  most  readily  negotia- 

But  with  all  his  easy  deference,'  how-  ble  of  all  literary  wares  ;  and  certainly 
ever,  Willis  was  never  blind  to  the  weak-  those  who  indulge  and  defend  the  right 
nesses  and  follies  of  fashion.  Society  to  this  plain  speaking  can  find  no  better 
never  seemed  so  dear  to  him  as  when  he  answer  to  their  critics  than  the  sparkling 
could  get  away  from  it  and  enjoy  or  criti-  prefaces  which  Willis  put  at  the  begin- 
cise  it  at  a  distance.  See  how,  upon  the  ning  of  his  books.  He,  at  least,  was 
first  page  of  his  Inklings  of  Adventure,  shrewd  enough  to  see  that  the  point  at 
he  could  prick  the  puffball  of  American  issue  was  a  temporary  one,  while  every 
aristocracy  with  the  feathery  point  of  year  of  distance  which  intervened  be- 
his  sarcasm!  Nor  can  any  one  accuse  tween  the  reader  and  the  personages  of 
him,  with  all  his  social  currency  of  sym-  whom  he  wrote  would  necessarily  add  to 
pathy,  with  shoddyism  or  snobbery  in  the  value  of  the  delineation.  We  can 
any  of  its  forms.  His  taste  here  was  as  now  afford  the  frank  confession  that  no- 
fine  as  his  imagination';  and  however  he  where  else  is  it  possible  for  one  to  gain 
may  sometimes  fail  in  absolute  truthful-  so  graphic  a  picture  of  the  writers  of  his 
ness  to  nature,  his  divergence  never  en-  day  as  from  Willis's  Pencillings  by  the 
dangers  a  principle.  Way  and  Ephemera.  Both  author  and 

This   one  may  admit  without  forget-  subjects  being  now  dead,  no  question  of 

ting  the  comment  rife  in  Willis's  life-  taste,  happily  for  us,  comes  into  contro- 

time,  and  even  while  confessing  a  certain  versy.     With  unmixed  delight  we  can 

sympathy  with  it  so  far  as  many  of  the  give  ourselves  up  to  those  vivid  sittings 

personal  passages  in  Pencillings  by  the  in  Gore  House,  where  Lrady  Blessington 

Way  are  concerned.     But  so  many  dis-  gathered  the  wits  and  intellectual  won- 

tinguished    travelers   before    and   since  ders  of  London. 

have  been  guilty  of  a  similar  violation  Willis  was  the  first  literary  American 

of   taste  that  familiarity  has  somewhat  ever  lionized  in  England,  arid,  however 

dulled  our  sensitiveness ;  while  the  rapid  we  may  criticise  the  use  he  made  of  his 

development  of  this  general  tendency  in  opportunities    for    distinguished    iuter- 

our  later  journalism  has  made  it  some-  course,  they  were  certainly  great.     His 

times  rather  difficult   for  us    to   under-  exceptionally  fine  address  and  the  fact 

stand  the  storm  of  indignation  Willis's  that  he  was  so  thoroughly  imbued  with 

letters    encountered    in  England.     The  the  literary  spirit  made  it  naturally  fol- 

personal  element  seems  almost  to  have  low  that  his  pages  should  become  a  sort 

usurped  the  place  of  honor  in  current  of  magic  mirror  for  reflecting  the  faces 

writing.     It  is  a  time  of  undress,  with  a  of  many  the  world  would  not  willingly 

constant  emphasis  upon  the  confidential  forget.     The  pictures  are  done   to  the 

and  familiar   attitude.     The   gossip  of  life ;  perhaps  colored  a  little  too  highly 


1884.] 


Nathaniel  Parker  Willis. 


217 


now  and  then  with  individual  preposses- 
sion, but  still  so  spirited  and  distinct  as 
to  affect  the  mind  with  an  almost  atmos- 
pheric power.  One  enters  sensitively 
into  the  author's  mood,  and  feels  the 
flutter  of  trembling  expectancy  with 
which  he  crosses  the  threshold,  and 
stands  at  last  in  the  presence  of  those 
so  long  "  worshiped  from  afar."  It  is 
well  to  have  his  introduction  and  the 
stimulation  of  a  nature  so  readily  re- 
sponsive. One  almost  comes  to  fancy 
at  last  that  it  is  himself  instead  of  Wil- 
lis who  is  following  in  the  footsteps  of 
Irving  and  Cooper,  that  earliest  brace 
of  literary  favorites  which  America  sent 
across  to  stir  the  curiosity  of  Europe. 
He  hears  their  movements  reported  on 
the  Continent,  but  everywhere  misses 
them,  all  the  time  that  his  heart  is  thrill- 
ing with  that  first  sweet  praise  which 
the  Old  World  is  according  to  our  liter- 
ature. He  goes  in  and  out  with  Bul- 
wer,  Barry  Cornwall,  Disraeli,  and  Tom 
Moore  ;  grows  confidential  with  Rogers, 
Lamb,  Lord  Jeffrey,  and  Joanna  Bail- 
lie;  dines  with  Jane  Porter,  or  break- 
fasts with  Landor  or  Kit  North, — 
catching  now  and  then  a  glimpse  of  that 
shadowy  genius  Count  D'Orsay,  half 
painter  and  half  dandy,  whose  elegant 
person  was  not  visible  to  the  general 
public  except  in  that  interval  between 
twelve  o'clock  Saturday  night  and  the 
same  hour  on  Sunday,  when  the  debtor's 
law  was  not  in  force.  Surely,  in  Wil- 
lis's own  language,  these  sketches  may 
be  pardoned  "  their  lack  of  what  an 
English  critic  cleverly  calls  the  '  ponder- 
ous goodness  of  a  didactic  purpose,'  '  in 
consideration  of  that  which  he  has  in 
view,  their  "  truthfulness  to  life."  Rath- 
er than  trust  ourselves  to  the  daily  mer- 
cies of  a  moralizer,  most  of  us  would 
prefer  to  go  traveling  with  one  who, 
when  he  finds  himself  in  the  same  room 
with  the  hero  of  Waterloo,  can  "  feel 
his  blood  creep  as  if  he  had  seen  Crom- 
well or  Marlborough,"  even  while  he 
asserts  that  if  Cornelius  Agrippa  were 


redivivus,  arid  would  show  him  his  mag- 
ic mirror,  he  would  "  as  soon  call  up 
Moore  as  Drvden,  Wordsworth  or  Wil- 

v  J 

son  as  soon  as  Pope  or  Crichton." 

This  we  may  say  of  Willis  without 
assuming  any  undue  subserviency  to 
English  models  and  canons  of  taste,  such 
as  was  at  one  time  falsely  charged  upon 
him.  We  are  now  at  a  safe  distance 
from  which  to  estimate  the  quality  of  his 
appreciation  of  foreign  culture  and  re- 
finement. Having  been  subjected  to  so 
much  grosser  forms  of  Anglomania,  we 
go  back  to  Willis  to  be  impressed  with 
his  Americanism  at  every  point.  In 
one  of  his  Letters  from  under  a  Bridge 
he  unbosoms  himself  to  the  epistolary 
"  Doctor  "  —  whom  he  makes  the  tar- 
get of  so  many  happy  fancies  and  allu- 
sions—  on  this  danger  of  our  depend- 
ing upon  English  standards  and  Eng- 
lish approval.  "Where  then  shall  be 
our  nationality  ?  '  he  asks,  reflecting 
upon  the  possible  result  of  the  triumph 
of  steam  navigation  that  it  shall  turn 

O 

London  into  a  centre  of  American  liter- 
ature. Yet  he  was  himself  the  first  to 
see  the  temporary  advantage,  as  well  as 
the  dangers,  of  the  transatlantic  stand- 
point. A  large  share  of  his  own  im- 
mediate popularity  had  come  from  this 
accident  of  an  international  ground  of 
observation,  at  the  same  time  that  it  was 
the  native  flavor  which  gave  his  repro- 
ductions of  European  scenes  and  man- 
ners their  distinctive  charm.  The  touch 
and  tone  were  of  the  New  World ;  the 
canvas  and  colors  of  the  Old.  The  pho- 
tographic vividness  was  his  own,  and 
the  spirit  throughout  that  of  a  pleased 
observer.  But  despite  his  cosmopol- 
itanism, Europe  in  reality  serves  him 
only  as  a  background  and  illustration, 
and  he  always  returns  to  what  is  native 
with  the  taste  and  feeling  of  the  true 
American. 

Indeed,  Willis  seems  to  me  always 
charming  when  he  deals  with  our  own 
scenery  and  life.  I  know  of  no  one  so 
enthusiastically  in  love  with  what  is  na- 


218 


Nathaniel  Parker  Willis. 


[August, 


tional  in  our  landscape  as  he,  and  no  one 
so  capable  of  communicating  his  enthu- 
siasm to  others.  It  was  all  newer  and 
more  inaccessible  fifty  years  ago  than  it 
is  now,  but  no  difficulties  of  travel  could 
daunt  one  with  so  genuine  a  delight  as 
his  in  objects  of  natural  wonder  and 
beauty. 

It  is  in  his  little  journeys  that  Willis 
shows  at  his  best;  he  is  so  much  at 
home  in  the  world,  so  confident  in  his 
bearing  and  so  irresistibly  happy.  He 
is  the  very  prince  of  travelers,  —  one  of 
those  privileged  souls  who  find  the  ideal 
and  the  romantic  in  ordinary  places 
and  prosaic  experience.  To  be  sure, 
he  will  be  likely  to  spice  the  splendor 
of  every  scene  with  a  flavor  of  social 
attractions.  One  must  not  be  surprised 
to  find  him  spellbound  before  the  wild 
beauty  of  forest,  river,  or  falls,  with  a 
lady  upon  his  arm  ;  for  he  will  assert 
that  one  kind  of  sentiment  flows  natural- 
ly and  without  detriment  into  another. 
This  is  partly  genuine  and  partly  an 
impulse  of  art,  suggested  by  the  fact,  to 
which  he  is  keenly  alive,  that  apprecia- 
tion of  natural  beauty  had  as  yet  only 
imperfectly  awakened  in  this  country. 
He  knows  the  added  value  in  a  sketch 
which  a  distinctively  human  element 
lends  to  the  more  general  qualities  of 
description.  Lover  of  landscape  as  he 
is,  he  yet  never  omits  the  living  figure 
from  his  picture.  But  take  him  off  his 
guard,  when  the  professional  harness  no 
longer  binds  his  humor,  and  nothing 
could  be  more  simple,  more  unaffected, 
than  his  characterizations  of  natural 
scenery.  One  hesitates  to  call  them  de- 
scriptions, for  they  are  more  than  that, 
—  actual,  living  embodiments  of  a  de- 
light in  nature  which,  unfortunately,  few 
are  fresh  enough  to  carry  into  maturer 
years. 

No  one  who  was  not  at  heart  native 
to  the  soil  could  have  done  those  con 
amore  sketches  of  life  along  the  Sus- 
quehanna,  entering  as  "Willis  did  into 
the  wild,  adventurous  experience  of  the 


lumbermen,  who  often  risked  their  lives 
upon  its  waters.  Then  how  vividly  he 
makes  one  see  his  raftsman  of  the  Del- 
aware, who  outdid  even  his  rival  of  the 
Susquehanna  in  abandon  and  general 
untamableness,  whirling  down  the  swol- 
len river  with  the  first  March  thaw 
in  huge  arks,  built  of  trees  felled  the 
previous  winter,  and  dodging  the  low 
branches  of  the  forest  as  he  steers  his 
ungainly  craft  between  the  shores  and 
eddies !  Of  all  natural  objects  Willis 
most  affects  a  river,  and  among  his  hap- 
piest efforts  are  his  pictures  of  well- 
known  American  streams.  The  strain 
of  his  description  catches  their  very 
movement,  and  blends  at  last  with  the 
ever-varying  hue  of  their  scenery. 

One  wonders  if  the  original  builder 
of  the  bridge  from  under  which  he 
wrote  those  famous  letters  ever  dreamed 
of  the  flow  of  thought  and  fancy  it  was 
destined  to  span  in  those  still,  bright 
summer  days  he  so  happily  describes. 
That  gentle  current  of  his  discourse,  now 
dallying  with  the  delights  of  nature, 
now  faintly  stirred  by  that  echo  of  the 
world's  affairs  which  finds  him  out  in 
his  retirement,  moves  on  as  gentle  and 
unbroken  as  the  stream  beneath.  It 
afmost  seems  as  if  one  might  hear  the 
exclamation  of  the  idle  rustic  who  hangs 
upon  the  fence,  "  How  you  do  spin  it 
off !  "  or  again  that  wondering  query  as 
to  whether  he  could  be  writing  to  the 
"  folks  at  hum,"  or  only  making  out  a 
lease.  Certain  it  is  that  the  facile  pen 
found  nowhere  freer  and  more  graceful 
movement  than  among  these  simple  sur- 
roundings of  native  rural  life. 

S3 

We  come  with  something  of  surprise 
upon  this  unlooked-for  independence  in 
a  man  of  such  easy  and  conspicuous  cit- 
izenship. It  is  as  if  we  had  not  sus- 
pected him  of  these  rugged  resources, 
and  like  him  none  the  less  for  this  abil- 
ity to  dwell  apart  without  any  loss  of  his 
customary  poise.  To  be  sure,  Willis  as 
a  farmer  seems  incredible,  yet  the  fact 
remains  that  so  he  was  happiest  and 


1884.] 


Nathaniel  Parker  Willis. 


219 


most  truly  himself.  He  confesses  that 
the  life  at  Glenmary  suits  his  disposition 
and  better  nature,  and  as  a  writer  we 
nowhere  find  him  at  greater  advantage 
than  here.  Writing  lias  become  a  pure 
labor  of  love,  and  this  spontaneous  and 
outspoken  quality  of  address  lias  all  the 
charm  of  an  impulsive  confidence.  The 
pressure  of  compulsory  toil  has  been  laid 
aside,  and  now  he  communes  with  his 
readers  in  as  happy  specimens  of  liter- 
ary good-fellowship  as  one  can  readily 
find.  Clearly  he  is  no  mere  drawing- 
room  moth,  no  mere  diner-out  and  setter 
of  metropolitan  fashions,  but  a  man  of 
native  resources,  whose  ultimate  capac- 
ity far  transcends  the  common  measure- 
ment of  the  street.  He  can  laugh  with 
Broadway,  or  at  it,  but  is  best  contented 
away  from  it  altogether.  None  better 
typify  the  great  city's  taste  and  refine- 
ment than  he  ;  none  more  positively  in- 
sist upon  its  most  exacting  standards  of 
etiquette.  Nevertheless,  one  always  has 
this  relief  of  stumbling  upon  him  in  all 
the  gay  abandon  of  the  Bridge,  and  of 
forgetting  at  will  this  part  of  bon  vivant 
he  has  so  successfully  played. 

It  is  not  every  one  who  is  privileged 
to  find  the  poetic  side  of  farming,  and 
when  Willis  is  forced  to  return  to  the 
city  one's  sympathies  are  keenly  touched 
at  the  loss  of  so  much  bucolic  blessed- 
ness. In  Letter  XVIII.  from  under 
a  Bridge  —  by  the  way,  an  admirable 
specimen  of  the  general  letter;  ripe, 
readable,  with  a  substance  of  its  own, 
and  yet  as  light  and  warm  and  breezy 
as  that  perfect  day  upon  which  it  was 
penned  —  one  sees  how  sportively  it  was 
possible  for  him  to  trifle  with  this  out- 
door life  of  toil.  Surely  rural  insouci- 
ance never  had  a  better  chronicler.  "  I 
have  sold  some  of  my  crops  for  the  odd- 
ity of  the  sensation,"  he  writes  ;  "  and 
I  assure  you  it  is  very  much  like  be- 
ing paid  for  dancing  when  the  ball  is 
over.  The  barrel  of  buckwheat  not  only 
cost  me  nothing,  but  I  have  had  my 
uses  of  it  in  the  raising,  and  can  no 


more  look  upon  it  as  value  than  upon 
a  flower  which  I  pluck  to  smell,  and 
give  away  when  it  is  faded.  Why,  con- 
sider the  offices  this  very  buckwheat 
has  performed !  There  was  the  trust 
in  Providence  in  the  purchase  of  the 
seed,  —  a  sermon.  There  was  the  exer- 
cise and  health  in  plowing,  harrowing, 
and  sowing,  — prescription  and  pill. 
There  was  the  performance  of  the  grain, 
its  sprouting,  its  flowering,  its  earing, 
and  its  ripening,  —  a  great  deal  more 
amusing  than  a  play.  Then  there  was 
the  harvesting,  threshing,  fanning,  and 
grinding,  —  a  sort  of  pastoral  collection, 
publication,  and  purgation  by  criticism. 
Now,  suppose  your  clergyman,  your 
physician,  your  favorite  theatrical  corps, 
your  publisher,  printer,  and  critic, 
threshed  and  sold  in  bags  for  six  shil- 
lings a  bushel !  I  assure  you  the  cases 
are  similar,  except  that  the  buckwheat 
makes  probably  the  more  savory  cake." 
His  narration  of  his  neighbor's  meth- 
od of  keeping  hogs  out  of  his  corn  is 
inimitable.  What  could  be  finer  than 
that  last  letter  of  them  all,  flung  brave- 
ly out  from  the  great  pain  of  his  part- 
ing with  this  haven  of  refuge  from  the 
world  ?  —  To  the  Unknown  Purchaser 
and  Next  Occupant  of  Glenmary.  With 
a  touch  of  pathos,  easily  perceptible, 
though  veiled  beneath  the  terse  English 
of  as  perfect  a  piece  of  persiflage  as 
ever  was  written,  Willis  begs  the  priv- 
ilege of  making  his  will,  and  entrust- 
ing the  trees  and  birds  and  squirrels  he 
has  watched  and  loved  so  long  to  the 
one  who  should  own  them  in  his  stead. 
"  Sir,"  he  writes,  "  in  selling  you  the 
dew  and  sunshine  ordained  to  fall  here- 
after on  this  bright  spot  of  earth,  the 
waters  on  their  way  to  this  sparkling 
brook,  the  tints  mixed  for  the  flowers 
of  that  enameled  meadow,  and  the  songs 
bidden  to  be  sung  in  coming  summers 
by  the  feathery  builders  in  Glenmary,  I 
know  not  whether  to  wonder  more  at 
the  omnipotence  of  money,  or  at  my 
own  impertinent  audacity  toward  nature. 


220 


Nathaniel  Parker  Willis. 


[August, 


How  you  can  buy  the  right  to  exclude 
at  will  every  other  creature  made  in 
God's  image  from  sitting  by  this  brook, 
treading  on  that  carpet  of  flowers,  or 
lying  listening  to  the  birds  in  the  shade 

«/          O  O 

of  these  glorious  trees,  —  how  I  can 
sell  it  you,  —  is  a  mystery  not  under- 
stood by  the  Indian,  and  dark,  I  must 
say,  to  me.  '  Lord  of  the  Soil '  is  a 
title  which  conveys  your  privileges  but 
poorly.  You  are  master  of  waters  flow- 
ing at  this  moment,  perhaps,  in  a  river 
of  Judea,  or  floating  in  clouds  over  some 
spicy  island  of  the  tropics,  bound  hither 
after  many  changes.  There  are  lilies 
and  violets  ordered  for  you  in  millions, 
acres  of  sunshine  in  daily  installments, 
and  dew  nightly  in  proportion.  There  are 
throats  to  be  tuned  witli  song,  and  wings 
to  be  painted  with  red  and  gold,  blue 
and  yellow  ;  thousands  of  them,  and  all 
tributaries  to  vou.  Your  corn  is  ordered 

«/ 

to  be  sheathed  in  silk,  and  lifted  high  to 
the  sun.  Your  grain  is  to  be  duly  beard- 
ed and  stemmed.  There  is  perfume  dis- 
tilling for  your  clover,  and  juices  for 
your  grasses  and  fruits.  Ice  will  be  here 
for  your  wine,  shade  for  your  refresh- 
ment at  noon,  breezes  and  showers  and 
snowflakes,  — all  in  their  season,  and  all 
'  deeded  to  you  for  forty  dollars  an  acre ! 
Gods  !  what  a  copyhold  of  property  for 
a  fallen  world  ! '  " 

Happily  for  that  dream,  so  rudely 
shattered,  the  step  from  Glenmary  to 
Idlewild  was  natural  and  easy,  and  again 
the  household  gods  were  gathered  about 
an  altar  of  rural  peace.  Willis  was  to 
have  his  wish  at  last,  and  die  amidst  the 
stillness  of  green  fields,  although  without 
Glenmary  and  her  presence  for  whom 
the  earlier  estate  had  been  named. 

All  in  all,  Willis  must  remain  a  not 
insignificant  figure  among  the  earlier 

o  o  o 

influences  of  American  literature.  His 
work  was  largely  formative,  and  many 
traces  of  his  stimulating  presence  may 
still  be  marked  in  the  later  and  more 
perfected  tendencies  of  our  time.  The 
literary  period  upon  which  he  had  en- 


tered was  one  of  reaction  from  the  stilt- 
ed and  self-conscious  models  of  the  past. 
He  was  in  sympathy  with  this  tendency, 
and  fitted  to  welcome  —  a  by  no  means 
unimportant  service  at  that  time  —  the 
new  and  unbefriended  names  of  those 
then  struggling  up  to  the  places  of  power 
they  were  to  create  as  well  as  to  fill. 
Entering  generously,  as  he  did,  into  the 
plans  and  prospects  of  every  budding 
genius  that  came  in  his  way,  the  promi- 
nence of  his  own  position  made  it  possi- 
ble for  him  to  bring  out  in  others,  as  well 
as  to  exemplify  in  himself,  the  newer  lit- 
erarv  forces  that  were  beginning  to  make 

«/  *^ 

themselves  felt.  Certain  it  is  that  Willis 
enjoys  the  credit  of  having  done  more 
than  any  other  author  for  the  introduc- 
tion of  well-known  literary  names.  One 
does  not  willingly  forget  his  encourage- 
ment of  the  obscure  apprentice,  Bayard 
Taylor,  whom  Willis  and  his  partner, 
General  Morris,  afterward  helped  to  start 
upon  his  travels,  and  who  from  the  first 
profited  by  the  former's  frank,  outspoken 
words  of  praise.  Besides  his  patronage 
of  a  number  of  minor  writers,  like  J.  G. 
Holland,  Fanny  Forrester,  and  Grace 
Greenwood,  his  advance  notices  of  such 
men  as  Whipple  and  Lowell  display 
prophetic  insight  and  professional  un- 
consciousness. "  His  mind,"  he  writes 
of  Whipple,  then  a  young  business  man 
of  Boston,  whose  lecture  on  the  habits 
and  characteristics  of  literary  men  had 
begun  to  attract  attention  for  its  force 
and  its  freshness  of  view,  "  is  of  the 
cast  and  calibre  of  the  writers  for  the 
English  magazines  of  ten  years  ago,  and 
I  consider  him  a  mine  to  be  worked 
with  great  profit  by  the  proprietors  of 
the  reviews.  His  kind  is  rare."  Long 
before  praise  of  Lowell  had  become  the 
fashion,  Willis  fully  recognized  his  gen- 
ius and  attempted  an  estimate  of  his  po- 
etic gift.  He  complains  somewhere  of 
being  "  tied  to  the  tail  "  of  Landor's  im- 
mortality by  the  unfortunate  complica- 
tion of  his  name  in  the  projected  Amer- 
ican edition  of  that  author's  works,  and 


1884.] 


Nathaniel  Parker  Willis. 


221 


it  seems  as  if  his  generosity  toward  lit- 

Cj  V 

erary  contemporaries  might  tie  him  to 
the  tail  of  many  other  well-known  rep- 
utations. If  sometimes,  as  would  natu- 
rally be  the  case,  the  ardor  of  his  wel- 
come and  approval  fails  of  later  vindica- 
tion, we  need  not  forget  the  spirit  which 
prompted  it,  nor  the  still  more  frequent 
accuracy  of  his  insight. 

It  is,  in  fact,  out  of  this  very  fresh- 
ness of  interest  in  public  persons  and 
events,  this  keenness  of  sympathy  and 
zest  of  life,  that  much  of  his  best  work 
has  come.  Without  intending  it,  he  is 
all  the  time  writing  history.  With  the 
simple  aim  of  amusing  his  readers,  he 
unconsciously  transcribes  the  social  econ- 
omy of  his  time.  His  notes  and  sketches 
are  a  revelation  of  the  life,  the  men  and 
the  manners,  of  half  a  century  ago.  With 
a  large,  swift  movement  which  we  can 
call  nothing  but  panoramic,  he  sweeps 
the  trifles  of  the  day  into  organic  living 
relationships,  letting  us  into  the  by-play 
of  his  neighbors'  hopes,  fears,  illusions, 
in  a  surprisingly  effective  manner.  He 
first  introduces  us  into  the  social  life  of 
a  New  England  college  town  like  New 
Haven,  in  the  days  when  the  hot,  im- 
pulsive blood  of  the  South  was  striving 
to  mingle  with  the  cooler  currents  of 
Northern  thought  and  feeling.  We  have 
then  a  passing  flavor  of  elegant  country 
leisure  in  a  Knickerbocker  mansion  ;  or 
a  dash  at  Niagara  or  Trenton,  with  a 
spice  of  the  Thousand  Islands  or  Nahant 
thrown  in.  But  it  is  the  Springs  that 
Willis  most  lovingly  describes,  in  the 
days  when  Lebanon  and  Ballston  divided 
the  honors  with  Saratoga,  and  shared 
with  it  a  native  population  of  only 
fourteen  millions.  Whatever  the  real- 
ity we  are  wont  to  fiud$  his  experience 
at  the  Spa  is  always  fascinating.  We 
heartily  enter  upon  the  journey,  with  all 
its  plans  and  appointments  of  travel. 
The  lumbering  conveyances  of  that  time, 
the  long,  tedious  hours  of  forced  com- 
panionship with  strangers,  enlivened  by 
the  chance  acquaintance  of  beautiful  wo- 


men and  men  of  eccentric  genius,  made 
possible  a  fund  of  adventure  denied  to 
our  swifter  modern  methods  of  roaming. 
So  slow,  indeed,  is  our  progress  that  we 
catch  the  tone  of  public  sentiment  as  we 
pass.  We  feel  the  stirrings  of  that  spirit 
of  enterprise  and  improvement  with 
which  we  have  since  become  so  familiar, 
and  note  the  simis  of  local  interest  in 

O 

the  great  centres  of  life  from  which  we 
have  come.  We  hear  the  name  of  some 
noted  singer  or  actress  whispered  along 
the  road,  and  share  in  the  curiosity  once 
felt  in  a  now  almost  forgotten  career. 
Then  we  have  that  racy  summing  up  of 
the  great  city's  life  in  Ephemera,  that 
bird's-eye  view  of  the  time,  which  will 
richly  repay  the  study  of  some  future 
historian.  Without  purporting  to  be 
deliberate  work,  it  yet  seems  to  blend 
unconsciously  the  fashion  and  amuse- 
ments of  the  hour  with  thoughtful  com- 
ment and  serious  discussion. 

With  all  his  genius  for  good  living 
and  easy  access  to  the  entertaining  side 
of  life,  Willis  never  quite  received  due 
credit  for  earnestness.  There  is  al- 
ways a  faint  suspicion  of  the  didactic 
about  his  dilettanteism.  His  practice  of 
the  virtues  is  homoeopathic,  his  moral  is 
always  sugar-coated.  Nevertheless,  he 
cannot  altogether  escape  the  shadows 
that  mingle  even  in  metropolitan  gayety, 
nor  refrain  from  slight  occasional  lapses 
into  preachment.  But  his  seriousness 
seldom  oppresses,  and  for  the  most  part 
speedily  passes  into  that  jaunty  Ho- 
ratian  manner  of  the  man-about-town 
which  he  has  made  so  famous.  With 
equal  unconsciousness  he  can  sparkle 
in  table  repartee,  or  seize  just  that  fine 
shade  of  after-dinner  sadness  which  so 
naturally  follows  the  contemplation  of 
burnt-out  ashes  and  empty  shells.  What- 
ever he  touched  shone.  And  if  he  some-, 
times  forgot  old-fashioned  distinctions 
between  glitter  and  steady  gleaming, 
we  must  still  gladly  accept  the  degree 
of  illumination  that  comes  in  our  way. 
His  abundant  vitality  dulls  the  edge  of 


222 


The  Edda  among  the  Algonquin  Indians. 


[August, 


much  of  our  possible  criticism.  When 
all  has  been  said,  the  surface  of  life  is 
too  proverbially  still  not  to  be  grateful- 


presence.  He  will  long  remain  the  most 
picturesque  figure  in  our  literature,  with 
a  gift  second  to  none  in  the  arts  which 


ly  affected  by  so  breezy  and  stirring  a     gently  stimulate,  adorn,  and  please. 

Edward  F.  Hayward. 


THE  EDDA  AMONG  THE  ALGONQUIN  INDIANS. 


WHEN  Mr.  Longfellow  declared  that 
the  Manobozho  legends  of  the  Chippe- 
ways  formed  an  Indian  Edda,  he  spoke 
as  a  poet,  not  as  an  ethnologist.  In  the 
same  spirit  they  might  with  as  much 
justice  have  been  termed  an  Indian  Iliad 
or  Nibelungenlied.  But  in  fact  the 
expression  was  so  inaccurate  that  even 
the  usually  far  from  careful  Schoolcraft 
hastened  to  correct  it,  since  in  the  be- 
ginning of  his  introduction  to  the  Hia- 
watha Legends  he  declares,  "  Of  all 
these  foreign  analogies  of  myth  lore, 
the  least  tangible  is  that  which  has 
been  suggested  with  the  Scandinavian 
mythology.  That  mythology  is  of  so 
marked  and  peculiar  a  character  that  it 
has  not  been  distinctly  traced  out  of  the 
great  circle  of  tribes  of  the  Indo-Ger- 
manic  family.  Odin  and  his  terrific 
pantheon  of  war-gods  and  social  deities 
could  only  exist  in  the  dreary  latitudes 
of  storms  and  fire  which  produce  a  Hecla 
and  a  Maelstrom.  From  such  a  source 
the  Indian  could  have  derived  none  of 
his  vague  symbols  and  mental  idiosyn- 
crasies, which  have  left  him  as  he  is 
found  to-day,  without  a  government  and 
without  a  God." 

And  yet,  strangely  enough,  there  was 
in  existence  all  the  time  in  New  Eng- 
land —  and  at  Mr.  Longfellow's  very 
door,  poetically  speaking  —  an  Indian 
Edda,  and  there  was  carefully  preserved 
among  the  Penobscots  and  Passama- 
quoddies  of  Maine  "  a  myth  lore,"  "  the 
analogies  of  which  with  the  Scandina- 
vian mythology  "  were  very  much  closer 
than  those  of  the  Edda  with  the  Kale- 


vala,  to  which  it  is  so  nearly  and  so  in- 
contestably  related.  In  fact,  after  the 
most  careful  perusal  and  study  of  every 
line  of  the  stupendous  Finnish  epic,  I 
find  that  where  it  has  one  incident  or 
point  of  resemblance  with  the  Edda,  or 
with  other  Norse  poems,  the  Indian  leg- 
ends of  New  England  and  New  Bruns- 
wick have  a  score.  Rasmus  B.  Ander- 
son, in  the  notes  to  his  translation  of  the 
Younger  Edda,  declares  that  as  regards 
the  origin  of  the  Asa  system,  that  is  of 
the  Norse  mythology,  it  is  chiefly  com- 
posed of  Finnish  elements.  But  all  that 
there  is  to  be  found  of  the  Finn  in  the 
Edda  is  feeble  and  faint  compared  to 
what  there  is  of  the  Edda  in  the  legends 
of  the  Wabanaki  Indians. 

The  Algonquin  subdivision  of  the  six 
or  seven  stocks  of  American  Indians 
includes,  as  J.  H.  Trumbull  has  shown, 
forty  principal  tribes,  speaking  as  many 
different  dialects  of  what  was  once  a 
common  or  root  language.  Of  these  the 
Wabanaki,  or  Abenaki,  deriving  their 
name  from  Wa-be-yu,  white  or  light,  are 
to  us  the  nearest  and  most  interesting. 
The  word  light  is  applied  to  them  as 
living  to  the  east.  The  St.  Francis  In- 
dians, who  call  themselves  specially  the 
Abenaki,  and  who  all  speak  French, 
translate  their  generic  name  as  point  du 
jour.  They  embrace  in  addition  to  the 
St.  Francis  tribe  the  Micmacs  of  New 
Brunswick ;  the  Passamaquoddies,  chief- 
ly resident  at  Pleasant  Point,  or  Sebayk 
near  Eastport,  Maine ;  and  the  Penob- 
scots of  Oldtown,  in  the  same  State. 
The  last  two  tribes  can  converse  to- 


1884.]  The  Edda  among  the  Algonquin  Indians. 


223 


gether,  but  it  is  almost  or  quite  im- 
possible for  them  to  understand  Mic- 
mac. Yet  all  of  them  have  in  common 
a  mythology  and  legends  which  as  a 
whole  are  in  every  respect  far  superior 
to  those  of  the  Chippeways,  or,  so  far 
as  I  know  them,  to  those  of  any  of  our 
Western  tribes. 

I  have  collected  directly  from  the  In- 
dians themselves  more  than  one  hundred 
of  these  legends.  The  Rev.  S.  T.  Rand,1 
of  Hantsport,  New  Brunswick,  the  orig- 
inal discoverer  of  Glooskap,  —  "the  Hi- 
awatha of  the  North,"  but  a  creation 
inconceivably  superior  to  Hiawatha,  — 
has  very  kindly  lent  to  ine  eighty-five 
Micmac  tales,  forming  a  folio  volume 
of  one  thousand  pages.  In  addition  to 
these  I  am  indebted  to  Mrs.  W.  Wallace 
Brown  for  a  small  but  extremely  valua- 
ble collection  of  stories  from  the  Indians 
living  near  Calais.  I  have  also  two  cu- 
rious Anglo-Indian  manuscripts :  one  a 
collection  of  tales,  with  a  treatise  on  Su- 
perstitions in  Indian  and  English  ;  the 
other  a  Story  of  Glooskap,  a  singular 
narrative  of  the  adventures  of  the  great 
hero  of  the  North,  composed  in  Indian- 
English  of  the  obscurest  kind.  Mr. 
Jack,  of  Fredericton,  N.  B.,  has  very 
kindly  communicated  to  me  legends  and 
folk-lore,  Malisete  and  Micmac,  while  I 
I  am  specially  obliged  to  Miss  Abby 
Alger,  of  Boston,  for  aid  of  every  kind, 
including  a  small  collection  of  tales  of 
the  St.  Francis  tribe.  Some  idea  of  the 
immense  extent  of  this  literature  may 
be  inferred  from  the  fact  that,  while  I 
have  duplicates  of  almost  every  story, 
I  never  received  one  which  did  not  in 
some  important  respect  amend  the  oth- 
ers. All  of  these  tribes  in  their  oral 
or  wampum  records  tell  of  Glooskap, 
a  superior  heroic  demigod.  I  say  demi- 
god, since  there  is  no  proof  of  the  ex- 
istence among  our  Indians  of  a  belief 

1  The  Rev.  S.  T.  Rand,  of  Hantsport,  New 
Brunswick,  is  a  Baptist  missionary  to  the  Micmac 
Indians.  This  gentleman  can  write  twelve  lan- 
guages. Great  credit  is  due  to  him  for  his  incredi- 
ble industry  as  a  scholar  in  collecting  Indian  lore, 


in  a  Great  Spirit  or  in  an  infinite  God 
before  the  coming  of  the  whites.  Gloos- 
kap was,  however,  more  than  a  Hercules 
or  a  Manco  Capac,  for  he  created  man 
and  animals  before  teaching  agriculture, 
hunting,  and  language.  He  was  a  truly 
grand  hero ;  his  life  was  never  soiled 
with  the  disgraceful,  puerile,  and  devil- 
ish caprices  of  the  Manobozho,  whose 
more  creditable  deeds  were  picked  out 
and  attributed  by  Mr.  Longfellow  to  the 
Iroquois  Hiawatha.  A  singular  admix- 
ture of  grandeur,  benevolence,  and  quiet, 
pleasant  humor  characterize  Glooskap, 
who  of  all  beings  of  all  mythologies  most 
resembles  Odin  and  Thor  in  the  battle- 
field, and  Pantagruel  at  home. 

Glooskap  was  born  of  the  Turtle 
gens,  "  since  it  is  on  the  Turtle  that  all 
rests."  He  had  a  twin  brother,  Malsum 
the  Wolf.  Before  birth  the  pair  con- 
ferred as  to  how  they  would  enter  the 
world.  Glooskap  preferred  to  be  born 
as  others,  but  the  Wolf  in  his  wicked 
pride  tore  through  his  mother's  armpit 
and  killed  her.  In  the  Iroquois  version 
of  this  tale,  the  two  are  called  the  Good 
Being  and  the  Evil  One.  The  Wolf  is 
therefore  the  type  of  evil,  or  the  de- 
stroyer. 

Malsum  asked  Glooskap  (who  subse- 
quently appears  distinctly  as  the  sun 
god)  what  would  kill  him.  He  replied 
that  of  all  created  things  the  bulrush 
alone  could  take  his  life.  So  Malsum 
tried  to  kill  him  with  it ;  but  the  bulrush 
would  take  his  life  only  for  an  instant. 
So,  recovering,  he  slew  the  Wolf.  The 
resemblance  between  the  bulrush,  cat- 
tail, or,  as  one  version  says,  "  a  ball  of 
soft  down,"  and  the  mistletoe,  the  soft- 
est of  all  plants,  which  kills  Balder  in 
the  Edda,  is  here  apparent  enough.  The 
same  tale  is  told,  but  in  a  broken  and 
abbreviated  form,  among  the  Hiawatha 
Legends. 

and  in  recording  the  Micmac  and  Malisete  lan- 
guages, as  well  as  for  his  earnest  work  as  a  clergy- 
man. He  has  now  in  MS.  grammars  and  diction- 
aries of  these  tongues. 


224 


The  Edda  among  the  Algonquin  Indians.  [August, 


Glooskap  proceeded  to  create  the 
dwarfs  or  fairies,  and  then  man.  He 
made  him  from  an  ash-tree.  Man  was 
in  the  ash-tree  as  a  principle  or  as  a 
being,  but  lifeless.  First  the  dwarfs 
were  created  from  the  bark,  and  then 
mankind  from  the  wood.  Glooskap 
shot  his  magical  life-giving  arrows  into 
the  tree,  and  men  came  forth.  In  the 
Edda  man  existed  as  the  ash ;  the  elm 
was  added  as  woman  ;  but  as  in  the  In- 
dian tale  man  was  without  consciousness 
till  the  three  gods 

"  Found  on  Earth 
Ask  and  Embla, 
nearly  powerless, 
void  of  destiny. 
Spirit  they  possessed  not, 
Sense  they  had  not, 
blood  nor  motive  powers, 
nor  goodly  color. 
Spirit  gave  Odin, 
Sense  gave  Hoenir, 
Blood  gave  Lodur, 
and  goodly  color." 

(Voluspa,  17,  18.) 

In  the  Edda,  the  first  created  on 
earth  are  two  giants,  born  from  their 
mother's  armpit.  Their  father,  who  is 
an  evil  Jb'tun,  has  feet  male  and  female. 
The  next  beings  created  are  the  dwarfs, 
and  then  man  from  the  ash-tree.  Every 
one  of  these  details  corresponds  step  by 
step  with  the  Wabanaki  mythology,  ex- 
cept that  in  the  latter  it  is  Lox,  the  evil 
principle  of  lire,  who  has  feet  male  and 
female.  This  Lox,  the  Indian  devil,  is 
no  specific  man  or  animal,  but  he  is  like 
Loki  in  every  respect. 

That  the  ash  alone  was  the  primitive 
tree  of  life  or  of  man  appears  from  the 
account  of  Yggdrasil  in  the  next  verse 
(Vuluspa,  19).  To  hunt  and  draw  his 
sled  Glooskap  took  the  Loons.  But  they 
were  too  often  absent.  So  he  had,  like 
Odin,  two  attendant  wolves,  one  black 
and  one  white.  There  can  be  no  doubt 
of  the  accuracy  of  this  statement,  for  the 
Indian  is  still  living  who  actually  met 
Glooskap  a  few  years  ago,  "  very  far 
north,"  and  ferried  him  over  a  bay.  His 
black  and  white  wolf  dogs  were  at  the 
lauding  before  them,  when  all  mysteri- 


ously vanished.  In  the  Edda  two  wolves 
also  follow,  one  the  sun,  another  (Mano- 
garm)  the  moon. 

In  one  legend  Glooskap  is  described 
as  directing  and  guiding  the  course  of 
the  seasons.  He  has  always  by  him  a  be- 
ing named  Kool-pe-jo-tei,  meaning  in 
Micmac  "rolled  over  by  handspikes." 
He  lies  on  the  ground ;  he  has  not  a 
bone  in  his  body.  He  rests  under  the 
heaven  all  the  year.  He  is  rolled  over 
with  wooden  handspikes  in  the  spring 
and  autumn.  This  was  very  clearly 
explained  by  the  Indian  narrator  as 
referring  to  the  course  of  the  seasons. 
Glooskap's  sledge  is  drawn  by  wolves. 
In  the  Elder  Edda  Odin  is  described 
as  riding  a  wolf.  Odin  has,  however, 
two  pet  wolves,  Gere  and  Freke,  whom, 
like  Glooskap,  he  feeds  from  his  own 
hands  (Younger  Edda,  c.  xiii.).  To  re- 
capitulate, Odin  and  Glooskap  have  each 
two  attendant  wolves.  They  use  wolves 
as  steeds  ;  those  of  Glooskap  are  black 
and  white,  corresponding  to  the  day  and 
night,  or  sun  and  moon  wolves  of  the 
Edda,  termed  Skol  and  Hate. 

Gylfe,  the  great  sorcerer  (Younger 
Edda,  c.  ii.),  when  he  went  to  Asgard 
to  see  if  the  gods  were  really  so  mighty 
as  he  had  heard,  disguised  himself  as  an 
old  man.  Glooskap,  going  with  a  similar 
intention  to  see  the  wicked  giant  magi- 
cians, who  dwelt  by  North  Con  way, 
N.  H.,  or  in  the  Intervale,  also  went  as 
an  old  man,  but  made  himself  so  like 
the  father  of  these  monsters  that  the 
sons  could  not  tell  one  from  the  other. 
If  it  should  ever  be  definitely  proved 
that  there  was  a  common  source  for  the 
Wabanaki  tales  and  the  Norse,  we  shall 
find  much  that  has  been  lost  from  the 
latter  in  the  former.  It  has  often 
seemed  to  me  that  these  Indian  tradi- 
tions contained  incidents  wanting  in 
their  Norse  counterparts. 

Glooskap  has  a  canoe  which  is,  when 
he  wishes  it  to  be  large,  capable  of  carry- 
ing an  army,  but  which  also  contracts  to 
the  smallest  size.  At  times  it  is  made 


1884.] 


The  Edda  among  the  Algonquin  Indians. 


225 


into  an  ordinary  birch  akevedun,  but 
when  not  in  use  it  is  a  rocky  island, 
covered  with  trees.  Odin,  or  Frey 
(Younger  Edda,  c.  xiii.),  has  a  ship, 
Skidbladnir,  so  large  that  all  the  Asas 
can  find  room  in  it,  "  but  which,  when 
not  wanted  for  a  voyage,  may  be  folded 
by  Frey  like  a  napkin  and  carried  in 
the  pocket." 

Glooskap  has  a  belt  which  gives  su- 
pernatural strength.  This  belt  is  often 
mentioned.  Thor  possesses  the  megin- 
jarder,  or  belt  of  strength  (Y.  Edda,  c. 
viii.),  which  doubles  his  might  when  he 
puts  it  on.  The  little  old  woman  who 
typifies  old  age  in  the  Indian  tales  puts 
on  a  similar  magic  girdle  when  she 
wrestles  with  the  Micmac  Hercules. 
This  belt  has  passed  into  all  fairy  lore, 
but  in  the  Wabanaki  legends  it  is  still 
distinctly  mythical  or  heroic. 

The  gods  in  Valhalla  feed  on  the 
boar  Sahrirnnir,  which  is  inexhaustible. 
"  It  is  boiled  every  day,  and  is  whole 
again  in  the  evening."  (Y.  Edda,  c.  xii.) 
Glooskap  sets  before  his  guests  a  small 
dish,  in  which  there  is  very  little  food. 
But  however  hungry  they  may  be,  the 
dish  is  always  full. 

As  all  these  coincidences  cannot  be 
given  within  the  limits  of  an  article  like 
this,  I  would  say  that  the  tale  of  Idun 
and  her  apples  does  not  contain  a  single 
incident  which  does  not  occur  in  unmis- 
takably ancient  form  in  the  Wabanaki 
legends.  The  only  part  which  I  have 
believed  came  in  from  Canadian  French 
or  modern  European  influence  is  the 
apples  themselves.  There  is  an  Indian 
tale  of  such  magic  apples  (Micmac)  ; 
but  then  the  fruit  did  not  grow  of  old  in 
this  country,  and  the  story  cannot  there- 
fore be  pre-Columbian. 

There  is  a  very  ancient  Wabanaki  leg- 
end, originally  a  poem,  and  which,  like 
most  of  these  narratives,  has  been  trans- 
mitted for  generations,  word  by  word. 
The  Rev.  S.  T.  Rand  has  recorded  his 
astonishment  at  finding  that  the  Indians 
would  always  readily  resume  the  narra- 

VOL.  LIV. — NO.  322.  15 


tive  which  had  been  discontinued,  at  the 
very  word  where  they  had  left  off.  I 
made  the  same  discovery  when  I  observed 
that  my  friend  Tomaqu'hah  would  often 
pause  to  recover  the  word  which  led 
the  sentence.  I  mention  this  because 
in  this  tale  there  are  not  only  incidents 
but  verbal  passages  almost  identical  with 
some  in  the  Elder  Edda.  In  it  Gloos- 
kap went  with  his  host  Kitpooseagunow 
(Micmac),  a  mighty  giant,  to  fish  for 
whales.  The  guest  carried  the  canoe 
to  the  water,  and  asked,  "  Who  shall 
sit  in  the  stern  and  paddle,  and  who 
will  take  the  spear  ?  "  (that  is,  who  will 
fish  ?).  Kitpooseagunow  said,  "  That 
will  I."  So  Glooskap  paddled,  and  his 
host  soon  caught  a  great  whale.  In 
the  Edda  (HymiskriSa,  25)  Thor  asks, 

"  '  Wilt  thou  do 

half  the  work  with  me : 
either  the  whales 
homewards  carry, 
or  the  boat 
fast  bind  ? ' 

"  Thor  went, 
grasped  the  prow 
quickly  with  its  hold-water, 
lifted  the  boat 
together  with  its  oars 
and  scoop, 
and  bore  them  to  the  dwelling. 

"  The  mighty  Hymir 
he  alone 
two  whales  drew  up."    (21.) 

In  both  the  Edda  and  the  Indian  tale 
stress  is  laid  on  the  fact  that  the  guest 
rowed.  The  Norse  Hymir  grudgingly 
admits  that  Thor  does  this  well,  but  de- 
clares that  he  wishes  to  see  further  proof 
of  his  abilities.  Then,  going  home, 
Hymir  and  Thor  have  a  great  mutual 
trial  of  strength  and  endurance ;  that  is 
to  see  if  Thor  can  break  a  cup  against 
Hymir,  the  ice  giant's  icy  head.  The 
two  Indian  Titans  try  to  see  which  can 
freeze  the  other  to  death.  If  we  go  to 
the  direct  meaning  of  the  Norse  myth, 
this  after-contest  amounts  to  the  same 
thing  in  each  case.  In  both  the  Norse 
and  Indian  myths,  the  heart  or  the  head 
of  an  ice  giant  is  represented  as  being 


226                     The  Edda  among  the  Algonquin  Indians.  [August, 

made  of   "  ice  harder  than  the  hardest  Edda,  Thor  wrestles   with   a  little  old 

stone,"  to  express  the  intense  coldness  woman  (Elle),  the  foster  mother  of  the 

of  his  nature.     In  each  it  is  a  contest  giant  Ganglere.      In    the  Micmac  and 

with  cold.  the  Passamaquoddy  story  of  the  Culloo, 

The  Wabanaki  as  well  as  the  Chip-  a  man  of  miraculous   strength,   an  In- 

peways  and  others,  call  the  Milky  Way  dian    Hercules,  wrestles    with    a   little, 

the    spirits'  road   or  the   ghosts'   high-  feeble-looking  old  woman,  who  has  pre- 

way.     In  the  Edda,  Bifrost  the  rainbow  viously  defeated  all  the  strong  men  of 

(Y.  Edda,  c.  v.)  is  the  bridge  over  which  the  world.     He,  it  is    true,  overcomes 

the  gods  pass  ;  but  Mr.  Keary  (Northern  her.     But  the  point   lies  in  this :  that 

Mythology)  has    shown   that   in  many  old  age  (Elle)  is  incarnate  among  the 

old  Norse  and  German  tales  the  Milky  Indians   as  a  little  old  woman.     In  the 

Way  is  the  spirits'  path,  while  in  the  very  wild  Passamaquoddy  tale   of  the 

Vedas  both  rainbow  and  Via  Lactea  are  Dance  of  Old  Age,  a  young  sorceress  in 

described  as  roads  or  bridges  for  super-  an  Indian  waltz  grows    a  year  older  at 

natural  beings.  every  turn,  and  at  the  hundredth  falls 

In  Norse  mythology,  Jotunheim,   in-  dead  as  a  small,  shriveled,  wrinkled  old 

habited  by  giants   of  ice  and  stone,  lies  squaw. 

far  in  the  North  Atlantic.  Its  stone  When  Glooskap's  envoy  visited  the 
giants  dwell  in  Stony-town.  They  are  giant  sorcerers,  he  was  required  by  his 
all  sorcerers.  Hrungnir  with  the  flint  host  to  kill  a  dragon  as  a  task.  The 
heart  is  their  chief.  In  the  Wabanaki  American  Wabanaki  had  the  dragon 
tales  the  same  North  Atlantic  has  the  long  ere  the  whites  told  them  of  it.  It 
same  land  of  precisely  the  same  inhabi-  was  a  being  like  a  monstrous  wingless 
tants.  Hence  came  "  the  stonish  giants"  serpent,  with  horns  and  scales  like  shin- 
of  the  Iroquois,  which  Mr.  Schoolcraft  ing  copper,  or  a  kind  of  brown-golden 
avowed  his  inability  to  explain  (Indian  gleaming  fish.  The  Micmacs  call  it  che- 
Tribes,  vol.  i.),  but  which  are  explained  pitch- calm,  the  Passamaquoddies  wee- 
in  minute  and  remarkable  detail  by  wil-l-mecqu\  The  Indian  killed  it  by 
the  Wabanaki.  Hrungnir  with  the  flint  putting  a  log  across  its  hole,  and  when 
heart  is  the  counterpart  of  the  canni-  it' was  half  out  chopped  it  in  two.  In 
bal  giant  Chenoo  of  the  Micmacs,  and  the  Edda,  Sigurd,  visiting  Regin,  was 
Keeawahqu'  of  the  more  southern  Wa-  instigated  by  his  host  —  also  as  a  task  — 
banaki,  who  has  a  heart  of  "  ice,  harder  to  kill  the  dragon  Fafnir.  He  dug  a  pit, 
than  the  hardest  stone."  It  is  the  prin-  and  when  the  monster  crawled  over  it 
cipal  business  of  Glooskap  to  fight  these  thrust  his  sword  up  and  slew  him.  (Faf- 
beings,  which  are  identical  with  Jotuns  nismal,  I.)  The  Norse  dragon  left  a 
and  Trolls.  treasure  which  brought  ruin  to  all  who 

Once  Glooskap  sent  a  great  sorcerer  received  it.    The  invaluable  horns  of  tho 

(megumawessu)    to    this     land    of     the  dragon  (described  as  such  in  other  leg- 

Boooin.    (Micmac,  powwow,  a  sorcerer.)  ends)  were  brought  to  the  host  by  the 

They  made  him  run  a  race  with  one  of  victor,  but  they  proved  to  be  his  bane  or 

them.     But  it  was  not  a  man,  but  the  death,   for  the    dragon  was  his  teomul 

Northern  Lights  disguised  as  a  man.  Yet  (Micmac ;    in  Passamaquoddy,  pou-he- 

the   giants  were   deceived,  for  he  who  gan  ;  in  Norse,  ham)  ;  that  is,  his  tute- 

visited    them  was    the    Lightning,  and  lary  beast  or  guardian  angel.    When  this 

he  conquered.     In   the    Edda,  Thiasse  dies,  the  protege  also  perishes.  This  nar- 

is  made  to  race,  on  a  precisely  similar  rative  is  as  Norse  in  its  general  tone  as 

visit  to  the  same  people,  with  Thought  in  the  details.     Like  most  of  the  older 

(Huge)  disguised   as   a   man.     In    the  tales,  it  has  evidently  been  a  poem.     Tho 


1884.] 


The  Edda  among  the  Algonquin  Indians. 


227 


death  of  Fafnir  also  caused  the  death  of 
Regin.  In  every  important  part  the  two 
stories  are  the  same.  I  haye  only  one 
entire  long  legend  which  is  as  yet  all 
a  real  song.  But  nearly  all  have  pas- 
sages from  which  the  gilding  of  metre 
(if  I  may  so  call  it)  or  euphony  has  not 
entirely  disappeared,  or  in  which  verses 
still  remain. 

The  Edda  tells  us  that  the  wind  is 
caused  hy  a  giant  clad  in  eagle's  plumes, 
and  when  he  flaps  his  wings  the  wind 

blows  :  — 

"  Hrsesvelg  he  is  called 
Who  sits  at  heaven's  end, 
A  giant  in  eagle  plumes, 
from  his  wings  comes 
All  the  wind." 

This  is  in  every  detail  identical  with  the 
account  of  the  Wabanaki,  who  sav  that 

*  V 

the  wind  is  raised  by  a  giant,  who  is 
also  an  eagle,  who  sits  at  the  extreme 
north  on  a  high  rock.  In  Passama- 
quoddy  he  is  called  Wut-chow-sen,  or  the 
Wind-Blower.  With  the  Western  tribes 
there  is  a  thunder  bird ;  but  as  in  all 
the  cases  which  I  have  met  of  coinci- 
dences between  Indian  and  Norse  myths, 
that  of  the  Wabanaki  is  most  like  the 
latter.  Once  the  wind  blew  so  terri- 
bly that  Glooskap  tied  the  Wind-Blow- 
eVs  wings.  Then  there  was  no  air  for 
months ;  the  sea  grew  stagnant.  He  un- 
tied one  wing :  then  there  was  a  wind, 
but  since  then  there  have  been  no  torna- 
does like  those  of  the  olden  time.  I 
have  a  vague  recollection  of  a  Northern 
myth  in  which  Thor,  or  some  strong 
god,  conquers  Hraesvelgar,  but  cannot 
speak  with  certainty  of  it.  I  have  long 
and  detailed  accounts  of  this  legend 

O 

from  both  Micmac  and  Passamaquoddy 
Indians. 

Glooskap  left  the  world,  promising 
to  return,  but  did  not.  From  an  old 
squaw,  who  could  not  speak  a  word  of 
English,  Mrs.  W.  Wallace  Brown  re- 
cently obtained  the  following,  to  which 
I  add  a  few  details  gathered  from  other 

O 

sources : — 

"  Glooskap  is  alive.     He  lives  in  an 


immense  lodge.  He  is  making  arrows. 
One  side  of  the  lodge  is  now  piled  full 
of  them.  They  are  as  close  together  as 
that :  "  here  she  put  her  fingers  closely 
together.  "  When  the  lodge  shall  be 
full,  then  he  will  come  out  and  make 
war,  and  all  will  be  killed.  Then  he 
will  come  in  his  canoe ;  then  he  will 
meet  the  great  wolf,  and  all  the  stone 
and  ice  and  other  giants,  the  sorcerers, 
the  goblins  and  elves,  and  all  will  be 
burned  up ;  the  water  will  all  boil  away 
from  the  fire." 

This  is  not  from  any  Christian  source. 
It  is  simply  the  account  of  Ragnarok, 
when  Odin  is  to  come  and  fight  the  Fen- 
ris  wolf,  or  the  destroying  type  of  evil, 
and  all  be  consumed.  But  the  Indian 
woman,  when  closely  questioned,  drew 
a  sharp  distinction  between  the  Wa- 
banaki Day  of  Judgment  and  the  ac- 
count of  it  in  the  Bible.  And  after 
much  experience  of  these  legends  and 
traditions,  I  cannot  help  believing  or 
feeling  that  one  acquires  an  almost  un- 
erring flair  or  faculty  of  perceiving  in 
them  what  is  Eskimo,  what  Norse,  what 
Indian,  and  what  is  French  Canadian 
fairy  tale.  Add  to  these  a  few  of  ^Esop's 
fables,  very  strangely  Indianized,  and 
we  have  almost  all  there  is  in  them. 
The  Eskimo  element,  which  is  very 
important,  is  simply  indubitable.  The 
French  Canadian  stories  are  apparent 
enough,  with  their  coaches  and  horses, 
kings  and  swords,  gunpowder,  God,  and 
the  devil. 

The  next  character  to  be  considered  is 
Lox,  the  "  Indian  devil."  The  word  Lox 
is  not,  I  believe,  Indian.  This  charac- 
ter includes  the  wolverine,  badger,  and 
raccoon,  though  strangely  enough  not 
the  fox.  Collectively  he  forms  a  char- 
acter, —  a  man  who  is  so  much  like  Loki 
of  the  Edda  that  I  have  often  been 
amazed  at  the  likeness.  There  is  not  a 
Wabanaki  Indian  who  would  not  recog- 
nize the  latter  as  an  old  friend.  Yet, 
although  the  incidents  of  the  lives  of 
Lox  and  Loki  are  so  much  alike,  the 


228 


The  Edda  among  the  Algonquin  Indians. 


[August, 


real  resemblance  lies  in  their  characters, 
style  of  tricks,  and  language ;  in  their 
mutual  infinite  blackguardism  and  im- 
pudence, and  their  greed  for  devilish 
mischief,  for  mere  fun's  sake. 

Loki  is  fire,  and  Lox,  as  it  appears 
from  many  instances,  is  a  fire  spirit; 
both  are  distinctly  described  as  the  fa- 
thers of  the  wolves.  Lox  dies  by  cold 
and  water,  but  when  dead  is  revived  by 
heat.  In  the  Edda,  Loki  is  carried  about 
and  grievously  punished  by  a  giant  in 
the  form  of  an  eagle.  Lox  is  treated  in 
the  same  way,  for  having  played  the  fol- 
lowing trick.  Entering  a  house,  he  was 
rather  coolly  treated  by  a  woman  ;  the 
slight  to  his  vanity  was  of  the  most  tri- 
fling kind,  but  he  revenged  it  by  cutting 
her  head  off  and  putting  it  into  the  pot 
with  the  rest  of  the  dinner  to  boil,  to 
give  the  family  a  surprise  on  returning. 
All  of  this  is  related -in  one  of  Dasent's 
Norse  tales.  The  head  of  the  family 
was  a  Culloo,  a  kind  of  giant  eagle  or 
roc,  and  he  punished  Lox  by  carrying 
him  up  to  the  top  of  the  sky  and  letting 
him  drop. 

In  the  Edda  there  is  a  scene  between 
Thor  and  Harbard,  the  ferryman,  in 
which  Thor  is  sadly  chaffed  and  abused. 
How  it  is  that  any  critic  could  have  mis- 
taken Harbard  for  Odin,  or  for  any  one 
but  Loki,  is  really  incomprehensible. 
That  the  name  could  have  been  assumed 
does  not  occur  to  any  one.  In  an  In- 
dian tale  Lox  satirizes  and  insults  the 
crane  —  the  ferryman  —  so  effectually 
that  the  latter  drowns  him  when  pre- 
tending to  pass  him  over.  This  legend 
has  manifestly  been  a  poem. 

Lox  is  a  fire  spirit.  Mr.  Keary,  in 
his  work  on  the  Norse  Mythology,  has 
asserted  that  in  many  old  German  and 
Norse  legends  fire  is  typified  by  thorns, 
prickles,  nettles,  stings,  and  the  like. 
In  one  Indian  tale,  Lox,  "  the  Indian 
devil,"  is  thrown  on  a  bed  of  thorns, 
falls  into  a  mass  of  briers,  steps  into  a 
wasp's  or  hornet's  nest,  and  is  rolled  on 
sharp  flints ;  while  in  another,  in  conse- 


quence of  eating  itch  berries,  he  scratches 
himself  almost  to  death. 

On  one  occasion,  the  Indian  devil, 
after  cruelly  burning  two  old  women  in 
jest,  dies  of  delight,  and  being  then  in 
the  form  of  a  raccoon  is  put  into  a  pot 
to  boil.  The  touch  of  scalding  water 
gives  him  life  again,  arid  he  springs  out 
of  the  pot.  But  at  the  very  instant  of 
revival  his  sense  of  mischief  awakens, 
and  as  he  leaps  from  the  kettle  he  gives 
it  a  kick ;  the  hot  water  falls  into  the 
ashes ;  the  ashes  fly  up  and  blind  an  old 
woman.  Compare  with  this  a  passage  in 
the  Finnish  Kalevala,  the  elder  sister  of 
the  Edda.  When,  by  evil  magic,  a  stag 
or  elk  was  created  for  mischief,  the  first 
thing  the  creature  did  on  coming  to  life 
was  to  run  at  full  speed.  But  it  had 
hardly  started  ere  it  went  by  a  Lapland 
hut,  and  as  it  ran  it  kicked  over  a  ket- 
tle, so  that  the  meat  in  it  fell  in  the 
ashes,  and  the  soup  was  dashed  over  the 
hearth.  Surely  this  never  came  to  the 
Indians  through  a  French  fairy  tale. 
Once,  when  the  Indian  devil  is  drowned 
and  is  then  revived  by  his  brother,  he 
says,  "  It  seems  to  me  that  I  have  been 
asleep."  In  the  Kalevala,  likewise, 
the  completely  drowned  Lemmekainen, 
brought  to  life  \>y  his  mother,  makes  the 
same  remark.  In  a  Samoyede  tale  a 
dead  man's  bones  are  picked  up  by  a 
half  man,  with  one  leg  and  one  arm.  Of 
these  unipeds  I  shall  speak  anon.  He 
burns  the  bones ;  his  wife  sleeps  on 
them ;  the  dead  man  comes  to  life,  and 
makes  the  same  remark.  As  we  go  on 
it  begins  to  seem  as  if  there  were  some 
world-old  Shamanic  root  for  half  the 
Norse  tales,  and  all  the  Finnish,  Samoy- 
ede, Eskimo,  and  Indian.  No  one  has 
raised  the  veil  of  the  mystery  as  yet, 
but  it  will  be  lifted. 

In  a  Micmac  story  the  Indian  devil 
runs  a  race  with  a  stone  giant ;  that  is, 
an  immense  rock.  Loki  is  chased  by 
the  stone  giant  Thiasse,  but  as  an  eagle, 
both  having  wings.  In  another  Indian 
legend  an  evil  sorcerer,  who  is  evidently 


1884] 


The  Edda  among  the  Algonquin  Indians. 


a  form  of  the  Indian  devil,  flies  in  a  race 
with  another  man,  who  is,  for  the  nonce, 
a  hawk. 

It  came  to  Lox's  mind  to  change  him- 
self to  a  woman,  to  make  mischief. 
Loki  did  the  same  thing  in  Fensal.  The 
Indian  devil's  trick  got  him  into  trouble, 
and  he  took  refuge  in  a  waterfall,  where, 
through  being  over  cunning,  he  perished. 
Loki's  tricks  of  killing  Balder,  which 
are  incidentally  like  the  Indian  as  to  the 
mistletoe,  led  to  his  being  chased  to  Fra- 
nangurs  fors,  "  the  bright  and  glisten- 
ing cataract,"  where  he  was  caught  and 
came  to  his  ruin.  Finally,  Loki  in  this 
waterfall  turns  himself  into  a  salmon, 
and  also  catches  a  salmon  and  an  otter 
before  his  capture.  In  another  Indian 
story  Lox  the  devil  perishes  just  as  he 
catches  a  salmon.  And  in  another  Pas- 
samaquoddy  tale,  an  evil  sorcerer,  who 
is  the  veritable  devil  of  a  village  and 
perfectly  identified  with  Loki  and  Lox 
by  certain  sinful  tricks,  dies  in  conse- 
quence of  catching  an  otter;  this  otter 
being,  exactly  like  the  otter  of  the  Norse 
tale,  not  a  mere  animal,  but  a  goblin,  a 
human  otter,  or,  as  the  story  expressly 
declares,  a  pou-he-gan  (Norse  ham).  In 
this  same  story  two  girls  go  to  sleep 
in  a  cabin.  A  man's  neck  bone  lies  by 
the  door.  The  younger,  being  told  not 
to  touch  it,  gives  it  a  kick.  All  night 
long  the  bone  abuses  her.  In  a  Norse 
tale  an  old  woman  brings  home  a  human 
bone,  and  till  morning  it  disturbs  her  by 
talking  and  howling.  The  Indian  story 
is  unquestionably  a  very  old  one. 

A  passage  in  the  Edda  which  has  been 
a  stumbling-block  to  all  commentators, 
of  which  Grimm  could  make  nothing, 
and  Benjamin  Thorpe  said,  "  I  believe 
the  difficulty  is  beyond  help,"  is  this :  — 

"Loki,  scorched  up 
In  his  heart, 
Found  a  woman's 
Half-burnt  thought-stone. 
Loki  became  guileful 
From  that  wicked  woman  ; 
Thence  in  the  world 
Are  all  giantesses  come." 


229 


In  Norse  this  is,  "  Loki  of  hiarta  lyndi 
brendu  fann  hann  halts  vithinn  hugstein 

o 

Kona."  In  the  Indian  tales,  a  man 
may  become  a  misanthrope,  and  then  a 
Chenoo,  a  being  at  once  ghoul,  cannibal, 
and  sorcerer.  Then  he  acquires  incredi- 
ble swiftness,  and  may  grow  up  to  be  a 
giant  at  will.  His  heart  now  turns  to 
ice,  harder  than  any  stone.  But  he  still 
does  not  become  utterly  devilish  until 
he  overcomes  in  battle  a  female  Chenoo, 
and  swallows  her  heart.  The  Indians, 
when  they  kill  a  Chenoo,  take  great 
pains  to  burn  the  heart.  Should  they 
leave  it  half  burned,  another  Chenoo 
would  find  and  swallow  this  "  thought- 

O 

stone,"  and  become  twice  as  terrible  as 
before.  This  story  explains  of  itself 
that  the  heart,  riot  the  head,  is  supposed 
to  be  the  seat  of  the  thought  or  intel- 
lect. All  of  these  details  I  found  orig- 
inally in  the  tale  of  the  Chenoo :  first, 
from  the  Micmac,  by  Rev.  S.  T.  Rand ; 
and  again,  in  a  much  more  detailed 
form,  from  the  Passamaquoddy,  told  me 
by  an  Indian.  In  the  latter,  the  heart 
is  said  to  be  a  miniature  human  figure 
of  the  owner. 

Loki  is  the  father  of  the  wolves,  and 
Lox  is  represented  as  the  same.  On 
one  occasion  they  give  him  a  charm  by 
which  he  can  make  three  fires,  —  one 
for  each  night  of  a  three  days'  journey. 
But  in  his  impatience  to  be  warm  he 
burns  them  all  out  the  first  morning, 
and  then  freezes  to  death.  What  can 
this -typify  if  not  fire,  —  its  raging  im- 
patience and  the  manner  in  which  it  dies 
by  its  own  indulgence? 

At  another  time  Lox  found  many 
women  making  bags  of  fine  fur.  "  You 
have  a  very  slow  way  of  doing  that," 
he  observed.  "  In  our  country  the  wo- 
men manage  it  much  more  rapidly." 
"  And  how,  then  ?  '  inquired  the  good- 
wives.  "  Thus,"  replied  Lox  ;  and  tak- 
ing a  fine  piece  of  fur  he  buried  it  be- 
neath the  ashes,  and  then  heaped  on 
coals,  after  which,  with  great  style,  he 
drew  from  under  it  all  a  very  fine  bag. 


230 


The  Edda  among  the  Algonquin  Indians.  [August, 


Having  done  this  he  ran  out  of  town. 

O 

Whereupon  the  women  put  all  their 
furs  under  ashes  and  coals,  but  when 
they  took  them  out,  what  remained  was 
ruined.  This  is  a  fire  trick,  again. 

It  is  true  that  the  fire  test  is  not  in- 
fallible as  an  indication  of  the  devil ; 
for  once  Odin  himself  was  obliged  by 
his  host  Geirrod  to  sit  eight  days  and 
nights  between  fires,  roasting.  The 
atrociously  wicked  sorcerer  Porcupine 
obliged  Glooskap  in  like  manner  to  sit 
in  a  cave  full  of  fire.  But  as  he  had  far 
greater  power  of  resistance,  it  was  the 
host  who  perished,  as  he  does,  indeed,  in 
the  Norse  tale,  though  not  by  fire.  But 
the  whole  of  this  Indian  legend  sings 
like  an  Icelandic  tale.  In  it  the  hero 
is  obliged  to  pass  on  a  roaring  rapid 
through  a  sunless  cave,  in  midnight 

O  /  O 

blackness,  till  he  emerges  on  a  broad, 
quiet  river  in  a  lovely  land.  As  this  is 
repeated  in  different  narratives  of  differ- 
ent heroes,  it  appears  to  be  a  regular 
ordeal  or  ceremony  of  initiation. 

The  Cold  is  a  distinct  personage  in 
Northern  Indian  tales.  But  he  is  with 
the  Wabanaki  much  more  like  the  Pak- 
karen,  or  Cold  incarnate  of  the  Finns 
and  of  the  Kalevala  than  that  of  the 
Western  tribes.  In  the  same  epic  there 
is  a  supernatural  being  who  cuts  down 
a  tree  at  a  single  blow  with  an  axe. 
Among  the  Passamaquoddies,  Atwaken- 
ikess,  the  Spirit  of  the  Woods,  always 
does  the  same  thing.  When  a  tree  is 
heard  to  fall  afar  in  the  wilderness  the 
Indian  says,  "  There  is  Atwakenikess  !  " 

But  it  is  not  from  the  Indians  alone 
that  we  learn  their  myths.  Among  the 
Wabanaki,  as  well  as  among  the  Eski- 
mo, there  are  strange  tales  of  half  men, 
lengthwise.  These  were  also  known  to 
the  P^skimo  of  the  European  side ;  that 
is,  to  the  Samoyedes  and  Lapps.  The 
Norsemen  seem  to  have  regarded  them 
as  American.  "  In  1009  Karlsefne 
went  around  Cape  Cod,  and  sailed  along 
the  coast,  until  off  Boston  he  *  raised ' 
the  Blue  Hills,  when  he  returned  to 


the  settlement  in  Rhode  Island,  appear- 
ing unwilling  to  venture  up  the  coast 
of  New  Hampshire  and  Maine  on  ac- 
count of  the  unipeds,  or  one-footed  men 
fabled  to  live  there." 1  Karlsefne,  as 
it  would  seem  from  the  story,  picked  up 
his  information  as  to  unipeds  in  Boston. 
It  would  be  interesting  to  be  able  to 
prove  that  Boston  had  begun  at  so  early 
a  date  to  influence  the  religious  opinions 
and  philosophy  of  its  visitors.  One  of 
Karlsefne's  men  was  killed  by  a  uniped, 
and  they  made  up  a  song  on  it.  Charle- 
voix  assures  us  that  the  celebrated  chief 
Donnaconna  told  him  that  he  had  seen 
these  one-legged  people,  and  that  an  Es- 
kimo girl  brought  to  Labrador,  or  Can- 
ada, in  1717  declared  they  were  well 
known  in  Greenland.  While  writing  this 
paper,  I  have  received  from  Mr.  S.  T. 
Rand  a  long  story  entitled  Esluman  the 
Half  Man.  The  Abbe  Morellet,  in  his 
work  on  the  Eskimo,  cites  from  the  Sa- 
gas an  account  of  a  Norse  sea-rover,  a 
great  hero,  who,  having  been  wrecked 
on  the  icy  coast  of  Greenland,  was  at- 
tacked by  two  ravenous  giantesses,  but 
conquered  them,  and  returned  to  tell 
the  tale  at  home.  It  is  said  that  two 
giantesses  were  the  last  of  the  race  left 
in  Scandinavia.  (Vide  Thorpe's  North- 
ern Mythology,  vol.  ii.)  These  mon- 
strous women  cannibals  are  the  female 
Kiawaqu'  or  Chenoo  of  the  Micinacs. 
They  form  the  subject  of  many  tales. 
They  belong  to  the  post-Jotuns. 

Though  the  story  of  the  Swan  or 
Sea-Gull  maiden,  who,  having  laid  her 
wings  aside,  was  caught  by  a  youth,  is 
known  all  over  Europe,  it  is  for  all  that 
probably  of  Norse  origin.  The  North- 
ern races  are  more  familiar  with  such 
birds  than  the  men  of  the  South.  In 
the  story  the  girl  lives  with  her  hus- 
band until  finding  one  day  her  wings, 
she  flies  away  with  her  children.  This 
legend  occurs  not  once,  but  many  times, 
among  the  Wabanaki,  and  it  did  not  come 

1  The  Northmen  in  Maine.    By  Rev.  B.  F.  De 
Costa.    Albany,  1870. 


1884.] 


The  Edda  among  the  Algonquin  Indians. 


231 


to  them  through  the  Canadian  French. 
It  is  imbedded  as  an  essential  part  in 
their  oldest  myths.  It  begins  the  tale 
of  Pulowech,  which  is  evidently  one  of 
the  earliest,  most  serious,  and  most  thor- 
oughly Indian  of  all  the  legends  of  New 
England  and  Canada. 

<j 

I  have  gathered  in  conversation  from 
several  Indians,  and  I  have  it  recorded 
in  several  written-out  tales,  that  it  is  a 
very  ancient  belief  that  beings  which 
correspond  exactly  to  the  Trolls  of  the 
Edda  often  attack  brave  men  by  night. 
If  the  latter  can  only  prolong  the  fight 
till  the  sun  shines  on  the  fiend,  it  turns 
to  stone  or  a  dead  tree  immediately,  and 
all  its  strength  and  wisdom  pass  into  the 
conqueror.  In  the  Edda  (Alvissmal,  36), 
where  a  dwarf  or  Troll  contends  in  ar- 
gument with  Thor,  the  wily  hero  pro- 
longs the  contest  until  daybreak,  when 
the  dwarf  is  petrified  by  the  light. 

"By  great  wiles  thou  hast, 
I  tell  thee,  been  deluded; 
Thou  art  above  ground, 
Dwarf,  at  dawn ! 
Already  in  the  hall 
The  sun  is  shining !  " 

The  same  is  said  in  the  Helgakvida, 
where  Atli  tells  the  giantess  Hrimgera, 
"  It  is  now  day  ;  you  have  been  detained 
to  your  destruction.  It  will  be  a  laugh- 
able mark  in  the  harbor,  where  you 
will  stand  as  a  stone  image."  At  the 

O 

corner  of  Friar's  Bay,  Campobello,  is 
the  ridiculously  so  called  "  Friar,"  a 

V  ' 

rock  thirty  feet  high,  which  the  Indians 
in  one  tradition  say  is  a  petrified  woman. 
It  is  certainly  both  a  petrified  Troll  and 
a  harbor  mark. 

Dead  men  made  to  live  again  by 
sorcery  are  very  common  in  Wabanaki, 
Eskimo,  Finnish,  and  Samovede  tales. 

V 

They  occur  in  the  Norse,  but  are  by  no 
means  frequent.  A  study  of  Shaman- 
ism in  all  its  phases  from  the  Accadian 
or  Turanian  Babylonian,  through  the 
Tartar  or  Lapland,  the  Eskimo,  and  so 
on  to  the  American  Indian,  must  result 
in  the  conviction  that  there  has  been 
a  regular  "  historical "  transmission  of 


culture  from  a  very  ancient  common 
source  through  all  of  these. 

It  is  to  be  remarked  that  when  the 
Wabanaki  kill  a  bear  they  always  beg 
his  pardon,  and  in  fact  many  other  In- 
dians address  long  speeches  of  apology 
or  of  excuse  to  the  dead  Bruin.  When 
the  Laplanders  do  the  same  they  sing 
to  him  :  — 

"  Kittulis  pourra,  kittulis  iiskada! 
Soubi  jalla  zaiti 
lii  paha  talki  oggio 
li  paha  talki  pharonis  !  " 

"  We  thank  thee  for  coming  hither, 
That  thou  didst  not  harm  us, 
Nor  break  the  clubs  and  spears 
Wherewith  we  killed  thee. 
We  pray  thee  do  not  raise  tempests 
Or  do  any  other  harm 
To  those  who  slew  thee !  "  * 

But  in  the  Kalevala  an  entire  runot 
is  devoted  to  the  songs  of  apology  and 
ceremonies  incident  to  killing  a  bear. 
The  .French  translator  Le  Due  loses 
himself  in  bewildered  conjectures  as  to 
the  meaning  of  it  all.  It  is  fully  ex- 
plained in  three  of  my  Passamaquoddy 
stories.  The  she-bear  was  the  grand- 
mother or  foster-mother  of  both  Gloos- 
kap  and  Manobozho.  This  was  as  sacred 
a  relation  as  that  of  mother.  The  she- 
bear  was  as  the  mother  of  their  god, 
and  when  her  son  leaves  her  she  exacts 
that  a  bear  shall  never  be  slain  without 
certain  ceremonies  or  under  certain  con- 
ditions. There  is  a  Norse  story  which 
is  identical  in  minute  detail  with  an  In- 
dian one  of  a  girl  marrying  a  white  bear 
and  of  a  boy  reared  by  bears. 

There  is  one  Indian  legend  which  is 
throughout  so  Norse,  so  full  both  of  the 
Icelandic  folk  tale  and  the  Edda,  that  if 
no  other  link  of  union  existed  between 
the  Wabanaki  and  Europe  this  would 
almost  establish  it.  It  is  the  one  al- 
ready alluded  to  as  a  Micmac  song,  com- 
municated by  Mrs.  W.  Wallace  Brown, 
of  Calais.  It  is  a  tale  of  Three  Strong 
Men.  In  it  a  starved-looking  little  elf 

1  History  of  Lapland.  By  John  Scheffer.  Lon- 
don, 1704. 


232 


The  Edda  among  the  Algonquin  Indians.  [August, 


eats  the  food  of  three  men,  and  fights 
all  day  long  with  a  man  of  incredible 
strength,  the  son  of  a  white  bear.  In 
an  entirely  Norse  tale,  a  very  small  elf 
fights  a  white  bear  all  night  long  ere  he 
is  conquered.  The  wife  of  the  hero  in- 
vokes the  Wind-Blower  or  Giant  Eagle 
to  send  a  wind.  When  her  husband 
leaves  her,  she,  fearing  a  rival  sorceress, 
warns  him  that  if,  when  he  approaches 
his  place  of  destination,  a  small  whelp 
should  lick  his  hand  he  will  forget  her. 
In  the  Edda,  to  dream  of  whelps  is  the 
most  evil  of  all  Atli's  many  bad  dreams. 
(Gudrun,  II.  41.)  In  the  Atlamal  in 
Groenlenzku  (Edda),  Hogni  is  warned 
against  going  (Gudrun,  24),  and  he  takes 
a  potion  which  causes  oblivion.  Broken 
and  bewildering  as  this  is,  there  is  at 
every  step  in  both  the  Indian  tale  and 
this  particular  part  of  the  Gudrun  song 
something  which  recalls  in  one  the  oth- 
er. We  are  told  in  the  Norse  that  to 
dream  of  a  white  bear  means  a  great 
storm;  that  is,  a  startling  event.  It  rare- 
ly occurs  in  a  Wabanaki  tale  that  the 
white  bear's  skin  is  brought  in  unless 
there  is  at  hand  some  startling  magic 
transformation.  I  had  observed  this 
long  before  any  connection  between  In- 
dian and  Norse  stories  suggested  itself. 

In  the  Edda,  Odin  takes  Mimir's 
head,  and  prepares  it  by  magic,  so  that 
it  answers  all  his  questions  and  gives 
him  advice.  In  three  Indian  stories  the 
head  of  a  magician  does  the  same  thing, 
and,  as  in  the  Edda,  it  is  constantly 
kept  as  an  oracle.  But  in  the  Wabanaki 
it  is  eventually  reunited  to  its  body,  and 
the  man  thus  formed  runs  amok,  killing 
every  one  he  meets.  It  may  be  con- 
jectured that  in  the  old  Norse  tale,  now 
lost,  Mimir  will,  at  the  last  day,  regain 
his  head,  and  fight  madly.  Without 
this  the  Edda  is  at  present  manifestly 
defective,  since  in  it  Mimir,  the  source 
of  all  Odin's  wisdom,  that  is  of  all  wis- 
dom, has  no  share  in  the  final  revival. 

There  are  not  in  the  Chippeway  or  any 
other  Indian  tales  known  to  me  such  in- 


dications of  culture  as  are  found  among 

O 

the  legends  of  the  Wabanaki.  Regarded 
as  literature,  the  latter  are  marvelous- 
ly  accommodated  to  the  European  style 
and  standard.  There  is  a  large-heart- 
ed, genial  spirit  of  strength,  health,  and 
humor  in  them  which  is,  one  may  say, 
Norse,  and  nothing  else,  —  the  spirit 
of  Rabelais  and  of  Shakespeare.  Gloos- 
kap,  the  Lord  of  Men  and  Beasts,  the 
sublime  American  Thor  and  Odin,  who 
towers  above  Hiawatha  and  Manobozho 
like  a  colossus  above  pigmies,  the  master 
of  the  mighty  mountains,  has  still  a 
wonderfully  tender  heart.  He  has  one 
ever-repeated  joke,  —  his  canoe,  which 
he  lends,  always  saying,  "  I  have  often 
lent  it,  and  everybody  has  promised  to 
bring  it  back,  but  I  have  always  been 
obliged  to  go  after  it  myself."  It  is  his 
umbrella.  He  often  sends  certain  friends 
to  the  land  of  the  giant  sorcerers.  Thero 
they  have  terrible  adventures ;  they  slay 
giants  and  serpents.  One  invariable 
and  dreadful  trial  awaits  them  at  the 
last  station,  returning.  A  giant  skunk, 
big  as  St.  Paul's,  standing  on  the  shore, 
opens  on  them  his  battery.  Of  course 
the  monster  is  triumphantly  slain  by  the 
hero.  But  this  skunk  forms  no  part 
of  the  devices  of  the  enemy.  It  is  a 
little  private  trick  of  Glooskap's  own, 
—  a  genial  potent  delusion,  a  joke. 

It  may  naturally  be  inquired  how  it 
came  to  pass  that  there  is  so  much  in 
common  to  the  Wabanaki  and  Norse. 
The  latter  were  in  Greenland  for  three 
centuries.  They  left  there  the  ruins 
of  fourscore  churches  and  monasteries. 
In  their  time  the  Eskimo  are  believed 
to  have  ranged  as  far  south  as  New 
York.  The  Wabanaki  or  Algonquin 
live  to-day  in  Labrador.  When  I  wrote 
recently  to  the  Rev.  S.  T.  Rand  to  know 
if  the  Micmacs  ever  visited  the  Eskimo, 
he  did  but  go  to  his  next  Indian  neigh- 
bor, a  woman,  who  told  him  that  her 
husband  had  passed  seven  winters  with 
Eskimo,  — four  among  the  "  tame,"  and 
three  among  the  heathen.  The  Indians 


1884.] 


The  Edda  among  the  Algonquin  Indians. 


233 


do  not  appear  anywhere  or  at  any  time 
to  have  told  stories  to  the  Iglesmani,  — 
that  is,  English  or  Americans,  —  or  to 
have  listened  to  any  of  theirs.  The  ordi- 
nary American,  as  for  instance  Thoreau, 
listens  to  their  tales  only  to  ridicule 
them.  He  immediately  proceeds  to  dem- 
onstrate to  the  Indian  the  "  folly  "  of 
his  belief  ;  that  is,  his  own  moral  suprem- 
acy. This  was  not  the  case  with  the 
French  Canadians,  who  emptied  out  on 
the  Indians  in  full  faith  all  their  contes 
des  fees.  With  the  Eskimo  and  half- 
pagan  Norsemen  there  was  an  even 
greater  sympathy.  The  Indian  had  his 
teomul,  his  pou-he-gan,  his  animal  fate 
or  spirit ;  the  Norseman  had  his  ham, 
or  fylgia,  which  was  precisely  the  same 
thing. 

It  has  been  objected  to  me  that  these 
Greenland  Norsemen  were  all  Chris- 
tians. So  are  the  Indians,  every  one 
good  Catholics.  Once  there  was  one 
Sunday  morning  (I  am  assured  that  this 
is  really  true)  a  small  church  full  of 
Christian  Wabanaki  Indians.  They  were 
all  at  prayers.  The  church  was  sur- 
rounded by  their  enemies,  the  Megwech 
or  Mohawks.  They  were  marched  out 
to  die.  But  there  was  among  the  Chris- 
tians a  Kchee  medeoulin,  a  great  sor- 
cerer. He  asked  the  Mohawk  chief  if 
he  might,  ere  he  was  slain,  walk  thrice 
round  the  church.  This  is  an  old  Norse 
magical  formula.  (Vide  Thorpe.)  The 
request  was  granted.  He  walked  and 
sang.  He  invoked  the  tempest.  It  came, 
and  the  lightning  killed  all  the  wicked 
heathen  Mohawks,  who  were  at  once 
scalped  by  the  good  Christian  Micmacs. 
Doubtless  the  Norsemen  were  equally 
pious.  It  was  only  a  few  years  before 
Karlsefne  visited  Boston  that  Thang- 
brand,  the  pirate  bishop,  converted  so 
many  to  Christianity  in  Iceland  by  split- 
ting with  a  cross  the  heads  of  the  hea- 
then who  would  not  believe, — pour  en- 
courager  les  autres. 

There  has  been  as  yet  very  little 
study  of  the  Shamanic  mythology,  folk- 


lore, and  poetry  of  the  early  world.  The 
commentators  on  the  Edda  should  study 
more  closely  the  races  with  the  magic 
drum.  There  is  some  mighty  mys- 
tery behind  it  all,  as  yet  unsolved.  I 
cannot  admit  of  our  Indian  legends  that 
popular  tales  are  the  same  the  world 
over.  Were  this  apparent  Norse  ele- 
ment not  in  those  of  the  Wabanaki, 
what  remains  would  be  French  or  Es- 
kimo fairy  stories,  every  one  easy  to  rec- 
ognize. I  would  add  to  this  a  convic- 
tion that  the  Chippewas  drew  their  leg- 
ends from  the  East.  Thus,  for  instance, 
the  Toad  Woman  of  Schoolcraft  and 
many  others  are  imperfect  and  distort- 
ed, compared  to  the  versions  of  the  same 
stories  as  told  in  the  East.  The  Iroquois 
Book  of  Rites,  edited  by  H.  Hale,  and 
the  early  accounts  of  that  race  indicate 
that  it  was  gifted  with  a  high  sense  of  jus- 
tice, that  it  had  men  of  great  genius, 
that  while  savage  it  developed  elements 
of  culture  such  as  we  cannot  at  all  un- 
derstand as  coexistent  with  barbarity. 
This  appears  to  have  been  to  a  striking 
degree  the  case  with  the  Algonquin  or 
Wabanaki,  whose  culture,  however,  while 
not  inferior  to  that  of  the  Iroquois,  was 
very  different  from  it.  It  was  a  little 
more  Eskimo,  and  very  much  more 
Norse.  I  have  here  given  only  the  mi- 
nority of  the  proofs  of  resemblance.  The 
majority  consists  of  the  genial,  hearty, 
and  vigorous  Norse  feelings  which  in- 
spire these  wonderful  and  beautiful  leg- 
ends, and  the  ever -continued  evidence 
that  in  some  utterly  strange  way  both 
drew  their  life  from  the  same  source. 

The  Lay  of  Grotti,  or  the  Mill-Song 
of  the  Edda,  which  tells  how  the  sea 
became  salt,  is  also  known  to  the  In- 
dians. As  they  give  it  with  the  same 
additions  which  appear  in  the  common 
fairy  tale,  I  do  not  cite  this  as  proving 
that  it  came  from  old  Norse  narration. 
But  it  is  remarkable  that  in  all  cases 
the  Indian  tales  and  incidents  incline  to 
the  Eddaic,  and  that  they  have  much 
more  of  it  than  of  modern  stories. 


234 


The   Thunder- Cloud. 


[August, 


The  best  of  these  legends  have  utterly 
perished.  What  I  have  recovered  has 
been  from  old  squaws,  from  old  men,  or 
here  and  there  a  clever  Indian.  The 
great  chroniclers  are  all  dead.  But  I 
learn  every  day  that  the  work  of  collec- 
tion should  have  begun,  especially  in 
New 'England,  at  least  a  century  ago. 

I  have  recovered,  thus  far,  twenty- 
seven  legends  or  sagas  relative  to  Gloos- 
kap,  forming  a  connected  series,  and 
many  more  of  Lox,  the  rabbit,  etc.  All 
of  the  old  Indians  can  remember  when 
these  were  sung,  and  declare  that  till 
within  fifty  years  they  were  preserved 
with  sacred  care.  I  believe  that  the 
most  ancient  and  important  myths  still 
exist  among  the  Algonquin  of  the  far 
north,  and  that  our  historical  societies 
or  the  government  would  do  well  to 
employ  a  scholar  to  collect  them.  Such 
as  I  have  been  able  to  get  together  are 
now  in  press,  and  will  soon  appear  in 
a  volume  entitled  The  Algonquin  Leg- 
ends of  New  England.  Unfortunately, 
there  is  perhaps  no  subject  of  so  little 
general  interest  to  the  American  as  the 


Indian, — unless  it  be,  indeed,  the  art 
of  extirpating  him.  There  was  a  time 
when  every  rock  and  river,  hill  and 
headland,  had  its  legends,  —  legends 
stranger,  wilder,  and  sweeter  than  those 
of  the  Rhine  or  Italy,  —  and  we  have 
suffered  them  to  perish.  Indians  have 
made  a  fairy-land  for  me  of  certain 
places  in  New  England ;  and  there  is 
not  a  square  mile  in  the  country  which 
was  not  such  to  them.  When  the  last 
Indian  shall  be  in  his  grave,  scholars 
will  wonder  at  the  indifference  of  the 
"  learned  "  men  of  these  times  to  such 
treasures  as  they  have  allowed  to  per- 
ish. What  the  world  wants  is  not  peo- 
ple to  write  about  what  others  have 
gathered  as  to  the  Indians,  but  men  to 
collect  directly  from  them.  We  want, 
not  theories,  but  material.  Apres  nous 
la  theorie.  There  are  four  hundred 
books  on  the  gypsies,  but  in  all  not 
more  than  ten  which  tell  us  anything 
new  or  true  about  them.  There  will 
be  speculators  in  abundance,  and  better 
than  any  now  living,  through  all  the 
ages,  but  then  there  will  be  no  Indians. 

Charles  G.  Leland. 


THE   THUNDER-CLOUD. 

(MARYLAND,  1863.) 

ALL  hushed  the  farm-lands,  with  a  listening  air ; 

Silent  the  straggling  suburbs.     In  the  warm, 

Paved  street  hoof-wakened  echoes  suddenly  swarm. 
A  turn,  and  lo  !  —  still,  black,  before  you  there, 
As  noiseless  as  a  picture,  in  the  square 

A  thousand  horse  drawn  up  in  marching  form, 

And  at  their  head,  as  sun-gleam  to  the  storm, 
A  fair-faced  boy,  with  long,  bright-streaming  hair. 
Not  a  breath  sounded  nor  a  trooper  stirred, 

And  yet  you  saw  how  fierce  would  leap  and  flash 
The  lightning  of  a  thousand  sabres,  heard 

How  all  the  elements  would  clang  and  clash, 

The  thunder-riven  valley  quake  and  crash, 
When  Custer  turned  his  head  and  gave  the  word ! 

James  T.  McKay. 


1884.] 


Bugs  and  Beasts  before  the  Law. 


235 


BUGS  AND   BEASTS  BEFORE  THE  LAW. 


IT  is  said  that  Bartholomew  Chasse- 
nee, a  distinguished  French  jurist  of  the 
sixteenth  century,  made  his  reputation 
at  the  bar  as  counsel  for  some  rats,  which 
were  put  on.  trial  before  the  ecclesias- 
tical court  of  Autun  on  the  charge  of 
having  feloniously  eaten  up  and  wan- 
tonly destroyed  the  barley  of  that  prov- 
ince. On  complaint  formally  presented 
by  the  magistracy,  the  official,  or  bishop's 
vicar,  who  exercised  jurisdiction  in  such 
cases,  cited  the  culprits  to  appear  on  a 
certain  day,  and  appointed  Chassenee  to 
defend  them.  In  view  of  the  bad  repute 
and  notorious  guilt  of  his  clients,  Chas- 
senee was  forced  to  employ  all  sorts  of 
legal  shifts  and  chicane,  dilatory  pleas 
and  other  technical  objections,  hoping 
thereby  to  find  some  loophole  through 
which  the  accused  might  escape,  or  at 
least  to  defer  and  mitigate  the  sentence 
of  the  judge.  He  urged,  in  the  first  place, 
that  inasmuch  as  the  defendants  were  dis- 
persed over  a  large  tract  of  country,  and 
dwelt  in  numerous  villages,  a  single  sum- 
mons was  insufficient  to  notify  them  all. 
He  succeeded,  therefore,  in  obtaining  a 
second  citation,  to  be  published  from  the 
pulpits  of  all  the  parishes  inhabited  by 
the  said  rats.  At  the  expiration  of  the 
considerable  time  which  elapsed  before 
this  order  could  be  carried  into  effect 
and  the  proclamation  be  duly  made,  he 
excused  the  default  or  non-appearance 
of  his  clients  on  the  ground  of  the  length 
and  difficulty  of  the  journey,  and  the 
serious  perils  which  attended  it  owing 
to  the  unwearied  vigilance  of  their  mor- 
tal enemies,  the  cats,  who  watched  all 
their  movements,  and  with  fell  intent 
lay  in  wait  for  them  at  every  corner  and 
passage.  On  this  point  Chassenee  ad- 
dressed the  court  at  some  length,  and 
showed  that  if  a  person  be  cited  to  a 
place  to  which  he  cannot  come  with 
safety  he  may  exercise  the  right  of  ap- 


peal and  refuse  to  obey  the  writ,  even 
though  such  an  appeal  be  expressly  pre- 
cluded in  the  summons.  In  the  report 
of  the  trial  given  by  Berriat-Saiut-Prix, 
on  the  authority  of  the  celebrated  Presi- 
dent De  Thou,  the  sentence  pronounced 
by  the  official  is  not  recorded.  But 
whatever  the  result  may  have  been,  the 
ingenuity  and  acumen  with  which  Chas- 
senee conducted  the  defense,  the  legal 
learning  which  he  brought  to  bear  upon 
the  case,  and  the  eloquence  of  his  plea 
enlisted  the  public  interest,  and  estab- 
lished his  fame  as  a  criminal  lawyer  and 
a  forensic  orator. 

Chassenee  is  said  to  have  been  em- 
ployed in  several  cases  of  this  kind,  but 
no  records  of  them  seem  to  have  been 
preserved.  The  whole  subject,  how- 
ever, has  been  treated  by  him  in  a  book 
entitled  Consilium  primum,  quod  tracta- 
tus  jure  dici  potest,  propter  multiplicem 
et  reconditam  doctrinam,  ubi  luculenter 
et  accurate  tractatur  qua3stio  ilia:  De 
excommunicatione  animalium  insecto- 
rum.  This  treatise,  which  is  the  first  of 
sixty-nine  consilia,  embodying  opinions 
on  various  legal  questions  touching  the 
holding  and  transmission  of  property, 
loans,  contracts,  dowries,  wills,  and  kin- 
dred topics,  and  which  holds  a  peculiar 
place  in  the  history  of  jurisprudence, 
was  originally  published  in  1531,  and 
reprinted  in  1581,  and  again  in  1588. 
The  edition  referred  to  in  the  present 
paper  is  that  of  1581. 

This  curious  volume  originated,  as  it 
appears,  in  an  application  of  the  inhab- 
itants of  Beaune  to  the  ecclesiastical  tri- 
bunal of  Autun  for  a  decree  of  excom- 
munication against  certain  insects  called 
huberes  or  hurebers,  probably  a  kind  of 
locust  or  harvest-fly.  The  request  was 
granted,  and  the  noxious  creatures  were 
duly  accursed.  Chassene'e  now  raises 
the  query  whether  such  a  thing  may  be 


236 


Bugs  and  Beasts  before  the  Law. 


[August, 


rightfully  and  lawfully  done,  and  how 
it  should  be  effected.  "  The  principal 
question,"  he  says,  "  is  whether  one  can 
by  injunction  cause  such  insects  to  with- 
draw from  a  place  in  which  they  are 
doing  damage,  or  to  abstain  from  doing 
damage  under  pain  of  anathema  and 
perpetual  malediction.  And  although 
in  times  past  there  has  never  been  any 
doubt  of  this,  yet  I  have  thought  that 
the  subject  should,  be  examined,  lest  I 
should  seem  to  fall  into  the  vice  cen- 
sured by  Cicero  of  regarding  things 
which  we  do  not  know  as  if  they  were 
understood  by  us,  and  hence  rashly  giv- 
ing them  our  assent."  His  method  of 
investigation  is  not  that  of  a  philosophic 
thinker,  but  that  of  a  lawyer,  who  quotes 
precedents  and  appeals  to  authorities. 
He  scrupulously  avoids  all  psychological 
speculation  or  metaphysical  reasoning, 
and  simply  aims  to  show  that  animals 
have  been  tried,  convicted,  and  sentenced 
by  civil  and  ecclesiastical  courts,  and 
that  the  competence  of  these  tribunals 
has  been  generally  recognized. 

This  documentary  evidence  is  drawn 
from  a  great  variety  of  sources  :  the 
scriptures  of  the  Old  and  New  Testa- 
ment, pagan  poets  and  philosophers,  pa- 
tristic theologians  and  homilists  and  me- 
dieval hagiologists,  the  laws  of  Moses, 
the  prophecies  of  Daniel,  and  the  Insti- 
tutes of  Justinian  are  alike  laid  under 
contribution.  All  is  fish  that  comes  to 
his  net  out  of  the  deeps  of  his  erudition, 
be  it  salmon  or  sea-urchin.  He  weighs 
testimony  as  a  grocer  weighs  tea,  by  the 
pound  avoirdupois.  If  twelve  witnesses 
can  be  produced  in  favor  of  a  statement, 
and  only  ten  against  it,  his  reason  bows 
to  the  will  of  the  majority,  and  accepts 
the  proposition  as  proved.  It  must  be 
said,  however,  to  his  credit,  that  he  pro- 
ceeds in  this  matter  with  strict  and  im- 
partial rectitude,  and  never  tries  to  pack 
the  witness-box. 

The  examples  he  adduces  afford  strik- 
ing illustrations  of  the  gross  credulity  to 
which  the  strongly  conservative,  prece- 


dent-mongering  mind  of  the  jurisconsult 
is  apt  to  fall  an  easy  prey.  The  habit 
of  seeking  knowledge  and  guidance  ex- 
clusively in  the  records  and  traditions  of 
the  past,  in  the  so-called  "  wisdom  of 
ages,"  renders  him  peculiarly  liable  to 
regard  every  act  and  utterance  of  the 
past  as  wise  and  authoritative.  In  proof 
of  the  power  of  anathemas,  Chassenee 
refers  to  the  cursing  of  the  serpent  in  the 
Garden  of  Eden,  David's  malediction  of 
the  mountains  of  Gilboa,  and  the  with- 
ered fig-tree  of  Bethany.  The  words  of 
Jesus,  "  Every  tree  that  bringeth  not 
forth  good  fruit  is  hewn  down  and  cast 
into  the  fire,"  he  interprets  as  implying 
a  punishment  of  the  tree,  and  adds,  "  If, 
therefore,  it  is  permitted  to  destroy  an 
irrational  thing  because  it  does  not  pro- 
duce fruit,  much  more  is  it  permitted  to 
curse  it,  since  the  greater  penalty  in- 
cludes the  less." 

An  English  professor  of  divinity, 
Richard  Chenevix  Trench,  justifies  the 
withering  of  the  fruitless  fig-tree  on  the 
same  ground.  "  It  was  punished  not 
for  being  without  fruit,  but  for  proclaim- 
ing by  the  voice  of  those  leaves  that  it 
had  such ;  not  for  being  barren,  but 
for  being  false."  According  to  this  ex- 
egesis, it  was  the  telling  of  a  willful 
lie  that  "  drew  on  it  the  curse."  The 
guilty  fig  was  also  conscious  of  the  crime 
for  which  it  suffered :  "  almost  as  soon 
as  the  word  of  the  Lord  was  spoken,  a 
shuddering  fear  may  have  run  through 
all  the  leaves  of  the  tree  which  was 
thus  stricken  at  the  heart."  As  regards 
the  culpability  and  punishableness  of 
the  object,  the  modern  divine  and  the 
medieval  jurist  occupy  the  same  stand- 
point ;  only  the  latter,  with  a  stricter 
judicial  sense,  insists  that  there  shall  be 
no  infliction  of  punishment  until  the 
malefactor  has  been  convicted  by  due 
process  of  law,  and  that  he  shall  enjoy 
all  the  safeguards  which  legal  forms 

o  o 

and  technicalities  have  thrown  around 
him. 

Coming  down  to  more  recent  times, 


1884.] 


Bugs  and  Beasts  before  the  Law. 


23T 


Chassenee  mentions  several  instances  of 
the  effectiveness  of  anathemas.  Thus  a 
priest  excommunicated  an  orchard  be- 
cause its  fruits  tempted  the  children  and 
kept  them  away  from  mass.  The  or- 
chard remained  barren  until,  at  the  solic- 
itation of  the  Duchess  of  Burgundy,  the 
excommunication  was  removed.  In  like 
manner  the  Bishop  of  Lausanne  freed 
Lake  Leman  from  eels,  which  had  be- 
come so  numerous  as  seriously  to  inter- 
fere with  boating  and  bathing.  By  the 
same  agency  an  abbot  changed  the  sweet 
white  bread  of  a  Count  of  Toulouse, 
who  abetted  heresy,  into  black,  mouldy 
bread,  so  that  he  who  would  fain  feed 
souls  with  corrupt  spiritual  food  was 
forced  to  satisfy  his  bodily  hunger  with 
coarse  and  unsavory  provender.  Eg- 
bert, Bishop  of  Trier,  anathematized  the 
swallows  which  disturbed  the  devotions 
of  the  faithful  by  their  chirping  and 
chattering,  and  sacrilegiously  defiled  his 
vestments  whilst  officiating  at  the  altar. 
He  forbade  them  to  enter  the  sacred 
edifice  on  pain  of  death ;  and  it  is  still 
a  popular  superstition  at  Trier  that  if 
a  swallow  flies  into  the  cathedral  it  im- 
mediately falls  down  and  gives  up  the 
ghost.  It  is  also  related  of  St.  Bernard 
that  he  excommunicated  a  countless 
swarm  of  flies  which  annoyed  the  wor- 
shipers in  the  abbey  church  of  Foigny; 
and  lo,  on  the  morrow  they  were,  like 
Sennacherib's  host,  "  all  dead  corpses." 
The  rationalist,  whose  chill  and  ruthless 
breath  is  ever  blasting  the  tender  buds 
of  faith,  would  doubtless  suggest  that  a 
sharp  and  sudden  frost  may  have  helped 
the  malediction.  The  saint  resorted  to 
this  severe  and  summary  measure,  says 
the  monkish  chronicler,  because  "  no 
other  remedy  was  at  hand."  Perhaps 
this  may  refer  to  the  "  deacons  with  fly- 
flaps,"  who,  according  to  a  contemporary 
writer,  were  appointed  "  to  drive  away 
the  flies  when  the  Pope  celebrateth." 

In  his  First  Counsel  Chassenee  not 
only  treats  of  methods  of  procedure  and 
gives  useful  hints  to  the  pettifogger  in 


the  exercise  of  his  tricky  and  tortuous 
profession,  but  he  also  discusses  many 
legal  principles  touching  the  jurisdiction 
of  courts,  the  functions .  of  judges,  and 
other  characteristic  questions  of  civil, 
criminal,  and  canonical  law.  Animals, 
he  says,  should  be  tried  by  ecclesiasti- 
cal tribunals,  except  in  cases  where  the 
penalty  involves  the  shedding  of  blood. 
An  ecclesiastical  judge  is  not  compe- 
tent in  causa  sanguinis,  but  can  impose 
only  canonical  punishments.  This  is 
why  the  church  never  condemned  her- 
etics to  death,  but,  having  determined 
that  they  should  die,  gave  them  over 
to  the  secular  power  for  condemnation, 
usually  under  the  hollow  form  of  rec- 
ommending them  to  mercy.  Another 
point  which  strikes  us  very  comically, 
but  which  had  to  be  decided  before 
the  trial  could  proceed,  was  whether  the 
accused  were  to  be  regarded  as  laity  or 
as  clergy.  Chassenee  thinks  that  there 
is  no  need  of  testing  each  individual 
case,  but  that  animals  should  be  looked 
upon  as  lay  persons.  This,  he  declares, 
should  be  the  general  presumption  ;  but 
if  any  one  wishes  to  affirm  that  they 
have  ordinem  clericatus  and  are  entitled 
to  benefit  of  clergy,  the  burden  of  proof 
rests  upon  him,  and  he  is  bound  to  show 
it.  Possibly  our  jurisprudent  would 
have  made  an  exception  in  favor  of  the 
beetle,  which  entomologists  call  clerus  ; 
it  is  certain,  at  any  rate,  that  if  a  bug 
bearing  this  name  had  ever  been  brought 
to  trial,  the  learning  and  acuteness  dis- 
played in  arguing  the  point  would  have 
been  astounding.  We  laugh  at  the  sub- 
tilties  and  quiddities  of  mediaeval  theolo- 
gians, and  the  silly  questions  they  so  seri- 
ously discussed.  But  this  was  the  mental 
habit  of  the  age,  the  result  of  scholastic 
training  and  scholastic  methods,  which 
tainted  law  no  less  than  divinity. 

Sometimes  the  obnoxious  vermin  were 
generously  forewarned.  Thus  the  grand- 
vicars  of  Jean  Rohin,  Cardinal  Bishop  of 
Autun,  having  been  informed  that  slugs 
were  devastating  several  estates  in  his 


238  Bugs  and  Beasts  before  the  Law.  [August, 

diocese,  on  the  17th  of  August,  1487,  the  commune  of  Stelvio,  in  Western 
'Ordered  public  processions  to  be  made  Tyrol,  instituted  proceedings  against  the 
""for  three  clays  in  every  parish,  and  en-  moles  on  account  of  damage  done  to  the 
joined  upon  the  said  slugs  to  quit  the  fields  "  by  burrowing  and  throwing  up 
territory  within  this  period  under  pen-  the  earth,  so  that  neither  grass  nor  green 
alty  of  being  accursed.  On  the  8th  of  thing  could  grow."  But  "  in  order  that 
September,  1488,  a  similar  order  was  the  said  moles  may  be  able  to  show 
issued  at  Beaujeu.  The  curates  were  cause  for  their  conduct  by  pleading  their 
charged  to  make  processions  during  the  exigencies  and  distress,"  a  procurator, 
offices,  and  the  slugs  were  warned  three  Hans  Grinebner  by  name,  was  charged 
times  to  cease  from  vexing  the  people  with  their  defense,  "  to  the  end  that  they 
by  corroding  and  consuming  the  herbs  may  have  nothing  to  complain  of  in 
of  the  field  and  the  vines,  and  to  de-  these  proceedings."  Schwarz  Minig  was 
part ;  "  and  if  they  do  not  heed  this  our  the  prosecuting  attorney,  and  a  long  list 
command,  we  excommunicate  them  and  of  witnesses  is  given  who  testified  that 
smite  them  with  our  anathema."  In  the  injury  done  by  these  creatures  to 
1516,  the  official  of  Troyes  pronounced  the  crops  rendered  it  quite  impossible 
sentence  on  certain  insects  which  laid  for  tenants  to  pay  their  rents.  The 
waste  the  vines,  and  threatened  them  counsel  for  the  defendants  urged  the 
with  anathema  unless  they  should  dis-  many  benefits  conferred  by  his  clients 
appear  within  six  days.  Here  it  is  ex-  upon  the  community,  and  concluded  by 
pressly  stated  that  a  counselor  was  as-  expressing  the  hope  that,  if  they  should 
signed  to  the  accused,  and  a  prosecutor  be  sentenced  to  depart,  some  other  place 
was  heard  in  behalf  of  the  aggrieved  in-  of  abode  might  be  assigned  to  them, 
habitants.  As  a  means  of  rendering  suitable  for  their  sustenance  and  sup- 
the  anathema  more  effective,  the  people  port.  He  demanded,  furthermore,  that 
are  also  urged  to  be  prompt  and  honest  they  should  be  provided  with  a  safe 
in  the  payment  of  tithes.  Chassenee,  conduct  securing  them  against  harm  or 
too,  indorses  this  view,  and  in  proof  of  annoyance  from  dog,  cat,  or  other  foe. 
it  refers  to  Malachi,  where  God  promises  The  judge  recognized  the  reasonable- 
to  rebuke  the  devourer  for  man's  sake,  ness  of  this  request,  and  mitigated  the 
provided  all  the  tithes  are  brought  into  sentence  of  perpetual  banishment  by  or- 
the  storehouse.  dering  that  "a  free  safe  conduct  of  four- 
Felix  Malleolus,  in  his  Tractatus  de  teen  days  be  granted  to  each  of  them, 
Exorcismis,  states  that  in  the  fourteenth  and  an  additional  respite  of  fourteen 
century  the  peasants  in  the  electorate  days  be  allowed  to  those  which  are  with 
of  Mayence  brought  a  complaint  against  young." 

some  Spanish  flies,  which  were  accord-         A   Bernese   curate,    named    Schmid, 

ingly  cited  to  appear  ;  but  "  in  view  of  thus  solemnly  warned  and  threatened  a 

their  small  size  and  the  fact  that  they  kind  of   vermin    called   inger :    "  Thou 

had  not  yet  come    to  their  majority,"  irrational    and   imperfect   creature    the 

the  judge  appointed  for  them  a  curator,  inger,    of   which    there    were    none    in 

who    "  defended   them  with   great  dig-  Noah's  ark,  by  the  authority  of  my  gra- 

oity  ; '"  and  although  he  was  unable  to  cious  lord  the  Bishop  of  Lausanne,  in 

prevent  the  banishment  of  his  wards,  he  the  name  of  the  ever-lauded  and  most 

obtained  for  them  the  use  of  a  piece  of  blessed  Trinity,  through  the   merits  of 

land  to  which  they  were  permitted  peace-  our  Saviour  Jesus  Christ,  and  in  obedi- 

fully  to  retire.     How  they  were  induced  ence  to  the  Holy  Apostolic  Church,   I 

to  go  into  this  reservation  and  to  remain  command  you,  each   and  all,  to  depart, 

there  we  are  not  informed.     In  1519,  within  six  days,  from  all  places  in  which 


1884.] 


Bugs  and  Beasts  before  the  Law. 


food  for  man  springeth  up  and  grow- 
eth."  In  case  no  heed  was  given  to 
this  injunction,  the  aforesaid  inger  were 
summoned  to  appear  "  on  the  sixth  day 
after  midday,  at  one  o'clock,  before  his 
grace  the  Bishop  of  Losann  gen  Wivels- 
burg,"  and  there  to  answer  for  their 
conduct.  The  advocate  who  defended 
them  detected  a  technical  error  in  the 
proceedings,  which  made  it  necessary 
to  issue  a  second  summons,  wherein  the 
accused  are  denounced  as  "  ye  accursed 
uncleanness  of  the  inger,  which  shall 
not  even  be  called  animals."  Finally, 
the  inger  persisting  in  their  obduracy, 
"  Benedict  of  Montferrand,  Bishop  of 
Losan,  at  the  entreaty  of  the  high  and 
mighty  lords  of  Berne,"  laid  upon  them 
his  exterminatory  curse  and  ban,  "  that 
nothing  whatever  of  them  remain  save 
for  the  use  and  profit  of  man."  The 
Bernese  government  ordered  a  report 
to  be  made  of  the  results.  But  the  epis- 
copal anathema  appears  to  have  proved 
mere  brutum  fulmen  ;  nothing  more  was 
heard  of  it,  says  Schilling,  "  owing  to 
our  sins." 

In  Protestant  communities,  the  priest 
as  exorcist  has  been  superseded  mostly 
by  the  professional  conjurer,  who  in 
some  parts  of  Europe  is  still  employed 
to  save  the  crops  from  devastation.  A 
curious  case  of  this  kind  is  recorded  in 
Gorres  Hist.  Polit.  Blatter  for  1845. 
A  Protestant  gentleman  in  Westphalia, 
whose  garden  was  being  rapidly  con- 
sumed by  worms,  after  having  tried 
various  vermicidal  remedies,  resolved  to 
have  recourse  to  a  conjurer.  The  wizard 
came  and  walked  about  among  the  vege- 
tables, touching  them  with  a  wand  and 
muttering  enchantments.  Some  work- 
men, who  were  repairing  the  roof  of  a 
stable  near  by,  made  fun  of  this  hocus- 
pocus,  and  began  to  throw  pieces  of  lime 
at  the  conjurer.  He  requested  them  to 
desist,  and  finally  said  ;  "  If  you  do  not 
leave  me  in  peace  I  will  send  all  the 
worms  up  on  the  roof."  This  threat 
only  increased  the  hilarity  of  the  scoff- 


ers, who  continued  tolridj^La.and-dis-' 
turb  him  in  his  incan 
upon  he  went  to  the  nearel 
number  of  twigs,  each  about  a  finger  in 
length,  and  placed  them  against  the  wall 
of  the  stable.  Soon  the  vermin  left  the 
plants,  and  crawling  in  countless  num- 
bers over  the  twigs  and  up  the  wall 
took  complete  possession  of  the  roof.  In 
less  than  an  hour  the  men  were  obliged 
to  abandon  their  work,  and  stood  in 
the  court  below  covered  with  confusion 
arid  with  cabbage-worms.  The  writer 
who  relates  this  incident  believes  that 
it  actually  occurred,  and  ascribes  it  to 
"  the  force  of  human  faith,  the  mag- 
netic power  of  a  firm  will  over  nature." 
This,  too,  is  the  theory  held  by  Para- 
celsus, who  maintained  that  the  effec- 
tiveness of  a  curse  lay  in  the  energy  of 
the  will,  the  wish  being  thereby  trans- 
formed into  a  deed,  just  as  anger  directs 
the  arm  and  actualizes  itself  in  a  blow. 
By  "  fervent  desire "  merely,  without 
any  physical  effort  or  aggressive  act,  he 
thought  it  possible  to  wound  a  man's 
body,  or  to  pierce  it  through  as  with  a 
sword.  He  also  declared  that  brutes 
were  more  easily  exorcised  or  accursed 
than  men,  "  for  the  spirit  of  man  resists 
more  than  that  of  the  brute."  Similar 
notions  were  entertained  nearly  a  cen- 
tury later  by  Jacob  Boehme,  who  de- 
fines magic  as  "doing  in  the  spirit  of 
the  will  ; "  an  idea  which  finds  more  re- 
cent and  more  scientific  expression  in 
Schopenhauer's  doctrine  of  "  the  objec- 
tivation  of  the  will."  Indeed,  Schopen- 
hauer's postulation  of  the  will  as  the 
sole  energy  and  reality  in  the  universe 
is  only  the  philosophic  statement  of  an 
assumption  upon  which  magicians  and 
medicine-men,  enchanters,  exorcists,  and 
anathematizers  have  acted  more  or  less, 
in  all  ages. 

It  is  natural  that  a  religion  of  individ- 
ual initiative  and  personal  responsibility 
like  Protestantism  should  put  less  con- 
fidence in  theurgic  machinery  and  for- 
mularies of  execration  than  a  religion 


240 


Bugs  and  Beasts  before  the  Law. 


[August, 


like  Catholicism,  in  which  man's  spirit- 
ual concerns  are  intrusted  to  a  corpora- 
tion, to  be  managed  according  to  tradi- 
tional and  infallible  methods.  We  have 
an  illustration  of  this  'tendency  in  a  de- 
cree published  at  Dresden,  in  1559,  by 
"  Augustus,  Duke  of  Saxony  and  Elec- 
tor," wherein  he  commends  the  "  Chris- 
tian zeal"  of  the  "worthy  and  pious 
parson  Daniel  Greysser '  for  having 
*'  put  under  ban  the  sparrows,  on  account 
of  their  unceasing,  vexatious,  and  great 
clamor  and  scandalous  uuchastity  during 
the  sermon,  to  the  hindrance  of  God's 
word  and  of  Christian  devotion."  But 
the  Dresden  parson,  unlike  the  Bishop 
of  Trier,  did  not  expect  that  his  ban 
would  cause  the  offending  birds  to  avoid 
the  church  or  to  fall  dead  on  entering  it. 
He  relied  less  on  the  directly  coercive 
or  withering  action  of  the  curse  than  on 
the  human  agencies  which  he  might 
thereby  set  at  work  to  accomplish  his 
purpose.  He  put  them  out  of  the  pale 
of  public  sympathy  and  protection,  and 
gave  them  over  as  a  prey  to  the  spoiler. 
He  enjoined  upon  the  hunter  and  the 
fowler  to  lie  in  wait  for  them  with  guns 
and  with  snares  ;  and  the  elector  issued 
his  decree  in  order  to  enforce  this  duty 
as  imperative  on  all  good  Christians. 

Not  only  were  insects,  reptiles,  and 
small  mammals,  such  as  rats  and  mice, 
legally  prosecuted  and  formally  excom- 
municated, but  judicial  penalties,  includ- 
ing capital  punishment,  were  also  inflict- 
ed upon  the  larger  quadrupeds.  In  the 
Report  and  Researches  on  this  subject, 
published  by  Berriat-Saint-Prix  in  the 
Memoirs  of  the  Royal  Society  of  the 
Antiquaries  of  France,  numerous  ex- 
tracts from  the  original  records  of  such 
proceedings  are  given,  and  also  a  list  of 
the  animals  thus  tried  and  executed,  ex- 
tending from  the  beginning  of  the  twelfth 

1  In  the  summer  of  1796  a  murrain  broke  out 
at  Beutelsbach.  in  Wiirtemberg,  and  soon  carried 
off  many  bead  of  cattle.  By  the  advice  of  a 
French  veterinary  doctor  who  was  quartered  there, 
the  bull  of  the  borough  was  buried  alive  at  a  cross- 
road in  the  presence  of  several  hundred  persons. 


to  the  middle  of  the  eighteenth  century, 
The  culprits  are  a  miscellaneous  crew, 
consisting  chiefly  of  caterpillars,  flies, 
locusts,  leeches,  snails,  slugs,  worms, 
weevils,  rats,  mice,  moles,  turtle-doves, 
pigs,  bulls,  cows,  cocks,  dogs,  asses, 
mules,  mares,  and  goats.  Only  those 
cases  are  reported  in  which  the  accused 
were  found  guilty.  Three  belong  to  the 
twelfth  century,  four  to  the  fourteenth, 
twenty  to  the  fifteenth,  seventeen  to  the 
sixteenth,  thirty  -  seven  to  the  seven- 
teenth, and  one  to  the  eighteenth  cen- 
tury. It  would  be  incorrect  to  infer 
from  this  list  that  no  judicial  punish- 
ments of  animals  occurred  in  the  thir- 
teenth century,  or  that  the  seventeenth 
century  was  particularly  addicted  to  such 
practices.  During  some  periods  the  reg- 
isters of  the  courts  were  very  imperfect- 
ly kept,  and  in  many  instances  the  ar- 
chives were  entirely  destroyed. 

Beasts  were  often  condemned  to  be 
burned  alive  ;  and  strangely  enough,  it 
was  in  the  latter  half  of  the  seventeenth 
century,  an  age  of  comparative  enlight- 
enment, that  this  cruel  penalty  was  most 
frequently  inflicted.  Occasionally  a  mer- 
ciful judge  adhered  to  the  letter  of  the 
law  by  sentencing  the  culprit  to  be  slight- 
ty  singed,  and  then  to  be  strangled  before 
being  burned.  Sometimes  they  were 
condemned  to  be  buried  alive.1  Such 
was  the  fate  suffered  by  two  pigs,  in 
1456,  "  on  the  vigil  of  the  Holy  Virgin  " 
at  Oppenheim  on  the  Rhine,  for  killing 
a  child.  Animals  were  even  put  to  the 
rack  in  order  to  extort  confession.  It  is 
not  to  be  supposed  that  the  judge  had 
the  slightest  expectation  that  any  con- 
fession would  be  made ;  he  wished  sim- 
ply to  observe  all  forms  prescribed  by 
the  law,  and  to  set  in  motion  the  whole 
machinery  of  justice  before  pronouncing 
judgment.  "  The  question,"  which  in 

We  are  not  informed  whether  this  sacrifice  proved 
a  sufficiently  "powerful  medicine"  to  stay  the 
epizootic  disease;  the  noteworthy  fact  is  that  it 
was  prescribed,  not  by  an  African  fetich-priest,  but 
by  an  official  of  the  French  republic. 


1884.] 


Bugs  and  Beasts  before  the  Law. 


241 


such  cases  would  seem  to  be  only  a  wan- 
ton and  superfluous  act  of  cruelty,  was 
nevertheless  an  important  element  in  de- 
termining the  final  decision,  since  the 
death  sentence  could  be  commuted  into 
banishment  provided  the  criminal  had 
not  confessed  under  torture.  The  use 
of  the  rack  was  therefore  a  means  of 
escaping  the  gallows.  Appeals  were 
sometimes  made  to  higher  tribunals,  and 
the  judgments  of  the  lower  courts  an- 
nulled or  modified.  In  one  instance  a 
sow  and  a  she-ass  were  condemned  to 
be  hanged  ;  on  appeal  and  after  a  new 
trial  they  were  sentenced  to  be  simply 
knocked  on  the  head.  In  another  in- 
stance an  appeal  led  to  the  acquittal  of 
the  accused. 

In  1266,  at  Fontenay-aux- Roses,  near 
Paris,  a  pig  convicted  of  having  eaten 
a  child  was  publicly  burned  by  order  of 
the  monks  of  Sainte  Genevieve.  In 
1386,  the  tribunal  of  Falaise  sentenced 
a  sow  to  be  mangled  and  maimed  in  the 
head  and  leg,  and  then  to  be  hanged,  for 
having  torn  the  face  and  arm  of  a  child 
and  caused  its  death.  Here  we  have 

strict  application  of  the  lex  talionis. 
The  sow  was  dressed  in  man's  clothes 
and  executed  on  the  public  square,  near 
the  city  hall,  at  an  expense  to  the  state 
of  ten  sous  and  ten  deniers,  besides  a 
pair  of  gloves  to  the  hangman.  The 
executioner  was  provided  with  new 
gloves  in  order  that  he  might  come  from 
the  discharge  of  his  duty  with  clean 
hands,  thus  indicating  that,  as  a  minister 
of  justice,  he  incurred  no  guilt  in  shed- 
ding blood.  He  was  not  a  common 
butcher  of  swine,  but  a  public  function- 
ary, a  "  master  of  high  works  "  (maitre 
des  hautes-ceuvres),  as  he  was  officially 
styled.  In  1394,  a  pig  was  found  guilty 
of  "  having  killed  and  murdered  a  child 
in  the  parish  of  Roumaygne,  in  the 
county  of  Mortaing,  for  which  deed  the 
said  pig  was  condemned  to  be  drawn 
and  hanged  by  Jehan  Pettit,  lieutenant 
of  the  bailiff."  The  bill  presented  by 
the  deputy  bailiff  of  Mantes  and  Meul- 


lant,  and  dated  March  15,  1403,  con- 
tains the  following  items  of  expense  in- 
curred for  the  incarceration  and  execu- 
tion of  a  sow  :  — 

"Item,  cost  of  keeping  her  in  jail, 
six  sols  parisis. 

"  Item,  to  the  master  of  high  works, 
who  came  from  Paris  to  Meullant  to 
perform  the  said  execution  by  command 
and  authority  of  our  said  master,  the 
bailiff,  and  of  the  procurator  of  the  king, 
fifty-four  sols  parisis. 

"  Item,  for  a  carriage  to  take  her  to 
justice,  six  sols  parisis. 

"  Item,  for  cords  to  bind  and  hale 
her,  two  sols  eight  deniers  parisis. 

"  Item,  for  gloves,  two  deniers  pari- 
sis." 

This  account  was  examined  and  ap- 
proved by  the  auditor  of  the  court, 
De  Baudemont,  who  "in  confirmation 
thereof  affixed  to  it  the  seal  of  the  Cha- 
tellany  of  Meullant,  on  the  24th  day  of 
March  in  the  year  1403." 

There  is  also  extant  an  order  issued 
by  the  magistracy  of  Gisors  in  1405, 
commanding  payment  to  be  made  to  the 
carpenter  who  had  erected  the  scaffold 
on  which  an  ox  had  been  executed  "  for 
its  demerits."  Brute  and  human  crim- 
inals were  confined  in  the  same  prison 
and  subjected  to  the  same  treatment. 
Thus  "  Toustain  Pincheon,  keeper  of  the 
prisons  of  our  lord  the  king  in  the  town 
of  Pont  de  Larche,"  acknowledges  the 
receipt  of  "  nineteen  sous  six  deniers 
tournois  for  having  found  the  king's 
bread  for  the  prisoners  detained,  by 
reason  of  crime,  in  the  said  prison."  The 
jailer  gives  the  names  of  the  persons  in 
custody,  and  concludes  the  list  with  the 
"  item  "  of  "  one  pig,  kept  from  the  24th 
of  June,  1408,  inclusive,  till  the  17th  of 
July,"  when  it  was  executed  for  "  the 
crime  of  having  murdered  and  killed  a 
little  child."  For  the  pig's  board  he 
charges  two  deniers  tournois  a  day,  the 
same  as  for  boarding  a  man.  He  also 
puts  into  the  account  "ten  deniers  tour- 
nois for  a  rope,  found  and  delivered  for 


VOL.  LIV. — NO.  322. 


16 


242 


Bugs  and  Beasts  before  the  Law. 


[August, 


the  purpose  of  tying  the  said  pig  that  it 
might  not  escape." 

A  peculiar  custom  is  referred  to  in 
the  proces-verbal  of  the  prosecution  of 
an  infanticidal  porker,  dated  May  20, 
1572.  The  murder  was  committed  with- 
in the  jurisdiction  of  the  monastery  of 
Moyen  -  Montier,  where  the  case  was 
tried  and  the  accused  was  sentenced  to 
be  "  hanged  and  strangled  on  a  gibbet." 
The  prisoner  was  then  bound  with  a 
cord  and  conducted  to  a  cross  near  the 
cemetery,  where  it  was  formally  given 
over  to  an  executioner  from  Nancy. 
"  From  time  immemorial,"  we  are  told, 
"  the  justiciary  of  the  Lord  Abbot  of 
Moyen-Montier  has  been  accustomed  to 
consign  to  the  provost  of  Saint-Diez, 
near  this  cross,  condemned  criminals, 
wholly  naked,  that  they  may  be  ex- 
ecuted ;  but  inasmuch  as  this  pig  is  a 
brute  beast,  he  has  delivered  the  same 
bound  with  a  cord  without  prejudicing 
or  in  any  wise  impairing  the  right  of  the 
lord  abbot  to  deliver  condemned  crim- 
inals wholly  naked."  The  pig  must  not 
wear  a  rope,  unless  the  right  to  do  with- 
out it  be  expressly  reserved,  lest  some 
human  culprit,  under  similar  circum- 
stances, might  claim  to  be  entitled  to 
raiment. 

In  the  case  of  a  mule  condemned  to 
be  burned  alive  at  Montpellier,  in  1565, 
as  the  animal  was  vicious  and  kicky  the 
executioner  cut  off  its  feet  before  con- 
signing it  to  the  flames.  This  mutila- 
tion was  an  arbitrary  and  extra-judicial 
.act,  dictated  solely  by  considerations  of 
personal  convenience.  Hangmen  wero 
•  often  guilty  of  supererogatory  cruelty  in 
the  exercise  of  their  bloody  functions. 
Writers  on  criminal  jurisprudence  re- 
peatedly complain  of  this  evil  and  call 
for  reform.  Thus  Damhouder,  in  his 
Rerum  Criminalium  Praxis,  urges  mag- 
istrates to  be  more  careful  in  selecting 
persons  for  this  important  office,  and 
not  to  choose  notorious  violators  of  the 
.law  as  vindicators  of  justice.  Indeed, 
these  hardened  wretches  sometimes  took 


the  law  into  their  own  hands.  Thus  on 
the  9th  of  June,  1576,  at  Schweinfurt, 
in  Francoriia,  a  sow,  which  had  bitten 
off  the  ear  and  torn  the  hand  of  a  child, 
was  given  in  custody  to  the  hangman, 
who,  without  further  authority,  took  it 
to  the  gallows  green  and  there  "  hanged 
it  publicly,  to  the  disgrace  and  detriment 
of  the  city."  For  this  impudent  usur- 
pation of  judiciary  powers,  Jack  Ketch 
was  obliged  to  flee,  and  never  dared  re- 
turn. 

On  the  10th  of  January,  1457,  a  sow 
was  convicted  of  murder,  committed  on 
the  person  of  an  infant  named  Jehan 
Martin,  of  Savigny,  and  sentenced  to  be 
hanged.  Her  six  sucklings  were  also 
included  in  the  indictment  as  accom- 
plices ;  but  "  in  default  of  any  positive 
proof  that  they  had  assisted  in  man- 
gling the  deceased^  they  were  restored  to 
their  owner,  on  condition  that  he  should 
give  bail  for  their  appearance  should 
further  evidence  be  forthcoming  to  prove 
their  complicity  in  their  mother's  crime." 
About  a  month  later,  "on  the  Friday 
after  the  feast  of  the  Purification  of 
the  Virgin,"  the  sucklings  were  again 
brought  before  the  court ;  and  as  their 

owner,  Jehan  Baillv,  declined  to  be  an- 
j 

swerable  for  their  future  good  conduct, 
they  were  declared  forfeited  to  the  noble 
damsel  Katherine  de  Barnault,  Lady 
of  Savigny.  Sometimes  a  fine  was  im- 
posed upon  the  owner  of  the  offending 
beast,  as  was  the  case  with  Jehan  De- 
lalande  and  his  wife,  condemned  on 
the  18th  of  April,  1499,  by  the  abbey  of 
Josaphat,  near  Chartres,  to  pay  eighteen 
francs  "  on  account  of  the  murder  of  a 
child  named  Gillon,  aged  five  years  and 
a  half  or  thereabouts,  committed  by  a 
porker,  aged  three  months  or  there- 
abouts." The  porker  was  "  hanged  and 
executed  by  justice." 

Nothing  would  be  easier  than  to  mul- 
tiply examples  of  this  kind.  The  records 
of  mediaeval  courts  and  the  chronicles 
of  mediaeval  cloisters  are  full  of  them. 
That  such  cases  usually  came  under  the 


1884.] 


Bugs  and  Beasts  before  the  Law. 


243 


jurisdiction  of  monasteries  will  not  seem 
strange,  when  we  remember  that  these 
religious  establishments  were  great  land- 
holders, and  at  one  time  owned  nearly 
one  third  of  all  real  estate  in  France. 
The  frequency  with  which  pigs  were 
adjudged  to  death  was  owing  in  great 
measure  to  the  freedom  with  which 
they  were  permitted  to  run  about  the 
houses  as  well  as  to  their  immense  num- 
ber. They  became  a  serious  nuisance, 
not  only  as  endangering  the  lives  of 
children,  but  also  as  generating  and  dis- 
seminating diseases  ;  so  that  many  cities, 
like  Grenoble  in  the  sixteenth  century, 
authorized  the  carnifex  to  seize  and  slay 
them  whenever  found  at  large.  Sanitary 
measures  of  this  kind  were  not  common 
in  the  Middle  Ages,  but  were  an  out- 
growth of  the  Renaissance.  It  was  with 
the  revival  of  letters  that  men  began 
again  to  love  cleanliness  and  to  appreci- 
ate its  hygienic  value.  Little  heed  was 
paid  to  such  things  in  the  "  good  old 
times  "  of  earlier  date,  when  the  test  of 
holiness  was  the  number  of  years  a  per- 
son went  unwashed,  and  the  growth  of 
the  soul  in  sanctity  was  estimated  by 
the  layers  of  filth  on  the  body,  as  the 
age  of  the  earth  is  determined  by  the 
strata  which  compose  its  crust. 

But  although  pigs  appear  to  have 
been  the  principal  culprits,  other  quad- 
rupeds were  frequently  called  to  an- 
swer for  their  crimes.  The  judiciary 
of  the  Cistercian  abbey  of  Beaupre,  in 
1499,  sent  a  bull  to  the  gallows  for  hav- 
ing u  killed  with  furiosity  a  lad  of  four- 
teen or  fifteen  years  of  age  ; "'  and  in 
1389  the  Carthusians  at  Dijon  caused  a 
horse  to  be  condemned  to  death  for  hom- 
icide. The  magistrates  of  Bale,  in  1474, 
sentenced  a  cock  to  be  burned  at  the 
.stake  for  the  heinous  and  unnatural 
crime  of  laying  an  egg.  The  ceuf  co- 
quatri  was  supposed  to  be  the  product 
of  a  very  old  cock  and  to  furnish  the 
most  active  and  effective  ingredient  of 
witch  ointment.  When  hatched  by  a 
serpent  or  by  the  sun,  it  brought  forth  a 


cockatrice,  which  would  hide  in  the  roof 
of  a  house,  and,  with  its  baneful  breath 
and  "  death-darting  eye,"  destroy  all 
the  inmates.  Naturalists  believed  in 
this  fable  as  late  as  the  eighteenth  cen- 
tury ;  and  in  1710  the  French  savant 
Lapeyronie  read  a  paper  before  the 
Academic  des  Sciences  to  prove  that  the 
eggs  attributed  to  cocks  owe  their  pe- 
culiar form  to  a  disease  of  the  hen. 

Animals,  also,  bore  their  full  part  of 
persecution  during  the  witchcraft  delu- 
sion. Pigs  suffered  most  in  this  respect, 
and  were  assumed  to  be  peculiarly  at- 
tractive to  devils,  and  therefore  particu- 
larly liable  to  diabolical  possession,  as 
is  evident  from  the  legion  that  went  out 
of  the  tomb-haunting  man  and  were  per- 
mitted, at  their  own  request,  to  enter 
into  the  Gadarene  herd  of  swine.  In- 
deed, the  greatest  theological  authority 
of  the  Middle  Ages,  Thomas  Aquinas, 
maintained  that  beasts  are  but  embodi- 
ments of  evil  spirits.  Chassenee  quotes 
this  opinion,  and  adds  that  in  excom- 
municating animals  the  anathema  "  is 
aimed  iufereutially  at  the  devil,  who  uses 
irrational  creatures  to  our  detriment." 
Still  more  recently,  a  French  Jesuit, 
P£re  Bougeant,  set  forth  the  same  view 
in  a  philosophical  treatise. 

It  was  during  the  latter  half  of  the 
seventeenth  century,  when,  as  we  have 
seen,  criminal  prosecutions  of  animals 
were  especially  frequent  and  the  pen- 
alties inflicted  extremely  cruel,  that  Ra- 
cine caricatured  them  in  Les  Plaideurs, 
where  a  dog  is  tried  for  stealing,  and 
eating  a  capon.  Daudin  solemnly  takes 
his  seat  as  judge,  and  declares  his  deter- 
mination to  "  close  his  eyes  to  bribes  and 
his  ears  to  brigue."  Petit  Jean  prose- 
cutes the  case,  and  L'Intirne  appears  for 
the  defense.  Both  address  the  court 
in  high-flown  rhetoric,  and  display  rare 
erudition  in  quoting  authorities.  The 
accused  is  condemned  to  the  galleys. 
Thereupon  the  counsel  for  the  defendant 
brings  in  the  puppies,  pauvres  enfants 
qu'on  veut  rendre  orphelins,  and  appeals 


244 


Bugs  and  Beasts  before  the  Law. 


[August, 


to  the  compassion  and  clemency  of  the 
judge.  Daudin's  feelings  are  touched  ; 
as  a  public  officer,  too,  he  is  moved  by 
the  economical  consideration  that,  if  the 
children  are  deprived  of  their  father, 
they  must  be  kept  in  the  foundling  hos- 
pital at  the  expense  of  the  state.  To 
the  contemporaries  of  Racine  a  scene 
like  this  had  a  significance  which  we 
fail  to  appreciate.  To  us  it  is  simply 
farcical  and  not  very  funny ;  to  them 
it  was  a  mirror  reflecting  a  character- 
istic feature  of  the  time  and  ridiculing  a 
grave  judiciary  abuse,  as  Cervantes  had 
already  represented  in  Don  Quixote  the 
reductio  ad  absurdum  of  chivalry. 

Lex  talionis  is  the  oldest  kind  of  law 
and  the  most  deeply  rooted  in  human 
nature.     To  the  primitive  man  and  the 
savage,  tit  for  tat  is  an  ethical  axiom. 
No    principle   is   held   more   firmly  or 
acted  upon  more  universally  than  that 
of  literal  equivalents,  —  the  iron  rule  of 
doing   unto    others    the    wrongs    which 
others   have   done   unto  you.     Hebrew 
legislation  demanded  "  life  for  life,  eye 
for  eye,  tooth  for  tooth,  hand  for  hand, 
foot  for  foot,  burning  for  burning,  wound 
for  wound,  stripe  for   stripe."     In  the 
covenant  with  Noah  it  was  declared  that 
human    blood  should   be    required  "  at 
the  hand  of  man  "  and  "  at  the  hand  of 
every  beast ; '"  and  it  was  subsequently 
enacted  that  "  if  an  ox  gore  a  man  or  a 
woman  that  they  die,  then  the  ox  shall 
be  surely  stoned,  and  his  flesh  shall  not 
be  eaten."    To  eat  a  creature  which  had 
become  the  peer  of  man  in  blood-guilt- 
iness and  in  judicial  punishment  would 
savor  of   anthropophagy.     The  Kur'an 
holds  every  beast  and  fowl  accountable 
!  for  the  injuries  done  to  each  other,  but 
•  reserves  their  punishment  for  the  life  to 
come.    Among  the  Kukis,  if  a  man  falls 
from  a  tree  and  is  killed,  it  is  the  sacred 
duty  of  the  next  of  kin  to  fell  the  tree, 
and  cut  it  up  and  scatter  the  chips  abroad. 
The  blood  of  the  slain  was  not  thought 
to  be  thoroughly  avenged  until  the  of- 
fending object  had  been   effaced  from 


the  earth.  A  survival  of  this  notion  was 
the  custom  of  burning  heretics  and  fling- 
ing their  ashes  to  the  four  winds.  The 
laws  of  Drakon  and  Erechtheus  required 
weapons  and  all  other  objects  by  which 
a  person  had  lost  his  life  to  be  pub- 
licly condemned  and  thrown  beyond  the 
Athenian  boundaries.  This  was  the  sen- 
tence pronounced  upon  a  sword  which 
had  killed  a  priest,  the  wielder  of  the 
same  being  unknown  ;  and  also  upon 
the  bust  of  the  poet  Theognis,  which 
had  fallen  on  a  man  and  caused  his 
death.  Even  in  cases  which  might  be 
regarded  as  homicide  in  self-defense  no 
such  ground  of  exculpation,  was  admit- 
ted. Thus  the  statue  which  the  Athe- 
nians erected  in  honor  of  the  famous 
athlete,  Nikon  of  Thasos,  was  assailed 
by  his  envious  foes  and  pushed  from  its 
pedestal.  In  falling  it  crushed  one  of 
its  assailants  ;  it  was  brought  before  the 
proper  court,  and  sentenced  to  be  cast 
into  the  sea. 

In  the  Avesta,  a  mad  dog  is  not  per- 
mitted to  plead  insanity,  but  is  "pun- 
ished with  the  punishment  of  a  conscious 
offense,"  by  progressive  mutilation,  be- 
ginning with  the  ears  and  ending  with  the 
tail.  This  cruel  and  absurd  enactment 
is  wholly  inconsistent  with  the  kindly 
spirit  shown  in  the  Avesta  towards  all 
animals  recognized  as  creatures  of  Ahu- 
ramazda,  and  especially  with  the  legal 
protection  vouchsafed  to  dogs.  Indeed, 
a  paragraph  in  the  same  chapter  com- 
mands the  Mazdayasnians,  as  regards 
such  a  dog,  to  "  wait  upon  him  and  try 
to  heal  him,  just  as  they  would  attend  a 
righteous  man." 

A  curious  example  of  imputed  crime 
and  its  penal  consequences  is  seen  in 
the  custom  of  the  Romans  of  celebrat- 
ing the  anniversary  of  the  preservation 
of  the  Capitol  from  the  Gauls,  not  only 
by  paying  honor  to  geese,  whose  cack- 
ling gave  warning  of  the  enemy's  ap- 
proach, but  also  by  crucifying  a  dog, 
as  a  punishment  for  not  having  been 
more  watchful  on  that  occasion.  This, 


1884.] 


Bugs  and  Beasts  before  the  Law. 


245 


however,  was  really  no  more  absurd  than 
to  visit  the  sins  of  the  fathers  on  the 
children,  as  prescribed  by  many  ancient 
law-givers,  or  to  decree  corruption  of 
blood  in  persons  attainted  of  treason, 
as  in  modern  legislation.  They  are  all 
applications  of  the  barbarous  principle 
which,  in  primitive  society,  made  the 
tribe  responsible  for  the  acts  of  each 
of  its  members.  According  to  an  Anglo- 
Saxon  law,  abolished  by  King  Knut,  in 
case  stolen  property  was  found  in  the 
house  of  a  thief,  his  wife  and  family, 
even  to  the  child  in  the  cradle,  though 
it  had  never  taken  food,  were  punished 
as  partakers  of  his  guilt.  Cicero  ap- 
proved of  such  penalties  for  political 
crimes  as  "  severe  but  wise  enactments, 
since  the  father  is  thereby  bound  to  the 
interests  of  the  state  by  the  strongest  of 
ties,  namely,  love  for  his  children." 
When  the  prefects  Tatian  and  Proculus 
fell  into  disgrace,  Lycia,  their  native 
land,  was  stricken  from  the  list  of  Ro- 
man provinces,  and  its  inhabitants  were 
disfranchised  and  declared  incapable  of 
holding  any  office  under  the  imperial 
government.  So,  too,  when  Joshua  dis- 
covered some  of  the  spoils  hidden  in  the 
tent  of  Achan,  not  only  the  thief  him- 
self, but  also  "  his .  sons,  arid  his  daugh- 
ters, and  his  oxen,  and  his  asses,  and  his 
tent,  and  all  that  he  had,"  were  brought 
into  the  valley  of  Achor,  and  there 
stoned  with  stones  and  burned  with  fire. 
At  a  later  period  these  holocausts  of 
justice  were  suppressed  among  the  Jews, 
and  no  man  was  put  to  death  save  for 
his  own  sin.  Yet,  at  the  request  of  the 
Gibeonites,  whom  it  was  desirable  to 
conciliate,  David  did  not  scruple  to  de- 
liver up  to  them  seven  of  Saul's  sons,  to 
be  hanged  for  the  evil  which  their  fa- 
ther had  done  in  slaying  these  foes  of 
Israel.  It  is  as  if  Bismarck  had  sought 
the  favor  of  the  French  by  giving  into 
their  hands  the  descendants  of  Bliicher, 
to  be  guillotined  on  the  Place  de  la 
Concorde. 

The    horrible   mutilations    to   which 


criminals  were  formerly  subjected  re- 
sulted from  an  endeavor  to  administer 
strictly  even-handed  justice.  What 
could  be  fairer  than  to  punish  perjury 
by  cutting  off  the  two  fingers  which  the 
perjurer  had  held  up  in  taking  the  oath  ? 
It  was  the  popular  belief  that  the  fin- 
gers of  an  undetected  perjurer  would 
grow  out  of  the  grave,  seeking  retrib- 
utive amputation,  as  a  plant  seeks  the 
light,  and  that  his  ghost  would  never  rest 
until  this  penalty  was  inflicted.  The 
Carolina,  or  criminal  code  of  Charles 
the  Fifth,  required  that  incendiaries 
should  be  burned  alive  ;  and  an  old  law, 
cited  by  Doppler  In  his  Theatrum  Prena- 
rum,  condemned  a  man  who  dug  up 
and  removed  a  boundary-stone  to  be 
buried  in  the  earth  up  to  the  neck,  and 
to  have  his  head  plowed  off  with  a  new 
plow.  Ivan  Basilowitch,  a  Muscovite 
prince,  ordered  that  an  ambassador  who 
did  not  uncover  in  his  presence  should 
have  his  hat  nailed  to  his  head  ;  and  it 
is  a  feeble  survival  of  the  same  concep- 
tion of  fit  punishment  that  makes  the 
American  farmer  nail  the  hawk  to  his 
barn  door. 

That  the  feeling  in  which  such  enact- 
ments originated  still  lies  scarcely  skin- 
deep  under  our  civilization  is  evident 
from  the  force  and  suddenness  with 
which  it  comes  to  the  surface  under 
strong  public  excitement,  as  when  Cin- 
cinnati rioters  burned  the  court-house, 
because  they  were  dissatisfied  with  the 
verdicts  of  the  juries. 

The  childish  disposition  to  punish 
irrational  creatures  and  inanimate  ob- 
jects, which  is  common  to  the  infancy  of 
individuals  and  of  races,  has  left  a  dis- 
tinct trace  of  itself  in  that  peculiar  in- 
stitution of  English  law  known  as  deo- 
dand,  and  derived  partly  from  early 
Jewish  and  partly  from  old  German 
usages  and  traditions.  "If  a  horse," 
says  Blackstone,  "  or  any  other  animal, 
of  his  own  motion  kill  as  well  an  infant 
as  an  adult,  or  if  a  cart  run  over  him, 
they  shall  in  either  case  be  forfeited  as 


246 


Bugs  and  Beasts  before  the  Law. 


[August, 


deodands."  If  a  man,  in  driving  a  cart, 
tumbles  to  the  ground  and  loses  his  life 
by  the  wheel  passing  over  him,  if  a  tree 
falls  on  a  man  and  causes  his  death,  or 
if  a  horse  kicks  his  keeper  and  kills  him, 
then  the  wheel,  the  tree,  and  the  horse 
are  deodands  pro  rege,  and  are  to  be 
sold  for  the  benefit  of  the  poor. 

Blackstone's  theories  of  the  origin  of 
deodands  are  exceedingly  vague  and  un- 
satisfactory. His  statement  that  they 
were  intended  to  punish  the  owner  of 
the  forfeited  property  for  his  negligence, 
and  also  his  assertion  that  they  were 
"  designed,  in  the  blind  days  of  popery, 
as  an  expiation  for  the  souls  of  such  as 
were  snatched  away  by  sudden  death," 
are  both  incorrect.  In  most  cases  the 
owner  was  perfectly  innocent,  and  very 
frequently  was  the  victim  of  the  acci- 
dent. He  suffered  only  incidentally 
from  a  penalty  imposed  for  a  wholly 
different  purpose,  just  as  a  slaveholder 
endures  loss  when  his  human  chattel  com- 
mits murder  and  is  hanged  for  it.  The 
primal  object  was  to  atone  for  the  tak- 
ing of  life  in  accordance  with  certain 
crude  conceptions  of  retribution.  In 
hierarchies  the  prominent  idea  was  to 
appease  the  wrath  of  God,  who  other- 
wise might  visit  mankind  with  famine 
and  pestilence  and  divers  retaliatory 
scourges.  For  this  reason  the  property 
of  a  suicide  was  deodand.  Thus  the 
wife  and  children  of  the  deceased,  the 
very  persons  who  had  already  suffered 
most  from  his  fatal  act,  were  punished 
for  it  by  being  robbed  of  their  rightful 
inheritance.  Yet  this  was  by  no  means 
the  intention  of  the  law-makers.  An- 
cient legislators  uniformly  considered  a 
felo  de  se  as  a  criminal  against  society 
and  the  state,  a  kind  of  traitor.  The 
man  had  enjoyed  the  support  and  pro- 


tection of  the  civil  and  political  body 
during  his  infancy  and  youth,  and,  by 
taking  his  own  life,  he  shook  off  the  re- 
sponsibilities and  shirked  the  duties  de- 
volving upon  him  as  a  member  of  the 
commonwealth.  This  is  why  self-mur- 
der was  called  felony,  and  involved  for- 
feiture of  goods.  Calchas  would  not 
permit  the  body  of  Ajax,  who  died  by 
his  own  hand,  to  be  burned.  The  Athe- 
nians cut  off  the  hand  of  a  suicide  and 
buried  the  guilty  instrument  of  his  death 
apart  from  the  rest  of  his  body.  In 
some  communities  all  persons  over  sixty 
years  of  age  were  free  to  kill  themselves, 
if  they  wished  to  do  so ;  and  the  magis- 
trates of  Marseilles,  in  ancient  times, 
kept  on  hand  a  supply  of  poisons  to  be 
given  to  any  citizen  who,  on  due  ex- 
amination, was  found  to  have  good  and 
sufficient  reasons  for  committing  suicide. 

It  is  true,  as  Blackstone  asserts,  that 
the  church  claimed  deodands  as  her  due, 
and  put  the  price  of  them  into  her  cof- 
fers. But  this  fact  does  not  explain 
their  origin.  They  were  an  expression 
of  the  same  feeling  that  led  the  public 
authorities  to  fill  up  a  well  in  which  a 
person  had  been  drowned,  not  as  a  pre- 
cautionary measure,  but  as  a  solemn  act 
o'f  expiation ;  or  that  condemned  and 
confiscated  a  ship  which,  by  lurching, 
had  thrown  a  man  overboard  and  caused 
his  death. 

Deodands  were  not  abolished  in  Eng- 
land until  the  reign  of  Queen  Victoria. 
With  the  exception  of  some  vestiges  of 
primitive  legislation  still  lingering  in 
maritime  law,  they  are,  in  modern  codes, 
one  of  the  latest  applications  of  a  penal 
principle  which  in  Athens  expatriated 
stocks  and  stones,  and  in  mediaeval  Eu- 
rope excommunicated  bugs  and  sent 
beasts  to  the  stake  and  to  the  gallows. 

E.  P.  Evans. 


1884.] 


An  Old  New  England  Divine. 


247 


AN   OLD   NEW   ENGLAND   DIVINE. 


EZRA  STILES,  the  friend  of  Jefferson 
and  Franklin,  was  one  of  the  literary 
men  of  the  Revolutionary  period,  who, 
debarred  by  the  duties  of  his  position 
from  any  active  participation  in  the  tu- 
mult, distress,  and  victory  of  those  days, 
sat  at  his  desk  and  jotted  down,  in  forty 
volumes  of  manuscripts,  his  reflections 
on  men  and  events,  his  economies  and 
harmless  vanities,  his  religious  doubts 
and  fears. 

I  remember  the  awe  with  which,  in 
my  childhood,  two  large  green  wooden 
chests  we,re  invested,  lest  the  pious  writ- 
ten exhortations  contained  therein  should 
take  bodily  shape  and  frighten  us  into 
eternal  silence,  overcome  by  a  sense  of 
our  hereditary  and  present  guilt.  Once 
there  came  a  stern  old  Calvinist,  who 
talked  of  sin  and  waylaid  a  timid  child 
in  a  corner  of  the  parlor  where  she  had 
taken  refuge.  He  extended  his  long, 
bony  arms  as  prohibition  against  her 
escape,  and,  in  sepulchral  tones,  ex- 
claimed, "  Thoughtless  child,  do  you  love 
God?"  "Oh,  the  chest!  the  chest!" 
she  screamed,  and  rushed  past  him  up  to 
the  attic,  and  there  paused,  half  expect- 
ing to  see  the  lid  of  the  coffer  open,  and 
the  manuscripts,  arrayed  in  flesh,  come 
forth  for  the  Judgment  Day. 

Years  afterward  Yale  College  became 
the  depositary  of  thousands  of  those 
portentous  closely  inscribed  pages.  It 
already  held  President  Stiles's  Literary 
Diary,  a  curious,  valuable  medley  of 
notes  on  incidents  that  occurred  within 
his  lifetime,  written  in  a  crabbed  hand 
which  American  annalists  still  gladly  de- 
cipher. The  Diary,  however,  does  not 
give  such  a  picture  of  the  daily  thought 
of  the  man  as  can  be  obtained  from  the 
more  personal  papers  which  were  re- 
tained in  another  ancestral  chest.  These 
show  a  life  of  minute  literary  activ- 
ity ;  a  man  of  strength  and  versatility, 


candid  and  independent  in  action  and 
thought,  condescending  in  manner,  ludi- 
crously punctilious  in  details  ;  a  patriot 
in  sentiment,  a  fond  father  and  husband, 
and  a  just,  liberal,  and  reverent  teacher. 

His  father,  Isaac  Stiles,  born  in  Hart- 
ford in  1697,  is  frankly  described  by  his 
son  as  having  had  "  a  piercing  black  Eye, 
which  at  Times  he  filled  with  Flame  and 
Vengeance.  On  occasion  none  could  be 
more  cheerful  and  merry  in  company, 
but  when  alone  with  his  Family  he  was 
gloomy  and  perpetually  repining.  He 
read  much,  but  digested  almost  nothing, 
and  his  Ideas,  rich  and  valuable,  were 
classed  in  no  order,  owing  to  his  volatil- 
ity of  Genius.  His  preaching  varied, 
though  none  could  give  a  more  animated 
description  of  Heaven  and  Hell." 

In  1740  Mr.  Whitefield  "  opened 
the  Deluge  of  New  Lightism  on  the 
churches."  Isaac  was  an  Old  Light, 
and  a  violent  opposer  of  the  new  doc- 
trine, yet  some  twenty  persons  in  his 
own  parish  were  caught  in  the  new  her- 
esy. "In  the  summer  of  1741,"  writes 
Ezra,  "  the  New  Lighters  visited  my 
Father  incessantly,  and  he  conversed 
with  them  from  Breakfast  till  12  o'clock 
at  night ;  that  is,  when  one  company 
was  gone  away,  another  came.  Some- 
times he  reasoned  with  them  coolly,  but 
generally  with  heated  zeal,  for  he  was 
not  calculated  to  convince  Gainsayers 
with  Gentleness.  For  four  or  five  years 
he  preached  boldly  against  the  White- 
fieldian  Excesses  and  the  madness  of 
Exhorters  and  Separate  meetings,  and 
though  intemperately  warm  and  zealous,  • 
yet  he  herein  signally  served  the  Camp 
of  Christ."  As  these  troubles  closed, 
there  came  the  days  of  Arminian  diffi- 
culties. Isaac  and  his  son  Ezra  freely 
read  what  were  called  the  Arminian 
books,  and,  "  in  a  general  way,  were 
much  pleased  with  them,"  though  Ezra 


248                               An  Old  New  England  Divine.  [August, 

was  confident,  from  his  intimate  person-  a  profession.     Religious  doubts  assailed 

al  acquaintance  with   the  leaders,  that  him,  and   though    "early   prepossessed 

"  many  of  them  believed  in  the  Univer-  against  diaries    as    hypocritical,"   it    is 

sal  Depravity  of  Human  Nature."  Even  from  his  Birthday  Reflections  that  we 

then  ministers   apparently  held    to  the  gather  much  knowledge  of  his  state  of 

wisdom  of  the  non-utterance  of  all  they  mind. 

thought.     Isaac  was  called  an  Arminian,  At  the  age  of  forty  he  thus  reviews 

though,  says  his  son,  "  he  lived  and  died  his  life  :  "  From  the  time  I  was  seven 

a  firm  believer  even  beyond  what  most  years  old  I  have  generally  maintained 

of  the  Orthodox  pretend  to.   The  change  daily  secret  prayer  to  the  Most  High 

of  his  Reputation  was  really  due  to  the  God,  A.  M.,  P.  M.,  besides  ejaculatory  in- 

Hocus  pocus   of   political   New  Light-  tervening  addresses.    The  burden  of  my 

ism.     The  depreciation  of  paper  money  prayers  has  consisted  of  Adoration  of 

and  Scantiness  of  Salary  was  truly  the  his  glorious  Majesty.     If  predestined  to 

Source  of  the  only  difference  of  any  con-  misery,  that  misery  would  be  less   the 

sequence  between  my  Father  and  his  less  I  sinned  ;  so  I  vigorously  resolved  to 

people  during  his  whole  ministry."  refrain  from  sin,  if  not  to  obtain  heaven, 

Ezra's  mother  was  Ruth  Wyllys,  of  at  least  to  mitigate  the  torments  of  dam- 
Hartford,  who  was  not  lacking  in  those  nation.  I  have  earnestly  sought  to  ob- 
social  graCes  and  that  noble  bearing  for  tain  a  clear  belief  of  the  Being  and  At- 
which  her  ancestors  and  descendants  tributes  of  God.  A  slight  conversation 
even  to  the  present  generation  are  noted,  with  a  young  gentleman  caused  me  to 
In  a  vellum-covered  book  belonging  to  doubt  whether  the  whole  of  the  Scrip- 
his  grandfather,  which  contains  Isaac's  tures  were  not  a  delusion,  nor  could  1 
and  Ezra's  quaint  estimates  of  their  unbosom  myself  to  any  for  relief.  I  had 
family  relations,  the  latter  describes  his  begun  to  preach  1749,  and,  my  doubts 
mother  as  "  ingenious  to  a  great  degree  increasing  till  52,  I  determined  to  lay 
in  Needlework  and  several  other  things  aside  preaching,  and  actually  adopted 
of  a  mechanik  Nature,  in  painting  and  the  study  of  the  law,  and  took  the  atty's 
cutting  Flowers  and  Escutcheons  on  oath  in  53.  At  the  same  Time  I  most 
Paper.  •  She  had  an  insinuating  social  as'siduously  applied  myself  to  the  study 
and  affable  Turn  to  make  herself  agree-  of  the  Evidences  of  Revelation  till  I 
able  to  rich  and  poor,  and  was  exem-  became  satisfied  that  the  Scriptures  were 
plarily  religious,  sincere,  devout,  and  genuine.  In  52  I  sustained  a  vigourous 
pious."  application  to  take  Episcopal  orders,  with 

The  boy  who  thus  writes  of  his  moth-  views  held  up  to  me  of  one  day  becom- 

er  from   hearsay,   for  she  died    at   his  ing  a  bishop  myself,  but  I  knew  Dioc- 

birth,  was  prepared  to  enter  college  at  esan  Episcopacy  was  not  instituted  by 

twelve,  but,  on  account  of  his  age,  wait-  Christ  and  his  disciples.    I  journeyed  to 

ed  till  he  was  fourteen.     He  graduated  New  York,  Boston,  and  Philadelphia  to 

with  honor,  and  delivered  the  "  cliosoph-  see  different  churches,  and  at  last  be- 

ic "   oration,  a  collegiate   term  for  the  came  happily  established  in  the  Religion 

Address  on  Arts  and  Sciences.     He  be-  in  which  I  propose,  by  the  Grace  of  God, 

came  a  tutor  at  Yale  ;  and,  in  connec-  to  live  and  die.   During  the  Rise,  Height, 

tion  with  some  of  his  friends,  and  with  and  Decline  of  my  Scepticism  I  was  so 

the  aid  of    an  apparatus    sent  by  Dr.  highly  delighted  with  Pope's  Essay  on 

Franklin,  he  performed  some  of  the  first  Man    that  I   got  the  first  Epistle  and 

electrical  experiments  ever  made  in  New  large  parts  of  the  other  Epistles  by  heart, 

England.     He   long   wavered   between  and  repeated  portions  of   it  frequently 

the  bar  and  the  pulpit,  in  his  choice  of  by  myself  in  my  chamber,  and  when  I 


1884.] 


An   Old  New  England  Divine. 


249 


walked  and  rode  abroad.  I  read  and 
admired  Cicero's  works,  Young's  Night 
Thoughts,  which  I  read  through  twice, 
Shaftesbury's  Characteristics,  Butler's 
Analogy,  Bolingbroke,  Hume,  Newton, 
&c."  His  skepticism  was  manly  and  in- 
telligent, and  closely  resembled  the  hon- 
est hesitation  of  many  in  our  own  day, 
who  are  not  perplexed  by  the  doctrines 
of  the  damned,  but  by  far  greater  and 
more  sweeping  doubts. 

In  1775  he  was  ordained  a  minister 
at  Newport,  his  father  Isaac  preaching 
the  sermon,  with  something  of  David's 
joyful  emotion  at  the  coronation  of  his 
son  Solomon.  He  speaks  of  him  as 
"  the  Person  whose  solemn  separation  to 
the  service  of  the  Sanctuary  is  now  be- 
fore us  ;  "  bids  him  "  hold  Bigotry  in  ab- 
horrence and  behave  respectfully  toward 
the  several  Denominations  of  professing 
Christians  who  don't  happen  to  view 
things  in  just  the  same  Light  that  we 
do,  for  Bigotry  is  the  Poison  and  Bane 
of  social  Virtue."  He  tells  the  church 
to  be  friendly  to  his  son,  "  for  the  Work, 
take  it  in  all  the  Compass,  more  than 
any  other  Kind  of  Labor  tends  to  ex- 
haust the  radical  Moisture,  waste  and 
drink  up  the  animal  Spirits,  dry  the 
Bones,  Consume  the  Flesh  and  Body, 
break  the  vital  Cord,  and  deprive  Men 
of  the  Residue  of  their  Years.  Prop- 
erly support  him,  for  Ministers  cannot 
live  upon  the  air  nor  command  that 
Stones  be  made  Bread  for  the  Work." 

Ezra  Stiles  married  Elizabeth,  daugh- 
ter of  Colonel  John  Hubbard,  who  made 
it  her  life-work  to  relieve  her  husband 
of  domestic  care.  Mr.  Stiles,  in  return, 
dutifully  informed  his  father-in-law  of 
all  the  various  births  and  sicknesses  in 
the  family  ;  but  what  modern  wife  would 
allow  her  husband  to  write  thus  to  an 
aged  parent :  — 

NEWPORT,  May  31,  1773. 

HONOURED  SIR,  —  This  acknowl- 
edges your  kind  Letter  to  my  Wife.  It 
was  very  agreeable  to  find  under  the  De- 
cay of  Nature  such  a  specimen  of  the 


Continuance  and  Strength  of  your  Men- 
tal Powers,  and  that  you  enjoy  the  Com- 
forts of  Religion  amidst  your  Infirmities 
of  the  Outward  Tabernacle.  We  all 
unite  in  our  Duty  to  you  and  to  Mother. 
Yr  dutiful  son,  EZRA  STILES. 

He  closes  another  letter  with  the 
words,  "  Melancholy  news  from  Boston, 
some  of  the  fruits  of  Military  govern- 
ment. A  general  civil  war  will  take 
place  in  the  colonies  before  two  genera- 
tions are  passed." 

When  his  wife  died,  he  wrote  of  her 
that  "  she  was  an  Honour  to  her  Sex,  and 
it  will  be  an  honour  to  posterity  to  have 
descended  from  a  Woman  of  such  Merit 
and  Excellence." 

His  "  Way  of  Life  "  at  Newport  was 
very  orderly.  The  day  began  and  closed 
with  family  and  secret  prayers  and  Bible 
reading  in  Greek  or  Hebrew.  Then  he 
walked  abroad  and  visited  his  flock  be- 
fore and  after  dinner,  and  in  the  inter- 
vals studied  and  wrote  innumerable  Latin 
letters  and  diaries.  Nothing  more  plain- 
ly shows  his  valuation  of  a  godly  life 
than  his  words  in  a  letter  to  a  friend  on 
receiving  the  degree  of  D.  D.  from  the 
University  at  Edinburgh  :  "  What  is  the 
honor  of  being  registered  in  those  ar- 
chives to  that  of  having  our  names  writ- 
ten in  the  Lamb's  Book  of  Life  ?  " 

When  forty-two  years  old  he  reflects  : 
"  I  have  made  little  progress  in  the 
flivine  life,  though  I  have  endeavored 
daily  to  surrender  myself  up  to  God, 
but  an  annihilation  of  myself  and  entire 
submission  to  the  infinitely  holy  will  of 
God  is  not  [yet]  thoroughly  effected. 
The  most  of  last  winter  I  spent  in  com- 
piling the  Ecclesiastical  History  of  New 
England  and  English  America.  The 
Summer  and  Fall  have  been  perhaps  too 
much  consumed  in  making  observations 
upon  the  Transits  of  Venus  and  Mer- 
cury and  the  Comet  and  numerous  math- 
ematical calculations  upon  them.  God 
has  mercifully  spared  to  me  my  wife. 
May  she  be  long  continued  a  Blessing 


250 


An  Old  New  England  Divine. 


[August, 


to  me  and  my  Family.  I  have  all  along 
continued  to  read  a  chapter  in  course  in 
the  Hebrew  Bible.  For  my  amusement 
I  have  translated  into  English  from  the 
original  Arabic.  I  have  altered  my  sen- 
timents as  to  the  Time  when  to  begin 
the  2300  Evenings  and  Mornings  and  the 
1290  Days  in  Daniel." 

"JEtat  45.  My  whole  life  is  filled 
up  with  the  experience  of  the  Divine 
Care  and  Beneficence.  My  children 
were  taken  with  the  Measles  and  carried 
happily  through  them.  In  August  it 
pleased  God  to  send  the  small-pox  into 
town,  but  it  has  pleased  Him  to  preserve 
me  and  my  family  hitherto." 

Bitter  days  of  heresy  arid  revolution 
came  to  trouble  him,  and  the  record 
runs : — 

"  ^Etat  46.  A  Year  of  singular  Trials. 
Last  spring  I  became  acquainted  with 
a  Rabbi  and  gained  much  Knowledge. 
I  wrote  him  several  letters  in  Hebrew, 
one  of  22  pages  on  the  Divinity  of  the 
Messiah.  Being  absent  on  a  journey, 
a  London  silk  weaver  preached  in  my 
pulpit  to  great  amazing  acceptance.  On 
my  return  I  found  his  character  doubt- 
ful, and  greatly  discountenanced  him. 
He  holds  universal  salvation  ;  as  a  faith- 
ful Shepherd  I  have  opposed  him  open- 
ly. I  expected  to  have  disgusted  most 
of  my  families,  but  perhaps  a  dozen  are 
irreconcilably  offended.  I  had-ithought 
when  I  entered  the  Ministry  that  a  Min- 
ister with  prudence  and  condescension 
could  secure  the  affections  of  his  people, 
but  I  am  convinced  that  God  has  holy 
Ends  in  view  in  letting  loose  the  Ad- 
versary. I  cannot  recollect  any  material 
imprudence  in  my  own  conduct ;  nor  was 
it  charged  upon  me.  It  is  a  dark  day 
with  me.  I  commit  myself  and  my  flock 
to  God,  and  desire  to  walk  humbly,  yet 
testify  the  truth  undauntedly." 

The  next  year  he  writes,  "  The  State 
of  my  Flock  is  more  composed  and  com- 
fortable, though  it  has  not  quite  recov- 
ered from  the  shock  it  received.  My 
son  Ezra  is  now  15|.  I  have  initiated 


him  into  some  acquaintance  with  the 
Oriental  languages.  He  has  translated 
100  psalms  in  the  Hebrew  psalter  and 
learned  some  Chaldee,  Syriac.  and  Ara- 
bic. By  reading  myself  the  Targums 
of  Orikelos  and  Jonathan  and  in  the 
Syriac  N.  T.  and  in  the  Zohar  I  have 
gained  great  Lights  in  Divinity." 

When  the  evacuation  of  Newport 
took  place  he  stayed  in  town,  and  with 
his  "orphan  family  spent  a  dreary  Win- 
ter amidst  Poverty  and  Distress."  Find- 
ing the  Parliament  resolved  to  prose- 
cute the  war,  he  removed  to  Dighton 
in  March.  From  that  place  he  went  to 
Portsmouth  as  minister,  and  there  in 
1777  received  his  call  to  the  presidency 
of  Yale  College.  He  replied  that  a 
general  free  acquiescence  with  other 
openings  of  Providence  would  have 
great  weight  in  determining  his  accept- 
ance. He  employed  every  precaution 
to  find  out  what  the  public  and  Provi- 
dence thought ;  he  asked  counsel  of  the 
ministers  of  his  association,  of  judicious 
and  Christian  friends,  and  of  God,  —  feel- 
ing for  his  own  part  that  as  he  had  "  a 
whole  eternity  in  which  to  rest,  why 
should  he  not  now  gird  up  his  loins  and 
assume  the  laborious  office  ?  "  He  spent 
days  in  fasting  and  prayer,  but  finally 
he  writes,  "  I  am  convinced  that  another 
door  of  usefulness  has  been  opened  to 
me.  Providence  has  so  ordered  things 
that  I  scarcely  have  an  option  as  to  sec- 
ular Motives."  He  goes  to  New  Haven, 
believing  that  his  "  election  is  agree- 
able to  the  Ministry,  the  General  As- 
sembly, the  State,  and  to  God,  and  deep- 
ly impressed  with  the  responsibility  of 
taking  charge  of  a  college  which  was 
primarily  designed  as  a  school  of  the 
prophets  to  train  up  pastors  for  the 
churches  ;  "  for  as  he  had  become  "  less 
a  Newtonian  and  more  a  Christian," 
preaching  was'  to  him  a  serious  duty. 
As  a  pastor  he  had  "  always  disliked 
public  censures,  and  thought  most  mat- 
ters could  be  settled  in  a  private  way 
without  hazarding  brotherly  love." 


1884.] 


An  Old  New  England  Divine. 


251 


His  Reflections  tell  us  that  such  was 
the  liberality  of  his  Portsmouth  con- 
gregation that  they  more  than  paid  all 
his  debts ;  and  he  adds,  "  I  was  enabled 
to  relieve  the  uneasiness  of  my  con- 
science by  the  Liberation  and  Manumis- 
sion of  my  Negro  Servant.  Like  Ones- 
irnus,  by  the  grace  of  God  I  had  made 
him  a  Christian.  He  was  the  best  of 
Servants.  It  was  only  my  conviction 
of  the  Injustice  and  Barbarity  of  the 
African  Slave  trade  in  which  I  had  im- 
ported him  from  Guinea,  in  1757,  in  ex- 
change for  a  hogshead  of  whiskey,  that 
determined  my  conduct."  In  spite  of 
the  negro's  liberation,  he  followed  Mr. 
Stiles  of  his  own  choice,  and  died  in 
the  service  of  the  family. 

At  Yale,  President  Stiles  was  received 
with  "  Demonstrations  of  Honour  and 
Affection."  His  first  official  act  on  ar- 
riving, June  20th,  was  the  offering  of 
evening  prayers  in  the  chapel,  when  the 
students  were  ordered  to  submit  to  him. 
On  the  following  Saturday  he  began  an 
exposition  of  the  Savoy  Confession  of 
Faith,  which  practice  he  maintained  till 
his  death.  On  July  8th  he  was  formal- 
ly inducted  into  office,  amid  many  Lat- 
in orations  and  addresses.  The  Savoy 
Confession  never  prevented  him  from 
employing  scientific  rather  than  relig- 
ious knowledge  as  a  quietus  to  fear ;  for 
if  a  thunderstorm  arose  during  class 
recitations,  it  gave  opportunity  for  an 
explanation  of  the  theory  of  electricity. 
The  famous  Dark  Day  he  viewed  as  a 
phenomenon,  u  accounting  for  it  by  the 
laws  of  nature  without  having  recourse 
to  anything  miraculous  or  ominous,  and 
improving  the  occasion  as  a  Christian 
by  leading  the  thoughts  of  others  up  to 
the  Author  of  Nature."  His  natural  love 
for  science  had  been  increased  by  his 
intercourse  with  the  French  officers  at 
Newport,  who  had  also  developed  his 
inclination  for  good  dinners. 

His  life  at  Yale  was  crowded  with 
work.  Besides  filling  the  office  of  pres- 
ident, he  occupied  the  chairs  of  divinity, 


ecclesiastical  history,  philosophy,  and  as- 
tronomy. Twice  a  week  he  had  a  class 
in  extemporaneous  and  forensic  disputa- 
tion, gave  three  theological  discourses  on 
Saturdays,  and  taught  the  Seniors  met- 
aphysics, ethics,  history,  and  civil  policy. 
He  would  never  receive  a  direct  or  in- 
direct gift  from  the  students,  and  if 
gratuities  were  sent  by  the  parents  he 
credited  them  with  it  in  the  quarter's 
bills.  He  helped  the  poor  collegians, 
—  always  giving  away  a  tenth  of  his 
income,  —  visited  them  when  sick,  and 
was  particularly  successful  in  bringing 
together  different  temperaments.  One 
year  some  thirty  or  forty  scholars,  liv- 
ing in  town,  held  morning  and  afternoon 
prayers  by  themselves,  which  the  pres- 
ident often  encouraged  by  his  presence. 
The  college  church  grew  in  membership, 
and  when  eighteen  members  of  other 
classes  joined  the  Seniors  as  professing 
Christians  there  was  holy  joy  over  the 
wonderful  work  of  grace. 

At  the  age  of  fifty-seven  he  learnt 
French,  because  it  might  be  of  value  to 
hina  in  connection  with  Yale  ;  and  for 
family  reasons  he  began  the  culture  of 
the  silkworm.  Mindful  of  heavenly  af- 
fairs also,  when  he  wrote  to  Dr.  Frank- 
lin for  his  portrait  for  the  university 
he  requested  him  "  to  state  his  opinion 
concerning  Jesus  of  Nazareth." 

Let  his  Birthday  Reflections  again  tell 
his  own  story  :  — 

"  JEtat  51.  God  was  pleased  to  car- 
ry me  and  all  my  family  successfully 
through  inoculation  for  the  small- pox  ; 
a  mercy  which  will  ever  demand  a  grate- 
ful remembrance  and  indelible  grati- 
tude." 

His  fifty-third  birthday  fell  on  Sun- 
day. He  says,  "It  being  Lord's  Day, 
and  the  service  of  the  college  chapel 
devolving  upon  me,  I  have  no  leisure 
for  the  reflections  proper  at  this  time. 
The  college  has  been  studious,  orderly, 
and  also  religious.  In  the  important  and 
momentous  conflict  for  public  Liberty, 
our  Bow  has  abode  in  strength  the  year 


252 


An  Old  New  England  Divine. 


[August, 


past,  by  the  strength  of  the  hands  of  the 
Mighty  God  of  Jacob.  .  .  . 

"1781.  We  had  a  public  and  splen- 
did Commencement  in  September,  al- 
tho'  with  fear  and  trembling,  as  the 
English  had  lately  burned  New  London 
and  threatened  us  ;  there  hath  been  no 
public  Commencement  since  74.  We 
have  had  no  tumults  in  the  college.  I 
take  great  pains  to  look  carefully  into 
the  interior  state  of  the  college  and  to 
converse  with  the  students,  seorsum 
(apart),  both  scientifically  and  religious- 
ly. I  am  principally  concerned  lest  I 
should  instil  some  errors  into  the  nu- 
merous youth,  for  we  have  224  under- 
graduates. 

"  .ZEtat  57.  I  have  been  very  happy 
in  college  affairs,  and  the  University  has 
been  nearly  in  as  good  an  Estate  as 
to  Literature,  Religion,  Peace,  and  good 
Order  as  could  be  reasonably  expected. 

"  JEtat  58.  My  moral  state  much  as 
for  several  years  past,  great  mixtures  of 
sin  and  imperfection  with  some  enjoy- 
ment of  God.  I  have  been  very  happy 
in  college  affairs.  My  whole  life  is  such 
an  incessant  labour  that  I  have  scarcely 
time  to  be  religious.  I  hope  I  have  not 
disobliged  an  extensive  and  numerous 
acquaintance." 

His  self-restraint  in  speaking  of  his 
own  griefs  and  joys  is  noticeable  :  his 
eldest  son  dies,  and  he  feels  a  "  most 
pungent  and  tender  distress  in  this 
event."  Kezia  dies,  and  he  says,  "  I  was 
renewedly  called  to  mourning.  Old  Age 
is  now  come  upon  me.  I  enter  on  my 
60th  year." 

When  sixty-three  he  married  his 
daughter  Polly  to  the  Rev.  Abiel 
Holmes,  and  "parted  with  them  both 
for  the  distant  and  dangerous  climate  of 
Georgia."  This  son-in-law,  the  father 
of  Dr.  O.  W.  Holmes,  wrote  a  dignified 
biography  of  Dr.  Stiles,  and  appended 
to  it  a  full  account  of  the  origin  and 

o 

growth  of  Yale. 

The  last  birthday  words  are  of  the 
beloved  college,  concerning  which  only 


once  had  Dr.  Stiles  been  obliged  to  re- 
cord that  he  had  had  "  any  severity  of 
discipline  to  administer  which  gave  him 
sensible  distress." 

"  ^Etat  64.  God  has  enabled  me  to 
purchase  a  house  to  leave  to  a  bereaved 
Family  when  God  shall  take  me  to 
Himself.  All  my  children  about  me  at 
my  Table  in  Health.  The  General  As- 
sembly added  Lieutenant  Governor  and 
six  Senior  Assistants  to  the  Corporation 
of  Yale  College,  with  a  donation  of 
about  $30,000,  appropriating  £2500  for 
building  a  new  college,  the  rest  to  lie 
for  funds  for  Instructors.  This  will 
make  my  Presidency  less  burdensome 
and  more  comfortable.  I  have  had  15 
years  of  great  Difficulty  and  weighty 
cares." 

He  worked  for  five  more  years,  and 
then,  after  an  illness  of  a  few  days  and 
"a  passing  dread  of  appearing  before 
Infinite  Purity,"  he  bade  good-by  to 
his  friends,  and  sent  the  college  his 
prayers  for  its  happiness  and  success 
under  a  better  president  than  he  be- 
lieved himself  to  have  been. 

President  Stiles's  last  years  had  been 
as  busy  as  his  earlier  ones.  He  had  as- 
sisted in  forming  an  antislavery  society, 
and  with  fourteen  others  had  signed  its 
constitution,  and  he  had  published  his 
history  of  the  Three  Judges  of  Charles 
I.,  who  had  fled  to  America.  He  was 
always  indignant  that  the  Episcopal 
minister  annually  preached  in  commem- 
oration of  the  martyrdom  of  Charles  I. 
"  If  observed  at  all,"  he  said,  "  it  ought 
to  be  celebrated  as  an  anniversary 
thanksgiving  that  one  nation  on  earth 
had  so  much  fortitude  and  public  justice 
as  to  make  a  royal  tyrant  bow  to  the 
sovereignty  of  the  people."  He  wrote 
most  stately  letters  of  inquiry  to  Sir 
William  Jones  about  the  Jewish  colony 
at  Cochin  China,  and  a  letter  of  seventy 
pages  quarto  to  the  Asiatic  Society  at 
Calcutta ;  hoping  thereby  "  to  recover 
the  original  principles  of  first -derived 
knowledge."  The  chronology  of  the 


1884.]                         An  Old  New  England  Divine.  253 

Pentateuch,  information  about  the  ten  ular   persons    and   churches    and   some 

tribes,  whom   he  believed  still  existed,  clusters  of  churches  eminent  for  piety 

and  the  discovery  of   the  original  He-  as  well  as  soundness  in  the  faith.    With 

brew  copy  of  the  Bible  were  subjects  of  all    these   my  soul   unites   and   harmo- 

constant  anxiety  to  him.     Though  nat-  nizes." 

urally  delicate  in  health,  he  indulged  in  Combined  with  all  these  great  quali- 
"  antelucane  studies,"  and,  with  paper  ties  of  mind  there  was  a  curious  vanity, 
and  pencil  always  in  his  pocket,  noted  which  showed  itself  in  the  minute  direc- 
down  points  of  observation  and  knowl-  tions  that  he  gave  for  his  portrait.  He 
ed^e.  is  represented  in  a  teaching  attitude, 
His  industry  was  truly  amazing.  His  one  hand  on  his  breast,  the  other  hold- 
Literary  Diary  of  conversation  or  read-  ing  a  Bible.  Behind  him  are  conspic- 
ing  comprises  fifteen  quarto  volumes,  uous  certain  learned  books  ;  around  him 
each  volume  consisting  of  over  three  are  various  emblems,  among  others  that 
hundred  pages.  When  Franklin  gave  of  the  intellectual  world.  In  a  central 
him  Fahrenheit's  thermometer,  he  made  glory  are  the  letters  JPIVH,  surround- 
observations  with  it  from  1763  till  with-  ed  with  three  white  spots,  also  represents 
in  two  days  of  his  death,  which  are  con-  ing  worlds.  The  three  ascending  hair 
tained  in  six  quarto  volumes.  At  forty  lines  refer  to  the  Trinity.  The  motto 
years  of  age  he  began  to  learn  Hebrew  is,  All  Happy  in  God ;  "  for  as  there  are 
and  Syriac,  and  in  one  year  translated  only  two  worlds  known  to  have  re- 
the  Psalms,  Genesis,  and  Exodus,  read  volted,  they  count  as  infinitesimal  corn- 
considerable  Arabic,  and  dipped  into  the  pared  with  other  dominions."  Such  em- 
Persic,  Coptic,  and  other  Oriental  Ian-  blems,  he  judged,  would  serve  as  descrip- 
guages.  He  was  eager  to  obtain  a  map  tive  of  his  mind,  even  if  the  portrait  did 
of  the  Russian  empire,  published  at  St.  not  correspond  with  his  face. 
Petersburg,  showing  the  junction  of  the  Most  quaintly  does  this  vanity  appear 
two  continents,  —  a  wonderful  fact  to  in  his  Family  Constitutions.  Years  after 
him,  if  true.  He  wrote  a  Latin  letter  to  he  abandons  them,  and  writes  on  the  last 
the  Jesuit  college  in  Mexico  and  to  the  sheet,  "  All  this  is  vanity ;  I  intend  to 
Greek  bishop  in  Syria,  asking  about  the  destroy  most  of  these  papers  when  I  have 
Samaritan  Pentateuch.  These  inquiries  reviewed  them.  All  I  would  for  my  pos- 
in  no  way  affected  his  zeal  as  a  Congre-  terity  of  a  secular  nature  is  that  they 
gationalist  (the  title  of  Dissenter  he  keep  a  Family  Register  of  Births,  Mar- 
refused,  for  he  was  "  under  no  obliga-  riages,  and  Deaths  for  an  example  of  the 
tion  to  return  to  the  mother  English  Diffusion  of  Blood  and  Growth  of  the 
church,  though  in  South  Britain  he  Family.  To  all  whom  I  recommend  the 
would  have  gloried  in  the  name  ")  ;  nor  Christian  religion  according  to  the  Con- 
did  they  lessen  his  foresight,  as  when,  gregational  Way.  Aug.-  29,  1772.  Ezra 
after  the  capture  of  Montreal,  he  wrote,  Stiles." 

"  It  is  probable  that  in  time  there  will  Yet  so  fully,  at  one  time,  did  he  be- 

be  formed  a  Provincial  Confederacy  and  lieve  in  his  plan  that  he  made  a  feoff- 

a  Common  Council  standing  on  free  pro-  ment  of  about  forty  acres  to  his  "  son 

vincial  suffrage,  and  this  may  in  time  ter-  Ezra  and  his  heirs  for  the  fulfillment 

inmate  in  an  imperial  diet,  when  the  im-  of  this  purpose."     He  wished  "  to  unite 

perial  dominion  will  subsist  as  it  ought  and  cement  his  offspring  by  transfusing 

in  Election."     Under  all  his  sturdiness  to  distant  generations  certain  common 

shines  his  liberality.  "  Thanks  to  God,"  and  influential  principles,  that  it  may 

he  says,  "  in  every  denomination  in  the  increase   in   number   and    grow   up   to 

church  universal  I  can  read  of  partic-  distinguished  private,  social,  and  public 


254                              An  Old  New  England  Divine.  [August, 

virtue."     The  income  of  the  estate  left  keep  domestic  accounts  ;  but  always  be 

for  this  purpose  is  to  be  devoted  to  the  Friends   and    Encouragers   of  the  Sci- 

purchase  of  family  medals  with  appro-  ences  and  the  College.     As  a  Family, 

priate  devices  ;  also  to  the  maintenance  avoid  politics.     Never  solicit   lucrative 

of  family  records  and  to  the  benefit  of  offices  at  the   price    of  embroiling   the 

the   poor  of   the   family,  and  of   those  family.     Let  landed  estate  be  sufficient 

who  have  read  the  Bible  or  made  scien-  for  Subsistence  and  depend  not  on  offices 

tific  discoveries.     During  his  wife's  life-  for  a  living ;  then  if  called  to  office  un- 

time,  she  is  to  be  president ;  after  that,  solicited,  Providence  bids  you  act. 

the  eldest  male  or  female.     At  the  reg-  "  Seek  very  little  acquaintance  ;  there 

ular  meetings  every  four  years,  the  Fam-  are   but  few  of   mankind  worth   being 

ily  shall  walk  to  church  on  Sunday  in  acquainted  with.     One  of  the  greatest 

procession.      All    those    connected   by  Inconveniences     accompanying     public 

marriage  shall  vote  at  these  times,  except  acts  of   Beneficence  is  being  too  much 

those  born  of  Indians  or  negroes,  who  known. 

may  not  even  be  enrolled,  though  ille-  "  Let  the  Family  marry  young,  both 
gitimate  white  children  shall  rank  as  for  securing  their  chastity  and  accelerat- 
voters.  In  a  special  book  is  to  be  en-  ing  Increase.  Never  adopt  the  polite 
tered  "a  true  but  short  record  of  any  principle  of  tarrying  till  you  can  main- 
singularly  wicked  conduct  of  the  off-  tain  a  Family  in  Splendor,  but  foresee 
spring,  such  as  murder,  treason,  theft,  that  you  can  live  by  your  Occupation, 
ill-treatment  of  wives.  Swearers  are  to  then  marry.  And  in  marriage  consult 
be  entered  as  such."  Every  one  on  mar-  the  Emendation  of  the  Species.  Choose 
rying  shall  be  furnished  with  a  copy  of  more  than  §  of  the  Marriages  out  of  the 
all  these  ancestral  institutions.  Dates  Family,  and  choose  of  a  large,  healthy, 
shall  be  registered  as  "  in  such  a  year  and  robust  Breed  both  for  Husbands  and 
J.  C.  or  Familia  Condita,  or  in  such  a  Wives.  Avoid  Families  noted  for  their 
year  of  1,  2,  &c.  Stylesian  Olympiad."  love  of  Drink.  ...  If  I  should  have  ten 
He  desires  it  to  be  a  custom  among  children,  J  of  them  should  marry  and 
the  family,  that  a  member  on  marrying  become  parents,  and  at  a  medium  each 
should  plant  half  an  acre  of  black  mul-  of  the  Family,  who  should  have  children, 
berry-trees  for  each  child  as  it  is  born,  should  bring  up  5  at  a  medium  for  mar- 
He  thus  continues  :  "  If  any  Issue  should  riage  and  maturity,  and  as  the  sexes  are 
be  brought  up  in  Politeness  it  may  not  nearly  equal,  there  would  be  by  the  10th 
be  beneath  them  to  retire  into  the  Coun-  generation  18,000,000  souls  ;  and  as 
try  and  have  a  genteel  and  comfortable  New  England  will  never  exceed  20,000,- 
subsistence  with  but  little  labor,  for  one  000  of  people  my  descendants  will  be 
man  can  tend  worms  eno'  in  6  weeks  to  connected  by  blood  with  almost  all  N.  E. 
gain  £200.  Avoid  riches.  In  general  Ultimately  when  J.  C.  descends  from 
I  would  recommend  for  the  family  heaven,  I  hope  he  will  find  the  Family 
Farming  and  the  Employments  of  the  prepared  for  some  distinguished  Notice 
rural  Life.  Delight  not  to  reside  in  and  Felicity,  from  himself,  Jesus,  if  they 
populous  towns  and  debauched  cities,  have  been  a  Means  of  preparing  others 
where  there  is  danger  of  degenerating,  for  his  grand  appearance." 
or  at  least  of  the  Diminution  of  the  In-  All  this  planning,  which  it  must  be 
crease  of  Species.  Let  all  the  Family  remembered  he  later  condemned,  seems 
be  well  taught  in  reading  English  and  hardly  compatible  with  his  sturdy  main- 
in  the  necessary  rudiments  of  arithmetic  tenance  of  Congregationalism.  As  he 
—  and  perhaps  a  little  mathematics,  was  its  eager  champion  he  consequently 
eno'  to  know  the  contents  of  Land  and  had  his  enemies,  and  mentions  the  frus- 


1884.] 


An  Old  New  England  Divine. 


255 


tration  of  their  malicious  designs  as  an 
illustration  of  a  kindly  interposing  Provi- 
dence. "  My  sermon  on  the  Christian 
Union  disobliged  them  by  showing  their 
numbers  in  N.  E.  a  trifle  compared  with 
the  Dissenters,  and  they  ascribed  to  me 
all  the  violence  committed  here  Aug., 

o  > 

1765,  in  which  I  had  not  the  least  part, 
and  sent  to  London  an  accusation  and 
capital  charge  against  me ;  but  a  merci- 
ful God  by  the  repeal  of  the  Stamp  Act 
brought  about  the  deliverance  of  me 
and  my  country."  The  sermon  referred 
to  is  one  of  an  hundred  and  twenty-eight 
pages,  forty  of  which,  fortunately  for  his 
hearers,  were  not  delivered  in  preaching. 

Turning  from  this  earnest  defense  of 
Congregationalism,  we  see  another  cu- 
rious side  of  the  president's  character 
in  his  bold  play  with  logic.  He  seems 
to  have  amused  himself  with  formulat- 
ing propositions  "  which  ought  never  to 
be  made  by  Man,  although  provable 
by  Reasoning  to  strict  demonstration." 
Some  of  them  are  as  follows  :  — 

"  God  is  the  intentional  efficient  Au- 
thor of  Sin. 

"  Sin  is  Good.  Vice  is  Virtue.  Moral 
Evil  is  a  Holy  Good. 

"  It  is  the  duty  of  the  Damned  to  re- 
joice in  their  own  Damnation. 

"  It  is  of  the  Essence  of  Holiness  and 
true  Submission  to  God  to  be  willing  to 
be  damned. 

"  Regeneration  may  as  well  be  effected 
when  you  are  asleep  as  awake. 

"  Self,  the  highest  Principle  proved 
by  Christian  Rule,  do  to  others  as  ye 
would  have  them  do  to  vou. 

• 

"Positions  now  given  up,  1741  :  — 

"  The  Bible  to  an  unconverted  Man 
is  no  better  than  an  old  Almanack. 

"  The  Generality  of  the  Ministers  in 
N.  E.  unconverted." 

Quite  as  amusing  and  instructive  as 
these  records  are  the  items  of  daily  ex- 
penditure. These  were  kept  in  uncov- 
ered paper  books,  three  inches  wide  by 
five  long,  and  run  somewhat  as  follows : 
"To  Lemons,  charity,  9  gold  buttons, 


my  leather  breeches  ;  To  keeping  Cousin 
Peggy  one  week,  Shaving,  Postage  of 
letters,  1  Gal.  Wine ;  Hhd.  rum  for 
Guinea  (in  exchange  for  slave)  ;  To 
ticket  in  Phil.  Lottery,  3d  class  2170. 
Sold  \  above  ticket,  \\  Ib.  figs,  Pair 
of  furred  Pumps,  Scarf,  Gloves,  Ring. 
1759,  Nov.  4.  Bought  for  Father  Negro 
Boy  Slave,  Prince,  aged  14  or  15,  price 
90  dollars,  paid."  Among  other  items  is 
the  "  wedding  fee  from  Mr.  Holmes, 
£8."  Presents  from  the  ladies  include 
"  1  quire  paper,  Lambskin  Jacket,  3 
bottles  Matheglin,  4  Bands,"  etc. 

One  memorandum  book  is  devoted  to 
receipts  of  salary,  which  was  paid  in 
installments  from  fifteen  to  twenty  times 
a  year,  the  rate  of  exchange  being  con- 
stantly redetermined.  President  Stiles 
states  that  in  "  1759  Old  Tenor  was 
£  sterling  as  24  to  1.  £6  Old  Tenor 
was  equal  to  $1.00  in  specie."  Another 
little  book  has  all  the  baby  weights, 
measures,  and  growths. 

The  almanacs  contain  on  blank  leaves 
curious  data.  One  of  the  earliest  is, 
"  Went  to  see  the  Stocking  Frame  Knit- 
ting. The  Newport  Congregation  at 
their  meeting  to-day  voted  me  £12  for 
Sabbath  preaching  and  £30  for  Horse 
Hire  and  Journey." 

Again,  "June  13,  1744.  About  8 
o'clock  in  the  morning,  the  same  day 
King  George's  Proclamation  of  War 
against  France  was  proclaimed  in  New 
Haven,  Ruth  Stiles  was  born  in  the 
Afternoon."  This  little  girl,  who  in- 
herited all  her  father's  piety,  was  the 
mother  of  Rev.  Ezra  Stiles  Gannett. 
Through  her  it  almost  seems  as  if  the 
grandfather's  favorite  texts  had  been 
transmitted  to  the  grandson.  In  1787 
President  Stiles  preached  the  ordina- 
tion sermon  for  Rev.  Henry  Channing 
at  New  London,  and  in  1824  Dr.  Gan- 
nett was  ordained  as  colleague  to  Dr. 
William  Ellery  Channing,  nephew  of 
Henry  Channing. 

In  1754  President  Stiles  wrote  in 
his  almanac,  "  Went  to  Boston  and  was 


256 


An  Old  New  England  Divine. 


[August, 


waked  with  the  melodious  Ring  of  Bells 
in  Dr.  Cutler's,  alias  North,  alias  Christ 
Church.  Went  to  Cambridge  to  Com- 
mencement. S.  Quincy  Sal.  Orator. 
M.  Saltonstall  Val.  Orator.  Took  De- 
gree A.  M.  Dined  with  Mr.  Prof.  Win- 
throp.  The  next  day  Dined  (with)  at 
Dr.  Wigglesworth's.  Waited  on  Pres- 
ident, returned  thanks  for  degree.  In 
Eve.  waited  on  Mrs.  Edwards  in  Bos- 
ton and  heard  her  play  on  Spinnet.  Bor- 
rowed 2  dollars." 

Again,  "  Counted  and  find  44  Bot- 
tles Claret  and  77  Bottles  Cyder  in  cel- 
lar. We  have  drank  5^  doz.  Cyder  in 
two  months. 

"  Inoculation  in  April,  1761.  Dr. 
Adam  Thompson  of  Maryland  published 
in  Gazette  himself  as  Author  of  New 
Inoculation.  Dec.  1769,  a  physician 
at  Williamsburg  thinks  himself  the  au- 
thor, as  do  many  others.  I,  Ezra  Stiles, 
think  Dr.  Muirson  the  first,  and  before 
1750. 

"1761,  August.  The  Comedians 
opened  a  Playhouse  in  Newport  and 
acted  for  the  first  Time. 

"  1762,  Jan.  27.  Two  Whales  came 
into  Narragansett  Bay  within  the  Dum- 
plin's. 

"  1762,  Fe"b.  There  are  now  4  Prison- 
ers for  Capital  crime,  in  Newport  Gaol. 
Sherman  for  Burglary.  2  Indians  for 
Murder,  and  the  Negro  the  same. 

"  July  5.  Begun  to  make  cocoons.  By 
20th  all  the  cocoons  took  down  and  had 
wound  5  Run  Silk. 

"Aug.  23,  1769.  Sally  had  103  fits 
last  24  hours.  Infamous  Governor  Ber- 
nard embarked  Aug.  1  and  sailed  for 
London.  Vale." 

On  another  page  is  given  the  total 
of  the  sermons  preached  by  himself  from 
the  year  1756  to  1774  as  1157;  the 
text  was  often  in  Greek  or  Hebrew 
characters.  Those  were  the  davs  of 

V 

long  prayers.  In  this  connection  he 
cites  the  example  of  Dr.  Cheever,  of 
Chelsea,  but  whether  as  warning  or  en- 
couragement is  doubtful :  "  When  Mr. 


Cheever  was  very  aged,  above  80,  he 
was  wont  to  forget  himself,  especially 
in  family  prayers,  continuing  in  it  for 
hours.  Once  he  began  family  prayer 
at  10  o'clock  at  night,  -and  continued 
praying  and  standing  till  day  next  morn- 
ing, a  long  winter's  night ;  his  wife  was 
obliged  to  force  him  to  desist  and  sit 
down." 

The  almanac  for  1769  gives  the  time 
of  the  arrival  of  the  various  posts,  as, 
"  The  Post  from  the  Southward,  which 
comes  along  the  sea  coast,  arrives  on 
Sat.  Eve.  The  bag  is  closed  at  the  post 
office  on  Monday  at  one  o'clock  fore- 
noon :  the  post  puts  up  at  Mr.  Sylves- 
ter's at  the  sign  of  the  Black  and  White 
Horse.  Between  Boston  and  Salem  a 
chaise  passes  and  repasses  3  times  a 
week,  and  puts  up  at  Mrs.  Bean's, 
King  St." 

In  March  of  that  year  "  occurred  the 
first  Moravian  Wedding  in  Newport  and 
New  England." 

Under  date  of  February  22,  1770,  he 
says,  "  Young  Snider,  aetat  11,  in  Boston 
murdered  by  Eben  Richardson,  an  in- 
former in  the  Custom  House. 

"  Feb.  26.  Buried  from  Liberty  Tree, 
preceded  by  500  Boys  followed  by  about 
2000  persons  of  all  Ranks. 

"  The  first  Martyr  of  American  Lib- 
erty." 

Again,  "Jan.  15,  1770.  Brethren  and 
sisters  of  the  Church  met  at  my  house 
for  religious  Exercise. 

"Jan.  20.  We  have  seven  cords  Wood. 
"1771,  Feb.     Negro  meeting  at  my 
house.     Catechised  20  Boys,  30  Girls. 

"  June  Gen.  Assembly  granted  a  char- 
ter to  my  church.  Religious  meeting 
of  married  people  of  my  congregation 
at  Judge  Pitman's." 

With  this  last  entry  the  old  chest 
ceases  to  bear  witness  to  his  actions. 
Almanacs,  Expense  Books,  Birthday 
Reflections,  Propositions,  Family  Con- 
stitutions, —  through  them  all  runs  the 
undercurrent  of  his  life,  the  glory  of 
God  ;  a  glory  to  be  heightened  by  each 


1884.] 


The  Anatomizing  of  William  Shakespeare. 


257 


new  scientific  discovery,  by  each  fresh 
bibliographical  item,  or  by  sad  or  joy- 
ful family  events.  Jehovah,  Congre- 
gationalism, the  College,  were  his  triad 
of  interests.  To  them  he  gave  the  ser- 
vice of  his  years,  helped  by  his  broad 
and  fearless  mind  to  use  profitably  every 
department  of  knowledge,  his  sense  of 
humor  enlivening  his  studies  and  duties, 


perhaps  even  his  morbid  self-conscious- 
ness. His  personal  manuscripts  pre- 
sent a  picture,  almost  home-like  in  its 
details,  of  the  punctilious,  scholarly,  up- 
right life  of  a  New  England  divine,  and 
help  us  to  realize  how  important  a  part 
thought  and  pedagogy  played  in  those 
days  which  we  are  accustomed  to  regard 
as  filled  chiefly  with  patriotic  virtues. 

Kate  Gannett  Wells. 


THE   ANATOMIZING  OF  WILLIAM   SHAKESPEARE. 


III. 

SHAKESPEARE  worked  his  wonders 
in  the  old  way.  He  invented  nothing  ; 
he  created  nothing  but  character.  The 
greatest  of  dramatists,  he  contributed 
to  the  drama  nothing  but  himself ;  the 
greatest  of  poets,  he  gave  to  poetry  not 
even  a  new  rhythm  or  a  new  stanza. 
He  ran  not  only  on  the  old  road,  but  in 
the  old  ruts.  Like  others  born  to  fame, 
he  did  his  early  work  in  imitation  and 
in  emulation  of  his  immediate  predeces- 
sors and  older  contemporaries ;  unlike 
most  of  those  who,  although  inferior  to 
him,  were  of  the  superior  grade  in  art, 
he  did  not,  after  the  rapid  development 
of  his  power,  contrive  for  himself  new 
forms,  nor  did  his  genius  lead  him  into 
new  methods.  The  structure  of  his 
dramas  is  simply  that  of  his  time,  which 
seems  to  have  been  determined  by  an 
unexpressed  consensus  of  all  the  princi- 
pal playwrights  who  between  the  years 
1590  and  1613  (the  date  of  his  last  work) 
were,  like  him,  earning  their  bread  by 
writing  for  the  London  theatres.  In  this 
respect  his  later  dramas  show  no  advance 
upon  his  earlier.  Indeed,  his  latest 
works,  Timon  of  Athens,  Cymbeline, 
The  Winter's  Tale,  and  Henry  VIII., 
are  inferior  in  constructive  art  to  those 
of  his  middle  period,  and  are  not  only 
inferior,  but  marked  by  a  return  to  the 
VOL.  LIV.  —  NO.  322.  17 


formless  structure  of  the  loose,  ill-pro- 
portioned, unsymmetrical,  and  purpose- 
less dramatized  tales  and  acted  stories 
that  filled  the  stage  in  his  earlier  theat- 
rical life.  His  thought  became  grander 
and  stronger,  his  style  more  splendid 
as  well  as  subtler  and  more  delicate ;  his 
conception  of  character  was  certainly 
not  weaker  nor  less  vivid  when  he  im- 
agined Cleopatra  and  Imogen  than  it 
had  ever  been ;  but  he  seems  to  have 
been  absolutely  without  a  purpose  or  an 
ideal  in  his  art,  and  almost  as  ready  to 
do  a  theatrical  job  after  he  had  writ- 
ten Macbeth,  King  Lear,  Hamlet,  and 
Othello  as  he  was  before  he  had  written; 
Romeo  and  Juliet.  In  all  literature,, 
where  is  there  another  work  so  formless, 
so  huddled  and  heterogeneous,  so  chaotic, 
as  Cymbeline  ?  In  all  literature,  where 
is  the  woman  whom  even  her  creator 
would  dare  to  place  by  the  side  of  Im- 
ogen ? 

This  lack  of  originality  in  form,  this 
absence  of  high  art-purpose,  is,  however, 
no  evidence  in  derogation  of  the  crea- 
tive force  or  the  individual  newness  of 
his  genius.  Endeavor  for  originality  is 
no  more  than  ambition  of  fame  evidence 
of  natural  endowment  in  art,  literary  or 
other.  Rather,  indeed,  are  they  both 
indications  of  innate  weakness  than  of 
innate  power.  They  have  oftener  been 
the  motives  of  the  feeble  than  of  the 


258                     The  Anatomizing  of  William  Shakespeare.            [August, 

strong.     Distrust  the  poet,  the  painter,  that  which  lives.     Every  one  of  the  few 

the  musician,  who  has  determined  to  be  phrases  of  Gluck's  music  that  live  in  the 

original,  who  means  to  give  the  world  world's  memory  (for  example,  Che  faro 

something  new.    Above  all,  distrust  him  and  the  Choruses  in  Iphigenia,  and  the 

whose  avowed  purpose  is  to  elevate  his  like)  might  have  been  written  quite  as 

art.     Him  trust,  hope   in   him,  who  is  well  if  he  had  had  no  theory.     They  are 

urged  by  inborn  impulse  to  utter  that  born  of  delight  in  the  beautiful,  not  of  a 

which  springs  within  him,  and  which  iu  theory. 

utterance  takes  form,  he  knows  not  how,  Shakespeare  was  led  astray  into  no 
he  asks  not  why  nor  wherefore.  He  vagaries  of  originality,  but  went  on  pour- 
who  seeks  to  elevate  his  art  is  an  egoist,  ing  out  the  wealth  and  beauty  of  his 
who  of  the  two,  he  and  art,  thinks  him-  thought  through  the  old  channels,  — 
self  the  greater.  Beethoven,  not  most  channels  cut  not  by  this  man  or  by  that, 
inspired,  but  most  individual,  self-assert-  but  worn  gradually  by  the  course  of  nat- 
ing,  and  peculiar,  if  not  most  original  ural  forces.  Whether  he  had  impulses 
and  creative,  of  the  masters  of  his  art,  toward  originality  we  do  not  know  ;  but 
remained  not  only  during  his  most  ac-  I  am  inclined  to  the  belief  that  he  had 
tive  and  energized  period,  but  during  the  not,  and  that  in  this  respect,  as  in  some 
period  of  his  grandest  and  most  orig-  others,  he  was  not  only  careless,  but 
inal  conceptions,  within  the  forms  which  even  thoughtless,  about  his  art.  What 
dominated  the  art  when  he  entered  it.  engaged  him  chiefly  seems  to  have  been 
The  strongest  and  most  characteristic  the  feeling  and  the  thought  suggested 
works  of  the  latter  part  of  his  second  by  dramatic  situation  ;  and  this  he  ex- 
period,  when  he  was  in  the  unimpaired  pressed  just  as  it  came  into  his  mind  at 


plenitude  of  power,  do  not  vary  in  form 
from  those  which  he  produced  when  he 
had  but  just  left  the  inadequate  tutelage 
of  Haydn,  and  was  emulous  of  Mozart. 
The  eighth  symphony  (op.'  93)  is  as 


the  moment  (of  which  there  is  evidence, 
as  we  shall  see),  not  only  without  elabo- 
ration of  any  kind,  but  with  little  or  no 
concern  as  to  the  correctness  or  the  log- 
ical consistency  of  his  language.  It  was 


"  regular  "  in  form  not  only  as  the  first  t{ie  significance  of  his  words  and  of  his 
or  the  second  (op.  21  and  36),  but  as  phrases  in  the  whole  that  he  looked  at; 
either  of  the  string  trios,  which  are  and  he  was  content  if  these  conveyed 
among  his  very  earliest  work  (op.  9).  his  meaning  vividly  and  forcibly.  His 
And  indeed  the  third  of  this  set  (in  success  is  a  perpetual  rebuke  to  the 
C  minor)  is  not  only  in  its  harmony  whole  tribe  of  purists  and  precisians  in 
and  movement  of  parts,  but  in  its  treat-  language,  grammarians,  rhetoricians,  and 
ment  of  themes,  one  of  his  most  charac-  insisters  upon  "  authority  "  and  the  law 
teristic  works  ;  yet  as  to  its  form  it  of  best  usage  and  what  not ;  and  it  de- 
might  have  been  written  by  Haydn  ; 1  fies  the  efforts  of  all  language  classifiers 


but  this  is  also  true  of  later  works.  A 
theory  and  a  purpose  never  quickened 
creative  power,  never  aided  conception 


and  labelers.  His  recklessness  in  this 
respect  led  him  not  unfrequently  to 
clothe  the  children  of  his  brain  in  tat- 


the  beautiful,  which  alone  produce     tered   and   grotesque   array.       But   his 


l  These  trios  those  of  my  fellow  amateurs  who 
may  not  know  them  (and  I  have  found  man}' such) 
will  thank  me  for  bringing  to  their  attention.  They 
are  among  Beethoven's  most  delightful  minor 
works ;  and  that  in  C  minor  carries  weight  enough 
in  some  passages  for  a  symphony.  They  would 
be  better  known  to  amateurs  if  there  were  more 
amateur  players  of  the  viola,  an  instrument  for 


which,  in  private  quartette-playing,  a  professional 
musician  must  usually  be  engaged.  It  deserves 
more  attention  from  amateurs  of  the  higher  mu- 
sic, to  the  enjoyment  of  which  it  will  introduce 
them  at  an  expenditure  of  time  and  practice  which 
is  small  to  that  demanded  by  the  violin  or  the 
violoncello :  and  amateur  viola-players  are  in  great 
demand. 


1884.] 


The  Anatomizing  of  William  Shakespeare. 


259 


daring  and  his  genius  for  expression, 
working  together,  enabled  him,  with  rare 
—  comparatively  rare  —  exceptions,  to 
triumph  over  difficulties  which  cramp 
the  utterance  of  the  devotees  of  deco- 
rum. It  is  the  weight  and  worth  of  the 
thoughts  thus  put  forth  in  ragged  splen- 
dor, the  gold  of  which  these  extravagant 
paper  promises  are  the  sign,  upon  which 
the  appreciative  reader  of  Shakespeare 
fixes  his  attention. 

Nevertheless,  although  Shakespeare  is 
sententious,  although  his  lines  are  beauty 
made  fruitful  by  strength,  and  are  preg- 
nant with  truth  and  wisdom,  there  is  in 
him  a  notable  absence  of  all  endeavor 
to  be  sententious.  He  never  shows  that 
conscious  effort  to  be  equal  to  the  occa- 
sion which  is  apparent,  for  example,  in 
Faust,  and  which  is  wholly  absent  in 
the  Iliad,  the  Odyssey,  and  the  Divina. 
Comedia.  His  inclination  to  play  with 
language,  and  his  facility  in  doing  it, 
lead  him  sometimes  into  infelicitous  an- 
tithetical conceits,  which  are  the  great 
blemishes  of  his  writing,  and  at  others 
into  a  shower  of  figures  which  makes 

O 

us  feel  as  if  we  were  beaten  about  the 
'brains  with  tropes  and  stoned  with  epi- 
thets. These,  however,  are  exceptional 
extravagances  ;  and  in  his  better  moods, 
when  he  is  most  radiant,  he  shines  with 
an  unconscious  light,  and  without  that 
labored  brilliancy  and  sententiousness 
which  makes  the  reading  of  Taine,  and 
sometimes  of  Carlyle,  as  wearisome  and 
exhausting  as  if  we  shared  their  fruitful 
but  audible  pangs  of  travail. 

There  is  no  doubt  that  much  of 
Shakespeare's  power  and  more  of  his 
allurement  lie  in  what  has  been  recog- 

O 

nized  as  his  universal  sympathy.  He 
does  not  hold  himself  aloof  from  men. 
As  we  know  him  in  his  writings,  he,  the 
strongest,  can  feel  with  the  weakest ;  he 
who  can  breathe  the  highest  and  purest 
moral  atmosphere  does  not  look  down 
upon  those  in  the  lowest  and  foulest.  As 
a  writer  he  was  no  respecter  of  persons ; 
and  therefore  the  whole  world  is  his. 


But  we  may  be  no  less  sure  that  in  great 
measure  this  sympathy  was  a  sympathy 
of  indifference.  As  a  man  he  may  have 
had  inclining  to  good  ;  as  an  artist  he 
had  no  revulsion  from  evil.  His  touch 
lingers  as  fondly  upon  reprobate  Falstaff, 
who  shares  the  fruits  of  his  followers' 
thievery,  as  it  does  upon  Cassio,  the 
most  completely  admirable  and  lovable 
of  his  men.  He  sympathized  as  thor- 
oughly with  Cleopatra  as  with  Imogen. 
He  does  not  seem  to  shrink  even  from 
that  most  contemptible  of  all  his  crea- 
tures, Parolles.  He  did  not  believe 
enough  in  the  underlying  principles  of 
damnation  to  make  an  auto  da  fe  of 
sinners. 

Hence  we  must  exempt  him  from 
personal  responsibility  for  the  utter- 
ance of  his  creatures.  It  is  never 
safe  to  assume  that  "  Shakespeare  has 
said  "  thus  or  so.  He  merely  puts  into 
the  mouths  of  his  personages  what  it 
seemed  to  him  fitting  that  they  should 
say  in  the  circumstances  in  which  they 
are  placed.  It  is  not  he  who,  after  de- 
scribing a  virtuous  and  lovable  woman, 
says  that  she  is  only  fit  "  to  suckle  fools 
and  chronicle  small  beer ; "  it  is  that 
sneering  reprobate  lago.  Nevertheless, 
we  feel  that  he  had  a  certain  fellowship, 
if  not  with  the  speaker,  with  the  callous 
cynicism  which  found  utterance  in  the 
speech.  There  is  only  this  one  fault 
(if  it  really  be  a  fault)  that  censorious- 
ness  can  find  with  Shakespeare's  treat- 
ment of  character  :  that  by  representing 
it  thus  without  favor  or  disfavor,  accord- 
ing to  nature,  he  wins  some  sympathy 
from  us  with  even  the  lowest  forms  of 
humanity,  and  presents  us  very  few  per- 
sonages —  perhaps  only  Imogen,  Her- 
mione,  Antonio,  and  Cassio  —  who  are  - 
in  all  things  to  be  approved.  Shake- 
speare's dramatic  morality  was  world- 
wide ;  as  wide  as  the  firmament,  and  as 
deep  as  the  waters  underneath  the  firma- 
ment. 

It  is  to  this  complete,  unquestioning 
sympathy  with  his  personages  —  all  of 


260 


The  Anatomizing  of  William  Shakespeare.  [August, 


them  —  and  to  his  matchless  genius  for 
expression  that  we  owe  that  introduc- 
tion of  living  character  into  literature 

O 

which  took  place  in  his  dramas.  Even 
in  Dante  we  really  find  little  of  the 
complexity  and  subtlety  of  organic  hu- 
man nature.  We  see  his  figures  looming 
awfully  through  misty  gloom  or  misty 
glory ;  we  hear  their  sins  and  sorrows 
grandly  told.  In  Shakespeare  they  sin 
and  sorrow  and  joy  before  our  eyes. 
Hence  it  is  that,  although  the  course  of 
his  dramas,  and  not  only  his  person- 
ages but  their  characters,  are  found  in 

O  ' 

the  old  tales,  the  novelli,  the  chronicles, 
and  the  old  plays,  —  like  Falstaff  "  of 
intolerable  entrails,"  —  which  he  worked 
up,  or  worked  over,  for  his  stage,  they 
become  in  his  hands  the  ministers  of 
immortal  wisdom  and  immortal  joy.  To 
illustrate  this  briefly,  —  with,  to  me,  dis- 
appointing brevity  :  although  in  the  old 
story  of  Romeus  and  Juliet  Romeo  finds 
Juliet  at  her  window,  leaning  her  cheek 
upon  her  hand,  as  in  the  play,  it  is  only 
Shakespeare  who  makes  the  enamored 
youth  exclaim, — 

"  O,  that  I  were  a  glove  upon  that  hand, 
That  I  might  touch  that  cheek !  " 

Although  in  the  old  story,  as  in  the 
play,  the  Nurse  praises  Paris,  and  coun- 
sels Juliet  to  marry  him,  she  being  al- 
ready Romeo's  wife,  it  is  only  Shake- 
speare who  makes  the  young  wife  turn 
her  eyes  upon  the  retreating  beldam, 
and  utter  those  two  words,  "  Ancient 
damnation,"  that  so  tell  us  what  the 
Nurse  is  and  what  Juliet.  The  Cleopa- 
tra of  Shakespeare  is  the  Cleopatra  of 
Plutarch  ;  —  in  character,  no  more,  no 
less  ;  but  it  is  only  from  Shakespeare 
that  we  know  that 

"  Age  cannot  wither  her,  nor  custom  stale 
Her  infinite  variety." 

It  is  only  in  Shakespeare  that  the  van- 
quished queen,  not  forgetful  of  her  rival 
in  the  midst  of  her  despair,  says,  — 

"  If  knife,  drugs,  serpents,  have 
Edge,  sting,  or  operation,  I  am  safe. 
Your  wife  Octavia,  with  her  modest  eyes 


And  still  conclusion,  shall  acquire  no  honour 
Demuring  upon  me." 

Twinkling  specks  plucked  out  of  Shake- 
speare's dazzling  dome  of  glory,  these 
instances  yet  show  how  it  was  that  he 
changed  death  into  life  and  darkness 
into  light. 

To   be    Shakespeare,    what   was   it  ? 

—  to  be  this  man,  before  whose  usual 
daily  vision  the  world  lay  open  like  a 
map  spread  out ;  who  saw  men's  secret 
motives  and  secret  impulses  as  we  see 
gleams  of  light  in  darkness ;  to  whose 
inner  eye   all  that  is  beautiful  and  all 
that  is  bad  in  this  beautiful,  bad  world 
was  as  plainly  manifest  as  to  his  bodily 
eye  were  the  flowers  and  the  mire  about 
his   feet;    and   who,    peasant-born   and 
theatre-bred,  was,  in  Vergil's  phrase,  so 
happy  as  to  know  the  causes  of  things, 
and  so  fortunate  as  to  gain  comfortable 
livelihood   and  unlooked-for  wealth  by 
telling  what  he  saw  and  knew  in  words 
that    charmed   his    hearers    then,    and 
since  then  have  been  discovered  to  be 
treasures  of  joy  and  wisdom,  enriching 
all  humanity?     What  manner  of   man 
was  it  that  did  this  ?    What,  in  his  very 
self,  was  this  miracle  of  men  ?     For  I 
take  it  that  Shakespeare  was  the  most 
nearly  miraculous  manifestation  of  the 
all-forming   power  that   the   earth   has 
ever  seen.    We  know  very  little  of  him ; 
but  if  we  are  hero-worshipers,  and  he 
is   our   hero,    that   little    is   too   much. 
There  was  in  the  man  Shakespeare,  as 
I  see  him,  much  to  admire  and  some- 
thing to  like,  but  nothing   to  worship. 
I  once  asked  a  friend,  whose  instincts 
and  perceptions  I  had  learned  to  respect, 
without  always  finding  them  conclusive, 
for  an  opinion  upon  Shakespeare  as  a 
person.     The  reply  was,  "I  have  none, 

—  never  have  formed  one ;  but,"  after  a 
pause,  "  I  suppose  he  was  rather  a  coarse, 
vulgar  fellow."     To  my  astonished  look 
of   inquiry,    the    answer   came,    "  Plow 
could  he  have  been  otherwise,  born  in 
the  very  lowest  condition  of  rustic  life, 
bred  among  ruffling  players,  whose  very 


1884.] 


The  Anatomizing  of  William  Shakespeare. 


261 


profession  was  then  a  reproach  and  a 
condition  of  vagabondage  ?  What  he 
wrote  is  no  sign  of  what  he  was." 

What  surprised  me  in  this  hastily 
uttered  opinion  was,  not  so  much  the 
opinion  itself  as  its  independence,  and 
the  application,  even  in  the  freedom  of 
friendly  intercourse,  of  such  a  phrase 
as  "  coarse,  vulgar  fellow  '  to  William 
Shakespeare.  Nevertheless,  although  I 
could  not  accept  it,  or  accord  with  it,  I 
could  not  but  see  that  for  it  there  was 
much  reason.  That  a  man  of  Shake- 
speare's origin  and  Shakespeare's  life  in 
the  reigns  of  Elizabeth  and  James  should 
have  been  personally  coarse  and  vulgar, 
conforms  to  all  the  probabilities.  That 
Ben  Jonson  was  coarse  and  vulgar  ac- 
cording to  our  present  standard  of  man- 
ners is  hardly  doubtful ;  and  if  he,  why 
not  Shakespeare  ?  Of  the  two,  Jonson 
was  certainly  much  the  better  educated, 
probably  the  better  bred,  and  had  seen 
largely  more  of  the  world.  Yet  we  may 
be  sure  that  Shakespeare  was,  if  not  in 
character,  in  his  external  personality, 
notably  the  superior  man,  much  more 
in  appearance  and  in  manner  "  a  gentle- 
man." Not,  indeed,  because  of  the  in- 
comparable superiority  of  his  writing  to 
Jonson's  ;  for  in  this  respect  the  opinion 
which  I  have  cited  is  beyond  all  ques- 
tion sound.  Between  what  a  man  is 
and  what  he  writes  there  is  no  necessary 
likeness,  no  connection  of  cause  and 
effect.  Intellectual  perceptions  of  the 
finest  quality  united  to  the  power  of 
expressing  them  fitly  and  impressively 
do  by  no  means  imply  a  corresponding 
personality  in  morals  or  in  manners. 
Goldsmith,  we  know,  "  wrote  like  an 
angel  and  talked  like  poor  Poll ; "  and 
not  only  so,  but  that  he  sometimes  acted 
like  Poll's  rival,  the  monkey.  The 
author  of  the  Vicar  of  Wakefield,  of 
The  Citizen  of  the  World,  and  of  She 
Stoops  to  Conquer  had  not  only  the 
most  charming  style  in  which  modern 
English  has  ever  been  written,  but  a 
knowledge  of  the  world  which  was  the 


result  of  a  singular  and  almost  un- 
equaled  union  of  purity  and  sagacity. 
He  was,  of  all  the  writers  of  genius 
known  to  our  literature,  the  freest  from 
any  taint  of  intellectual  vulgarity.  His 
views  of  life,  as  presented  in  his  writ- 
ings, are  distinguished  by  soundness, 
simplicity,  and  a  good  taste  which  gives 
them  an  air  of  elegance  more  genuine 
than  Addison's.  And  yet  all  that  we 
know  of  him  —  and  we  know  much  — 
points  him  out  as  a  man  who,  in  his  per- 
sonal bearing,  was  chiefly  notable  for 
the  absence  of  tact,  of  good  taste,  and 
of  good  breeding.  He  was  lovable,  and 
he  was  loved,  but  in  spite  of  his  awk- 
wardness, his  blunders,  his  vanity,  his 
egoism,  his  imprudence,  and  his  bad 
manners. 

In  our  own  day  an  eminent  writer  in 
Europe  is  an  obtrusive  example  of  this 
incongruity.  I  have  never  seen  him ; 
but  a  New  York  lady,  who  had  found 
great  delight  in  his  writings  because  of 
their  purity  and  elevation  of  tone,  and 
a  certain  atmosphere  of  serene  elegance 
that  breathes  through  them,  and  chiefly 
because  of  his  equally  lofty  and  charm- 
ing ideal  of  womanhood,  told  me  that, 
having  brought  it  about  that  he  should 
call  on  her,  she  was  shocked  at  the  ap- 
pearance of  a  man  ignoble  in  every  way : 
slovenly  in  dress,  unclean  in  person, 
coarse  in  manners,  and  altogether  so  un- 
couth, sordid,  and  repulsive  that  she  rid 
herself  of  his  company  as  soon  as  she 
could  do  so  with  civility,  and  sat  down 
in  sorrow  to  mourn  over  her  shattered 
ideal. 

That  Shakespeare's  personality  was 
of  a  very  different  order  from  this  man's 
and  from  Goldsmith's,  we  may  safely 
infer  from  even  the  little  that  has  come 
down  to  us  in  relation  to  him.  The  tra- 
dition that  he  was  "  a  handsome,  well- 
shaped  man  "  is  confirmed  by  his  effigy 
in  Stratford  church,  although  that  shows 
him  middle-aged,  fat-faced,  and  portly. 
But  what  he  was  in  manners  and  in 
bearing  we  know  chiefly  from  a  trait  in 


262  The  Anatomizing  of  William  Shakespeare.       *    [August, 

his  character  which  presents  him  in  a  were   persons  "  of    worship  ; '    that  is, 
light  which  must  make  him  appear  to  men  of  recognized  social  rank  as  "  gen- 
those  who   judge   by  Thackeray's  (lit-  tlemen."    Chettle  says,  too,  that  he  him- 
erary)    standard    somewhat    unamiable  self  had  seen  Shakespeare's  "  demeanor 
and  not  entitled  to  reverence ;  hardly  to  no  lesse    civil    than  he  exclent   in   the 
admiration.     His  social  tastes  and  Jik-  qualitie   he   professes."     It  was   about 
ings  led  him  to  seek  the  society  and  the  this  time,  also,  that  the  young  playwright 
friendship  of  those  above  him  in  social  dedicated  his  first  literary  work,  Venus 
position  ;   and  his  person   and  manner  and  Adonis,  to  the  Earl  of  Southamp- 
were  such  that  in  this  respect,  as  in  most  ton,  using  language  which,  although  dis- 
others,  he  attained  his  desire.    No  soon-  creet   and  reserved,  —  notable,  indeed, 
er  did  he  begin  to  achieve  distinction  as  for   dignity   and   good  taste,  —  showed 
a  writer  and  to    thrive  in  purse,  than  that  he  was  on  easy  terms  with  his  pa- 
this  son  of  a  Warwickshire  peasant  be-  tron  ;  as  easy  as  at  that  time  could  ob- 
gan  also  to   set  up  to  be  a  gentleman  tain  between  a  player-poet  and  a  peer, 
and  the  associate  of  gentlemen.     This  What  tact,  what  social  craft,  what  per- 
in  the  England  of  Queen  Elizabeth  was  sonal  fitness,  what  clear  fixedness  of  pur- 
something  very  different  from  what  it  pose,  there  must  have  been  in  the  Strat- 
would  be  in  the  England  of  Victoria ;  ford  exile,  to  bring  about  so  early  such 
it  implied  a  very  much  greater  presump-  relations   with   such  men  !      To   attain 
tion.     But  that  Shakespeare  had  a  cer-  this  position,  and  to  have   the   means 
tain  warrant  for  his  presumption  is  shown  to  support  it,  was  the  sole  object  of  his 
by  his  speedy  success.  life,   the  one   great  end  of    his   labor. 
Our  first  knowledge  of  his  London  From  the  way  in  which  he  is  spoken 
life  shows  him  to  us  in  1592,  —  only  six  of  and  the  manner  in  which  he  is  ap- 
years  after  his  flight  from  the  sordid  ob-  proached  by  his  old  Stratford  country- 
scurity  of  Stratford,  to  find  an  inferior  men,  we  gather  that  he  had  a  certain 
place  in  a  profession  then  regarded  as  dignity  arid   reserve   of   manner  which 
one  of  disreputable  vagabondage,  —  in  —  after  he  had  become  prosperous ;  not 
favor  with  people  of   high  social  posi-  before  —  were  tolerated  and  recognized 
tion.     Greene's   attack  upon  him  (and  as   becoming.     He  was   plainly  a  man 
Greene,    although    a    very    "  deboshed  who  knew  and  practiced  the  art  of  "  get- 
fish,"  was  a  scholar  and  a  man  of  tal-  ting  on  "   socially,  which,  although  it  is 
ent),  as  "  an  upstart  crow,"  a  bombaster  rarely  consistent  with  independence  of 
of  blank  verse,  and  a  pretender  to  the  character  and  a  high  moral  tone,  is,  like 
honors  that  belonged  to  others,  showed  lowliness,  "  young  ambition's  ladder." 
how  he  was  rising.     It  was  one  of  those  Shakespeare    was  manifestly  one  of 
shafts  of  malice  and  envy  which  little  those  men  who,  by  a  union  of  prudence 
souls  launch  at  their  superiors  who  have  and    pleasant    manner   and   thrift,   are 
attained   a   certain    eminence,   but   one  well  fitted  to  attain  social  success.     He 
not  so  high  that  there  is  no  hope  of  in-  was  a  prosperous  man,  and  in  his  per- 
juring them  by  poisoned  stings.     This,  son,  his   manners,  and   his  bearing  ua 
however,  touched    Shakespeare  merely  gentleman."     It  went  hardly  with  him 
in  his  literary,  or  rather  his  play-writ-  however,  that  he  was  riot  really  a  gen- 
ing,  function,  and  is   evidence   only  of  tleman  according  to  the  standard  of  his 
his   rising  reputation   as   a  writer.     It  time  and  country ;   that  he  could  not, 
gave  offense,  however,  to  Shakespeare's  like  his   own  Justice    Shallow,   "  write 
friends  ;  and  from  an  apology  published  armigero  in  any  bill,  warrant,  quittance, 
for  it  by  Chettle,  Greene's  editor  (Greene  or  obligation."     He  set  himself  to  work 
was  dead),  we  learn  that  among  those  diligently  to  remedy  this  defect  in  the 


1884.] 


The  Anatomizing  of  William  Shakespeare. 


263 


article  of  his  gentry.  We  have  not  di- 
rect testimony  as  to  the  fact,  but  there 
is  not  the  slightest  moral  doubt  of  it. 
He,  however,  did  not  wish  to  be  made  a 
gentleman  in  his  own  person,  and  to  be 
pointed  out  by  his  fellow  actors  as  not 
only  a  literary  but  a  social  upstart.  Too 
crafty  for  that,  his  endeavor  was  to  have 
his  father,  the  poor  old  bailiff-hunted 
Stratford  peasant,  made  a  gentleman  of 
coat  armor ;  the  consequence  of  which 
would  have  been  that  he,  William  Shake- 
speare, would  have  been  a  gentleman  by 
birth.  Money  did  such  things  then  as 
it  has  done  since ;  and  the  Herald's  Col- 
lege went  so  far  as  to  design  and  prick 
out  arms  for  John  Shakespeare,  accom- 
panied by  a  draft  of  a  patent  containing 
utterly  false  assertions  as  to  his  origin 
and  that  of  his  wife,  which  could  have 
had  but  one  source.  Here,  however, 
Shakespeare  failed.  The  arms  were  not 
confirmed.  But  as  they  belonged  to 
no  one  else,  the  rich  actor  and  Strat- 
ford tithe-owner  assumed  them  and  the 
status  which  they  implied.  It  must 
have  been  a  proud  day  for  the  author  of 
King  Lear  and  Hamlet  when  he  saw 
himself  described  in  a  law  document  as 
"  William  Shakespeare,  of  Stratford-on- 
Avon  in  the  county  of  Warwick,  Gen- 
tleman." 

This  is  not,  from  the  Thackeray  (lit- 
erary) point  of  view,  a  very  admirable 
attitude  in  which  to  contemplate  him 
whose  fame  is  the  greatest  in  all  liter- 
ature. But  Shakespeare  being  person- 
ally the  man  he  was,  having  the  tastes, 
the  character,  and  the  means  to  sustain 
the  position  that  he  sought,  and  the  cus- 
toms and  habits  of  his  time  being  what 
they  were,  it  would  be  a  hard,  harsh 
judgment  which  condemned  him  without 
reserve  for  this  proceeding.  For  then 
to  be  by  birth  a  gentleman  of  coat  armor 
brought  a  consideration  of  a  kind  which 
is  grateful  to  the  taste  and  the  feelings 
of  any  man  of  gentlemanly  habits  of 
mind  and  life  (which  Shakespeare  cer- 
tainly had),  and  which  was  attainable 


in  no  other  way.  Let  those  who  have 
never  done  a  "snobbish"  thing  cast  the 
first  stone  at  his  memory.  My  hand 
shall  not  launch  the  missile  ;  but  as  I 
am  seeking  and  setting  forth  facts,  this 
one  must  be  recorded  and  held  up  in 
its  true  light. 

Again,  what  manner  of  man  was 
Shakespeare  in  his  inner  life  —  morally  ? 
How  can  we  tell  ?  What  do  we  know 
of  the  inner  life,  the  real  moral  entity, 
of  men  with  whom  for  years  we  have 
had  personal  relations  ?  How  often  do 
we  find  that  we  have  misjudged  them, 
wronged  them  grievously  !  Not  all  of 
us  are  noble  and  tender  enough  to  be 
capable  of  remorse.  If  we  were,  how 
many  of  us  would  in  this  way  know  its 
sting !  And  upon  this  man,  of  whom 
we  know  so  little  and  at  whom  we 
must  look  back  through  the  obscuring 
remoteness  of  nearly  three  centuries, 
how  shall  we  dare  to  sit  in  judgment ! 
Yet  we  are  not  without  some  means  of 
knowing  pretty  surely,  although  within 
a  narrow  range,  what  kind  of  man  this 
Shakespeare  was. 

It  has  been  assumed  by  many  of  his 
admiring  critics,  commentators,  anato- 
mists, that,  having  been  a  great  poet,  he 
must  therefore  have  been  a  good  man. 
This  is  a  view  likely  to  have  general  wel- 
come. Laudation  of  the  great  is  always 
welcome  to  the  worshipers  of  greatness. 
Many  men,  perhaps  most  men,  seem  to 
feel  that  they  themselves  become  admi- 
rable by  praising  that  which  is  praise- 
worthy. They  see  their  own  faces  in  the 
brightness  that  they  look  upon.  Again 
we  have  the  old  story  which  Shakespeare 
himself  told  by  the  lips  of  the  snarling 
cynic  Jaques,  —  of  giving  the  sum  of 
more  to  him  which  hath  too  much.  Be- 
cause a  man  has  many  things,  therefore 
shall  he  have  all.  Because  he  has  little, 
let  us  take  from  him  some  of  that  little. 
Has  he  nothing  ?  Let  him  be  damned 
to  eternal  poverty  and  eternal  friend- 
lessriess.  We  all  know  the  monstrous 
magnification  of  Mr.  Charles  Knight's 


264 


The  Anatomizing  of  William  Shakespeare.  [August, 


biography  of  Shakespeare,  in  which  a 
few  meagre  facts  were  expanded  and 
imped  until  they  could  bear  up  an  huge 
octavo  volume,  in  which  all  Elizabeth- 
an England  was  made  a  great  intellect- 
ual and  social  system  revolving  around 
Shakespeare,  —  a  man  of  whom  compar- 
atively few  of  those  in-figuring  person- 
ages knew  anything,  and  those  few  only 
that  he  was  a  successful  playwright  and 
a  pleasant,  well-mannered  man ;  a  book 
whose  leaves  are  all  rose-tinted,  whose 
language  is  all  eulogy. 

But  it  is  not  necessary  to  come  down 
so  far  as  the  middle  of  the  nineteenth 
century  to  find  personal  praise  of  Shake- 
speare. Upton,  who  wrote  a  century 
before  Knight,  and  whose  little  volume 
shows  that  he  was  not  only  one  of  the 
most  learned  but  one  of  the  most  per- 
ceptive and  discreet  of  Shakespeare's 
critics,  will  have  it  that  he  is  an  "  un- 
doubted example  "  of  the  truth  of  Ben 
Jonson's  view  of  this  question.  Now 
Jonson  declared  that  "if  men  will  im- 
partially, and  not  a-squint,  looke  toward 
the  offices  and  function  of  a  poet,  they 
will  easily  conclude  to  themselves  the 
impossibility  of  any  one's  being  a  good 
poet  without  first  being  a  good  man,"  — 
a  most  shameless  piece  of  self-eulogy  ;  for 
that  Ben  was  sure  that  he  was  not  only 
a  good  poet,  but  a  great  poet,  who  that 
knows  him  can  doubt  a  moment  ?  But 
Jonson  could  be  generous  when  he  set 
out  to  be  so  ;  and  he  says,  in  his  eulogy 
prefixed  to  the  folio  of  1 623,  — 

'  "  Looke  how  the  fathers  face 
Lives  in  his  issue,  even  so  the  race 
Of    Shakespeares    mind    and    manners  brightly 

shines 

In  his  well  torned  and  true  filed  lines  : 
In  each  of  which  he  seemes  to  shake  a  lance, 
As  brandish't  at  the  eyes  of  Ignorance." 

But  eulogies  in  verse  of  recently  depart- 
ed merit,  or  demerit,  may  profitably  be 
scanned  with  doubt  and  discrimination 
by  those  who  would  know  the  truth  in 
regard  to  their  subjects.  If  Shake- 
speare's mind  and  manners  were,  in  Jon- 
son's  opinion,  to  be  judged  by  the  man- 


ner in  which  he  turned  arid  filed  his 
lines,  an  appeal  from  Jonson  drunk  with 
the  flow  of  eulogy  to  Jonson  sober  on 
the  bench  of  criticism  would  make  sad 
havoc  with  the  character  of  the  "  sweet 
Swan  of  Avon,"  as  we  shall  see  hereaf- 
ter. As  to  carefulness  and  elaboration 
in  writing,  Jonson  was  Shakespeare's 
severest  censor.  Nor  is  it  credible  for 
a  moment  that  Jonson  believed  what  he 
said  (referring  to  Shakespeare's  armes 
parlantes,  or  punning  arms)  when  he 
declared  that  the  spear-shaker  shook  his 
lines  in  the  eyes  of  ignorance.  No  one 
knew  better  than  Jonson  that  the  dramas 
of  the  uneducated  Shakespeare,  filled  as 
they  are  with  wisdom  and  the  evidences 
of  a  power  of  assimilating  knowledge 
which  is  unequaled  and,  without  hyper- 
bole, marvelous,  are  in  many  passages 
only  splendid  monuments  to  their  writ- 
er's ignorance, —  ignorance  of  that  of 
which  Jonson  would  have  regarded  a 
knowledge  as  almost  elemental  in  an  ed- 
ucated man. 

It  is  much  more  to  the  purpose  of 
showing  that  Shakespeare  was  loyal, 
amiable,  and  good-natured  when  Jon- 
son says,  in  his  Discoveries,  "I  loved 
the  man,  and  do  honour  his  memory,  on 
this  side  idolatry,  as  much  as  any.  He 
was  indeed  honest,  and  of  an  open  and 
free  nature."  Here  "  honest "  means 
much  more  than  merely  truthful  and 
trustworthy.  It  does  mean  loyal,  ingen- 
uous, generosus ;  and  this  testimony  is 
the  most  important  and  significant  that 
we  have  to  the  admirable  and  lovable 
side  of  Shakespeare's  personal  charac- 
ter. All  the  more  is  it  so  when  the 
rough,  gruff,  and  even  quarrelsome  and 
envious  nature  of  the  eulogist  is  consid- 

o 

ered. 

Shakespeare,  it  would  seem,  had  in 
a  notable  degree  the  attaching  quality  ; 
which  is  sometimes  found  united  with 
great  intellectual  power,  but  which  quite 
as  often  is  found,  arid  at  least  in  an 
equal  degree,  in  those  who  are  far  from 
being  distinguished  either  for  wisdom 


1884.] 


The  Anatomizing  of  William  Shakespeare. 


265 


or  for  knowledge.  Nor,  indeed,  is  this 
quality  always  or  necessarily  accompa- 
nied by  truthfulness,  or  purity,  or  hon- 
esty, or  kindness,  or  moral  goodness  of 
any  kind.  Bad  men,  selfish  men,  often 
have  it :  men  of  the  highest  moral  ex- 
cellence, men  who  are  unselfish  even  to 
self-sacrifice,  are  often  wholly  without 
its  charm.  It  seems  to  be  the  result  of 
a  union  of  manner  and  tact,  and  to  be 
quite  as  often  as  not  the  result  of  pur- 
pose, of  determination  and  skill  in  the 
art  of  "  making  friends."  Its  most  com- 
mon methods  and  indications  are  a  del- 
icate way  of  flattering  the  vanity  and 
serving  —  generally  in  small  matters  — 
the  interests  of  those  around  us.  Shake- 
speare himself  knew  this,  as  he  appears 
to  have  known  by  intuition  everything 
about  man's  moral  nature  ;  and  his 
greatest  villain,  the  blackest-hearted  hu- 
man fiend  in  imaginative  literature,  —  it 
is  needless  to  name  lago,  —  has  it  in  a 
greater  degree  than  any  other  personage 
that  appears  in  his  dramas.  Nor  was 
lago,  in  seeming  (and  in  social  relations, 
if  not  in  personal,  seeming  is  reality), 
without  the  other  qualities  which  Jouson 
found  in  Shakespeare.  Until  the  catas- 
trophe of  the  great  tragedy  is  close  at 
hand,  we  have  the  testimony  of  every 
person  involved  in  it  that  lago  was  in- 
deed honest  arid  of  an  open  and  free  na- 
ture. To  the  noble  Moor  he  was  to  the 
very  end  "  honest,  honest  lago ;  "  and 
Cassio  believed  unto  the  last  that  lago 

o 

loved  him. 

Let  me  not  be  misunderstood  or  mis- 
represented. That  Shakespeare  was  no 
such  hypocrite  and  fiend  as  lago  was 
needs  not  be  said.  All  that  we  have  to 
remember  is  that,  according  to  the  very 
showing  of  the  great  master  of  the  hu- 
man heart,  the  light-giving  sun  of  world- 
ly wisdom,  Jonson's  testimony  does  not 
prove  that  he  might  not  have  been  so,  — 
does  not  even  prove  that  upon  sufficient 
provocation  and  good  occasion  he  might 
not  have  put  such  hypocrisy  and  fiend- 
ishness  in  practice.  Jonson's  testimony 


tells  us  merely  what  Jonson  thought.  It 
does,  however,  make  it  highly  improb- 
able that  Shakespeare  was  untrustwor- 
thy or  unscrupulously  selfish  ;  it  does 
make  it  certain  that  he  appeared  to  those 
who  were  in  constant  and  intimate  asso- 
ciation with  him  a  man  of  an  honest, 
frank,  lovable  nature. 

A  careful  consideration  of  what  we 
know  about  Shakespeare  the  man  leads 
to  the  conclusion  that  he  was  one  of 
those  who  play  to  win  ;  —  always,  the 
game  of  life  or  any  other  game.  Suc- 
cess, the  getting  and  keeping  of  his  own, 
were  the  ends  he  kept  constantly  in 
view.  To  this  he  brought  an  unequaled 
knowledge  of  men  and  things,  and  an 
ability  in  affairs  which  (considering  the 
limited  field  of  his  action  in  this  respect) 
seems  to  have  been  not  inferior  to  his 
other  personal  gifts.  He  presents  to  us 
the  strange  and  admirable  union  of  a 
good  manager  and  a  great  poet,  an  econ- 
omist and  a  writer  of  fiction,  a  player 
and  a  man  of  thrift.  Like  many  other 
men,  — can  we  not  say  like  most  other 
men?  —  vastly  his  inferiors,  he  had  two 
natures  :  Shakespeare  the  poet  was  one 
man  ;  Shakespeare  outside  the  realm  of 
poetry  was  another  man.  The  two  orbits 
in  which  his  dual  nature  revolved  did 
not  overlap  ;  they  did  not  even  touch. 
Unlike  and  far  above  all  the  rest  of  the 
world  in  some  things,  in  this  he  was  like 
many  of  the  humblest  of  his  worship- 
ers. 

Now  it  is  sadly  sure  that  success  in 
life,  the  success  which  consists  chiefly 
in  rising  from  poverty  to  wealth,  is, 
with  very  rare  exceptions,  the  accom- 
paniment and  the  consequence  of  a  cer- 
tain hardness  of  nature.  Successful  men 
are  those  who  make  hard  bargains  with 
the  world,  and  hardly  hold  to  them.  If 
to  this  quality  they  add  tact,  the  power 
of  managing,  the  power  of  personally 
pleasing  those  with  whom  they  are 
brought  in  contact ;  and  if,  moreover, 
they  have  brilliant  talents,  their  success 
attains  the  point  of  splendor.  All  these 


266 


The  Anatomizing  of  William  Shakespeare.  [August, 


qualities  seem  to  have  been  Shake- 
speare's ;  all  this  success  he  certainly 
did  attain. 

The  notion  that  a  good  poet  must  be 
a  good  man  may  be  dismissed  without 
further  consideration,  notwithstanding 
the  respectability  of  the  names  by  which 
it  is  supported.  Indeed,  all  general  rules 
of  moral  judgment,  all  opinions  of  men 
formed  upon  classification,  are  futile  and 
untrustworthy.  A  man  is  an  individual, 
and  must  be  judged  by  himself.  The 
interesting  question  remains,  Was  this 
great  poet  a  good  man  ?  We  don't  know. 
We  only  know  that  he  was  civil  in  his 
demeanor;  that  his  conduct  united  with 
his  great  mental  gifts  to  win  him,  stand- 
ing in  the  lowest  social  position,  the 
favor  of  those  who  were  in  the  highest ; 
that  Ben  Jonson  loved  him  (his  recogni- 
tion of  the  merit  of  Every  Man  in  his 
Humour  brought  Ben  into  notice)  and 
thought  him  honest  and  of  a  free  and 
open  nature  ;  that,  being  only  an  actor 
and  a  playwright,  he  rose  rapidly  from 
absolute  poverty  to  very  considerable 
wealth  ;  that  to  please  the  coarse  tastes 
of  a  considerable  part  of  the  public,  by 
pleasing  which  he  prospered,  he  who 
when  he  spoke  judicially  denounced  in- 
decency as  bad  in  morals  and  bad  in  art 
made  his  plays  more  copiously,  more 
grossly,  and  more  ingeniously  indecent 
than  any  others  known  to  modern  lit- 
erature ;  that  he  sued  one  of  his  Strat- 
ford townsmen  for  £1  15s.  lOd,  and  an- 
other for  £6,  and  getting  judgment 
against  the  latter,  and  not  being  able  to 
arrest  him,  he  proceeded  against  his  sure- 
ty ;  that  he  did  not  save  his  father  from 
similar  prosecution  on  the  part  of  his 
creditors,  but  that  he  did  buy  from  the 
Herald's  College  a  coat-of-arms  for  that 
father,  and  a  patent  of  gentry  full  of 
falsehood,  of  which  he,  at  least,  was  cog- 
nizant ;  and  that  when  William  Combe, 
the  squire  of  Welcombe,  projected  the 
in  closure  of  a  large  part  of  the  common- 
fields  at  Stratford-on-Avon,  and  there 
was  great  opposition  in  the  interests  of 


such  men  as  Shakespeare's  father  and  the 
poor  agricultural  laborers,  he,  notwith- 
standing entreaty,  stood  by  the  rich, 
grasping  squire. 

We  may  be  sure  that  Shakespeare's 
life  was,  according  to  the  manners  and 
morals  of  the  time,  decorous,  —  consid- 
ering his  profession,  notably  decorous  ; 
that  his  manners  were  ingratiating ;  and 
that  above  all  things  else  he  was  pru- 
dent :  that  after  his  first  bitter  experi- 
ence at  Stratford  of  the  consequences  of 
youthful  imprudence  the  guiding  rule 
of  his  life  was,  "  Nullum  numen  abest, 
si  sit  prudentia  ;  "  1  that  he  was  at  the 
least  prudently  just ;  that  he  was  pru- 
dently kind  in  his  actions,  and  perhaps 
more  ;  that  it  probably  was  agreeable  to 
him  to  be  more  than  prudently  courte- 
ous ;  that  he  manifested  imprudently  no 
personal  resentments  or  dislikes ;  and 
that  he  brought,  with  notable  discretion, 
all  his  great  faculties  and  all  his  intu- 
itive knowledge  of  the  world  not  only 
to  his  task  of  play-writing,  but  to  the 
advancement  of  his  fortunes  and  the 
elevation  of  his  social  position. 

The  condition  of  life  in  which  he 
found  himself  was  one  from  which  his 
taste  revolted.  He  loathed  his  profes- 
sion, acting,  and  looked  upon  his  occu- 
pation, play-writing,  only  as  a  means  of 
getting  money.  This  he  tells  us  himself 
in  two  of  those  sonnets  (the  110th  and 
lllth)  which  he  circulated  among  his 
private  friends.  The  passages  are  well 
known  to  all  students  of  his  life  and 
writings,  but  they  will  bear  repetition 
here.  They  are  mingled  with  others 
which  refer  to  that  bewildering  personal 
story  which  seems  to  be  told  in  those 
fascinating  verses.  As  to  his  profession, 
he  says  in  the  second  of  these  son- 
nets, — 

'  O,  for  my  sake  do  you  with  Fortune  chide, 
The  guilty  goddess  of  my  harmful  deeds, 
That  did  not  better  for  my  life  provide 
Than    public    means    which     public    manners 
breeds. 

1  If  prudence  be  present,  no  divinity  is  absent. 


1884.] 


Where  It  Listeth. 


267 


Thence  comes  it  that  my  name  receives  a  brand, 
And  almost  thence  my  nature  is  subdu'd 
To  what  it  works  in,  like  the  dyer's  hand." 

Most  sad,  most  touching  ;  in  expression 
almost  beyond  just  admiration.  Was 
bitterness  of  soul,  was  the  anguish  of  a 
man  who  eats  his  own  heart  in  secret, 
ever  told  with  so  much  of  abasement 
and  so  much  of  reserve  ?  Knowing  him- 
self to  be  so  far  by  nature  above  most 
of  the  grand  people  he  saw  around  him, 
he  felt  every  hour  how  much,  in  their 
eyes  and  in  position,  he  was  beneath 
them !  And  then  his  means  were  public. 
He  could  not  conceal  from  others  the 
stigma  of  his  caste :  he  must  parade  it 
daily,  and  daily  suffer  from  its  contam- 
ination. Then  as  to  his  play-writing  he 
says  in  the  other  sonnet,  — 

''Alas,  't  is  true  ;  I  have  gone  here  and  there 
And  made  myself  a  motley  to  the  view, 
Gor'd  mine  own  thoughts,  sold  cheap  what  is 

most  dear, 
Made  old  offences  of  affections  new  ; 


Most  true  it  is  that  I  have  look'd  on  truth 
Askance  and  strangely." 

Sad,  sad  again  :  this  revelation  not  only 
of  his  consciousness  that  he  was  delib- 
erately coining  his  soul  into  money, 
but  that  for  money's  sake  he  had 
"  looked  on  truth  askance  and  strange- 
ly ; "  that  for  money's  sake  he  had  mor- 
ally been  reckless  of  his  own  rede ;  that 
in  his  counsel  he  could  say  meliora 
probo,  but  in  his  action  deteriora  sequor  ; 
and  this  not  from  waywardness,  or  wan- 
tonness, or  heat  of  blood,  but  in  the  way 
of  "  business,"  —  which,  by  the  way,  as 
the  common  shield  of  all  abomination 
has  become  the  most  loathsome  word  in 
the  English  language.  But  Shakespeare 
being  the  man  he  was,  his  position  was 
one  of  constant  suffering  and  sore  per- 
plexity, and  his  only  relief  from  it  was 
by  the  attainment  of  wealth.  We  need 
not  shut  our  eyes  to  the  truth  as  we 
confess  that  it  becomes  very  few  of  us 
to  judge  him  harshly. 

Richard  Grant  White. 


WHERE   IT   LISTETH. 


THERE  is,  on  a  certain  sylvan  estate 
of  my  thought,  a  little  area  where  only 
the  anemone  grows,  year  after  year  hold- 
ing the  ground  in  undisturbed  tenure. 
Whenever  the  wind  blows,  though  never 
so  rudely,  bloom  runs  rife  over  the 
anemone  bank  ;  then  I  mark  a  swift  un- 
folding and  buoyant  stirring  of  petals  on 
which  the  sun  shone  and  the  rain  dropped 
gentle  persuasion  in  vain.  I  gather  at 
random  a  handful  of  these  blossoms, 
well  pleased  if  any  lover  of  the  wild- 
garden  recognize  a  familiar  species. 

I  remember  a  kinship  we  have  with 
the  wind :  Anima,  the  wind ;  also  the 
breath  or  life  of  man.  Sometimes,  on 
a  listless  summer  day,  a  sudden  gust 
sweeps  the  dust  of  the  road  into  vertical 
form,  bears  it  along  for  a  few  seconds, 


then  mysteriously  disperses  it.  When 
this  happens,  it  seems  to  me  that  I  have 
seen  a  vague  type  or  semblance  of  hu- 
manity, —  dust  and  spirit  imperfectly 
compounded  by  some  unimaginable  am- 
bition in  the  earthy  atoms  goaded  into 
momentary,  troubled  activity. 

Air  in  motion,  says  the  old  stand- 
ing definition.  The  sailor,  who  surely 
should  know  best,  recognizes  twelve 
phases  of  the  wind,  of  which  the  first  in 
the  series  is  called  "  faint  air,"  the  last 
"  storm."  Science  informs  us  as  to  the 
traveling  records  made  by  each :  the 
hurricane's  speed  ranges  from  eighty  to 
one  hundred  miles  an  hour,  while  even 
gentle  air,  whose  rate  is  but  seven  miles 
an  hour,  more  than  keeps  up  with  your 
average  roadster. 


268 


Where  It  Listeth. 


[August, 


Elizabethan  Davies,  whose  verse  has 
touch  both  of  the  savant  and  the  tran- 
scendentalist,  inquires,  — 

"Lastly,  where  keep  the  Winds  their  revelry, 
Their  violent  turnings,  and  wild  whirling  hays, 
But  in  the  Air's  translucent  gallery  ? 
Where  she  herself  is  turned  a  hundred  ways 
While  with  those  maskers  wantonly  she  plays." 

We  may  thank  what  we  call  "  poetic 
license  "  for  the  permission  it  gives  us 
to  make  the  vowel  long  in  the  word 
"  wind : '"  this  pronunciation  admirably 
preserves  the  prime  idea  of  the  sinuous 
and  subtle  force  exerted  by  the  wander- 
ing air.  Homer  mentions  a  river,  called 
Ocean,  encircling  the  earth.  The  true 
Ocean  River,  —  what  is  it  but  the  mad 
stream  of  the  winds  forever  beating  the 
terrestrial  shore  ?  Homer's  epithets  de- 
scriptive of  the  sea  instantly  come  into 
the  mind :  the  wind,  too,  is  an  earth- 
shaker,  is  many-sounding ;  full  of  sea 
tones,  hungry-voiced  as  the  sea  itself. 
Here  its  current  may  be  running  with 
halcyon  smoothness,  spreading  out  in 
a  gentle  lake  or  pool  of  despond ;  else- 
where, at  the  same  moment,  it  courses 
in  rapids,  spins  cyclones,  and  buffets  the 
heavens  with  its  huge  billows.  It  may 
almost  be  said  to  have  its  tides,  like  the 
sea ;  to  encroach  upon  one  coast,  erod- 
ing it  by  stealthy  pinches,  while  it  tem- 
porarily builds  up  another.  This  upper 
ocean  stream  moulds  as  it  will  the  under 
watery  plain,  and  its  crafty  deity  com- 
pletely overrules  the  bulky  Neptune. 

Upon  sand  and  snow  the  wind  leaves 
an  imprint  of  its  wave-like  motion,  with 
record  of  the  direction  in  which  it  trav- 
eled. This  invisible  swift  stream  fur- 
rows the  level  snow,  and  carves  a  drift 
as  a  river  does  its  banks.  I  almost  for- 
get that  the  wind  is  not  palpable  to  the 
eye,  so  evident  is  the  motion  which  it 
everywhere  imparts.  As  a  medium  of 
expression,  a  deep  meadow  in  the  month 
of  June  will  do.  Once  walking  along 
the  edge  of  such  a  field,  I  experienced 
a  slight  giddiness,  as  though  I  had  been 
looking  down  on  water  from  a  ship's 


deck.  As  the  fresh  breeze  swept  over 
the  luxuriant  meadow,  the  long  swell 
and  endless  succession  of  waves  seemed 
to  me  excellent  counterfeit  of  the  sea's 
surging ;  even  spray  was  not  lacking, 
for  such  I  counted  the  gray  bloom  of  the 
grass  marking  the  crest  of  each  wave. 
The  birds  that  flew  over  the  field,  or 
dipped  under  its  blossom-spray,  by  an 
easy  hyperbole  of  vision  became  sea- 
birds,  and  something  in  their  free,  aban- 
doned flight  gave  the  fancy  countenance. 
When  I  hear  the  wind  in  the  tops  of 
great  trees,  my  first  impression  is  that 
if  I  look  up  I  shall  see  its  strong  cur- 
rent drawing  through  them,  and,  far 
above  their  leafy  periphery,  the  broken 
crests  and  white  caps  of  the  airy  sea,  — 
flecks  of  light,  detached  cloud  driving 
on  or  past  some  shrouded  island  or  main 
shore,  cloud  also,  but  denser,  and  slower 
in  its  drifting.  As  a  child,  I  thought 
the  stars  and  the  wind  were  associated ; 
the  higher  the  wind,  the  brighter  shone 
the  stars.  Still,  on  a  breezy  night,  I 
find  it  easy  to  imagine  that  their  brill- 
iance comes  and  goes  with  the  wind,  like 
so  many  bickering  flames  of  torch  or 
candle. 

As  a  description  of  the  long  flow  and 
refluerice  of  the  wind,  the  air's  voice  with 
the  circumflex  accent,  I  know  of  no  com- 
bination of  words  surpassing  in  beauty 
this  passage  from  Hyperion  :  — 

"As  when,  upon  a  tranced  summer  night, 
Those  green-robed  senators  of  mighty  woods, 
Tall  oaks,  branch-charmed  by  the  earnest  stars, 
Dream,  and  so  dream  all  night  without  a  stir, 
Save  from  one  gradual  solitary  gust 
Which  comes  upon  the  silence,  and  dies  off, 
As  if  the  ebbing  air  had  but  one  wave." 

This  is  the  breathing  of  enchanted  soli- 
tude, but  immeasurable  desolation  finds 
a  voice  in  these  lines  from  Morte  d' Ar- 
thur :  — 

,  "An  agony 

Of  lamentation,  like  a  wind,  that  shrills 
All  night  in  a  waste  land  where  no  one  comes, 
Or  hath  come,  since  the  making  of  the  world." 

The  tumult  of  sound,  half  heroic  proph- 
esying, half  mournful  reminiscence,  that 
runs  through  the  forest  roof  at  the  be- 


1884.] 


Where  It  Listeth. 


269 


ginning  of  a  storm  is  beard  in  the  fol- 
lowing :  — 

"A  wind  arose  and  rush'd  upon  the  South, 
And  shook  the  songs,  the  whispers,    and  the 

phrieks 
Of  the  wild  woods  together." 

Something  stormy  in  the  soul  rises  to 
applaud  the  storm  without,  and  cheer  on 
the  combatants,  with  a  "  Blow,  blow, 
thou  winter  wind,"  or  a  "  Blow,  wind, 
and  crack  your  cheeks  !  rage  !  blow  ! ' 
As  I  listen,  on  a  December  night,  to  this 
traveler  from  the  uttermost  west,  — 
whose  wing,  for  aught  I  know,  carries 
sifting  from  the  old  snow  of  Mount 

o 

Hood  or  St.  Helen,  —  I  am  put  in  mind, 
now  of  the  claps  and  shocks  of  great  sea 
waves,  of  the  panting  breath  of  wild 
herds  driven  by  prairie  fire,  of  the  whizz- 
ing of  legion  arrows  ;  but  softly !  now, 
by  a  magical  decrescendo,  the  sound  is 
reported  to  my  ear  as  merely  a  mighty 
rustling  of  silken  garments,  —  audible 
proof  of  invisible  eclat  at  this  state  levee 
of  the  elements.  I  know  how  the  trees 
thrill  with  excitement,  swaying  to  and 
fro  and  nodding  deliriously,  as  though  the 
tunes  of  Amphion  were  even  now  tickling 
their  sense  for  music  and  dancing.  Espe- 
cially I  figure  the  ecstasy  of  the  pine 
and  the  hemlock,  whose  rocking  motion 

7  C3 

suggests  that  of  a  skiff  moored  in  un- 
quiet waters  :  they  would  perhaps  like 
to  snap  their  rooty  cables,  and  go  reel- 
ing away  on  the  vast  wind-sea !  If  there 
is  anything  in  heredity,  the  pine-tree 
must  have  an  instinct  for  maritime  life ; 
so,  I  fancy,  it  foresees  and  sings  a  time 
when  it  shall  become  the  "  mast  of  some 
tall  ammiral." 

Each  wind  has  its  own  weather  signi- 
ficance quite  constant  in  value.  "  When 
ye  see  a  cloud  rise  out  of  the  west, 
straightway  ye  say,  There  cometh  a 
shower  ;  and  so  it  is.  And  when  ye  see 
the  south  wind  blow,  ye  say,  There  will 
be  heat ;  and  it  cometh  to  pass,"  — 
prognostics  that  still  hold  good.  The 
world  around,  the  east  wind  is  known  as 
a  malicious  dispenser  both  of  physical 


and  spiritual  ill.  Beyond  question,  he 
would  be  hailed  as  the  benefactor  of  his 
race  who  should  invent  some  method  of 
hermetically  sealing  the  east  wind ;  yet, 
could  this  be  done,  immediately  some 
one  of  the  other  three  would  undertake 
the  discharge  of  its  suppressed  neigh- 
bor's duties.  It  is  said  that  at  Buenos 
Ayres  the  wind  from  the  north  is  the 
most  dreaded.  During  its  continuance, 
citizens  who  are  compelled  to  be  out- 
of-doors  wear  split  beans  upon  their 
temples  to  relieve  the  headache  which  it 
causes,  and  a  special  increase  of  crime 
is  noted. 

Why  does  the  world's  literature  teem 
with  fond  reference  to  the  south  and  the 
south  wind's  amenity  ?  The  poets  are 
all  in  the  northern  hemisphere  !  Had 
there  been  bards  in  Patagonia  and 
New  Zealand,  it  is  safe  to  say  that  the 
balmy  north  wind  would  have  wandered 
through  the  gardens  of  their  rhetoric,  or 
the  nipping  and  eager  south  wind  would 
have  scathed  their  flowers.  Who  is 
quite  able  to  fancy  that  the  weather  of 
the  South  Pole  is  every  whit  as  frosty 
as  that  of  the  North  ? 

Formerly  the  winds  were  thought  to 
be  amenable  to  the  will  of  magicians,  or 
of  other  mortals  superhumanly  favored. 
Not  to  go  back  so  far  as  .ZEolus  Hippot- 
ades  and  his  gifts  to  Ulysses,  we  may 
find  in  the  Anatomy  of  Melancholy  an 
interesting  account  of  a  certain  king  of 

O  a 

Sweden,  who  had  an  "  enchanted  cap, 
by  virtue  of  which,  and  some  magical 
murmur  or  whispering  terms,  he  could 
command  spirits,  trouble  the  air,  and 
make  the  wind  stand  which  way  he 
would  ;  insomuch  that  when  there  was 
any  great  wind  or  storm  the  common 
people  were  wont  to  say  the  king  now 
had  on  his  conjuring  cap."  Once  the 
credulous  vanity  of  man  could  be  per- 
suaded that  the  elements  were  agitated 
at  the  approach  of  calamity  to  himself. 
On  the  19th  of  May,  1663,  Sir  Samuel 
Pepys  made  the  following  entry  in  his 
immortal  diary :  "  Waked  with  a  very 


270 


Where  It  Listeth. 


[August, 


high  wind,  and  said  to  my  wife,  « I  pray 
God  I  hear  not  the  death  of  any  great 
person,  this  wind  is  so  high  ! '  fearing 
that  the  queen  might  be  dead.  So  up 
and  by  coach  to  St.  James's,  and  hear 
that  Sir  W.  Compton  died  yesterday." 
It  would  be  edifying  to  know  something 
more  about  the  wind-gauge  used  by  old 
Pepys  in  making  his  necrological  calcu- 
lations ;  for  instance,  the  exact  volume 
of  disturbed  air  corresponding  with  the 
demise  of  a  person  in  any  given  rank  of 
the  nobility.  Presumably,  an  English 
yeoman  might  have  died,  and  not  so 
much  as  a  zephyr  have  troubled  the 
good  old  chronicler's  slumbers  with  in- 
telligence of  the  fact. 

The  idle  wind  ?  How  so  sure  that  it 
is  idle  ?  Though  it  pipes  in  the  key- 
hole and  soughs  in  the  boughs  of  the 
roof-tree,  that  is  not  its  main  employ. 
The  brown-studying  mortal,  who  hums 
or  whistles  a  tune  while  engaged  with 
the  solution  of  some  vast  mechanical  or 
ideal  problem,  I  should  not  call  idle. 
Because  I  am  unadvised  of  its  affairs, 
shall  I  presume  to  call  the  west  wind  a 
vagrant  ? 

Though  I  lack  the  conjuring  cap,  as 
also  knowledge  of  the  whispering  terms 
by  means  of  which  I  could  make  the 
wind  stand  according  to  my  pleasure, 
perhaps  I  can  induce  it  to  do  me  a  good 
turn.  Given  a  small  crevice  between 
the  two  sashes  of  a  window ;  a  couple 
of  wedges  (of  pine  let  them  be)  ;  a  waxed 
thread  of  silk  stretched  between  them 
^  in  the  crevice,  through  which  the  stream 
of  the  wind  glides,  as  water  in  a  race  to 
serve  some  skillful  enterprise  of  man  : 
and  now  I  have  a  musical  instrument, 
simpler  in  its  construction,  and  yet  not  un- 
like that  from  which  "  the  God  of  winds 
drew  sounds  of  deep  delight,"  to  charm 
the  dwellers  of  Castle  Indolence.  It  is 
pleasing  to  know  that  the  last  of  the 
minstrels  still  lives,  and  may  be  won  to 
come  and  play  at  your  casement,  if  you 
will  but  provide  a  harp  for  his  use.  As 
soon  as  the  thread  is  stretched  in  the 


crevice,  and  the  wind  comes  upon  it,  I 
seem  to  listen  to  the  smooth  continua- 
tion of  an  old-time  or  old-eternity  music 
which  I  have  not  heard  before,  only  be- 
cause my  ear  lacked  the  true  sense  of 
hearing.  The  wind  bloweth  where  it 
listeth ;  and  these  sounds,  breathed 
through  a  trivial  instrument,  are  always 
coming  and  going  between  earth  and 
heaven,  free,  elemental,  mysterious,  born 
of  a  spirit  unsearchable.  Yet  they  seem 
to  admit  of  human  interpretation,  and  I 
hear  in  them  both  requiem  and  jubilate, 
the  canticle  of  comforted  sorrow  and  the 
voice  of  hope.  Sometimes,  with  the  ebb- 
ing of  the  wind,  a  cadence  just  fails  of 
completion,  —  like  a  bright  gossamer, 
that,  running  through  the  sunshine, 
presently  dips  into  shade  and  becomes 
invisible.  But  the  inner  ear  keeps  a 
vibration,  and  imagination  fills  up  the 
interval  until  the  wind  returns.  Then 
I  prove  that 

"  Heard  melodies  are  sweet,  but  those  unheard 
Are  sweeter." 

This  harp  of  the  wind  is  also,  by 
turns,  flute  and  shrill  fife,  silver  bells 
and  the  "  horns  of  elfland  faintly  blow- 
ing." Occasionally  it  emits  a  strain  of 
exquisite  purity,  resembling  the  highest 
and  clearest  of  violin  tones  prolonged 
under  the  bow  of  a  master.  The  min- 
strel strikes  many  varying  notes  of  the 
music  of  nature,  —  the  faint  tinkling  of 
a  small  brook,  the  far-away  cheer  of 
migrating  birds,  the  summer-afternoon 
droning  of  bees  in  the  hive,  and  even 
the  guttural  tremolo  of  frogs  heard  in 
the  distance.  Under  a  sudden  violent 
stress  of  the  wind  the  strings  of  the  harp 
(for  I  sometimes  add  a  second  string)^ 
shriek  with  dissonant  agony.  Each  dis- 
cordant sound,  I  imagine,  is  but  the 
strayed  and  mismated  fragment  of  some 
harmonious  whole,  of  which  nothing 
now  remains  except  this  solitary  wan- 
dering clamor.  All  these  remnants  of 
wrecked  musical  unities,  perhaps  forced 
together  by  secret  compulsion,  seem  be- 
wailing in  unknown  tongues  their  per- 


1884.] 


Lodge's  Historical  Studies. 


271 


petual  alienation  from  harmony.  Of 
such  character  might  all  discord  be  said 
to  be. 

Following  the  slim  thread  of  this 
JEolian  rivulet  I  find  the  way  to  sleep. 
My  dreams  aTe  mingled  and  tempered 
sweetly  by  the  bland  spirit  of  the  harp, 
that  through  the  dark,  oblivious  hours 
plays  on,  unweaving  all  evil  spells  of 
the  night. 


"  Be  not  afeard  ;  the  isle  is  full  of  noises, 
Sound,  and    sweet  airs  that  give  delight  and 

hurt  not. 

Sometimes  a  thousand  twangling  instruments 
Will   hum   about   mine   ears ;    and   sometimes 

voices, 

That,  if  I  then  had  waked  after  long  sleep, 
Will  make  me  sleep  again." 

To  which  may  be  added  the  pleasant 
consideration  that  I  "  have  my  music 
for  nothing." 

Edith  M.  Tliomas. 


LODGE'S   HISTORICAL   STUDIES.1 


THESE  Studies  are  a  collection  of 
the  Essays  heretofore  contributed  by 
Mr.  Lodge  to  sundry  reviews  and  maga- 
zines. Their  permanent  value  and  in- 
terest are  amply  sufficient  to  make  this 
re-publication  desirable.  For  example, 
the  paper  on  Timothy  Pickering  is  a 
wonderful  piece  of  character-drawing. 
Some  masterly  touches,  scattered  gen- 
erously through  its  forty  pages,  depict 
to  the  life,  with  infinitely  more  vivid- 
ness than  all  the  four  great  volumes  of 
the  Uphain  biography,  the  stern,  un- 
flinching, narrow,  opinionated,  uncom- 
promising, honest,  indefatigable,  stub- 
born, intense  statesman,  the  character- 
istic product  of  the  mature  youth  of 
the  old  Puritan  province.  To  appre- 
ciate this  striking  portrait  is  to  make 
a  long  stride  towards  the  comprehension 
of  the  singular  and  strongly  marked 
people  who  grew  into  something  like  an 
individual  race  in  New  England.  Pick- 
ering was  a  better  exemplification  of 
them  than  John  Adams,  who  is  so  often 
spoken  of  as  the  typical  Puritan  and 
New  Euglander  of  that  day  ;  for  Picker- 
ing was  limited  and  colonial,  and  there- 
in closely  resembled  his  fellow  citizens, 
whereas  Adams  had  a  breadth  and  lib- 
erality which  few  of  them  had  then  ac- 

Studies    in  History.      By  HENRY    CABOT 
LODGE.    Boston :  Houghton,  Mifflin  &  Co.    1884. 


quired.  Gloomy,  almost  repellent,  as 
those  bygone  generations  seem  in  com- 
parison with  the  gayer  tints  of  modern 
times,  Hawthorne  has  long  since  taught 
us  that  our  forefathers  were  pictur- 
esque. But  no  other  writer  has  ever 
been  able  to  draw  the  picture,  and  Haw- 
thorne dealt  mistily  with  fabled  beings. 
Now,  however,  comes  Mr.  Lodge,  and, 
sketching  for  us  sundry  real  people, 
shows  not  only  that  he  has  caught  the 
spirit,  life,  and  character  of  the  cisat- 
lantic Puritan,  but  that  he  can,  by  a 
happy  power  of  description,  get  these 
upon  paper  before  us  with  the  combined 
truthfulness  of  the  photograph  and  of 
the  painting. 

In  this  connection,  also,  should  be 
mentioned  the  article  happily  entitled  A 
Puritan  Pepys,  wherein  are  reviewed 
the  three  large  octavos  of  the  famous 
Sewall  Diary.  This  is  altogether  the 
pleasantest  bit  of  reading  in  the  book. 
Gleaning  in  fields  full  of  stubble,  Mr. 
Lodge  has  yet  gathered  a  delightful 
sheaf,  and  presents  it  to  us  so  fragrant 
with  the  antique  atmosphere  that  while 
we  read  we  seem  to  be  living  two  hun- 
dred years  ago.  We  at  once  sympathize 
with  and  are  diverted  by  that  strange, 
hard,  earnest  life,  wherein,  after  long 
wintry  hours  of  prayer  and  sermons,  the 
God-fearing  flock  partook  of  the  sacra- 


272 


Lodge's  Historical  Studies. 


[August, 


mental  morsels,  frozen  so  that  they  rat- 
tled on  the  plate.  The  paper  is  in  Mr. 
Lodge's  best  vein  ;  he  deals  faithfully 
with  a  grave  topic,  yet  constantly  illu- 
minates it  with  a  humor  that  enlivens 
without  falsifying  the  picture  of  a  com- 
munity in  which  "  the  great  and  -really 
the  sole  regular  diversion  was  found  in 
going  to  funerals."  Sewall  himself,  the 
worthy  and  pious  magistrate,  as  Mr. 
Lodge  says,  "  regarded  his  offspring 
chiefly  as  conspicuous  and  instructive 
examples  of  original  sin  ; '  yet  nothing 
could  be  more  charmingly  human  than 
his  amorous  temperament,  or  more  ex- 
quisitely amusing  than  his  persevering 
efforts  to  escape  the  miseries  of  sin- 
gle life.  His  first  wife  lived  with  him 
forty -four  years.  Five  months  after 
her  death  he  was  courting  Mrs.  Win- 
throp,  who  received  him  so  coldly  that 
he  "  turned  to  Mrs.  Dennison,  whose 
husband's  will  he  had  lately  probated." 
But  trouble  about  the  settlements  turned 
him  from  this  quest,  though  "  his  bow- 
els yearned  to "  the  lady,  and  though 
she  actually  visited  him  and  begged  him 
to  carry  the  matter  through.  But  he 
would  not,  and  married  the  widow  Til- 
ley.  Her,  too,  he  buried  in  less  than  a 
year,  and  then  returned  again  to  Mrs. 
"VVinthrop.  He  kissed  her  and  held 
her  hand,  persuading  her  to  allow  him 
to  draw  off  her  glove  by  seductively 
arguing  that  "  't  was  great  odds  be- 
tween handling  a  dead  goat  and  a  living 
lady."  But  since  he  could  not  be  in- 
duced either  to  keep  a  coach  or  to  wear 
a  wig,  Mrs.  Winthrop  would  not  have 
him  ;  neither  would  Mrs.  Ruggles  ;  and 
he  was  at  last  made  happy  by  Mrs.  Gibbs, 
who  married  and  finally  buried  him.  In 
this  same  paper  occurs  'an  admirable 
sketch  of  the  old-time  prayer  :  "  The 
wider  range  of  subjects  is  the  most 
striking  feature  of  the  practice,  and  it  is 
this  quality  which  is  so  highly  character- 
istic and  instructive.  .  .  .  Every  topic 
of  interest,  personal  and  public ;  the 
thousand  and  one  purely  temporal  mat- 


ters, which  to-day  are  discussed  in  the 
newspapers  or  around  the  dinner  table ; 
the  affairs  of  the  state  and  of  foreign 

O 

nations,  all  alike  met  with  due  attention 
in  the  prayer  of  the  Puritan." 

The  contrast  between  these  bygone 
days  and  our  own  time  will  be  made  to 
stand  out  boldly  if,  after  reading  the 
Puritan  Pepys,  we  turn  to  the  last 
two  articles,  Colonialism  in  the  United 
States,  and  French  Opinions  of  the 
United  States,  1840-1881.  These  are 
historico-social  essays,  so  to  speak,  deal- 
ing chiefly  with  the  habits  of  life  and 
thought  of  our  people  in  the  present 
and  the  next  preceding  generation  ; 
witty,  picturesque,  full  of  wisdom  and 
good  sense,  with  sound  and  courageous 
criticism  of  certain  of  our  now  prev- 
alent ways  and  manners. 

The  real  reason,  however,  why  this 
collection  deserves  a  place  in  a  well-cho- 
sen library  lies  not  in  the  good  sense 
or  cleverness  of  the  articles  taken  singly, 
—  although  they  were  originally  writ- 
ten without  connected  design,  —  but  in 
the  fact  that  a  large  proportion  of  them, 
all  which  are  of  substantial  value,  are 
strung  upon  one  thread.  It  is  not  as 
"  studies  in  history  "  generally,  but  as 
studies  in  the  history  of  the  United 
States,  that  they  merit  preservation. 
The  volume  would  have  lost  little  by 
the  omission  of  The  Puritans  and  the 
Restoration,  a  paper  somewhat  brilliant 
and  in  the  style  of  Macaulay,  but  which 
any  clever  essayist  in  England  or  in 
this  country  might  easily  have  written. 
The  same  remark  is  true  of  The  Early 
Days  of  Fox,  and  in  a  less  degree  of 
the  paper  on  William  Cobbett,  though 
the  latter  has  of  course  in  parts  a  close 
bearing  on  American  history.  But  if 
Mr.  Lodge  had  nothing  better  than 
these  to  offer,  his  papers,  good  as  they 
are,  might  ha  ye  slept  in  peace  with  their 
comrades  on  the  pages  where  first  they 
fell.  It  is  in  dealing  with  the  history 
of  the  United  States,  and  especially  of 
New  England,  that  Mr.  Lodge  does  work 


1884.] 


Lodge 's  Historical  Studies. 


273 


which  has  not  yet  been  equaled  by  any 
writer.  A  few  others  have  acquired  a 
knowledge  as  extensive  as  his,  but  no 
other  has  manifested  such  a  capacity  for 
observing  the  connections  between  re- 
mote facts  ;  for  forming  sound  generali- 
zations ;  for  conceiving  and  producing 
in  accurate  relationship  all  the  parts  of 
a  broad  picture  ;  for  sketching  typical 
individuals  ;  for  appreciating  the  traits, 
sentiments,  and  motives  of  the  several 
American  communities  ;  and  for  tracing 
the  changes  without  losing  the  continuity 
running  through  the  modes  of  thought 
of  successive  generations. 

In  expressions  of  judgment  Mr.  Lodge 
is  a  trifle  too  dogmatic,  announcing  his 
opinions  with  the  air  of  a  chief  justice 
of  a  court  of  last  resort,  whereas  in 
fact  there  is  no  such  tribunal  in  the 
domain  of  history.  Fortunately,  how- 
ever, he  is  always  conscientious,  and  in 
the  main  is  fair,  moderate,  and  dispas- 
sionate. He  is  a  thorough-going  Feder- 
alist, of  course.  Probably  he  is  so  by 
original  nature  ;  but  certainly,  with  his 
education  and  training,  his  personal  and 
hereditary  affiliations,  he  could  not  fail 
to  sympathize  with  the  most  intellectual 
political  party  which  ever  existed  in 
this  or  any  other  country,  —  a  party,  too, 
in  the  second  ranks  of  which  his  great- 
grandfather occupied  a  somewhat  prom- 
inent position.  He  is  less  than  just  in 
dealing  with  Jefferson.  All  true  Fed- 
eralists always  have  undervalued  Jeffer- 
son's real  ability  in  every  respect  ex- 
cept as  regards  his  adroitness  as  a  poli- 
tician ;  and  they  have  been  even  more 
unjust  in  their  strictures  upon  his  moral 
character  and  his  honesty.  Jefferson 
was  far  greater,  broader,  sounder,  and 
vastly  more  honorable  than  has  been 
yet  admitted  by  Mr.  Lodge  or  any  wri- 
ter of  his  school.  But  on  the  other 
hand,  perhaps  by  way  of  striking  a  fair 
average,  Mr.  Lodge  offsets  his  dispar- 
agement of  Jefferson  by  almost  equally 
undeserved  praise  of  Gallatin,  —  a  man 
who  never  climbed  above  mediocrity 

VOL.  LIV.  —  NO.  322.  18  - 


in  statesmanship,  of  meagre  resources, 
scant  courage,  and  with  no  principles  so 
fixed  that  a  little  pressure  would  not  in- 
duce him  to  replace  them  with  others  of 
precisely  the  opposite  purport.  If  one 
wishes  to  be  liberal  in  praising  oppo- 
nents, let  him  at  least  select  those  who 
furnish  some  fair  basis  for  admiration, 
and  show  magnanimity  by  speaking  well 
of  the  heroes  who  have  hurt  his  friends 
rather  than  by  building  pedestals  for  the 
little  fellows  who  never  hit  a  hard  blow. 
Occasional  allusions  to  John  Adams,  also, 
in  the  volume,  show  only  his  faults  ;  and 
though  this  is  in  part  due  to  the  connec- 
tion, the  blunders  of  that  great  man. 
playing  a  prominent  part  in  the  crisis 
under  discussion,  yet  in  the  absence  of 
a  kind  or  modifying  word  the  general 
impression  left  is  unpleasant,  derogatory, 
and  imperfect.  Pickering,  on  the  other 
hand,  is  complimented  somewhat  over- 
highly  when  he  is  ranked  beside  Adams 
and  Hamilton  as  a  rival  "  third  leader  " 
of  the  Federalists. 

Mr.  Lodge,  though  a  young  man,  has 
already  written  much,  and  it  is  to  be 
expected  and  hoped  that  he  will  write 
much  more.  His  manner,  therefore,  as 
well  as  his  matter,  demands  considera- 
tion, and  his  style  as  a  writer  is,  in  a 
way,  of  public  interest.  He  has  many 
good  points:  his  English  is  pure;  his 
pages  are  free  from  those  inelegan- 
cies  which  Englishmen  call  "  American- 

O 

isms,"  and  equally  so  from  those  other 
inelegancies,  not  less  disagreeable  though 
hitherto  less  talked  about,  which  Amer- 
icans should  pluck  up  courage  to  brand 
by  their  well-deserved  name  of  "  Angli- 
cisms." He  has  the  advantage  of  earnest- 
ness of  manner,  of  vigor,  often  of  anima- 
tion ;  he  has  a  good  vocabulary,  and 
chooses  his  descriptive  words  very  well ; 
but  he  has  the  very  serious  fault  of  con- 
structing a  large  proportion  of  his  sen- 
tences very  ill.  They  are  involved ; 
they  appear  to  have  been  rapidly  writ- 
ten, and  not  to  have  been  re-shaped  with 
the  aim  of  giving  access  to  their  mean- 


274 


A  Modern  Prophet. 


[August, 


ing  by  a  steady  logical  evolution,  ex- 
panding through  a  clear  advance  from 
the  first  to  the  last  word.  The  con- 
tinuity is  broken  by  inter jectional  bits, 
misplaced  in  the  sentence.  He  con- 
stantly is  obliged  to  help  his  reader  to 
his  meaning  by  the  poor  aid  of  punc- 
tuation. It  is  singular  that  this  lack  of 
lucidity  in  arrangement  should  disfigure 
his  style,  since  the  general  framework 
of  his  essays  and  the  construction  of  his 
paragraphs  manifest  a  careful  regard  for 
clearness,  logical  sequence,  and  precis- 
ion of  thought.  If  this  criticism  seems 
too  minute,  it  at  least  involves  a  subtle 
compliment ;  it  would  not  be  applied  to 
men  f  roni  whom  we  expect  less  and  who 
can  give  us  less  than  can  rightfully  be 
demanded  at  the  hands  of  Mr.  Lodge. 

Of  the  book  as  a  whole  it  may  be 
truly  said  that  not  a  dozen  living  Amer- 
icans could  produce  its  peer.  Moreover, 
it  is  patriotic  work.  It  is  impossible  not 
to  observe  with  gratification  the  grow- 
ing tendency  of  American  writers  to 
deal  with  American  topics,  and  of  Amer- 
ican readers  to  find  pleasure  in  such 
subjects.  In  the  article  on  Colonialism 


in  the  United  States  Mr.  Lodge  is  more 
generous  than  just  when  he  praises 
Motley  and  Prescott  as  members  of  a 
new  national  school.  They  were  not ; 
they  had  abundance  of  American  ma- 
terial at  their  disposal,  and  had  they 
been  free  from  colonialism  they  would 
have  turned  to  this  and  embellished  the 
annals  of  the  American  Provinces  or  of 
the  United  States  rather  than  those  of 
the  Netherlands,  Spain,  Peru,  or  even 
Mexico.  The  same  difference  would 
have  marked  the  demands  of  readers, 
had  not  they  also  suffered  from  the  same 
taint.  But  that  foolish  prejudice  against 
our  own  history  is  now  happily  mori- 
bund, if  not  altogether  dead,  and  each 
such  essay  as  we  have  in  this  volume 
is  another  stitch  for  the  shroud.  It  is 
most  encouraging  to  see  that  Ameri- 
can historians  to-day  like  to  study  and 
to  write  the  history  of  their  own  land, 
and  that  American  readers  will  not 
only  buy,  but  will  read  and  discuss,  such 
volumes,  with  an  eagerness  and  interest 
which  the  like  material  could  by  no 
means  have  awakened  even  a  score  of 
years  ago. 


A  MODERN  PROPHET. 


MR.   FORD    MADOX   BROWN,   in   a 

large  picture  entitled  Work,  which  he 
exhibited  in  London  about  twenty  years 
ago,  introduced  two  figures,  whom  he 
thus  described  in  the  entertaining  cat- 

o 

alogue  which  accompanied  his  exhibi- 
tion :  "  These  are  the  brain  -  workers, 
who,  seeming  to  be  idle,  work,  and  are 
the  cause  of  well-ordained  work  and  hap- 
piness in  others.  Sages,  such  as  in  an- 
cient Greece,  published  their  opinions 
in  the  market  square.  Perhaps  one  of 
these  may  already,  before  he  or  others 
know  it,  have  moulded  a  nation  to  his 
pattern,  converted  .a  hitherto  combative 


race  to  obstinate  passivity  ;  with  a  word 
may  have  centupled  the  tide  of  emigra- 
tion, with  another  have  quenched  the 
political  passions  of  both  factions, — 
may  have  reversed  men's  notions  upon 
criminals,  upon  slavery,  upon  many 
things,  and  still  be  walking  about  little 
known  to  some.  The  other,  in  friendly 
communion  with  the  philosopher,  smil- 
ing, perhaps,  at  some  of  his  wild  sallies 
and  cynical  thrusts  (for  Socrates  at  times 
strangely  disturbs  the  seriousness  of  his 
auditory  by  the  mercilessness  of  his  jokes 
—  against  vice  and  foolishness),  is  in- 
tended for  a  kindred  and  yet  very  dis- 


1884.] 


A  Modern  Prophet. 


275 


similar  spirit  :  a  clergyman,  such  as 
the  Church  of  England  oilers  examples 
of, — a  priest  without  guile,  a  gentle- 
man without  pride,  much  in  communion 
with  the  working  classes,  '  honoring  all 
men,'  '  never  weary  in  well  -  doing ; ' 
scholar,  author,  philosopher,  and  teach- 
er, too,  in  his  way,  but  not  above  practi- 
cal efforts,  if  even  for  a  small  amount  in 
good,  deeply  penetrated  as  he  is  with 
the  axiom  that  each  unit  of  humanity 
feels  as  much  as  all  the  rest  combined, 
and  impulsive  and  hopeful  in  nature,  so 
that  the  remedy  suggests  itself  to  him 
concurrently  with  the  evil." 

The  former  of  these  two  characters, 
who  in  the  picture  stand  watching  some 
navvies  at  work,  was  Thomas  Carlyle  ; 
the  latter,  Frederick  Denison  Maurice. 
The  painter,  with  that  insight  which  be- 
longs to  his  art,  associated  two  men  who 
were,  in  point  of  fact,  not  very  closely 
connected  in  society,  yet  who  are  likely 
to  be  mentioned  in  the  same  breath  by 
any  one  hereafter  who  takes  into  account 
the  individual  spiritual  forces  of  modern 
England.  It  has  been  the  fashion  to 
call  Carlyle  a  new  John  the  Baptist,  and 
it  has  been  cleverly  said  that  he  led 
Englishmen  into  the  desert  and  left  them 
there.  If  one  chooses  to  push  the  com- 
parison farther,  and  to  say  that  he  who 
is  least  in  the  kingdom  of  heaven  is 
greater  than  John  the  Baptist,  he  will 
find  in  Maurice  an  exemplar  of  the 
prophets  who  belong  distinctly  to  the 
new  dispensation.  Indeed,  an  enthusi- 
astic disciple  has  declared  that  the  great 
distinction  of  Maurice  was  that  he  redis- 
covered the  gospel  of  the  kingdom  of 
heaven.  Herr  Brentano,  the  professor  of 
political  economy  at  Strasburg,  was  of 
the  opinion  that  Maurice  "  was  evidently 
marked  out  by  his  whole  nature  to  exer- 
cise the  influence  of  an  apostle."  It  is 
a  more  exact  description  of  his  function 
in  modern  English  history  to  call  him, 
as  we  do,  a  prophet. 

In  using  this  term  we  bear  in  mind 
that  conception  of  prophecy  which  Mau- 


rice himself  did  so  much  in  his  writings 
to  reclaim.  The  difference  between  the 
large  idea  of  prophecy  which  prevailed 
in  his  mind  and  that  restricted  notion 
which  makes  Mr.  Vennor  or  Zadkiel  the 
chief  of  the  prophets  was  the  difference 
of  a  single  letter.  The  popular  view  of 
a  prophet  is  of  one  who  fore  tells  ;  that 
of  Mr.  Maurice,  of  the  English  theolo- 
gians of  the  seventeenth  century,  and 
therefore  of  the  translators  of  the  Bible, 
was  of  one  who  for-tells.  The  prophet, 
in  their  conception,  is  one  who  speaks  for 
God  ;  and  the  great  function  of  the  Jew- 
ish prophets  was  not  to  furnish  predic- 
tions which  should  at  some  future  time 
come  true  and  astonish  skeptics,  but  to 
declare  that  mind  of  God  which  rests  in 
eternal  righteousness  and  expresses  it- 
self through  the  workings  of  human 
will.  That  prophecy  should  have  its 
predictive  side  is  a  consequence  of  the 
immutable  properties  of  the  divine  na- 
ture and  the  freedom  of  the  human. 
The  word  of  God  must  have  its  final  ex- 

•L 

pression  in  man's  conduct ;  but  it  is  not 
a  thaumaturgic  word,  and  the  process  by 
which  it  accomplishes  its  ends  is  a  pro- 
cess in  time. 

It  is  the  first  condition  of  true  proph- 
ecy that  the  prophet  himself  should  be 
conscious  of  his  vocation,  and  there- 
fore of  the  God  who  uses  him  for  a 
mouthpiece.  Out  of  this  consciousness 
of  an  immanent  God  springs  that  double 
sense  of  profound  humility  and  unfalter- 
ing courage.  The  prophet  is  not  a  pas- 
sive instrument,  a  pipe  for  God's  fingers 
to  sound  what  stops  he  pleases ;  and 
yet  the  highest  expression  of  prophetic 
power  is  accompanied  by  the  most  per- 
fect subjection  of  the  will.  Now  Mau- 
rice was  at  once  the  most  humble  of 
men  and  the  most  confident  in  the  deliv- 
ery of  his  message  from  God  to  man. 
The  whole  course  of  his  life  reveals  him 
as  utterly  indifferent  to  his  own  fame, 
social  position,  or  personal  advantage ; 
as  wholly  occupied  with  the  great  truths 
of  God  of  which  he  was  the  recipient. 


276 


A  Modern  Prophet. 


[August, 


Woe  is  me,  he  seems  always  to  be  de- 
claring, if  I  preach  not  the  gospel ;  but, 
unlike  some  who  take  up  the  same  strain, 
it  was  not  the  gospel  of  woe  which  he 
felt  constrained  to  preach. 

What,  then,  was  the  message  which 
this  modern  prophet  delivered  to  men  ? 
It  is  discovered  in  every  page  of  the 
books  which  he  published,  and  is  still 
further  illustrated  in  a  variety  of  forms 
in  the  Life,  based  upon  his  correspon- 
dence, which  his  son,  Colonel  Maurice, 
has  recently  issued.1  "  His  whole  con- 
ception of  preaching,"  says  his  biog- 
rapher, "  was  the  setting  forth  of  Christ 
as  the  manifestation  of  the  divine  char- 
acter ;  as  the  revelation,  unveiling,  or 
making  known  to  man  the  actual  right- 
eousness and  love  of  God.  This  was 
the  gospel  or  good  news  which  he  be- 
lieved that  he  had  to  preach.  He  be- 
lieved that  in  proportion  as  men  in  pri- 
vate life  or  in  history  came  to  have  a 
higher  ideal  of  any  kind,  that  ideal  was 
in  itself  a  more  perfect  knowledge  of 
the  nature  of  God,  arrived  at  through 
the  manifestation  of  the  Son,  the  Word, 
in  life  or  history."  "  I  know  I  was 
formed,"  says  Maurice  himself,  "  in  the 
image  of  God.  I  believe  if  I  could 
behold  God  I  should  reflect  his  image. 
But  I  cannot  behold  him.  God,  I  am 
told,  is  a  spirit,  and  I  am  of  the  earth, 
earthy.  I  cannot,  and  would  not  if  I 
could,  abandon  my  belief  that  he  is  a 
lofty  spiritual  being ;  I  cannot  throw 
aside  my  own  earthliness.  Now  this 
seems  to  me  the  most  important  practi- 
cal question  in  the  world.  I  cannot  put 
up  with  a  dream  in  place  of  God.  He 
is  a  spirit,  but  he  is  a  reality  ;  a  true 
being  in  the  highest  sense.  As  such  I 
must  behold  him,  or  not  at  all.  To 
behold  him,  therefore,  in  that  way  in 
which  they  could  alone  understand  him, 
in  which  they  could  converse  with  him, 
namely,  as  a  man,  was,  I  see  more  and 

1  The  Life  of  Frederick  Denison  Maurice, 
chiefly  told  in  his  own  Letters.  Edited  by  his  son, 
FREDERICK  MAURICE.  With  portraits.  In  two 


more  clearly,  the  longing  desire  of  every 
patriarch,  prophet,  and  priest,  from 
Adam  downward.  It  was  the  desire  of 
Moses,  of  Job,  of  David,  of  Solomon, 
of  Isaiah ;  they  were  practical  men,  and 
they  wanted  a  practical  revelation,  -  -  a 
revelation  which  they  could  understand 
and  grapple.  God,  they  knew,  must  be 
forever  the  unsearchable,  the  mysteri- 
ous. They  would  not  for  worlds  he 
should  be  anything  else  ;  for  it  was  tha 
glory  of  Judaism  that  their  God  was  not 
a  visible,  intelligible  idol,  but  an  incom- 
prehensible spirit.  Yet  they  longed  to' 
behold  him,  and  to  behold  him  so  that 
they  could  understand  him." 

This  concentration  of  his  belief  in  God 
rather  than  about  God,  and  the  intensity 
of  his  conviction  that  God  was  revealed 
in  the  incarnation,  made  Maurice  a 
prophet,  and  explains  the  whole  course 
of  his  life.  It  explains  his  personal 
character,  for  the  habit  of  direct  inter- 
course with  his  Deliverer  afforded  a  test 
of  conduct  far  more  potent  than  any 
code  of  ethics,  however  lofty.  It  ex- 
plains his  attitude  toward  the  church, 
the  Bible,  and,  above  all,  toward  the 
men  and  women  about  him.  It  was  im- 
possible for  him  to  regard  his  personal 
relation  to  God  as  an  exclusive  one. 
The  very  intensity  of  his  belief  in  God 
as  the  Father  and  in  Christ  as  the  head 
of  man  made  him  have  a  passionate 
longing  for  a  unity  in  the  visible  rela- 
tions of  men  to  one  another  which  should 
correspond  to  the  eternal  unity  which 
subsisted  in  the  divine  order.  Hence 
his  extreme  sensitiveness  to  any  course 
which  would  identify  him  with  party  in 
church  or  state  constantly  isolated  him 
from  men  with  whom  he  worked  most 
cheerfully.  It  led  him  into  an  almost 
morbid  suppression  of  himself,  lest  he 
should  seem  to  be  a  leader.  "  I  am  a 
cold-blooded  animal,"  he  writes  to  Mr. 
Ludlow,  who  had  reproved  him  in  his 


volumes. 
1884. 


New  York  :  Charles  Scribner's  Sons. 


1884.] 


A  Modern  Prophet. 


277 


hasty  way  for  checking  the  ardor  of  an 
associate ;  "  very  incapable,  I  know,  of 
entering  into  the  enthusiasm  of  better 
men,  and  often  likely  to  discourage  them 
greatly.  The  consciousness  of  this  often 
keeps  me  aloof  from  them,  as  I  feel  I 
am  doing  them  harm.  But  I  have  some- 
times thought  that  I  might  be  of  use  in 
warning  those  for  whom  I  feel  a  deep 
and  strong  interest  against  a  tendency 
which  I  feel  in  myself,  and  which  I  have 
seen  producing  most  melancholy  effects. 
I  mean  a  tendency  to  be  quick-sighted 
in  detecting  all  errors  in  the  schemes  of 
other  men,  and  to  set  up  their  own  in 
opposition  to  them.  Oh,  the  bitter  scorn 
which  I  have  seen  Newmanites  indulg- 
ing at  the  schemes  of  Evangelicals  !  — 
scorn  in  which  I  have  been  well  inclined 
to  join  ;  and  now  the  frost  which  has 
come  on  themselves,  their  incapacity  of 
all  healthy  action  !  I  could  get  the  good- 
will of  you  all  very  soon  by  flattering 
that  habit  of  mind,  and  I  am  very  often 
tempted  to  do  it.  But  God  will  not  let 
me,  and  therefore  he  will  not  let  me 
ever  be  the  leader  or  sub-leader  of  any 
school  or  party  in  this  land.  For  the 
only  condition  of  the  existence  of  such 
a  school  or  party  is  the  denunciation  arid 
execration  of  every  other.  I  find  my- 
self becoming  more  and  more  solitary. 
I  see  that  I  am  wide  as  the  poles  from 
Hare  about  the  baptismal  question.  He 
wishes  to  make  every  one  comfortable  in 
the  church  ;  and  I  want  no  one  to  be 
comfortable  in  it,  so  cross-grained  am  I. 
Yet  I  seek  for  unity  in  my  own  wild 
way."  "  I  have  laid  a  great  many  ad- 
dled eggs  in  my  time,"  he  said  once  to 
his  son,  "  but  I  think  I  see  'a  connection 
through  the  whole  of  my  life  that  I 
have  only  lately  begun  to  realize ;  the 
desire  for  unity  and  the  search  after 
unity,  both  in  the  nation  arid  the  church, 
has  haunted  me  all  my  days." 

The  ideal  which  a  man  sets  before 
him  is  the  measure  of  his  life,  if  that 
ideal  is  never  shattered  by  the  man's 
own  loss  of  faith.  In  Maurice's  case,  this 


search  for  unity  was  carried  on  to  the 
end,  in  spite  of  apparently  overwhelm- 
ing odds.  His  early  days  were  spent  in 
a  religious  society  which  was  "falling  to 
pieces  about  him.  His  father's  family 
went  through  a  process  of  disintegration 
of  faith  which  is  dramatic  in  its  singular 
rapidity  and  completeness.  The  figure 
of  the  Rev.  Michael  Maurice,  deserted 
in  succession  by  all  the  members  of  his 
household,  is  a  most  pathetic  one.  Yet 
all  this  experience  lay  at  the  basis  of 
Frederick  Maurice's  passionate  devotion 
to  his  ideal.  It  was  out  of  this  chaos  that 
there  arose  in  his  mind  a  conception  of 
order  which  never  failed  him.  It  centred 
in  God,  and  found  its  expression  in  those 
terms,  the  Word  of  God,  the  Family, 
the  Nation,  the  Church,  which  were  to 
be  constantly  charged  with  a  meaning 
in  his  writings  and  speech  that  made 
them  a  stumbling-block  to  men  who 
were  ready  enough  to  use  shibboleths 
as  expressions  of  their  creed.  Scarcely 
had  Maurice  found  his  foothold  in  that 
large  place,  from  which  he  never  was 
moved,  before  he  was  brought  into  con- 
tact with  a  church  which  appeared  to 
be  breaking  up  into  schools  and  parties, 
and  with  a  society  which  was  avowedly 
atheistic,  as  well  as  one  more  dangerously 
pharisaic.  These  conditions  never  shook 
his  faith  in  unity,  and  his  prophetic 
function  was  to  declare  a  church  and 
a  nation  which  were  witnesses  to  God. 
"  If  ever  I  do  any  good  work,"  he  writes, 
"  and  earn  any  of  the  hatred  which  the 
godly  in  Christ  Jesus  received  .and  have 
a  right  to,  it  must  be  in  the  way  I  have 
indicated :  by  proclaiming  society  and 
humanity  to  be  divine  realities  as  they 
stand,  not  as  they  may  become,  and  by 
calling  upon  the  priests,  kings,  prophets, 
of  the  world  to  answer  for  their  sin  in 
having  made  them  unreal  by  separating 
them  from  the  living  and  eternal  God, 
who  has  established  them  in  Christ  for 
his  glory.  This  is  what  I  call  digging; 
this  is  what  I  oppose  to  building.  And 
the  more  I  read  the  Epistle  to  the  Corin- 


278 


A  Modern  Prophet. 


[August, 


thians,  the  more  I  am  convinced  that 
this  was  St.  Paul's  work,  the  one  by 
which  he  hoped  to  undermine  and  to 
unite  the  members  of  the  Apollos,  Ce- 
phas, Pauline,  and  Christian  (for  those 
who  said  '  We  are  of  Christ '  were  the 
worst  canters  and  dividers  of  all)  schools. 
Christ  the  actual  foundation  of  the  uni- 
verse, not  Christ  a  Messiah  to  those  who 
received  him  and  shaped  him  according 
to  some  notion  of  theirs  ;  the  head  of  a 
body,  not  the  teacher  of  a  religion,  was 
the  Christ  of  St.  Paul.  And  such  a 
Christ  I  desire  to  preach,  and  to  live  in, 
and  die  in." 

It  is  not  surprising  that  Maurice,  at- 
tempting, in  his  happy  phrase,  to  under- 
mine and  unite  all  parties,  found  him- 
self outside  of  all  and  attacked  by  all. 
He  would  not  have  been  a  prophet  if  he 
had  not  been  driven  into  the  wilderness 
more  than  once.  That  did  not  stop  his 
prophesying,  and  every  time  that  he  was 
thus  expelled  multitudes  followed  him. 
His  biographer,  in  speaking  of  the  burst 
of  recognition  which  Maurice's  services 
received  after  his  death,  says,  "  It  was 
said  to  me,  by  more  than  one  man,  at 
the  time,  that  the  spontaneity  and  uni- 
versality of  the  feeling  was  so  marked 
that  there  did  not  seem  to  them  to  have 
been  anything  like  it  in  England  since 
the  Duke  of  Wellington's  death."  Simi- 
lar outbursts  came  during  Maurice's  life- 
time,—  on  the  occasion  of  his  expul- 
sion from  his  theological  professorship 
in  King's  College,  for  example ;  but  for 
the  most  part  he  was  misrepresented 
and  reviled  by  the  religious  press.  For 
it  was  against  the  bitter  exclusiveness 
and  arrogance  which  found  their  worst 
expression  in  these  journals  that  Maurice 
waged  an  untiring  warfare.  The  truth 
which  he  maintained  was  sharper  than 
a  two-edged  sword,  and  made  many 
divisions.  He  would  not  have  been  a 
prophet,  again,  if  he  had  not  possessed 
a  fiery  indignation  against  all  who  shut 
up  God  in  any  one  of  the  cages  of  human 
insolence,  or  who  would  make  traffic  of 


divine  things.  Colonel  Maurice  cites  a 
striking  instance  of  this  indignation.  His 
father  was  present  at  a  club  when  the 
question  under  discussion  was  the  sub- 
scription of  the  clergy. 

"  In  the  course  of  it  a  member  of 
Parliament,  a  strict  adherent  of  the  re- 
ligion of  the  hour,  had  been  emphat- 
ically insisting  upon  the  necessity  of 
tightly  tying  down  the  clergy  to  their 
belief  in  the  current  dogmas  of  the  day, 
and  of  his  particular  school ;  assuming 
throughout  that  just  the  creed  of  him 
and  his  friends  was  that  which  had  al- 
ways and  everywhere  been  held  by  all. 
Pointing  out  the  shocks  which  this  form 
of  faith  had  been  of  late  receiving  from 
many  quarters,  and  suggesting  a  doubt 
whether  the  clergy  were  really  giving 
their  money's  worth  of  subserviency  for 
the  money  paid  to  them,  he  had  said, 
'  Sometimes  one  would  like  to  know  what 
the  clergy  do  believe  nowadays  ! ' 

"  Every  sentence  had  added  fuel  to 
the  passionate  indignation  with  which 
my  father  listened.  It  seemed  to  him 
just  that  claim  to  bind  the  clergy  at  the 
chariot  wheels  of  public  opinion  against 
which  he  believed  that  the  creeds,  the 
articles,  the  fixed  stipends  of  the  clergy, 
the  order  of  bishops  as  fathers  in  God, 
were  so  many  protests.  It  seemed  just 
that  convenient  getting  rid  of  all  belief 
in  a  living  God,  and  safely  disposing  of 
him  under  a  series  of  propositions,  to 
be  repeated  at  so  much  an  hour,  which 
he  looked  upon  as  the  denial  of  the  day. 
His  growing  excitement  became  so  man- 
ifest that  a  note  was  passed  up  to  Mr. 
Kempe  by  one  of  those  sitting  by,  beg- 
ging Mr.  Kempe  to  call  next  on  Mr. 
Maurice.  My  father  rose,  as  all  those 
who  saw  him  say,  '  on  fire.'  '  Mr.  — 
asks  what  the  clergy  believe  in  nowa- 
days. I  believe  in  God  the  Father  Al- 
mighty,' continuing  the  Apostles'  Creed. 
Then  he  went  on  passionately  to  de- 
clare that  because  he  so  believed  he  was 
bound  by  his  orders  to  protest  against 
all  appeals  to  money,  to  the  praise  of 


1884.] 


A  Modern  Prophet. 


279 


men,  to  the  bargaining  of  the  market, 
to  the  current  run  of  popular  feeling,  as 
so  many  direct  denials  of  truth,  so  many 
attempts  to  set  up  idols  in  place  of  the 
teaching  of  the  living  God.  From  all 
sides  I  have  heard  men  say  that  it  was 
one  of  the  most  striking  things  they  had 
ever  witnessed.  Every  one  felt  as  if 
the  place  was  in  a  blaze.  No  one  else 
felt  in  any  condition  to  speak,  and  the 
discussion  abruptly  ended." 

"  There  were  times,"  says  his  biog- 
rapher elsewhere,  "  when  he  could  make 
his  words  sting  like  a  lash  and  burn  like 
a  hot  iron.  The  very  nature  of  his  ap- 
peal, always  to  a  man's  own  conscience, 
to  his  sense  of  right  within  the  scope  in 
which  the  man  himself  clearly  discerned 
what  was  right  and  what  was  wrong, 
the  full  recognition  of  ability  when  he 
complained  that  it  was  being  abused, 
the  utter  absence  of  any  desire  to  dictate 
in  details  or  to  require  any  conformity 
to  his  own  opinions,  seemed,  as  it  were, 
when  he  spoke  indignantly,  to  carry  the 
man  addressed,  then  and  there,  *  un- 
housel'd,  disappointed,  uuanel'd,'  before 
the  tribunal  with  which  rests  '  the  ulti- 
mate and  highest  decision  upon  men's 
deeds,  to  which  all  the  unjustly  con- 
demned at  human  tribunals  appeal,  and 
which  weighs  not  the  deed  only,  but  mo- 
tives, temptations,  and  ignorances,  and 
all  the  complex  conditions  of  the  deed.' 
There  were  some  to  whom  he  so  spoke 
who  never  forgave  him.  The  marvelous 
thing,  considering  the  depth  to  which 
he  sometimes  cut,  is  that  there  were  so 
few. 

"  Whenever  something  that  he  looked 
upon  as  morally  wrong  or  mean  excited 
his  wrath,  he  began  in  a  most  violent 
manner  to  rub  together  the  palms  of  his 
two  hands.  The  fits  of  doing  so  would 
often  come  on  quite  suddenly,  as  a  result 
of  his  reflections  on  some  action,  as  fre- 
quently as  not  of  the  religious  world,  or 
of  so-called  religious  people.  He  ap- 
peared at  such  moments  to  be  entirely 
absorbed  in  his  own  reflections,  and  ut- 


terly unconscious  of  the  terrible  effect 
which  the  fierce  look  of  his  face  and  the 
wild  rubbing  of  his  hands  produced  upon 
an  innocent  bystander.  A  lady,  who 
often  saw  him  thus,  says  that  she  always 
expected  sparks  to  fly  from  his  hands, 
and  to  see  him  bodily  on  fire.  Certainly 
the  effect  was  very  tremendous,  and  by 
no  means  pleasant." 

This  indignation  appears  more  than 
once  in  Maurice's  correspondence,  but 
the  prevailing  impression  upon  the  read- 
er's mind  is  rather  of  the  singular  charity 
which  he  showed  to  all  men,  by  virtue 
of  which  he  frequently  disconcerted 
those  who  were  in  opposition  to  him. 
For  he  would  accept  what  his  opponent 
said,  place  himself  on  the  same  side,  and 
begin  to  argue  the  whole  matter  from  a 
standpoint  apparently  inimical  to  him- 
self. An  amusing  story  of  his  gentle- 
ness arid  of  his  determination  to  recog- 
nize the  good  is  told  apropos  of  his  in- 
ability to  manage  a  number  of  wild 
colts  in  the  lecture  room  of  King's  Col- 
lege. A  boy  was  disturbing  the  lecture. 
Maurice  looked  up,  and  after  watching 
him  for  a  few  moments  said,  "  I  do  not 
know  why  that  gentleman  is  doing  what 
he  is,  but  I  am  sure  it  is  for  some  great 
and  wise  purpose  ;  and  if  he  will  come 
here  and  explain  to  us  all  what  it  is, 
we  shall  be  delighted  to  hear  him." 
This  shows  a  habit  of  mind  which  even 
in  sarcasm  falls  into  its  natural  form  of 
speech. 

The  actual  contribution  which  Mau- 
rice made  to  the  development  of  philo- 
sophic or  theologic  thought  does  not 
consist  in  any  treatise  which  may  serve 
as  an  armory  for  polemic  uses.  He 
wrote  a  great  many  books,  but  they 
were  all,  with  possibly  one  exception, 
tracts  of  greater  or  less  length,  written 
to  serve  an  immediate  purpose ;  his 
books  were  always  a  means  to  an  end, 
never  an  end  in  themselves.  The  great 
power  which  he  exercised  over  the 
minds  of  men  was  in  his  varied  applica- 
tion of  a  few  simple,  profound  truths. 


280 


A  Modern  Prophet. 


[August, 


His  distinction,  for  example,  of  the  idea 
of  eternal  from  that  of  everlasting, 
while  not  original  with  him,  was  in  his 
hands  a  candle  with  which  he  lighted 
many  dark  passages.  His  controversy 
with  Mansel  showed  him  inferior  to  his 
antagonist  in  logical  fence ;  but  what  with 
Mansel  was  a  philosophic  position  was 
with  Maurice  a  terribly  practical  truth, 
and  he  was  constantly  expressing  it,  not 
in  terms  of  philosophy,  but  in  terms  of 
history,  politics,  and  ethics.  It  was  the 
illuminating  power  of  truth  which  Mau- 
rice knew  how  to  use.  Many  a  student 
of  his  writings  has  gone  to  them  for  an 
exegesis  of  some  passage  of  the  Bible, 
and  come  away  with  a  revelation  which 
put  to  shame  his  small  measures  of 
textual  truth.  It  is  a  favorite  advice  of 
commentators,  Study  the  context ;  but 
Maurice's  context  was  likely  enough 
a  piece  of  current  English  history,  or 
an  extract  from  Plato.  No  theologian 
of  recent  days  has  so  broken  down  mid- 
dle walls  of  partition  in  the  minds  of 
men. 

It  has  rarely  been  given  to  men  to 
see  a  few  large  truths  so  vividly  as 
Maurice  saw  them,  and  at  the  same 
time  to  apply  them  to  conduct  and  study 
with  such  vehement  energy.  Neverthe- 
less, the  very  width  of  his  vision  may 
have  led  him  to  overlook  a  very  present 
and  near  truth.  In  his  anxiety  to  divest 
the  idea  of  eternity  of  any  time  ele- 
ment, he  missed,  we  think,  that  instinc- 
tive, or  if  not  instinctive,  then  highly  ed- 
ucated, conception  of  another  world  as 
a  future  world.  He  was  right  when  he 

O 

called  back  men  from  the  postponement 
of  moral  consequences  to  a  consider- 
ation of  them  in  their  essential  prop- 
erties, but  he  made  too  little  of  that 
reinforcement  of  the  idea  of  eternity 
which  comes  through  the  sense  of  futu- 


rity. That  sense  is  so  imbedded  in  the 
consciousness  as  to  revolt  at  last  against 
the  exclusive  terms  of  Maurice's  defini- 
tions. After  all,  the  predictive  func- 
tion of  the  prophet  belongs  to  him,  even 
if  it  be  subordinate,  and  that  Maurice 
should  have  disregarded  its  operation  in 
his  own  case  is  all  the  more  singular, 
since  hope  was  so  emphatically  the  key- 
note of  his  gospel. 

Colonel  Maurice  tells  us  'that  his  fa- 
ther maintained  that  no  man's  life  should 
be  written  until  he  has  been  dead  twenty 

V 

years.  Maurice  died  ten  years  ago,  but 
for  American  readers  the  half  score  is 
as  good  as  a  score.  We  are  sufficiently 
removed  from  the  smoke  of  the  battle 
in  which  so  much  of  his  life  was  spent 
to  be  able  to  view  the  combat  with 
serenity,  and  the  figure  of  this  remark- 
able man  becomes  one  of  the  most  con- 
spicuous in  the  scene.  He  was  not  a 
leader  of  a  party  ;  he  was  a  leader  of 
men.  Some  one  remarked  a  short  time 
since  that  there  were  now  only  two  out- 
and-out  Maurice  disciples  in  London. 
The  remark  might  easily  be  accepted  as 
truth.  Maurice  himself  would  be  eager 
to  dissuade  the  two  from  fancying  that 
he  carried  any  banner  under  which  they 
could  be  marshaled.  It  is  equally  true, 
and  more  important,  that  Maurice's 
thought  has  influenced  a  vast  number  of 
minds  in  England  and  America,  riot  in 
theology  alone,  but  in  the  interpretation 
of  history  and  politics.  The  inspirer  of 
Tennyson,  Kingsley,  Hughes,  Ludlow, 
to  name  no  others,  was  and  remains  a 
power.  The  life  which  presents  him, 
under  the  manly  guidance  of  his  son,  to 
multitudes  on  both  sides  of  the  Atlantic, 
who  never  saw  him,  will  unquestionably 
reinforce  his  influence,  for  it  will  asso- 
ciate his  teachings  with  a  large,  distinct, 
and  luminous  personality. 


1884.] 


The   Contributors'   Club. 


281 


THE    CONTRIBUTORS'   CLUB. 


I  HAVE  been  denied  through  life  the 
satisfaction  of  some  of  my  reasonable 
wishes  for  things  I  should  greatly  have 
enjoyed,  could  I  have  had  them.  I  count 
among  my  smaller  solaces  for  these 
deprivations  the  pleasure  I  have  always 
taken  in  the  companionship  of  my  dogs. 
The  best  individuals  of  this  species  give 
proof  of  so  much  of  what,  if  we  were 
speaking  of  persons,  we  should  call 
"  heart  "  and  "  character  "  that  I  find  it 
hard  not  to  believe  in  a  future  and  higher 
existence  for  the  dear  beasts.  I  feel  sure 
that  their  intelligence  is  capable  of  more 
development  than  most  people  suppose. 
I  do  not  care  for  the  two-penny  "  tricks  " 
that  dogs  are  so  often  taught  to  perform, 
and  have  never  tried  to  draw  out  my 
dogs'  latent  talents  in  this  direction  ;  but 
I  have  noticed  with  regard  to  my  own 
and  other  persons'  dogs  that  their  gen- 
eral intelligence  is  educated  or  not  ac- 
cording to  the  manner  in  which  they  are 
treated.  Behave  habitually  toward  a  dog 
as  though  you  expected  him  to  conduct 
himself  as  a  sensible  creature,  of  good- 
breeding  and  discretion,  and  ten  to  one 
he  will  arrive  at  an  understanding  of 
your  mind  about  him,  and  endeavor  to 
meet  your  expectations.  Treat  him, 
on  the  other  hand,  as  a  mere  helpless 
lady's  pet,  and  he  becomes  a  toy,  a  ca- 
nine nonentity.  Tease  him,  or  bully 
him,  and  he  turns  a  cringing  coward. 
I  have  a  fancy  that  dogs  sometimes 
come  to  partake  of  the  dispositions  of 
the  people  they  live  with.  One  instance, 
at  least,  occurs  to  me  immediately  of  a 
dog  whose  traits  are  noticeably  similar 
to  those  of  his  owners.  Many  persons 
profess  a  fondness  for  dogs  whose  ac- 
tions toward  them  prove  to  me  that 
they  do  not  really  know  what  it  is  to 
care  for  the  animals  in  the  way  of  a 
genuine  dog-lover.  I  shall  not  forget 
how  grateful  I  found  the  sympathy  of 


an  elderly  lady,  a  friend  of  our  family, 
who  on  the  occasion  of  the  tragic  death 
of  our  beautiful  shepherd  dog  wrote  us 
a  letter  of  heartfelt  condolence.  She 
knew  what  the  loss  meant  to  us. 

I  heard  a  true  story,  not  long  ago,  of 
a  lady,  fond  of  dogs  and  accustomed  to 
them,  who  went  to  visit  a  friend,  the 
owner  of  a  splendid  but  most  formidable 
animal,  —  a  mastiff,  if  I  remember  right- 
ly. The  visitor  did  not  happen  to  meet 
with  the  dog  till  she  suddenly  came  upon 
him  in  a  doorway  she  was  about  to  pass 
through.  It  chanced  somehow  that  she 
did  not  see  him,  and,  stepping  hastily, 
she  unfortunately  trod  upon  his  foot  or 
his  tail.  The  huge  fellow  instantly  laid 
hold  of  her ;  but  before  the  dog's  master, 
a  short  distance  off,  could  hasten  to  the 
rescue  the  lady  had  looked  down,  ex- 
claiming quick  as  thought,  "  Oh,  I  beg 
your  pardon  ! "  whereupon  the  mastiff  as 
quickly  let  go  his  grasp.  It  is  plain 
that  this  lady  had  a  proper  respect  for 
the  feelings  of  dogs  in  general,  prompt- 
ing to  an  habitual  kindly  treatment  of 
them,  and  instinct  led  her  to  apologize 
at  once  for  the  inadvertent  injury,  as  she 
would  have  done  to  a  person. 

I  confess  that  it  is  difficult  for  me  to 
think  really  well  of  those  who  are  averse 
or  even  indifferent  to  dogs ;  there  is 
something  lacking  in  the  moral  consti- 
tution of  such  persons,  I  am  convinced. 
When  I  think  of  the  way  in  which  my 
dog  lives  with  me ;  of  the  value  he  sets 
upon  my  society,  so  that  liberty  to  range 
abroad  with  his  canine  acquaintance 
counts  for  nothing  in  comparison  with 
the  pleasure  of  a  short  walk  with  me ; 
of  the  confidence  he  has  in  me,  and  the 
impulse  to  tell  me  in  his  fashion  all  he 
can  of  his  inner  sentiments,  troubles,  and 
satisfactions,  I  find  in  this  something 
that  not  only  pleases  but  touches  me 
very  much. 


282 


The   Contributors'   Club. 


[August, 


Scott,  we  know,  considered  the  com- 
panionship of  his  dogs  indispensable  to 
his  comfort ;  Dr.  John  Brown  has  given 
us  life-like  descriptions  of  his  own  pets, 
as  well  as  of  fine  old  Rab ;  and  Black- 
more,  the  novelist,  shows  the  right  gen- 
uine appreciation  of  these  dear  dumb 
friends.  There  is  a  dog  in  Christowell 
of  which  he  says,  "  No  lady  in  the  land 
has  eyes  more  lucid,  loving,  eloquent; 
and  even  if  she  had,  they  would  be  as 
nothing  without  the  tan  spots  over 
them." 

The  before -mentioned  shepherd  dog 
we  once  owned  had  eyes  large,  soft,  and 
brown,  containing  such  a  depth  of  pa- 
thetic expression  as  made  us  believers 
in  the  doctrine  of  the  preexistence  and 
transmigration  of  souls. 

—  I  once  saw  an  absent-minded  coun- 
tryman get  into  his  wagon,  gather  up 
the  reins,  and  urge  his  team  forward, 
no  progressive  movement  resulting.  He 
was  about  to  lay  ou  the  whip,  when  he 
made  the  discovery  that  his  horses  were 
still  tied.  Looking  rather  foolish,  he 
dismounted,  and  removed  the  difficulty 
caused  by  haste  and  carelessness.  This 
circumstance  might  have  passed  without 
my  giving  it  a  second  thought,  had  it 
not  happened  that  just  then  I  was  pre- 
pared to  furnish  from  my  own  expe- 
rience a  parallel  passage.  That  very 
morning  I  had  determined  to  spend  a 
day  of  unusual  industry,  and  so  dispatch 
a  certain  piece  of  work  which  for  some 
time  had  weighed  upon  my  conscience, 
and  which  I  was  very  impatient  to  see 
concluded.  Like  the  absent-minded 
traveler,  I  set  out,  drawing  a  taut  rein 
(resolution)  and  cracking  a  hard-braided 
whip  (necessity),  bent  only  upon  get- 
ting over  a  good  stretch  of  ground  be- 
fore the  day  ended.  Fatuous  driver ! 
how  soon,  and  deservedly,  I  came  up 
short !  I  had  neglected  to  loose  my  fine 
steeds  :  fancy,  feeling,  humor,  and  relish 
of  work  were  still  ridiculously  tethered, 
and  I  every  moment  growing  more  wroth 
at  the  delay.  On  reflecting,  it  became 


clear  to  me  that  no  work  is  superla- 
tively well  done  without  the  mind  and 
heart  consentient,  in  free  play  and  met- 
tlesome good  health.  Your  begrudged 
task,  like  those  persons  who  receive  un- 
willing charity,  commonly  turns  and 
rends  you.  You  may  be  persuaded  that 
you  have  only  to  "  put  duty  before 
pleasure  "  in  your  consideration,  and  all 
will  go  well.  But  this  invidious  dis- 
crimination, it  is  reported,  is  not  sanc- 
tioned by  the  council  of  graces  and  vir- 
tues, who  announce  that,  duty  and  pleas- 
ure being  of  equal  rank,  to  give  the  one 
or  the  other  preference  can  only  be  of- 
fensive to  the  court ;  hence  they  should 
be  suffered  to  walk  side  by  side  in  our 
regard.  The  judicious  heed  some  such 
rule  as  the  following :  Do  in  life  what 
you  like  to  do  ;  or,  if  this  be  impossible, 
take  care  to  like  what  you  have  to  do. 
If  you  would  know  the  good  music 
there  is  in  this  unpromising  score,  mind 
the  expression  mark.  The  wrinkles  we 
have  gathered,  this  surprise  of  unlovely 
age  come  upon  us,  —  may  they  not  be 
due  quite  as  much  to  the  chill  disaffec- 
tion and  half-heartedness  with  which  we 
have  gone  about  our  affairs  as  to  the 
actual  toil  or  disaster  which  fell  to  our 
lot? 

—  In  the  year  1000  the  continent  of 
America  was  discovered  by  the  Norse- 
men, who  gave  to  it  the  name  of  Vin- 
land  the  Good.  The  narrative  of  the 
different  voyages  thither  is  preserved  in 
two  separate  versions  :  one  emanating 
from  the  north  of  Iceland,  the  other 
from  the  west.  Both  accounts  corre- 
spond in  essential  points,  but  are  differ- 
ent in  many  of  their  details ;  and  each 
has  apparently  been  derived,  indepen- 
dently of  the  other,  from  oral  tradition, 
which,  for  several  centuries  before  they 
were  written  down,  was  the  means  of 
transmitting  them  from  generation  to 
generation.  The  northern  version  is 
preserved  in  the  Flatey-book,  a  manu- 
script written  between  1387  and  1395, 
a  century  before  the  discovery  of  Amer- 


1884.] 


The   Contributors'    Club. 


283 


ica  by  Columbus.  The  western  version 
is  contained  in  two  manuscripts,  which 
are  even  older  :  the  Hauks-book,  writ- 
ten in  the  first  half  of  the  fourteenth 
century,  and  a  manuscript  of  about  the 
same  age,  Number  557  in  the  Universi- 
ty Library  at  Copenhagen.  The  west- 
ern version  is  in  every  way  the  better ; 
in  detail  it  is  particularly  rich,  and  in- 
troduces episodes  entirely  lacking  in  the 
ruder  version  of  the  north.  Among 
these  incidental  narratives  one  is  espe- 
cially interesting,  both  from  its  subject 
and  from  the  vividness  with  which  its 
principal  character  is  drawn  :  it  is  the 
story  of  Thorhall,  the  earliest  American 
poet. 

The  first  discoverer  of  America  ac- 
cording to  the  western  version  of  the 
Saga,  and  the  real  discoverer  according 
to  both,  was  Leif,  the  son  of  Eirik  the 
Red.  Eirik  was  a  Norwegian,  who  went 
to  Iceland  with  his  father  when  the  lat- 
ter had  been  banished  for  homicide.  In 
the  year  982,  having,  in  his  turn,  been 
exiled  for  three  years  for  the  same  of- 
fense, Eirik  went  from  Iceland  to  Green- 
land, where  he  remained  d'uring  the  pe- 
riod of  his  banishment.  When  this  had 
expired  he  returned  to  Iceland,  but,  hav- 
ing induced  others  to  join  him,  he  again 
went  to  Greenland,  where  he  settled  at 
a  place  called  Brattahlid.  From  Green- 
land Leif,  in  998,  made  a  voyage  to 
Norway.  The  date  is  distinctly  given 
in  the  Flatey-book,  which  says,  "  When 
sixteen  winters  had  passed  from  the 
time  that  Eirik  the  Red  went  to  Green- 
land, then  went  Leif,  the  son  of  Eirik, 
out  from  Greenland  to  Norway."  Upon 
his  arrival  in  Norway,  Leif  went  imme- 
diately to  the  court  of  the  Norwegian 
king,  Olaf  Tryggvason,  and  met  with 
a  cordial  reception.  He  returned  that 
same  year  to  Greenland,  but  the  follow- 
ing year  he  went  again  and  remained 
during  the  winter.  In  the  spring  of 
1000,  after  consenting,  in  accordance 
with  the  desire  of  the  king,  to  undertake 
the  introduction  of  Christianity  into 


Greenland,  he  set  sail  from  Norway. 
He  met,  however,  with  extremely  rough 
weather,  and  for  a  long  time  was  driven 
before  the  wind  and  lost  his  bearings. 
He  finally  found  himself  in  sight  of  a 
coast  which  he  did  not  recognize. 
Wheat  was  growing  wild  ;  there  were 
grape-vines  in  plenty,  and  maple-trees. 
He  brought  away  with  him  specimens 
of  these  ;  among  them  pieces  of  maple 
wood  so  large  that  they  were  afterward 
used  in  house-building.  Leif  reached 
Greenland  in  safety,  and  spread  abroad 
the  news  of  his  discovery.  A  year  or 
two  later  an  expedition  was  organized 
to  rediscover  the  country  found  by  Leif. 
It  consisted  of  one  ship,  with  a  crew  of 
twenty  men,  commanded  by  Thorsteinn, 
the  brother  of  Leif  ;  but  stormy  weather 
was  encountered,  and,  after  drifting  here 
and  there,  they  were  glad  to  put  back 
to  Greenland,  without  having  accom- 
plished their  object.  Several  years  went 
by  before  another  attempt  was  made. 
In  the  autumn  of  1006  two  trading  ships 
came  from  Iceland,  each  with  a  crew 
of  forty  men  :  the  one  commanded  by 
Karlsefni  and  Snorri,  and  the  other  by 
two  brothers,  Bjarui  and  Thorhall,  all 
Icelanders.  Eirik  the  Red  entertained 
the  crews  of  both  ships  during  the  winter, 
and  in  the  succeeding  spring  it  was  de- 
cided to  undertake  again  an  expedition 
to  Vinland.  In  addition  to  the  two  Ice- 
landic vessels  a  third,  commanded  by 
Thorvald,  a  son-in-law  of  Eirik,  was  fit- 
ted out,  and,  with  one  hundred  and  sixty 
men  all  told,  they  set  sail  together  in 
the  summer.  Many  of  the  men  were 
accompanied  by  their  wives,  and  that  it 
was  their  intention  to  form  a  permanent 
settlement  is  seen  from  the  fact  that 
cattle  were  also  taken.  Two  days  out 
from  Bjarney  (an  unknown  island  to 
the  west  of  Greenland),  with  a  north 
wind,  they  found  a  coast  covered  with 
large  flat  stones.  To  this  land,  evident- 
ly some  part  of  the  Labrador  coast,  the 
Norsemen  gave  the  name  of  Helluland, 
the  Land  of  Flat  Stones.  Again  they 


284 


The   Contributors'   Club. 


[August, 


put  to  sea,  and  again,  after  two  days  with 
a  north  wind,  they  found  land,  this  time 
covered  with  forest.  To  it  they  gave 
the  name  Markland,  or  Woodland,  and 
an  island  off  the  coast,  where  they  found 
a  bear,  they  called  Bear  Isle.  Two 
days  from  Marklaud  they  once  more 
saw  laud,  and  doubling  a  cape,  with  the 
laud  on  the  starboard,  they  sailed  along 
the  coast,  which  they  found  a  succession 
of  barren  stretches  of  sand.  To  this 
coast  they  gave  the  name  of  the  Marvel 
Strands.  It  is,  perhaps,  to  be  identified 
with  Nova  Scotia.  Beyond  the  strands 
the  land  was  cut  up  by  bays,  and,  an- 
choring in  one  of  them,  a  Scotch  man 
and  woman,  whom  Karlsefni  had  on 
board  as  thralls,  were  sent  to  the  south, 
with  instructions  to  return  at  the  end  of 
three  days  and  report  what  they  had 
seen.  At  the  end  of  the  appointed  time 
the  messengers  came  back  with  bunches 
of  grapes  and  ears  of  wheat,  which  they 
had  found  growing  wild.  They  again 
set  sail  toward  the  south,  and  ran  up 
into  a  fiord,  at  the  mouth  of  which  was 
an  island,  which  they  called  Stream  Isle, 
from  the  currents  which  swept  around  it. 
Upon  the  island  so  many  birds  nested 
that  one  could  scarcely  step  without 
crushing  the  eggs.  On  the  shores  of  the 
fiord,  called  by  them  Stream  Fiord,  they 
decided  to  settle,  and  unloaded  their 
ships.  "  There  were  mountains  there," 
says  the  Saga,  "  and  it  was  fair  round 
about  to  see."  Where  Stream  Fiord 
really  was  is  scarcely  to  be  determined 
from  the  meagre  details  furnished  by 
the  Saga.  It  may  have  been  on  the 
coast  of  Maine  or  of  Massachusetts. 

In  the  account  of  the  setting  out  of 
the  expedition  the  only  one  of  the  party 
whose  personality  is  described  at  all  in 
detail  is  one  Thorhall,  who  bore  the  ad- 
ditional title  of  "  the  huntsman."  Thor- 
hall had  been  for  a  long  time  in  the 
service  of  Eirik  as  huntsman  and  house- 
steward.  "  He  was  a  man,"  says  the 
Saga,  "  of  great  stature,  dark  and  un- 
canny. He  was  rather  old,  morose  in 


disposition,  melancholy,  usually  taciturn, 
double-dealing,  foul-speaking,  and  ready 
to  take  the  wrong  side.  He  had  asso- 
ciated himself  little  with  the  true  faith 
since  it  came  to  Greenland.  Thorhall 
was  not  very  popular,  although  Eirik 
had  long  taken  his  advice.  He  was 
upon  the  ship  with  Thorvald,  because 
he  was  well  acquainted  with  the  unin- 
habited parts  of  Greenland."  Thorhall 
has  evidently  fared  worse  at  the  hands 
of  the  Saga-teller  than  he  deserves,  and 
the  reason  is  doubtless  that  he  had  re- 
fused to  accept  Christianity  with  the 
rest.  That  he  was  trustworthy  is  shown 
by  the  confidence  reposed  in  him  by 
Eirik,  and  by  the  fact  that  he  was  af- 
terward entrusted  with  the  command  of 
a  ship  to  go  on  an  exploring  expedition. 
In  the  description  of  him  here  given 
there  is  little  to  conform  to  one's  ideal 
of  a  poet. 

After  the  Norsemen  had  settled  for 
the  winter  at  Stream  Fiord,  they  did 
nothing  but  explore  the  land.  They 
found  plenty  of  grass  for  their  cattle, 
but  a  hard  winter  came  on,  for  which 
they  had  made  no  provision,  and  food 
became  scarce,  and  both  hunting  and 
fishing  failed.  Hoping  to  better  their 
condition,  they  went  over  to  the  island 
opposite  the  fiord,  with  the  expectation 
of  there  finding  food  of  some  kind ;  but 
they  met  with  little  success,  although 
the  cattle  fared  well.  "  Afterward," 
continues  the  Saga,  "  they  called  upon 
God  to  send  them  something  for  food ; 
but  the  answer  came  not  so  quickly  as 
they  wished."  At  this  juncture  Thor- 
hall suddenly  disappeared,  and  men  were 
out  three  days  looking  for  him.  On  the 
fourth  day  Karlsefni  and  Bjarni  found 
him  on  a  crag.  He  was  gazing  up  into 
the  air  ;  eyes  and  mouth  and  nostrils 
were  stretched  wide  open  ;  he  scratched 
and  pinched  himself,  and  recited  some- 
thing whose  purport  they  could  not 
catch.  When  they  asked  him  why  he 
was  there,  he  replied,  curtly,  that  it  was 
no  concern  of  theirs ;  that  they  need  not 


1884.] 


The   Contributors9   Club. 


285 


be  astonished,  and  that  he  had  lived  so 
long  that  there  was  no  necessity  for  them 
to  give  him  advice.  They,  however, 
induced  him  to  return  with  them.  A 
short  time  after,  a  whale  of  an  unknown 
species  drifted  ashore,  and  the  men  cut 
it  up  and  cooked  it  for  food ;  but  all  ex- 
cept Thorhall  were  made  ill  by  it.  He 
evidently  considered  the  whale  a  gift  of 
the  gods,  for  he  exclaimed,  "  Is  it  not 
so  that  the  Red-Bearded  is  mightier 
than  your  Christ  ?  This  I  now  have  for 
the  poem  which  I  made  about  my  patron, 
Thor.  Seldom  has  he  failed  me."  When 
his  comrades  heard  this,  however,  they 
cast  the  whale  meat  away  in  horror,  and, 
in  the  quaint  words  of  the  Saga,  "  turned 
for  help  to  God's  mercy."  Their  prayer 
seems  to  have  been  answered,  for  there 
was  henceforth  no  lack  of  food  until 
spring.  On  all  sides  they  obtained  plenty 
to  eat :  on  the  mainland  by  hunting,  and 
on  the  sea  by  fishing. 

After  the  winter  was  ended  it  was 
decided  to  continue  their  journey.  Thor- 
hall was  to  go  north,  and  endeavor  in 
that  way  to  find  Vinland,  which,  it  seems, 
they  considered  not  yet  to  have  been 
discovered.  Karlsefni,  on  the  contra- 
ry, was  to  go  further  south,  as  it  was 
thought  that  the  further  they  went  in 
that  direction  the  more  land  they  would 
find.  Thorhall,  accordingly,  prepared 
to  set  out  with  a  crew  of  nine  men. 
One  day  when  he  was  engaged  in  carry- 
ing water  from  the  land  to  the  ship,  he 
stopped  to  drink,  and  recited  this  verse, 
which  he  doubtless  composed  on  the 
spot : — 

"  Quoth  they  when  hither  I  came, 

Wielders  they  of  the  clashing  weapons, 

The  requirements  of  the  versification  are  that 
every  couplet  shall  contain  one  set  of  alliteration 
and  two  sets  of  assonance.  The  alliterative  set 
consists  of  the  threefold  use  as  initial  either  of  the 
same  consonant  or  of  any  vowel.  The  alliterative 
sound  must  occur  but  once  in  the  first  member  of 
the  couplet,  and  twice  in 'the  second  member;  the 
only  requirement  as  to  position  being  that  the 
rirst  word  of  the  second  line  of  the  couplet  must 
begin  with  it.  Assonance  consists  in  the  repeti- 
tion of  a  vowel  or  diphthong  before  the  same  conso- 
nant or  consonantal  combination.  In  the  first  set 


Here  could  I  find  drink  of  the  best. 

(Foul  to  speak  of  my  folk  little  beseems  me.) 
Yet  the  god  of  the  helmet  becomes 

Bearer  of  water-butts  here. 
It  is  truer  I  creep  to  the  spring 

Than  wine  o'er  my  beard  has  e'er  trickled." 

They  afterward  put  to  sea,  but  before 
they  hoisted  the  sail  Thorhall  again  re- 
cited a  verse  :  — 

"  Let  us  fare  back  again  where 

Live  our  own  lands-men ; 
Let  the  sea  falcons  knowing 

Seek  the  ship  courses  broad; 
While,  fear-shy,  yet  here  bide 

Warriors  cooking  the  whale-steak, 
Men  they  who  lands  here  find 

Mete  to  them  on  the  Marvel  Strands."  x 

They  then  separated  from  Karlsefni, 
and  sailed  along  the  Marvel  Strands  ; 
but  a  storm  carried  them  out  into  the 
Atlantic  toward  Ireland,  where  Thorhall 
lost  his  life. 

Thorhall's  two  verses  are  the  first  re- 
corded poetry  composed  on  American 
soil.  Though  they  were  not  written 
down  for  several  centuries  after  they 
were  spoken,  there  is  no  reason  to  doubt 
their  genuineness,  or  the  fidelity  of  the 
tradition  which  transmitted  them.  They 
are  curiosities  of  literature  rather  than 
valuable  elements,  but  both  for  their 
age  and  their  connection  deservedly  lay 
claim  to  recognition. 

—  It  was  a  curious  and  delicate  piece 
of  work,  exquisitely  moulded  and  fin- 
ished :  the  material  was  neither  satin 
nor  velvet,  but  some  unpriced  luxurious 
stuff,  suitable  for  a  goddess'  wear ;  its 
color  was  a  rosy  pink,  perhaps  of  the 
same  tint  that  glowed  in  the  cheek  of  its 
owner  ;  it  had  ribbon-like  lace  strings, 
and  a  grotesque  ornament  represent- 
ing the  large  head  and  bulging  eyes  of 

of  assonance  the  assonant  sound  occurs  in  any 
word,  but  only  once  in  the  first  member  of  the 
couplet,  and  in  the  first  word  of  the  second  mem- 
ber. In  the  second  set  the  assonant  sound  occurs 
in  the  last  word  of  the  couplet  and  in  any  preced- 
ing word  of  the  line,  excepting,  of  course,  the  first. 
It  is  not  quite  true,  as  Hallam  asserts,  that  "the 
assonance  is  peculiar  to  the  Spaniard."  It  is  still 
used  in  modern  Icelandic  poetry.  The  translation 
retains  the  alliteration,  but  does  not  attempt  the 
assonance. 


286 


Books  of  the  Month. 


[August, 


a  beetle.  How  this  dainty  slipper,  or 
moccasin  (some  say  slipper,  some  moc- 
casin), came  there  by  the  path  in  the 
dark,  cool  woods  was  the  first  question 
of  the  saunterer  to  whom  luck  gave 
the  prize.  The  slipper  may  have  been 
either  a  "  right "  or  a  "left;"  it  had 
no  mate,  —  at  least  none  was  to  be  seen 
in  that  place ;  it  was  not  lying  on  the 
ground,  like  something  worn  out  and 
carelessly  flung  away,  but  was  rather 
coquettishly  perched  on  the  top  of  a 
slender  green  wand,  which  now  and 
then  swayed  slightly,  as  though  to  at- 


tract attention  to  so  much  beauty.  Pos- 
sibly the  divinity  to  whom  this  ele- 
gant foot-gear  belonged  would  soon  be 
passing  and  would  reclaim  her  own. 
Close  examination  discovered  a  hole  in 
the  toe,  and  still  closer  prying  revealed 
the  probable  mischief-worker,  a  small 
bee  or  fly,  leisurely  wandering  about 
the  white  -  lined  interior.  Doubtless 
a  drop  of  ambrosia,  which  he  might 
have  for  the  finding,  was  hidden  some- 
where in  the  depth  of  this  slipper,  — 
lady's  slipper,  moccasin-flower,  Cypripe- 
dium! 


BOOKS   OF   THE   MONTH. 


Travel,  Geography,  and  Nature.  Mr.  Edward 
Walford,  who  was  one  of  the  editors  of  Old  and 
New  London,  has  now  begun  the  issue  of  Greater 
London,  a  work  projected  on  the  same  plan.  (Gas- 
sell.)  His  method  is  to  give  anecdotical  and  anti- 
quarian accounts  of  the  district  which  lies  outside 
of  London  proper,  yet  really  belongs  to  what  De 
Quincey  used  to  call  the  nation  of  London.  The 
work  is  abundantly  illustrated,  and  when  com- 
pleted will  furnish  a  treasury  of  historical  informa- 
tion upon  the  greatest  centre  of  the  modern  world. 
This  is  one  of  the  books  which  should  be  placed 
on  the  lowest  shelf  in  the  library,  so  that  young 
people  can  browse  in  it. — Round  the  World,  by 
Andrew  Carnegie  (Scribners),  follows  the  same 
author's  lively  and  agreeably  egotistical  An  Amer- 
ican Four-in-Hand  in  Britain.  Mr.  Carnegie  took 
the  proper  course,  and  went  westward  round  the 
world.  His  unfailing  cheerfulness  and  his  shrewd- 
ness make  him  a  good  traveling  companion  for 
those  who  do  not  ask  very  much  more.  Indeed, 
one  might  go  farther  and  fare  much  worse,  for 
Mr.  Carnegie's  observations,  which  are  made  with 
great  readiness,  are  often  such  as  commend  them- 
selves to  a  more  thorough-going  student.  —  Over 
the  Border,  Acadia,  the  Home  of  Evangeline  (Os- 
good),  is  by  an  author  who  writes  for  a  company 
of  eight  who  make  an  excursion  to  Nova  Scotia. 
They  are  primed  with  the  necessary  historical 
knowledge  and  with  the  text  of  Evangeline.  The 
story  is  pleasantly  told,  if  one  does  not  exact  too 
much,  and  there  are  some  interesting  heliotypes 
printed  in  disagreeable  tints.  Eliza  B.  Chase  is  a 
name  printed  on  the  cover,  but  not  on  the  title- 
page,  and  the  reader  not  unreasonably  guesses  it 
to  stand  for  the  author.  —  Summer,  from  the 
Journal  of  Henry  D.  Thoreau,  edited  by  H.  G. 
O.  Blake  (Houghton,  Mifflin  &  Co.),  is  in  contin- 
uation of  the  selections  previously  made  by  Mr. 


Blake,  and  published  as  Spring  in  Massachusetts. 
Like  all  of  Thoreau's  work,  it  offers  itself  for  fur- 
ther selection  by  the  individual  reader.  Thoreau 
suffers  far  less  than  Hawthorne  by  this  kind  of  post- 
humous publication;  or  rather  —  for  Hawthorne 
does  not  suffer  —  there  is  less  sense  of  the  matter 
being  raw  material.  Thoreau's  confessed  books 
never  had  any  constructive  art.  They  were  all  a 
series  of  notes,  and  the  reader  is  thus  well  satis- 
fied with  each  successive  selection,  even  though 
Thoreau  himself  did  not  make  it.  An  excellent 
map  of  Concord  gives  Thoreau's  haunts,  and  will 
be  equally  serviceable  for  other  of  Thoreau's  writ- 
ings. —  At  Home  in  Italy,  by  Mrs.  E.  D.  R.  Bian- 
ciardi  (Houghton,  Mifflin  &  Co.),  is  a  very  reada- 
ble report,  by  an  American  lady  who  is  domesti- 
cated in  Italy,  of  those  matters  which  her  friends 
and  neighbors  would  be  likely  to  ask  her  about, 
if  they  could  question  her.  Mrs.  Bianciardi  is  a 
good  traveler,  also,  and  writes  of  Italian  scenery, 
history,  and  life  as  one  who  has  both  the  native 
gift  of  observation  and  the  advantage  of  residence. 
—  Henry  Irving's  Impressions  of  America,  narrated 
in  a  series  of  sketches,  chronicles,  and  conversa- 
tions, by  Joseph  Hatton.  (Osgood.)  Here  is  the 
interviewer  taken  to  one's  bosom  and  carried 
about  wherever  one  goes.  The  idea  makes  one  at 
first  shudder,  but  if  one's  interviewer  was  a  friend 
before  he  was  an  interviewer  the  idea  becomes  a 
trifle  less  appalling.  Think  of  the  courage  of  the 
interviewer,  however,  and  of  his  rare  devotion  to 
his  calling,  when  he  follows  it  at  the  extreme  risk 
of  sacrificing  friendship !  The  book  is  outside  of 
literature,  but  it  is  an. entertaining  medley,  and 
will  give  those  who  heard  and  saw  Irving  some- 
thing of  the  feeling  that  they  have  heard  and  seen 
him  and  shaken  hands  with  him.  —  The  American 
Horsewoman,  by  Mrs.  Elizabeth  Karr  (Houghton, 
Mifflin  &  Co. ),  is  a  handbook  for  the  use  of  ladies. 


1884.] 


Books  of  the  Month. 


287 


It  is  direct  in  its  statements,  goes  into  minute  de- 
tails, even  to  the  buttons  on  one's  habit,  and  alto- 
gether is  the  most  sensible  book  which  has  ap- 
peared on  this  subject.  It  can  hardly  stimulate 
horsemanship,  but  it  can  free  it  from  some  of  the 
vague  terrors  which  it  has  had  for  American  wo- 
men. One  excellence  of  the  book  is  in  its  strict 
adaptation  to  the  needs  of  women  in  America.  — 
Day-Dawn  in  Dark  Places,  a  story  of  wander- 
ings and  work  in  Bechwanaland,  by  Rev.  John 
Mackenzie  (Cassell),  is  a  book  of  travels  and  mis- 
sionary experience.  The  period  embraced  is  from 
1858  to  1882,  and  the  writer  is  a  plain,  honest 
writer,  who  tells  his  story  simply  and  without  pre- 
tense.—  Mr.  W.  D.  Howells  gives  us  a  charming 
little  volume  in  his  Three  Villages.  (Osgood  & 
Co.)  The  villages  in  question  are  Lexington, 
Shirley,  and  Gnadenhiitten.  Whether  among  the 
Puritans,  or  the  Shakers,  or  the  Moravians,  Mr. 
Howells  does  not  lose  his  picturesque  touch,  or  fal- 
ter for  a  moment  in  his  fine  observation.  All 
the  papers  in  the  book  have  been  printed  before, 
and  are  destined  to  be  reprinted  many  times.  — 
One  looks  to  a  guide-book  for  information  rather 
than  for  entertainment  ;  but  in  Cassell's  Illustrated 
Guide  to  Paris  (Cassell  &  Co.)  the  matter  is  pre- 
sented in  so  agreeeble  a  manner  that  the  reader 
who  goes  to  it  to  be  instructed  remains  to  be 
amused.  The  illustrations  are,  for  the  most  part, 
excellent,  and  where  they  fail  in  being  no  better 
than  they  ought  to  be  they  are  sufficiently  truth- 
ful for  their  purpose,  —  that  of  helping  the  stranger 
to  identify  the  public  buildings  and  points  of  inter- 
est described  in  the  text.  —  Under  the  title  of  G. 
T.  T.,  Gone  to  Texas  (which  title,  by  the  way, 
is  "conveyed"  from  one  of  Edward  E.  Hale's 
clever  books),  Mr.  Tom  Hughes  has  published  a 
collection  of  amusing  letters  from  some  young 
kinsfolk  of  his  who  migrated  to  Texas  in  1878. 
(Macmillan  &  Co.)  The  letters  have  no  literary 
merit  whatever,  but  they  are  full  of  pluck  and 
good  sense,  and  make  one  feel  very  warmly  toward 
the  healthy  young  English  lads  who  penned  them. 
Perhaps  more  literar}'  skill  would  not  have  en- 
abled the  \\riters  to  give  a  better  picture  of  ranch 
life. 

History  and  Government.  Norman  Britain,  by 
William  Hunt,  M.  A.,  is  a  volume  in  the  series 
of  Early  Britain,  published  by  the  S.  P.  C.  K. 
(E.  &  j.  B.  Young  &  Co.,  New  York.)  It  is  a 
compend,  following  the  lead  of  Stubbs  and  Free- 
man, and  is  furnished  with  a  good  map.  —  Short 
History  of  the  Reformation,  by  John  F.  Hurst 
(Harpers),  is  a  dry,  meagre  statement  of  a  great 
historic  fact;  it  is  by  no  means  so  valuable  as 
Seebohm's  Era  of  the  Protestant  Revolution.  — 
Samuel  Adams,  the  Man  of  the  Town-Meeting,  by 
James  K.  Hosmer,  is  one  of  the  excellent  series 
of  Johns  Hopkins  University  Studies  in  Histor- 
ical and  Political  Science.  (N.  Murray,  Baltimore.) 
This  pamphlet  is  a  study  for  a  large  work,  and 
if  Mr.  Hosmer  carries  out  the  same  general  plan 
upon  a  large  scale  he  will  make  an  interesting 
contribution  to  our  history.  — Representative  Gov- 
ernment: the  true  method  of  reaching  concerted 
action  and  of  finding  the  will  of  a  concurring  ma- 
jority in  the  election  of  representatives  of  the 


people  ;  the  remedy  for  the  evils  of  the  delegate 
system  and  the  evils  of  permanent  part}7  organi- 
zation ;  the  civil  service  evil  and  its  remedy.  By 
Thomas  D.  Ingram,  M.  D.  (F.  S.  Hickman, 
Westchester,  Pa.)  This  full  title-page  gives  the 
contents  of  a  small  volume  in  which  the  author  in 
a  temperate  manner  sets  forth  the  evils  which  most 
people  who  are  not  party  politicians  now  admit, 
and  seeks  a  remedy.  The  book  is  worth  considera- 
tion, because  it  holds  fast  to  the  idea  that  thfc  peo- 
ple should  in  some  way  elect  persons  to  represent 
them,  without  the  entanglement  of  party  and  plat- 
form. —  It  must  be  said  of  Professor  Ten  Brook's 
translation  of  Anton  Gindely's  History  of  the 
Thirty  Years'  War  (G.  P.  Putnam's  Sons)  that 
the  work  is  interesting  in  spite  of  the  translator. 
The  two  volumes  are  written  throughout  in  the 
loosest  English.  The  reader  is  constantly  coming 
upon  such  ill-constructed  sentences  as  these  (vol. 
i.  p.  34):  "Ferdinand,  combination  as  he  was 
about  half  of  monk  and  prince,  was,  as  to  person, 
of  middle  stature,"  etc. ;  "  His  first  marriage  was 
with  his  cousin,  a  sister  of  Maximilian  of  Bavaria, 
who(?)  was  about  four  years  older  than  himself, 
bore  him  several  children,  and  died  prematurely," 
etc.  Lasting  histories  are  not  written  in  this  style. 
—  M.  de  Maupas's  story  of  the  Coup  d'Etat  (D. 
Appleton  &  Co.)  is  an  elaborate  account  of  that 
event,  written  from  a  novel  aud  interesting  point 
of  view.  M.  de  Maupas  performed  an  important 
part  in  the  affair  of  the  2d  December,  which  of 
course  he  defends,  and  defends  ingeniously.  The 
collapse  at  Sedan  must  have  made  the  writing  of 
such  a  book  a  matter  of  some  difficulty.  M.  de 
Maupas,  however,  proves  that  the  last  word  has 
not  been  said  on  the  Second  Empire.  He  writes 
with  coolness  and  abilitjr,  and  if  he  overstates  the 
measure  of  his  late  master,  we  can  forgive  the  ex- 
minister  :  loyalty  to  the  king  when  he  can  bestow 
no  more  favors  is  a  rare  and  edifying  spectacle. 
The  present  volume  deals  with  only  the  earlier 
days  of  Louis  Napoleon's  administration;  the  au- 
thor purposes  to  bring  his  narrative  down  to  the 
conclusion  of  the  Franco-Prussian  Avar.  The  work 
in  the  original  is  entitled  Me'moires  sur  le  Second 
Empire.  Mr.  Vandam's  translation  is  very  un- 
equal; in  the  text,  and  especially  in  his  own  illus- 
trative foot-notes,  he  provides  us  with  some  ex- 
ceedingly queer  English. 

Biography.  The  Mothers  of  Great  Men  and 
Women,  and  some  Wives  of  Great  Men,  by  Laura 
C.  Hollo  way.  (Funk  &  Wagnalls. )  This  volume 
selects  the  great  men  and  their  mothers,  and  makes 
out  a  very  good  account.  We  would  not  be  sup- 
posed to  question  the  fact  that  great  men  have 
had  good  mothers,  —  we  have  been  reminded  of  it 
too  often;  but  we  would -put  in  a  plea  for  an  occa- 
sional father.  Mrs.  or  Miss  Holloway  has  done 
her  work,  however,  more  simply  and  with  greater 
variety  of  illustration  than  one  might  have  ex- 
pected. —  Biographies  of  Workingmen,  by  Grant 
Allen.  (S.  P.  C.  K.,  London  ;  Young,  New  York.) 
The  workingmen  are  Telford,  Stephenson,  Gib- 
son, Herschel,  Miller,  Garfield,  and  Edward,  onljr 
one  of  whom,  Edward,  remained  a  workingman, 
in  the  strict  sense.  The  mistake  of  books  of  this 
class  is  in  making  so  much  of  the  greatness  of  the 


288 


Books  of  the  Month. 


[August. 


man.  Garficld  is  put  down  as  a  canal-boy,  but  if 
he  had  been  only  an  honest,  faithful  canal-boy, 
who  never  misused  the  horses  and  never  fell  into 
the  canal,  his  life  as  a  workingman  would  have 
been  of  greater  value  to  other  canal-boys.  The 
first  lesson  to  workingmen  is  surely  not  that  they 
can  get  rid  of  being  workingmen.  —  Chinese  Gor- 
don, a  succinct  record  of  his  life,  by  Archibald 
Forbes  (Funk  &  Wagnalls),  does  not  profess  to  be 
more  than  a  compilation  by  a  man  who  is  espe- 
cially qualified  to  make  a  good  one.  The  por- 
trait frontispiece  is  also  a  succinct  portrait;  the 
nose  is  made  of  three  lines,  the  eyes  of  a  simi- 
larly economical  number,  and  the  whole  effect  is 
enough  to  make  El  Mahdi  think  he  had  met  the 
Cardiff  Giant  in  uniform.  —  Lee  &  Shepard  have 
published  in  a  pamphlet  Wendell  Phillips's  oration 
on  Daniel  O'Connell.  —  A  History  of  the  Bank  of 
New  York,  1784-1884,  compiled  from  official  rec- 
ords and  other  sources  at  the  request  of  the  direc- 
tors, by  Henry  W.  Domett  (Putnams),  necessarily 
includes  also  something  of  general  financial  his- 
tory. The  bank  is  the  oldest  in  the  State.  —  Gov- 
ernment Revenue,  especially  the  American  Sys- 
tem, an  Argument  for  Industrial  Freedom  against 
the  Fallacies  of  Free-Trade,  by  Ellis  H.  Roberts. 
(Houghton,  Mifflin  &  Co.)  Mr.  Roberts  was  in- 
vited to  lecture  before  Cornell  University  with  the 
distinct  understanding  that  he  should  present  the 
argument  contained  in  this  book,  and  he  has  pre- 
served his  lectures  in  an  attractive  form.  What- 
ever maybe  the  creed  of  the  reader,  he  will  be 
indebted  to  Mr.  Roberts  for  much  interesting  in- 
formation freshly  grouped.  —  The  Problem  of 
Negro  Education,  by  George  R.  Stetson  (Cupples, 
Upham  &  Co.),  is  a  thoughtful  essay  by  a  gentle- 
man who  has  resided  at  the  South ;  the  chief  fac- 
tors in  the  solution  are  in  his  judgment  government 
aid  industrial  schools  and  common-sense  teachers 
for  every  humlet,  but  he  does  not  clearly  point 
out  who  are  to  administer  the  educational  appli- 
ances. —  Every  Seventh  Soul,  by  Rev.  Morgan 
Callaway,  president  of  Paine  Institute,  Augusta, 
Georgia  (Harrison  &  Co.,  Atlanta),  is  another 
contribution  to  the  same  subject.  Mr.  Callaway 
sees  the  remedy  in  the  Methodist  church,  acting 
through  such  representatives  as  the  Paine  Insti- 
tute. —  Repudiation,  by  Geo.  Walton  Green,  is  an 
economic  tract  issued  by  the  Society  for  Political 
Education,  New  York.  It  is  a  historical  summan^, 
and  has  immediate  reference  to  state  repudiation 
since  the  war.  —  Suggestions  for  a  Commercial 
Treaty  with  Spain,  with  especial  reference  to  the 
island  of  Cuba,  by  Adam  Badeau,  of  Jamaica.  New 
York,  is  the  result  of  studies  made  by  the  author 
when  consul-general  at  Havana. 

Society  and  Economy.  Property  and  Progress, 
or  a  Brief  Enquiry  into  Contemporary  Social  Agi- 
tation in  England,  by  W.  H.  Mallockf  (Putnams.) 
Mr.  Mallock  represents  the  man  of  breeding  and 
taste,  who  recognizes  the  existence  of  poverty  and 
its  evil,  but  who  is  still  more  keenly  alive  to  the 

logical  inaccuracies  of  Mr.  Henry  George. What 

to  Do  and  How  to  Do  It  is  a  manual  of  the  law 


affecting  the  housing  and  sanitary  condition  of 
Londoners,  with  special  reference  to  the  dwellings 
of  the  poor.  It  is  issued  by  Kegan  Paul,  Trench  & 
Co.,  for  the  Sanitary  Laws  Enforcement  Society, 
and  while  of  local  usefulness  chiefly  contains  food 
for  thought  for  those  Americans  who  wonder  if,  un- 
der popular  government,  cities  and  States  may  not 
do  something  like  what  the  government  of  Great 
Britain  is  doing  in  the  manipulation  of  society.  — 
The  Guild  of  Good  Life,  a  narrative  of  Domestic 
Health  and  Economy,  by  Benjamin  Ward  Rich- 
ardson, M.  D.  (S.  P.  C.  K.,  London;  Young,  New 
York.)  Dr.  Richardson  is  always  sensible,  and  he 
takes  a  very  rational  interest  in  sanitary  reform. 
In  this  little  book  he  has  used  the  trite  expedient 
of  a  club  of  working  men  and  women,  by  means 
of  which  to  enforce  some  simple  considerations  of 
health  and  decent  living.  The  book  is  calculated 
for  the  latitude  of  England,  but  one  would  not  get 
out  of  his  course  who  followed  its  directions  in 
America.  —  Mothers  in  Council  (Harpers)  also 
resorts  to  the  fiction  of  a  club,  but  carries  it  out 
more  completely.  In  a  town,  presumably  of  col- 
legiate interests  and  culture,  a  dozen  mothers 
meet,  talk,  read  papers,  and  listen  to  passages 
from  good  authors  upon  those  topics  which  are 
near  to  the  heart  of  conscientious  women.  There 
is  little  attempt  at  distinguishing  the  personality 
of  the  speakers,  but  there  is  not  a  foolish  one 
among  them,  and  a  community  governed  by  them 
ought  soon  to  be  able  to  dispense  with  their  con- 
cilary  wisdom.  Not  so  society  at  large,  which 
will  find  these  mothers  most  excellent  advisers. 
—  Thrift  and  Independence,  a  word  for  working- 
men,  by  the  Rev.  W.  L.  Blackley  (S.  P.  C.  K., 
London ;  Young,  New  York),  contains  general  prin- 
ciples with  applications  suited  especially  to  English 
middle  and  lower  class  people. 

Music.  The  History  of  Music  from  the  Chris- 
tian Era  to  the  Present  Time,  by  Dr.  Frederic 
Louis  Ritter.  (Ditson,  Boston.)  Dr.  Ritter  has  re- 
written in  this  form  his  History  of  Music  in  the 
form  of  lectures,  and  has  given  in  a  compendious 
and  agreeable  form  a  narrative  history.  The  book 
is  quite  as  entertaining  to  the  general  reader  as  it 
is  useful  to  the  student.  —  My  Musical  Memories, 
by  H.  R.  Haweis  (Funk  &  Wagnalls):  a  vol- 
ume of  reminiscences  and  musical  anecdotes  by  a 
clergyman  who  has  a  passion  for  music.  Wagner 
is  the  theme  for  a  number  of  chapters,  and  Mr. 
Haweis  gives  at  some  length  analyses  of  the  Bai- 
reuth  operas. 

Criticism.  Did  Francis  Bacon  write  Shake- 
speare? is  the  persistent  question  which  turns  up 
just  when  every  one  thinks  he  has  answered  it. 
The  editor  of  Bacon's  Promus  of  Formularies  and 
Elegancies  asks  it  again,  and  gives  thirty-two  rea- 
sons for  believing  that  he  did.  The  little  pam- 
phlet containing  the  answer  is,  the  author  says, 
only  a  sketch  of  the  most  outward  circumstances, 
and  intended  only  to  present  portable  arguments. 
She  invites  correspondence  from  Shakespearean 
students.  (W.  H.  Guest  &  Co.,  29  Paternoster 
Row,  London.) 


THE 


ATLANTIC    MONTHLY: 


^tagajine  of  Literature^  ^titntt,  art,  ana 


VOL.  LIV.  —  SEPTEMBER,  1884.  —  No.  OCCXXHI. 


IN  WAR  TIME. 


XVII. 


THE  Morton  household  soon  settled 
down  to  its  new  and  on  the  whole  more 
happy  life.  Edward's  change  from  un- 
restful  discomfort  to  the  peace  of  soul 
which  a  growing  love  of  books  and  of 
the  pursuits  of  the  naturalist  brought 
him  struck  his  mother  with  astonish- 
ment, and  filled  her  with  a  hopeful  pleas- 
ure which  what  Arthur  called  "our 
Ned's  melancholy  sweetness  "  could  not 
destroy.  In  fact,  Edward  was  suffering 
from  the  effects  of  a  great  moral  shock 
on  a  system  incompetent  to  bear  the 
blow ;  and  with  it,  unfortunately,  had 
come  to  the  tender-hearted  young  man 
some  self-reproach.  "  Why,"  he  asked 
himself,  "  should  I,  a  wretched  cripple, 
have  dared  even  to  dream  of  fasten- 
ing this  strong,  wholesome  life  to  my 
morbid  wretchedness  ?  "  How  wrong  it 
would  be  even  if  it  were  possible  !  And 
now  it  was  not  possible  ;  but  the  worst 
of  the  bitter  of  it  had  been  tasted,  and 
use  had  dulled  the  palate  of  despair. 
For  a  nature  like  Edward  Morton's 
there  was  nothing  left  except  to  smooth 
the  way  for  Arty.  The  love  which  had 
been  cherished  because  it  had  seemed 
only  a  tender  friendship  was  now  clear- 
ly defined  to  him,  its  real  nature  made 
but  too  plain  ;  for  moral  analysis,  like 
chemical  analysis,  sometimes  destroys 
what  it  explains. 


The  widow,  delighted  to  be  relieved 
in  many  ways  by  Mrs.  Morton's  re- 
turn, left  her  very  willingly  to  wind  up 
the  affairs  of  the  Sanitary  Commission 
office,  and  to  keep  Mrs.  Grace  and  her 
kind  in  order.  She  felt  also  that  it  was 
no  longer  so  clearly  her  business  to 
watch  certain  young  folks,  and  as  some- 
times happened  to  this  woman  she 
lapsed  for  a  season  into  a  fit  of  absolute 
idleness,  checkered  with  many  visits 
from  Wendell ;  for  in  fact  Mrs.  Wester- 
ley  was  fast  making  up  her  mind,  and, 
tired  of  defense,  was  becoming  indiffer- 
ent as  to  what  her  friends  or  neigh- 
bors might  say. 

The  happy  leisure  of  home  life  suited 
Captain  Arthur  Morton  well.  He  was 
young,  had  won  his  spurs  honestly,  and 
found  it  pleasant  to  dine  out  and  be 
made  much  of. 

With  Ann  Wendell,  the  young  cap- 
tain was  a  welcome  guest,  and  this  also 
suited  him.  There  was  about  him  a 
certain  grimness  of  purpose  which  Ann 
liked,  but  that  this  was  accompanied  by 
a  never-ending  good-humored  amuse- 
ment at  and  with  everything  in  life 
seemed  to  her  at  times  unnatural,  and,  if 
she  had  been  able  to  think  it  out  clear- 
ly, contradictory.  It  was  of  course  not 
in  the  nature  of  things  that  any  woman 
should  long  have  doubted  as  to  what 
brought  him  to  the  Wendells'  so  often. 
But  Ann  was  slow  in  seeing  the  by-play 


Copyright,  1884,  by  HOUGHTON,  MIFFLIN  &  Co. 


290 


In  War  Time. 


[September, 


of  life,  and  Arthur  had  a  hundred  ex- 
cuses. 

On  the  morn  ing  of  April  16th,  Arthur 
walked  slowly  down  the  main  street  of 
Germantown.  He  was  thinking  deep- 
ly, as  were  millions  of  men  and  women 
North  and  South,  of  the  dark  news  of 
Lincoln's  assassination.  As  he  went 
along,  people  were  already  closing  their 
window  shutters  and  hanging  black  dra- 
peries on  the  shops,  and  on  all  faces 
were  awe  and  a  terror  as  of  something 
yet  to  come. 

But  now  Hester  came  walking  up 
Church  Lane,  whither  she  had  been  as 
the  messenger  of  some  of  Ann's  modest 
charities,  and  presently  saw  him  ;  and 
as  she  was  becoming  consciously  shy  in 
these  days,  she  would  have  run  away  had 
she  been  able.  All  she  could  do,  how- 
ever, was  to  delay  her  steps,  and  think 
with  amusement  of  how  she  would 
walk  down  the  main  street  behind  him. 
But  suddenly  Captain  Morton's  eyes 
were  on  her,  and  throwing  away  his 
cigar  he  joined  her. 

"  Oh,  Miss  Hester,  what  awful  news ! * 

"  How  can  men  be  so  wicked  !  "  she 
returned.  "  And  now  Dr.  Wendell  says 
that  of  all  the  things  that  could  hap- 
pen this  is  the  worst  for  us,  —  for  the 
South." 

"  Yes,  nothing  could  be  worse  for  the 
South." 

"  And  will  it  make  more  war,  more 
blood  ?  " 

"  I  think  not,  but  who  can  say  !  Let 
us  not  talk  about  it  now.  I  have  seen 
so  many  men  killed  —  I  have  seen  so 
many  killed  while  I  was  talking  to  them, 
killed  while  they  were  laughing,  struck 
out  of  life  like  numerals  rubbed  off  a 
slate  —  that  I  do  suppose  I  don't  feel 
this  as  I  ought  to." 

"  Why,  Mr.  Morton  !  " 

"  Yes,  that  seems  strange  to  you, 
does  n't  it  ?  Still  I  believe  it  will  be  a 
long  while  before  I  get  to  thinking  life, 
just  mere  life,  so  very  valuable." 

They  walked  on  a  little  in  silence. 


Then  he  added,  musingly,  "  I  think  I 
have  a  soldier's  feeling  about  it  all,  and 
I  should  n't  wonder  if  he  had  that, 
also." 

"  You  said  a  little  while  ago,  Don't 
let  us  talk  of  it ;  and  I  would  far  rather 
not.  But  —  but,"  she  added,  "  you 
won't  ever  say  it  was  the  South  ?  " 

Arthur  colored.  He  had  declared  as 
much  at  breakfast.  "  Whatever  I  may 
feel  or  think,  I  shall  never  say  what 
will  hurt  you.  Much  I  care  for  the  rest 
of  the  South  !  " 

Hester  felt  that  the  reply  was  rather 
more  ample  than  she  had  asked. 

u  Thank  you,"  she  returned,  and  there 
was  a  moment  of  silence,  when  pres- 
ently they  came  to  the  doctor's  door. 
Miss  Ann,  being  now  assured  of  the 
truth  of  the  news,  stood  at  a  window, 
the  shutters  of  which  she  was  closing  as 
for  one  dead  in  the  house,  and  listened 
gravely  to  the  sound  of  cannon  from 
one  of  the  camps  at  the  foot  of  the  hill, 
where  men  used  the  voice  of  war  to  tell 
the  story  of  despair. 

"  Come  in,"  said  Ann,  opening  the 
door.  "  Have  you  heard  the  last  news  ? 
Johnston  has  surrendered ;  and  to  think 
of  -this  death  between  these  two  joys ! 
Was  it  really  at  a  theatre,  Arthur  ? '; 

«  Yes." 

"  I  wish  it  had  n't  been  there,"  she 
rejoined  sadly.  "  And  is  it  true  that 
the  man  tripped  on  the  flag  ? ' 

"  Yes ;  that  is  true,  I  believe.  But 
let  Miss  Hester  in,  Miss  Ann  ; '  and 
when  she  had  passed,  he  said,  "  I  think 
it  has  troubled  her  as  a  Southern  wo- 
man. She  feels  it  dreadfully." 

"  And  well  she  may,"  exclaimed  Ann, 
bitterly  for  her,  and  went  away  upstairs, 
saying  to  Hester,  who  had  gone  into  the 
parlor,  "  Come  up  as  soon  as  Mr.  Mor- 
ton goes.  I  have  got  some  work  for 
you." 

"  Shall  I  come  now,  Miss  Ann  ?* 

"  No,  I  am  in  no  hurry." 

"  Of  course  you  cannot  go,"  said  Cap- 
tain Morton.  "  Am  I  not  a  bronzed  vet- 


1884.] 


In  War  Time. 


291 


eran,  and  shall  I  not  be  entertained  on 
my  return  from  the  wars  ?  ' 

"  Duty  first,"  cried  Hester,  laughing. 

"  Oh,  Miss  Gray,  I  hope  you  don't 
forget  the  rest  of  that  wise  saying ;  and 
as  Miss  Ann  has  let  you  off  the  duty, 
I  may  presume  there  is  nothing  else 
but  to  realize  the  other  end  of  the  prov- 
erb." 

"  I  think  you  are  very  saucy,"  she  re- 
turned ;  "  and  in  fact  you  are  quite  too 
fond  of  making  inferences." 

"  Is  that  what  keeps  you  away  from 
our  house,  Hester  ?  ' 

«'  No,  it  is  not  that  —  but "  — 

"  But  what  ?  Ned  is  n't  well,  and  he 
must  miss  you  awfully.  He  does  noth- 
ing but  growl  about  your  staying  away. 
Why  do  you  ?  " 

"  I  think  he  will  get  on  very  well 
without  me.  Come  in  here ;  I  want  to 
show  you  the  doctor's  new  rhizopod. 
He  is  so  proud  of  it." 

"  Now,"  said  the  bronzed  veteran 
calmly,  "  that  was  a  very  feeble  bit  of 
diplomacy  !  Why  do  you  not  come  to 
the  Laurels  as  you  used  to  ?  " 

"  Don't  you  think,"  she  replied,  "  that 
when  one  shows  a  disinclination  to  an- 
swer it  were  just  as  well  to  infer  that 
you  are  answered?' 

He  looked  up  at  her,  surprised  at 
the  ingenuity  and  truth  of  the  defense, 
and  charmed  with  the  womanly  dignity 
which  of  a  sudden  seemed  to  envelop 
her. 

How  old  she  gets !  he  thought ;  but 
then  he  saw  she  was  flushing  a  little. 
There  had  come  to  her  a  sudden  appre- 
hension that  what  she  had  said  might 
be  misunderstood,  so  she  added  quickly, 
a  little  angry  at  being  forced  to  explain 
herself,  — 

"  Miss  Ann  thinks  that  your  mother 
will  ask  me  when  she  wants  me,  and  as 
you  have  many  guests  I  have  kept  away. 
Is  that  very  mysterious? " 

He  had  an  instinctive  sense  that  this 
was  not  quite  all ;  but  he  said,  "That 
is  Miss  Ann  all  over ;  but  I  have  vexed 


you."  Hester  shook  her  head.  A  fib 
by  gesture  is  probably  to  be  regarded  as 
the  mildest  form  of  untruth. 

"  But  I  did  vex  you ;  and  one  word 
more.  I  was  not  quite  correct  in  what 
I  said  about  Lincoln  and  the  South.  I 
had  said  something  about  the  South  at 
breakfast  that  would  have  made  you 
furious.  I  want  to  say  now  that  I  shall 
never  so  speak  again.  I  mean  —  Hes- 
ter Gray  —  I  mean  because  of  you  ! ' 

"  I  think  you  should  obey  your  own 
conscience,"  she  said,  proudly  standing 
by  the  mantel,  and  facing  him.  "  No 
friendship  ought  to  control  that." 

"  I  have  two  consciences  now,"  he 
replied,  looking  up  and  smiling  kindly. 

*'  Two  ?  "  she  returned,  a  little  eased 
at  the  turn  of  the  talk,  —  "  two  ?  How 
queer  ! " 

"  And  one  is  Hester  Gray." 

"  Nonsense  !  "  she  cried,  laughing  and 
embarrassed.  "  I  cannot  accept  the 
charge.  I  have  quite  enough  trouble  as 
it  is.  Besides,  you  would  be  so  over- 
supplied  with  conscientiousness,  you 
could  n't  turn  around  without  crying ; 
and  as  for  me,  I  should  have  to  share 
your  conscience,  also,  and  if  I  am  to 
have  two  I  shall  try  Miss  Ann's.  I 
think  it  is  more  of  a  bronzed  veteran 
than  yours." 

"  But  after  all,  I  never  meant  to  ask 
you  to  "share  my  conscience.  I  only 
wanted  to  keep  the  respect  of  yours." 

"  As  if  you  ever  had  it !  *'  she  cried, 
merrily,  well  pleased  to  be  off  danger- 
ous ground  again. 

"  But  I  shall  hope  to  have  it,  and  to 
keep  it  too." 

Then  Miss  Ann  called,  as  was  her 
way,  from  the  stair-case  :  "  Are  you 
soon  coming,  Hester?'  Miss  Ann  was, 
as  we  know,  calmly  unconventional. 

"  I  must  go,"  said  Hester. 

"  Just  a  moment,  Hester,"  begged 
Arthur.  Then,  as  she  stood,  he  took 
her  hand. 

"  Don't  keep  me,"  she  exclaimed. 
"  Really,  I  must  go." 


292 


In  War  Time. 


[September, 


"  Not  yet,"  and  looking  her  straight 
in  the  eyes  went  on  :  "I  shall  want  your 
respect,  Hester,  because  I  want  your 
love  —  and  —  and  —  shall  I  have  it, 
Hester  ?  "  and  a  great  eagerness  of  pur- 
pose came  over  his  strong  face.  He  felt 
her  tremble  and  saw  her  eyelids  fall  to 
hide  the  tender  terror  of  the  moment, 
but  yet  she  did  not  move.  Many  times 
in  these  few  days  she  had  gotten  away 
from  this,  and  now  it  was  come.  "  Speak, 
Hester,"  he  implored,  hoarsely.  There 
was  some  gentle  instinct  in  him  that 
made  him  feel  a  deep  and  unselfish  pity 
for  the  orphan  girl.  "  But  if,  dear,"  he 
added,  '*  it  cannot  be,  don't  be  afraid  to 
tell  me.  I  shall  try  hard  to  bear  it." 

And  then  Ann  was  heard  again  :  "'If 
Arthur  Morton  stays  any  longer,  Hes- 
ter, he  must  help  pare  the  apples  for 
the  pies." 

Hester  looked  up,  smiling,  through 
fast-filling  eyes.  Then  the  captain  also 
smiled.  Then  they  both  laughed,  while, 
glad  of  this  diversion,  she  made  a  swift 
and  shameful  flight  for  the  door ;  but 
this  flank  movement  was  unsuccessful, 
and  he  caught  her  by  the  wrist  with  his 
hurt  hand. 

"  Don't !  "  she  cried.     "  I  must  go." 

"  But  you  hurt  my  arm." 

"  I  don't  care  —  I  don't  care  at  all ! 
Mr.  Morton,  let  me  go  !  " 

"  And  may  I  peel  those  apples  with 
you,  Hester  ?  " 

"  Yes,  I  suppose  so." 

"  And  may  I  always  peel  apples  with 
you,  Hester  ?  " 

"  Yes,"  she  murmured,  faintly. 

"Are  you  never  coming?"  asked 
Ann,  quite  close  to  the  door. 

"  Yes,  yes,"  returned  Hester,  very 
red,  and  opening  it  abruptly. 

"  Oh,  Miss  Ann,  and  I  am  going  to 
help  her! '  said  Arthur. 

Then  and  there  it  was  all  only  too 
suddenly  made  clear  to  Ann,  and  leav- 
ing them  she  went  upstairs  into  her  room, 
and  sitting  down  groaned  aloud,  "  What 
am  I  to  do  ?  How  blind  I  have  been  ! 


And  does  she  dream  that  her  father  was 
killed  by  his  father  ?  " 

It  had  been  a  horrible  story  to  Ann 
as  first  she  heard  it,  and  her  last  inter- 
view with  Captain  Gray,  when  he  was 
dying,  had  so  set  it  in  her  mind  that  it 
would  have  been  utterly  impossible  for 
her  to  disbelieve  it.  In  fact,  it  was,  as 
she  felt,  a  dying  man's  statement.  The 
law  accepted  such  statements,  and  how 
could  she  do  other  than  accept  them 
also?  All  through  these  years  it  had 
influenced  her  feelings,  at  least,  and  had 
made  her  look  with  constant  discomfort 
on  the  kindness  shown  to  Hester  bv  the 

«/ 

Mortons.  When  she  knew  that  Colo- 
nel Morton  was  responsible  for  a  part 
of  this  kindness,  it  seemed  to  her  as  if 
he  were  thus  seeking  to  atone  to  the 
child  he  had  made  fatherless.  Her 
brother  had  told  her  that  the  whole  mat- 
ter was  absurd,  and  that,  if  true,  it  was 
only  what  must  happen  in  war.  He  had 
better  not  have  said  "  if  true."  That 
still  left  in  Ann's  mind  a  dark  and  un- 
pleasant doubt ;  and  now  at  last  the  time 
had  come  when,  as  a  woman  fearing  God, 
she  must  face  the  matter  with  some 
practical  decision.  Ann  tried  hard  to 
think  it  all  out  to  a  satisfactory  conclu- 
sion. She  felt  that  this  time,  at  least, 
she  could  not  quite  trust  Ezra.  How 
could  he  decide  anything  fairly  where 
the  Mortons  were  concerned,  and  who 
else  was  there,  and  who  could  tell  these 
glad  young  people,  and  why  was  this 
misery  of  duty  put  upon  her  ?  "  Had  I 
been  less  blind,  I  might  have  seen  it  in 
time,"  she  cried.  Then  she  began  to 
realize  how  far  Hester  had  grown  into 
her  affections,  and  to  think  with  an  in- 
creasing pain  of  Arthur,  for  whom  her 
heart  was  strangely  open.  There  was 
some  New  England  vigor  in  him,  she 
said,  liking  to  explain  her  admiration  on 
impersonal  grounds.  If  Dr.  Lagrange 
had  been  within  reach,  she  would  have 
wished  to  talk  with  him  about  it  all. 
His  supreme  exactness  gave  Ann  a 
strong  belief  in  his  conscientiousness, 


1884.] 


In  War  Time. 


293 


and  probably  she  would  have  been  set 
at  rest  by  his  dictum.  But  Dr.  Lagrange 
was  far  away  in  the  Mississippi  Valley, 
and  was  just  then  lamenting  over  divers 
returns  of  hospital  stores  conveniently 
"  expended  in  service,"  or  captured,  and 
was  miserably  unhappy  over  wars  which 
were  carried  on  in  this  unmethodical 
fashion. 

Nevertheless  Ann  took  some  comfort 
after  having  written  to  him.  She  felt 
that  she  must  do  something,  and  now, 
having  done  something,  could  rest  tran- 
quil for  a  few  days ;  and  if  then  noth- 
ing came  to  her  in  the  way  of  hopeful 
counsel,  there  at  least  was  Alice  Wes- 
terley. 

But  just  yet  she  would  say  nothing 
to  Ezra.  If  Arthur  mentioned  his  love 
affair  to  him,  as  was  likely  enough,  she 
might  have  to  speak  as  to  what  was  on 
her  mind.  She  did  not  like  the  conceal- 
ment, but  events  had  been  too  strong 
for  her. 

XVIII. 

The  spring  buds  filled  up  despite  the 
wars  and  griefs  of  men,  and  where  the 
latest  snow  was  melting  the  trailing  ar- 
butus made  the  Wissahickon  hills  deli- 
cious with  its  perfect  fragrance.  It  was 
such  a  day  as  always  brought  Mr.  Wil- 
mington to  the  country  for  a  little  sun- 
ning. He  was  yet  lingering  in  his  town 
house,  loath  to  leave  his  club  and  the 
evening  whist-table  ;  but  the  evening 
whist  had  been  rather  broken  up  of  late, 
owing  to  great  events  outside,  and  as 
a  consequence  the  little,  precise,  ruddy 
face  was  looking  unpleased,  its  owner's 
enjoyment  of  life  being  temperately 
made  up  of  a  regular  succession  of  many, 
small  things.  He  got  out  of  his  train 
at  Fisher's  Lane,  and  sauntered  along 
until  he  came  to  the  old  graveyard  at 
the  corner  of  the  main  street.  Here 
he  paused  in  the  lane,  and  resting  his 
arms  on  the  crumbling  stone  wall  looked 
over  at  the  neglected  stones,  slanted 


this  way  and  that,  and  tried  to  decipher 
some  of  the  nearer  inscriptions.  He 
was  wondering  what  some  other  old  fel- 
low would  say,  a  century  hence,  when 
he  came  to  read  the  words  in  which  his 
demise  would  be  recorded  in  Christ 
Church  burial-ground.  "  At  least,"  re- 
flected the  comfortable  old  sinner,  "  I 
sha'n't  know."  And  then  he  chuckled 
at  the  idea  that  it  would  not  be  well  to 
have  Mrs.  Westerley  write  that  inscrip- 
tion. 

"  Good  -  morning,  Mr.  Wilmington," 
said  Wendell,  approaching  him.  "  What 
mean  these  meditations  among  the 
tombs  ?  " 

"  I  was  thinking,"  said  the  old  gen- 
tleman, u  how  much  more  amusing  grave- 
yards would  be  if  comments  were  added 
to  the  inscriptions  by  others  than  one's 
heirs." 

"  Good  heavens  ! "  said  the  doctor, 
shuddering.  "  I  should  decree  myself  a 
nameless,  dateless  grave,  like  the  Qua- 
kers." The  idea  struck  him  as  unpleas- 
ant. If  he  died  that  day,  what  might 
not  be  said  of  him  ?  "  Are  you  going 
up  Main  Street  ?  " 

"  I  am  wandering,"  answered  Wil- 
mington. "  I  shall  probably  wind  up  at 
Mrs.  Westerley's."  / 

Wendell  was  glad  of  company.  He 
had  learned  lately  the  worst  news  of  his 
new  investment,  and  he  had  bought 
some  gold,  thinking  thus  to  help  him- 
self, and  then,  to  the  amazement  of  all, 
when  Lee  surrendered  gold  fell.  That 
day  had  come  a  letter  from  Henry 
Gray,  dated  in  London  a  month  back, 
in  which  he  desired  Dr.  Wendell  to  hold 
ready  for  his  call  nine  thousand  dollars, 
as  he  saw  a  way  of  making  for  his  cousin 
Hester  a  better  investment  of  it  than 
could  possibly  be  made  in  the  North. 
Like  most  Confederates  abroad,  he  was 
utterly  unable  to  see  how  fast  the  power 
of  the  Southern  States  was  crumbling, 
and  still  wrote  with  a  confidence  in  their 
integrity  which  to  Wendell  seemed  little 
less  than  ludicrous.  "  Would  the  doc- 


294 


In  War  Time. 


[September, 


tor  and  his  sister  be  so  good  as  to  keep 
the  remaining  thousand  as  a  slight  proof 
of  Mr.  Gray's  gratitude,  which  he  hoped 
to  show  later  in  some  still  more  substan- 
tial way?" 

Wendell  did  not  like  this  letter,  for 
many  and  obvious  reasons  ;  he  walked 
on,  talking,  and  at  times  thinking  of  it 
anew. 

"  Disagreeable  business,  all  this  ! ' 
said  Wilmington,  vaguely,  —  "  death  of 
Lincoln,  and  all  that.  There  is  a  pas- 
sage in  the  Spectator  which  'applies  to 
it,  —  something  about  rebels ;  but  it 
might  be  in  Milton." 

"  I  don't  recall  it,"  replied  Wendell. 

"  Nor  I.  My  memory  is  n't  at  all 
what  it  was.  Bless  me,  how  sharp  the 

•        •       i    j) 

air  is  ! 

"  Yes,  it  is  rather  biting  for  the  sea- 
son. And  how  is  the  gout,  Mr.  Wil- 
mington ?  " 

"  Well  enough,  if  I  don't  drink  ma- 
deira. But  you  see,  doctor,  if  you  don't 
drink  madeira,  why,  life  really  is  n't 
worth  much  in  the  latter  part  of  the 
day,  you  know." 

"  I  would  n't  take  a  great  deal,  or 
habitually,"  said  Wendell. 

"  No,  I  dare  say  you  would  n't.  But 
upon  my  word,  is  n't  that  old  Grace's 
barn  ?  He  has  taken  off  his  weather- 
cock ;  and  how  on  earth  does  he  suppose 
I  can  dress  myself  without  a  weather- 
cock in  sight  ?  It  's  no  use  on  one's 
own  house." 

The  doctor,  much  amused,  condoled 
with  his  friend,  and  suggested  mutual 
weather-cocks,  which  seemed  a  satisfac- 
tory solution,  and  Mr.  Wilmington  went 
on  for  some  time  in  silence,  apparently 
comforted. 

This  gave  Wendell  a  little  time  for 
reflection,  which  resulted  in  this  wise :  — 

"  I  have  had  a  letter  from  Hester's 
cousin,  and  perhaps  you  may  be  willing 
to  advise  me  in  regard  to  it,  as  you  did 
about  the  first  letter." 

"  I  shall  have  great  pleasure,"  re- 
turned Wilmington.  He  liked  to  be 


asked  for  advice,  and  in  matters  of  busi- 
ness, or  purely  worldly  affairs,  there  were 
few  more  clear-headed  counselors.  He 
put  on  his  glasses,  and  pausing  tranquil- 
ly in  the  street  read  the  letter.  Then 
he  read  it  again. 

"  Queer  hand  he  writes.  What 's  that 
word  ?  Oh,  it 's  '  investment,'  is  it  ?  ' 

"  Indeed,"  said  Wendell,  "  I  agree 
with  you  fully  about  the  writing.  I 
wonder  people  are  not  ashamed  to  write 
so  badly.  It  is  n't  considered  an  accom- 
plishment to  stammer  so  as  to  be  incom- 
prehensible. But  how  does  the  letter 
strike  you,  sir  ?  " 

The  old  gentleman  raised  his  eyelids, 
which  were  in  general  very  nearly  shut, 
and  this  unclosure  of  two  large  gray 
eyes  had  the  effect  of  the  sudden  light- 
ing up  of  a  disused  house. 

"  I  am  afraid  he  has  an  idea  of  put- 
ting the  money  in  Confederate  bonds. 
But  of  course  that  is  his  business,  and 
not  ours.  It  is  his  own  money." 

Wendell  was  not  greatly  pleased  with 
the  inference  to  be  drawn  from  this  ad- 
vice, and  said,  "  In  a  measure  it  is  his 
own ;  but  if  he  throws  it  away,  and  the 
rest  of  his  property,  too,  where  will  Hes- 
ter be  ?  Does  n't  it  strike  you  that  she 
should  be  considered  a  little  ?  ' 

"•  You  have  no  right  to  think  that  he 
is  n't  considering  her,  and  of  course  my 
guess  is  just  only  a  distrustful  old  fel- 
low's guess.  Perhaps  he  has  some  really 
good  investment ;  and  after  all,  when 
you  come  to  act,  you  cannot  afford  to 
assume  any  rights." 

"And  you  would  advise  me"  —  con- 
tinued Wendell,  with  hesitation. 

"  Oh,  you  can't  need  advice  !  When 
he  draws  you  will  send  him  his  money." 

"  But  it  will  be  rather  hard  on  Hes- 
ter." 

"  That  may  be,  or  it  may  not.  Per- 
haps he  won't  draw  at  all,  and  I  rather 
think  that  he  will  hesitate  now  about 
Confederate  paper.  It  must  be  a  stupid 
rat  that  does  n't  know  that  ship  is  sink- 
ing." 


1884.] 


In  War  Time* 


295 


"  I  did  n't  think  of  it  in  that  light. 
Things  have  certainly  changed  a  good 
deal  since  he  wrote.  But  don't  you 
think  if  I  found  that  he  had  drawn  soon 
after  writing  me,  it  would  be  a  kindness 
to  be  in  no  haste  to  act  ?  A  little  time 
might "  — 

"  I  said  nothing  like  that,  Dr.  Wen- 
dell," broke  in  the  old  gentleman,  with 
unpleasant  accuracy  of  articulation,  and 
opening  his  eyes  again  very  wide.  A 
dim  shade  of  suspicion  had  entered  his 
mind. 

"  I  was  rather  making  an  inference 
than  repeating  anything  you  said,"  re- 
plied Wendell,  quickly.  "  I  need  hard- 
ly say  that  he  will  instantly  find  his 
draft  honored.  As  a  mere  matter  of 
business  I  should  have  no  choice,  but 
one  can't  help  speculating  as  to  the  de- 
sirable." 

"  Speculation  with  or  about  other 
folks'  money  is  —  well,  is  undesirable  ; 
and,  by  the  way,  Hester  must  have  a 
nice  little  sum  over  and  above  her  ten 
thousand,  or  his  ten  thousand.  Those 
bonds  have  gone  up  like  a  kite." 

Wendell  shuddered.  "  Yes,"  he  as- 
sented, "  you  gave  me  good  advice  as  to 
that.  Poor  Hester  ! ' 

"  Why  poor  ?  "  growled  the  old  man. 
"  Is  any  one  poor  who  has  eyes  like 
hers  ?  Only  age  is  poor  ;  and  it  gets 
poorer,  sir, —  it  gets  poorer,  till  it  ends 
in  the  poorhouse  of  the  grave.  But  I 
think  that  young  person  will  be  taken 
care  of.  I  suspect  my  friend  Arty  is 
going  to  have  a  say  in  her  future." 

"  Indeed  ?  '"  said  Wendell,  annoyed. 
"I  have  had  that  idea  myself;  but  do 
you  suppose  Mrs.  Morton  would  ever 
dream  of  allowing  Arthur  "  — 

"  '  Dream,'  'allow!'"  exclaimed  Wil- 
mington. "  You  don't  know  the  men  of 
that  breed.  He  will  marry  the  girl  if 
he  wants  to,  doctor,  —  make  your  mind 
easy  on  that  subject,"  and  the  old  gen- 
tleman chuckled  gently.  "  But  I  must 
leave  you.  I  am  going  into  this  shop. 
Good-morning." 


Wendell  said  good-by,  and  walked 
away.  He  felt  unhappy  and  displeased 
with  himself,  and  had  an  odd  sense  of 
an  injustice  done  him  in  the  taking  of 
Hester  out  of  his  life;  it  would  be  so 
much  sunshine  gone.  And  then  .over 
arid  over  he  thought,  till  thought  was  a 
wearying  pain,  of  what  he  could  do. 
There  were  now  at  least  three  thousand 
dollars  to  replace ;  and  even  if  he  sold 
his  sister's  stock  and  his  own,  at  a  sacri- 
fice which  would  be  ruinous,  how  should 
he  tell  Ann  ?  —  how  account  for  the 
portion  of  Hester's  bonds  he  had  sold  ? 
Death  would  be  easier  than  to  face  Ann's 
pure  face,  and  say,  u  I  have  stolen.  I 
am  a  thief."  Amidst  the  gathering  hor- 
ror of  all  this  anticipated  torment,  he 
went  feebly  through  several  visits,  and 
then  wandered  about,  until  at  last  he 
came  to  Mrs.  Westerley's  gate.  He  felt 
none  of  the  fear  of  her  insight  which  ex- 
perience had  taught  him  in  regard  to 
Ann's,  who  had  instinctively  studied  him 
through  the  long  years  of  their  chang- 
ing fortunes ;  but  the  thought  was  ever 
present  to  him  that  he  loved  Alice 
Westerley  purely  and  for  herself,  and 
must  marry  her  to  be  clear  of  his  pe- 
cuniary load.  He  wanted  to  marry  her, 
and  yet  riot  to  have  to  think  he  had  or 
might  have  a  bad  background  of  urgent 
motives.  He  wished  to  have  all  this 
lovely  sweetness  of  longing  free  from 
taint  and  pure  as  childhood.  Only  a 
sensitive  man  and  a  poet  in  tempera- 
ment could  have  kept  himself  on  such  a 
rack.  He  took  off  his  hat  as  he  stood 
at  her  door,  struck  his  forehead  with  his 
palm,  moved  his  fingers  like  one  in  pain, 
and  at  last  rang,  and  presently  went  in. 

He  wanted  to  be  alone  with  Alice, 
but  to  his  annoyance  he  found  Arthur, 
and  saw  at  once  from  their  faces  that 
some  talk  of  unusual  interest  had  taken 
place.  Alice  rose,  and  greeted  him 
warmly. 

"  Ah,  you  are  the  very  man  we  want- 
ed. I  have  just  been  saying  to  Arty 
that  he  must  tell  you  and  Miss  Ann 


296 


In  War  Time. 


[September, 


that  Hester  has  promised  to  marry  him. 
And  what  a  wicked  thing,  Dr.  Wendell," 
she  added,  archly,  "  to  promise  to  marry 
a  man  ;  and  she  is  so  young,  too,  to  be 
so  wicked ! ' 

Wendell  was  pleased  at  her  little  bit 
of  gay  allusiveness,  which  he  felt  flat- 
tered to  know  was  meant  for  him  alone 
to  understand. 

"  It  is  so,  Dr.  Wendell,"  said  the  sun- 
browned  captain  ;  "  and  I  feel  as  if  now 
I  might  be  going  to  be  some  kind  of  a 
relation  of  yours,  and  that  is  n't  an  un- 
pleasant part  of  it,  either." 

Mrs.  Westerley  liked  this  well. 

"  Indeed  ?  ':  returned  Wendell,  not 
quite  so  warmly  as  such  occasions  de- 
mand. "  I  congratulate  you,  Arthur. 
In  fact,  I  suppose  I  should  have  ex- 
pected it.  But  does  your  mother  know 
it  yet  ?  " 

"  No,"  replied  Arthur,  "  but  Ned  will 
settle  that.  He  means  to  talk  to  her  to- 
night. I  wanted  to  do  it  myself,  and  at 
once  ;  but  he  said  no,  —  that  he  wished 
to  have  the  pleasure  himself.  Of  course 
there  will  be  a  row,  but  it  won't  last. 
And  now  I  am  off.  I  think  —  oh,  I 
ought  to  say  I  know  —  that  Miss  Gray 
has  told  Miss  Ann.  Good-by  ! " 

"  Why  did  you  take  it  so  coolly  ? " 
asked  Alice  of  Dr.  Wendell.  "  I  don't 
think  Arthur  was  enough  himself  to  no- 
tice your  manner,  but  I  did.  You  must 
have  had  some  expectation  of  it.  I 
should  have  really  supposed  you  did  not 
like  it,  if  I  had  not  known  better." 

"  It  seems  like  losing  a  child  to  lose 
Hester.  I  do  not  see  how  life  would 
be  possible  without  her." 

"  Oh  ! '  exclaimed  Mrs.  Westerley, 
and  picking  up  a  book  began  to  cut  its 
leaves  with  great  precision. 

"  Why  did  you  say  Oh  ? '  queried 
Wendell. 

"  That  should  be  an  easy  riddle,"  she 
answered. 

"  Alice,  Alice,"  he  returned,  "  none 
of  your  riddles  are  easy !  You  mean, 
do  you  not,  that  I  should  lose  the  child's 


life  when  a  dearer  life  becomes  one  with 
mine  ;  that  I  was  comparing  the  two 
loves,  which  are  both  so  sweet  and  so 
unlike  ?  " 

"  I  did  not  say  so." 

"  But  you  meant  it,  and  yet  you  must 
know  what  you  are  to  me.  Oh,  no,  you 
cannot  know  how  you  fill  my  life  with  a 
sense  of  calm  and  content !  You  can- 
not know  that  you  alone  rise  to  the  level 
of  understanding  my  ambitions,  and  be- 
lieve that  under  happier  circumstances 
I  may  come  to  be  worthy,  at  least  in 
achievement,  even  of  you.  A  brook  flow- 
ing into  a  dry  land  could  not  more  sure- 
ly find  and  fill  its  depths  of  craving 
thirst  than  you  my  secret  longings ! 
Why  do  you  still  keep  me  waiting  ?  * 

"I  do  not  know.  Cannot  you,  to 
whom  I  have  given  so  much  and  said 
so  much,  be  contented,  for  a  while  at 
least  ?  I  know  what  I  am  to  you.  I 
think  I  know  what  I  can  do  to  give  you 
freedom  from  all  that  now  weighs  down 
your  life,  and  I  have  said  —  I  have  said 

—  I  loved  you." 
"But,  Alice"  — 

"  Oh,"  she  went  on,  "  you  men  are  all 
selfish  !  Do  you  wonder  I  should  pause 
and  delav?  I  wonder  women  ever  do 

«/ 

anything  else.  For  you  it  is  no  great 
change  ;  for  us  —  for  me,  it  is  total.  I 
give  up  my  ways,  my  plans,  my  right  to 
be  alone  or  not,  to  go,  to  come,  and  I 
gain  a  master,"  she  said,  smiling  at  him. 
"  Oh,  you  must  not  think  of  me  as  like 
Hester,  like  a  young  girl !  I  must  think, 

—  I  must  think." 

"  And  I  must  wait." 

"Yes.  But  you  know  how  it  will 
end.  You  must  know,  and  when  you 
have  me,  and  I  have  said  that  one  fatal 
word,  perhaps  you  will  not  find  me  quite 
all  that  you  choose  to  dream  in  your 
poet  heart." 

"  I  have  no  fear,"  said  Wendell,  tak- 
ing her  hand.  How  cool  and  soft  it  was  ! 
He  kissed  it,  once,  twice.  "  Oh,  I  love 
you,  little  hand,  and  I  should  like  well 
to  keep  you  a  close  prisoner." 


1884.] 


In  War  Time. 


297 


ers  ?  " 


"And  do  jailers  kiss  their  prison- 
she said,  smiling.  "  Let  them 
go,"  she  added,  for  now  he  had  both 
hands.  "  Let  them  go,  and  I  will  do 
something  very  nice  for  you." 

"  What  will  you  do  ?  Will  you  say 
yes  ?  " 

"  No,"  she  replied,  with  set  lips  and 
an  air  of  the  tenderest  mutiny,  "  not 
yet  !  But  I  will  do  what  I  have  never 
done  —  I  —  I  —  will  once  —  or  twice  — 
only  once  or  twice  —  I  will  call  you  — 
Ezra  -  -  1  think  I  like  it  —  Ezra  !  " 

It  was  a  strange  shock  to  Wendell. 
He  disliked  his  homely  name,  and  was 
ashamed  that  he  disliked  it.  At  first,  for 
a  moment,  he  really  thought  she  was 
using  it  with  a  humorous  sense  of  its 
oddness  ;  but  he  saw  this  was  not  so,  and 
then  was  pleased  that  she  had  conquered 
this  difficulty,  which  he  felt  must  be,  for 
her  as  for  him,  an  enormous  one. 

"  Thank  you,"  he  said,  releasing  her 
hands.  "  Don't  you  think  it  an  odd 
name  ?  ' 

"  I  never  thought  about  it  at  all,"  she 
returned.  "  But  now  you  must  go.  I 
expect  Miss  Clemson  here,  and  Mrs. 
Morton.  It  is  well  that  walls  tell  no 
tales,  sir.  Don't  come  here  to-morrow, 
—  don't  come  for  a  week,  please  !  " 

"  And    how    am   I  to    stand    that  ?  ' 
said    he.     "  A    week  ?     Not    a    whole 
week  ?  " 

"  Yes,  that,  —  all  of  that." 

"  And  shall  I  have  my  answer  then  ?  " 

"  I  do  not  know.  I  think  not.  I  do 
wish  you  would  go  !  ' 

"  Good-by,  then." 

"  And  you  will  see  me  in  a  week  ? 
I  shall  expect  you." 

"  And  at  what  hour  ?  " 

"  Oh,  you  must  take  your  chance  ! 
Now  do  go  !  " 

• 

Mrs.  Grace's  letter  to  Colonel  Fox 
bore  fruit  in  due  season.  It  found  him 
at  midday  on  the  march.  He  read  it, 
and  as  he  crumpled  it  into  his  pocket, 
ejaculated  one  or  two  brief  words  not 


known  to  the  language  of  Friends.  Then 
he  rode  along,  musing,  sitting  tall  in 
the  saddle,  a  fresh-colored  man,  with  a 
straight,  large  nose,  of  a  good  leathery 
tint  just  now,  curly-haired  and  clean- 
shaven, —  a  face  apt  enough  to  be  stern, 
but  with  eyes  that  seemed  ready  with 
gentle  apologies  for  his  graver  features  ; 
altogether  the  fair  figure  of  a  cavalier. 
Until  his  father's  time  all  of  his  race, 
since  Penn  sold  them  lands  in  Merion, 
had  been  Friends  of  the  straitest  sect, 
unto  whom  Thomas  Hicks  was  an  abom- 
ination ;  but  of  late,  although  they  still 
held  with  the  meeting  and  used  the 
Quaker  language,  they  had  ceased  to  af- 
fect a  rigid  plainness  of  attire.  After 
a  rather,  unruly  boyhood,  George  Fox 
had  taken,  when  quite  young,  the  small 
capital  his  father  had  left  him,  and  had 
gone  to  live  on  some  iron  lands  he 
owned  in  Allegheny  County,  and  there 
had  so  prospered  that  when  the  war 
broke  out  it  found  him  a  rich  and  inde- 
pendent man.  To  the  annoyance  of  his 
family  he  at  once  entered  the  army,  and 
there  brought  to  bear  the  energy,  sa- 
gacity, and  power  over  men  which  he 
had  shown  in  his  business,  as  well  as  a 
cool  and  ready  courage,  for  which  in  his 
previous  life  there  had  been  but  small 
chance  of  use. 

Three  weeks  went  by  amidst  the 
shock  of  armies  in  their  final  grapple, 
and  at  last  he  had  found  himself  free 
again  for  a  few  days.  There  had  been 
little  time  to  think  calmly,  but  now  he 
reflected,  and  before  long  reached  a  con- 
clusion altogether  characteristic  of  the 

o 

man.  He  obtained  a  week's  leave  of  ab- 
sence, and  came  home.  What  he  there 
heard  casually  made  his  purpose  more 
firm,  and  with  his  usual  decisiveness  he 
at  once  wrote  to  Mrs.  Westerley  :  — 

"  Dear  Mrs.  Westerley,  I  want  to  see 
you,  arid  to  be  sure  to  find  you  alone  that 
I  may  talk  with  you  a  few  minutes. 
You  need  not  fear  that  it  will  be  about 
myself ;  but  there  is  something  not  very 
pleasant  which  I  feel  I  must  say  to  you, 


298 


In  War  Time. 


[September, 


and  which  I  would  be  glad  —  honestly 
glad  —  not  to  have  to  say." 

Then  he  added  that  her  reply  would 
reach  him  at  the  city  headquarters. 

Mrs.  Westerley  was  made  rather  un- 
easy and  intensely  curious  by  this  note, 
and  hastened  to  answer  that  she  would 
be  at  home  to  him  at  one,  the  next 
day. 

A  few  minutes  before  the  hour  set  for 
his  call,  Mrs.  Westerley  went  into  her 
drawing-rooms  and  began  to  walk  about, 
not  at  all  as  the  male  being  does  when 
in  thought  or  annoyed,  but  hither  and 
thither,  from  table  to  table,  with  what 
would  have  seemed  to  the  man-minded 
immeasurably  small  purposes,  in  the  way 
of  moving  a  book,  or  setting  back  a 
chair,  or  turning  a  vase  around.  Then 
deciding  that  it  was  cool  for  May  to  be 
so  close  at  hand,  she  ordered  the  fire  to 
be  lighted  ;  and  as  the  yellow  flames  of 
the  hickory  shot  up,  she  appeared  at  last 
to  be  satisfied,  and  sat  down  for  a  mo- 
ment, only  to  rise  again  in  order  to 
move  from  her  fireside  table  a  book  of 
antique  look  which  Wendell  had  sent 
her  the  day  before,  that  she  might  look 
at  certain  passages  which  he  had  marked. 
What  subtle  woman's  instinct  caused 
her  to  lay  the  volume  away  out  of  sight 
on  top  of  the  cottage  piano  she  herself 
might  have  been  puzzled  to  state.  For 
indeed  the  motives  which  induce  these 
petty  actions  are  often  so  faintly  regis- 
tered that  we  may  fail  to  discover  them 
at  all,  and  the  doing  of  a  thing  may 
leave  us  with  nothing  but  a  slight  sur- 

O  O 

prise  at  what  we  have  done. 

As  almost  automatically  she  obeyed 
her  woman's  instinct,  she  suddenly 
seemed  to  perceive  herself  as  an  unin- 
terested observer  might  have  done,  and, 
smiling,  colored  faintly  as  she  moved 
away  ;  when  catching  sight  of  herself  in 
the  mirror  as  she  paused  before  it  she 
adjusted  a  rebel  lock,  turned  her  head 
aside,  and  with  one  critical  glance  sat 
down  by  the  fire,  and  resolving  to  puz- 
zle herself  no  further  took  up  a  paper. 


She  had  hardly  read  a  paragraph  when 
the  servant  opened  the  door,  and  say- 
ing, "  Colonel  Fox,  ma'am,"  left  them 
alone. 

It  is  given  to  few  women  to  be  un- 
moved when  for  the  first  time  after  say- 
ing No  to  a  man  whom  they  profoundly 
respect  and  admire  they  see  him  again. 
Mrs.  Westerley  rose  and  shook  hands 
with  Fox  kindly  and  even  warmly.  It 
was  remote  from  her  nature  to  hurt 
without  being  hurt  herself,  and  she  some- 
how recognized  the  depth  of  the  wound 
she  had  given.  She  felt  it  even  more 
now,  as  she  noted  his  evident  embarrass- 
ment, which  lessened  as  he  talked,  but 
which  she,  of  course,  and  very  naturally, 
attributed  to  his  memory  of  their  last 
meeting. 

"  I  am  very  glad  to  see  you,"  she 
said.  "  Sit  down  by  the  fire.  How  cold 
it  is  still !  And  the  war  is  over  at  last. 
I  know  you  must  be  deeply  glad." 

"  Yes,  I  am  of  all  men  most  thankful 
to  be  done  with  it,  and  to  get  back  to 
my  mines  and  my  mountain  home  and 
my  books.  I  went  out  to  help  to  do  a 
certain  needful  duty,  and  we  have  done 
it  and  done  it  well,  I  think.  I  wish  I 
thought  the  legislation  which  must  fol- 
low it  would  be  as  temperate  as  we  who 
fought  would  wish  to  have  it,  but  we 
shall  have  no  share  in  the  making  of  it." 

"  Oh,  that  is  what  Mr.  Wilmington 
says,"  she  returned ;  "  and  I  find  all 
the  soldiers  I  see  are  most  merciful  in 
their  talk  about  what  ought  to  be  done. 
Arty  says  that  the  editors  and  the  news- 
paper people  are  like  the  boys  who  held 
the  school-books  when  what  he  calls  'the 
fellows'  had  a  fight,  and  were  always 
more  ferocious  than  those  who  fought. 
However,  I  may  be  keeping  you  need- 
lessly, but  one  must  have  a  little  war 
talk.  I  am .  dying  to  know  why  you 
wanted  to  see  me.  I  hope,"  she  added, 
kindly,  "  that  it  is  for  something  a  friend 
can  do  for  you." 

"  No,"  he  replied  sadly,  "  there  is 
nothing  you  can  do  for  me,  —  nothing  ; 


1884.] 


In  War   Time. 


299 


and  in  justice  to  myself,  let  me  tell  you 
beforehand  that  what  I  have  come  here 
to  say,  will  put  an  impassable  barrier 
between  you  and  me.  I  know  this  so 
well  that  I  have  hesitated  —  hesitated 
as  I  have  never  before  hesitated  in  all 
my  life  —  but  "  — 

"  Then  why,"  she  asked  quickly,  and 
feeling  a  gathering  sense  of  anxiety, 
"  why  do  you  say  it  ?  " 

"  Because  it  is  my  duty,  clearly  my 
duty,  as  I  see  it." 

"  And  —  what  is  it  ?  "  she  returned 
faintly. 

"  I  will  tell  you  in  a  moment,"  he  re- 
plied ;  "  but  first  let  me  ask  you  a  ques- 
tion or  two.  Do  you  believe  that  I  love 
you,  Mrs.  Westerley  ?  ' 

"  I  wish  I  did  not.  I  should  be  hap- 
pier if  I  did  not.  I  am  afraid  that  I 
know  you  do,"  she  continued,  greatly 
disturbed. 

"  I  am  glad  of  that,  because  then  you 
can  understand  that  it  must  be  bitter  for 
me  coldly  to  ruin  that  remnant  of  hope 
which  every  man  who  loves  such  a 

V 

woman  as  you  must  have,  do  as  he  will, 
reason  as  he  may." 

*'  I  think  I  understand,"  she  said, 
looking  in  the  fire ;  "  at  least  I  can  try 
to  put  myself  in  your  place.  But  what 
is  it  ?  What  do  you  mean  ?  ' 

"  Be  patient  with  me  just  a  moment 
more,  as  with  a  man  about  to  die.  One 
question  more,  and  do  not  be  angry 
with  me  ! ': 

"  No  ;  I  can  promise  that.     Go  on." 

"  Are  you  going  to  marry  Dr.  Wen- 
dell ?  " 

Alice  was  certainly  amazed. 

"  And  if,"  she  said,  proudly,  "  I  de- 
cline to  answer,  —  if  I  do  not  choose  to 
answer  ?  ' 

"  Then,"  he  said,  now  having  himself 
well  in  hand,  —  "  then  I  should  say  what 
I  have  come  to  say,  merely  to  explain 
my  visit ;  and  if  it  be  untrue  that  you 
mean  so  to  honor  him,  what  I  should 
say  would  be  of  no  moment,  and  I  should 
ask  you  to  consider  my  words  as  for  you 


alone.  But  if,  my  friend,  —  I  may  call 
you  that,  may  I  not  ?  —  if  you  mean  to 
marry  Dr.  Wendell,  then  what  I  have 
to  say  will  have  its  force  for  you,  more 
or  less  as  may  be." 

She  reflected  a  moment,  and  then  an- 
swered him  gravely,  "  I  spoke  like  a 
foolish  girl.  Yes,  I  mean  to  marry  him. 
I  have  not  positively  said  I  would,  but 
I  shall.  And  now  that  I  have  spoken 
frankly  as,  on  this  matter,  to  no  one 
else,  may  I  ask  you  in  mercy  to  do  the 
same  ?  You  must  know  now  that  you 
keep  me  in  most  painful  suspense." 

"  When  a  man  is  signing  the  death- 
warrant  of  hope,  he  may  be  pardoned 
delay,  but  I  will  be  brief.  Early  in  the 
war,  Mrs.  Westerlev,  I  was  in  West 

*>   7 

Virginia,  and  heard  a  good  deal  of  Dr. 
Wendell.  What  I  heard  of  him  I  liked 
well  enough,  and  there  is  much  to  like 
in  him." 

"  Oh,  go  on,"  she  exclaimed  impa- 
tiently- 

• 

"  We  had  a  fight  on  the  Kenawha, 
and  in  falling  back  three  of  our  sur- 
geons were  left  at  a  country  church, 
with  a  number  of  badly  wounded  men. 
They  soon  came  under  a  pretty  heavy 
fire.  Dr.  Wendell  was  in  charge.  I 
believe  he  had  not  been  in  action  be- 
fore. One  of  the  assistant  surgeons  was 
wounded,  but  Dr.  Wendell  very  soon 
showed  signs  of  uneasiness,  and  at  last 
left  his  post  and  followed  our  retreat. 
He  was  permitted  to  leave  the  army 
quietly,  and  in  fact  the  matter  was  for- 
gotten in  the  tumult  of  war;  but  it  came 
to  me  both  officially  and  in  another 
way.  I  felt  sorry  for  him  then,  and 
even  now  I  wonder  over  it ;  but  how, 
knowing  this,  could  I  let  a  high-minded 
woman,  whom  I  love,  marry  in  igno- 
rance a  man  who  is  a  "  —  He  meant 
to  say  a  coward,  but  looking  at  the  wo- 
man who  was  so  dear  to  him  he  hesi- 
tated, while  Alice  rose  to  her  feet,  over- 
come by  a  rush  of  emotions  and  broken 
reasonings,  too  hurried  and  too  wild  for 
analysis  or  easy  expression. 


300 


In  War  Time. 


[September, 


"  Stop,"  she  said,  —  "  stop  !  You  have 
said  enough,  —  you  have  said  too  much  ! 
I  do  not  believe  it,  and  I  am  amazed 
that  you,  of  all  men,  should  have  dared 
to  tell  me  such  a  tale  !  I  do  not  believe 
it !  It  is  but  one  more  of  the  endless 
stories  of  this  kind  which  have  been 
blown  about  in  regard  to  every  one." 

"  No,  it  is  true." 

"  True  !  How  dare  you  tell  me  it  is 
true  !  And  is  there  no  cowardice  in  re- 
peating such  a  story  to  a  woman  ?  M 

"  Cowardice  ! '  cried  Fox,  amazed. 
"  And  you  do  not  credit  me,  then  ?  ' 

"  No,  it  is  incredible  ! ' 

"  And  yet,"  he  said,  feeling  that  she 
was  adding  horribly  to  the  bitterness 
of  his  distasteful  task,  —  "  and  yet  it  is 
true,  and  officially  on  record.  Happily, 
it  is  known  to  few,  I  am  sure.  He  is 
not  aware  that  I  know  it.  Try  to  feel, 
as  you  are  noble  enough  to  feel,  what  I 
must  have  gone  through  in  deciding  to 
bring  to  you  this  miserable  story.  If  I 
could  have  told  you  of  some  noble  ac- 
tion of  the  man's,  of  some  deed  of  cour- 
age, on  my  honor,  Alice,  I  should  rather 
have  done  it !  I  should  have  been  glad 
to  do  it.  I  have  given  myself  pain  which 
if  I  could  have  gauged  it  beforehand 
would  have  made  me  falter  even  more." 

Then  they  remained  silent  and  in 
thought.  It  was  impossible  not  to  believe 
him,  —  it  was  impossible  to  doubt  a  man 
like  Fox ;  but  after  this  —  what  ?  A  man 
might  fail  once,  and  never  again  ;  and 
why  must  this  one  defect  be  allowed  to 
mar  a  life,  and  follow  a  man  with  un- 
ending punishment  ?  But  then  the  shame 
of  such  dishonor  rose  up  before  her 
proud  conscience,  and  the  scene  itself 
came  blindingly  into  her  visual  sphere  : 
men  wounded,  dying  ;  a  duty  abandoned 
in  terror  of  mere  death !  How  petty 
death  seemed  to  her  !  And  if  it  should 
ever  be  widely  known,  what  would  men 
say,  and  above  all  Mr.  Wilmington,  with 
his  old-fashioned  sense  of  honor,  and 
cynical  Morton,  and  the  boys  ?  She  sat 
slowly  twisting  her  handkerchief.  She 


felt  like  a  mariner  on  some  wild  shore, 
surf-bruised,  helpless,  the  sport  of  rock 
and  wave,  —  now  ashore,  now  in  deep 
water.  Then  at  last  she  looked  up 
from  the  fire,  and  saw  a  great  tenderness 
of  sorrow  in  the  face  of  the  man  who 
looked  at  her. 

"  Pity  me  !  "  she  cried,  and  burst  into 
a  passion  of  tears. 

"  Pity ! "  he  repeated.  "  Ah,  if  I  could 
but  take  the  pain  for  you !  Had  I 
thought  it  would  hurt  you  this  way,  I  — 
I  —  would  never  have  spoken." 

"  But  why,  why  did  you  ?  I  was  so 
happy,  and  now  you  must  speak  to  me 
—  you  must  say  more.  I  —  I  —  can't 
think.  Perhaps  it  was  just  once  ?  He 
might  have  been  ill,  who  knows  ?  God 
alone  can  judge  such  things  !  Do  you 
think  I  should  let  it  break  up  and  de- 
stroy all  the  rest  of  a  good  and  useful 
life  ?  "'  She  spoke,  as  it  were,  fragments 
of  thought.  "  Who  needs  to  be  —  to 
be  —  so  brave  in  our  every-day  life ! ' 

Fox  was  appalled.  He  hesitated. 
How  should  he  talk  to  this  woman  whom 
he  loved,  —  how  say  to  her  that  cour- 
age is  the  backbone  of  character,  the 
life  of  every  virtue ;  that  in  Wendell's 
case  the  lack  of  it  made  the  true  fulfill- 
ment of  duty  impossible  ;  that  the  want 
of  it  had  left  wounded  men  to  die  who 
otherwise  might  have  lived  ?  It  seemed 
to  him  a  thing  so  simply  shameful  that 
to  emphasize  it  with  comment  was  ab- 
surd. But  it  was  plain  that  he  must 
answer  her. 

"  I  have  said  what  I  thought  -right  to 
say.  I  must  leave  it  to  you  now.  If  it 
be  a  small  thing  to  you,  I  shall  mistrust 
my  judgment  of  a  woman  I  honor.  If 
you  choose  to  condone  it,  that  is  your 
business,  not  mine ;  but  as  you  love  truth, 
I  pray  of  you  this  only :  to  believe 
that  no  base  jealousy  has  driven  me  to 
speak.  That  man  is  no  more  to  me  in 
life  than  the  fly  on  your  window-pane, 
and  I  end  as  I  began,  by  saying  that  to 
be  able  to  come  to  you  and  try  to  save 
a  noble  life  from  —  no,  I  will  not  hurt 


1884.] 


In  War  Time. 


301 


you  more  —  I  have  paid  a  great  price 
to  enable  me  to  help  you,  if  it  may  be: 
for  now  I  know  that  if  you  decide  one 
way  it  will  still  be  impossible  for  me  to 
even  dream  of  presuming  on  your  free- 
dom by  a  word,  or  ever  to  make  use  of 
the  freedom  I  have  given  you  ;  and  if 
—  if  you  decide  another  way,  and  my 
words  remain  as  useless  as  words  un- 
said, even  then  our  friendship  must  cease 
to  exist,  or  at  least  to  have  any  active 
being,  —  for  surely  you  will  never  care 
to*  look  upon  my  face  again,  Alice." 
She  felt  that  this  was  true. 

She  was  now  sitting,  wan  and  aghast, 
a  little  sideways  on  a  low  chair,  her 
chin  in  her  palm. 

"  It  is  so,  but  don't  go  yet.  I  ought 
to  be  angry,  and  —  I  was  angry.  I  am 
not  so  now.  Sit  down.  I  am  so  dazed 
I  cannot  reason,  and  I  am  sure  when 
you  are  gone,  I  shall  want  to  have  said 
something  more." 

They  were  silent  again  a  moment. 
Then  a  wild  pang  of  thought  struck 
through  her  brain. 

"  Does  he  know  of  this  visit,  of  your 
purpose  ? ' 

_"  Not   yet,    but   of    course   he   must 
know.     I  intended  to  tell  him  first." 

"  But  you  did  not,  you  did  not?  "  she 
said,  realizing  swiftly  the  pain  it  would 
be  to  Wendell  to  know  that  she  had 
heard  it  all. 

"  No,  I  did  not,  but  I  shall.  I  have 
a  letter  in  my  pocket  now,  which  I  shall 
leave  at  his  house." 

"  Give  it  to  me ! "  she  cried,  sharply, 
rising  and  coming  towards  him. 

Fox  stood  up.  He  felt  powerless  to 
resist  her.  "  There  it  is,"  he  said. 

She  tore  it  passionately,  and  threw  it 
into  the  fire.  "  And  you  will  not  speak 
of  this  to  him  ?  You  will  not  write  an- 
other letter  ?  Promise  me.  I  insist.  I 
have  a  right  to  insist.  It  is  all  you  can 
do  for  me.  You  have  been,  ah,  so  bit- 
terly cruel  to  me !  Yes,  yes,  I  know  ; 
duty,  of  course.  Oh,  my  God  !  my 
God!" 


"  What ! "  cried  Fox.  «  Say  this  of 
a  man  to  a  woman  he  loves,  and  —  be 
silent  to  him  ?  Possibly  ruin  his  chances 
of  a  happy  life,  and  hide  —  Oh,  I  can- 
not do  that,  not  even  for  you.  Then 
truly  you  might  reproach  me  with  cow- 
ardice." 

"  But,"  she  returned,  firmly,  "  if  you 
knew  it  would  not  mar  his  happiness, 
—  I  mean  what  you  have  said,  —  then 
there  would  have  been  no  harm  done." 

Fox  moved  back  a  step  or  two,  like 
one  recoiling  from  terror. 

"  Oh,  my  God,"  he  exclaimed,  "  is 
this  possible  !  And  —  and  really —  It 
is  all  as  nothing  to  you  ?  I  will  not  tell 
him,  —  make  yourself  easy  on  that  mat- 
ter ; "  and  so  saying  he  turned  and  went 
quickly  out  of  the  room,  without  more 
words,  while  Alice,  pale  and  stern, 
looked  after  him,  speechless. 

She  had  saved  Wendell,  —  of  that  she 
was  sure ;  but  she  had  saved  him  at  bit- 
ter cost  to  herself,  and  she  would  have 
given  a  year  of  life  to  forget  the  look  of 
scorn,  wonder,  and  disbelief  which  took 
quick  possession  of  the  soldier's  face  as 
he  turned  to  go. 

"  I   shall   never  see  him  again,"  she 

O  ' 

said,  "  and  —  he   does   not  understand. 
How  can  he  understand  ?  " 

Then  the  near  memory  of  the  trou- 
bled hour  melted  into  a  certain  tender- 
ness of  thought  about  the  man  she  loved. 
She  loved  him,  —  that  she  knew  full  well ; 
and  she  had  saved  him  from  what  would 
have  been  for  both  one  long  misery. 
Beyond  this  she  could  not  yet  go.  To 
reason  on  it  all  was  impossible,  and  she 
was  shocked  when,  days  afterwards,  she 
saw  Wendell  to  find  that  she  was  more 
undecided  than  before.  Sometimes  re- 
membrance pleads  better  than  any  pres- 
ence, and  the  statue  which  love  carves 
has  graces  the  model  never  knew.  But 
despite  her  doubts  she  knew  that  she 
should  marry  Wendell,  for  in  natures 
like  hers  the  maturity  of  a  love  once 
born  is  as  certain  as  the  growth  of  morn- 
ing. 


302 


Mediaeval  and  Modern  Punishment.          [September, 


Colonel  Fox  went  away  sick  at  heart, 
and  for  a  time  disgusted.  Never  before 
had  he  so  laid  bare  his  soul,  never  fought 
so  stern  a  fight  for  self-subdual.  He 

O 

had  failed,  he  felt,  —  failed  alike  in  his 
purpose  and  in  command  over  himself ; 
for  in  a  crisis  of  passionate  anguish  like 
this  the  individualities  of  men,  repressed 
by  decorous  usage,  break  loose  as  they 
did  in  the  early  days  of  the  Renais- 
sance, and  the  true  natures  of  men  and 


women  clash  like  sword  blades  in  the 
fury  of  unchecked  realities. 

He  went  home  and  wrote  briefly  to 
Mrs.  Westerley,  "  Pray  God  to  forgive 
me,  dear  friend.  I  knew  not  what  I 
did ; "  and  then  he  returned  to  camp, 
and  hid  his  trouble  in  the  active  work  of 
breaking  up  his  regiment,  and  in  try- 
ing to  take  some  thought  of  those  of 
his  men  who  needed  help  or  lacked  im- 
mediate employment. 

S.  Weir  Mitchell 


MEDIEVAL   AND   MODERN   PUNISHMENT. 


A  STRIKING  and  significant  indication 
of  the  remarkable  change  that  has  come 
over  the  spirit  of  legislation,  and  more 
especially  of  criminal  jurisprudence,  in 
comparatively  recent  times,  is  the  fact 
that  whereas,  a  few  generations  ago, 
lawgivers  and  courts  of  justice  still  con- 
tinued to  treat  brutes  as  men  respon- 
sible for  their  misdeeds,  and  to  punish 
them  capitally  as  malefactors,  the  ten- 
dency nowadays  is  to  regard  men  as 
brutes,  acting  automatically  or  under  an 
insane  and  irresistible  impulse  to  evil, 
and  to  plead  this  proclivity,  in  prosecu- 
tions for  murder,  as  an  extenuating  cir- 
cumstance, and  even  as  a  ground  of  ac- 
quittal. 

MediaBval  jurists  and  judges  did  not 
stop  to  solve  intricate  problems  of  psy- 
chiatry. The  puzzling  knots  which  we 
seek  painfully  to  untie,  and  often  suc- 
ceed only  in  hopelessly  tangling,  they 
boldly  cut  with  the  executioner's  sword. 
They  dealt  directly  with  overt  acts  and 
meted  justice  with  a  rude  and  retalia- 
tive  hand,  more  accustomed  and  better 
adapted  to  clinch  a  fist  and  strike  a 
blow  than  to  weigh  motives  nicely  in  a 
balance,  to  measure  gradations  of  cul- 
pability, or  to  detect  delicate  differences 
in  the  psychical  texture  and  spiritual 
quality  of  deeds.  They  put  implicit 


faith  in  Jack  Cade's  prescription  of 
"  hempen  caudle  "  and  "  pap  of  hatch- 
et "  as  radical  remedies  for  all  forms 
and  degrees  of  criminal  alienation  and 
murderous  aberration  of  mind.  Phle- 
botomania  was  epidemic ;  blood-letting 
was  regarded  as  the  infallible  cure  for 
all  the  ills  that  afflicted  the  human  and 
social  body.  Doctors  of  physic  and  of 
law  vied  with  one  another  in  applying 
this  panacea.  The  red-streaked  pole  of 
the  barber-surgeon  and  the  reeking  scaf- 
fold, symbols  of  venesection,  were  the 
appropriate  signs  of  medicine  and  juris- 
prudence. Hygeia  and  Justitia,  instead 
of  being  represented  by  graceful  females 
feeding  the  emblematic  serpent  of  recu- 
peration or  holding  the  well-adjusted 
scales,  would  have  been  fitly  typified  by 
two  enormous  and  insatiable  leeches 
gorged  with  blood. 

The  overt  act  alone  was  assumed  to 
constitute  the  crime,  so  that  the  mental 
condition  of  the  criminal  was  never 
taken  into  account.  It  is  remarkable 
how  long  this  crude  and  superficial  con- 
ception prevailed,  and  how  very  re- 
cently even  the  first  attempts  were  made 
to  establish  penal  codes  on  a  philosoph- 
ical basis.  The  punishableness  of  an 
offense  is  now  generally  recognized  as 
depending  solely  upon  the  sanity  of  the 


1884.] 


Mediaeval  and  Modern  Punishment. 


303 


offender.  Crime,  morally  and  legally 
considered,  presupposes  perfect  freedom 
of  will  on  the  part  of  the  agent.  Where 
this  element  is  wanting  there  is  no  cul- 
pability, whatever  may  have  been  the 
consequences  of  the  act.  Modern  crim- 
inal law  looks  primarily  to  the  psychical 
origin  of  a  deed,  and  only  secondarily  to 
its  physical  effects  ;  mediaeval  criminal 
law  ignored  the  origin  altogether,  and 
regarded  exclusively  the  effects,  which 
it  dealt  with  on  the  homoeopenal  prin- 
ciple of  similia  similibus  puniuntur,  for 
the  most  part  blindly  and  brutally  ap- 
plied. 

Mancini,  Zuppetta,  and  other  Italian 
jurists  have  devoted  themselves  with  es- 
pecial zeal  and  acuteness  to  the  study 
of  obscure  and  perplexing  problems  of 
psycho  -  pathological  jurisprudence,  and 
have  drawn  nice  distinctions  in  deter- 
mining degrees  of  personal  responsibility. 
Judicial  procedure  no  longer  stops  with 
testimony  establishing  the  bald  facts  in 
the  case,  but  admits  also  the  evidence 
of  the  expert  alienist,  in  order  to  ascer- 
tain to  what  extent  the  will  of  the  ac- 
cused was  free  and  functionally  normal 
in  its  operation.  It  is  not  merely  a  ques- 
tion of  raving  madness  or  driveling  id- 
iocy, perceivable  by  the  coarsest  under- 
standing and  the  crassest  ignorance ; 
but  the  slightest  morbid  disturbance,  im- 
pairing the  full  and  healthy  exercise  of 
the  mental  faculties,  must  be  examined 
and  estimated.  If  "  privation  of  mind  " 
and  "  irresistible  force,"  says  Zuppetta, 
are  exculpatory,  then  "  partial  vitiation 
of  mind  "  and  "  semi-irresistible  force  " 
are  entitled  to  the  same  consideration. 
There  are  states  of  being  which  are  mu- 
tually contradictory  and  exclusive,  and 
cannot  coexist,  such  as  life  and  death. 
A  partial  state  of  life  and  death  is  im- 
possible ;  such  expressions  as  half  alive 
and  half  dead  are  purely  rhetorical ; 
taken  literally,  they  are  simply  absurd. 
It  is  not  so,  however,  with  states  of 
mind.  The  intellect,  the  first  condition 
of  accountability,  may  be  perfectly 


clear,    manifesting    itself   in    its    native 

7  O 

fullness  and  power,  or  it  may  be  partial- 
ly obscured.  So,  too,  the  will,  the  sec- 
ond condition  of  accountability,  may  as- 
sert itself  with  complete  freedom  and 
untrammeled  force,  or  it  may  act  under 
stress  and  with  imperfect  volition.  Phys- 
ical violence  and  mental  pressure  are 
not  the  less  real  because  they  may  not 
be  wholly  irresistible.  For  this  reason, 
it  involves  no  contradiction  in  terms  and 
is  not  absurd  to  call  an  action  half  con- 
scious, half  voluntary,  or  half  constrained. 
"  Partial  vitiation  of  mind  "  is  a  state 
well  recognized  in  psychiatrical  science. 
In  like  mainer,  there  is  no  essential  in- 
congruity in  affirming  that  an  impulse 
may  be  the  result  of  a  "  semi-irresistible 
force."  But  these  mental  conditions  and 
forces  do  not  manifest  themselves  with, 
equal  distinctness  and  intensity  in  all 
cases  :  sometimes  they  are  scarcely  per- 
ceptible ;  again,  they  verge  upon  "  pri- 
vation of  mind " and  "irresistible force ; " 
and  it  is  the  duty  of  the  judge  to  adjust 
the  penalty  to  these  gradations  of  guilt. 

The  same  process  of  reasoning  would 
lead  to  the  admission  of  quasi-vitiations 
of  mind  and  quasi-irresistible  forces  as 
grounds  of  exculpation.  Thus  one  might 
go  on  analyzing  and  refining  away  hu- 
man responsibility,  and  reducing  all 
crimes  to  symptoms  and  resultants  of 
mental  derangement,  until  every  male- 
factor would  come  to  be  looked  upon, 
not  as  a  culprit,  to  be  delivered  over  to 
the  sharp  stroke  of  the  headsman  or  the 
safe  custody  of  the  jailer,  but  as  an  un- 
fortunate victim  of  morbid  states  and 
incitements,  to  be  consigned  to  the  sym- 
pathetic care  of  the  psychiater. 

Italian  jurisprudents  have  been  fore- 
most and  have  gone  farthest  in  this  reac- 
tion from  mediaeval  conceptions  of  crime 
and  its  proper  punishment.  This  recoil 
from  extreme  cruelty  to  excessive  com- 
miseration is  due,  in  a  great  measure,  to 
the  Italian  temperament ;  to  a  peculiar 
gentleness  and  impressionableriess  of 
character,  which,  combined  with  an  in- 


304 


Mediceval  and  Modern  Punishment. 


[September, 


stinctive  aversion  to  whatever  shocks 
the  senses  or  mars  the  pleasure  of  the 
moment,  are  apt  to  degenerate  into  shal- 
low sentimentality  and  sickly  sensibility, 
thereby  enfeebling  and  perverting  the 
moral  consciousness  and  the  strict  sense 
of  justice.  To  minds  thus  constituted 
the  cool  and  deliberate  condemnation  of 
a  human  being  to  the  gallows  is  an 
atrocity,  in  comparison  with  which  mere 
killing  in  the  heat  of  passion  or  under 
strong  provocation  seems  a  venial  trans- 
gression. This  popular  sympathy  with 
the  guilty  living  man,  who  is  about  to 
suffer,  to  the  entire  forgetfulness  of  the 
innocent  dead  man,  the  victim  of  his  an- 
ger or  cupidity,  pervades  all  classes  of 
society,  and  has  stimulated  the  ingenu- 
ity of  lawyers  and  legislators  to  discov- 
er mitigating  moments  and  extenuating 
circumstances,  and  other  means  of  loos- 
ening and  enlarging  the  meshes  of  the 
penal  code,  and  has  finally  provided  in 
psycho-pathology  a  scientific  basis  for 
this  pitying  and  palliating  feeling  to 
plant  itself  upon. 

But  although  the  Italians  have  been 
pioneers  in  this  movement,  it  has  not 
been  confined  to  them  ;  it  extends  to  all 
civilized  nations,  and  expresses  a  general 
tendency  of  the  age.  Even  the  Ger- 
mans, those  leaders  in  theory  and  lag- 
gards in  practice,  whose  researches  and 
speculations  have  illustrated  all  forms 
and  phases  of  judicial  procedure,  but 
who  adhere  so  conservatively  to  ancient 
methods  and  resist  so  stubbornly  the 
tides  of  reform  in  their  own  courts, 
have  yielded  on  this  point.  They  no 
longer  regard  insanity  and  idiocy  as  the 
only  grounds  of  exemption  from  punish- 
ment, but  include  in  the  same  category 
all  "  morbid  disturbances  of  mental  ac- 
tivity," and  "  all  states  of  mind  in  which 
the  free  determination  of  the  will  is 
not  indeed  wholly  destroyed,  but  only 
partially  impaired."  In  order  to  realize 
the  radical  changes  that  have  taken 
place  in  this  direction  within  a  compar- 
atively recent  period,  one  need  merely 


compare  the  present  criminal  code  of 
the  German  empire  with  the  Austrian 
code  of  1803,  the  Bavarian  code  of 
1813,  and  the  Prussian  code  of  1851  ; 
and  these  changes  have  been  effected  in 
spite  of  the  preponderance  of  Prussia, 
which  has  always  exerted  her  influence 
in  favor  of  severe  penalties,  and  shown 
slight  consideration  for  individual  frail- 
ties and  criminal  idiosyncrasies. 

The  chief  difficulty  encountered  by 
framers  and  administrators  of  penal 
laws  in  this  respect  arises  from  the  fact 
that  no  one  has  ever  yet  been  able  to 
give  an  exact  and  adequate  definition  of 
insanity.  However  easy  it  may  be  to 
recognize  the  grosser  varieties  of  mental 
disorder,  it  is  often  impossible  to  detect 
it  in  its  subtler  forms,  or  to  draw  a  hard 
and  fast  line  between  sanity  and  insan- 
ity. An  eminent  alienist  affirms  that 
very  few  of  the  persons  whom  we  meet 
in  the  counting-room  or  on  the  street, 
or  with  whom  we  enjoy  pleasant  inter- 
course at  their  firesides,  are  of  perfectly 
sound  mind.  Nearly  every  one  is  a  lit- 
tle touched  ;  some  molecule  of  the  brain 
has  turned  into  a  maggot ;  there  is  some 
topic  which  cannot  be  introduced  with- 
out making  the  portals  of  the  mind  grate 
on  their  golden  hinges,  —  some  point  at 
which  we  are  forced  to  say,  — 

"  O,  that  way  madness  lies;  let  me  shun  that." 
It  is  possible,  however,  that  this  very 
opinion  may  be  a  fixed  idea  or  symp- 
tomatic eccentricity  of  the  alienist  him- 
self. The  theory  that  all  men  are  mono- 
maniacs may  be  merely  his  monomania. 
A  madman,  says  Coleridge,  is  one  who 
"  mistakes  his  thoughts  for  persons  and 
things."  But  here  the  frenzies  of  the 
lunatic  intrench  on  the  functions  of  the 
poet,  who,  "of  imagination  all  com- 
pact," takes  his  fantasies  for  realities, 

"  Turns  them  to  shapes,  and  gives  to  airy  nothing 
A  local  habitation  and  a  name." 

Coleridge's  definition  includes  also  the 
mythopoeic  faculty,  —  the  power  of  pro- 
jecting creations  of  the  mind,  and  en- 
dowing them  with  objective  and  inde- 


1884.] 


Mediceval  and  Modern  Punishment. 


305 


pendent  existence,  which  in  the  infancy 
of  the  race  peopled  heaven  and  earth 
with  phantoms,  and  still  croons  over 
our  cradles  and  babbles  of  brownie  and 
fairy  in  our  nurseries  and  chimney- 
corners.  No  progress  of  science  can 
wholly  eradicate  this  tendency  to  my- 
tholo°ize.  In  the  absence  of  better  ma- 

O 

terials,  it  seizes  upon  the  most  prosaic 
of  practical  improvements,  and  clothes 
them  with  poetry  and  legend.  The  im- 
aginative child  of  New  York  or  Boston 
converts  the  modern  gas-pipe  into  the 
abode  of  a  dragon,  which  puts  forth  its 
fiery  tongue  when  the  knob  is  turned. 
The  Suabian  peasant  still  regards  the 
railroad  as  a  device  of  the  devil,  and  be- 
lieves that  his  satanic  majesty  is  by  con- 
tract entitled  to  a  tollage  of  one  passen- 
ger on  every  train.  As  the  church  has 
uniformly  consigned  great  inventors  to 
the  infernal  regions,  the  prince  of  dark- 
ness could  have  had  no  lack  of  in^en- 

o 

ious  wits  to  advise  him  in  such  matters. 

Another  consideration,  which  did  not 
disturb  the  minds  of  mediaeval  jurists, 
nor  stay  the  hand  of  strictly  retributive 
justice,  is  in  the  fact,  now  generally  ad- 
mitted, that  crimes,  like  all  other  human 
actions,  are  subject  to  certain  fixed  laws, 
which  seem  to  some  extent  to  remove 
them  from  the  province  of  free  will  and 
the  power  of  individual  determination. 
Professor  Morselli  has  shown  conclu- 
sively that  suicide,  which  we  are  wont 
to  consider  a  wholly  voluntary  act,  is 
really  dependent  upon  a  great  variety 
of  circumstances  over  which  man  has  no 
control :  climate,  season,  months,  days, 
state  of  crops ;  domestic,  social,  political, 
financial,  economical,  geographical,  and 
meteorological  influences ;  sun,  moon, 
and  stars,  all  work  together,  impelling 
the  individual  to  self-destruction.  Sui- 
ckle  increases  when  the  earth  is  in  aphe- 
lion, and  decreases  when  it  is  in  perihe- 
lion. Race  and  religion  are  also  impor- 
tant factors  in  aggravating  or  mitigating 
the  suicidal  tendency,  Germans  and  Prot- 
estants being  most  prone  to  it.  Suicide, 

VOL.  LIV.  —  NO.  323.  20 


in  fact,  is  the  resultant  of  a  vast  number 
of  complicated  and  far-reaching  forces, 
which  we  can  neither  trace  nor  measure. 
To  a  very  considerable  degree,  it  is  a 
question  of  environment  in  the  broadest 
sense  of  this  term  ;  "  an  effect,"  says 
Morselli,  "  of  the  struggle  for  existence 
and  of  human  selection,  working  accord- 
ing to  the  laws  of  evolution  among  civ- 
ilized peoples."  The  same  is  true  of 
crime. 

The  recent  growth  of  sociology  and 
especially  the  scientific  study  of  the 
laws  of  heredity  also  tend,  by  exciting 
an  intelligent  and  philosophic  interest 
in  such  questions,  to  render  men  less 
positive  and  peremptory  in  their  judicial 
decisions.  The  intellectual  horizon  is 
so  greatly  enlarged,  and  so  many  possi- 
bilities are  suggested,  that  it  is  difficult 
for  conscientious  persons,  affected  by 
these  speculations  and  honestly  endeav- 
oring to  make  an  ethical  or  penal  appli- 
cation of  them,  to  come  to  a  prompt  and 
practical  conclusion  in  any  given  case : 

"  And  thus  the  native  hue  of  resolution 
Is  sicklied  o'er  with  the  pale  cast  of  thought." 

If  it  be  true,  as  Mr.  Galton  affirms,  that 
legal  ability  is  transmitted  from  father 
to  son,  criminal  proclivity  may  be  equal- 
ly hereditary,  and  the  judge  and  the 
culprit  may  have  reached  their  relative 
positions  through  a  long  line  of  ancestral 
influences,  working  according  to  immu- 
table and  inevasible  laws  of  descent. 

Schopenhauer  maintained  the  theory 
of  "  responsibility  for  character,"  and 
not  for  actions,  which  are  simply  the 
outgrowth  and  expression  of  character. 
The  same  act  may  be  good  or  bad  ac- 
cording to  the  motives  from  which  it 

O 

springs.  This  distinction  is  made  both 
in  ethics  and  in  jurisprudence,  and  de- 
termines our  moral  judgments  and  judi- 
cial decisions.  Yet  the  chief  elements 
which  enter  into  the  formation  of  a 
person's  character  lie  beyond  his  con- 
trol, or  even  his  consciousness,  and  in 
many  cases  have  done  their  work  be- 
fore his  birth.  Besides,  evil  propensi- 


306 


Mediaeval  and  Modern  Punishment. 


[September, 


ties  and  criminal  designs  are  punishable 
only  when  embodied  in  overt  acts.  The 
law  cannot  deprive  a  man  of  life  or  lib- 
erty merely  because  he  is  known  to  be 
vicious  and  depraved.  There  are  also 
instances  on  record  in  which  it  is  im- 
possible to  trace  the  culpable  act  to  any 
marked  corruption  of  character. 

The  recent  death  of  an  inmate  of  a 
Genevan,  prison  calls  to  mind  a  trial 
which  took  place  about  sixteen  years 
ago,  and  which  deservedly  ranks  high 
among  the  causes  celebres  of  the  pres- 
ent century,  both  as  a  legal  question 
and  a  problem  of  psycho  -  pathology.1 
Marie  Jeanneret,  a  Swiss  nurse,  took 
advantage  of  her  professional  position  to 
give  doses  of  poison  to  the  sick  persons 
confided  to  her  care,  from  the  effects  of 
which  seven  of  them  died.  In  the  com- 
mission of  this  monotonous  series  of  di- 
abolical crimes  the  culprit  does  not  seem 
to  have  been  animated  either  by  ani- 
mosity or  cupidity.  On  the  contrary, 
she  always  showed  the  warmest  affec- 
tion towards  her  victims,  and  nursed 
them  with  tender  care  and  untiring  de- 
votion, as  she  watched  the  distressful 
workings  of  the  fatal  draught ;  nor  did 
she  derive  the  slightest  material  benefit 
from  her  course  of  conduct,  but  rather 
suffered  pecuniary  loss  by  the  death  of 
her  patients.  The  testimony  of  physi- 
cians and  alienists  furnished  no  evidence 
of  insanity.  Monomaniacs  usually  act 
iitfully  and  impulsively  ;  but  Marie  Jean- 
neret always  manifested  the  coolest  pre- 
meditation and  self-possession,  never  ex- 
hibiting the  least  hesitation  or  confusion, 
or  the  faintest  trace  of  hallucination, 
but  answering  with  the  greatest  clear- 
ness and  presence  of  mind  every  ques- 
tion put  by  the  president  of  the  court. 
Even  M.  Turrettini,  the  prosecuting  at- 
torney, in  presenting  the  case  to  the 
jury,  was  unable  to  discover  any  rational 
principle  on  which  to  explain  the  con- 
duct and  urge  the  conviction  of  the  ac- 


cused ;  and  after  exhausting  the  common 
category  of  hypotheses,  and  showing  the 
inadequacy  of  each,  he  was  driven  by 
sheer  stress  of  inexplicability  to  seek  a 
motive  in  Vespece  de  volupte  qu'elle  eprou- 
verait  a  commettre  un  crime,  or  what, 
in  less  elegant  but  more  vigorous  West- 
ern vernacular,  would  be  called  "  pure 
cussedness."  Not  only  was  such  an  ex- 
planation merely  a  circumlocutory  con- 
fession of  ignorance,  but  it  was  also 
wholly  inconsistent  with  the  general 
character  of  the  indictee. 

Indeed,  the  persistent  and  pitiless 
perpetration  of  this  one  sort  of  crime  by 
Marie  Jeanneret,  under  circumstances 
which  should  have  excited  compassion 
in  the  hardest  human  heart,  seems  more 
like  the  working  of  some  baneful  and 
irrepressible  force  in  nature,  or  the  re- 
lentless operation  of  a  destructive  ma- 
chine, than  like  the  voluntary  action  of 
a  free  and  responsible  agent.  M.  Zur- 
linden,  the  counsel  for  the  defendant, 
dwelt  with  emphasis  upon  this  mysteri- 
ous phase  of  the  subject,  and  thus  saved 
his  client  from  the  scaffold.  The  jury, 
after  five  hours'  deliberation,  rendered 
a  verdict  of  "  Guilty,  with  extenuating 
circumstances  ; "  as  the  result  of  which 
Marie  Jeanneret  was  sentenced  to  twen- 
ty years  of  hard  labor. 

After  fifteen  years'  imprisonment  the 
convict  died.  During  this  whole  period 
she  showed  not  only  great  intelligence 
and  integrity,  but  also  remarkable  kind- 
ness and  helpfulness  towards  all  with 
whom  she  came  in  contact.  She  in- 
structed her  fellow-convicts  in  needle- 
work and  fine  embroidery,  loved  to  at- 
tend them  in  sickness,  and  by  her  gen- 
eral influence  raised  very  perceptibly 
the  tone  of  morals  in  the  workhouse. 
If  it  be  true,  as  asserted  by  Mynheer 
Heymanns,  one  of  the  latest  expounders 
of  Schopenhauer's  ethics,  that  "  a  man 
is  responsible  for  his  actions  so  far  as 
his  character  finds  expression  in  them, 


1  At  the  time  when  this  trial  occurred,  I  direct-      tures  of  *the  case  in  The  Nation  for  January  7, 
ed  attention  to  the  peculiar  and  perplexing  fea-      1869. 


1884.] 


Mediaeval  and  Modern  Punishment. 


307 


and  is  to  be  judged  solely  by  his  char- 
acter," what  shall  be  done  in  cases  like 
the  aforementioned,  in  which  the  par- 
ticular crime,  so  far  from  being  symp- 
tomatic of  the  general  character,  stands 
out  as  an  isolated  and  ugly  excrescence, 
an  appalling  abnormity  ? 

There  hardly  can  be  a  doubt  that  the 
Swiss  nurse  was  a  toxicomaniac,  and 
that  she  had  thus  become  infatuated 
with  poisons  partly  by  watching  their 
effects  on  her  own  system,  and  partly 
by  reading  about  them  in  medical  and 
botanical  works,  to  the  study  of  which 
she  was  passionately  devoted.  Did  not 
Mithridates,  if  we  may.  believe  the 
statements  of  Galen,  experiment  with 
poisons  on  living  persons  ?  Why  should 
she  not  follow  such  an  illustrious  exam- 
ple, especially  as  she  never  hesitated  to 
take  herself  the  potions  she  administered 
to  others  ;  the  only  difference  being  that 
habit  had  made  her,  like  the  famous 
King  of  Pontus,  proof  against  their 
venom  ?  She  often  attempted  analyses 
of  these  substances,  and  in  one  instance 
was  severely  burned  by  the  bursting  of 
a  crucible,  in  which  she  was  endeavor- 
ing to  obtain  atropine  from  atropa  bella- 
donna. It  was  especially  this  terrible 
poison  of  which  she  appears  to  have 
had  an  insane  desire  to  test  the  virtues. 
She  had  read  and  heard  of  devoted 
scientists  and  illustrious  physicians  who 
had  experimented  on  themselves  and 
on  their  disciples,  and  become  the  bene- 
factors of  mankind  ;  why  should  she  not 
adopt  the  same  method  in  the  pursuit  of 
truth  ?  However  preposterous  such  rea- 
soning on  her  part  may  appear,  it  offers 
the  only  theory  adequate  to  explain  all 
the  facts,  and  to  account  for  the  almost 
incredible  union  of  contradictory  qual- 
ities in  her  character.  The  enthusiasm 
of  the  experimenter  overbore  in  her  the 
natural  sympathy  of  the  woman.  She 
observed  the  writhings  of  her  poisoned 
victims  with  as  "  much  delight  "  as  Pro- 
fessor Mantegazza  studies  the  physiology 
of  pain  in  the  animal  "  shrieking  and 


groaning  '"  on  his  tormentatore.  "  The 
physiologist,"  says  Claude  Bernard,  "  is 
no  ordinary  man.  He  is  a  savant, 
seized  and  possessed  by  a  scientific  idea. 
He  does  not  hear  the  cries  of  suffering 
wrung  from  creatures,  nor  see  the  blood 
which  flows.  He  has  nothing  before 
his  eyes  but  his  idea  and  the  organisms 
which  are  hiding  the  secrets  he  means 
to  discover."  Marie  Jeanneret  was  a 
fanatic  of  this  kind.  She,  too,  was  a 
woman  possessed  with  ideas  as  witches 
were  once  supposed  to  be  possessed  with 
devils.  Had  she  prudently  confined  her 
experiments  to  the  torture  of  helpless 
animals,  she  might  have  taken  rank  in 
the  scientific  world  with  Brachet  and 
Magendie,  and  been  admitted  with  hon- 
or to  the  Academy,  instead  of  being 
thrust  ignominiously  into  prison. 

The  assertion  as  regards  any  sup- 
posed case  of  madness,  that  "  there 's 
method  in  it,"  is  popularly  assumed  to 
be  equivalent  to  a  denial  of  the  exist- 
ence of  the  madness  altogether.  But 

6 

psycho-pathology  affords  no  warrant  for 
such  an  assumption.  The  man  who 
commits  murder  under  the  impulse  of 
morbid  jealousy,  or  any  other  form  of 
monomania,  is  not  the  less  the  victim  of 
a  mind  diseased  because  he  shows  ra- 
tional forethought  in  planning  and  exe- 
cuting the  deed.  His  mental  faculties 
may  be  perfectly  healthy  and  normal  in 
their  operation  up  to  the  point  of  de- 
rangement from  which  the  fatal  act  di- 
rectly proceeds.  No  chain  is  stronger 
than  its  weakest  link  ;  and  this  is  as 
true  of  psychical  as  of  physical  concate- 
nations. Under  such  circumstances  the 
sane  powers  of  the  mind  are  all  at  the 
mercy  of  the  one  fault,  and  are  made  to 
minister  to  this  single  infirmity. 

It  is  no  easy  task  for  penal  legisla- 
tion to  adjust  itself  to  the  wide  range 
and  nice  distinctions  of  modern  psycho- 
pathology  ;  nor  is  it  really  necessary  to 
do  so.  Salus  socialis  suprema  lex  esto. 
Society  is  bound  to  protect  itself  against 
every  criminal  assault,  no  matter  what 


308 


Silence. 


[September, 


its  source  or  character  may  be.  If  it 
could  be  conclusively  proved,  or  even 
rendered  highly  probable,  that  the  cap- 
ital punishment  of  an  ox  which  had 
gored  a  man  to  death  deterred  other 
oxen  from  pushing  with  their  horns,  it 
would  be  the  unquestionable  right  and 
imperative  duty  of  our  legislatures  and 
tribunals  to  reenact  and  execute  the  old 
Mosaic  law  on  this  subject.  In  like 
manner,  if  it  can  be  satisfactorily  shown 
that  the  hanging  of  an  admittedly  insane 
person  who  has  committed  murder  pre- 
vents other  insane  persons  from  perpe- 
trating the  same  crime,  or  tends  to  di- 
minish the  number  of  those  who  go  in- 
sane in  the  same  direction,  it  is  clearly 
the  duty  of  society  to  hang  such  per- 
sons. Nor  is  this  a  merely  hypothetical 
case.  It  is  a  well-established  fact  that 
the  partially  insane,  especially  those  af- 
fected with  "  moral  insanity,"  so-called 
"  cranks,"  have  their  intelligence  intact, 
and  are  capable  of  exercising  their  rea- 
soning powers  freely  and  fully  in  lay- 
ing their  plans  and  in  carrying  out  their 
designs.  Indeed,  criminals  of  this  class 
are  sometimes  known  to  have  enter- 


tained the  thought  that  they  would  be 
acquitted  on  the  ground  of  insanity,  and 
have  thereby  been  emboldened  to  do 
the  deed  ;  and  it  is  by  no  means  impos- 
sible that  a  belief  in  the  certainty  of 
punishment  would  have  acted  as  an 
effective  deterrent. 

The  hemp  cure  is  always  a  harsh 
cure,  especially  where  there  is  any 
doubt  as  to  the  offender's  mental  condi- 
tion ;  but  in  view  of  the  increasing  fre- 
quency with  which  atrocious  and  willful 
crime  shelters  itself  under  the  plea  of 
insanity,  and  becomes  an  object  of  sym- 
pathy to  maudlin  sentimentalists,  the 
adoption  of  this  rigorous  measure  were 
perhaps  an  experiment  well  worth  try- 
ing. Meanwhile,  let  the  psychiater  con- 
tinue his  researches,  and  after  we  have 
passed  the  present  confused  and  perilous 
period  of  transition  from  gross  and  brutal 
medieval  conceptions  of  justice  to  re- 
fined and  humanitarian  modern  concep- 
tions of  justice  we  may,  in  due  time, 
succeed  in  establishing  our  penal  code 
and  criminal  procedure  upon  foundations 
that  shall  be  both  philosophically  sound 
and  practically  safe. 

E.  P.  Evans. 


SILENCE. 

O  GOLDEN  Silence,  bid  our  souls  be  still, 
And  on  the  foolish  fretting  of  our  care 
Lay  thy  soft  touch  of  healing  unaware! 

Once,  for  a  half  hour,  even  in  heaven  the  thrill 

Of  the  clear  harpings  ceased  the  air  to  fill 

With  soft  reverberations.     Thou  wert  there, 
And  all  the  shining  seraphs  owned   thee  fair,  — 

A  white,  hushed  Presence  on   the  heavenly  hill. 

Bring  us  thy  peace,  O  Silence!     Song  is  sweet; 
Tuneful  is  baby  laughter,  and   the  low 
Murmur  of  dying  winds  among  the  trees, 

And  dear  the  music  of  Love's  hurrying  feet  ; 
Yet  only  he  who  knows  thee  learns  to  know 
The  secret  soul  of  loftiest  harmonies. 

Julia  C. 


.  .Dorr. 


1884.] 


Old  Salem  Shops. 


309 


OLD   SALEM   SHOPS. 


I  WONDER  how  many  people  have 
memories  as  vivid  as  mine  of  the  quaint 
shops  which  a  score  of  years  ago  stood 
placidly  along  the  quiet  streets  of, Salem. 
In  the  Salem  of  to-day  there  are  few  in- 
novations. Not  many  modern  buildings 
have  replaced  the  time-honored  land- 
marks ;  yet  twenty  years  ago  Salem,  in 
certain  aspects,  was  far  more  like  an  old 
colonial  town  than  it  is  now.  When  the 
proprietor  of  an  old  shop  died  it  was  sel- 
dom that  a  new  master  entered.  Nobody 
new  ever  came  to  Salem,  and  everybody 
then  living  there  had  already  his  legiti- 
mate occupation.  The  old  shops,  lack- 
ing tenants,  went  to  sleep.  Their  green 
shutters  were  closed,  and  they  were  laid 
up  in  ordinary  without  comment  from 
any  one. 

I  remember  one  shop  of  the  variety 
known  in  Salem  as  "  button  stores."  It 
was  kept  by  two  quaint  old  sisters,  whose 
family  name  I  never  knew.  We  always 
called  them  Miss  Martha  and  Miss  Sibyl. 
Miss  Martha  was  the  older,  and  sported 
a  magnificent  turban,  of  wonderful  con- 
struction. Miss  Sibyl  wore  caps  and 
little  wintry  curls.  Both  had  short- 
waisted  gowns,  much  shirred  toward  the 
belts,  and  odd  little  housewives  of  green 
leather,  which  hung  from  their  apron- 
bindings  by  green  ribbons. 

Their  wares  were  few  and  faded. 
They  had  a  sparse  collection  of  crewels, 
old-fashioned  laces,  little  crimped  cakes 
of  white  wax,  and  emery  balls  in  futile 
imitation  of  strawberries.  They  sold 
handkerchiefs,  antiquated  gauze,  and 
brocaded  ribbons,  and  did  'embroidery 
stamping  for  ladies  with  much  care  and 
deliberation.  I  remember  bein^  once 

o 

sent  to  take  to  these  ladies  an  article 
which  was  to  be  stamped  with  a  single 
letter.  Miss  Martha  consulted  at  some 
length  with  her  sister,  and  then,  with 
an  air  of  gentle  importance,  said  to  me, 


"  Tell  your  mother,  dear,  that  sister 
Sibyl  will  have  it  ready  in  one  week, 
certainly." 

On  another  occasion  Miss  Sibyl  had 
chanced  to  give  me  a  penny  too  much 
in  change;  discovering  which  before  I 
was  well  away,  I  returned  to  the  shop 
and  told  her  of  the  mistake.  Miss  Sibyl 
dropped  the  penny  into  the  little  till,  — 
so  slender  were  the  means  of  these  old 
gentlewomen  that  I  believe  even  a  penny 
was  of  importance  to  them,  —  and  in  her 
gentle  voice,  she  asked,  "  What  is  your 
name,  dear  ?  "  and  when  I  told  her  she 
replied,  approvingly,  "  Well,  you  are 
an  honest  child,  and  you  may  go  home 
and  tell  your  mother  that  Miss  Sibyl 
said  so."  To  this  commendation  she 
added  the  gift  of  a  bit  of  pink  gauze 
ribbon,  brocaded  with  little  yellow  and 
lavender  leaves,  and  I  returned  to  my 
family  in  a  condition  of  such  conscious 
virtue  that  I  am  convinced  that  I  must 
have  been  quite  insufferable  for  some 
days  following. 

The  only  article  in  which  these  ladies 
dealt  which  specially  concerned  us  chil- 
dren was  a  sort  of  gay-colored  beads, 
such  as  were  used  in  making  bags  and 
reticules — that  fine  old  bead  embroid- 
ery which  some  people  show  nowadays 
as  the  work  of  their  great-grandmothers. 
These  beads  were  highly  valued  by  Sa- 
lem children,  and  were  sold  for  a  penny 
a  thimbleful.  They  were  measured  out 
in  a  small  mustard-spoon  of  yellow  wood, 
and  it  took  three  ladlefuls  to  fill  the 
thimble.  I  cannot  forget  the  air  of 
placid  and  judicial  gravity  with  which 
dear  Miss  Martha  measured  out  a  cent's 
worth  of  beads. 

One  winter  day  Miss  Sibyl  died.  The 
green  shutters  of  the  shop  were  bowed 
with  black  ribbons,  and  a  bit  of  rusty 
black  crape  fluttered  from  the  knob  of 
the  half-glass  door,  inside  of  which  the 


310 


Old  Salem  Shops. 


[September, 


curtains  were  drawn  as  for  a  Sunday. 
For  a  whole  week  the  shop  was  deco- 
rously closed.  "When  it  was  reopened, 
only  Miss  Martha,  a  little  older  and 
grayer  and  more  gently  serious,  stood 
behind  the  scantily  filled  show-case.  My 
mother  went  in  with  me  that  day  and 
bought  some  laces.  Miss  Martha  folded 

o 

each  piece  about  a  card  and  secured  the 
ends  with  pins,  after  her  usual  careful 
fashion,  and  made  out  the  quaint  little 
receipted  bill  which  she  always  insisted 
on  furnishing  customers.  As  she  handed 
the  parcel  across  the  counter  she  an- 
swered a  look  in  my  mother's  eyes.  "  I 
did  not  think  she  would  go  first,"  she 
said,  simply.  "  Sibyl  was  very  young 
to  die." 

In  the  following  autumn  came  Miss 
Martha's  turn  to  go.  Then  the  shut- 
ters were  closed  forever.  Nobody  took 
the  store.  The  winter  snows  drifted 
unchecked  into  the  narrow  doorway, 
and  the  bit  of  black  crape,  affixed  to 
the  latch  by  friendly  hands,  waved  for- 
lornly in  the  chilly  winds  and  shivered 
in  the  air,  —  a  thing  to  affect  a  child 
weirdly,  and  to  be  hastened  past  with 
a  "creepy"  sensation  in  the  uncertain 
grayuess  of  a  winter  twilight. 

Another  well-remembered  Salem  shop 
was  the  little  establishment  of  a  cer- 
tain Mrs.  Birmingham.  This  store  was 
really  a  more  joyous  and  favorite  resort 
for  children  than  the  aristocratic  pre- 
cincts of  Miss  Martha  and  Miss  Sibyl. 
One  reason  for  this  was  that,  while  two 
gentler  souls  never  lived,  these  ladies 
belonged  to  a  generation  when  children 
were  kept  in  their  places,  and  were  to 
be  seen  and  not  heard.  This  fact  fla- 
vored their  kindly  treatment  of  young 
people,  and  we  felt  it.  Then,  too,  save 
for  the  beads,  their  wares  were  not  at- 
tractive to  little  folk  ;  and,  lastly,  there 
was  a  constraint  in  the  prim  neatness, 
the  mystic,  half-perceived  odor  of  some 
old  Indian  perfume,  and  the  general  air 
of  decayed  gentility  that  hung  about  the 
shop  of  the  two  old  gentlewomen,  which 


pertained  not  at  all  to  the  thoroughly 
vulgar  but  alluring  domain  of  Mrs.  Bir- 
mingham. 

This  shop  was  not  on  Essex  Street, 
the  street  of  shops,  but  upon  a  quiet  by- 
way, devoted   to  respectable   dwelling- 
houses,   and   for   this   reason  we    were 
free  to%  visit  Mrs.  Birmingham's   when- 
ever we  chose.     It  was    a   tiny  house, 
and  I  believe  it   had  beside  it  a  very 
shabby  and  seedy  garden.     There  were 
two  windows  with  green  wooden  shut- 
ters, arid  a  green  door  with  the  upper 
half  of  glass.     This  was  once  the  fash- 
ionable manner  of  stores  in  Salem.     In- 
side the  door  was   a  step,  down  which 
one  always  fell  incontinently ;  for  even 
if  one  remembered  its  existence,  it  was 
so  narrow  and  the  door  closed  on  its 
spring  so  suddenly  behind  one  that  there 
was  no   choice  but    to  fall.     The  very 
name  of  Birmingham  brings  up  the  cu- 
rious odor  of  that   shop.     There   was, 
above  all,  a  close  and  musty  and  attic- 
like  perfume.     Mingling  with  this  was 
a  perception  of  cellar  mould,  a  hint  of 
cheese,  a  dash  of  tobacco  and  cabbage  ; 
a  scent  of  camphor,  a  suspicion  of  snuff, 
and  a  strong  undercurrent  of  warm  black 
gown  scorched  by  being  too  near  an  air- 
tight stove.     Mrs.   Birmingham's  stock 
equaled  Buttercup's  in  variety.     Along 
the  floor  in  front  of  the  left-hand  coun- 
ter was  always  a  row  of  lusty  green  cab- 
bages and  a  basket  of  apples.     A  small 
glass  show-case  held  bread  and  buns  and 
brick-shaped  sheets  of  livid  gingerbread. 
If  one  came  to  buy  milk,  Mrs.  Birming- 
ham dipped  it  from  a  never  empty  pan 
on  the  right-hand  counter,  wherein  sun- 
dry hapless  flies  went,  like  Ophelia,  to  a 
moist  death.     Then  there  were  ribbons, 
and   cotton   laces ;    needles,    pins,    per- 
fumed  soaps,    and    pomatums.      There 
were  a  few  jars  of  red-and-white  pep- 
permint and  cinnamon  sticks,  a  box  of 
pink  corncake,  —  which  Mrs.  Birming- 
ham conscientiously    refused  to  sell  to 
children,  for   fear    the   coloring   matter 
might  be   poisonous,  —  and   in    season 


1884.] 


Old  Salem  Shops. 


311 


and  out,  on  a  line  above  the  right- 
hand  counter,  hung  a  row  of  those  dis- 
mal creations,  the  valentines  known  as 
"  comic."  All  these  articles,  though 
shabby  and  shop-worn  enough,  probably, 
possessed  for  us  children  a  species  of 
fascination.  There  was  a  glamour  in 
the  very  smell  before  referred  to,  and 
the  height  of  our  worldly  ambition  was 
to  have  a  shop  "just  like  Mrs.  Birming- 
ham's." 

The  things  for  which  we  sought  Mrs. 
Birmingham's  were,  however,  chiefly 
of  two  sorts.  The  first  was  a  kind  of 
small  jointed  wooden  doll,  about  three 
inches  high.  In  the  face  they  gener- 
ally looked  like  Mrs.  Birmingham,  and 
they  had  little  red  boots  painted  on  their 
stubby  feet.  These  ugly  little  pup- 
pets cost  a  cent  apiece,  and  were  much 
prized  as  servant  dolls,  nurses  particu- 
larly, because  their  arms  would  crook, 
and  they  could  be  made  to  hold  baby 
dolls  in  a  rigid  but  highly  satisfacto- 
ry manner.  This  flexibility  of  limb  had 
also,  by  the  bye,  its  unpleasant  side  ; 
for  my  brother  Tom  had  a  vicious  habit, 
if  ever  the  baby -house  were  left  un- 
guarded, of  bending  the  doll's  joints,  and 
leaving  the  poor  little  manikins  in  all 
manner  of  ungainly  and  indecorous  at- 
titudes. Another  thing  which  could  be 

O 

bought  for  one  cent  —  the  limit  of  our 
purses  when  we  went  shopping,  and  it 
required  six  or  seven  of  us  to  spend  this 
sum  —  was  a  string  of  curious  little 
beads  made  of  red  sealing-wax.  They 
were  somehow  moulded  on  the  string 
while  warm,  and  could  not  be  slipped  off. 
We  really  did  not  like  them  very  well, 
yet  we  were  always  buying  them  and  de- 
spite our  experience  trying  to  slip  them 
from  the  string. 

There  was  a  bell  fastened  to  the  top 
of  Mrs.  Birmingham's  shop  door,  which 
jangled  as  one  precipitately  entered,  and 
summoned  Mrs.  Birmingham  from  an 
inner  room.  Mrs.  Birmingham  was  a 
stout  Irishwoman,  with  black  eyes,  fat 
hands,  and  a  remarkably  fiery  nose.  She 


wore  a  rusty  black  gown  —  the  same, 
probably,  which,  when  not  in  use,  was 
always  scorching  before  the  stove  in  the 
back  room  —  and  a  false  front  dark  as 
the  raven's  wing.  I  believe  she  must 
have  worn  some  sort  of  cap,  because, 
without  recalling  just  where  she  had 
them,  I  never  think  of  her  without  a 
distinct  impression  of  dark  purple  rib- 
bons. She  was  by  no  means  an  ami- 
able woman,  and  in  serving  us  she  had 
a  way  of  casting  our  pennies  contempt- 
uously into  the  till  which  was  humiliat- 
ing in  the  extreme.  She  had  likewise  a 
habit  of  never  believing  that  we  had  a 
commission  right,  and  persisted  in  send- 
ing us  home  to  make  sure  that  we  were 

o 

sent  for  a  ten  and  not  a  five  cent  loaf, 
or  for  one  and  not  two  dozen  of  eggs. 
This  was  painful  and  crushing  to  our 
pride,  but  the  bravest  never  rebelled 
against  Mrs.  Birmingham.  My  brother 
used,  indeed,  to  lurk  around  the  corner 
a  few  minutes,  arid  then  return  to  the 
shop  without  having  gone"  home ;  but  I 
always  feared  Mrs.  Birmingham's  sharp 
black  eyes,  and  felt  that  a  dies  irce 
would  certainly  come  for  Tom,  when  all 
would  be  discovered. 

In  addition  to  the  shop  Mrs.  Birming- 
ham conducted  an  intelligence  office  in 

O 

the  back  room.  I  never  saw  one  of  the 
girls,  nor  knew  of  any  person's  going  to 
Mrs.  Birmingham  to  seek  intelligence ; 
but  sometimes  we  heard  laughter,  and 
very  often  Mrs.  Birmingham's  deep  bass 
voice  exclaimed,  "  Mike,  be  off  wid  yer 
jokin'  now  !  Let  alone  tellin'  stories 
til  the  gurrels  ! ' 

"  Mike  "  was  Mr.  Birmingham,  a  one- 
legged  man,  whom  I  never  saw.  We 
knew  that  he  was  one-legged  because 
Tom  had  seen  him,  and  we  secretly  be- 
lieved this  to  be  the  reason  of  Mrs. 
Birmingham's  dressing  in  mourning.  We 
children  had  asked  and  been  told  the 
nature  and  purpose  of  an  intelligence 
office,  and  yet  there  was  ever  a  sort  of 
uncanny  mystery  about  that  back  room, 
where  unseen  girls  laughed,  and  Mr. 


312 


Old  Salem  Shops. 


[September, 


Birmingham  was  always  being  told  to 
'•  be  off  wid  his  jokin'." 

But  tempora  mutantur.  Alas  for 
Mike !  he  is  off  with  all  joking  now  for 
good.  Alas,  too,  for  Mrs.  Birmingham  ! 
I  cannot  believe  that  she  died,  she  was  so 
invincible  ;  but  she  is  gone.  The  rusty 
black  gown,  the  purple  ribbons,  and  the 
ruddy  nose  have  passed  somewhere  into 
the  shadows  of  oblivion. 

One  more  shop  there  was  in  which, 
at  a  certain  season,  the  souls  of  the  chil- 
dren rejoiced.  It  was  not  much  of  a 
shop  at  ordinary  times  ;  indeed,  it  was 
but  a  small  and  unnoticeable  building 
just  around  a  corner  of  Essex  Street.  It 
was  only  at  holiday  time  that  it  blos- 
somed out  of  insignificance.  It  was  be- 
fore the  days  of  any  extent  of  holiday 
decoration,  and  very  little  in  the  way 
of  Christmas  trimming  was  done  by  Sa- 
lem tradesmen.  The  season  was  cele- 
brated with  decorous  merriment  in  our 
homes,  but  almost  no  church  adornment 
was  seen,  and*  most  of  the  shops  relaxed 
not  from  their  customary  Salem  air  of 
eminent  and  grave  respectability.  No 
poulterer  sent  home  a  spray  of  holly 
with  the  goose,  and  no  Christmas  cards 
dropped,  as  now,  from  the  packages  of 
baker  or  candlestick  maker.  It  was 
therefore  the  more  delightful  to  witness 
the  annual  transformation  of  the  little 
shop  around  the  Essex  Street  corner. 
The  very  heart  and  soul  of  Christmas- 
tide  must  have  dwelt  in  the  plump  body 
of  the  man  who  kept  that  shop.  His 
wooden  awning  was  converted  into  a 
perfect  arbor,  under  which  the  front  of 
his  little  store  showed  as  an  enchanted 
cavern  of  untold  beauty.  A  bower  of 
lusty  greenery,  aglow  at  night  with  the 
starry  brilliance  of  many  candles,  gay 
with  the  scarlet  berries  of  holly,  set  off 
by  the  mystic  mistletoe,  and  rich  with 
Aladdin  treasures  of  sugary  birds  and 
beasts,  ropes  of  snowy  popped  corn,  be- 
wildering braids,  twists  and  baskets  of 
pink-and-white  sugar,  golden  oranges,  — 
a  rarer  fruit  then  than  now,  —  white 


grapes  in  luscious  clusters,  and  bunches 
of  those  lovely  cherries  of  clear  red 
barley  candy  with  yellow  broom  corn 
for  stems.  After  all,  though,  it  was  not 
so  much  that  the  wares  were  more  de- 
lightful than  those  kept  by  other  folk. 
Probably  the  very  same  things  could 
have  been  bought  at  any  fruit  store. 
It  was  simply  that  this  tiny  shop  and  its 
plump,  red-cheeked  owner  were  over- 
flowing with  the  subtle  and  joyous  spirit 
of  keeping  holiday.  We  children  used 
always  to  call  his  place  "  the  Christ- 
mas shop ; "  and  I  well  remember  the 
thrill  of  joy  which  ran  over  me  when, 
returning  from  school  one  afternoon,  I 
saw  my  own  parents  entering  the  jovial 
precincts.  I  sped  home  on  winged  feet 
to  tell  the  other  children  that  "  mother 
and  father  were  in  the  Christmas  shop ;  " 
and  we  all  sat  about  the  fire  in  the  twi- 
light and  "  guessed  ':  what  they  were 
buying,  and  reveled  in  the  dear  delights 
which  were  to  result  from  a  visit  to  the 
"  enchanted  bazar." 

Where  is  he  now,  that  child-like  man 
who  loved  the  holidays  ?  The  merry 
wight  was  twenty  years  before  his  time, 
but  it  warms  one's  heart  to  think  of  him 
to-day.  Alas,  a  visit  to  Salem  last  year 
found  his  wooden  awning  torn  away,  and 
in  his  dismantled  bower  a  dry  and  wiz- 
ened stationer  among  law  books  and 
school-room  furnishings.  What  a  dire- 
ful change  from  the  halcyon  days  of 
old  !  I  wonder  that  the  chubby  ghost 
of  the  former  owner  does  not  walk  o* 
nights  to  bemoan  the  times  that  are  no 
more. 

The  shop  of  Miss  Martha  and  Miss 
Sibyl,  too,  seemed  to  be  entirely  done 
away  with,  and  Mrs.  Birmingham's,  al- 
though still  standing,  was  but  a  wreck. 
I  would  gladly  have  bought  there,  for 
old  times'  sake,  a  jointed  doll  or  a  string 
of  sealing-wax  beads ;  but  the  green 
wooden  shutters  were  closed,  the  green 
door  sunken  sadly  on  its  hinges,  its  glass 
half  grossly  boarded.  The  grass  grew 
high  before  the  doorstone.  The  mossy 


1884.] 


The  Anatomizing  of  William  Shakespeare. 


313 


roof  was    concave.     The    chimney  was     meeting   its    appointed   fate   with    that 


almost  tottering.     The  little  shop  was 
drawing  itself  together  and  dying  ;  ask- 


gray  and  silent  resignation  which  alone 
is  considered  the  proper  thing  in  Salem 


ing  no  sympathy  of  the    beholder,  but     society. 


Eleanor  Putnam. 


THE   ANATOMIZING   OF   WILLIAM   SHAKESPEARE. 


IV. 

OUR  path  through  Shakespeare's 
works  and  life  has  brought  us  near  at 
least  to  the  question  of  his  own  view  of 
the  value  and  functions  of  the  former, 
and  his  intentions  with  regard  to  them. 
Most  of  his  critics  have  expressed  sur- 
prise at  his  neglect  of  his  plays,  and 
many  of  them,  including  recently  one 
of  the  ablest  and  best  informed,  have 
avowed  the  belief  that  it  was  his  inten- 
tion to  prepare  them  for  publication  af- 
ter his  retirement  to  New  Place  at  Strat- 
ford. With  these  opinions  I  cannot 
agree  ;  nor,  indeed,  for  them  can  I  see 
any  ground.  Pope  did  not  always  tell 
the  truth  when  he  wrote  an  epigram, 
—  few  epigrammatists  do  tell  or  care  to 
tell  it  ;  but  writing  half  a  century  be- 
fore the  Shakespeare  cultus  was  well 
established,  he  did  write  truly  and  well 
when  he  wrote  that  Shakespeare 

"For  gain,  not  glory,  winged  his  roving  flight, 
And  grew  immortal  in  his  own  despite." 

Here  in  the  word  "  roving  "  we  have  an 

o 

epithet  at  once  picturesque  and  finely 
critical ,  and  if  rhyme  led  the  verse- 
writing  wit  to  the  word  "  despite,"  we 
have  in  it  one  of  the  not  rare  exam- 
ples of  the  compensating  results  of  that 
artificial  and  distracting  device. 

Shakespeare's  exuberance  of  fancy  is 
remarkable  for  the  robust  stem  of  com- 
mon sense  from  which  it  bourgeons, — 
that  common  sense  which  seems,  with  a 
somewhat  inexorable  hardness,  to  have 
ruled  his  life.  Of  this  life-wisdom  there 
is  no  stronger  negative  proof  than  his 


absolute  indifference  to  the  allurement 
of  that  ignis  fatuus,  posthumous  fame. 
For  this  he  seems  to  have  cared  noth- 
ing ;  of  it  he  seems  not  to  have  thought. 
There  is  no  evidence,  even  of  an  indirect 
sort,  that  it  entered  at  all  into  his  calcu- 
lations as  a  part  of  the  reward  of  his 
labor.  And  why  should  it  have  tempted 
him  to  give  one  day  more  to  work,  or 
one  hour  less  to  pleasure?  Fame  is 
sweet ;  but  fame  post  mortem  !  —  what 
is  it?  More  shadowy  than  Falstaff's 
honor.  I  would  not  sacrifice  one  year 
of  happy  life,  one  substantial  benefit  to 
those  I  love,  to  leave  behind  me  even 
the  fame  of  Shakespeare.  To  be  Shake- 
speare, to  see  what  he  saw,  think  what 
he  thought,  and  feel  what  he  felt,  might 
have  been  in  itself  a  life  of  highest  hap- 
piness —  and  it  might  not ;  but  be  he  in 
heaven  or  in  hell,  or  be  he  simply  no- 
where, his  posthumous  fame,  supreme 
and  deathless  although  it  is,  is  no  re- 
ward to  him  for  any  grief  he  suffered  or 
any  joy  he  lost  by  being  Shakespeare. 
Wherever  his  soul  may  be,  whatever 
may  have  become  of  it,  what  is  this 
fame  now  to  him  ?  What  knows  he  of 
it  ?  A  fa%»e  which  gilds  the  lives  and 
lifts  the  hearts  of  a  man's  children  is 
payment  for  much  labor  and  sorrow  ; 
but  beyond  that  fame  is  naught,  —  sim- 
ply naught.  Shakespeare  saw  that  in 
these  cases  as  well  as  in  those  to  which 
Macbeth  refers  "  we  still  have  judgment 
here."  A  man's  earthly  reward  for  his 
work  is  what  he  gets,  and  what  he  can 
give  to  his  children  ;  what  lies  beyond 
that  is  not  his. 


314 


The  Anatomizing  of  William  Shakespeare.       [September, 


Shakespeare's  indifference  to  the  fate 
of  his  plays  was  partly  due  to  this  view 
of  posthumous  fame,  and  partly  to  his 
desire  as  a  "gentleman"  not  to  give 
prominence  or  endurance  to  his  the- 
atrical reputation.  As  to  his  work  it- 
self, my  own  individual  opinion,  slowly 
formed  through  some  years  of  study,  is 
that,  if  he  had  been  sitting  with  King 
Lear,  Hamlet,  and  Othello  before  him 
in  manuscript,  unacted,  and  unread  but 
by  him,  and  Southampton  had  offered 
him  one  hundred  pounds  each1  to  de- 
stroy them  and  never  rewrite  them,  the 
tragedies  would  have  flitted  into  the  fire, 

o 

and  the  money  have  been  gleefully 
locked  up  in  the  poet's  strong-box.  He 
seems  to  have  given  up  early  in  his  ca- 
reer even  the  desire  of  contemporary 
fame  in  literature.  Lucrece,  written  in 
1593,  when  he  was  twenty-nine  years 
old,  was  his  second  and  last  public  effort 
in  pure  literature.  His  sonnets  were 
private  performances,  for  the  gathering 
and  publication  of  which  the  world  owes 
a  heavy  debt  of  gratitude  to  a  mysterious 
Mr.  W.  H.,  — letters  the  shadow  of  a 
dead  man's  name.  In  Shakespeare's  time 
plays  were  not  regarded  as  literature  ; 
the  praise  that  he  received,  living,  was 
almost  wholly  for  his  Venus  and  Adonis 
and  his  Lucrece.  Had  he,  after  writing 
Lucrece,  been  ambitious  of  higher  liter- 
ary fame,  he  could  have  as  easily  pub- 
lished another  poem  and  a  greater  as 
have  written  those  wonderful  sonnets 
merely  for  his  private  friends  ;  but  he 
seems  to  have  been  content,  and  to  have 
bid  adieu  to  literature  as  a  profession  be- 
fore he  was  thirty  years  old,  to  give  him- 
self up  to  the  business  of  play-writing 
and  money-saving.  Hence,  in  a  great 
measure,  that  heedlessness  of  style,  that 
readiness  to  torture  words  and  twist  con- 
structions, that  we  find  in  his  plays,  and 
in  his  plays  only,  and  chiefly  in  the  later. 
Anything  to  get  his  work  into  actable 
shape.  As  to  the  thoughts  and  the  beau- 
ties that  he  wrought  into  it,  they  cost 
1  Nearly  fifteen  thousand  dollars  now. 


him  neither  time  nor  trouble  ;  they  came 
by  nature.  His  razors  were  made  to  sell  : 
they  happened  to  be  bright  and  keen  be- 
cause he  had  nothing  but  steel  of  which 
to  make  them. 

A  fact  has  just  been  mentioned  which 
is  well  known  to  all  thoughtful  students 
of    Shakespeare's    dramas,    but    which 
must  be  here  repeated  and  considered, 
—  that  certain  conspicuous  faults  in  his 
style  appear  chiefly  in  his  later  plays. 
They  are  found  mostly  in  those  plays, 
and   only  in  his   blank  verse ;  never  in 
prose  dialogue.  We  have  in  Shakespeare 
the  striking    phenomenon  —  isolated,  I 
believe,  in  the  history  of  literature  and 
art  —  of  a  loss  of  the  command  of  the 
methods  and  the  material  of  art  accom- 
panying practice    and   maturing  years. 
This  was  no  consequence  of  the  enfee- 
bling influence  of  age  or  of  ill-health  ; 
nor  could  its  cause  have  been  the  weari- 
ness of  overwork.     Shakespeare's  last 
play  was  written  when  he  was  only  forty- 
nine  years  old,  a  period  of  life  when  a 
man's  intellect  commonly  unites  (as  his 
then  did   unite)   the  vigor  of  maturity 
with  the  vivacity  of  youth  ;  and  he  had 
then  been  working  as  a  playwright  only 
twenty-three  years.     Yet  his  later  plays 
are,  as  literary  work,  far  inferior  to  his 
earlier.    This  we  have  to  say  of  him  who 
was  not  only  the  mightiest  intellect  — 
intellect  strongest,  freshest,  most  origi- 
nal, most  elastic,  and  most  resourceful  — 
known  to  the  world,  but  also  the  great- 
est and  completest  master  of  all  the  mys- 
tery of  the  poet's  art.     It  is  as  if  Ra- 
phael and  Titian  had  lost  their  mastery 
of  form  and  color  as  their  faculties  ma- 
tured ;    as    if  their   technical    skill   had 
diminished  with  practice.    Shakespeare's 
thought  became  grander,  higher  reach- 
ing, as  he  grew  in  years,  and  his  con- 
ceptions, his  imagination,  rose  with  his 
thought.     Of  this  he  could  not  but  give 
evidence  ;   he  could  not  be  other  than 
himself.      But   his   writing,   as   literary 
work,  fell  often  into  slovenliness  and  con- 
fusion ;  his  verse  lost  much  of  its  nobil- 


1884.] 


The  Anatomizing  of  William  Shakespeare. 


315 


ity  and  its  charm  ;  and  his  muse,  which 
once  had  the  grandeur  and  the  grace  of 
a  goddess,  showing  her  divinity  by  her 
step,  began  to  hobble  and  to  shuffle  like 
a  worn-out  jade,  —  this,  too,  when  she 
was  bearing  thoughts  upon  her  brow  that 
might  have  been  spoken  upon  Parnassus. 
Need  it  be  said  that  William  Shake- 
speare at  forty-five  could  have  written 
blank  verse  with  at  least  as  much  clear- 
ness and  vigor  and  beauty  as  at  any 
earlier  age  ?  It  need  not  be  said  ;  and 
that  he  could  do  so  we  know ;  for  he 
did  it  when  he  could  do  it  with  no  trou- 
ble, or  with  little.  But  when  his  quick, 
thought-laden  brain  overdrove  and  over- 
weighted even  his  large  capacity  of 
expression,  he  sometimes  huddled  his 
words  into  halting  verses  that  had  but 
a  grotesque  semblance  of  his  splendid 


meaning. 


Here  I  may  fitly  justify  an  assertion 
made  in  the  earlier  pages  of  this  inves- 
tigation, —  that  the  character  of  Shake- 
speare's genius,  the  secret  of  his  style, 
and  the  charm  and  suggestiveness  of  his 
writing  were  understood  as  well  as  they 
are  now  in  his  own  day,  since  when 
Shakespearean  criticism  has  spread,  but 
has  neither  mounted  nor  penetrated. 
The  secret  of  his  style  is  told  with  com- 
plete knowledge  and  apprehension  by 
Ben  Jonson.  The  passage  of  Jonson's 
Discoveries  in  which  he  did  this  has 
been  often  quoted,  but,  as  I  venture  with 
some  confidence  to  think,  without  a  just 
appreciation  of  its  meaning  and  its  im- 
portance. Jonson,  a  scholar,  a  good 
critic,  a  poet,  although  not  a  great  one ; 
a  playwright,  like  the  man  he  tells  us 
that  he  loved,  and  to  whom  he  was  in- 
debted for  the  production  of  his  first 
play,  says  this  :  — 

''  I  remember  the  players  have  often  mentioned 
it  as  an  honour  to  Shakespeare  that  in  his  writing 
(whatsoever  he  penned)  he  never  blotted  out  a 
line.  My  answer  hath  been,  Would  he  had  blotted 
a  thousand!  Which  they  thought  a  malevolent 
speech.  I  had  not  told  posterity  this  but  for  their 
ignorance,  Avhn  chose  that  circumstance  to  com- 
mend their  friend  bv  wherein  he  most  faulted. 


He !  .  .  .  had  an  excellent  phantsie,  brave  no- 
tions and  gentle  expressions ;  wherein  he  showed 
with  that  facility  that  sometime  it  was  necessary 

*  * 

he  should  be  stop'd :  sujflaminandus  erat,  as  Au- 
gustus said  of  Haterius.  His  wit  was  in  his  own 
power;  would  the  rule  of  it  had  been  so  too! 
Many  times  he  fell  into  those  things  that  could 
not  escape  laughter.  As  when  he  said  in  the  per- 
son of  Caesar,  one  speaking  to  him,  '  Caesar,  thou 
dost  me  wrong.'  He  reply'd,  '  Caesar  did  never 
wrong  but  with  just  cause ;  '  and  such  like  ; 
which  were  ridiculous.  But  he  redeemed  his  vices 
with  his  virtues.  There  was  ever  more  in  him  to 
be  praised  than  to  be  pardoned." 

The  blunder  here  attributed  to  Shake- 
speare is  not  found  in  the  play  as  it  ap- 
pears in  the  folio  of  1623,  our  only  text. 
But  it  is  notably  characteristic  of  him 
in  his  heedless  moments  ;  and  it  is  at 
least  probable  that  the  passage,  as  we 
have  it,  is  corrected,  because  of  such 
criticism  as  Jonson's.  It  now  stands 
thus  :  — 

"If  thou  dost  bend  and  pray  and  fawn  for  him, 
I  spurn  thee  like  a  cur  out  of  my  way. 
Know,    Caesar   doth    not   wrong,    nor  without 

cause 
Will  he  be  satisfied." 

(Act  III.  Sc.  1,  1.  45.) 

It  will  be  observed  that  the  speech  ends 
with  an  imperfect  verse.  The  next 
speech,  instead  of  completing  this,  begins 
with  a  full  and  perfect  verse.  It  is  quite 
possible,  and  not  at  all  improbable,  that 
originally,  when  Caesar  said,  "  I  spurn 
thee,"  Metellus  Cimber  replied,  in  the 
speech  which  Jonson  gives,  but  which 
is  not  found  in  our  text,  "  Caesar,  thou 
dost  me  wrong,"  and  that  the  Dictator 
then  said,  "  Know,  Cassar  doth  not  wrong 
but  with  just  cause."  To  remedy  this, 
Cimber's  speech  was  cut  out,  and  Cae- 
sar's speech  was  modified.  But  in  con- 
sequence Caesar's  defense  of  his  wrong 
as  it  stands  is  without  provocation  ;  and 
he  is  left  in  the  position  of  one  who,  ex- 
cusing himself,  accuses  himself.  This, 
however,  is  only  probability. 

Jonson's  criticism  reveals  the  secret 
of  Shakespeare's  style  ;  its  constant  rich- 
ness and  its  often  splendor,  and  also  its 
frequent  faults.  That  secret  is  an  open 

1  Here  I  omit  Jonson's  personal  eulogy,  which 
has  been  already  given  and  considered. 


316 


The  Anatomizing  of  William  Shakespeare.       [September, 


one.  It  is  Shakespeare's  affluence  of 
thoughts  and  of  words,  and  the  headlong 
heedlessness  with  which  he  often  wrote. 
His  facility  of  thought  and  of  expres- 
sion was  so  great  that  he  had  to  be 
stopped.  Sufflaminandus  erat;  that  is, 
it  was  necessary,  in  an  expressive  ver- 
nacular phrase,  to  "  put  on  the  brakes." 
But  this  characterization  of  Haterius 
by  Augustus,  which  Jonson  applies  to 
Shakespeare,  occurs  in  a  passage  the 
whole  of  which  Jonson  plainly  had  in 
mind,  and  which  is  so  pertinent  to  Shake- 
speare and  so  explanatory  of  Jonson's 
criticism  that  it  will  be  well  to  consider 
it  in  full :  — 

"  So  divus  Augustus  well  said :  Our 
Haterius  needed  to  be  checked.  For 
indeed  he  seemed  not  to  run,  but  to  rush 
headlong.  Nor  had  he  only  an  affluence 
of  words,  but  of  facts  and  thoughts."  1 

There   could  hardly    be  a  more  ex- 
act and  complete  description  of  Shake- 
•  speare's    style    than    this    criticism    by 
Augustus  of  the  almost  unknown  Hate- 

O 

rius,  who  was  an  advocate  and  rhetori- 
cian of  the  post-Ciceronian  period.  The 
flood  of  utterance,  the  haste  of  words 
which  becomes  hurry,  the  pressure  of 
knowledge  and  of  thought ;  all  this  (but 
not  the  repetition  of  one  thing)  is  Shake- 
speare to  the  life.  This  criticism  might  be 
beaten  out  thin,  until  it  covered  pages ; 
it  might  be  fine  drawn,  until  it  would 
serve  Shakespeare's  tricksy  spirit  to  put 
about  the  earth,  but  that  would  not  add 
a  grain  to  its  weight,  or  increase  by  a 
carat  its  value.  Jonson,  by  the  help  of 
him  who  could  not  add  a  word  to  the 
Latin  language,  has  perfectly  character- 
ized and  described  Shakespeare's  way 
of  writing.  He  had  an  incomparable 
copiousness  of  thought  and  of  language, 
and  he  used  both  with  a  facility  which 
resulted  mostly  in  an  affluence  of  splen- 
dor, but  sometimes,  arid  too  often,  in 
brilliant  confusion. 

1  "  Itaque  divus  Augustus  optime  dixit :  Hateri- 
us noster  sufflamimuidus  est.  Adeo  non  currere 
sed  decurrere  videbattir ;  nee  verborum  tan  turn  illi 
copia,  sed  etiam  rerum  erat."  Excerpta  Contro- 


Jonson  considers  the  form  and  the 
substance  of  Shakespeare's  poetry  :  we 
do  not  know  who  it  was  who  revealed 
to  his  contemporaries  its  spirit,  and  told 
them  why  it  was  that  this  man's  plays 
attracted  and  charmed  them,  both  in  the 
acting  and  the  reading,  as  no  other's 
did.  In  the  year  1609,  when  Shake- 
speare was  forty-five  years  old,  a  very 
new  play  of  his  was  published,  one  that 
had  never  been  acted,  —  a  sino-ular  for- 

'  C 

tune,  for  Shakespeare's  plays  were  writ- 
ten only  for  the  stage,  and  in  every  other 
instance  had  become  well  known  through 
the  theatre  before  they  were  printed. 
How  an  authentic  copy  of  this  play  was 
obtained,  we  have  no  means  of  knowing. 
This  first  edition  of  it  was  preceded  by 
an  address  entitled  "  A  Never  Writer 
to  an  Ever  Reader.  Newes,"  and  its 
first  sentences  are  these  :  — 

"Eternall  reader,  you  have  heere  a  new  play, 
never  stal'd  with  the  Stage,  never  clapper-clawd 
with  the  palmes  of  the  vulgar,  and  yet  passing 
full  of  the  palm  comical;  for  it  is  a  book  of  your 
braine  2  that  never  undertook  anything  commicall 
vainelv:  and  were  but  the  vaine  names  of  Comme- 

» 

dies  changde  for  the  titles  of  commodities,  or  of 
Playes  for  Pleas,  you  should  see  all  those  grand 
censors  that  now  stile  them  such  vanities  flock  to 
them  for  the  maine  grace  of  their  gravities ;  espe- 
cially this  author's  Commedies  that  are  so  grained 
to  the  life  that  they  serve  for  the  most  common 
Commentaries  of  all  the  actions  of  our  lives,  shew- 
ing such  a  dexteritie  and  power  of  witte  that  the 
most  displeased  with  Playes  are  pleasd  with  his 
Commedies.  And  all  such  dull  and  heavy-witted 
worldlings  as  were  never  capable  of  the  witte  of 
a  Commedie,  coining  by  report  of  them  to  his  rep- 
resentations, have  found  that  witte  there  that  they 
never  founde  in  themselves,  and  have  parted  bet- 
ter witted  than  they  came;  feeling  an  edge  of 
witte  set  upon  them  more  then  ever  they  dream' d 
they  had  braine  to  ground  it  on." 

I  do  not  hesitate  at  saying,  that  in  this 
passage  is  told  compactly,  but  compre- 
hensively, the  whole  secret  of  Shake- 
speare's hold  upon  the  world.  Like 
Jonson's  criticism  of  his  form  and  sub- 
stance, it  may  by  beating  be  spread  out 
thinner,  but  it  cannot  be  added  to  essen- 
tially. Remark,  however,  first,  lio\v  pre- 

versiarum,  Lib.  IV.  Prsef.  My  translation  is  pur- 
posely free  and  vernacular. 

2  That  is,  that  brain  :  your  brain,  as  in  Falstaff's 
"  your  excellent  sherris." 


1884.] 


The  Anatomizing  of  William  Shakespeare. 


317 


eminent  was  the  comedy  side  of  Shake- 
speare's dramatic  reputation.  It 'is  not 
that  all  dramas  were  then  called  come- 
dies, which  to  a  certain  extent  at  least 
was  the  case.  The  "  tragedy  "  is  recom- 
mended as  being  passing  full  of  the  palm 
comical ;  and  the  reader  is  reminded 
that  it  is  the  work  of  a  brain  that  never 
undertook  anything  comical  vainly.  The 
word  "  comedies  "  is,  however,  applied  to 
all  dramas  in  the  most  important  sentence 
of  this  contemporary  criticism,  strangely 
not  remarked  upon  hitherto,  as  I  be- 
lieve. The  people  of  London  were  told 
two  hundred  and  seventy-five  years  ago 
that  this  author's  comedies  were  grained 
to  the  life.  That  was  something ;  and 
it  was  then  said  for  the  first  time,  in 
print  at  least.  But  this  does  not  yet 
touch  the  very  bottom,  which  is  reached 
in  the  declaration  that  Shakespeare's 
dramas  "  are  so  grained  to  the  life  that 
they  serve  for  the  most  common  commen- 
taries of  all  the  actions  of  our  lives."  It, 
would  puzzle  and  pose  the  most  effu- 
sive of  Shakespeare's  eulogists  to  do 
more  than  to  dilute  that  sentence  by 
adding  himself  to  it,  and  then  to  begin 
exclaiming,  O  divine  Shakespeare  !  O 
exquisite  Shakespeare  !  O  wonderful ! 
For  it  recognizes  the  universality  of 
Shakespeare's  genius,  his  knowledge  of 
man's  heart,  his  wisdom,  his  sympathy, 
his  felicity  of  thought  and  expression. 
And  this  it  does  in  no  vague,  general 
way,  but  in  specific  terms.  Consider 
them :  Shakespeare's  dramas  are  not 
only  to  the  life,  but  so  grained  to  the 
life  that  they  serve  us  for  daily  com- 
mentaries upon  all  the  actions  of  our 
own  lives.  We  are  told  that  we  may 
go,  and  do  go,  to  Shakespeare  to  appre- 
hend ourselves,  to  learn  the  relation 
that  exists  between  us  and  the  world 
without  us,  to  understand  what  we  do, 
and  why  we  do  it,  and  what  we  are. 
And  this  is  the  secret  of  Shakespeare's 
hold  upon  mankind.  Literature  has  little 
value  except  as  a  revelation  of  man  to 
himself.  In  true  poetry  that  revelation 


becomes  oracular ;  in  dramatic  poetry 
of  the  ideal  sort  it  attains  its  highest 
expression.  Now  in  this  highest  form 
of  this  revelation  of  man  to  himself 
Shakespeare  stands  supreme.  His  plays 
serve  for  common  commentaries  upon 
the  actions,  upon  all  the  actions,  of  our 
lives.  That  is  his  supremacy,  that  his 
sign  and  token  of  power.  It  has  rich 
garnishment  and  splendid  trappings  of 
beauty,  but  that  is  the  substance  of  it ; 
and  to  this  setting  forth  of  it  two  centu- 
ries and  three  quarters  ago  nothing  sub- 
stantial has  been  added. 

Yet  (it  would  seem)  that  nothing 
should  be  lacking  to  the  perfectness  of 
the  first  appreciation  of  Shakespeare, 
there  was  added  to  this  exposition  of 
his  quality  a  setting  forth  of  the  nature 
of  the  spell  which  he  has  cast  upon  the 
world.  This  is  contained  in  the  decla- 
ration that  heavy-witted  worldlings,  com- 
ing to  the  representation  or  the  reading 
of  Shakespeare's  dramas,  "  have  found 
that  wit  there  that  they  never  found  in 
themselves,  and  have  parted  better  witted 
than  they  came"  Let  it  be  remembered 
that  wit  then  included  both  wit  and  wis- 
dom, as  we  use  the  words ;  arid  could 
there  be  a  more  comprehensive  exhibit 
than  this  of  the  effect  of  the  worthy 
reading  of  Shakespeare,  or  of  its  strong- 
est allurement  to  the  reader?  We  go 
to  Shakespeare  to  find  in  him  the  wit 
and  the  wisdom  that  we  have  not  in 
ourselves ;  and  we  part,  or  think  we 
part,  from  him  wiser  and  wittier  than 
we  came.  My  acquaintance  with  the 
work  of  the  anatomists  and  eulogists  of 
William  Shakespeare  has  revealed  to  me 
nothing  that  is  not  said  or  implied  in 
Ben  Jonson's  criticism,  and  in  that  of 
this  prologuer  to  Troilus  and  Cressida. 

There  can  be  no  vainer  expenditure 
of  time  and  of  labor  than  an  attempt 
to  treat  the  works  of  such  a  writer  as 
Shakespeare  upon  a  system.  This  is 
true  equally  of  the  spirit  of  his  dramas 
and  the  form  of  his  poetry.  All  efforts 
in  this  direction  have  resulted  only  in 


318 


The  Anatomizing  of  William  Shakespeare.       [September, 


the  production  of  theories  more  or  less 
ingenious,  which,  after  attracting  little 
attention,  or  less  than  little,  are  disre- 
garded by  the  mass  of  Shakespeare's  in- 
telligent readers,  and  soon  become  known 

O  ' 

only  as  a  part  of  the  huge  and  heteroge- 
neous Shakespeare  bibliography.  It  is 
instructively  remarkable  that  critics  of 
Shakespeare  who  work  in  this  way  never 
benefit  either  the  world  or  Shakespeare. 
Of  this  there  could  not  be  a  more 
striking  example  than  William  Sydney 
Walker,  who  did  not  live  to  see  the  ef- 
fect of  hfs  work,  published  some  twenty 
or  more  years  ago.  He  was  without  a 
doubt  a  man  of  learning,  of  critical  fac- 
ulty, of  industry.  His  criticism  is  im- 
posing from  its  volume,  its  coherence, 
its  consistency,  and  its  system,  and  from 
its  consciously  laborious  air.  Much  was 
said  of  it,  much  expected.  It  was  text- 
ual criticism  ;  but  what  service  has  it 
done  to  Shakespeare's  text  ?  Examine 
any  critical  edition  produced  since  that 
time,  and  see  that  its  effect  has  been,  if 
not  nothing,  inappreciable. 

Such  work  is  not  difficult  to  men  with 
even  less  scholarship  and  insight  than 
Walker's.  Almost  any  clever,  educated 
man  may  set  to  work  with  his  Shake- 
speare and  half  a  dozen  volumes  of 
commentaries  before  him,  and,  abandon- 
ing himself  to  conjecture,  elaborate  com- 
ments and  suggestions  which  to  many 
readers  of  a  certain  sort  —  a  mousing 
sort  —  shall  seem  pleasing,  and  even 
at  times  convincing.  It  is  this  facility 
that  has  flooded  the  world  with  the  weak 
wash  of  Shakespeareanism.  Look  at 
Walker's  long,  labored  work,  and  see 
that  in  that  which  is  not  common  to 
him  and  others,  his  predecessors  or  his 
contemporaries,  there  is  very  little  of 
worth  or  weight.  The  impression  pro- 
duced by  his  book  at  first  was  due  to  its 
systematic  arrangement :  he  worked  by 
classification  ;  what  he  did  had  a  scien- 
tific look.  There  is  nothing  more  im- 
posing upon  dullness,  whether  popular 
or  pedantic,  than  this  air  of  system  and 


science.  Let  a  man  arrange  common- 
places alphabetically,  or  platitudes  ac- 
cording to  a  system,  and  he  surely  will 
be  looked  upon  and  spoken  of,  for  a  time 
at  least,  as  "  an  authority."  If  the  con- 
tents of  a  junk-shop  were  arranged  and 
catalogued  upon  a  system  —  character- 
istic or  alphabetical  —  they  would  be 
looked  upon  with  respect.  For  this  there 
is  some  reason  ;  because  classification  is 
the  first  step  to  scientific  knowledge  of 
any  subject  which  includes  many  related 
particulars.  But  it  should  never  be  for- 
gotten that  it  is  only  the  first  step.  The 
brains  of  many  "  ripe  scholars  "  are  lit- 
tle better  than  literary  junk-shops  ;  and 
the  value  of  their  contents  is  not  largely 
increased  by  classification. 

I  have  heretofore  mentioned  the  Shake- 
speare Lexicon,  by  the  erudite  Dr.  Alex- 
ander Schmidt,  of  Koenigsberg.  How 
ever  learned  Dr.  Schmidt  may  be  (and 
I  believe  that  he  is  a  scholar  of  most 
respectable  attainments),  however  able 
(and  I  would  willingly  assume  that  his 
ability  is  equal  to  his  scholarship),  how- 
ever painstaking  (arid  his  Lexicon  shows 
him  to  be  most  commendable  in  this  re- 
spect), I  cannot  but  regard  that  work 
as  absolutely  worthless ;  and  not  only 
so,  but  as  a  conspicuous  example  of  a 
kind  of  effort  the  fruits  of  which  the 
world  might  well  be  spared.  What  it 
is  and  what  is  its  value  may  be  very 
briefly  told. 

Shakespeare  used  about  fifteen  thou- 
sand words.1  All  of  these  words  (except 
the  articles,  prepositions,  and  conjunc- 
tions) may  be  found  in  Mrs.  Cowden 
Clarke's  Concordance  of  the  Plays  and 
the  late  much-loved  and  much-lamented 
Mrs.  Horace  Howard  Furness's  Concor- 
dance of  the  Poems,  —  the  latter  of  which 
has  the  great  value  given  by  the  presence 
of  all  the  words  used,  articles  and  what 
not.  In  both  these  works  the  words  ap- 
pear with  brief  context,  and  arranged 
alphabetically  under  play,  act,  and  scene, 

1  This  estimate  is  not  mine.  It  seems  to  me 
excessive. 


1884.] 


The  Anatomizing  of  William  Shakespeare. 


319 


or  poem.     Any  word   used  by  Shake- 
speare can  thus  be  found  at  once  by  the 
student,  and  its  sense  in  one  passage  com- 
pared with  its  sense  in  all  others.    Now 
of  Shakespeare's  fifteen  thousand  words 
there  are  not  more  than  two  or  three 
hundred  of  which  the  reader  of  general 
information  and  intelligence  needs  expla- 
nation because  of  their  obsoleteness,  and 
little  more   than   one  hundred   because 
of  their  use  in  a  sense  peculiar  to  Shake- 
speare.    If  any   one  of   my  readers  is 
surprised  at  this  assertion,  let  him  con- 
sider the  question  briefly,  and  I  think 
that  he  will  see  that,  were  it  otherwise, 
Shakespeare  could  not  be  read  in  our 
day  with  constantly   increasing  delight 
by  millions,   young   and   old,  educated, 
half   educated,    nay,    truly   uneducated. 
That  the  glossaries  appended  to  Shake- 
speare's works  contain  a  larger  number 
of  words  than  this  —  some  twelve  or  fif- 
teen hundred,  usually  —  is  not  at  all  to 
the  purpose.     Again,  a  moment's  reflec- 
tion will  make  it  clear  to  any  reason- 
able person  that  if  one  tenth  of  Shake- 
speare's words  were  obsolete  or  esoteric 
his  plays  would  be  unreadable,  except  by 
scholars.    The  numerousness  of  the  lists 
in    the   glossaries    is    easily   explained. 
Opening  that  of  the  Globe  edition  casu- 
ally, I  find  in  the  first  of  its  brief  col- 
umns that  meets   my  eye  the  following 
words  given  and  explained  :  gaudy,  bril- 
liantly   festive,    "  Let  's   have   another 
gaudy  night ; "  gaze,   object    looked    at 
with  curious   wonder,    "  live  to  be  the 
show  and  gaze  o'  th'  time ;  "  gear,  matter 
of  business  ;  general,   common  ;  genera- 
tions, children  ;  gentility,  good  manners ; 
yerman,  akin    (as    in  cousin  -  german)  ; 
gifts,  talents  ;  gilt  =:  gold,  money,  bribes, 
"  have  for  the  gilt  of  France  confirm'd 
conspiracy;"  glose,  to  comment;  glut,  to 
swallow  ;  government,  self-restraint ;  gra- 
cious, full  of  grace  ;  grained,  engrained ; 
grange,  a  farmhouse ;  gratittity,  a  Fool's 
ludicrous   blunder  for   gratuity;   gratu- 
late,    to    congratulate ;    grave,   to    bury, 
put  in  a  grave  ;  green,  immature,  fresh  ; 


greenly,  foolishly  ;  grossly,  palpably  ;  and 
gentle  is  given  three  times,  and  gird 
twice,  and  gleek  twice,  with  essentially 
the  same  meaning.  These  words  fill 
half  the  column  in  which  they  appear. 
Now  I  confess  at  once  that  I  am  not 
writing  for  those  who  do  not  see  that 
such  glosses  are  more  than  superfluous, 
—  absurd.  A  reader  who  needs  explana- 
tion of  such  words  as  those  cited  above 
has  no  business  with  a  Shakespeare,  — 
no  business  with  any  book  other  than  a 
primer  and  a  popular  dictionary.  Who 
needs  the  explanation  of  such  words  as 
those  could  not  read  a  newspaper  of 
higher  class  than  a  Police  Gazette ;  cer- 
tainly not  a  Penny  Dreadful.  Nor  do 
such  people  read  Shakespeare,  or  even 
any  writer  of  the  day  who  rises  in 
thought  or  phrase  above  the  level  of  the 
poet's  corner  or  the  humorous  column. 
One  reason  of  this  glossarial  super- 
fluity would  seem  to  be  that  tendency 
which  I  have  before  remarked  upon,  to 
obtrude  explanation  of  word  and  phrase 
when  it  is  the  thought  that  eludes  appre- 
hension, and  the  founding  of  glossaries 
upon  such  notes  of  explanation ;  an- 
other, that  disposition,  also  heretofore 
mentioned,  to  magnify  the  Shakespear- 
ean office,  to  set  it  off  as  an  ism,  to  make 
the  reading  of  Shakespeare  a  cult  and 
the  editing  him  a  mystery. 

Our  brief  chance  examination  of  the 
Globe  glossary  showed  us  that  not  half 
the  words  included  in  it  needed  glosses 
for  any  person  who  could  read  an  Eng- 
lish newspaper  of  average  grade.  But 
even  this  conclusion  overstates  the  truth. 
Not  six  hundred  of  Shakespeare's  fifteen 
thousand  words  need  glosses,  —  not  more 
than  two  or  three  hundred,  as  I  have 
said  before.  Now  what  the  Shakespeare 
Lexicon  does  is  to  give  in  two  thun- 
dering volumes,  —  a  bulk  four  times  as 
great  as  that  of  the  Globe  Shakespeare 
—  all  Shakespeare's  words  arranged  al- 
phabetically, with  their  various  defini- 
tions in  the  order  of  the  plays.  I  open 
casually  the  volume  on  which  my  hand 


320 


The  Anatomizing  of  William  Shakespeare.       [September, 


first  falls,  and  find  the  page  before  me 
entirely  filled  with  citations  and  defini- 
tions of  the  following  words  :  slave,  slave- 
like,  slaver,  slavery,  slavish,  slay,  slayer, 
sleave  -  silk,  sledded,  sleek,  sleek  -  headed, 
sleekly,  sleep,  not  one  of  which,  it  will  be 
seen,  is  obsolete  or  obsolescent,  not  one 
of  which  could  not  be  found  in  any 
popular  manual -dictionary,  not  one  of 
which  would  trouble  a  common-school 
boy  of  average  intelligence.  Could  any- 
thing be  more  superfluous,  more  absurd ! 
As  to  the  meaning  of  Shakespeare's 
words  which  every  ordinarily  intelligent 
reader  understands,  and  without  such  an 
understanding  of  which  Shakespeare's 
writings,  and  not  only  they  but  the  gen- 
eral literature  of  the  day,  would  be  in- 
comprehensible, —  as  to  these,  no  one 
needs  the  ministrations  of  any  special 
Shakespeare  lexicographer,  nor  those 
of  any  lexicographer.  Where  help  is 
needed  is  in  words  and  phrases  of  the 
opposite  class.  If  Dr.  Schmidt's  schol- 
arship and  his  mastery  of  the  English 
language  had  enabled  him  to  throw  new 
light  upon  these,  or  upon  any  consider- 
able proportion  of  them,  a  brief  glosso- 
logical  excursus  to  that  effect  by  him 
would  have  been  welcome ;  and  I  can- 
not but  believe  that  it  would  have  been 
performed  by  him  in  a  thorough  and 
scholarly  manner.  But  here  is  exactly 
where  he  fails.  Where  definition  and 
comparison  of  words  and  phrases  is 
needless,  more  than  superfluous,  he  is 
in  most  cases  triumphantly  clear  and  cor- 
rect :  it  is  chiefly  in  the  case  of  obsolete- 
ness or  obscurity  that  he  fails  to  benefit 
the  world  by  what  has  been  called  his 
"  remarkable  and  invaluable  work,"  his 
"  combination  of  accuracy  and  acute- 
ness." 

That,  for  example,  slave  means  "  a 
person  who  is  absolutely  subject  to  the 
will  of  another  ;  "  slay,  "  to  kill,  to  put 
to  death  ;  "  sleek-headed,  having  the  hair 
well  combed  ;  sleep,  "  rest  taken  by  a 
suspension  of  the  voluntary  exercise  of 
the  bodily  and  mental  powers,"  and  so 


forth,  we  hardly  need  the  aid  of  schol- 
arship like  Dr.  Schmidt's  to  know.  In- 
deed, every  reader  of  English  blood  or 
breeding  is  likely  to  know  it  better  than 
the  learned  Dr.  Schmidt  of  Koenigs- 
berg  does.  But  when  he  comes  to  the 
words  and  phrases  about  which  English 
folk  may  doubt,  although  with  some  ink- 
ling of  their  meaning,  he  is  generally  — 
no,  I  cannot  say  generally,  for  I  have 
yet  cut  but  few  leaves  of  his  Lexicon, 
but  generally  on  such  an  examination  — 
in  a  sad  muddle  of  confusion  and  io-no- 

O 

ranee.  Would  it  not  be  somewhat  un- 
reasonable to  expect  otherwise  ?  On  the 
page  now  accidentally  before  me,  in  the 
passage  in  the  first  act  of  Hamlet,  — 

"  Such  was  the  very  armour  he  had  on 
When  he  the  ambitious  Norway  combated; 
So  frown'd  he  once,  when,  in  an  angry  parle 
He  smote  the  sledded  Polacks  on  the  ice," 

because  "  Polacks  "  happens  to  be  spelled 
phonetically  in  the  folio  Pollax,  he  will 
have  it  that  we  should  read  pole-axe; 
that  sledded  means  having  a  sledge  or 
heavy  hammer  on  it ;  and  that  "  smote 
the  sledded  pole-axe  on  the  ice  "  means 
that  the  elder  Hamlet  in  his  anp-er  smote 

O 

the  ice  with  his  pole-axe.  There  could 
not  be  better  evidence  of  Dr.  Schmidt's 
superfluity  as  a  Shakespearean  lexicogra- 
pher than  this  amazing,  and  I  must  be 
pardoned  for  saying  ridiculous,  explana- 
tion. The  absurdity  of  it  is  felt  by  every 
English-minded  reader  more  easily  than 
it  is  explained.  It  is  so  laughably  in- 
consistent with  the  tone  of  this  scene, 
awful  with  the  wraith  of  the  majesty  of 
buried  Denmark,  to  picture  the  royal 
Dane  smiting  the  ice  with  his  pole-axe, 
like  a  testy  old  heavy  father  in  a  come- 
dy !  But  on  turning  to  Furness's  vario- 
rum edition  of  this  play,  I  discover,  from 
the  first  sentence  of  his  array  of  notes 
on  this  passage,  that  u  German  com- 
mentators have  found  more  difficulty 
in  this  phrase  than  P^nglish."  I  should 
think  so.  It  is  not  surprising.  Dr. 
Furness,  after  gathering  (as  according 
to  his  vast  plan  he  must  needs  gather) 


1884.] 


The  Anatomizing  of  William  Shakespeare. 


321 


a  great  deal  of  such  lumber  together  in 
a  compressed  or  abbreviated  form,  at 
last  says,  in  regard  to  the  exegesis  of 
one  of  these  learned  German  scholars, 
and  one  who  does  not  insist  upon  pole- 
axe,  "  This  comment  paralyzes  my  pow- 
er to  paraphrase,"  and  gives  it  in  full 
thus  :  — 

"I  always  regarded  'steaded,'  or,  as  the  mod- 
ern editors  read,  '  sledded,'  as  nonsense.  What  a 
ridiculous  position  it  must  have  been  to  see  a  king 
in  full  armour  smiting  down  a  sledded  man :  that 
is,  a  man  sitting  in  a  sledge !  It  would  rather  not 
have  been  a  king-like  action.  And  it  was  of 
course  not  a  remarkable,  not  a  memorable  fact 
that  in  the  cold  Scandinavian  country  in  winter 
time  people  were  found  sitting  in  a  sledge  ;  nobody 
would  have  wondered  at  it,  —  perhaps  more  at  the 
contrary.  When  the  king  frowned  in  an  angry 
parle,  he  must  have  been  provoked  to  it  by  an 
irritating  behavior  of  the  adversary,  and  Horatio, 
remembering  the  fact,  will  also  bear  in  mind  the 
cause  of  it ;  and  so  I  suppose  he  used  an  epithet 
which  points  out  the  provoking  manner  of  the 
Polack,  and,  following  as  much  as  possible  the 
form  steaded,'  I  should  like  to  propose  the  word 
sturdy,  or,  as  it  would  have  been  written  in  Shake- 
speare's time,  sturdie" 

And  the  man  who  wrote  that  under- 
takes to  explain  Shakespeare,  and  even 
to  write  verbal  criticism  on  his  language  ; 
nay,  verily,  to  propose  emendations  of 
his  text !  Do  not  suppose  that  he  is 
ignorant,  that  he  is  even  a  half-schol- 
ar, or  that  he  is  dull.  On  the  contrary, 
he,  like  Dr.  Schmidt,  is  a  scholar  and 
a  man  of  ability.  It  is  simply  that  he 
does  not  understand  the  English  idiom 
and  the  English  way  of  thinking.  If 
our  good  German  friends  would  but 
confine  themselves  to  admiring  Shake- 
speare, although  in  a  somewhat  simpler 
and  less  profound  manner  than  is  their 
wont,  and  would  confine  their  verbal 
and  philosophical  exegesis  to  the  second 
part  of  Faust,  and  "  sech,"  it  would, 
I  venture  to  think,  tend  greatly  to  edifi- 
cation. 

I  cannot  go  at  all  into  the  matter 
here,  and  indeed  as  to  the  Shakespeare 
Lexicon  I  don't  profess  to  be  fitly  ac- 
quainted with  it  for  criticism  ;  but  turn- 
ing the  leaves  of  my  copy,  I  find  among 
many  words  already  checked  on  its  mar- 

VOL.  LIV. — NO.  323.  21 


gins  these :  Apply  defined  as  "  to  make 
use  of."  Now  a  thing  applied,  whether 
it  is  craft,  or  a  poultice,  or  medicine,  is 
indeed  used  ;  but  apply  does  not  there- 
fore mean  to  make  use  of.  To  apply  is 
to  set  one  thing  against  or  to  another ; 
as  when  a  plaster  is  applied,  or  a  stu- 
dent applies  himself,  or  a  man  applies 
his  memory.  The  Lexicon  very  mis- 
leadingly  confuses  two  distinct  although 
related  thoughts.  Contrive,  in  Taming 
of  the  Shrew,  I.  2,  1.  268,  "  please  ye 
we  may  contrive  this  afternoon  and  quaff 
carouses,"  is  defined  as  either  to  spend, 
or  to  pass  away,  or  to  lay  schemes ; 
which  will  seem  strange  to  any  English- 
woman who  is  in  the  habit  of  saying, 
"  How  shall  we  contrive  to  pass  the 
time  ?  '  Here  contrive  means,  merely, 
manage.  Buckle,  in  passages  like  "  in 
single  combat  thou  shalt  buckle  with 
me,"  is  defined  "  to  join  in  close  fight ;  " 
and  this  sense  is  said  to  be  **  probably 
derived  from  the  phrase  to  turn  the 
buckle " !  Here  is  a  mistake  of  the 
same  sort  as  that  about  apply.  Buckle 
sometimes  applies  to  joining  in  fight, 
but  it  does  not  mean  that,  nor  anything 
like  it.  We  buckle  to  our  work;  a 
studious  boy  buckles  to  his  lessons ;  and 
in  an  old  song  a  hesitating  girl  says  she 
"  can't  buckle  to,"  meaning  she  can't 
bring  herself  to  be  married.  Buckle 
means,  merely,  bend.  This  meaning  ap- 
pears in  the  Latin  bucca  =  s,  cheek, 
buccula  =.  the  curve  of  a  helmet  or  the 
boss  of  a  shield,  the  French  boucle  = 
a  curl,  and  our  buckle,  an  implement  to 
hold  a  thong.  We  bend  (buckle)  to  our 
work ;  a  boy  bends  (buckles)  to  his 
task  ;  a  soldier  buckles  (that  is  bends, 
gives  himself  body  and  soul)  to  combat. 
The  Lexicon,  defining  that  which  to  an 
intelligent  English  reader  needs  no  defi- 
nition, misleads  readers  who  are  not 
English  and  not  intelligent.  Set  cock-a- 
hoop  certainly  does  not  mean  "pick  a 
quarrel ;  "  so  clearly  does  every  English 
reader  see  this,  although  he  may  not 
know  the  origin  of  the  phrase,  that 


322 


The  Anatomizing  of  William  Shakespeare.       [September, 


further  words  on  it  would  be  wasted. 
And  how  it  astonishes  us  Euglish-tongued 
folk  to  be  told  by  a  distinguished  scholar 
that  lapsed  means  "  surprised,  taken  in 
the  act ;  "  and  that  when  Hamlet  says  to 
his  father's  ghost  that  he  is  "  lapsed  in 
time  and  passion  '  he  means,  "  I  am 
surprised  by  you  in  a  time  and  passion 
fit  for,"  etc.  !  Yet  verily  Dr.  Schmidt 
does  so  tell  us.  Lapsed  means  lost  in, 
given  up  to,  abandoned  to  ;  and  Hamlet 
says  that  he  was  feebly  given  up  to  pro- 
crastination and  moody  feeling.  The 
notion  that  "  lapsed  "  has  any  reference 
to  the  action  or  to  the  presence  of  the 
fancied  ghost,  is  surely  one  of  the  most 
extraordinary  pieces  of  Shakespearean 
exegesis  that  exists  in  that  extraordinary 
literature.  And  so  when  the  Shake- 
speare Lexicon  tells  us  that  in  Touch- 
stone's "  Well  said  ;  that  was  laid  on 
with  a  trowel,"  we  have  "  a  proverbial 
phrase,  probably  meaning  without  cere- 
mony," how  we  are  tempted  into  exclam- 
atory utterances  and  unseemly  laughter, 
—  we  who,  not  being  scholars,  have  al- 
ways understood  it  as  meaning,  simply, 
that  was  laid  on  thick,  as  a  bricklayer 
lays  on  mortar  !  Nor  has  pitched  in  u  a 
pitched  battle  '  anything  to  do  with 
"  the  custom  of  planting  sharp  stakes  in 
the  ground  against  hostile  horse."  Pitch 
(of  unknown  etymology)  means  merely 
to  place  firmly  and  suddenly.  A  man 
pitches  upon  a  site  for  his  house ;  a 
clergyman  pitches  upon  a  text  for  his 
sermon  ;  a  singer  pitches  upon  a  note  ; 
we  pitch  upon  anything  that  we  choose 
quickly  and  decidedly.  Tents  were  and 
are  pitched  ;  and  to  pitch  a  battle  was 
to  choose  the  ground  for  it  and  to  array 
the  troops.  The  old  preterite  was  pight, 
which  is  used  by  Shakespeare  :  — 
"  When  I  dissuaded  him  from  his  intent, 

And  found  him  piyht  to  do  it,  with  curst  speech 

I  threaten'd  to  discover  him." 

(Lear  II.  1,  64.) 

Here  pight  means  merely  fixed,  set,  as 
it  does  in  this  line  of  Spenser's  :  — 

"But  in  the  same  a  little  grate  was  pight." 

(Faerie  Queene.  I.  viii.  37.) 


And  in  Mandeville  "  a  spere  that  is 
pight  into  the  erthe  "  means  merely  a 
spear  that  is  set  into  the  earth.  Pitch 
and  pight  used  in  regard  to  tents  or 
spears  or  stakes  do  not  mean  more  or 
other  than  when  used  in  regard  to  any- 
thing else,  a  site,  a  text,  a  note,  or  what 
not.  Nor  does  sheep-biter  mean  u  a 
morose,  surly,  malicious  fellow,"  or  any- 
thing like  that.  If  Dr.  Schmidt  had 
said  it  meant  a  thief,  he  would  have  had 
the  support  of  good  "  authority  "  (what- 
ever that  may  be).  It  was  indeed  ap- 
plied to  thieves,  as  in  this  line :  — 

"  How  like  a  sheep  biting  rogue,  taken  i'  th'  man' 
ner!" 

(Fletcher,  Rule  a  Wife,  etc.,  V.  4.) 

and  so  it  was  to  malicious  persons,  as 
in  the  following  line  :  — 

"  His  hate  like  a  sheep-biter  fleering  aside." 

(Tusser,  Description  of  an  Envious  and  Naugh- 
tie  Neighbour,  p.  112,  ed.  1610.) 

But  it  was  so  applied  merely  because  it 
was  a  general  term  of  reproach.  It 
means  merely,  mutton-eater.  This  I  sug- 
gested in  my  first  edition  of  Twelfth 
Night  (1857)  ;  and  afterwards  I  found 
the  following  reference  to  the  phrase  by 
Addisou :  — 

"Mutton  .  .  .  was  formerly  observed  to  be  the 
food  rather  of  men  of  nice  and  delicate  appetites 
than  those  of  strong  and  robust  constitutions.  For 
which  reason  even  to  this  day  we  use  the  word 
Sheep-biter  as  a  term  of  reproach,  as  we  do  Beef- 
eater in  a  respectful,  honorable  sense."  (Tatler, 
No.  148.) 

Addison's  testimony  (and  he  mentions 
that  he  had  consulted  antiquaries  —  in 
1709 — on  the  subject  of  his  paper) 
leaves  no  doubt  as  to  the  meaning  of 
the  compound,  and  as  to  its  use  as  a 
general  term  of  reproach.  But  I  ven- 
ture a  dissent  from  his  inference  in  re- 
gard to  delicate  appetites.  Mutton  two 
and  three  hundred  years  ago  was  looked 
upon  as  very  inferior  food  to  venison 
and  to  beef  ;  and  "  mutton-eater"  coars- 
ened into  "sheep-biter'1'  corresponded 
to  the  modern  "  tripe-eater."  But  even 
a  glance  here  and  there  at  mv  few  cas- 

« 

ual  checks  upon  the  margins  of  his  Lex- 


1884.] 


The  Anatomizing  of  William  Shakespeare. 


323 


icon  is  leading  me  into  prolixity,  and  I 
must  end  it,  merely  remarking  upon  the 
extraordinary  misapprehension  which 
gives  "  one  who  goes  abroad "  as  the 
meaning  of  putter-out,  in  "  each  putter- 
out  of  five  for  one ; "  which  tells  us 
(the  word,  unseen  before,  catches  my 
eye  just  as  I  turn  the  leaves)  that  point 
blank  means  "  with  certain  aim,  so  as 
not  to  miss,"  — point  blank  having  noth- 
ing to  do  with  aim,  or  hitting  or  missing, 
but  meaning  merely,  in  a  direct  line,  on 
a  level,  without  elevation  or  depression 
of  the  gun ;  and  finally  at  the  ignorance 
which  tells  us  that  placket  was  "  prob- 
ably a  stomacher."  Now  what  a  placket 
was  I  don't  know ;  and  therefore  I  say 
so  plainly,  and  with  no  shame  for  my 
ignorance.  But  this  I  do  know  :  that  of 
all  the  articles  of  feminine  apparel,  ex- 
cept a  shoe  arid  a  bonnet,  a  stomacher 
was  the  one  which  most  surely  could  not 
have  been  called  a  placket.  •  Placket,  if 
originally  the  name  of  an  article  of 
dress,  was  plainly  not  that  of  one  which 
had  another  name.1 

How  u  invaluable  "  the  Shakespeare 
Lexicon  is,  how  "  admirable  a  combina- 
tion of  accuracy  and  acuteness,"  we  may 
gather  from  this  cursory  glance  over  its 
mostly  uncut  pages.  The  scholarship  of 
its  compiler  (and  I  hint  no  doubt  as  to 

1  Those  who  care  to  refer  to  passages,  few  here 
quotable,  which  show  that  a  placket  could  not  pos- 
sibly have  been  a  stomacher  may  turn  to  "  She  '11 
swap  thee  into  her  plackerd,"  Greene's  Fr.  Bun- 
gay  and  Fr.  Bacon,  p.  194;  "  Clarinda's  placket," 
B.  &  F.,  Lover's  Progress,  IV.  3;    "At  all  our 
crests  (videlicet,  our  plackets),"  B.  &  F.,  Woman's 
Prize.  II.  4;  "  Keep  thy  hand  from  thy  sword,  and 
from   thy  laundress's  placket,"   B.    &  F.,  Little 
French  Lawyer,  V.  2;  "  Look  to  your  plackard, 
Madam,"  World  of  Wonders,  1607,   p.  44  ;  "  to 
lend  him  her  placket  peece,"  Idem,  p.  132.    See 
passages  which  must  be  only  referred  to  in  Pills 
to  Purge  Melancholy,  II.  19,   20,  Ib.  III.  4,  Ib. 
IV.  217,   Ib.    IV.   324  ;  the  placket  geer,  Wit's 
Paraphrase,  p.  14;  "  quit  my  placket,"  Ib.  p.  27; 
"from  my  placket,"  Ib.  85;  "the  witches'  plack- 
et," Ib.  p.  111.     The  two  latter  especially  note- 
worthy.    And  see  also  passages  cited  in  my  first 
edition  of  Shakespeare  on  Love's  Labour  's  Lost, 
III.  1,  and  King  Lear  III.  4. 

2  A  marginal  check  at  the  word  quill  catches 
my  eye.     The  exhibition  is  too  good  to  be  passed 


its  amplitude  and  its  thoroughness)  is  not 
at  all  to  the  purpose.  The  book  plainly 
needs  to  be  examined,  article  by  article, 
by  some  competent  English  scholar  of 
average  common  sense,  and  an  apprecia- 
tion of  it  set  forth,  before  it  becomes,  by 
reason  of  its  imposing  form,  its  system- 
atic arrangement,  and  its  seeming  scien- 
tific method,  an  "  authority."  Upon  my 
casual  examination,  I  venture  merely  the 
opinion  that  its  erudite  compiler  lacks, 
perhaps,  only  one  qualification  for  his 
task,  —  an  inbred  understanding  of  the 
English  of  nowadays  and  of  Shake- 
speare's time  ;  that  so  far  is  he  from  be- 
ing "  accurate  "  that  not  only  in  words 
and  phrases  which  are  the  proper  sub- 
jects of  explanation,  but  even  as  to  those 
which  need  none  to  any  average  read- 
er, he  has  made  many  mistakes  ;  and 
that  as  to  the  rest  his  work  is  so  far 
from  being  "  invaluable  "  that  it  is  utter- 
ly needless  even  to  the  least  learned  of 
my  intelligent  readers,  —  a  striking  and 
characteristic  exhibition  and  example  of 
the  superfluity  of  Shakespeareanism.2 

And  now,  as  it  was  said  when  brave 
Moore  was  laid  to  rest  in  his  cloak, 

"But  half  our  heavy  task  was  done 

When  the  clock  struck  the  hour  for  retiring;  " 

nor,  indeed,  will  it  be  unexpected  if  I 
hear  from 

over.  Will  it  be  believed  ?  Bottom's  "  wren 
with  little  quill  "  is  given  as  an  example  of  the 
use  of  quill  in  the  sense  "  the  strong  feather  of  the 
wing  of  a  bird."  Any  intelligent  English-brained 
school-boy  could  have  told  the  erudite  German 
professor  that  here  quill  means  pipe,  note  :  "  little 
quill  "  =  feeble  note.  This  whole  article  on  quill  is 
wrong.  So,  too,  I  find,  on  the  first  page  of  vol.  ii., 
mad  defined  as  "  besides  one's  self,"  —  this  not  by 
misprint,  as  is  shown  by  the  article  on  besides ;  and 
I  see  that  I  have  no  less  than  eight  checks  for  like 
blunders  to  these  in  Much  Ado,  etc.  I  have  not 
looked  at  this  Lexicon  since  my  first  hasty  glance 
through  it  after  its  publication,  nine  years  ago.  It 
is  a  very  scientific,  very  systematic,  very  elaborate 
performance;  and,  like  many  scientific,  system- 
atic, elaborate  performances,  utterly  worthless  be- 
cause misleading.  This  with  great  respect  for  Dr. 
Schmidt's  erudition  and  industry.  The  Koenigs- 
berg  scholar  merely  does  not  apprehend  English 
idiom  as  if  it  were  his  mother  tongue,  and  should 
therefore  not  have  undertaken  to  explain  Shake- 
speare, —  of  all  writers ! 


324  The  Anatomizing  of  William  Shakespeare.       [September, 

"the  distant  random  gun  and  that  he  himself  was  indifferent  in  his 
That  the  foe  is  suddenly  firing."  feeling  as  to  the  moral  character  of  his 
I  have  truly  not  touched  half  the  points  personages,  and  no  less  as  to  the  decency 
as  to  which  I  made  memorandums  for  of  his  ideas  and  the  decorum  of  his  lan- 
this  brief  series  of  articles  ;  but  I  must  guage  ;    that   in  his   use  of  words  and 
bring  it  now  speedily  to  an  end,  and  phrases  he  was  heedless  of  correctness 
postpone  fuller  exposition  to  a  more  con-  and  consistency,  and  under  a  combinate 
venient  season.1  pressure  of  thought  and  haste  would  set 
The  present  result  of  what  I  cannot  at  naught  not  only  the  grammar  of  his 
but  feel  to  have  been  an  incomplete  ex-  time,  but  that  logic  which  is  the  grammar 
ainination  of  our  subject  seems  to  me  to  of  all  time ;  that  he  was  neither  in  pur- 
be  the  bringing  forth,  with  evidence  not  pose  nor  in  fact  at  any  time  of  his  life 
to    be  gainsaid,   of    these  truths  :    that  original  as  to  structural  form  or  spirit, 
most  of  our  Shakespeare  literature  is  a  either  as  a  dramatist  or  as  a  poet, 
useless  burden  ;  that  it  is  not  only  need-  What,  then,  was  Shakespeare  ?  What 
less  to  the  right  understanding  of  Shake-  is  it  that  makes  Time  his  preserver  rath- 
speare,  but  largely  misleading ;  that  much  er  than  his  destroyer ;    that  causes  his 
of   it   is    thus    misleading    because   the  reputation  to  harden  into  adamant  un- 
writers  wished  to  deliver  themselves  of  der  the  pressure  of  centuries  which  crum- 
something  fine  upon  a  great  subject,  and  bles  others  into  the  impalpable  powder 
looked   rather  into    their  own    "  moral  of  oblivion  ;  which  sets   him   above  — 
consciousness  '    than   into    Shakespeare  yes,  I  shall  not  hesitate  to  say  far  above 
himself,  or  to  the  facts   and  forces  of  —  even   Homer  and  Dante,  not  to  men- 
which  his  works  were  the  result ;  that  tion  .^Eschylus  and  Euripides,  and  hard- 
the  consequence  of  this  has  been  a  mis-  ly  to  think  of  Goethe,  —  what  is   it  ? 
apprehension  of  the  character  of  Shake-  Any  man  may  shrink,  as  I  know  that  I 
speare's  genius,  although  not  an  over-  shrink,  with  doubt  of  his  ability  to  an- 
estimate  of  its  greatness ;  that  there  has  swer   this  question.     But  I  venture  to 
been  a  like  amiable   misconception   of  think  that   I  do  know  the  answer,  al- 
his  personal  character ;  that  he  worked  though  to  give  it  here,  at  the  end  of  an 
merely  as  a  playwright,  and  not  as   a  article,  with  any  fullness  or  with  satis- 
dramatist,  with  the  ethnic,  aesthetic  aim  faction  to  myself  would  be  impossible. 
of  such  men  as   ^Eschylus,   Sophocles.  Shakespeare's  great  and  peculiar  genius 
and  Euripides  ;  that  the  construction  of  was  not   the  genius  of   observation,  of 
his  plays  was  not  in  any  great  degree  study,  of  cogitation,  of  labor  :  it  was  an 
his  own ;  that  he  rarely  gave  it  much  intuitive,  inborn  knowledge  of  men  and 
thought,  and    that  more  rarely  does  it  things  in  their  elemental,  eternal  nature, 
show  much    skill ;  that   the   characters  and  of  their  consequent  relations,  com- 
of  his  personages  were  generally  not  of  bined  with  an  inborn  faculty  of  express- 
his  conceiving  in  their  elemental  traits,  ing  that  knowledge  such  as  has  never 
but  were  determined  by  the  old  tales  he  been  manifested  in  speech  or  writing  by 
dramatized  and  the  old  plays  he  worked  any  other  man  known  to  history.     And 
over,  from  which  in  this  respect  they  dif-  chiefly  his  genius  lay  in  this  power  of 
fer  essentially  in  very  few  instances  ;  that  expression.     It  is   probable   that  many 
his  personages  are  not  always  consistent  have  approached  him  in  his  insight  of 
in  essence  or  in  art ;  that  Shakespeare  man  and  of  nature ;    those   who  enjoy 
wrote  without  any  ethical  purpose  either  him  and  understand  him  must  approach 
in  general  design  or  particular  passages,  him  in  this  respect  more  or  less  remotely, 

i  When  these  and  other  papers  of  their  kind  or^they  would   neither   understand   nor 

shall  be  published  by  themselves.  enjoy.      But  to  know  is  one  thing,  and  to 


1884.] 


The  Anatomizing  of  William  Shakespeare. 


325 


tell  with  convincing  effect  quite  another. 
A  man  may  have  a  stable  full  of  horses, 
and  not  be  able  to  drive  four-in-hand. 

If  by  power  of  expression  I  meant 
merely  the  ability  to  write  with  clearness, 
force,  and  beauty  —  with  whatever  clear- 
ness, whatever  force,  whatever  beauty  — 
that  which  is  both  wise  and  interesting, 
I  should  be  saying,  indeed,  what  is  true, 
but  I  should  not  present  any  new  view 
of  Shakespeare's  genius.  His  peculiar 
power  in  this  regard  was  that  of  uniting 
poetical  beauty,  the  charm  of  fancy  and 
of  language,  with  the  utterance  of  that 
intuitive  knowledge  which,  in  the  words 
of  his  contemporary  critic,  makes  his 
writings  "  serve  for  the  most  common 
commentaries  of  all  the  actions  of  our 
lives."  I  can  here  give  by  examples  but 
hints  and  suggestions  of  what  I  mean : 

"  We  are  such  stuff 

As  dreams  are  made  on,  and  our  little  life 
Is  rounded  with  a  sleep." 

"  Spirits  are  not  finely  touch'd 
But  to  fine  issues  ;  nor  Nature  never  lends 
The  smallest  scruple  of  her  excellence, 
But,  like  a  thrifty  goddess,  she  determines 
Herself  the  glory  of  a  creditor  — 
Both  thanks  and  use." 

"But 't  is  a  common  proof 
That  lowliness  is  young  ambition's  ladder, 
Whereto  the  climber-upward  turns  his  face  ; 
But  when  he  once  attains  the  upmost  round, 
He  then  unto  the  ladder  turns  his  back, 
Looks  in  the  clouds,  scorning  the  base  degrees 
By  which  he  did  ascend." 

'  What  custom  wills,  in  all  things  should  we  do  't, 
The  dust  on  antique  time  would  lie  unswept, 
And  mountainous  error  be  too  highly  piled 
For  truth  to  overpeer." 

"  0  good  Horatio,  what  a  wounded  name, 

Things  standing  thus  unknown,  shall  leave  be- 
hind me  ! 

If  thou  didst  ever  hold  me  in  thy  heart, 

Absent  thee  from  felicity  awhile, 

And  in  this  harsh  world  draw  thy  breath  in 
pain, 

To  tell  my  story." 

And  see  that  speech  in  Troilus  and 
Cressida,  Act  III.  Sc.  3,  beginning, 
"  Time  hath  my  lord  a  wallet,"  etc., 
which  in  its  union  of  wisdom,  beauty, 
and  richness  of  thought  and  utterance 


is  unsurpassed  by  any  other  from  Shake- 
speare's pen.  These  passages  are  mere 
chance-remembered  examples  of  a  mul- 
titude like  the  pebbles  "  on  the  unnum- 
bered beach  "  which  constitute,  in  my 
judgment,  their  writer's  peculiar  claim 
upon  the  attention  of  the  world,  his  pe- 
culiar charm  to  the  world's  ear.  Leave 
him  his  truth  and  strength  of  character- 
ization, his  vividness  of  dramatic  speech 
and  action,  his  imagination,  his  pathos, 
his  humor,  his  power  in  the  tender  and 
his  power  in  the  terrible,  in  all  of  which 
qualities  he  is  unsurpassed,  and  in  most 
of  which  he  is  unequaled ;  but  take  from 
him  his  specialty  of  using  language  in 
such  a  way  as  to  make  poetry  a  comment 
upon  all  the  actions  of  our  lives,  and 
us  conscious  of  wit  and  wisdom  in  his 
presence,  —  do  this,  and  the  Shakespeare 
supreme,  the  unapproachable,  is  gone. 

Shakespeare's  mind  surely  had  in  it 
something  of  the  quality  which,  having 
no  other  name  for  it,  we  call  divine  ;  for 
it  seems  to  have  been  an  exhaustless 
source  of  knowledge,  of  wisdom,  and  of 
beauty.  Yet  something  it  had  very  hu- 
man, too,  and  sometimes  very  weak  and 
poor ;  mortal  error  and  mere  human 
dross.  But  let  us  scorn  the  affectation 
that  would  say,  Were  it  not  so  he  would 
be  too  good  and  great  for  sympathy  and 
love.  Nothing  is  too  good  and  great  for 
man  to  love  and  worship,  although,  like 
the  greatest  intellect  the  world  has  seen, 
he  may  sometimes  weakly  or  wickedly 
fall  away  from  what  he  knows  that  he 
should  love  and  worship. 

Shakespeare  in  his  supremacy  stands 
far  above  the  deterioration  of  his  weak- 
nesses and  the  contamination  of  his 
faults.  The  high-heaved  peak  of  his 
lonely  genius  cleaves  the  cool  serene, 
no  less  dazzling  pure,  no  less  golden- 
touched  with  light  of  heaven,  because 
of  fens  and  marshes  at  its  base.  Around 
it  his  great  thoughts  sweep  on  mighty 
wings,  none  the  less  majestic  because 
there  are  foul  and  venomous  creatures 
creeping  below.  To  him  our  eyes  turn 


326 


Under  the  Maples. 


[September, 


when  we  need  such  counsel,  such  com- 
fort, such  delight,  as  surpasses  that 
which  seems  mere  counsel,  mere  com- 
fort, mere  delight,  —  such  as  transcends 
all  other  moral  good  and  mental  pleas- 
ure. The  more  we  know  him,  the  more 
we  find  him  not  quite  all  knowable.  He 
is  the  only  writer  who  can  be  to  us  in 
one  brief  half  hour  our  jester,  our  singer, 
our  friend,  our  consoler,  our  prophet  (but 
never  our  priest),  our  sage,  —  ourselves. 
There  is  no  mood  of  our  lives  that  was 
not  a  mood  of  his  mind ;  no  sorrow  or 
joy  of  our  hearts  that  was  not  a  sorrow 
or  a  joy  of  his  brain.  His  intellect  was 
the  abstract  of  humanity.  His  is  the 
only  fame  enrolled  upon  the  ages  which 
is  not  only  without  a  rival,  but  which 


no  one  would  hope  to  rival.  The  chosen 
people  had  only  three  kings,  each  of 
whom  was  preeminent  for  certain  qual- 
ities. Shakespeare  in  his  intellectual 
royalty  suggests  them  all.  The  Saul  of 
literature,  he  stands  head  and  shoulders 
above  even  the  brothers  of  his  kingly 
blood;  like  David,  he  is  the  poet  of  a 
race  and  yet  of  all  races,  and  moreover 
one  who,  seeking  the  means  of  content, 
found  the  crown  of  immortality ;  like 
Solomon,  he  is  wise  with  a  wisdom  which 
has  enlightened  the  whole  world.  Like 
each  and  all  of  these  who  must  be  united 
to  be  his  prototype,  he  is  not  without 
faults  that  would  condemn  him  to  death, 
were  he  not  so  great  that  he  is  above 
either  punishment  or  pardon. 

Richard  Grant  White. 


UNDER  THE  MAPLES. 


THERE  is  a  lively  interest  among  stu- 
dents of  history  and  society  in  the  un- 
covering of  rubbish  heaps,  and  the  re- 
construction of  village  communities  out 
of  institutional  hints.  I  have  found  my 
pleasure  in  unearthing  the  villages  and 
farms  and  pasture-lands  and  battle-fields 
which  lie  under  my  maple-trees.  Every 
year  the  busy  life  goes  on  there,  wheth- 
er I  watch  it  or  not ;  it  is  a  microcosm 
of  that  world  which  my  daily  newspaper 
reports  ;  for  here  among  the  ants  are 
the  builders  of  cities,  the  governors  and 
leaders,  the  masters  of  slaves,  the  har- 
vesters, the  herdsmen,  and  the  mechan- 
ics. No  emancipation  proclamation  has 
yet  been  issued,  but  there  are  wars  and 
rumors  of  wars. 

Failing  to  discover  the  official  records 
of  these  busy  creatures  —  too  busy,  may 
be,  to  trouble  themselves  about  history 
—  I  have  kept  a  journal  of  my  observa- 
tions. I  have  had,  moreover,  the  oppor- 
tunity of  comparing  the  observations 
which  I  have  made  under  my  Northern 


maple  trees  with  what  I  have  seen  at 
the  South,  and  I  record  with  pleasure 
the  fact  that  there  is  more  common 
ground  of  pursuit  between  the  two  sec- 
tions than  some  would  have  us  believe. 
Naturalists  have  given  us  the  impression 
that  no  harvesting  auts  are  to  be  found 
at  the  North.  They  are  mistaken.  Fa- 
miliar as  I  am  with  those  of  the  South, 
I  have  never  found  a  more  interesting 
species  than  one  at  the  North,  Pheidole 
pennsylvanica,  a  large  colony,  whose  sub- 
terranean city  is  beneath  the  spreading 
branches  of  a  maple  in  near  proximity 
to  my  house,  affording  an  excellent  op- 
portunity to  observe  its  habits. 

The  colony  is  composed  of  males  and 
females  and  two  sets  of  neuters,  consist- 
ing of  soldiers  and  workers,  each  set 
widely  differing  from  the  other  in  looks 
and  occupation.  The  soldiers  are  at 
once  recognized  by  their  superior  size 
and  large  heads,  and  they  take  no  part 
in  the  ordinary  work  of  the  community. 
The  workers  are  much  smaller  than  the 


1884.] 


Under  the  Maples. 


327 


soldiers,  and  as  their  name  indicates  they 
are  the  architects,  food  providers,  and- 
nurses  of  the  community.  They  gather 
various  grains  and  seeds,  which  they 
store  in  underground  rooms,  usually  be- 
low the  frost  line,  which  indicates  that 
the  grain  is  housed  mostly  for  winter  use ; 
this  idea  is  further  confirmed  by  the  fact 
of  the  great  quantity  of  shells  and  chaff 
of  seeds  which  they  bring  out  when 
their  city  is  undergoing  its  first  thorough 
spring  cleaning. 

In  what  way  the  seeds  are  prepared 
so  that  they  may  be  made  into  available 
food  is  something  of  a  mystery,  as  the 
ants  take  all  nourishment  in  a  liquid 
form.  I  have  noticed  that  they  are  par- 
tial to  those  which  yield  an  abundance 
of  mucilage,  such  as  plantain  (Plantago 
lanceolata)  ;  but  whether  these  seeds  are 
gathered  for  the  mucilage  which  they 
contain,  or  for  the  albumen,  which  is 
also  abundant,  is  a  question,  for  the  ants 
are  not  confined  to  mucilaginous  seeds, 
by  any  means,  but  harvest  those  of  Ox- 
alis  stricta,  Spergula  arvensis,  and  grass- 
seed,  which  are  destitute  of  mucilage 
but  abound  in  albumen.  As  the  embryo 
swells  it  acts  upon  the  albumen,  dissolv- 
ing and  chemically  changing  its  sub- 
stance into  a  large  quantity  of  sugar, 
which  seems  to  point  to  the  way  in 
which  they  are  used  for  food. 

But  the  ants  also  gather  a  great  many 
seeds  of  a  cruciferous  plnnt  (Lepidium 
virginicum),  which  contains  no  albu- 
men. So  instead  of  devoting  my  time 
to  finding  out  the  properties  of  the  va- 
rious seeds  which  they  collected,  and 
speculating  upon  how  and  in  what  way 
they  use  them,  I  have  closely  observed 
their  habits  from  early  spring  until  late 
autumn. 

In  the  first  warm  days  of  April,  some- 
times in  the  latter  part  of  March,  several 
gates  of  the  city  are  opened,  and  the 
busy  inhabitants  are  engaged  in  bring- 
ing out  the  refuse  of  grain  and  other 
rubbish  which  has  accumulated  during 
the  winter,  and  which  they  deposit  in  a 


heap  outside  of  the  city  limits.  Thci 
laborers  work  continuously  during  pleas- 
ant weather,  and  are  attended  by  sen- 
tinels, or  perhaps  street  commissioners, 
who  seem  to  be  watching  and  directing 
their  movements.  When  the  spring 
cleaning  is  completed,  all  the  gates  are 
permanently  closed  except  one,  and  this 
is  shut  and  barricaded  at  all  times  save 
when  the  ants  are  actively  engaged  at 
harvest  or  other  work. 

Upon  excavating  a  formicary  in  July, 
I  found  several  nearly  empty  chambers  ; 
some  near  the  surface  of  the  ground, 
others  scattered  irregularly  about  to  the 
depth  of  three  feet,  where  I  came  to 
several  small  rooms  or  granaries  stored 
with  seed.  I  noticed  one  chamber  much 
larger  than  the  rest,  which  from  all  ap- 
pearances was  the  dining-room,  as  it 
contained  some  partly  consumed  insects. 
The  ants  were  in  great  consternation 
over  the  loss  of  their  city,  running  in 
every  direction  and  carrying  the  larvae 
and  pupae,  while  many  of  them  were 
buried  beneath  the  ruins.  It  appears 
heartless  and  cruel  to  destroy  one  of 
these  neatly  built  cities,  doubtless  the 
work  of  years  and  representing  the  labor 
of  many  thousand  individuals.  And  in 
fact  very  little  can  be  learned  of  the 
interior  of  such  a  formicary,  even  with 
the  most  careful  handling,  owing  to  the 
nature  of  the  soil  in  which  it  is  built. 
The  most  satisfactory  way  of  obtaining 
knowledge  of  the  interior  of  a  formi- 
cary is  to  cut  into  one  of  some  species 
that  builds  in  wood,  and  take  out  sections 
that  can  be  carried  home  ;  and  at  the 
same  time  secure  a  colony  of  the  ants, 
together  with  the  larvae  and  pupae.  This 
I  accomplished  with  a  species  of  Aphce- 
nogaster,  nearly  related  to  the  harvest- 
ing ants.  The  blocks  were  cut  through 
several  chambers,  but  fitted  together  per- 
fectly. The  ants  were  soon  domiciled, 
and  came  out  and  walked  timidly  about 
among  their  new  surroundings.  I  now 
placed  dry  crumbs  of  cake  and  small 
lumps  of  dry,  hard  sugar  near  the  blocks, 


328 


Under  the  Maples. 


[September, 


which  they  soon  found  and  carried  with- 
in. Three  days  afterward  I  carefully 
separated  the  blocks,  and  found  the  din- 
ing-room, where  the  cake  and  sugar  had 
been  taken.  The  blocks  were  dry  and 
placed  where  no  moisture  could  reach 
them  except  what  the  ants  might  convey, 
and  yet  the  cake  and  sugar  were  dis- 
solved into  a  pulpy  mass.  The  larvae 
were  in  dry  chambers,  not  far  removed 
from  the  food.  This  indicates  that  the 
harvesting  ants  bring  their  stored  seeds 
from  the  granaries  to  another  room,  as 
needed,  and  have  some  process  unknown 
to  us  whereby  they  make  the  seed  into 
available  food. 

When  some  reconnoitering  member  of 
the  community  has  found  an  abundant 
harvest,  the  news  is  soon  imparted,  and 
the  workers  form  in  line  and  march  to 
the  spot.  Here  the  line  is  broken,  and 
the  numerous  individuals  scatter  about 
and  collect  the  seeds,  when  they  again 
form  in  line  and  return  over  the  same 
road.  Day  after  day  this  road  is  trav- 
ersed, until  the  grain  is  exhausted,  or 
until  some  enterprising  member  has 
found  better  harvesting-grounds,  when 
the  old  field  is  forsaken  for  the  new. 
I  have  never  seen  the  soldiers  in  line 
with  the  laborers  carrying  seeds,  but 
they  are  always  at  the  front,  where 
strength  and  courage  are  required,  and 
they  will  work  in  case  of  an  emergency. 

In  common  with  other  ants,  the  har- 
vesters are  very  partial  to  animal  food, 
upon  which,  no  doubt,  they  greatly  sub- 
sist during  the  summer.  A  dead  fly, 
several  times  larger  than  one  of  the 
ants,  was  placed  a  short  distance  from 
the  gate  of  the  city.  A  wandering  indi- 
vidual from  the  tribe  of  Lasius  discovered 
it  at  the  same  moment  with  one  of  the 
Pheidoles.  (As  our  little  harvester  has  a 
name  and  place  in  the  scientific  world,  I 
will  hereafter  call  it  by  its  generic  name, 
Pheidole.}  The  two  are  about  equally 
matched  in  size  and  strength,  and  now 
a  struggle  ensues  for  the  coveted  prize. 
First  one  and  then  the  other  seems  to 


have  the  advantage.  Lasius  succeeds  in 
getting  it  a  short  distance  from  the 
place  of  discovery  in  the  direction  of 
her  camp,  but  is  obliged  to  drop  it  to 
make  sure  of  her  bearings,  when  Phei- 
dole  hurries  with  it  in  the  opposite  di- 
rection, eager  to  place  it  within  her  gate 
before  the  other  again  seizes  it.  But 
Lasius  is  not  to  be  beaten  in  this  man- 
ner, and  again  struggles  for  the  mastery, 
and  it  begins  to  look  as  if  she  might  be 
successful.  At  this  point  Pheidole  seems 
to  be  discouraged,  gives  up  the  contest, 
and  starts  for  home.  She  enters  the  gate 
for  a  moment,  and  hastily  returns,  close- 
ly followed  by  a  soldier.  During  this 
short  interval  Lasius  has  moved  well 
forward  in  the  direction  of  her  camp. 
Pheidole  reaches  the  spot  where  she  left 
the  prize  only  to  find  it  gone,  and  now 
she  rushes  in  frantic  haste  round  and 
round,  widening  the  circle  as  she  ad- 
vances, until  she  finds  Lasius,  and  again 
lays  hold  of  the  fly.  The  soldier,  mean- 
while, moves  more  slowly,  but  makes  the 
same  circuit  until  she  reaches  the  con- 
tending parties,  and  takes  hold  of  the 
fly  by  the  side  of  her  comrade  ;  and  now 
the  burden  is  easily  carried,  with  Lasius 
clinging  to  the  opposite  side,  and  holding 
on  with  untiring  pertinacity,  occasionally 
preventing  the  rapid  transit  by  bracing 
herself  against  some  object  in  the  path. 
This  seems  to  provoke  the  soldier,  who 
drops  the  fly,  lays  hold  of  Lasius,  and 
tears  her  in  pieces,  while  the  smaller 
Pheidole  carries  the  prize  to  the  city 
and  disappears  within  the  gate. 

I  placed  six  freshly  killed  horse-flies 
near  the  city,  any  one  of  which  was 
many  times  larger  than  one  of  the  Phei- 
doles. Two  workers  soon  made  the  dis- 
covery, and  walked  over  and  around 
this  huge  pile,  as  if  taking  its  dimen- 
sions. Satisfied  that  it  was  beyond  their 
power  to  do  anything  alone,  they  simul- 
taneously started  for  the  city,  as  if  each 
were  anxious  to  be  the  first  to  impart 
the  news.  Not  a  soldier  was  visible, 
but  several  must  have  been  just  within 


1884.] 


Under  the  Maples. 


329 


the  gate,  for  they  immediately  came 
pouring  out  in  large  numbers,  and  at 
once  proceeded  to  this  supply  of  food. 
The  flies  were  soon  carried  to  the  city, 
but  were  too  large  to  drag  through  the 
gate  (the  streets,  or  galleries,  were  much 
broader  than  the  gate  from  which  they 
diverged)  ;  so  they  were  removed  a  short 
distance,  and  a  company  of  laborers 
was  employed  in  enlarging  the  gate, 
while  the  soldiers  were  engaged  in  cut- 
ting off  the  wings  and  legs  from  the 
flies.  Soon  one  was  brought  back  to 
the  gate,  two  legs  and  a  wing  still  ad- 
hering to  the  body.  They  tried  to  take 
it  in  head  first,  but  it  would  not  go  ; 
they  lifted  it  out  and  turned  it  round, 
but  succeeded  no  better  until  the  re- 
maining legs  and  wing  were  severed. 
All  of  the  flies  were  managed  in  the 
same  way.  The  legs  and  wings,  as  fast 
as  the  soldiers  severed  them,  were  borne 
within  by  the  workers.  Sometimes  the 
wings  were  at  first  rejected  and  thrown 
among  the  debris,  but  other  more  provi- 
dent individuals  were  sure  to  find  them, 
and  bearing  them  aloft  like  banners  car- 
ried them  into  the  city.  In  less  than  an 
hour  all  of  the  flies  were  housed,  the 
gate  closed,  and  not  an  inhabitant  was 
to  be  seen. 

Each  tribe  has  its  own  peculiarities. 
Lasius  flavus  is  a  thieving,  vagabond 
race,  widely  differing  from  the  Pheidoles, 
who  have  regular  settled  homes,  while 
the  camps  of  the  Lasius  are  scattered 
everywhere,  and  often  changed.  Some- 
times several  camps  are  near  the  city, 
and  prove  to  be  a  great  annoyance  to 
the  citizens ;  the  strolling  tribes  hinder 
them  in  their  work,  and  interfere  with 
their  funeral  rites.  Several  workers 
are  employed  among  the  Pheidoles  to 
keep  the  dining-room  in  order :  they 
bring  out  the  chaff  of  grain  and  shells  of 
seeds  and  remains  of  insects  after  the 
feast,  and  deposit  them  in  a  heap  some 
distance  beyond  the  gateway.  While 
they  are  thus  engaged  a  sentinel  is  al- 
ways patrolling  around  the  gate  to  warn 


them  of  approaching  danger.  The  La- 
sius are  the  most  dreaded  enemy.  They 
are  sure  to  be  on  the  alert  when  the 
gate  of  the  city  is  open,  ready  to  snatch 
prey  from  the  returning  hunters ;  or 
they  rush  up  to  the  workers,  to  see  if 
they  are  carrying  out  anything  desira- 
ble. So  the  sentinel,  when  she  meets 
any  of  this  tribe,  hurries  to  the  entrance 
and  stations  herself  there,  and  seems  to 
whisper  to  each  advancing  worker,  who 
hastily  retreats  with  her  burden.  As 
long  as  the  sentinel  remains  at  the  gate 
not  one  of  the  laborers  passes  out ;  but 
she  no  sooner  returns  to  her  rounds 
than  they  begin  to  emerge,  at  first  slow- 
ly and  cautiously,  deposit  their  burdens, 
and  return  for  more. 

The  Lasius  are  not  only  cannibals, 
but  they  will  snatch  the  dead  body  of 
a  Pheidole  from  its  relatives  when  on 
the  way  to  the  place  of  interment.  I 
was  sitting  near  the  closed  gate  of  the 
city,  and  observed  that  the  sticks  and 
pebbles  with  which  it  was  barricaded 
were  being  moved  to  make  room  for  an 
individual  to  go  through.  The  ants  came 
out  one  at  a  time  to  the  number  of  seven, 
and  removed  the  stones  and  sticks  to 
one  side,  leaving  a  free  opening.  And 
now  one  of  their  comrades  came  bear- 
ing the  dead  body  of  a  young  female. 
She  had  died  while  still  clothed  in  the 
white  filmy  material  in  which  the  young 
are  swathed,  —  a  fitting  shroud,  through 
which  her  plump  body  was  plainly  vis- 
ible. Her  limbs  were  neatly  folded 
across  her  breast.  The  bearer  started 
alone  to  conceal  the  body  in  some  dis- 
tant place,  while  her  comrades  reclosed 
the  gate  and  retired  within  the  city.  I 
followed  the  bearer,  and  saw,  from  the 
direction  she  was  taking,  that  she  would 
soon  be  in  the  midst  of  several  camps  of 
Lasius,  of  which  she  seemed  to  be  un- 
aware. No  sooner  had  she  reached  the 
border  of  the  camps  than  her  footsteps 
were  dogged  by  one  of  the  tribe,  who 
soon  overtook  her,  seized  the  body  and 
tried  to  wrest  it  from  her ;  but  finding 


330 


Under  the  Maples. 


[September, 


that  her  strength  was  not  sufficient  she 
let  go  her  hold,  and  hastened  to  the  near- 
est camp  to  tell  of  this  desirable  prize. 
Soon  a  dozen  or  more  of  the  Lasius 
were  on  the  track.  She  now  became 
thoroughly  alarmed,  and  impetuously 
rushed  forward  until  she  came  to  a  deep 
pit.  She  did  not  drop  the  body,  but  clung 
frantically  to  the  edge  of  the  pit,  until 
the  little  fragment  of  earth  gave  way, 
and  she  was  precipitated  with  her  bur- 
den to  the  bottom.  The  Lasius  lingered 
a  while,  waiting  for  her  reappearance  ; 
but  she  did  not  come,  and  they  returned 
to  their  quarters. 

The  Pheidole's  mode  of  defense  when 
attacked  by  a  large  army  is  unlike  that 
of  any  other  species  with  which  I  am 
acquainted.  A  great  troop  of  Lasius 
from  surrounding  camps  came  down 
upon  the  city,  with  the  determination  to 
take  it.  They  scaled  the  fortified  gate 
and  hastily  threw  aside  the  barricade, 
but  were  met  by  a  solid  phalanx  of 
large-headed  soldiers  which  completely 
filled  the  gap.  Defeated  here,  their  next 
move  was  to  mine  into  a  street  a  short 
distance  from  the  gate.  But  their  labor 
was  of  no  avail ;  here,  too,  was  a  pha- 
lanx of  soldiers,  and  not  a  Lasius  was 
allowed  to  pass  within.  But  they  had 
their  revenge  in  another  way.  Every 
little  while  one  of  the  workers,  who  had 
been  away  from  home,  returned,  and 
tried  to  reach  the  entrance,  but  was  in- 
variably seized  by  the  enemy,  when  one 
or  two  soldiers  would  come  to  the  res- 
cue, and  the  little  worker  would  make 
her  escape  and  promptly  pass  into  the 
city,  while  the  soldier  was  immediately 
surrounded  by  a  horde  of  the  invading 
foe.  She  fought  valiantly,  and  killed 
many,  but  sometimes  succumbed  to  the 
overpowering  numbers  ;  more  frequent- 
ly she  freed  herself  and  escaped,  not 
back  to  the  city,  but  by  climbing  the 
nearest  object,  —  a  stem  of  clover  or 
grass,  —  where  the  enemy  never  fol- 
lowed. Several  soldiers  escaped  in  this 
manner,  and  remained  concealed  until 


the  defeated  army  returned  to  its  quar- 
ters. 

A  good  illustration  of  the  care  and 
sympathy  which  the  members  of  a  col- 
ony of  Pheidoles  have  for  each  other 
was  manifested  in  an  artificial  formicary, 
arranged  by  the  Rev.  Mr.  Morris,  and 
placed  upon  his  study  table.  The  for- 
micary was  in  a  glass  jar,  about  two 
thirds  full  of  earth.  The  outside  of  the 
jar,  as  far  as  the  earth  extended,  was 
encircled  with  paper,  to  exclude  the 
light,  in  order  that  the  ants  might  build 
their  galleries  and  rooms  next  to  the 
glass. 

The  colony  soon  became  reconciled 
to  their  strange  home,  learning  to  come 
out  of  the  jar  and  pass  down  the  legs 
of  the  table  to  visit  any  part  of  the 
study  and  return.  The  workers  had 
no  difficulty  in  ascending  the  glass,  but 
the  large-headed  soldiers  could  not  get 
up  without  assistance.  They  would  go 
as  far  as  the  paper  extended,  and  fall 
back  with  every  attempt  to  scale  the 
smooth  glass.  Their  large  heads  were 
a  detriment  rather  than  a  help  in  such 
a  novel  emergency  as  this.  And  now 
the  little  workers,  who  had  always 
looked  to  the  Amazon  soldiers  for  help 
in  all  trying  circumstances,  came  to  the 
rescue,  and  assisted  them  over  the 
slippery  place.  One  would  come  to  the 
edge  of  the  paper  and  meet  a  soldier, 
and  gently  take  hold  of  her  antennae, 
and  walk  backward  up  the  glass,  steady- 
ing and  supporting  her  until  they  both 
passed  into  the  formicary.  This  soon 
became  a  fixed  habit.  After  a  while 
the  soldiers  did  not  try  to  walk  up  the 
glass  alone,  but  would  wait  at  the  top 
of  the  paper  for  the  workers  to  conduct 
them  over  it. 

Several  other  species  of  ants  in  the 
North  occasionally  collect  seeds  and  flow- 
ers and  foliage.  I  have  observed  a  tiny 
black  ant,  a  species  of  Tetramorium,  gath- 
ering honey  from  flowers,  after  the  man- 
ner of  bees.  I  first  observed  this  species 
in  New  Hampshire,  in  the  month  of  Au- 


1884.] 


Under  the  Maples. 


331 


gust,  1880,  collected  in  great  numbers 
on  the  golden-rod  (Solidago  nemoralis). 
They  ascend  the  long  stalks  and  enter 
the  flowers,  where  they  are  almost  en- 
tirely concealed,  only  the  tips  of  their 
abdomens  showing  like  black  specks  on 
the  bright  yellow  florets.  When  they 
are  satisfied  they  come  slowly  down, 
with  their  honey-sacks  rounded  out  al- 
most to  bursting,  and  all  follow  the  same 
path  until  they  reach  their  subterranean 
formicary. 

The  harvesting  ants  and  their  allies 
have  nothing  to  do  with  aphides  or  other 
sweet-secreting  insects.  They  seem  to 
have  some  way  of  elaborating  or  ob- 
taining sugar  directly  from  plants.  But 
many  other  species  depend  in  a  great 
degree  upon  their  flocks  and  herds  for 
subsistence.  Notable  among  this  latter 
class  are  the  Crematogasters,  — an  inter- 
esting race,  divided  into  many  clans  or 
tribes.  They  often  keep  large  herds  of 
aphides,  —  cows  the  immortal  Linnaeus 
called  them,  —  upon  which  they  are 
greatly  dependent ;  so  the  prosperity  of 
a  colony  may  be  known  by  its  herds. 
The  droves  are  jealously  guarded  from 
marauding  tribes  who  are  less  fortunate 
in  their  possessions,  and  who  frequently 
try  to  get  the  control  of  the  cows  of 
their  more  wealthy  neighbors. 

In  the  summer  of  1881  I  witnessed 
an  exciting  contest  between  two  colonies 
of  the  same  species,  over  a  fine  herd. 
The  pasture  on  which  the  cows  were 
feeding  consisted  of  tender  green  herb- 
age, and  they  were  in  good  condition 
and  yielded  an  abundance  of  the  saccha- 
rine fluid.  Around  this  pasture  was  a 
space  of  bare  ground,  where  the  troops 
were  marshaled  to  keep  the  neighbor- 
ing colony  from  trespassing  among  the 
drove.  Tier  upon  tier,  a  solid  phalanx 
extended  around  the  entire  pasture, 
making  it  impossible  for  the  invaders  to 
break  through  the  ranks.  The  assault- 
ing arrny  was  lean  and  hungry-looking, 
but  fully  as  large  and  strong  as  the  one 
attacked.  There  was  no  general  en- 


gagement, but  every  little  while  two  of 
the  opposing  forces  would  clinch  and 
tumble  about  over  the  ground  like  two 
dogs,  but  on  relaxing  their  hold  neither 
party  seemed  to  be  hurt.  The  cows 
were  not  neglected  during  this  skirmish- 
ing. A  host  of  kind  and  gentle  milk- 
ers were  constantly  employed  in  obtain- 
ing the  fluid,  patting  and  stroking  the 
cows  with  their  antennae  until  they  gave 
down  the  milk.  I  noticed  that  the  sol- 
diers often  changed  places,  those  at  the 
front  going  to  the  rear.  The  cause  was 
soon  apparent.  All  along  the  rear  the 
milkers  were  feeding  the  troops.  Other 
milkers  were  constantly  going  to  and 
from  the  subterranean  city,  which  was 
situated  not  far  from  the  pasture-lands. 
They  were  no  doubt  supplying  the 
queens  and  other  members  of  the  colony 
who  were  unable  to  be  in  the  ranks. 

After  witnessing  this  skirmishing  for 
several  days,  I  established  a  drove  of 
aphides  near  the  city  of  the  hostile 
colony.  Some  of  the  invaders  were  al- 
ways on  the  road  between  the  two  col- 
onies, slowly  walking  back  and  forth, 
like  sentinels,  to  watch  over  their  city, 
that  it  might  not  be  taken  by  surprise 
while  the  protectors  were  absent.  And 
now  one  of  the  sentinels  came  upon  the 
cows,  and  ran  around  among  them  in  an 
evident  state  of  excitement,  but  did  not 
stop  to  obtain  any  milk.  Apparently 
satisfied  with  the  fine  condition  of  the 
herd,  she  ran  with  all  haste  to  impart 
the  good  news  to  the  army  stationed 
around  the  neighboring  colony.  I  fol- 
lowed her  closely,  never  losing  sight  of 
her  amid  the  throng.  On  her  way  she 
frequently  met  a  returning  comrade, 
whom  she  stopped  for  a  moment  and 
touched  with  her  antennae.  The  speed 
of  the  comrade  after  obtaining  the  news 
was  greatly  accelerated  in  the  direction 
of  home.  The  sentinel  reached  the  outer 
ranks  of  the  army,  and  communicated 
with  every  one  with  whom  she  came  in 
contact,  and  somehow  imparted  the 
same  excitement  with  which  her  own 


332 


Under  the  Maples. 


[September, 


body  was  quiveriug,  until  the  whole 
army  was  aroused  and  on  the  homeward 
road.  Very  soon  there  was  a  host  of 
eager  milkers  among  the  drove.  But  a 
large  part  of  the  army  retired  within 
the  city,  where  they  were  fed  by  the 
milkers.  Now  that  the  invading  force 
was  withdrawn,  the  troops  of  the  threat- 
ened colony  also  disappeared,  only  a  few 
sentinels  remaining  to  watch  over  the 
milkers  and  herd. 

A  tribe  of  Formica  (F.  gagates)  also 
makes  stock-raising  its  principal  means 
of  support,  but  the  herds  are  entirely 
different  from  those  of  the  Crematogas- 
ters :  they  do  not  graze  in  open  fields, 
but  are  stabled,  and  feed  on  the  roots  of 
various  plants.  Underground  stables  are 
made  expressly  for  them.  The  earth  is 
removed  from  around  the  tender  roots, 
and  the  dun -colored  cattle  are  clustered 
in  small  groups  around  the  roots  upon 
which  they  are  feeding.  The  groups 
are  arranged  so  as  to  enable  the  milkers 
to  pass  easily  and  freely  among  them. 

I  have  often  carefully  opened  the 
stables,  but  the  owners  always  resented 
it,  and  carried  the  cows  away  to  subter- 
ranean galleries  beyond  my  sight.  When 
the  stables  were  reclosed,  in  due  time 
they  were  brought  back  and  disposed  in 
the  same  regular  order. 

There  are  two  distinct  races  of  slave- 
makers  among  these  humble  creatures, 
who  capture  and  hold  slaves  to  carry  on 
their  domestic  affairs.  Polyergus  lucidus 
is  the  more  remarkable  of  the  two,  and 
it  would  require  many  pages  to  do  it 
justice ;  but  I  can  devote  only  a  short 
space  to  this  singular  species,  which  is 
wholly  dependent  upon  its  slaves  for 
its  continued  existence.  These  ants  are 
very  powerful  warriors,  and  are  fur- 
nished with  sickle-shaped,  pointed  man- 
dibles, sharp  as  spears,  with  which  they 
can  impale  an  enemy  with  great  facil- 
ity. Their  wonderful  prowess  and  skill 
in  war  seems  to  be  recognized  by  all  of 
the  various  tribes  of  the  country.  They 
are  a  ruddy  race,  about  half  an  inch  in 


length,  with  bright,  shining  coats ;  a 
nervous  haste  characterizes  their  move- 
ments. They  make  slaves  of  but  one 
tribe  of  blacks  (Formica  schaufussii), 
whereas  the  other  slave  makers  (F.  son- 
guinea)  attack  any  and  all  tribes  which 
they  can  overpower.1 

From  the  indolent  habits  of  Polyer- 
gus, and  from  the  fact  that  they  are 
never  seen  except  on  the  war-path,  it 
has  been  supposed  that  they  are  of  rare 
occurrence.  But  in  New  Jersey  they 
are  quite  as  numerous  as  Sanguineas. 
By  carefully  observing  the  movements  of 
the  latter  I  have  been  enabled  to  detect 
several  colonies  of  the  former  of  whose 
existence  I  was  before  unaware.  If  the 
Sanguineas  pass  a  colony  of  blacks  with- 
out attacking  it,  it  is  good  evidence  that 
the  blacks  are  the  slaves  of  the  Polyer- 
gus. This  can  soon  be  ascertained  by 
keeping  watch  over  the  colony. 

The  raids  of  Polyergus  are  made  in 
the  months  of  July  and  August,  and  al- 
ways in  the  afternoon,  usually  between 
the  hours  of  two  and  four.  Their  march 
is  unlike  that  of  any  other  tribe  in  this 
country.  A  dozen  or  more  of  the  ad- 
vance wheel  and  fall  back  in  the  ranks  ; 
those  coming  after  make  the  same  move ; 
and  so  they  continue,  constantly  chang- 
ing places,  until  they  reach  the  black 
colony,  upon  which  they  make  war  and 
rob  them  of  their  young.  When  they 
return  with  their  plunder  they  march  in 
a  direct  line,  —  no  turning  back  in  the 
ranks.  The  slaves  always  remain  at 
home  during  these  raids ;  but  they  re- 
ceive the  young  blacks  from  their  mas- 
ters, feed  and  nurse  them,  and  rear 
them  as  slaves  to  wait  on  and  serve  their 
owners.  As  no  slaves  are  born  in  the 
homes  of  Polyergus,  it  is  needful  each 
year  to  renew  the  stock  from  surround- 
ing colonies. 

In  order  to  study  the  character  of 
Polyergus  more  thoroughly,  I  captured 

1  A  detailed  account  of  this  latter  species  is 
published  by  the  Harpers  in  a  number  of  their 
Half-Hour  Series. 


1884.] 


A  Legend  of  Inverawe. 


333 


several  and  made  them  prisoners.  I 
gave  them  every  necessary  accommoda- 
tion, and  placed  an  abundance  of  food 
before  them.  But  they  seemed  to  scorn 
the  idea  of  labor,  and  would  not  even 
feed  themselves.  I  kept  them  in  this 
condition  three  days,  until  I  was  satis- 
fied they  would  all  die  without  their 


slaves,  so  I  put  a  few  in  the  prison 
with  them.  These  faithful  creatures 
manifested  joy  on  meeting  their  half- 
famished  masters.  They  stroked  and 
licked  them,  removing  all  dust  from 
their  bodies,  and  prepared  food  arid  fed 
them ;  finally  they  excavated  a  room  for 
them,  and  took  them  from  my  sight. 

Mary  Treat. 


A   LEGEND   OF   INVERAWE. 


IN  the  course  of  a  delightful  autumn 
on  the  west  coast  of  Scotland,  1  found  a 
genial  welcome  to  various  most  interest- 
ing old  homes,  where,  in  the  heart  of 
beautiful  and  romantic  scenery,  all  the 
luxuries  of  modern  civilization  have  been 
engrafted  upon  the  original  building,  the 
ancient  gray  walls  and  towers  of  which 
tell  of  days  when  comfort,  as  we  un- 
derstand it,  was  a  thing  unknown  and 
undreamt  of,  —  days  when  chivalrous 
knights  and  fair  dames  occupied  such 
wretched  little  dark  rooms  as  no  mod- 
ern scullion  would  care  to  sleep  in,  and 
dined  in  halls  which,  in  lieu  of  carpets, 
were  strewn  with  green  rushes,  a  soft 
couch  for  the  dogs  which  lay  under  the 
long  tables,  awaiting  such  half-gnawed 
bones  as  it  might  please  their  masters 
to  throw  to  them. 

Many  a  thrilling  old  tale  could  such 
walls  as  these  relate,  might  they  but 
be  endowed  with  power  of  utterance ! 
One  of  those  which  most  fascinated  me, 
and  abides  most  vividly  in  my  memory,  is 
the  strange  and  utterly  inexplicable  leg- 
end of  the  Ghost  Chamber  at  Inverawe, 
a  most  picturesque  old  castle,  which,  as 
its  name  implies,  stands  near  the  spot 
where  the  river  Awe  enters  the  dark, 
gloomy  pass  where  it  falls  into  the  lake 
of  the  same  name.  In  a  part  of  the 
country  where  all  is  beautiful,  this  place 
stands  preeminent,  so  lovely  are  the 
hanging  birch  woods  which  fringe  the 


craggy  shores  of  blue  Loch  Edve,  —  a 
sea-loch  in  the  immediate  neighborhood, 
embosomed  in  shapely  hills,  and  along 
whose  brink  herds  of  shaggy  Highland 
cattle,  with  wide-spreading  horns  and 
large  wondering  eyes,  find  pasture  to 
their  liking  among  the  golden  sea-weeds 
which  lend  such  wealth  of  color  to  the 
scene.  So  still  and  peaceful  is  all  around 
that  often  shy  seals  swim  up  Loch 
Etive,  and  lie  basking  on  tempting  rocks 
in  the  little  creeks  and  inlets. 

Till  very  recently,  one  of  the  dis- 
tinctive beauties  of  Inverawe  was  a 
group  of  most  magnificent  silver  spruce- 
trees,  the  finest  in  Scotland,  —  trees  al- 
most worthy  to  have  grown  in  Cali- 
fornian  forests.  Alas !  the  wild  tem- 
pest which  overswept  the  British  Isles 
in  1880,  doing  such  irreparable  damage 
to  the  finest  timber,  made  a  clean  sweep 
of  these  silver  firs,  a  great  and  abiding 
loss  to  the  district. 

Much  of  the  castle  has  been  renovated 
in  modern  days,  but  all  is  happily  mel- 
lowed so  as  to  be  in  keeping  with  the 
ancient  hall.  Above  all  there  is  one 
room  which  it  would  be  accounted  sac- 
rilegious to  touch,  —  a  gloomy  room, 
set  with  dark  oak  panels,  and  furnished 
with  a  heavy  oaken  bedstead  and  old- 
fashioned  tables  and  chairs.  This  is 
the  Ghost  Chamber,  wherein  an  eerie 
warning  from  the  spirit  world  was  deliv- 
ered to  Duncan  Campbell,  the  laird  of 


334 


A  Legend  of  Inverawe. 


[September, 


Inverawe,  best  known  to  his  retainers  by 
his  Gaelic  name,  Macdonnochie.  The 
story  of  this  warning  is  so  perfectly  au- 
thenticated, and  was  so  widely  known 
many  years  before  the  fulfillment  of 
what  was  prophesied,  that  it  must  rank 
as  one  of  the  most  remarkable  instances 
of  the  mysterious  connection  between 
the  visible  and  the  invisible  world,  of 
which,  from  time  to  time,  we  obtain 
hints  wholly  inexplicable  by  any  of  the 
ordinary  methods  of  accounting  for  such 
matters.  There  are  several  versions  of 
the  legend  now  current  among  the  peo- 
ple of  Argyllshire  ;  all,  however,  agree 
in  the  main  points  of  the  story,  which, 
in  the  form  that  I  am  now  about  to 
relate,  was  told  to  my  mother  by  Sir 
Thomas  Dick  Landen  early  in  the  pres- 
ent century. 

About  the  year  1742,  the  young  laird 
of  Inverawe  (who  had  already  distin- 
guished himself  as  a  gallant  officer,  hav- 
ing raised  and  commanded  a  company 
of  the  magnificent  Highland  regiment 
known  as  the  Black  Watch)  was  sent 
to  the  district  of  Lorn,  in  Argyllshire, 
to  carry  out  the  hateful  work  of  burn- 
ing the  houses  and  effects  of  several  gen- 
tlemen known  to  be  adherents  of  Prince 
Charles  Edward.  Having  fulfilled  this 
cruel  task,  he  had  occasion  to  cross  a 
wild  mountain  pass,  on  his  way  to  some 
further  point,  and  in  so  doing  missed 
his  track,  got  separated  from  all  his  fol- 
lowers, and  as  the  darkness  fell  became 
unpleasantly  conscious  that  he  was  lost 
on  the  rocky  moorland  in  a  country 
where  every  crag  might  conceal  a  foe. 
There  was  nothing  to  be  done  but  to 
seek  a  sheltered  nook  among  the  rocks, 

O  ' 

and  there  watch  till  morning.  Turning 
towards  a  narrow  ravine,  he  was  startled 
to  find  himself  face  to  face  with  a  fine, 
stalwart  Highlander,  whose  raven  black 
locks  and  piercing  eyes  were  so  remark- 
able that  once  seen  they  could  never 
be  forgotten.  Each  grasped  his  sword, 
ready  for  action,  when  the  stranger 
paused,  and  asked  Inverawe  his  errand. 


He  replied  that  he  had  lost  his  way,  and 
claimed  a  guide.  Then  a  voice  behind 
him,  as  of  a  watchful  sentinel,  cried, 
"  He  is  alone,  else  we  would  not  have 
suffered  him  to  pass." 

Thus  reassured,  the  stranger  turned 
to  Inverawe,  and,  addressing  him  by 
name,  promised  his  protection  to  one 
whom  he  knew  to  be  a  brave  man,  albeit 
engaged  in  such  cruel  work.  He  refused 
to  reveal  his  own  name,  but  said  that 
he  was  one  of  those  whose  home  had 
been  so  ruthlessly  destroyed  by  Camp- 
bell's men.  This  he  knew  was  but  the 
fortune  of  war,  so  he  bore  the  laird  no 
personal  enmity,  and  bade  him  now  fol- 
low as  he  led  the  way  to  a  cave,  wherein 
smouldered  a  peat  fire,  on  whose  embers 
some  slices  of  venison  were  grilling,  — 
a  welcome  sight  to  the  hungry  way- 
farer. Hunger  being  appeased,  the  man 
of  Lorn  offered  him  a  share  of  his 
couch  of  dried  brackens,  and  both  slept 
the  sleep  of  the  weary. 

At  dawn  they  awoke,  and  the  home- 
less man  of  Lorn  guided  the  destroyer 
of  his  hearth  past  his  sentinels,  and  set 
him  on  the  right  track.  The  two  parted 
cordially,  Campbell  vowing  never  to 
lose  a  chance  of  requiting  the  hospitality 
so  generously  bestowed  on  him.  He 
afterwards  learned  that  his  entertainer 
was  one  of  the  small  lairds  of  his  own 
clan  who  had  espoused  the  Jacobite  cause. 
In  those  clays  men  might  be  near  neigh- 
bors, yet  never  meet. 

Not  many  years  had  elapsed  ere, 
peace  being  restored,  Campbell  claimed 
leave  of  absence  from  his  regiment,  that 
he  might  remain  for  a  while  at  his  beau- 
tiful castle.  One  night,  when,  accord- 
ing to  his  custom,  he  had  dismissed  his 
retainers,  and  was  sitting  in  the  old  hall 
with  no  companions  save  his  trusty 
dogs,  these  commenced  barking  violent- 
ly, and  a  moment  later  the  sound  of 
hasty  footsteps  was  followed  by  a  loud 
knocking  at  the  gate.  Rising  to  see 
who  sought  admission  at  so  late  an  hour, 
he  was  amazed  to  find  Stuart  of  Appin, 


1884.] 


A  Legend  of  Inverawe. 


335 


a  man  to  whom  he  and  his  clan  bore 
small  love,  but  who  now,  greatly  ex- 
hausted and  with  torn  garments,  stood 
before  him  imploring  sanctuary.  Rap- 
idly he  told  his  tale,  —  a  tale  of  blood. 
There  had  been  a  fray  (such  were  com- 
mon enough  in  Scotland  a  hundred  years 
ago),  and  he  had  slain  a  man,  and  dread- 
ed pursuit  and  capture.  Pie  besought 
Campbell  to  give  him  shelter,  and  to 
swear  on  his  dirk  that  he  would  not  be- 
tray him. 

On  the  generous  impulse  of  the  mo- 
ment, Campbell  swore  to  protect  him, 
and  forbore  to  press  for  details.  With- 
out rousing  any  attendant,  he  brought 
him  meat  and  drink,  and  when  his  guest 
was  warmed  and  somewhat  recovered 
he  took  him  to  a  secret  hiding-place, 
such  as  exists  in  many  old  houses  whose 
inmates  were  liable  to  sudden  alarm. 
Scarcely  was  Stuart  securely  hidden, 
when  a  violent  knocking  at  the  door 
once  more  summoned  Campbell.  These 
new  comers  were  men  in  pursuit  of 
Stuart,  carrying  blazing  torches  to  light 
them  on  their  way.  They  told  him  that 
Donald  Campbell  of  Lorn  was  crossing 
the  rock  boulders  which  form  the  step- 
ping-stones across  the  ford  of  the  Dear- 
gan  (a  dark,  beautiful  river  which  flows 
down  a  romantic  birch-clad  glen  near 
Barcaldine  Castle),  when  he  was  over- 
taken by  Stuart  of  Appin,  with  whom 
he  had  a  mortal  feud.  The  noise  of  the 
rushing  waters,  covering  all  sound  of 
footsteps,  enabled  Appin  to  approach 
unheard,  and  instead  of  calling  on  Camp- 
bell to  halt  and  meet  him  in  fair  fight, 
as  became  a  true  Highlander,  he  sprang 
upon  him,  and  stabbed  him  to  the  heart. 

What  impulse  could  have  impelled  the 
murderer  to  cast  himself  on  the  pro- 
tection of  the  man  who,  of  all  others, 
was  bound  to  bring  him  to  justice,  as 
the  murderer  of  his  clansman  ?  His  act 
is  unaccountable  ;  and  difficult  must  have 
been  his  flight  down  the  rushed  and  at 

o  oo 

that  time  trackless  glen,  amid  precipi- 
tous crags  and  dense  overhanging  woods, 


with  tall  brackens  well-nigh  concealing 
the  great  fallen  rocks.  At  one  point 
the  glen  becomes  wholly  impassable,  so 
that  he  must  have  climbed  where  no  goat 
could  find  footing,  holding  on  by  roots 
and  boughs  of  overhanging  trees.  In 
memory  of  this  dark  deed  of  blood,  the 
lovely  ravine  is  still  known  to  the  High- 
landers as  Glen  Saleach,  "  the  dirty 
pass,"  and  the  dark  brown  river  received 
the  name  of  Deargan,  "  the  river  of  the 
red  stain."  Crossing  the  hills,  he  came 
down  to  a  ford  at  the  head  of  Loch  Etive, 
and  then  once  more  breasting  the  hill 
reached  Inverawe,  as  we  have  seen. 

Appin's  pursuers  knew  only  that  he 
had  started  down  the  stream,  and  though 

o 

Inverawe  was  deeply  moved  on  hearing 
of  the  murder  of  his  clansman  he  could 
not  be  false  to  his  oath.  So  he  gave  no 
clue  which  could  awaken  their  suspi- 
cions, and  when  they  went  on  their  way 
he  lay  down  to  rest  in  the  dark  oaken 
bed  in  the  paneled  room.  Soon  he  sank 
into  a  deep  sleep,  from  which  he  awak- 
ened with  a  start  of  horror.  A  pale, 
unearthly  light  shone  in  the  room,  en- 
folding a  tall,  commanding  figure,  one 
which  he  could  never  forget.  It  was 
the  man  of  Lorn,  with  the  dark,  piercing 
eyes  and  glossy,  jet-black  hair,  just  as 
Macdonnochie  so  vividly  remembered 
him  in  the  mountain  cave,  but  now  all 
blood-stained  and  awful  to  look  upon. 
Trembling  in  every  limb,  he  lay  gazing 
on  this  spectral  apparition,  when  clearly 
and  distinctly  he  heard  a  solemn  voice 
say,  "Inverawe!  Inverawe!  blood  has 
been  sited!  Shield  not  the  murderer!' 
(In  Scotland,  where  large  districts  are 
occupied  by  the  various  branches  of  one 
clan,  all  bearing  the  same  name,  such 
as  Campbell,  Gordon,  Mackintosh,  etc., 
it  has  always  been  customary  to  distin- 
guish the  head  of  each  family  by  the 
name  of  his  estate ;  and  indeed  the  same 

• 

general  distinction  was  applied  to  all  his 
kinsmen  and  retainers.  Hence  the  title 
by  which  Donald's  ghost  appealed  to 
Duncan.) 


336 


A  Legend  of  Inverawe. 


[September, 


There  was  an  intense  reality  about 
the  vision,  which  convinced  Duncan  that 
it  was  no  common  dream,  born  of  the 
fevered  thoughts  of  waking  hours  ;  so 
when  dawn  broke  he  sought  the  hiding- 
place  where  his  guest  lay  concealed,  and 
told  him  that  although,  for  his  oath's 
sake,  he  would  not  betray  him,  he  could 
not  let  him  remain  any  longer  under  his 
roof.  Nevertheless,  at  Stuart's  entreaty, 
he  guided  him  to  a  cave  on  Ben  Crua- 
chan,  where  he  might  lie  concealed  for 
a  while,  and  there  left  him  alone  with 
the  wild  deer. 

But  still  the  memory  of  the  vision 
haunted  him,  and,  as  night  closed  in, 
eerie  thoughts  arose,  such  as  were  not 
wont  to  trouble  the  bold  Highlander. 
According  to  his  usual  custom,  he  sat 
down  to  read  ere  retiring  to  rest,  when 
suddenly  his  favorite  dog,  which  lay 
sleeping  at  his  feet,  started  up,  trem- 
bling and  uttering  low  whines.  Duncan 
raised  his  eyes,  and  distinctly  saw  Camp- 
bell of  Lorn  standing  between  him  and 
the  fire,  with  his  hands  outstretched  in 
an  attitude  of  supplication,  and  again 
he  heard  the  warning,  "  Inverawe  !  In- 
verawe !  blood  has  been  shed ;  and  Uood 
must  atone  for  Uood!  SHIELD  NOT  THE 
MURDERER!'  Then  the  spectre  van- 
ished, leaving  Macdonnochie  to  watch 
through  dark  hours  of  horror. 

Uncertain  what  course  to  adopt,  he 
went  out  at  break  of  day,  and  again 
climbed  Ben  Cruachan  till  he  came  to 
the  cave  to  which  he  had  guided  the 
murderer.  But  the  cave  was  empty, 
and  Stuart  was  far  away.  So  Duncan, 
relieved  from  further  responsibility  of 
decision,  returned  to  his  castle ;  and 
when  night  came,  worn  out  with  his 
own  anxious  thoughts,  he  lay  down  to 
rest,  trusting  to  be  spared  any  further 
spiritual  visitations.  But  a  third  time 
he  was  aroused  by  the  awful  vision  and . 
by  the  unearthly  voice ;  and  this  time 
its  message  was  no  cry  for  justice,  but 
a  dread  warning  of  doom.  "  Inverawe  ! 
Inverawe  I  "  it  cried,  "  my  warnings  have 


been  in  vain.  The  time  is  now  past. 
Blood  has  been  shed,  and  blood  must  flow 
for  blood.  WE  SHALL  MEET  AGAIN  AT 

TICONDEROGA ! ' 

Now  Ticonderoga  was  a  name  that 
had  never  then  been  heard  in  Britain, 
or  at  any  rate  was  unknown  to  the  peo- 
ple of  these  far  western  Highlands. 
They  might  have  heard  of  beautiful 
Lake  George  and  Lake  Champlain,  but 
this  name  conveyed  nothing  to  their 
minds  ;  so  when,  at  last,  haunted  by  its 
sound  continually  ringing  in  his  ears, 
Duncan  confided  the  story  to  various 
friends  and  kinsmen,  not  one  of  them 
guessed  whereabouts  was  the  mysterious 
trysting-place. 

The  story,  however,  got  noised  abroad, 
and  it  became  generally  known  that  the 
murdered  and  unavenged  Campbell  of 
Lorn  had  summoned  his  clansman  to 
meet  him  at  Ticonderoga.  The  gentle- 
men of  that  day  studied  their  classics 
more  earnestly  than  do  our  modern 
lairds,  and  it  was  only  natural  that  some 
one  should  point  out  a  parallel  between 
this  ghostly  visitation  and  the  apparition 
to  Brutus  of  the  murdered  Caesar,  sum- 
moning him  to  a  final  meeting  at  Phi- 
lippi. 

A  quarter  of  a  century  slipped  by, 
and  Duncan's  son  Donald,  having  grown 
up  to  be  a  handsome  lad,  had  received 
his  commission  in  the  gallant  42d  High- 
landers, of  which  his  father  was  now 
major,  and  well  known  as  a  brave  and 
popular  officer.  The  ghost  story  was 
familiar  to  all  their  brother  officers,  who 
were  often  called  upon  to  relate  it  to 
their  friends,  though  I  need  scarcely 
say  it  was  not  a  topic  to  which  allusion 
was  ever  made  in  the  presence  of  either 
father  or  son. 

Troubles  arose  in  Canada,  which  re- 
sulted in  the  war  between  France  and 
England ;  arid  thus  it  came  to  pass  that 
in  1758  the  Black  Watch  was  ordered 
to  Quebec,  whence  General  Abercro ru- 
ble led  his  forces  down  the  lake,  to 
storm  the  fortress  which  stood  on  the 


1884.] 


A  Legend  of  Inverawe. 


337 


isthmus  which  divides  Lake  Charuplain 
from  Lake  George,  and  commanded  the 
whole  region.  The  name  of  the  fortress 
was  Ticonderoga  ! 

On  learning  this,  General  Abercrom- 
bie,  to  whom  the  name  at  once  recalled 
the  ghost  story  of  Inverawe,  called  to- 
gether the  other  officers  of  the  Black 
Watch,  and  agreed  with  them  to  endeav- 
or, if  possible,  to  conceal  from  the  Camp- 
bells this  name  of  ill  omen.  "  Let  us 
call  it  Fort  George,  or  Fort  Hudson," 
they  said.  But  they  could  not  avert  fate. 

The  evening  before  the  battle,  Dun- 
can went  out  to  inspect  the  ground,  and 
the  weather  being  wild  and  stormy  he 
wore  his  gray  regimental  overcoat.  He 
approached  the  rushing  river,  which  con- 
nects the  two  lakes  by  a  series  of  cas- 
cades, and  just  as  he  set  foot  on  the 
bridge  he  saw  a  figure  coming  toward 
him,  also  on  the  bridge.  The  stranger 
wore  a  great-coat  like  his  own.  He 
could  not  make  out  his  face,  but  he  per- 
ceived blood  streaming  from  a  ghastly 
wound  in  his  breast.  Duncan  drew 
near  and  held  out  his  hand,  as  if  to  help 
the  stranger,  who  instantly  vanished ; 
and  then  Inverawe  knew  that  it  was  his 
own  image,  which  he  had  discerned  by 
the  powers  of  second-sight  (of  which  so 
many  instances  are  recorded  in  the 
Highlands). 

He  immediately  went  to  the  village 
to  ask  the  people  the  name  of  the  river. 
They •  replied,  "Carillon"  (a  name  be- 
stowed on  it  by  Samuel  Champlain,  in 
his  journey  of  discovery  in  1609.  He 
asked  if  it  had  no  other  name,  and  well 
was  he  prepared  for  the  answer  :  "  Yes, 
the  old  Indian  name  was  Ticonderoga" 
which  means  the  musical,  chiming  wa- 
ters, and  was  hence  translated  Carillon. 

Then  Duncan  knew  that  his  hour  had 
come.  He  rejoined  his  brother  officers, 
told  them  what  he  had  seen,  and  en- 
treated them  to  seek  for  his  body  after 
the  battle.  After  that  he  made  his  will. 
On  the  morrow  the  fortress  was  assault- 
ed, and  the  terrible  battle  was  fought,  in 
VOL.  LIV.  —  NO.  323.  22 


which  every  officer  of  the  Black  Watch 
was  either  killed  or  wounded.  Young 
Donald  was  numbered  with  the  slain, 
while  his  father  was  mortally  wounded. 
He  was  found  wrapped  in  his  gray  great- 
coat and  with  blood  streaming  from  a 
wound  in  the  breast,  exactly  as  he  had 
described  the  vision  on  the  bridge. 

Duncan  sent  for  the  general,  and  his 
last  words  were,  "  General,  you  have  de- 
ceived me.  I  have  seen  HIM.  again.  We 
have  met  at  Ticonderoga"  He  lingered 
for  nine  days,  then  yielded  up  his  spirit, 
and  was  buried  beside  Lake  Champlain, 
at  the  foot  of  the  hill,  where  many  a 
grassy  mound  still  shows  the  graves  of 
those  who  fell  in  that  sore  fight.  His 
grave  was  marked  by  a  stone  bearing 
this  inscription  :  — 

"  Here  lyes  the  body  of  Duncan  Camp- 
bell of  Inverawe,  Esq.,  Major  to  the  old 
Highland  Regiment,  aged  55  years,  who 
died  the  17th  July,  1758,  of  the  wound 
received  in  the  attack  of  the  entrench- 
ments of  Ticonderoga  or  Carillon,  8th 
July,  1758." 

But  neither  his  remains  nor  the 
mossy  head-stone  which  marked  them 
now  lie  near  the  ruins  of  the  old  fort ; 
for  after  the  lapse  of  some  years  both 
were  removed,  together  with  the  mortal 
remains  of  some  other  members  of  Clan 
Campbell,  by  a  family  of  the  name  of 
Gilchrist,  who  claimed  kinship  with  the 
dead,  and  who,  on  removing  to  the 
neighborhood  of  Fort  Edward,  carried 
with  them  all  these  precious  family  links, 
and  there  gave  them  burial  anew. 

One  more  glimpse  of  the  spirit  world 
is  connected  with  this  history.  Macdon- 
nochie  had  a  foster-brother  (the  son  of 
his  nurse),  to  whom  he  was  greatly 
attached.  In  many  old  Highland  tales 
the  foster-brother  holds  a  prominent 
place,  as  the  most  devoted  retainer  of 
the  chief  or  the  laird  ;  but  in  the  pres- 
ent instance  he  held  office  on  the  estate, 
and  could  not  possibly  follow  Campbell 
to  America.  On  the  night  of  the  fatal 
battle  his  young  son,  who  slept  in  the 


338 


The  Piping  Shepherd. 


[September, 


same  room  with  him,  was  awakened  by 
a  sound  of  voices,  and,  looking  up,  he 
beheld  a  soft,  clear  light,  and  saw  the 
figure  of  a  Highland  officer  approach 
his  father's  bed,  stoop  down,  and  kiss 
him.  The  sleepy  and  half -frightened 
child  drew  his  plaid  over  his  head  and 
fell  asleep  again,  when  a  second  time  he 
was  awakened  by  a  similar  vision.  In 
the  morning  he  told  his  father  of  this 
strange  apparition,  and  they  learned  af- 
terward that  it  was  indeed  the  Laird  of 
Inverawe  who  had  come  to  tell  his  fos- 
ter-brother that  there  had  been  a  great 
battle  in  America,  and  that  he  was  num- 
bered with  the  slain. 


Thus  ends  the  strange  legend  of  In- 

O  O 

verawe  and  Ticonderoga,  a  tale  of  the 
spirit  world  whose  first  and  last  scenes 
are  laid  on  either  side  of  the  mighty 
ocean,  connecting  the  Old  and  New 
World  by  an  eerie  spirit  flight.  The 
story  is  as  wholly  inexplicable  as  it  is 
incontrovertible.  Its  every  detail  was 
familiar  to  many  contemporaries,  men 
of  a  class  not  readily  imposed  upon,  nor 
much  inclined  to  superstition.  I  can 
only  call  it  an  unfathomed  mystery,  sug- 
gestive of  the  great  unexplored  land 
which  lies  beyond  the  narrow  border  of 
our  bounded  lives,  —  unfathomed,  yet 
perchance  not  unfathomable. 

C.  F.  Gordon  Gumming. 


THE   PIPING   SHEPHERD. 

BY  the  river  I  cut  a  reed,  and  the  slip 
I  shaped  to  a  pipe ;    I  puckered  my  lip, 

And  loudly  I  blew  and  clearly. 
There  were  none  to  hear  but  the  grazing  flock 
And  a  lonely  cloud,  and  an  echo  to  mock ; 

But  I  loved  to  play,  most  dearly. 

Then  I  paused  to  rest,  and,  faint  and  clear, 
Some  sound  as  of  piping  reached  my  ear,  — 

The  piping,  the  piping  of  Pan ! 
Did  it  come  from  the  east,  from  the  forest  shade, 
Where  he  played  in  shadow  or  open  glade  ? 

I  threw  down  my  pipe  and  ran. 

In  the  forest  I  stood,  and  my  listening  ear 
I  bent,  and  breathless  I  waited  to  hear ; 

And  the  forest,  too,  was  still, 
Till  a  robin  sang  in  some  hidden  spot, 
And  a  dead  branch  cracked :    but  I  heeded  not, 

For  that  pipe  blew  faint  and  shrill. 

Was  it  by  the  river,  down  in  the  west  ? 
I  stripped  the  goat-skin  off  from  my  breast, 

And  out  of  the  shade  I  ran  ; 
Away  my  scrip  and  my  cap  I  threw ; 
I  tore  through  the  long  grass,  wet  with  dew, 

And  followed  the  piping  of  Pan. 


1884.] 


Wolfe  on  the  Plains  of  Abraham. 

Whene'er  I  paused  I  heard  it  again  ; 
It  blew  so  sweetly  it  gave  ine  pain ; 

Some  words  it  seemed  trying  to  say. 
It  was  not  here,  it  was  not  there  ; 
I  fancied  the  sound  was  everywhere, 

But  always  was  far  away. 

O  Pan  !     O  Pan  !     O  piping  Pan  ! 
Naked  and  breathless  on  I  ran. 

Why  did  I  follow  him  then  ? 
It  was  but  once  that  I  heard  him  play, 
But  never,  since  I  listened  that  day, 

Have  I  cared  to  pipe  again. 


339 


Katharine  Pyle. 


WOLFE   ON   THE   PLAINS   OF   ABRAHAM. 


THE  siege  of  Quebec,  begun  in  June, 
1759,  by  General  Wolfe,  with  an  inad- 
equate force,  was  protracted  till  August 
without  the  slightest  apparent  prospect 
of  success.  At  the  end  of  July,  Wolfe 
met  a  terrible  rebuff  in  a  desperate  at- 
tempt to  scale  the  heights  of  Montmo- 
renci ;  and  the  French,  elated  by  their 
victory,  flattered  themselves  with  the 
hope  that  the  enemy  would  soon  sail 
homeward  in  despair. 

Meanwhile,  a  deep  cloud  fell  on  the 
English.  Since  the  siege  began  Wolfe 
had  passed  with  ceaseless  energy  from 
camp  to  camp,  animating  the  troops,  ob- 
serving everything  and  directing  every- 
thing ;  but  now  the  pale  face  and  tall, 
lean  form  were  seen  no  more,  and  the 
rumor  spread  that  the  general  was  dan- 
gerously ill.  He  had  in  fact  been  seized 
by  an  access  of  the  disease  that  had 
tortured  him  for  some  time  past,  and 
fever  had  followed.  His  quarters  were 
at  a  French  farmhouse  in  the  camp  at 
Montmorenci;  and  here,  as  he  lay  in  an 
upper  chamber,  helpless  in  bed,  his  sin- 
gular and  most  unmilitary  features  hag- 
gard with  disease  and  drawn  with  pain, 
no  man  could  less  have  looked  the  hero. 
But  as  the  needle,  though  quivering, 


points  always  to  the  pole,  so,  through 
torment  and  languor  and  the  heats  of 
fever,  the  mind  of  Wolfe  dwelt  on  the 
capture  of  Quebec.  His  illness,  which 
began  before  the  20th  of  August,  had 
so  far  subsided  on  the  25th  that  Knox 
wrote  in  his  diary  of  that  day,  "  His 
excellency  General  Wolfe  is  on  the  re- 
covery, to  the  inconceivable  joy  of  the 
whole  army."  On  the  29th  he  was  able 
to  write  or  dictate  a  letter  to  the  three 
brigadiers,  Monckton,  Townshend,  and 
Murray :  — 

"  That  the  public  service  may  not 
suffer  by  the  general's  indisposition,  he 
begs  the  brigadiers  will  meet  and  con- 
sult together  for  the  public  utility  and 
advantage,  and  consider  of  the  best 
method  to  attack  the  enemy." 

The" letter  then  proposes  three  plans, 
all  bold  to  audacity.  The  first  was  to 
send  a  part  of  the  army  to  ford  the 
Montmorenci  eight  or  nine  miles  above 
its  mouth,  march  through  the  forest,  and 
fall  on  the  rear  of  the  French  at  Beau- 
port,  while  the  rest  landed  and  attacked 
them  in  front.  The  second  was  to  cross 
the  ford  at  the  mouth  of  the  Montmo- 
renci and  march  along  the  strand,  under 
the  French  entrenchments,  till  a  place 


340 


Wolfe  on  the  Plains  of  Abraham. 


[September, 


could  be  found  where  the  troops  might 
climb  the  heights.  The  third  was  to 
make  a  general  attack  from  boats  at  the 
Beauport  flats.  Wolfe  had  before  en- 
tertained two  other  plans,  one  of  which 
was  to  scale  the  rocks  at  St.  Michel, 
about  a  league  above  Quebec ;  but  this 
he  had  abandoned  on  learning  that  the 
French  were  there  in  force  to  receive 
him.  The  other  was  to  storm  the  Low- 
er Town  ;  but  this  also  he  had  aban- 
doned, because  the  Upper  Town,  which 
commanded  it,  would  still  remain  inac- 
cessible. 

The  brigadiers  met  in  consultation, 
rejected  the'  three  plans  proposed  in  the 
letter,  and  advised  that  an  attempt  should 
be  made  to  gain  a  footing  on  the  north 
shore  above  the  town,  place  the  army 
between  Montcalm  and  his  base  of  sup- 
ply, and  so  force  him  to  fight  or  surren- 
der. The  scheme  was  similar  to  that  of 
scaling  the  heights  of  St.  Michel.  It 
seemed  desperate,  but  so  did  all  the  rest ; 
and  if  by  chance  it  should  succeed,  the 
gain  was  far  greater  than  could  follow 
any  success  below  the  town.  Wolfe  em- 
braced it  at  once.  Not  that  he  saw 
much  hope  in  it.  He  knew  that  every 
chance  was  against  him.  Disappoint- 
ment in  the  past  and  gloom  in  the  future, 
the  pain  and  exhaustion  of  disease,  toils 
and  anxieties  "  too  great,"  in  the  words 
of  Burke,  "  to  be  supported  by  a  deli- 
cate constitution,  and  a  body  unequal  to 
the  vigorous  and  enterprising  soul  that 
it  lodged  "  threw  him  at  times  into  deep 
dejection.  By  those  intimate  with  him 
he  was  heard  to  say  that  he  would  not 
go  back  defeated,  "  to  be  exposed  to 
the  censure  and  reproach  of  an  ignorant 
populace."  In  other  moods,  he  felt  that 
he  ought  not  to  sacrifice  what  was  left 
of  his  diminished  army  in  vain  conflict 
with  hopeless  obstacles.  But  his  final 
resolve  once  taken,  he  would  not  swerve 
from  it.  His  fear  was  that  he  might 
not  be  able  to  lead  his  troops  in  person. 
"  I  know  perfectly  well  you  cannot  cure 
me,"  he  said  to  his  physician,  "  but  pray 


make  me  up  so  that  I  may  be  without 
pain  for  a  few  days,  and  able  to  do  my 
duty  :  that  is  all  I  want." 

In  a  dispatch  which  Wolfe  had  writ- 
ten to  Pitt,  Admiral  Saunders  conceived 
that  he  had  ascribed  to  the  fleet  more 
than  its  just  share  in  the  disaster  at 
Montmorenci,  and  he  sent  him  a  letter 
on  the  subject.  Major  Barre  kept  it 
from  the  invalid  till  the  fever  had  abat- 
ed. Wolfe  then  wrote  a  long  answer, 
which  reveals  his  mixed  despondency 
and  resolve.  He  affirms  the  justice  of 
what  Saunders  had  said,  but  adds,  "  I 
shall  leave  out  that  part  of  my  letter  to 
Mr.  Pitt  which  you  object  to.  I  am  sen- 
sible of  my  own  errors  in  the  course 
of  the  campaign,  see  clearly  wherein  I 
have  been  deficient,  and  think  a  little 
more  or  less  blame  to  a  man  that  must 
necessarily  be  ruined  of  little  or  no  con- 
sequence. I  take  the  blame  of  that  un- 
lucky day  entirely  upon  my  own  shoul- 
ders, and  I  expect  to  suffer  for  it." 
Then,  speaking  of  the  new  project  of 
an  attack  above  Quebec,  he  says,  de- 
spondingly,  "  My  ill  state  of  health  pre- 
vents me  from  executing  my  own  plan  ; 
it  is  of  too  desp'erate  a  nature  to  order 
others  to  execute."  He  proceeds,  how- 
ever, to  give  directions  for  it :  "  It  will 
be  necessary  to  run  as  many  small  craft 
as  possible  above  the  town,  with  provi- 
sions for  six  weeks  for  about  five  thou- 
sand, which  is  all  I  intend  to  take.  My 
letters,  I  hope,  will  be  ready  to-morrow, 
and  I  hope  I  shall  have  strength  to  lead 
these  men  to  wherever  we  can  find  the 
enemy." 

On  the  next  day,  the  end  of  August, 
he  was  able  for  the  first  time  to  leave 
the  house.  It  was  on  this  same  day 
that  he  wrote  his  last  letter  to  his 
mother  :  "  My  writing  to  you  will  con- 
vince you  that  no  personal  evils  worse 
than  defeats  and  disappointments  have 
fallen  upon  me.  The  enemy  puts  noth- 
ing to  risk,  and  I  can't  in  conscience  put 
the  whole  army  to  risk.  My  antagonist 
has  wisely  shut  himself  up  in  inaccessi- 


1884.] 


Wolfe  on  the  Plains  of  Abraham. 


341 


ble  entrenchments,  so  that  I  can't  get  at 
him  without  spilling  a  torrent  of  blood, 
and  that  perhaps  to  little  purpose.  The 
Marquis  of  Montcalm  is  at  the  head  of 
a  great  number  of  bad  soldiers,  and  I 
am  at  the  head  of  a  small  number  of 
good  ones,  that  wish  for  nothing  so 
much  as  to  fight  him  ;  but  the  wary  old 
fellow  avoids  an  action,  doubtful  of  the 
behavior  of  his  army.  People  must  be 
of  the  profession  to  understand  the  dis- 
advantages and  difficulties  we  labor  un- 
der, arising  from  the  uncommon  natural 
strength  of  the  country." 

On  the  2d  of  September,  a  vessel  was 
sent  to  England  with  his  last  dispatch 
to  Pitt.  It  begins  thus  :  "  The  obsta- 
cles we  have  met  with  in  the  operations 
of  the  campaign  are  much  greater  than 
we  had  reason  to  expect  or  could  fore- 
see; not  so  much  from  the  number  of 
the  enemy  (though  superior  to  us)  as 
from  the  natural  strength  of  the  coun- 
try, which  the  Marquis  of  Montcalm 
seems  wisely  to  depend  upon.  When  I 
learned  that  succors  of  all  kinds  had 
been  thrown  into  Quebec  ;  that  five  bat- 
talions of  regular  troops,  completed  from 
the  best  inhabitants  of  the  country,  some 
of  the  troops  of  the  colony,  and  every 
Canadian  that  was  able  to  bear  arms, 
besides  several  nations  of  savages,  had 
taken  the  field  in  a  very  advantageous 
situation,  I  could  not  flatter  myself  that 
I  should  be  able  to  reduce  the  place.  I 
sought,  however,  an  occasion  to  attack 
their  army,  knowing  well  that  with 
these  troops  I  was  able  to  fight,  and 
hoping  that  a  victory  might  disperse 
them."  Then,  after  recounting  the 
events  of  the  campaign  with  admirable 
clearness,  he  continues :  "  I  found  my- 
self so  ill,  and  am  still  so  weak,  that  I 
begged  the  general  officers  to  consult 
together  for  the  general  utility.  They 
are  all  of  opinion  that,  as  more  ships 
and  provisions  are  now  got  above  the 
town,  they  should  try,  by  conveying  up 
a  corps  of  four  or  five  thousand  men 
(which  is  nearly  the  whole  strength  of 


the  army  after  the  Points  of  Levi  and 
Orleans  are  left  in  a  proper  state  of  de- 
fense), to  draw  the  enemy  from  their 
present  situation  and  bring  them  to  an 
action.  I  have  acquiesced  in  the  pro- 
posal, and  we  are  preparing  to  put  it 
into  execution."  The  letter  ends  thus  : 
u  By  the  list  of  disabled  officers,  many 
of  whom  are  of  rank,  you  may  perceive 
that  the  army  is  much  weakened.  By 
the  nature  of  the  river,  the  most  formi- 
dable part  of  this  armament  is  deprived 
of  the  power  of  acting,  yet  we  have  al- 
most the  whole  force  of  Canada  to  op- 
pose. In  this  situation  there  is  such  a 
choice  of  difficulties  that  I  own  myself 
at  a  loss  how  to  determine.  The  affairs 
of  Great  Britain,  I  know,  require  the 
most  vigorous  measures ;  but  the  cour- 
age of  a  handful  of  brave  troops  should 
be  exerted  only  when  there  is  some  hope 
of  a  favorable  event.  However,  you 
may  be  assured  that  the  small  part  of 
the  campaign  which  remains  shall  be 
employed,  as  far  as  I  am  able,  for  the 
honor  of  his  majesty  and  the  interest 
of  the  nation,  in  which  I  am  sure  of  be- 
ing well  seconded  by  the  admiral  and 
by  the  generals  ;  happy  if  our  efforts 
here  can  contribute  to  the  success  of  his 
majesty's  arms  in  any  other  parts  of 
America." 

Some  days  later,  he  wrote  to  the  Earl 
of  Holderness  :  "  The  Marquis  of  Mont- 
calm has  a  numerous  body  of  armed 
men  (I  cannot  call  it  an  army)  and  the 
strongest  country,  perhaps,  in  the  world. 
Our  fleet  blocks  up  the  river  above  and 
below  the  town,  but  can  give  no  man- 
ner of  aid  in  an  attack  upon  the  Cana- 
dian army.  We  are  now  here  [off 
Cap  Rouge]  with  about  thirty-six  hun- 
dred men,  waiting  to  attack  them  when 
and  wherever  they  can  best  be  got  at. 
I  am  so  far  recovered  as  to  do  business, 
but  my  constitution  is  entirely  ruined, 
without  the  consolation  of  doing  any 
considerable  service  to  the  state,  and 
without  any  prospect  of  it."  He  had 
just  learned,  through  the  letter  brought 


342 


w 

Wolfe  on  the  Plains  of  Abraham,. 


[September, 


from  Amherst  by  Ensign  Hutchins,  that 
he  could  expect  no  help  from  that  quar- 
ter. 

Perhaps  he  was  as  near  despair  as 
his  undaunted  nature  was  capable  of 
being.  In  his  present  state  of  body  and 
mind,  he  was  a  hero  without  the  light 
and  cheer  of  heroism.  He  flattered  him- 
self with  no  illusions,  but  saw  the  worst 
and  faced  it  all.  He  seems  to  have  been 
entirely  without  excitement.  The  lan- 
guor of  disease,  the  -desperation  of  the 
chances,  and  the  greatness  of  the  stake 
may  have  wrought  to  tranquilize  him. 
His  energy  was  doubly  tasked,  to  bear 
up  his  own  sinking  frame  and  to  achieve 
an  almost  hopeless  feat  of  arms. 

Audacious  as  it  was,  his  plan  cannot 
be  called  rash,  if  we  can  accept  the  state- 
ment of  two  well-informed  writers  on 
the  French  side.  They  say  that  on  the 
10th  of  September  the  English  naval 
commanders  held  a  council  on  board  the 
flagship,  in  which  it  was  resolved  that 
the  lateness  of  the  season  required  the 
fleet  to  leave  Quebec  without  delay. 
They  say  farther  that  Wolfe  then  went 
to  the  admiral,  told  him  that  he  had 
found  a  place  where  the  heights  could 
be  scaled,  that  he  would  send  up  a 
hundred  and  fifty  picked  men  to  feel 
the  way,  and  that  if  they  gained  a 
lodgment  at  the  top  the  other  troops 
should  follow ;  if,  on  the  other  hand, 
the  French  were  there  in  force  to  op- 
pose them,  he  would  not  sacrifice  the 
army  in  a  hopeless  attempt,  but  embark 
them  for  home,  consoled  by  the  thought 
that  all  had  been  done  that  man  could 
do.  On  this,  concludes  the  story,  the 
admiral  and  his  officers  consented  to 
wait  the  result.1 

As  Wolfe  had  informed  Pitt,  his 
army  was  greatly  weakened.  Since  the 
end  of  June,  his  loss  in  killed  and  wound- 
ed was  more  than  eight  hundred  and 
fifty,  including  two  colonels,  two  majors, 

1  This  statement  is  made  by  the  Chevalier 
Johnstone,  and,  with  some  variation,  by  the  au- 
thor of  the  valuable  Journal  Tenu  a  I'Arme'e  que 
commandoit  feu  M.  le  Marquis  de  Montcalm. 


nineteen  captains,  and  thirty-four  sub- 
alterns ;  and  to  these  were  to  be  added 
a  greater  number  disabled  by  disease. 

The  squadron  of  Admiral  Holmes, 
above  Quebec,  had  now  increased  to 
twenty -two  vessels,  great  and  small. 
One  of  the  last  that  went  up  was  a 
diminutive  schooner,  armed  with  a  few 
swivels,  and  jocosely  named  the  Ter- 
ror of  France.  She  sailed  by  the  town 
in  broad  daylight,  the  French,  incensed 
at  her  impudence,  blazing  at  her  from 
all  their  batteries;  but  she  passed  un- 
harmed, anchored  by  the  admiral's  ship, 
and  saluted  him  triumphantly  with  her 
swivels. 

Wolfe's  first  move  towards  executing 
his  plan  was  the  critical  one  of  evacuat- 
ing the  camp  at  Montmorenci.  This  was 
accomplished  on  the  3d  of  September. 
Montcalm  sent  a  strong  force  to  fall  on 
the  rear  of  the  retiring  English.  Monck- 
ton  saw  the  movement  from  Point  Levi, 
embarked  two  battalions  in  the  boats 
of  the  fleet,  and  made  a  feint  of  land- 
ing at  Beauport.  Montcalm  recalled  his 
troops  to  repulse  the  threatened  attack, 
and  the  English  withdrew  from  Mont- 
morenci unmolested  ;  some  to  the  Point 
of  Orleans,  others  to  Point  Levi.  On 
the  night  of  the  4th  a  fleet  of  flatboats 
passed  above  the  town  with  the  baggage 
and  stores.  On  the  5th  Murray,  with 
four  battalions,  marched  up  to  the  river 
Etechemin,  and  forded  it  under  a  hot 
fire  from  the  French  batteries  at  Sillery. 
Monckton  and  Townshend  followed  with 
three  more  battalions,  and  the  united 
force  of  about  thirty-six  hundred  men 
was  embarked  on  board  the  ships  of 
Holmes,  where  Wolfe  joined  them  on 
the  same  evening. 

These  movements  of  the  English  filled 
the  French  commanders  with  mingled 
perplexity,  anxiety,  and  hope.  A  desert- 
er told  them  that  Admiral  Saunders  was 
impatient  to  be  gone.  Vaudreuil  grew 

Bigot  says  that,  after  the  battle,  he  was  told  by 
British  officers  that  Wolfe  meant  to  risk  only  an 
advance  party  of  two  hundred  men,  and  to  reem- 
bark  if  they  were  repulsed. 


1884.] 


Wolfe  on  the  Plains  of  Abraham. 


343 


confident.  "  The  breaking  up  of  the 
camp  at  Montmorenci,"  he  says,  "  and 
the  abandonment  of  the  entrenchments 
there,  the  reembarkation  on  board  the 
vessels  above  Quebec  of  the  troops  who 
had  encamped  on  the  south  bank,  the 
movements  of  these  vessels,  the  removal 
of  the  heaviest  pieces  of  artillery  from 
the  batteries  of  Point  Levi,  —  these  and 
the  lateness  of  the  season  all  combined 
to  announce  the  speedy  departure  of 
the  fleet,  several  vessels  of  which  had 
even  sailed  down  the  river  already. 
The  prisoners  and  deserters  who  daily 
came  in  told  us  that  this  was  the  com- 
mon report  in  their  army."  He  wrote 
to  Bourlamaque  on  the  1st  of  Septem- 
ber, "  Everything  proves  that  the  grand 
design  of  the  English  has  failed."  Yet 

O  o 

he  was  ceaselessly  watchful.  So  was 
Montcalm;  and  he  too,  on  the  night  of 
the  2d,  snatched  a  moment  to  write  to 
Bourlamaque  from  his  headquarters  in 
the  stone  house  by  the  river  of  Beau- 
port  :  "  The  night  is  dark ;  it  rains ; 
our  troops  are  dressed  in  their  tents, 
and  on  the  alert ;  I  in  my  boots  ;  my 
horses  saddled.  In  fact,  this  is  my  usual 
way.  I  wish  you  were  here,  for  I  can- 
not be  everywhere,  though  I  multiply 
myself,  and  have  not  taken  off  my 
clothes  since  the  23d  of  June."  On  the 
llth  of  September,  he  wrote  his  last 
letter  to  Bourlamaque,  and  probably  the 
last  that  his  pen  ever  traced :  "  I  am 
overwhelmed  with  work,  and  should 
often  lose  temper,  like  you,  if  I  did  not 
remember  that  I  am  paid  by  Europe  for 
not  losing  it.  Nothing  new  since  my 
last.  I  give  the  enemy  another  month, 
or  something  less,  to  stay  here."  The 
more  sanguine  Vaudreuil  would  hardly 
give  them  a  week. 

Meanwhile,  no  precaution  was  spared. 
The  force  under  Bougainville,  above 
Quebec,  was  raised  to  three  thousand 
men.  He  was  ordered  to  watch  the 
shore  as  far  as  Jacques  Carder,  and  fol- 
low with  his  main  body  every  movement 
of  Holrnes's  squadron.  There  was  little 


fear  for  the  heights  near  the  town.  They 
were  thought  inaccessible.  Montcalm 
himself  believed  them  safe,  and  had  ex- 
pressed himself  to  that  effect  some  time 
before.  "  We  need  not  suppose,"  he 
wrote  to  Vaudreuil,  "  that  the  enemy 
have  wings ; "  and  again,  speaking  of 
the  very  place  where  Wolfe  afterwards 
landed,  "  I  swear  to  you  that  a  hundred 
men  posted  there  would  stop  their  whole 
army."  He  was  right.  A  hundred 
watchful  and  determined  men  could  have 
held  the  position  long  enough  for  rein- 
forcements to  come  up. 

The  hundred  men  were  there.  Cap- 
tain de  Yergor,  of  the  colony  troops, 
commanded  them ;  and  reinforcements 
were  within  his  call,  for  the  battalion  of 
Guienne  had  been  ordered  to  encamp 
close  at  hand  on  the  Plains  of  Abra- 
ham. Yergor's  post,  called  Ance  du 
Foulon,  was  a  mile  and  a  half  from 
Quebec.  A  little  beyond  it,  by  the  brink 
of  the  cliffs,  was  another  post,  called 
Samos,  held  by  seventy  men  with  four 
cannon ;  and  beyond  this,  again,  the 
heights  of  Sillery  were  guarded  by  a 
hundred  and  thirty  men,  also  with  can- 
non. These  were  outposts  of  Bougain- 
ville, whose  headquarters  were  at  Cap 
Rouge,  six  miles  above  Sillery,  and 
whose  troops  were  in  continual  move- 
ment along  the  intervening  shore.  Thus 
all  was  vigilance ;  for  while  the  French 
were  strong  in  the  hope  of  speedy  de- 
livery, they  felt  that  there  was  no  safe- 
ty till  the  tents  of  the  invader  had  van- 
ished from  their  shores  and  his  ships 
from  their  river.  "  What  we  knew," 
says  one  of  them,  "  of  the  character  of 
M.  Wolfe,  that  impetuous,  bold,  and 
intrepid  warrior,  prepared  us  for  a  last 
attack  before  he  left  us." 

Wolfe  had  been  very  ill  on  the  even- 
ing of  the  4th.  The  troops  knew  it, 
and  their  spirits  sank  ;  but  after  a  night 
of  torment  he  grew-  better,  and  was  soon 
among  them  again,  rekindling  their  ar- 
dor, and  imparting  a  cheer  that  he  could 
not  share.  For  himself  he  had  no  pity, 


344 


Wolfe  on  the  Plains  of  Abraham. 


[September, 


but  when  he  heard  of  the  illness  of  two 
officers  in  one  of  the  ships  he  sent  them 
a  message  of  warm  sympathy,  advised 
them  to  return  to  Point  Levi,  and  of- 
fered them  his  own  barge  and  an  es- 
cort. They  thanked  him,  but  replied 
that,  come  what  might,  they  would  see 
the  enterprise  to  an  end.  Another  offi- 
cer remarked  in  his  hearing  that  one  of 
the  invalids  had  a  very  delicate  constitu- 
tion. "  Don't  tell  me  of  constitution," 
said  Wolfe ;  "  he  has  good  spirit,  and 
good  spirit  will  carry  a  man  through 
everything."  An  immense  moral  force 
bore  up  his  own  frail  body  and  forced 
it  to  its  work. 

Major  Robert  Stobo,  who  five  years 
before  had  been  given  as  a  hostage  to 
the  French  at  the  capture  of  Fort  Ne- 
cessity, arrived  about  this  time  in  a  ves- 
sel from  Halifax.      He  had  long  been  a 
prisoner  at  Quebec,  not  always  in  close 
custody,  and  had  used  his  opportunities 
to  acquaint  himself  with  the.  neighbor- 
hood.    In  the    spring  of  this   year,  he 
and  an  officer  of  rangers  named  Stevens 
had  made  their  escape  with  extraordinary 
skill  and  daring,  and  he  now  returned 
to  give  his  countrymen  the  benefit  of  his 
local  knowledge.     His  biographer  says 
that  it  was  he  who  directed  Wolfe  in 
the  choice  of  a  landing  place.     Be  this 
as  it  may,  Wolfe    in  person  examined 
the  river  and  the  shores  as  far  as  Point 
aux  Trembles  ;  till  at  length,  landing  on 
the  south  side  a  little  above  Quebec,  and 
looking   across   the  water  with   a  tele- 
scope, he  descried  a  path  that  ran  with 
a  long  slope  up  the  face  of  the  woody 
precipice,  and   saw  at   the  top  a   clus- 
ter of  tents.     They  were  those  of  Ver- 
gor's  guard  at  the  Ance  du  Foulon,  now 
called  Wolfe's  Cove.     As  he  could  see 
but  ten  or  twelve  of  them,  he  thought 
that  the  guard  could  not  be  numerous, 
and  might  be  overpowered.     His  hope 
would   have   been   stronger   if  he   had 
known  that  Vergor  had  once  been  tried 
for    misconduct   and   cowardice    in   the 
surrender  of  Beausejour,  and  saved  from 


merited   disgrace   by  the  friendship  of 
Bigot  and  the  protection  of  Vaudreuil. 

The  morning  of  the  7th  was  fair  and 
warm,  and  the  vessels  of  Holmes,  their 
crowded  decks  gay  with  scarlet  uni- 
forms, sailed  up  the  river  to  Cap  Rouge. 
A  lively  scene  awaited  them,  for  here 
were  the  headquarters  of  Bougainville, 
and  here  lay  his  principal  force,  while 
the  rest  watched  the  banks  above  and 
below.  The  cove  into  which  the  little 
river  runs  was  guarded  by  floating  bat- 
teries ;  the  surrounding  shore  was  de- 
fended by  breastworks  ;  and  a  large  body 
of  regulars,  militia,  and  mounted  Cana- 
dians in  blue  uniforms  moved  to  and  fro, 
with  restless  activity,  on  the  hills  be- 
hind. When  the  vessels  came  to  anchor, 
the  horsemen  dismounted  and  formed 
in  line  with  the  infantry ;  then,  with 
loud  shouts,  the  whole  rushed  down  the 
heights  to  man  their  works  at  the  shore. 
That  true  Briton,  Captain  Knox,  looked 
on  with  a  critical  eye  from  the  gangway 
of  his  ship,  and  wrote  that  night  in  his 
diary  that  they  had  made  a  ridiculous 
noise.  "  How  different,"  he  exclaims, 
"  how  nobly  awful  and  expressive  of 
true  valor,  is  the  customary  silence  of 
the  British  troops  ! >: 

In  the  afternoon  the  ships  opened 
fire,  while  the  troops  entered  the  boats 
and  rowed  up  and  down,  as  if  looking 
for  a  landing  place.  It  was  but  a  feint 
of  Wolfe  to  deceive  Bougainville  as  to 
his  real  design.  A  heavy  easterly  rain 
set  in  on  the  next  morning,  and  lasted 
two  days  without  respite.  All  opera- 
tions were  suspended,  and  the  men  suf- 
fered greatly  in  the  crowded  transports. 
Half  of  them  were  therefore  landed 
on  the  south  shore,  where  they  made 
their  quarters  in  the  village  of  St.  Nic- 
olas, refreshed  themselves,  and  dried 
their  wet  clothing,  knapsacks,  and  blan- 
kets. 

For  several  successive  days  the  squad- 
ron of  Holmes  was  allowed  to  drift  up 
the  river  with  the  flood  tide  and  down 
with  the  ebb,  thus  passing  and  repass- 


1884.] 


Wolfe  on  the  Plains  of  Abraham. 


345 


ing  incessantly  between  the  neighbor- 
hood of  Quebec  on  one  hand  and  a  point 
high  above  Cap  Rouge  on  the  other ; 
while  Bougainville,  perplexed  and  al- 
ways expecting  an  attack,  followed  the 
ships  to  and  fro  along  the  shore  by  day 
and  by  night,  till  his  men  were  exhaust- 
ed with  ceaseless  forced  marches. 

At  last  the  time  for  action  came.  On 
Wednesday,  the  12th,  the  troops  at  St. 
Nicolas  were  embarked  again,  and  all 
were  told  to  hold  themselves  in  read- 
iness. Wolfe,  from  the  flagship  Suth- 
erland, issued  his  last  general  orders : 
"  The  enemy's  force  is  now  divided ; 
great  scarcity  of  provisions  in  their 
camp,  and  universal  discontent  among 
the  Canadians.  Our  troops  below  are 
in  readiness  to  join  us,  all  the  light  ar- 
tillery and  tools  are  embarked  at  the 
Point  of  Levi,  and  the  troops  will  land 
where  the  French  seem  least  to  expect  it. 
The  first  body  that  gets  on  shore  is  to 
march  directly  to  the  enemy,  and  drive 
them  from  any  little  post  they  may  oc- 
cupy ;  the  officers  must  be  careful  that 
the  succeeding  bodies- do  not  by  any  mis- 
take fire  on  those  who  go  before  them. 
The  battalions  must  form  on  the  upper 
ground  with  expedition,  and  be  ready  to 
charge  whatever  presents  itself.  When 
the  artillery  and  troops  are  landed,  a 
corps  will  be  left  to  secure  the  laud- 
ing place,  while  the  rest  march  on  and 
endeavor  to  bring  the  Canadians  and 
French  to  a  battle.  The  officers  and 
men  will  remember  what  their  country 
expects  from  them,  and  what  a  deter- 
mined body  of  soldiers  inured  to  war 
is  capable  of  doing  against  five  weak 
French  battalions  mingled  with  a  disor- 
derly peasantry." 

The  spirit  of  the  army  answered  to 
that  of  its  chief.  The  troops  loved  and 
admired  their  general,  trusted  their  offi- 
cers, and  were  ready  for  any  attempt. 

1  Including  Bougainville's  command.  An  es- 
caped prisoner  told  Wolfe,  a  few  days  before,  that 
Montcalm  still  had  fourteen  thousand  men.  (Jour- 
nal of  an  Expedition  on  the  River  St.  Lawrence.) 
This  meant  only  those  in  the  town  and  the  camps 


"  Nay,  how  could  it  be  otherwise," 
quaintly  asks  honest  Sergeant  John 
Johnson,  of  the  58th  regiment,  "  being 
at  the  heels  of  gentlemen  whose  whole 
thirst,  equal  with  their  general,  was  for 
glory  ?  We  had  seen  them  tried,  and 
always  found  them  sterling.  We  knew 
that  they  would  stand  by  us  to  the  last 
extremity." 

Wolfe  had  thirty-six  hundred  men  and 
officers  with  him  on  board  the  vessels 
of  Holmes,  and  he  now  sent  orders  to 
Colonel  Burton  at  Point  Levi  to  lead  to 
his  aid  all  who  could  be  spared  from 
that  place  and  the  Point  of  Orleans. 
They  were  to  march  along  the  south 
bank  after  nightfall,  and  wait  farther 
orders  at  a  designated  spot  convenient 
for  embarkation.  Their  number  was 
about  twelve  hundred,  so  that  the  en- 
tire force  destined  for  the  enterprise 
was  at  the  utmost  forty-eight  hundred. 
With  these,  Wolfe  meant  to  climb  the 
heights  of  Abraham  in  the  teeth  of 
an  enemy  who,  though  much  reduced, 
were  still  twice  as  numerous  as  their  as- 
sailants.1 

Admiral  Saunders  lay  with  the  main 
fleet  in  the  Basin  of  Quebec.  This  ex- 
cellent officer,  whatever  may  have  been 
his  views  as  to  the  necessity  of  a  speedy 
departure,  aided  Wolfe  to  the  last  with 
unfailing  energy  and  zeal.  It  was  agreed 
between  them  that  while  the  general 
made  the  real  attack  the  admiral  should 
engage  Montcalm's  attention  by  a  pre- 
tended one.  As  night  approached  the 
fleet  ranged  itself  along  the  Beauport 
shore  ;  the  boats  were  lowered,  and  filled 
with  sailors,  marines,  and  the  few  troops 
that  had  been  left  behind  ;  while  ship 
signaled  to  ship,  cannon  flashed  and 
thundered,  and  shot  ploughed  the  beach, 
as  if  to  clear  a  way  for  assailants  to 
land.  In  the  gloom  of  the  evening  the 
effect  was  imposing.  Montcalm,  who 

of  Beauport.  "  I  don't  believe  their  whole  army 
amounts  to  that  number,"  wrote  Wolfe  to  Colonel 
Burton,  on  the  10th.  He  knew,  however,  that  if 
Montcalm  could  bring  all  his  troops  together  he 
must  fight  him  more  than  two  to  one. 


346 


Wolfe  on  the  Plains  of  Abraham. 


[September, 


thought  that  the  movements  of  the  Eng- 
lish above  the  town  were  only  a  feint, 
that  their  main  force  was  still  below 
it,  and  that  their  real  attack  would  be 
made  there,  was  completely  deceived, 
aud  massed  his  troops  in  front  of  Beau- 
port  to  repel  the  expected  landing.  But 
while  in  the  fleet  of  Saunders  all  was 
uproar  and  ostentatious  menace,  the 
danger  was  ten  miles  away,  where  the 
squadron  of  Holmes  lay  tranquil  and 
silent  at  its  anchorage  off  Cap  Rouge. 

It  was  less  tranquil  than  it  seemed. 
All  on  board  knew  that  a  blow  would 
be  struck  that  night,  though  only  a  few 
high  officers  knew  where.  Colonel 
Howe,  of  the  light  infantry,  called  for 
volunteers  to  lead  the  unknown  and  des- 
perate venture,  promising,  in  the  words 
of  one  of  them,  "  that  if  any  of  us  sur- 
vived we  might  depend  oh  being  recom- 
mended to  the  general."  As  many  as 
were  wanted,  twenty -four  in  'all,  soon 
came  forward.  Thirty  large  bateaux 
and  some  boats  belonging  to  the  squad- 
ron lay  moored  alongside  the  vessels, 
and  late  in  the  evening  the  troops  were 
ordered  into  them,  the  twenty-four  vol- 
unteers taking  their  place  in  the  fore- 
most. They  held  in  all  about  seventeen 
hundred  men.  The  rest  remained  on 
board  the  ships. 

Bougainville  could  discern  the  move- 
ment, and  like  Montcalm  thought  it 
was  he  who  was  to  be  attacked.  The 
tide  was  still  flowing,  and,  the  better  to 
deceive  him,  the  vessels  and  boats  were 
allowed  to  drift  upward  with  it  for  a 
little  distance,  as  if  to  land  above  Cap 
Rouge. 

The  day  had  been  fortunate  for 
Wolfe.  Two  deserters  came  from  the 
camp  of  Bougainville,  with  information 
that,  at  ebb  tide  on  the  next  night,  he 
was  to  send  down  a  convoy  of  provisions 
to  Montcalm.  The  necessities  of  the 
camp  at  Beauport  and  the  difficulties  of 
transportation  by  land  had  before  com- 
pelled the  French  to  resort  to  this  per- 
ilous means  of  conveying  supplies  ;  and 


their  boats,  drifting  in  darkness  under 
the  shadows  of  the  northern  shore,  had 
commonly  passed  in  safety.  Wolfe  saw 
at  once  that,  if  his  own  boats  went  down 
in  advance  of  the  convoy,  he  could  turn 
the  intelligence  of  the  deserters  to  good 
account. 

He  was  still  on  board  the  Sutherland. 
Every  preparation  was  made  and  every 
order  given  ;  it  only  remained  to  wait 
the  turning  of  the  tide.  Seated  with 
him  in  the  cabin  was  the  commander  of 
the  sloop  of  war  Porcupine,  his  former 
schoolfellow,  John  Jervis,  afterwards 
Earl  St.  Vincent.  Wolfe  told  him  that 
he  expected  to  die  in  the  battle  of  the 
next  day  ;  and  taking  from  his  bosom 
a  miniature  of  Miss  Lowther,  his  be- 
trothed, he  gave  it  to  him,  with  a  request 
that  he  would  return  it  to  her  if  the 
presentiment  should  prove  true. 

Towards  two  o'clock  the  tide  began 
to  ebb,  and  a  fresh  wind  blew  down  the 
river.  Two  lanterns  were  raised  into 
the  maintop  shrouds  of  the  Sutherland. 
It  was  the  appointed  signal.  The  boats 
cast  off  and  fell  down  with  the  cur- 
rent, those  of  the  light  infantry  leading 
the  way.  The  vessels  with  the  rest  of 
the  troops  had  orders  to  follow  a  little 
later. 

To  look  for  a  moment  at  the  chances 
on  which  this  bold  adventure  hung : 
first,  the  deserters  told  Wolfe  that  pro- 
vision boats  were  ordered  to  go  down 
to  Quebec  that  night ;  secondly,  Bou- 
gainville countermanded  them  ;  thirdly, 
the  sentries  posted  along  the  heights 
were  told  of  the  order,  but  not  of  the 
countermand ;  fourthly,  Vergor,  at  the 
Ance  du  Foulon,  had  permitted  most  of 
his  men,  chiefly  Canadians  from  Lorette, 
to  go  home  for  a  time  and  work  at  their 
harvesting,  on  condition,  it  is  said,  that 
they  should  afterwards  work  in  a  neigh- 
boring field  of  his  own  ;  fifthly,  he  kept 
careless  watch  and  went  quietly  to  bed ; 
sixthly,  the  battalion  of  Guienne,  ordered 
to  take  post  on  the  Plains  of  Abraham, 
had,  for  reasons  unexplained,  remained 


1884.]                       Wolfe  on  the  Plains  of  Abraham.  347 

encamped  by  the  St.  Charles  ;  and  last-  was  satisfied,  and  did  not   ask  for  the 

ly,    when    Bougainville    saw    Holmes's  password. 

vessels  drift  down  the  stream,  he  did  Soon  after,  the  foremost  boats  were 
not  tax  his  weary  troops  to  follow  them,  passing  the  heights  of  Samos,  when  an- 
thinking  that  they  would  return  as  usual  other  sentry  challenged  them,  and  they 
with  the  flood  tide.  But  for  these  con-  could  see  him  through  the  darkness  run- 
spiring  circumstances  New  France  might  ning  down  to  the  edge  of  the  water, 
have  lived  a  little  longer,  and  the  fruit-  within  range  of  a  pistol  shot.  In  an- 
less  heroism  of  Wolfe  would  have  passed  swer  to  his  questions  the  same  officer 
with  countless  other  heroisms  into  ob-  replied  in  French,  "  Provision  boats, 
livion.  Don't  make  a  noise ;  the  English  will 
For  full  two  hours  the  procession  of  hear  us."  In  fact,  the  sloop  of  war 
boats,  borne  on  the  current,  steered  si-  Hunter  was  anchored  in  the  stream,  not 
lently  down  the  St.  Lawrence.  The  far  off.  Again  the  sentry  let  them 
stars  were  visible,  but  the  night  was  pass.  In  a  few  moments  they  rounded 
moonless  and  sufficiently  dark.  The  the  lofty  headland  above  the  Ance  du 
general  was  in  one  of  the  foremost  boats,  Foulon.  There  was  no  sentry  there, 
and  near  him  was  a  young  midshipman,  The  strong  current  swept  the  boats  of 
John  Robison,  afterwards  professor  of  the  light  infantry  a  little  below  the  in- 
natural  philosophy  in  the  University  of  tended  landing  place.  They  disem- 
Edinburgh.  He  used  to  tell  in  his  later  barked  on  a  narrow  strand  at  the  foot 

<j 

life  how  Wolfe,  probably  to  relieve  the  of   heights   as    steep  as  a  hill  covered 

intense  strain  of  his  thoughts,  repeated  with   trees    can    be.      The  twenty-four 

Gray's  Elegy  in  a  Country  Churchyard  volunteers  led   the  way,  climbing  with 

to  the  officers  about  him,  and  among  the  what    silence   they   might,    closely   fol- 

rest,  the  verse  which  his  own  fate  was  lowed  by  a  much  larger  body.     When 

soon  to  illustrate  :  —  they  reached  the  top   they  saw  in  the 

"  The  paths  of  glory  lead  but  to  the  grave."  dim  light  a  cluster  of  tents  not  far  off, 

"  Gentlemen,"    he   said,    as    his    recital  and  immediately  made  a  dash  at  them, 

ended,  "  I  would   rather  have    written  Vergor  leaped  from   bed  and  tried  to 

those  lines  than  take  Quebec."     None  escape,  but  was  shot  in    the  heel  and 

were  there  to  tell  him  that  the  hero  is  captured.     His  men,  taken  by  surprise, 

greater  than  the  poet.  made  little  resistance.    One  or  two  were 

As  they  neared  their  destination  the  caught,  and  the  rest  fled. 

tide  bore  them  in  towards  the  shore,  and  The  main  body  of  troops  waited  in 

the  mighty  wall  of  rock  and  forest  tow-  their  boats  by  the  edge  of  the  strand. 

ered  in  darkness  on  their  left.     Sudden-  The  heights    near  by  were   cleft  by  a 

ly  the    challenge    of   a    French    sentry  great  ravine,  choked  with  forest  trees  ; 

rang  out  of  the  gloom  :  —  and  in  its  depths  ran  a  little  brook  called 

"  Qui  vive  ?  "  Ruisseau  St.  Denis,  which,  swollen  by 

"  France,"  answered  a  Highland  offi-  the  late  rains,  fell  plashing  in  the  still- 

cer  of  Eraser's  regiment  from  one  of  the  ness  over  a  rock.     Other  than  this  no 

boats    of    the   light    infantry.     He  had  sound  could  reach   the  strained  ear  of 

served   in  Holland,  and   spoke  French  Wolfe  but  the  gurgle  of  the  tide  and  the 

fluently.  cautious  climbing  of  his  advance  parties, 

"  A  quel  regiment  ?  "  as  they  mounted  the  steeps  at  some  lit- 

"  De    la    Reine,"  replied    the    High-  tie  distance  from  where  he  sat  listening. 

lander.     He  knew  that  a  part  of  that  At  length,  from  the  top  came  a  sound 

corps  was  with  Bougainville.     The  sen-  of  musket  shots,  followed  by  loud  huz- 

try,  expecting  the  convoy  of  provisions,  zas,  and   he  knew  that   his   meii  were 


348 


Wolfe  on  the  Plains  of  Abraham. 


[September, 


masters  of  the  position.  The  word  was 
given  ;  the  troops  leaped  from  the  boats 
and  scaled  the  heights,  some  here,  some 
there,  clutching  at  trees  and  bushes, 
their  muskets  slung  at  their  backs. 
Tradition  still  points  out  the  place  near 
the  mouth  of  the  ravine  where  the  fore- 
most reached  the  top.  Wolfe  said  to  an 
officer  near  him,  "  You  can  try  it,  but  I 
don't  think  you  '11  get  up."  He  himself, 
however,  found  strength  to  drag  himself 
up  with  the  rest.  The  narrow,  slanting 
path  on  the  face  of  the  heights  had  been 
made  impassable  by  trenches  and  abatis  ; 
but  all  obstructions  were  soon  cleared 
away,  and  then  the  ascent  was  easy.  In 
the  gray  of  the  morning  the  long  file  of 
red -coated  soldiers  moved  quickly  up- 
ward, and  formed  in  order  on  the  pla- 
teau above.  . 

Before  many  of  them  had  reached  the 
top,  cannon  were  heard  close  on  the 
left.  It  was  the  battery  at  Samos  firing 
on  the  boats  in  the  rear  and  the  vessels 
descending  from  Cap  Rouge.  A  party 
was  sent  to  silence  it,  which  was  soon 
effected ;  and  the  more  distant  battery 
at  Sillery  was  next  attacked  and  taken. 
As  fast  as  the  boats  were  emptied  they 
returned  for  the  troops  left  on  board  the 
vessels,  and  for  those  waiting  on  the 
southern  shore,  under  Colonel  Burton. 

The  day  broke  in  clouds  and  threaten- 
ing rain.  The  British  battalions  were 
drawn  up  along  the  crest  of  the  heights. 
No  enemy  was  in  sight,  though  a  body 
of  Canadians  had  sallied  from  the  town 
and  moved  along  the  strand  towards  the 
landing  place,  whence  they  were  quick- 
ly driven  back.  Wolfe  had  achieved  the 
most  critical  part  of  his  enterprise ;  yet 
the  success  that  he  coveted  placed  him 
in  imminent  danger.  On  one  side  was 
the  garrison  of  Quebec  and  the  army 
of  Beauport,  and  Bougainville  was  on 
the  other.  Wolfe's  alternative  was  vic- 
tory or  ruin  ;  for,  if  he  should  be  over- 
whelmed by  a  combined  attack,  retreat 
would  be  hopeless.  His  feelings  no  man 
can  know,  but  it  would  be  safe  to  say 


that  hesitation  or  doubt  had  no  part  in 
them. 

He  went  to  reconnoitre  the  ground, 
and  soon  came  to  the  Plains  of  Abraham ; 
so  called  from  Abraham  Martin,  a  pilot, 
known  as  Maitre  Abraham,  who  had 
owned  a  piece  of  laud  here  in  the  early 
times  of  the  colony.  The  Plains  were 
a  tract  of  grass,  tolerably  level  in  most 
parts  patched  here  and  there  with  corn- 
fields, studded  with  clumps  of  bushes, 
and  forming  a  part  of  the  high  pla- 
teau at  the  eastern  end  of  which  Quebec 
stood.  On  the  south,  it  was  bounded  by 
the  declivities  along  the  St.  Lawrence  ; 
on  the  north,  by  those  along  the  St. 
Charles,  or  rather  along  the  meadows 
through  which  that  lazy  stream  crawled 
like  a  writhing  snake.  At  the  place  that 
Wolfe  chose  for  his  battle-field  the  pla- 
teau was  less  than  a  mile  wide. 

Thither  the  troops  advanced,  marched 
by  files  till  they  reached  the  ground, 
and  then  wheeled  to  form  their  line  of 
battle,  which  stretched  across  the  plateau 
and  faced  the  city.  It  consisted  of  six 
battalions  and  the  detached  grenadiers 
from  Louisbourg,  all  drawn  up  in  ranks 
three  deep.  Its  right  wing  was  near 
the  brink  of  the  heights  along  the  St. 
Lawrence  ;  but  the  left  could  not  reach 
those  along  the  St.  Charles.  Here  a 
wide  space  was  perforce  left  open,  and 
there  was  danger  of  being  outflanked. 
To  prevent  this,  Brigadier  Townshend 
was  stationed  here  with  two  battalions, 
drawn  up.  at  right  angles  with  the  rest, 
and  fronting  the  St.  Charles.  The  bat- 
talion of  Webb's  regiment  under  Colonel 
Burton  formed  the  reserve ;  the  third 
battalion  of  Royal  Americans  was  left 
to  guard  the  landing,  and  Howe's  light 
infantry  occupied  a  wood  far  in  the 
rear.  Wolfe,  with  Monckton  and  Mur- 
ray, commanded  the  front  line,  on  which 
the  heavy  fighting  was  to  fall,  and  which, 
when  all  the  troops  had  arrived,  counted 
less  than  thirty-five  hundred  men. 

Quebec  was  not  a  mile  distant,  but 
they  could  not  see  it ;  for  a  ridge  of 


1884.] 


Wolfe  on  the  Plains  of  Abraham. 


349 


broken  ground  intervened,  called  Buttes 
a  Neveu,  about  six  hundred  paces  off. 
The  first  division  of  troops  had  scarcely 
come  up  when,  about  six  o'clock,  this 
ridge  was  suddenly  thronged  with  white 
uniforms.  It  was  the  battalion  of  Gui- 
enne,  arrived  at  the  eleventh  hour  from 
its  camp  by  the  St.  Charles.  Some  time 
after,  there  was  hot  firing  in  the  rear. 
It  came  from  a  detachment  of  Bougain- 
ville's command,  attacking  a  house  where 
some  of  the  light  infantry  were  posted. 
The  assailants  were  repulsed,  and  the 
firing  ceased.  Light  showers  fell  at  in- 
tervals, besprinkling  the  troops  as  they 
stood  patiently  waiting  the  event. 

Montcalm  had  passed  a  troubled  night. 
Through  all  the  evening  the  cannon 
bellowed  from  the  ships  of  Saunders, 
and  the  boats  of  the  fleet  hovered  in 
the  dusk  off  the  Beauport  shore,  threat- 
ening every  moment  to  land.  Troops 
lined  the  entrenchments  till  day,  while 
the  general  walked  the  field  that  ad- 
joined his  headquarters  till  one  in  the 
morning,  accompanied  by  the  Chevalier 
Johnstone  and  Colonel  Poulariez.  John- 
stone  says  that  he  was  in  great  agitation, 
and  took  no  rest  all  night.  At  day- 
break, he  heard  the  sound  of  cannon 
above  the  town,  where  the  battery  at 
Samos  was  firing  on  the  English  ships. 
He  had  sent  an  officer  to  the  quarters 
of  Vaudreuil,  which  were  much  nearer 
Quebec,  with  orders  to  bring  him  word 
at  once  should  anything  unusual  hap- 
pen ;  but  no  word  came,  and  about  six 
o'clock  he  mounted  and  rode  thither 
with  Johnstone.  As  they  advanced,  the 
country  behind  the  town  opened  more 
and  more  upon  their  sight,  till  at  length, 
when  opposite  VaudreuiFs  house,  they 
saw  across  the  St.  Charles,  more  than 
a  mile  away,  the  red  coats  of  British 
soldiers  on  the  heights  beyond. 

"  This  is  a  serious  business,"  Mont- 
calm  said,  and  sent  off  Johnstone  at  full 
gallop  to  bring  up  the  troops  from  the 
centre  and  left  of  the  camp.  Those  of 
the  right  were  in  motion  already,  doubt- 


less by  the  governor's  order.  Vau- 
dreuil came  out  of  the  house.  Mont- 
calm  stopped  for  a  few  words  with  him ; 
then  set  spurs  to  his  horse,  and  galloped 
over  the  bridge  of  the  St.  Charles  to  the 
scene  of  danger.  He  rode  with  a  fixed 
look,  uttering  not  a  word. 

The  army  followed  in  such  order  as  it 
might,  crossed  the  bridge  in  hot  haste, 
passed  under  the  northern  rampart  of 
Quebec,  entered  at  the  Palace  Gate, 
and  pressed  on  in  headlong  march  along 
the  quaint,  narrow  streets  of  the  warlike 
town  :  troops  of  Indians  in  scalp-locks 
and  war  paint,  a  savage  glitter  in  their 
deep-set  eyes ;  bands  of  Canadians,  whose 
all  was  at  stake,  —  faith,  country,  and 
home ;  the  colony  regulars ;  the  battal- 
ions of  Old  France,  a  torrent  of  white 
uniforms  and  gleaming  bayonets,  La 
Sarre,  Languedoc,  Roussillon,  Beam, 
victors  of  Oswego,  William  Henry,  and 
Ticonderoga.  So  they  swept  on,  poured 
out  upon  the  plain,  some  by  the  gate  of 
St.  Louis  and  some  by  that  of  St.  John, 
and  hurried,  breathless,  to  where  the 
banners  of  Guienne  still  fluttered  on  the 
ridge. 

Montcalm  was  amazed  at  what  he 
saw.  He  had  expected  a  detachment, 
and  he  found  an  army.  Full  in  sight 
before  him  stretched  the  lines  of  Wolfe : 
the  close  ranks  of  the  English  infantry, 
a  silent  wall  of  red,  and  the  wild  array 
of  the  Highlanders,  with  their  waving 
tartans  and  bagpipes  screaming  defiance. 
Vaudreuil  had  not  come;  but  not  the 
less  was  felt  the  evil  of  a  divided  au- 
thority and  the  jealousy  of  the  rival 
chiefs.  Montcalm  waited  long  for  the 
forces  he  had  ordered  to  join  him  from 
the  left  wing  of  the  army.  He  waited 
in  vain.  It  is  said  that  the  governor  had 
detained  them,  lest  the  English  should 
attack  the  Beauport  shore.  Even  if  they 
had  done  so,  and  succeeded,  the  French 
might  defy  them,  could  they  but  put 
Wolfe  to  rout  on  the  Plains  of  Abra- 
ham. Neither  did  the  garrison  of  Que- 
bec come  to  the  aid  of  Moutcalm.  He 


350 


Wolfe  on  the  Plains  of  Abraham. 


[September, 


sent  to  Ramsay,  its  commander,  for 
twenty-five  field-pieces  which  were  on 
the  Palace  battery.  Ramsay  would  give 
him  only  three,  saying  that  he  wanted 
them  for  his  own  defense.  There  were 
orders  and  counter -orders,  misunder- 
standing, haste,  delay,  perplexity. 

Montcalm  and  his  chief  officers  held 
a  council  of  war.  It  is  said  that  he  and 
they  alike  were  for  immediate  attack. 
His  enemies  declare  that  he  was  afraid 
lest  Vaudreuil  should  arrive  and  take 
command  ;  but  the  governor  was  not  a 
man  to  assume  responsibility  at  such  a 
crisis.  Others  say  that  his  impetuosity 
overcame  his  better  judgment ;  and  of 
this  charge  it  is  hard  to  acquit  him. 
Bougainville  was  but  a  few  miles  dis- 
tant, and  some  of  his  troops  were  much 
nearer ;  a  messenger  sent  by  way  of 
Old  Lorette  could  have  reached  him  in 
an  hour  and  a  half  at  most,  and  a  com- 
bined attack  in  front  and  rear  might 
have  been  concerted  with  him.  If,  more- 
over, Montcalm  could  have  come  to  an 
understanding  with  Vaudreuil,  his  own 
force  might  have  been  strengthened  by 
two  or  three  thousand  additional  men 
from  the  town  and  the  camp  of  Beau- 
port.  But  he  felt  that  there  was  no  time 
to  lose,  for  he  imagined  that  Wolfe 
would  soon  be  reinforced,  which  was 
impossible ;  and  he  believed  that  the 
English  were  fortifying  themselves, 
which  was  no  less  an  error.  He  has 
been  blamed  not  only  for  fighting  too 
soon,  but  for  fighting  at  all.  In  this  he 
could  not  choose.  Fight  he  must,  for 
Wolfe  was  now  in  a  position  to  cut  off 
all  his  supplies.  His  men  were  ready 
for  the  fray,  and  he  resolved  to  attack 
before  their  ardor  cooled.  He  spoke  a 
a  few  words  to  them  in  his  keen,  vehe- 
ment way.  "  I  remember  very  well  how 
he  looked,"  a  Canadian,  then  a  boy  of 
eighteen,  used  to  say  in  his  old  age. 
"  He  rode  a  black  or  dark  bay  horse 
along  the  front  of  our  lines,  brandishing 
his  sword,  as  if  to  excite  us  to  do  our 
duty.  He  wore  a  coat  with  wide  sleeves, 


which  fell  back  as  he  raised  his  arm, 
and  showed  the  white  linen  of  the  wrist- 
band." 

The  English  waited  the  result  with  a 
composure  which,  if  not  quite  real,  was 
at  least  well  feigned.  The  three  field- 
pieces  sent  by  Ramsay  plied  them  with 
canister-shot,  and  fifteen  hundred  Cana- 
dians and  Indians  fusilladed  them  in 
front  and  flank.  Over  all  the  plain, 
from  behind  bushes  and  knolls  and  the 
edge  of  cornfields,  puffs  of  smoke  sprang 
incessantly  from  the  guns  of  these 
hidden  marksmen.  Skirmishers  were 
thrown  out  before  the  lines  to  hold  them 
in  check,  and  the  soldiers  were  ordered 
to  lie  on  the  grass  to  avoid  the  shot. 
The  firing  was  liveliest  on  the  English 
left,  where  bands  of  sharpshooters  got 
under  the  edge  of  the  declivity,  among 
thickets  and  behind  scattered  houses, 
whence  they  killed  and  wounded  a  con- 
siderable number  of  Townshend's  men. 
The  light  infantry  were  called  up  from 
the  rear.  The  houses  were  taken  and 
retaken,  and  one  or  more  of  them  was 
burned. 

Wolfe  was  everywhere.  How  copl 
he  was,  and  why  his  followers  loved 
him,  is  shown  by  an  incident  that  hap- 
pened in  the  course  of  the  morning. 
One  of  his  captains  was  shot  through 
the  lungs,  and,  on  recovering  conscious- 
ness, he  saw  the  general  standing  at  his 
side.  Wolfe  pressed  his  hand,  told  him 
not  to  despair,  praised  his  services, 
promised  him  early  promotion,  and  sent 
an  aide-de-camp  to  Monckton  to  beg 
that  officer  to  keep  the  promise  if  he 
himself  should  fall. 

It  was  towards  ten  o'clock,  when, 
from  a  hillock  on  the  right  of  the  line, 
Wolfe  saw  that  the  crisis  was  near. 
The  French  on  the  ridge  had  gathered 
themselves  into  three  bodies  ;  regulars  in 
the  centre,  regulars  and  Canadians  on 
right  and  left.  Two  field-pieces  which 
had  been  dragged  up  the  height  fired  on 
them  with  grape-shot,  and  the  troops,  ris- 
ing from  the  ground,  formed  to  receive 


1884.] 


Wolfe  on  the  Plains  of  Abraham. 


351 


them.  In  a  few  moments  more  they 
were  in  motion.  They  came  on  rapidly, 
uttering  loud  shouts,  and  firing  as  soon 
as  they  were  within  range.  Their  ranks, 
ill  ordered  at  the  best,  were  farther  con- 
fused by  a  number  of  Canadians,  who  had 
been  interspersed  among  the  regulars, 
and  who,  after  hastily  firing,  threw  them- 
selves on  the  ground  to  reload.  The 
British  advanced  a  few  rods  ;  then  halt- 
ed and  stood  still.  When  the  French 
were  within  forty  paces,  the  word  of 
command  rang  out,  and  a  crash  of  mus- 
ketry answered  all  along  the  line.  The 
volley  was  delivered  with  remarkable 
precision.  In  the  battalions  of  the  cen- 
tre, which  had  suffered  least  from  the 
enemy's  bullets,  the  simultaneous  explo- 
sion was  afterwards  said  by  French  offi- 
cers to  have  sounded  like  a  cannon  shot. 
Another  volley  followed,  and  then  a  fu- 
rious clattering  fire,  that  lasted  but  a 
minute  or  two.  When  the  smoke  rose, 
a  miserable  sight  was  revealed :  the 
ground  cumbered  with  dead  and  wound- 
ed, the  advancing  masses  stopped  short 
and  turned  into  a  frantic  mob,  shout- 
ing, cursing,  gesticulating.  The  order 
was  given  to  charge.  Then  over  the 
field  rose  the  British  cheer,  joined  with 
the  fierce  yell  of  the  Highland  slogan. 
Some  of  the  corps  pushed  forward  with 
the  bayonet  ;  some  advanced  firing. 
The  clansmen  drew  their  broadswords 
and  dashed  on,  keen  and  swift  as  blood- 
hounds. At  the  English  right,  though 
the  attacking  column  was  broken  to 
pieces,  a  fire  was  still  kept  up  ;  chiefly, 
it  seems,  by  sharpshooters  from  the 
bushes  and  cornfields,  where  they  had 
lain  for  an  hour  or  more.  Here  Wolfe 
himself  led  the  charge,  at  the  head 
of  the  Louisbourg  grenadiers.  A  shot 
shattered  his  wrist.  He  wrapped  his 
handkerchief  about  it,  and  kept  on. 


Another  shot  struck  him,  and  he  still 
advanced,  when  a  third  lodged  in  his 
breast.  He  staggered,  and  sat  on  the 
ground.  Lieutenant  Brown,  of  the 
grenadiers,  one  Henderson,  a  volunteer 
in  the  same  company,  and  a  private  sol- 
dier, aided  by  an  officer  of  artillery  who 
ran  to  join  them,  carried  him  in  their 
arms  to  the  rear.  He  begged  them  to 
lay  him  down.  They  did  so,  and  asked 
if  he  would  have  a  surgeon.  "  There  's 
no  need,"  he  answered ;  "  it 's  all  over 
with  me."  A  moment  after,  one  of 
them  cried  out,  "  They  run !  See  how 
they  run  !  "  «  Who  run  ?  "  Wolfe  de- 
manded, like  a  man  roused  from  sleep. 
"  The  enemy,  sir.  Egad,  they  give  way 
everywhere."  "  Go,  one  of  you,  to  Colo- 
nel Burton,"  returned  the  dying  man : 
"  tell  him  to  march  Webb's  regiment 
down  to  Charles  River,  to  cut  off  their 
retreat  from  the  bridge."  Then,  turn- 
ing on  his  side,  he  murmured,  "  Now, 
God  be  praised,  I  will  die  in  peace ; ): 
and  in  a  few  moments  his  gallant  soul 
had  fled. 

Montcalm,  still  on  horseback,  was 
borne  with  the  tide  of  fugitives  towards 
the  town.  As  he  approached  the  walls, 
a  shot  passed  through  his  body.  He 
kept  his  seat ;  two  soldiers  supported 
him,  one«on  each  side,  and  led  his  horse 
through  the  St.  Louis  Gate.  Oil  the 
open  space  within,  among  the  excited 
crowd,  were  several  women,  drawn,  no 
doubt,  by  eagerness  to  know  the  result 
of  the  fight.  One  of  them  recognized 
him,  saw  the  streaming  blood,  and 
shrieked,  "  Oh,  mon  Dieu !  mon  Dieu ! 
le  Marquis  est  tue ! "  "It's  nothing, 
it 's  nothing,"  replied  the  death-stricken 
man.  "  Don't  be  troubled  for  me,  my 
good  friends."  (".Ce  n'est  rien,  ce  n'est 
rien.  Ne  vous  affligez  pas  pour  moi,  mes 
bonnes  amies.") 

Francis  Parkman. 


352 


TJie  Lakes  of  Upper  Italy. 


[September, 


THE  LAKES  OF  UPPER  ITALY. 


I. 


THEY  lie  in  the  lap  of  the  mountains 
like  jewels  dropped  from  the  sky,  and 
Nature  has  lavished  her  love  and  man 
his  labor  on  the  setting.  By  political 
geography  they  belong  in  part  to  Switz- 
erland ;  but  if  there  be  any  force  in  the 
theory  of  natural  boundaries,  the  Alps 
bar  her  claim  with  tremendous  empha- 
sis, and  in  climate,  scenery,  religion, 
custom,  and  speech  they  are  Italian.  No 
sooner  does  the  traveler  by  the  St. 
Gothard  railway  reach  Locarno,  the 
first  station  on  Lago  Maggiore,  than  he 
finds  another  heaven  and  another  earth 
from  those  which  vanished  when  he  en- 
tered the  great  tunnel,  a  few  hours  ear- 
lier. The  mountain  peaks  are  sharper 
and  more  serrate,  the  curves  and  inden- 
tations of  the  shore  more  delicate,  the 
outlines  of  the  landscape  more  finished 
and  perfect ;  the  light  is  at  once  softer 
and  more  splendid,  the  sky  has  a  deeper 
and  more  tender  blue,  the  verdure  is 
richer  and  darker ;  the  very  weeds  give 
the  wayside  the  grace  of  a  garden  run 
wild.  Already,  there  are  terraced  vine- 
yards to  be  seen,  and  vines  trained  over 
a  sort  of  trellised  arbor  called  pergola, 
the  supports  of  which  are  stone,  —  one 
of  the  most  ancient  modes  of  grow- 
ing grapes  in  Italy,  —  and  orange  walks, 
hanging  gardens,  arcades  of  shrubbery, 
walls  of  evergreen,  stone  stairways  and 
balustrades,  pillars,  vases  and  fountains 
among  the  flower  beds,  a  different  cul- 
tivation, a  different  style  of  gardening, 
which  adorns  the  humblest  plot.  The 
gleaming  towns  upon  the  water's  edge 
have  irregular  tiers  of  red-tiled  roofs, 
broken  by  arched  porticoes  in  the  attic 
story,  by  slender  Lombard  bell-towers, 
cupolas,  long,  blank  palace-fronts,  —  a 
different  architecture.  All  this  can  be 
seen  from  Locarno,  which  is  yet  but  a 


poor  place  compared  with  the  towns 
lower  down  the  lake.  It  is  worth  while 
to  stop  there,  though,  to  wash  off  the 
dust  of  the  long  journey  in  great  white 
marble  bath-tubs,  of  antique  form,  filled 
with  cool,  diamond-clear  water,  and  to 
rest  and  attune  the  spirit  to  a  softer  key. 
There  is  a  new  hotel,  a  remarkably  fine 
building,  with  a  lofty  hall  of  entrance, 
from  each  end  of  which  a  marble  stair- 
case leads  to  galleries  with  balusters, 
colonnades  rising  one  above  the  other, 
and  intersecting  long  perspectives,  like 
the  backgrounds  of  Paul  Veronese's 
banquet  pictures  ;  —  a  Palladian  inte- 
rior, every  corridor  ending  in  an  arch 
draped  with  muslin  embroidered  in  Ori- 
ental patterns,  through  which  a  mellow 
picture  of  lake  and  mountain  is  visible. 
At  Locarno,  moreover,  there  is  the 
first  glimpse  of  the  art  of  Lombardy, 
in  which  some  of  the  towns  on  the 
smaller  lakes  are  so  rich,  and  which  has 
adorned  the  entire  region  with  countless 
churches  and  palaces.  The  front  of  the 
Chiesa  Nuova  is  by  Tommaso  Roda- 
ri,  the  foremost  of  three  brothers  who 
have  left  their  mark  on  the  architec- 
ture and  sculpture  of  the  late  fifteenth 
and  early  sixteenth  centuries  through- 
out Northern  Italy.  In  the  pilgrimage 
church  of  the  Madonna  del  Sasso  (Our 
Lady  of  the  Rock),  half  an  hour's  walk 
above  the  town,  the  mild  Luini's  influ- 
ence is  seen  in  an  altar-piece  by  one  of 
his  followers.  I  trudged  up  to  this  sanc- 
tuary one  afternoon,  to  be  rewarded  by 
the  expedition  itself  beyond  my  expec- 
tations, which  were  not  great.  Two  deep 
gorges  bring  down  two  noisy,  demon- 
strative brooks  by  so  precipitous  a  path 
that  the  water  is  ready  to  leap  into  cas- 
cades at  every  step,  until  they  unite  and 
seek  the  lake  together.  Up  the  strip  of 
wooded  rock  between  them,  which  rises 
higher  and  higher,  broadening  until  it 


1884.] 


The  Lakes  of  Upper  Italy. 


353 


joins  the    mountain,  winds  the  way  to 
the  church.     It  is  very  steep  and  laid  in 
cordonate,  a  pavement  of  cobble-stones 
crossed  by  a  curb  at  every  few  feet,  much 
like  a  railway  track,  ballast  and  sleepers, 
without  rails,  raised  to  an  angle  of  sev- 
enty degrees  from  the  level ;  the  curbs 
are  about  as  far  apart  as  cross-ties,  and 
it  is  as  hard  to  walk  either  upon  or  be- 
tween them.  The  pilgrimage  to  the  Ma- 
donna del  Sasso  should  be  made  by  all 
but   penitents    only  after    the    sun  has 
sunk   behind    the    western    mountains. 
It  is  a  pretty  walk,  although  disfigured 
by  the   stations  of   the  cross  at  short 
intervals  ;    the  wayfarer  passes  out  of 
the  village  under  a  long,  vine-wreathed 
pergola,  then  over  a  bridge,  then  up  the 
narrow  hillside,  between  the  ravines,  to 
the  foot  of  the  foundation-walls  of  the 
building,  and  by  a  few  more  sharp  twists 
to  the  solitary  little  stone  piazza  from 
which  he  enters  the  church.     It  dates 
from  a  miraculous   appearance  of    the 
Virgin  four  hundred  years  ago,  but  has 
few  signs  of  its  age  :  within  it  is  as  fresh- 
ly gilded,  painted,  and  frescoed  as  a  hotel 
dining-room,  and  is  in  so  far  a  surprise 
after  the  lonely  scramble  beside  the  bed 
of  the  torrent.     I  reached  it  at  the  hour 
of   the   Ave  Maria.     The   church  was 
empty  save  for  a  woman  and  two  chil- 
dren, who  were  kneeling  together  telling 
their  beads.     There  was  a  murmur  of 
prayers  and  responses   uttered  by  two 
invisible  ministrants  ;  the  voices  seemed 
to  come  from  behind  the  high  altar,  but 
priest  or  acolyte  there  was  none  to  be 
seen.     The  effect  was  so  mysterious  at 
that    sunset    hour    that    the   renovated 
church  grew  venerable  to  the  quickened 
sense  of  awe.    After  the  last  amen,  while 
looking  for  the  Luini  scholar's  painting, 
I  came  upon  a  picture  of  the  Entomb- 
ment,   a  work    of    considerable    beauty 
and  religious  feeling,  by  a  Signer  Ceru- 
si,  of  Florence,  as  my  fellow-worshiper 
told  me.     A  modern  picture  from  our 
Saviour's    history,    painted  with    talent 
and  skill,  yet  reverently,  and  hidden  in 
VOL.  LIV.  —  NO.  323.  23 


a  side-chapel  of  this  inaccessible  and  un- 
visited  little  church,  was  a  strange  thing 
and  worth  coming  to  find.  The  view  of 
the  lake  from  the  steps  is  fine,  and  still 
better  from  a  little  pillared  side-porch, 
which  looks  as  if  it  were  the  oldest  part 
of  the  building,  and  overhangs  the  land- 
scape like  the  parapet  of  a  castle.  The 
scene  was  very  lovely :  the  peaks  were 
pale  rose-color,  and  a  bluish  moisture, 
like  the  dew  on  dark  grapes,  rested  upon 
the  surface  of  the  lake. 

There  is  an  older  and  more  interest- 
ing church  on  the  outskirts  of  the  town, 
near  the  railway  station,  bearing  an  in- 
delible stamp  of  long-past  times,  not- 
withstanding many  restorations.  Set 
into  the  side  of  its  rough  square  tower 
is  a  fine  equestrian  statue  of  St.  Victor 
in  alto-rilievo  of  the  quattro  cento,  a  stiff 
but  striking  figure,  distinguished  by 
the  unsophisticated  genius  of  that  age, 
which  lost  its  simplicity  so  rapidly  in 
the  following  century.  On  each  side 
of  the  principal  doorway  there  is  an 
inscription  of  startling  import.  One  is 
in  memory  of  Margherita  Paganetti, 
"  sweet,  loyal,  tender,  an  angel  of  con- 
solation to  the  poor,  the  delight  of  her 
husband,  the  dearest  hope  of  her  chil- 
dren, who  in  the  forty-second  year  of 
her  age  fell  a  victim  to  the  most  detest- 
able treachery  ;  her  last  articulate  ac- 
cents being,  '  Pardon.' :  The  other  is 
to  Giovanni  Battista  Giacometti,  "  a 
patrician  of  -ZEschina,  disideratissimo  per 
pieta  e  schietezza,  a  true  master  of  arts 
and  learning,  who  died  a  violent  death. 
.  .  .  The  prayers  of  his  widow  and  sons 
are  offered  for  his  undaunted  soul  "  (pro 
anima  sua  intemerata).  As  the  church 
is  in  a  sequestered  situation,  although 
the  haunts  of  men  are  not  far  off,  and 
from  the  spot  where  the  traveler  reads 
these  ominous  tablets  he  can  see  only 
high  walls  shutting  in  lonely  roads,  it 
gives  him  a  shudder  to  learn  from  the 
last  lines  of  the  inscriptions  that  the 
victims  met  their  fate  little  more  than 
thirty  years  ago,  which  is  not  reassuring 


354 


The  Lakes  of  Upper  Italy. 


[September, 


as  to  modern  manners  in  the  neighbor- 
hood ;  if  he  is  a  man  of  imagination  he 
goes  away  a  little  faster  than  he  came. 

Yet  this  is  only  Locarno,  the  thresh- 
old of  the  Italian  lake  region,  and  few 
people  will  be  tempted  to  stop  there 
more  than  a  night.  The  little  steamboats, 
which  make  the  round  of  the  lake  three 
times  a  day,  lose  half  the  usual  vulgar- 
ity of  their  species  by  the  leisurely  way 
in  which  they  move  from  point  to  point ; 
crossing  and  recrossing,  touching  at 
every  small  town,  or  pausing  a  little  out 
from  shore  while  a  clumsy  boat,  with  a 
white  awning  on  hoops,  like  a  Conesto- 
ga  wagon,  pulls  off  from  the  wharf  to 
exchange  passengers.  The  motley  crowd 
on  deck  is  not  vulgar,  either,  until  Sep- 
tember brings  the  full  tide  of  travel. 
At  one  place  three  peasant  women,  two 
of  them  handsome,  clamber  on  board 
from  the  row-boat :  one  wears  a  bright 
flowered  headkerchief,  another  a  black 
lace  veil ;  the  third  is  bare-headed,  and 
her  thick  coil  of  plats  is  stuck  about 
close  with  big,  flat,  round-headed  silver 
skewers,  forming  an  obscure  halo  to  her 
Madonna-like  face.  The  next  passengers 
may  be  a  party  of  tourists,  not  unpic- 
turesque,  with  sun-hats  wrapped  in  mus- 
lin pugarees,  Chinese  silk  coats  and  um- 
brellas, alpenstocks,  and  bunches  of  wild 
flowers.  Then  a  couple  of  black-robed, 
broad-brimmed  priests  come  aboard. 

At  the  little  quays  many  Italian  hu- 
mors are  to  be  studied  :  men  and  women 
meet  and  embrace  fondly,  or  part  kiss- 
ing and  weeping  without  constraint,  al- 
though the  journey  one  of  them  is  to 
take  is  no  further  than  to  the  opposite 
shore.  At  one  landing  I  saw  a  lean, 
haggard  old  man,  of  shabby-genteel  as- 
pect, with  a  white  handkerchief  in  his 
hand,  lean  over  the  rail,  looking  intently 
at  the  steamboat ;  the  white  handker- 
chief was  an  unusual  refinement,  col- 
ored cotton  ones  being  universally  used 
by  the  poorer  middle  class.  He  seemed 
to  be  counting  the  passengers,  for  as  his 
.eyes  moved  along  the  deck  he  nodded 


and  his  lips  moved  incessantly.  Sud- 
denly, as  we  cast  off,  he  caught  sight  of 
somebody,  for  whom  perhaps  he  had 
been  looking,  and  in  an  instant  his  face 
arid  person  expressed  the  maddest  ha- 
tred. He  hissed,  spat,  shook  his  fingers, 
stuck  them  into  his  mouth,  made  the 
sign  against  the  evil  eye,  while  his  poor 
withered  features  and  limbs  writhed  and 
quivered  with  rage.  As  we  receded  he 
turned  from  the  pier  and  tottered  to- 
wards the  town,  shaking  his  head  and 
burying  his  face  in  the  conspicuous 
handkerchief.  The  necessity  of  Italians 
for  expressing  the  emotion  of  the  mo- 
ment and  their  unconcern  about  look- 
ers-on give  every-day  life  among  them 
a  dramatic  interest  for  us  of  a  colder- 
blooded  and  more  reticent  race.  One 
never  knows  what  tragedy  or  comedy 
may  be  enacted  before  one's  eyes  at  any 
minute. 

An  hour  after  leaving  Locarno  the 
lake  is  in  view  in  the  utmost  length  and 
breadth  that  can  be  seen  from  any  point. 
It  is  majestic  among  its  grand,  encom- 
passing mountains,  which  crowd  closer 
as  we  advance ;  the  nearer  ones  dark 
green,  the  further  ones  purple.  As  we 
traverse  the  water  from  shore  to  shore 
snow-peaks  rise  into  sight,  hiding  them- 
selves behind  intervening  crests  when 
the  boat  draws  near  land.  I  am  writing 
of  a  day  near  the  end  of  August,  almost 
the  only  time  I  felt  excessive  heat  in 
this  part  of  Italy.  The  sky  blazed  like 
a  burnished  reflector,  the  lake  glowed 
like  molten  silver  and  the  shore  like  a 
furnace,  but  the  cool  breath  of  the  in- 
visible ice-mountains  tempered  the  at- 
mosphere. Amidst  the  incandescence 
we  passed  a  grassy  islet  covered  with 
small  trees,  called  Isola  dei  Conigli  (Co- 
ney Island !),  showing  some  prosaic  ruins 
above  the  verdure,  but  uninhabited  now 
even  by  the  feeble  folk  from  whom  it 
takes  its  name.  On  the  neighboring 
heights  there  are  ruined  castles,  always 
strong  adjuncts  to  scenery  ;  one  of  them, 
as  well  as  the  hi'.l  it  stands  upon,  claims 


1884.] 


The  Lakes  of  Upper  Italy. 


355 


the  archangel  Michael  for  sponsor.  War- 
like Italians  in  the  Middle  Ages  swore 
by  the  sword  of  St.  Michael,  and  these 
waters  and  marges  must  often  have  re- 
echoed the  oath ;  for  they  have  a  long, 
bloody  history,  beginning  with  the  Gauls 
and  not  ending  with  Garibaldi.  One 
cares  little  for  dates  arid  facts  in  Italy ; 
the  enjoyment  of  the  moment  asks  and 
gains  nothing  directly  from  association  ; 
there,  as  everywhere  else  in  Central 
Europe,  natural  beauty  is  enhanced  by 
the  mere  consciousness  of  a  great  past. 
It  is  worth  recalling,  however,  that  Fred- 
eric Barbarossa  abode  in  more  than  one 
of  those  crumbling  piles,  and  that  two 
hundred  years  before  his  day  the  small 
town  of  Maccagno  was  known  as  Corte 
Irnperiale,  in  honor  of  the  great  emper- 
or Otho,  who  sojourned  there  during  a 
campaign  against  the  Lombard  King 
Berenger  II.  Maccagno  is  extreme- 
ly picturesque,  fit  to  be  put  upon  the 
sketching  block  as  it  stands  :  a  gray 
tower  overtopping  a  yellow  Renaissance 
church,  built  on  a  table  rock  rising  from 
the  lake,  with  a  front  broken  by  two 
irregular,  ivied  arches,  its  southern  side 
bristling  with  aloes.  Before  this  picture 
had  grown  dim  on  my  mind  another  came 
into  sight.  Standing  out  against  the 
dark  green,  thickly  wooded  slopes  above 
Cannero,  the  ruins  of  two  castles  emerge 
from  the  water  close  together :  one  is 
formidable  even  in  dilapidation  ;  the  oth- 
er and  the  stone  on  which  it  stands  are 
so  small  that  they  look  like  a  fragment 
of  the  original  rock  and  fort,  which 
have  been  cut  off  from  it  by  a  rise  in 
the  lake.  They  were  always  two,  how- 
ever, and  were  built  in  the  very  begin- 
ning of  the  fifteenth  century  by  five 
brothers  named  Mazzarda,  sons  of  a 
butcher.  They  called  their  stronghold 
Malpaga,  Ill-Toll,  and  held  the  shores  in 
terror,  waging  a  piratical  warfare  against 
the  inhabitants  and  everybody  who  ven- 
tured upon  the  waters.  They  kept  their 
sway  for  ten  years,  every  attempt  to 
dislodge  them  failing,  until  the  unhappy 


villagers  appealed  to  Filippo  Visconti, 
Duke  of  Milan,  who  came  to  the  rescue 
with  a  flotilla  and  four  hundred  men-at- 
arms.  Even"  then  the  robbers'  kennel 
was  not  carried  by  assault,  but  was 
starved  out  after  a  two  years'  siege.  The 
place  was  impregnable,  in  fact,  for  one 
of  the  later  Visconti  was  besieged  there 
in  1523,  and  after  some  months  the  as- 
sailants were  forced  to  withdraw. 

The  contrast  between  these  violent 
scenes  and  the  theatre  on  which  they 
were  enacted  helps  to  throw  them  into 
remote  distance.  The  physiognomy  of 
the  lake  grows  more  smiling,  the  vege- 
tation more  luxuriant  and  southern,  at 
every  landing.  The  cypress,  that  most 
distinctively  meridional  tree  and  strong- 
est feature  of  the  Italian  landscape,  be- 
gins to  appear  among  the  masses  of  foli- 
age, standing  up  as  solid  in  form  and  col- 
or as  a  tree  cut  in  stone,  but  soft  as  fur 
to  the  eye.  Light-tinted  towns,  each  with 
its  tall,  slender  church-tower,  are  perched 
along  the  mountain  sides,  from  the  base 
to  the  top,  and  many  a  solitary  convent 
and  shrine.  The  finest  point  of  the 
voyage  is  between  Intra  and  Baveno, 
where  the  snow  range  of  the  Mischabel 
Alpine  group  is  suddenly  manifest  as  one 
looks  skyward  to  the  west,  and  the  lake 
divides  into  the  two  great  bays  of  Arona 
and  Pallanza,  the  latter  strewn  with 
garden  isles.  Behind  Pallanza  the  moun- 
tains stand  back  on  each  hand,  and  re- 
veal Monte  Rosa  drawing  a  snow  mantle 
over  his  black  shoulders.  Baveno  and 
Stresa  are  also  upon  this  bay,  and  great 
rivalry  exists  between  the  three  towns, 
which  are  the  favorite  halting  places  on 
Lago  Maggiore.  Travelers  who  have 
stayed  at  only  one  of  them  become  vio- 
lent partisans  of  that  one.  Knowing 
them  all  well,  I  prefer  Stresa,  partly 
because  the  town  is  smaller  than  either 
of  the  others,  and  its  best  hotel,  the  lies 
Borromees,  stands  beyond  the  last  houses 
in  its  own  pretty  grounds  ;  still  more 
because  from  this  point  of  view  the 
Borromean  islands  "  compose  "  better, 


356 


The  Lakes  of  Upper  Italy. 


[September, 


as  painters  say,  on  one  hand  with  the 
curve  in  which  Pallanza  stands,  with  its 
long,  bright  lines  of  houses  and  multi- 
tudinous red  roofs,  and  on  the  other 
with  the  frowning,  many-peaked  Sasso 
di  Ferro.  the  highest  mountain  on  the 
lake. 

The  islands  are  the  regalia  of  Lago 
Maggiore.  There  are  five  in  the  Bor- 
romean  group,  none  of  which  is  more 
than  a  quarter  of  an  hour's  row  from 
the  next  in  order.  Isola  San  Giovanni 
is  so  near  Pallanza  that  nothing  could 
be  easier  than  to  join  them  by  a  bridge. 
It  is  a  mere  bouquet  on  a  rock ;  there  is 
just  space  enough  for  a  garden  and  a 
summer-house,  but  it  is  disfigured  by  an 
ugly  villa,  which  Count  Borromeo  has 
built  within  a  few  years,  —  to  spoil  the 
prospect  from  the  Grand  Hotel,  it  is 
said,  in  revenge  for  the  proprietor's  add- 
ing a  story  to  his  house,  and  so  shut- 
ting out  the  mountains  from  the  count's 
pretty  casino  on  the  island.  Tsola  dei 
Pescatori  (Fishermen's  Island)  is  about 
fifteen  minutes  by  row-boat  from  Bave- 
no,  and-  is  entirely  covered  by  a  fishing 
village.  It  is  a  delightful  object :  an  ir- 
regular cluster  of  houses,  of  cheerful  yet 
subdued  tints,  —  dark  red,  pale  yellow, 
gray-white,  —  festooned  with  vines  and 
creepers,  low  upon  the  blue  water,  with 
a  background  of  grave-toned  mountains. 
At  one  end  there  is  a  quay,  with  a  little 
beach,  where  the  fishing-boats  are  drawn 
up  in  line  as  the  sun  goes  down ;  at  the 
other,  a  little  green  with  half  a  dozen 
trees,  beneath  which  the  population,  from 
three  to  four  hundred  souls,  dry  their 
nets  and  take  the  evening  air ;  they  must 
take  it  turn  about,  as  there  is  not  room 
for  half  of  them.  Despite  the  near- 
ness of  the  village  to  the  main-land,  it 
has  so  truly  isolated  an  aspect,  —  cooped 
within  walls,  moreover,  as  if  the  limits 
of  the  rock  were  not  narrow  enough,  — 

O      ' 

that  I  was  surprised  to  see  two  or  three 
houses  of  rather  elegant  appearance,  al- 
though not  large,  with  embroidered  mus- 
lin window-curtains  and  balconies  full 


of  flowers.     My  boatman  told  me  that 
they  belong  to  men  of  the  island  who, 
having   made    fortunes  elsewhere  (one 
of  them  in   Manchester,  England,  as  a 
picture  dealer),  have  come  back  to  spend 
the  rest  of  their  days  upon  their  native 
pebble,  and  have  built  themselves  "  pal- 
aces,"  as   he    termed    their    dwellings. 
The  picture  dealer  has  kept  a  precious 
Poussin  for  himself,  the  joy  of  his  old 
age,  and  hoards  it  in  his  palace.     Noth- 
ing, not  even  the  stories  of  the  Green- 
landers'  mortal  home-sickness,  is  a  more 
singular    and    touching    proof    of    the 
strength  of  that  passion  which  we  call 
love  of  country  than  the  return  of  these 
wealthy  people  to   imprison   themselves 
in  an  unsavory  hamlet  which  they  might 
almost  cover  with  a  fishing-net. 

A  furlong  from  Isola  dei  Pescatori 
there  is  a  heap  of  stones,  whereon  two 
or  three  slim  willows  wave  their  branches 
above  a  tuft  of  forget-me-nots ;  nobody 
has  troubled  himself  to  name  it,  but  it  is 
an  excellent  place  to  set  up  an  easel.  It 
lies  midway  between  Isola  dei  Pescatori 
and  the  famous  Isola  Bella,  the  most 
overrated  and  berated  island  on  the 
globe  except  Albion. 

Isola  Bella  looks  scarce  ten  acres  in 
extent,  but  gains  room  by  its  height  above 
the  water,  being  terraced  and  every  inch 
of  its  surface  turned  to  account.  Ou 
near  approach  by  steamboat  from  Pal- 
lanza, the  north  end  is  seen  first ;  and 
it  is  ugly,  for  nothing  is  visible  except 
a  palace  front  divided  by  a  four-story 
bow,  unfinished  yet  ruinous,  and  two 
big,  square  wings  which  might  belong  to 
a  shabby  hotel.  Next  appears  a  mean 
seventeenth-century  church  and  a  hud- 
dle of  dirty  little  houses,  most  of  them 
drinking-shops,  directly  at  the  entrance 
of  the  palace,  and  sticking  like  limpets 
to  the  base  of  the  hanging-gardens.  The 
Borromei  have  their  private  landing 
and  a  magnificent  flight  of  granite  steps, 
by  which  they  avoid  actually  passing 
through  the  squalor  ;  but  everybody  else 
must  do  so  as  the  public  landing-place  is 


1884.] 


The  Lakes  of  Upper  Italy. 


357 


in  the  midst  of  it.  The  fishermen  who 
inhabit  the  purlieu  have  ancient  rights 
of  tenure,  which  they  maintained  against 
their  noble  landlord  some  years  ago, 
when  he  tried  to  dislodge  them.  They 
had  settled  there  before  modern  notions 
had  taught  the  cleaner  classes  to  consider 

O 

such  neighbors  as  a  nuisance ;  they  were 
there,  in  fact,  before  the  palace,  and  they 
have  the  right  to  stay.  The  latter  is  a 
monstrous  barrack,  tasteless  and  com- 
fortless, containing  fine  halls  and  galler- 
ies and  some  sparse  magnificence,  no 
doubt ;  it  is  placarded  inside  arid  out 
with  the  coronet  of  the  family  and  the 
motto  Humilitas,  a  bequest  from  San 
Carlo,  Cardinal  Borromoeus  and  Arch- 
bishop of  Milan.  There  is  quite  a  col- 
lection of  pictures,  few  of  them  good ; 
a  Luini,  a  Gaudenzio  Ferrari,  and  two 
or  three  of  the  Venetian  school,  which 
one  guesses  to  be  fine,  are  too  ill  hung 
and  lighted  to  be  really  seen.  The  un- 
willing attendant,  who  takes  your  money 
but  shows  you  that  he  looks  upon  you  as 
an  intruder,  and  has  neither  time  nor 
information  to  bestow  upon  you,  cannot 
tell  you  the  painters'  names,  and  the 
ink  of  the  catalogues  which  lie  on  the 
tables  is  so  faded  that  they  are  often 
illegible.  The  views  from  the  windows 

O 

are  the  best  pictures  in  the  place.  On 
the  ground-floor  there  is  a  suite  of  six 

o 

or  seven  low  rooms,  exactly  alike,  in 
imitation  of  grottoes,  with  false  rock- 
work,  false  shell-work,  false  stalactites, 
and  false  coral,  a  fantastic  piece  of  bad 
taste.  They  open  on  a  series  of  arcades, 
loftier  but  in  the  same  style,  which  are 
redeemed  by  an  unexpected,  enchanting 
glimpse  of  gardens  at  the  end  of  a  long 
vista.  The  grounds  are  older  than  the 
palace,  as  the  plan  of  the  first  Borromeo 
who  owned  the  island  was  to  make  a 
pleasaunce  with  merely  a  pavilion.  Al- 
though they  are  formal  and  artificial  to 
the  last  degree,  the  statues,  staircases, 
and  terraces  lend  them  a  grand  air, 
while  the  luxuriance  and  rareness  of 
the  bloom  and  foliage  and  the  exqui- 


site outlook  on  every  side  bewilder  the 
senses.     On  the  side  towards  Pallanza 
there  is  a  noble  group  of  pines.     The 
deep  seriousness  of  their  shade  height- 
ens the  joyous  expression  of  the  sunny 
lake  the  distant,  smiling  town,  and  the 
rich -colored   mountains    seen    between 
the  great  columnar  trunks.     On  the  op- 
posite side  the  same  grade  is  occupied 
by  a  grove  of  fifty  large  magnolia-trees. 
Glimmering  reflections  from  the  water 
play  among   their   dark,  glossy,  russet- 
lined  umbrage,  filling  the  place  with  lam- 
bent lights,  and  flicker  upon  ivory,  cup- 
shaped  blossoms,  which  linger  here  and 
there  even  at  the  end  of  summer.     The 
huge,  cavernous  arches  which  support  the 
lowermost  terrace  are  divided  from  each 
other  by  gigantic  intertwisted  wisterias 
and  Virginia  creepers,  and  are  curtained 
by   masses    of    ivy    hanging   from   the 
vaults ;  each  recess  forms  a  shelter  for 
a  clump  of  tall  palms  and  other  tropi- 
cal plants.    The  boughs  of  orange  and 
lemon  trees  lean   over  from  the  upper 
grades,  golden  with  fruit.     The  shape 
of  this  big  ten-terraced  pyramid,  rising 
in  the  centre  of  the  gardens  and  filling 

O  O 

two  thirds  of  the  area,  is  softened  by 
the  growth  which  mantles  its  lines  and 
angles,  and  by  lights  and  shadows  which 
tremble  over  it  in  a  constant  caress.  As 
one  rows  round  the  southern  end  of  the 
island  its  beauty  cannot  be  denied,  but 
at  a  little  distance  its  likeness  to  a  wed- 
ding-cake —  a  comparison  which  has 
been  applied  to  both  the  cathedral  of 
Milan  and  Isola  Bella  —  is  also  unde- 
niable ;  it  looks  still  more  like  the  altar 
of  a  modern  Roman  Catholic  church, 
with  tiers  of  flower-vases  and  images. 

The  queen  of  the  group  is  Isola  Madre, 
lying  in  the  middle  of  the  bay  of  Pal- 
lanza; half  an  hour's  pull  from  either 
shore  ;  larger,  higher,  and  more  irregular 
in  outline  than  the  others,  yet  keeping 
the  dimensions  of  a  fairy  kingdom.  The 
steep  sides  are  thickly  wooded,  but  the 
woods  are  opened  in  every  direction 
by  winding  foot-paths  or  broad  gravel- 


358 


The  Lakes  of  Upper  Italy. 


[September, 


walks,  leading  through  myrtle  shrubbery, 
to  sudden  views  of  the  lake  and  moun- 
tains ;  by  green  glades  starred  with  wild 
flowers ;  by  stately  balustraded  stone 
stairways  without  steps,  sloping  from 
the  villa  and  gardens  down  through 
dark,  shining  walls  of  laurel  to  a  grand 
gateway  on  the  water,  surmounted  by 
aloes  and  fern  palms.  This  entrance  is 
at  the  principal  landing,  and  is  not  open 
to  strangers,  who  come  ashore  at  a  flat 
rock  and  climb  to  a  postern-gate,  by 
which  they  gain  access  to  the  terraces. 
These  are  unusually  broad,  and  bordered 
by  orange  and  lemon  trees  on  one  hand, 
and  on  the  other  by  wonderful  olean- 
ders, great  bushy  trees  bending  under 
a  load  of  rose-colored,  almond-scented 
blossoms.  Several  stages  like  this  lead 
up  to  a  little  plateau  brilliant  with  flow- 
er-beds, like  a  jeweler's  showcase,  on 
which  stands  a  small  palace,  turning  to- 
wards the  lake  a  long,  flat,  pale  yellow 
facade,  with  rows  of  square  windows. 
It  opens  on  the  garden  by  a  beautiful 
two-story  loggia,  or  portico,  three  arches 
supported  on  pillars  of  elegant  propor- 
tions ;  a  high  recess  on  each  side  the 
door  being  used  as  a  fernery.  The 
lovely  sites  on  this  little  domain  are 
inexhaustible  ;  in  many  long  visits  I  al- 
ways discovered  new  ones.  The  own- 
ers never  occupy  the  casino,  and  the 
grounds  are  a  nursery  garden  for  exotic 
trees,  some  of  them  extremely  rare  and 
fine.  One  of  the  most  charming  resting- 
places  is  a  light  iron  balcony  inclosing  a 
square  of  gravel  as  large  as  an  ordinary 
drawing  -  room,  furnished  with  garden 
tables  and  chairs,  roofed  by  the  branches 
of  a  superb  Australian  fir,  and  over- 
hanging thickets  of  rhododendrons,  with 
an  outlook  across  the  water  to  Pallanza, 
which  at  a  distance  is  the  prettiest*  town 
on  the  lake.  Another  is  a  stone  balcony 
projecting  over  the  water,  with  stone 
table  and  seats  of  such  classic  models 
that  they  are  worthy  of  an  ancient  tem- 
ple ;  two  great  magnolia-trees  form  a 
canopy,  and  frame  a  view  of  the  dark 


Sassodi  Ferro,  hollowed  out  by  primeval 
volcano-throes  into  the  shape  of  a  rude 
crown.  More  beautiful  than  either  of 
these  is  an  ivy  arbor,  centuries  old,  of 
gnarled,  knotted  stems  and  leafage  im- 
pervious to  rain  or  sunshine.  It  stands 
at  the  head  of  a  steep,  narrow  flight  of 
steps,  walled  in  by  glossy  evergreens, 
and  lightly  tunneled  over  by  trumpet- 
creeper,  wisteria,  and  white  roses,  end- 
ing in  a  dazzle  of  water  and  a  glimpse 
of  distant  steeps,  partly  wooded,  partly 
covered  by  a  rosy-lilac  growth  which 
overspreads  them  in  August.  The  com- 
bination of  orange  -  colored  bignonias 
and  the  lavender  bunches  of  the  glycene 
with  cascades  of  white  roses  is  a  favorite 
device  of  the  gardeners  in  this  region. 
Although  the  prime  of  the  wisterias 
and  magnolias  is  in  the  spring,  they 
flower  profusely  in  August  and  Sep- 
tember. From  the  moment  the  season 
opens  until  winter  sets  its  seal  on  the 
plants  again  they  seem  to  feel  the  joy 
of  existence,  and  bloom  and  bloom  as  if 
for  the  mere  pleasure  of  it. 

This  luxuriance  belongs  to  the  lake 
shore  as  well  as  to  the  islands,  and  the 
former  has  beauties  of  its  own.  For 
more  than  twenty  miles  it  is  skirted  on 
one  hand  by  a  fine  cornice  road,  with 
villas,  or  wooded  slopes,  or  cliffs  tufted 
with  herbage  and  wild  flowers,  whence 
trickle  cool  rills,  and  on  the  other  by  a 
low  parapet  and  granite  telegraph  shafts, 
ashes  of  roses  in  color,  from  the  quarries 
near  Baveno,  which  cut  the  prospect 
into  a  series  of  pictures.  The  climate 
is  delightful  for  a  person  who  likes  warm 
weather :  the  sun  is  very  hot,  but  there 
is  a  perpetual  cool,  light  breeze,  pure 
and  refreshing,  which  one  tastes  as  if 
it  were  spring  water,  in  walking  and 
driving,  even  in  the  heat  of  the  day. 
In  a  boat  the  refraction  is  oppressive 
from  noon  till  an  hour  before  sun- 
set, but  the  lake  road  is  shaded  after 
midday  by  high  banks  and  rocks  to 
landward.  I  have  been  out  on  foot  for 
hours  between  breakfast  and  five  o'clock 


1884.] 


The  Lakes  of  Upper  Italy. 


359 


in  the  afternoon  without  wishing  the 
temperature  a  degree  lower,  arid  becom- 
ing more  convinced  at  every  step  that 
it  is  a  mistake  to  come  to  Italy  in  au- 
tumn and  winter  rather  than  when  it  is 
in  the  flower  and  fervor  of  summer. 
It  does  not  often  rain  on  the  lakes 

0 

in  August  and  September,  according  to 
my  experience :  and  this  is  fortunate,  for 
sunlight  is  essential  to  bring  out  the 
marvelous  colors  of  the  landscape  and 
water,  which  are  seen  at  their  best  un- 
der a  perfectly  clear  sky  ;  then  the  up- 
per portion  of  Lago  Maggiore  is  sea- 
green,  and  the  lower  and  larger  expanse 
sea-blue.  But  every  change  of  weather 
gives  it  a  new  character.  There  are  days 
when  large  white  clouds  are  floating 
high  in  the  air,  and  the  lake  rolls  white 
and  cerulean  in  alternate,  undefined 
sheets.  Under  the  lowering  masses  of 
cloud  which  sometimes  gather  towards 
sunset  the  expression  of  the  scenery 
alters  entirely  :  every  soft  feature  dis- 
appears ;  harsh  cliffs,  unnoticed  before, 
start  into  sight ;  the  bays  and  headlands 
sternly  wait  for  the  burst  of  wrath  from 
that  realm  of  awful  summits,  abysses, 
and  eternal  snow  beyond  the  nearer 
mountains  ;  *  the  latter  take  a  wild, 
changed,  confused  mien,  as  if  uncertain 
of  the  part  they  are  to  play  in  the  com- 
ing strife.  When  this  begins  after  twi- 
light it  is  tremendous  indeed,  with  blind- 
ing flashes  and  darkness  to  which  the 
intervening  darkness  of  night  is  like 
dawn ;  the  thunder  sounds  as  if  it  were 
rolling  down  from  the  mountains  upon 
the  villages,  with  crashes  and  reverber- 
ations, echoing  and  reechoing,  until  the 
endless  repetitions  are  lost  in  a  new  de- 
tonation, while  torrents  of  rain  threaten 
to  make  the  lake  overflow.  After  this  up- 
roar, the  next  day  sometimes  comes  in 
splendid  and  fleckless  ;  but  sometimes  it 
is  overcast,  and  the  clouds,  having  lost 
their  fierceness,  hang  low  and  lazy  upon 
the  hillsides,  while  the  lake  is  a  soft, 
even  gray,  on  which  the  islands  lie  as 
clear  as  painting  on  porcelain.  Then 


the  fishing-boats  come  out  in  shoals,  — 
clumsy,  picturesque  barks,  with  hoops 
for  awnings,  which  are  never  up,  but 
leave  the  frame  bare,  like  the  ribs  of  a 
wrecked  craft  inverted.  Now  and  then 
a  larger  vessel  passes,  bearing  a  big 
tan-colored  sail  and  an  ungainly  oar- 
shaped  rudder  in  a  swivel,  as  long  as  a 
mast,  bound  on  a  merchant  cruise  to 
distant  towns. 

The  bay  of  Arona  is  the  least  beauti- 
ful and  striking  limb  of  Lago  Maggiore. 
As  one  approaches  the  foot  of  the  lake 
the  mountains  recede,  the  hills  are  lower 
and  rounder,  the  shore  is  tamer  in  out- 
line. Near  Meina,  a  lovely,  slim  white 
waterfall  slips  down  through  a  gorge, 
but  in  very  dry  weather  it  disappears. 
Further  down  there  is  a  bronze  statue 
of  San  Carlo  Borromeo,  about  a  hun- 
dred and  twenty  feet  high,  including  the 
pedestal,  —  a  preposterous  production 
of  the  latter  part  of  the  seventeenth 
century.  It  stands  on  a  hillock  on  the 
mountain  side,  and  is  ridiculous  from 
every  point  of  view :  there  is  one  from 
which  the  saint  looks  as  if  he  were  peer- 
ing down  the  chimney  of  the  convent  at 
his  feet.  The  ruined  castle  of  Arona, 
wrapped  in  ivy,  and  the  mediaeval  fortifi- 
cations of  Angera,  on  the  opposite  head- 
land, lend  some  character  to  the  end  of 
the  voyage,  but  its  charm  is  gone. 

Making  my  headquarters  at  Stresa,  I 
lounged  about  the  neighborhood  on  foot, 
or  in  a  pony  carriage,  —  a  lucky  find,  — 
for  a  week  or  more  in  two  successive 
years,  making  acquaintance  with  new 
scenes  daily,  and  meeting  with  various 
little  incidents  on  my  walks  and  drives. 
The  record  of  these  wanderings  made  at 
the  time  probably  has  more  of  the  first 
freshness  of  my  impressions  than  a  care- 
fully prepared  account  of  them  would 
preserve. 

"August  11,  1882.  Walked  in  the 
afternoon  to  Belgirate,  a  town  four  or 
five  miles  from  Stresa,  towards  the  lower 
end  of  the  lake.  Turned  off  the  dusty, 
white  road  into  the  beautiful  Villa  Palla- 


360 


The  Lakes  of  Upper  Italy. 


[September, 


vicini,  full  of  great  masses  of  shade  and 
deep,  grotto-like  shrubbery  walks ;  on 
one  lawn  there  was  an  acre  of  hydran- 
geas, so  closely  covered  with  azure  flow- 
ers that  through  intervening  trees  it 
looked  like  a  glimpse  of  sky  or  water. 
Along  the  road  the  dark  laurel  hedges 
of  the  villas  are  overtopped  by  oleanders 
stooping  under  the  weight  of  their  Can- 
ton-crape blossoms,  roseate,  white,  and 
pale  pink,  which  are  seen  from  below 
against  the  velvet-blue  sky.  The  trum- 
pet-creeper flaines  up  the  white  walls 
with  a  violence  of  flowering  and  color 
inconceivable  even  in  our  country,  where 
it  blooms  so  abundantly.  Things  have 
a  joy  of  life  in  this  land.  Rested  at  a 
wayside  stone  terrace  above  the  lake, 
with  stone  seats  under  a  thick  awning 
of  clipped  locust-trees,  —  a  halting-place 
for  pedestrians.  A  peasant  and  his 
wife  were  passing,  and  I  called  them  to 
sit  by  me.  They  did  not  complain  of 
the  sufferings  of  their  class,  although 
they  said  that  work  is  scarce,  that  wages 
are  scanty,  the  necessaries  of  life  too 
high,  the  taxes  too  heavy,  and  that  bad 
years  produce  great  misery.  There  have 
now  been  two  such  years  running,  and 
the  harvest,  which  promised  plenty,  is  be- 
ing destroyed  by  the  drought.  But  they 
told  me  that  the  government  tax  on  the 
grist  which  went  to  the  mill  had  been 
taken  off,  causing  great  relief.  .  .  .  Took 
a  boat  from  Belgirate  back  to  Stresa, 

O  ' 

an  hour's  row.  My  boatman  was  an 
ex-soldier,  and  a  person  of  many  re- 
sources, I  suspect.  He  had  been  over 
the  Monte  Motterone  the  day  before  as 
guide  to  a  Milanese  gentleman,  an  eight- 
een hours'  tramp  there  and  back.  He 
said  that  the  work  which  pays  best  is 
on  the  railways,  two  lire  (less  than  half 
a  dollar)  a  day,  from  six  A.  M.  to  six 
p.  M.,  with  two  hours'  rest ;  for  agri- 
cultural labor  the  wages  are  one  lira  a 
day,  —  about  twenty-two  cents  ;  a  sol- 
dier's pay  is  less  than  half  a  lira  and 
no  rations.  People  can't  live  on  that, 
he  said :  it  is  barely  enough  for  a  man 


alone ;  if  he  be  married,  impossible. 
But  he  added  that  it  was  no  worse  than 
it  had  always  been  in  his  recollection; 
that  everybody  got  meat  on  holidays  (I 
do  not  know  whether  this  included  Sun- 
days), and  wine  once  a  week,  at  least. 
He  then  unblushingly  asked  four  lire  for 
rowing  me  to  Stresa  —  and  got  it.  ... 
The  King  of  Italy  was  at  Stresa  to-day 
to  see  the  Marchese  Raf>allo,  second 
husband  of  his  aunt,  the  Duchess  of 
Genoa,  whose  villa  gardens  adjoin  those 
of  this  hotel.  He  went  and  came  very 
quietly  in  a  special  steamboat,  which 
had  nothing  to  distinguish  it  except 
that  it  carried  a  handsome  flag  and  a 
crew  dressed  in  white.  A  small  crowd 
assembled  at  the  landing  to  see  him 
come  and  go,  but  there  was  not  a  single 
cheer." 

"  August  14th.  Gray  day,  close  but 
not  oppressive,  with  random  gleams  of 
sunshine.  Set  out  at  half  past  nine  in 
the  morning  for  the  lake  of  Orta,  driv- 
ing myself  in  a  basket  phaeton,  with  the 
courier  in  the  rumble.  The  road  fol- 
lows the  lake  for  some  miles,  past  the 
base  of  Monte  Motterone  with  its  chest- 
nut woods  and  the  rose-colored  granite 
quarries  of  Baveno.  At  the  small  town 
of  Gravellona,  where  a  milestone  an- 
nounces that  the  Simplon  route  begins, 
I  turned  westward  and  struck  into  a 
narrow  green  vale,  shut  in  by  craggy 
mountains.  The  way  was  lonely  for 
about  half  an  hour ;  then  I  passed  sev- 
eral villages  drawn  out  on  each  side  of 
the  road,  and  picturesque  in  spite  of 
themselves.  There  were  several  conse- 
quential-looking little  houses,  with  gate- 
posts surmounted  by  grotesque,  dwarfish 
stone  figures  of  men  and  women,  unlike 
anything  else  I  have  seen  in  this  or  any 
other  country.  They  are  conceptions  of 
a  clumsy  humor,  like  the  offspring  of 
Dutch  or  German  genius,  and  I  cannot 
help  referring  their  origin  to  Teutonic 
invasion  and  occupation,  of  which  many 
traces  remain  in  this  region.  I  recog- 
nize it,  grudgingly,  in  the  appearance 


1884.]  The  Lakes  of  Upper  Italy.  361 

of  the  peasantry.  Most  of  the  young  a  delightful  villa  garden  —  a  strange  spot 
women  I  met  to-day  had  a  peculiar  soft-  in  a  locality  so  out  of  the  way  —  to  the 
ness  in  the  oval  of  the  face  and  outline  foot  of  a  Monte  Sacro,  behind  the  town, 
of  the  features,  with  a  fair  complexion,  It  is  a  place  of  pilgrimage,  and  as  I 
clear,  gentle  eyes,  and  brown  hair,  like  toiled  up  the  steep,  straight  approach, 
Raphael's  Madonna  della  Seggiola.  The  an  inclined  plane  paved  with  cobble- 
children  were  ruddier  than  the  mothers,  stones  and  bordered  with  shock-headed 
of  the  same  soft,  fair  type,  and  beauti-  locust-trees,  which  cast  no  shadow  in 
ful  as  little  angels.  After  leaving  the  the  noon,  the  sight  of  the  cool,  blue 
villages  the  road  loiters  up  a  very  long  lake  below  aggravating  my  sufferings,  it 
but  not  steep  hill,  into  a  wide  valley  of  seemed  a  pity  that  I  lacked  the  faith  by 
hay-fields,  studded  with  fine  walnut  and  which  the  sweat  of  my  brow  would  wash 
chestnut  trees,  through  which  rushes  a  away  some  of  my  sins.  The  hot  ascent 
brimming  brook  side  by  side  with  a  leads  to  a  grassy,  breezy  summit,  broken 
glassy  mill-race,  and-  soon  I  came  in  into  knolls  shaded  by  great  branching 
sight  of  the  lovely  little  lake  of  Orta.  trees  and  rustling  laurel  groves,  and 

"  The  drive  had  taken  an  hour  and  a  dotted  with  shrines  containing  terra  cotta 
half.  Left  the  phaeton  at  the  principal  groups  of  incidents  from  the  life  of  St. 
inn  of  Omegna,  the  first  (and  I  think  Francis  Assisi.  Some  of  them  struck 
only)  town  at  the  hither  end  of  the  lake,  me  as  having  spirit  and  merit,  but  I  was 
with  explicit  and  emphatic  orders  that  too  much  absorbed  by  the  beauty  of  the 
it  should  be  at  the  door  by  four  o'clock  site  to  examine  them.  The  hill  pro- 
in  the  afternoon,  and  walked  through  jects  into  the  lake,  so  that  one  sees  water 
the  narrow,  crooked  streets  and  dull,  between  the  tree  trunks  in  every  direc- 
sleepy  market-place  to  the  water's  edge.  tion.  It  was  pervaded  by  a  happy  tran- 
I  never  saw  a  municipality,  or  any  quillity ;  the  solitude  gave  me  no  sense 
human  community,  which  gave  me  in  of  loneliness  ;  its  laurel-trees  and  little 
five  minutes  so  distinct  an  impression  of  temples  recalled  the  sacred  places  of 
indifference  to  the  rest  of  the  world,  classic  heathendom.  There  was  nobody 
Hired  a  small  boat,  and  a  man  to  row  ;  to  disturb  its  quiet  except  myself  and  a 
the  courier  took  an  oar,  and  they  pulled  peasant,  who  was  looking  at  the  prospect 
me  to  Orta,  near  the  lower  end  of  the  with  dreamy  eyes.  He  said  he  had  come 
lake,  in  a  little  over  an  hour.  The  from  another  paese  (which  I  translate 
great  charm  of  this  irregular  bit  of  wa-  township),  about  twelve  miles  off,  to  see 
ter  is  its  seclusion  and  apparent  remote-  the  Sacro  Monte,  which  he  had  never 
ness  from  the  noisy,  dusty,  beaten  visited  before.  He  was  not  on  a  pilgrim- 
tracks.  We  met  no  boat,  heard  no  age ;  he  had  never  even  heard  of  St. 
sound  except  the  thin  voice  of  a  chapel  Francis  Assisi,  although  his  schoolmas- 
bell  from  a  distant  mountain  ledge,  and,  ter  had  been  a  priest.  He  had  heard  of 
as  far  as  I  recollect,  saw  no  village  or  America,  however  ;  but  to  him,  as  to 
building,  except  isolated  convents  high  most  of  the  rustics  in  Northern  Italy,  it 
up  on  the  hillsides.  means  Mexico  or  Montevideo,  whither 

"Orta  is  the  prettiest,   most  pictur-  many  of  them  go  to  work  on  railroads, 

esque   waterside  townlet,  smothered  in  They  send  home  money  for  a  few  months, 

flowers ;  its    amphibiousness  gives   it  a  and  then  die  of  fever, 
gay,  whimsical   resemblance  to  Venice,          "  Opposite  Orta,  in  the  middle  of  the 

such  as  a  kitten  has  to  a  lion.     Lunched  lake,  is  Isola  San  Giulio,  a  cone  covered 

at  the  inn,  a  rough  but  clean  and  friend-  with  white,  arcaded,  red-roofed  houses, 

ly  place  ;  and  while  the  meal  was  being  terraces  and  garden  bits  rising  in  irreg- 

got  ready  I  climbed  by  the  terraces  of  ular  stages  to   a  square  white  convent 


362 


The  Lakes  of  Upper  Italy. 


[September, 


amid  tufts  of  dark  foliage,  with  a  waving 
palm  on  the  tip-top,  and  reflected  line 
for  line  in  the  water.  The  tiny  place 
is  very  old,  and  has  its  own  share  of 
history,  ao  I  rowed  over  to  get  a  nearer 
look  at  it.  Found  a  Lombard  church 
of  great  antiquity,  well  whitewashed, 
and  muffled  besides  in  shabby  red  dam- 
ask for  some  festa  or  funzione.  The 
capitals  of  the  pillars  are  richly  though 
rudely  sculptured  with  Runic  knots  and 
archaic  beasts  ;  the  stone  pulpit,  black 
with  age,  is  very  curious,  and  in  the 
style  of  that  at  San  Ambrogio  at  Milan. 
There  are  a  number  of  frescoes,  nearly 
effaced,  but  very  interesting.  They 
seem  to  be  of  widely  different  epochs  : 
some  look  almost  Byzantine,  but  the 
saints  have  wider  eyes ;  others  recall 
the  early  Flemish  masters  ;  and  there 
is  a  chapel  painted,  I  should  think,  by 
the  oldest  of  the  Lombard  school,  with 
faces  of  great  purity,  sweetness,  and  re- 
pose of  expression.  Wedged  in  among 
the  stucco  walls  of  more  modern  houses 
are  fragments  of  military  masonry  ;  the 
remains,  probably,  of  the  stronghold  of 
Queen  Willa,  the  wife  of  Berenger,  in 
which  she  was  besieged  for  months  by 
Otho  the  Great. 

"  My  visit  to  the  island  was  cut  short 
by  a  sudden  change  in  the  weather. 
The  sky  grew  dark,  and  the  lake  rough. 
The  boatman,  who  was  surly  and  slip- 
pery, was  prevented  from  starting  for 
Omegna,  and  leaving  me  in  the  lurch, 
only  by  the  courier's  sitting  in  the  boat 
the  whole  time  I  was  out  of  it.  Row- 
ing back  we  had  flaws  of  wind  and  spurts 
of  rain  ;  the  thunder  growled  and  roared 
in  the  gorges,  and  the  men  were  white 
and  scared.  We  reached  Omegna  safe- 
ly, however,  but  instead  of  finding  the 
horse  harnessed  nothing  had  been  done, 
and  the  household  of  the  inn,  master 
and  mistress,  man  and  maid,  and  their 
entire  acquaintance,  who  were  arriving 
in  groups  and  troops,  were  so  engrossed 
in  laughing  at  a  basket  of  live  shrimps 
that  it  was  only  by  adjurations  and  ex- 


tra fees  that  I  could  get  anybody  to  at- 
tend to  me.  The  rain  began  just  as  we 
set  out,  and  increased  steadily,  the  storm 
bursting  as  we  reached  Baveno.  At  the 
last  bend  before  the  Ponte  Napoleon e  I 
came  upon  an  old  woman,  with  white 
hair  and  a  brown,  wrinkled  face,  grind- 
ing a  wheeled  hand-organ  before  a  poor 
little  inn  to  a  score  of  ragged  boys  and 
girls  between  the  ages  of  six  and  six- 
teen, who  were  waltzing  barefoot  on 
the  stony  road  in  the  pelting  rain,  with 
the  utmost  glee.  At  the  sight  of  a 
stranger  pulling  out  a  purse  they  paused 
and  ran  up,  shouting,  '  Money  !  We  're 
to  have  some  money  ! '  '  No,'  I  said,  for 
mendicity  is  strictly  forbidden  by  law  ; 

*  but  I  will  pay  for  your  ball,  so  that 
you    can   dance   as   long  as   you  like.' 
There  was  an  explosion  like  small  fire- 
works of   pretty  words  and  thanks,  — 

*  Grazie,'    *  Favorisca,'    '  Reverisca,^  — 
and  clapping  their  hands  they  rushed  to 
seize  each  other  by  the  waist,  that  no 
time    might   be   lost,  and   I  left    them 
twirling  again  under  the  falling  torrents. 
N.  B.  Have  seen  but  one  beggar  in  the 
neighborhood,  and  he  was  an  old  crip- 
ple." 

"  September  3d.  Divine  day.  Rowed 
to  Isola  Bella,  but  it  was  so  cockney 
that  I  went  on  to  Isola  Madre,  where  I 
spent  the  morning  in  reading  and  sketch- 
ing, unmolested  by  aught  except  a  tur- 
key-hen, who  brought  her  brood  into 
the  shrubbery  where  I  was  sitting,  and 
after  circling  round  me  a  number  of 
times,  nearer  and  nearer  at  every  round, 
gobbling  to  raise  her  own  choler,  at 
length  assaulted  me.  I  had  sat  so  quiet 
during  her  circumlocutions  that  I  be- 
lieve she  thought  me  inanimate,  and 
when  I  beat  her  off  with  my  sun-um- 
brella it  was  a  rout.  Mother  and  chil- 
dren fled,  leaving  me  in  peace  to  listen 
to  the  ring-doves  calling  to  each  other 
among  the  pines,  until  in  the  cooler 
hours  of  the  afternoon  parties  of  Ger- 
mans overran  the  island,  and  I  fled  like 
the  turkeys.  Ten  years  ago,  if  one 


1884.] 


The  Lakes  of  Upper  Italy. 


363 


wished  to  see  this  great  people  one  went 
to  Germany  ;  if  one  wished  to  eschew 
them  one  kept  out  of  it,  for  they  stayed 
at  home.  At  that  time  there  were  many 
well-to-do  Berlin  burghers,  whose  only 
notion  of  a  journey  was  going  to  Pots- 
dam for  the  day  ;  they  did  that  once  in 
a  lifetime,  and  called  it  traveling.  Now 
Central  Europe  swarms  with  them  in 
summer,  and  Christendom  does  not  pro- 
duce a  more  obnoxious,  offensive  race. 
I  am  convinced  that  the  prejudice  against 
Jews,  which  has  been  gaining  ground 
in  America,  arises  from  the  fact  that 
those  who  come  to  our.  country  are  for 
the  most  part  of  a  low  class  of  Germans. 
But  the  true  Teuton,  to  be  seen  in  full 
odiousness,  must  be  met  in  Switzerland 
or  Italy.  The  coarseness  of  his  habits, 
the  loudness  of  his  voice,  the  aggressive- 
ness of  his  demeanor,  his  rudeness  and 
churlishness,  make  him  the  most  unde- 
sirable of  fellow-travelers.  Americans 
may  take  some  comfort  under  the  inflic- 
tion in  reflecting  that  the  English  .tour- 
ists who  used  to  complain  bitterly  of 
our  invasion  of  the  Continent  are  now 
outnumbered  by  a  race  who  speak  loud- 
er, smoke  and  spit  more,  and  wash  less, 
than  the  commonest  class  of  '  Yankee/ 
and  are  neither  liberal  nor  good-natured, 
which  we  were  admitted  to  be.  At  times 
better  specimens  are  seen,  to  whom  the 
deportment  of  their  country-folk  must 
be  a  keen  mortification,  if  they  have  a 
grain  of  our  sensitiveness  on  that  point. 
The  superior  sort  are  indefatigable  sight- 
seers, and  very  effusive.  In  every  party 
there  is  an  achzendes  woman,  who  sen- 
timentalizes over  everything  from  a 
church  to  a  weed,  and  an  intelligent 
man,  who  explains  the  beauties  of  nature 
and  art  to  his  companions.  This  after- 
noon Isola  Madre  ran^  with  their  mu- 

o 

sical  exclamations  :  '  Ach !  wie  ist  es 
hier  so  wunderschon  ! '  '  Sehen  Sie  den 
Lorbeerbaum  an  !'  i  Sieht  es  nicht  ganz 
bezaubernd  aus ! '  Ach  !  why  don't  they 
stay  at  home  and  go  to  Potsdam  twice 
in  their  lives  instead  of  once  ?  " 


"  September  20, 1883.  The  lake  sea- 
son has  begun.  The  hotel  is  full,  the 
shores  and  waters  are  gay  with  tour- 
ists, one  hears  nothing  but  English.  .  .  . 
Last  night  six  or  seven  guitars  and 
violins  and  several  male  voices  made 
really  good  music  under  the  windows. 
To-night  there  came  a  man  and  woman 
with  a  guitar :  he  sang  remarkably  well, 
with  a  trained  voice,  —  some  unsuccess- 
ful opera  singer,  no  doubt,  poor  devil ; 
she  was  not  so  good,  but  they  gave  pop- 
ular melodies  charmingly,  both  as  solos 
and  duets ;  there  was  a  particularly 
pretty  one  with  a  refrain  of  'Niccoli 
Niccolo.'  It  was  trying  to  have  some 
poorer  devil  come  by  afterwards  and 
drone  out  the  same  airs  very  badly,  to 
a  zither." 

"  September  23d.  Paid  a  visit  to  the 
wife  of  one  of  the  Omarini  brothers, 
the  proprietors  of  the  hotel,  in  her  pret- 
ty little  house  behind  the  garden.  It  is 
a  kindly,  courteous  family.  One  broth- 
er acts  as  steward,  another  as  book- 
keeper, a  third  as  clerk;  the  wife  of 
one  of  them  superintends  the  laundry, 
another  is  housekeeper:  and  thus  the 
establishment  is  efficiently  managed  by 
respectful,  self-respecting  people,  not 
above  their  business,  with  whom  one's 
dealings  are  never  unpleasant.  Signora 
Omarini's  '  best  parlor '  is  decorated 
with  glass  cases  full  of  gold  and  silver 
cups  and  medals,  dozens  of  them,  some 
extremelv  handsome  and  valuable,  which 

V 

her  brother,  who  is  a  Swiss,  has  won 
at  federal  and  international  shooting- 
matches.  He  was  presented  to  me, 
a  stout,  rubicund,  quiet,  middle-aged 
citizen,  with  nothing  remarkable  about 
him  except  a  singularly  steady,  pene- 
trating gaze,  like  our  typical  Western 
man's.  He  used  to  be  a  famous  chamois 
hunter,  but  says  he  has  grown  too  old 
for  that. 

"Took  a  long,  steep  walk  up  the 
mountain  behind  the  village.  The  path 
was  cruelly  rough,  but  led  through  a 
wood  of  magnificent  portly  chestnut- 


364 


The  Story  of  the  English  Magazines.  [September, 


trees,  with  here  arid  there  a  slender 
white-stemmed  birch  waving  her  droop- 
ing tresses  ;  there  was  a  bank  of  ferns 
on  each  side,  and  a  tantalizing  sound  of 
water  running  and  falling,  now  right 
now  left,  seldom  Visible,  and  still  more 
seldom  to  be  tasted.  At  every  turn  in 
the  road  there  was  a  beautiful  view  of 
the  lake  and  the  islands,  each  with  its 
picture  in  the  water.  Looked  over  a 
low  vineyard  wall,  and  gave  a  woman 
good-day  and  half  a  franc  to  her  chil- 
dren. Presently  one  of  the  little  girls 
came  panting  after  me  to  beg  me  to 
come  back  and  have  some  of  their 
grapes.  I  declined,  saying  that  I  had 
not  time.  By  and  by  she  overtook  me 


again,  breathless,  with  her  apron  full 
of  fine  bunches.  On  the  way  down  I 
turned  into  a  pasture  where  some  little 
girls  were  driving  a  cow,  and  asked  for 
a  cup  of  fresh  milk.  They  ran  to  a  hut 
and  brought  a  clean  bowl,  which  they 
washed  in  a  spring  ;  then  they  milked  the 
cow,  and  gave  me  a  warm  and  foaming 
draught  with  the  sweetest  smiles  and 
words  of  welcome.  .  .  . 

"A  great  hotel  is  building  on  the 
Monte  Motterone,  which  will  have  a 
view  of  six  or  seven  lakes  and  a  mag- 
nificent Alpine  horizon,  and  serve  as  a 
half-way  house  for  travelers  who  cross 
the  ridge  to  Orta  instead  of  driving  by 
the  valleys." 


THE   STORY   OF  THE   ENGLISH  MAGAZINES. 


THE  magazine,  which  to-day  forms  so 
important  a  part  of  periodical  English 
literature,  is  a  little  more  than  a  century 
and  a  half  old.  The  Gentleman's  Mag- 
azine of  Cave  may  be  said  to  represent 
its  infancy,  the  Monthly  Magazine  of  Sir 
Richard  Phillips  its  youth,  Blackwood's, 
Eraser's,  and  Bentley's  Miscellany  its 
manhood,  and  the  Corn  hill  and  Mac- 
millan's  its  maturer  a<je.  In  the  various 

O 

stages  of  its  growth,  the  parent  stem 
has  produced  many  promising  offshoots, 
healthy  enough  in  the  bud,  but  destined 
to  wither  away  in  the  leaf,  leaving  no 
trace  of  their  existence  but  a  name  and 
an  entry  in  the  chronicles  of  the  bibli- 
ographer. Cave,  the  well-known  printer 
of  the  Johnson  era,  was  the  author  of 
the  magazine  whence  all  other  English 
magazines  are  sprung,  the  Gentleman's. 
The  project  of  such  a  publication  had 
been  in  his  mind  for  some  years  before 
1731,  the  date  of  its  first  appearance. 
After  in  vain  endeavoring  to  secure  the 

O 

cooperation  of  the  London  booksellers, 
he  found  himself  in  that  year  able  to 


commence  such  a  work  on  his  own  ac- 
count, the  duties  of  editor  being  at  first 
performed  by  himself.  The  first  num- 
ber appeared  in  the  form  of  an  unpre- 
tending octavo  pamphlet  of  forty-five 
pages,  at  the  price  of  sixpence,  under 
the  title  of  the  Gentleman's  Magazine 
and  Trader's  Monthly  Intelligencer  ;  as 
if  to  imply  that  the  tastes  and  interests 
of  both  the  aristocratic  and  mercantile 
classes,  of  both  town  and  country,  would 
be  attended  to.  Herein  Mr.  Cave  showed 
himself  to  be  a  very  shrewd  and  dis- 
cerning publisher,  considerably  in  ad- 
vance of  his  fellows  of  that  day.  The 
bulk  of  the  work  consisted  of  abrids- 

O 

ments  of  the  best  articles  in  the  political 
and  literary  journals  of  shorter  periods, 
a  list  of  which  he  gives  in  the  first  num- 
ber of  his  magazine  in  the  page  follow- 
ing the  title  :  The  Craftsman,  London 
Journal,  Free  Briton,  etc.,  and  last, 
though  not  the  least  interesting  of  all, 
our  old  friend  The  Grubstreet  Journal. 
The  nominal  authors  of  the  extracts 
used  are  appended,  as  if  to  indicate  that 


1884.]                      The  Story  of  the  JUnglish  Magazines.  865 

the  editor  is    desirous    of   acknowledg-  has  since  been  issued  monthly  under  the 
ing  his  indebtedness  to  all  from  whom  time-honored  title  down  to  the  very  date 
he  borrows.     These,  as  regards  the  last  of  this  present  article, 
named  publication,  are  sufficiently  sug-  The   earlier  history    of   the    Gentle- 
gestive  :  Mr.  Bavius,  Mr.  Maevius,  Mr.  man's  Magazine  may  be  traced  in  Bos- 
Spondee,  Mr.   Dactyl,  and  Messrs.  Co-  well's  Life  of  Johnson.     That  eminent 
nundrum,    Quidnunc,    Orthodoxo,    and  man  was  almost  from  the  beginning  one 
Quibus.     Following  "  an  impartial  view  of  its  few  paid  contributors  ;  and  there 
of  the  various  weekly  Essays,  controver-  is    some    evidence  to    show  that,  for  a 
sial,  humorous,  and  political,  religious,  time  at  least,  he  occupied  the  more  hon- 
moral,    and    sentimental,"    comes    the  orable  but  not  more    lucrative   post  of 
Monthly  Intelligencer,  con taining foreign  editor.    He  comes  upon  the  scene  in  the 
and  domestic  occurrences,  and  a  register  usual  fashion,  as  a  suppliant  for  the  con- 
of  births,  marriages,  and  deaths.     Ob-  sideration  of  "  Mr.  Sylvanus  Urban  "  in 
servations  on    gardening   and  a   list  of  respect  of  a  packet  of  "  copy."  "Having 
new  publications  complete  the  table  of  observed,"  he  writes  in  his  first  letter  to 
contents.      A    short    advertisement    or  Cave,  submitting  his  first  contribution, 
two  helps  to  fill  up  the  last  page.     The  — "  having  observed  in  your  paper  very 
whole  is  edited  by  Sylvanus  Urban  of  uncommon  offers   of  encouragement  to 
Aldermanbury,  Gent.,  the  place  of  pub-  men    of    letters,"  —  this  in    allusion  to 
lication  being  the  far-famed  gate  of  St.  Cave's  offer  of  a  prize  of  fifty  pounds 
John,  Clerkenwell.  for  the  best  set  of  verses  on  a  religious 
Unlike  so  many  of   his  successors  in  subject,  —  "I  do  not  doubt  you  will  look 
the   hazardous    business    of   publishing,  at  this  poem  which  I  send,  and  reward  it 
Mr.  Cave  had  not  miscalculated  the  lit-  in   a  different   manner  from   a   merce- 
erary  needs  of  the  public.     His  maga-  nary  bookseller,  who  counts  the  lines  he 
zine  did,  in  fact,  meet  a  want  which  was  purchases  and  considers  nothing  but  the 
unsatisfied.    It  enjoyed  immediate  and,  bulk."      Admirable,    bold  -  spirited    Dr. 
what  is  more,  permanent  success,  inso-  Johnson  !     Was   there  ever,   before  or 
much  that  a  second  edition  of  the  first  since,  a  petitioner  for  an  editor's  good- 
number  was  issued  with  the  third,  and  will  who,  at  the  very  starting-point  of  a 
reprints  of  the  first  five  numbers  with  the  literary  career,  wrote  in  such  strain  ? 
eighth  ;    and   the  circulation    showed  a  Whether  Cave  acted  upon  the  hint, 
steady  increase.     Upon  the  cover  of  the  and  judged  the  lines  by  their  merit,  and 
eighth  number  was  imprinted   for   the  not    according  to  the  number  of   their 
first  time   the  quaint  little  wood-cut  of  syllables,  is  not  disclosed.  But  the  poem 
St.  John's  Gate,  which  for  so  long  a  pe-  was  accepted,  and  doubtless   the  remu- 
riod  distinguished   the  older  magazine,  neration  was    satisfactory,  for  Johnson 
and   still   serves   to  denote  the  parent-  at  once  became  a  regular  paid  contrib- 
age  of  its  remote  descendant,  the  Gen-  utor  and  the  chief  literary  adviser  of  the 
tl rman's   Magazine   of   to-day.     Cave's  editor.     For  several  years  the  Gentle- 
original  publication  lasted  in  unbroken  man's  Magazine  was  his  principal  source 
sequence  from  January,  1731,  to  June,  of  employment  and  support,  and  it  was 

1783,  a  period  of  fifty-two  years,  and  largely  indebted  to  his  pen  for  the  early 
twenty-nine  after  its  author's  death.     A  success  it  attained  and  for,  its  long  ca- 
new  series  was  begun  in  the  following  reer  of  later  prosperity.     He  introduced 
month  of  July,  and  continued  to  June,  new  features  which  at  once  enhanced  its 

1784,  when    the   magazine   was    relin-  popularity.  The  most  important  of  these 
quished  for  a  time,   but   it  was.  subse-  were  the  substitution  of  some  pages  of 
quently  revived  in  various  forms  ;  and  it  original  prose  for  the  uninteresting  ex- 


366 


The  Story  of  the  English  Magazines.  [September, 


tracts   hitherto    taken  from    the  public 
journals,  and  the  publication  of  a  month- 
ly epitome  of  the  debates  in  Parliament 
under  the  title  of  The  Senate  of  Lilli- 
put.  The  Life  of  Savage  was  perhaps  the 
ablest  contribution  from  Johnson's  pen  to 
the  pages  of  Cave's  periodical,  and  for 
this  he  received  payment  at  the  rate  of 
two  guineas  a  sheet.     Curious  as  it  may 
seem   to  the  voluntary   contributors   to 
the  monthly  magazines  of  our  own  day, 
—  to  which,  by   the  way,  some  of  the 
American  magazines  in  this  respect  fur- 
nish an  exception,  —  Dr.  Johnson  was 
paid  for  his  copy  when  it  had  been  ac- 
cepted. Under  his  skillful  guidance,  then, 
the    Gentleman's   Magazine    prospered 
more  and  more,  and  ultimately  attained 
a  monthly  circulation  of  ten  thousand. 
If  we    compare    this  with    the  average 
issue  of  more  modern  magazines,  such 
a  circulation,  taking   into  account    the 
lack   of   postal   and  other  facilities  for 
the  distribution  of   books  in  Johnson's 
time,  must  be  allowed  to  be  very  con- 
siderable.    Cave    kept  a   good  lookout 
forward,  and  watched  his  chances  very 
narrowly.     His  ears  were  always  open 
to  the  gossip  of  the  trade,  and  when  he 
heard  —  as  not  unnaturally  he  sometimes 
would  —  that   a   customer   had    talked 
of  discontinuing  his  subscription,  off  he 
would  go  to  Johnson  and  give  a  note  of 
warning  thus  :  "  Let  us  have  something 
good  this  month,  for  I  am  told  Mr.  So 
and  So    talks  of  withdrawing    his  sub- 
scription." With  a  man  of  such  excellent 
business   ability   as   publisher,    and   an 
honest,  striving  worker  like  Johnson  for 
his  chief  literary  adviser,  it  is  no  wonder 
that  the  Gentleman's  Magazine  proved 
one  of  the  most  successful  literary  ven- 
tures of  the  last  century. 

The  success  of  Cave's  scheme  brought 
many  competitors  into  the  field,  the 
most  vigorous  of  which  were  the  Lon- 
don Magazine  and  the  Monthly  Review. 
The  former  of  these  ran  its  elder  con- 
temporary pretty  close,  oftentimes  ex- 
celling it  in  the  priority  and  accuracy 


of  its  parliamentary  intelligence,  which 
was  then  held  to  be  of  special  interest; 
for  until  Johnson  started  the  idea,  no 
one   had  thought  of  systematically  de- 
scribing the  proceedings  of  Parliament. 
The  Monthly  Review  became  so  pros- 
perous that  it  reached  the  advanced  age 
of    ninety-six  years,  having   been  born 
eighteen  years    later  than    the  Gentle- 
man's   Magazine,    and    only    ended    its 
long  career  of  usefulness  in  1845.     The 
European  Magazine,   and  the  Literary 
Magazine  or  Universal    Review,    were 
earlier  and  no  less  sturdy  rivals,  though 
not  so  long-lived.     But  by  far  the  ablest 
of  the  English  magazines  born  in  the 
last  century   was   the    Monthly   Maga- 
zine, or    British   Register,  founded  by 
Richard  Phillips.    It  was  begun  in  1796, 
and  lasted   in    unbroken    sequence   till 
1825,  when  a  new  series  was  begun.    It 
was  the  same  size  as  its  monthly  con- 
temporaries,   namely   octavo ;  consisted 
of  from  eighty  to  one  hundred  pages  of 
reading  matter,  printed  in  double   col- 
umns ;  and  was  sold  originally  at  one 
shilling,  subsequently  raised  to  eighteen 
pence,  and  afterwards  to  two  shillings,  a 
number.     "  When  it  was  first  planned, 
two  leading  ideas."  says  the  Preface   to 
the  first  volume,  "occupied  the  minds  of 
those  who  undertook  to  conduct  it.    The 
first  was  that  of   laying  before  the  pub- 
lic various  objects  of  information  and 
discussion,  both  amusing  and  instructive ; 
the  second  was  that  of  lending  aid   to 
the  propagation  of   those  liberal   princi- 
ples respecting  some  of  the  most  impor- 
tant concerns   of    mankind  which  have 
been   either  deserted   or  virulently  op- 
posed by  other  periodical    miscellanies, 
but  upon  the   manly  and  rational  sup- 
port of  which  the  fame  and  fate  of   the 
age   must   depend."     It   would   be    no 
inaccurate    comparison    to   say  that,  in 
respect  of  the  enterprise  it  showed  and 
the  broadly  liberal  views  it  expressed, 
the  Monthly  Magazine   of  eighty  years 
ago  bore  some  resemblance  to  the  Lon- 
don  Daily  News  of  to-day.     For  that 


1884.] 


The  Story  of  the  English  Magazines. 


367 


early  period,  the  foreign  intelligence 
which  the  magazine  published  was  ex- 
ceptionally interesting.  Its  correspon- 
dents contributed  letters  on  a  variety  of 
topics  from  almost  all  parts  of  the  globe. 
Its  home  news  was  instructive  and  en- 
tertaining, and,  if  necessarily  of  older 
date  than  that  which  appeared  in  the 
daily  and  weekly  journals,  was  for  the 
most  part  more  trustworthy  and  exact. 
Its  editorial  comments,  though  brief  and 
somewhat  scattered,  —  for  the  magazine 
did  not  profess  to  deal  editorially  with 
any  question,  —  were  generally  to  the 
point,  outspoken,  fearless,  and  sincere. 
It  never  wavered  in  its  championship 
of  every  good  cause,  and  in  its  condem- 
nation of  anything  that  savored  of  op- 
pression, intolerance,  and  fraud.  It 
opened  its  pages  to  the  discussion  of  any 
matter  calculated  to  serve  the  interests 
of  humanity,  and  vigorously  asserted 
the  rights  of  the  many  against  the  pre- 
tensions and  aggressiveness  of  the  few. 
In  short,  it  was  an  honest,  enterprising, 
high-toned,  and  extremely  well-edited 
magazine,  which  not  only  well  deserved 
all  the  prestige  it  acquired  in  its  day, 
but  an  honorable  place  in  the  literary 
annals  of  our  own,  as  having  furnished 
the  plan  for  at  least  one  prominent  Lon- 
don periodical.  The  Athenasum  is  more 
indebted,  for  its  chief  characteristics  as 
a  literary  journal,  to  the  Monthly  Mag- 
azine of  the  early  part  of  the  century 
than  to  any  other  of  its  forerunners  or 
contemporaries. 

In  the  number  for  December,  1811, 
appears  an  advertisement  which  fairly 
sets  forth  the  scope  of  the  magazine. 
Communications  (to  be  sent  to  5  Buck- 
ingham Gate)  are  invited  on  all  subjects, 
"  practical  and  speculative."  "  In  the 
order  of  their  insertion,"  says  the  editor 
—  who  appears  from  the  beginning  to 
have  been  none  other  than  the  publisher, 
Richard  Phillips  himself ;  if  this  were 
so,  he  was  an  uncommonly  energetic  and 
highly-talented  man,  —  "  in  the  order 
of  their  insertion  preference  is,  however, 


always  given  to  Notices  of  Improve- 
ments in  the  Arts  of  Life  ;  to  economi- 
cal Subjects  in  general ;  to  original  facts 
in  Natural  History,  and  in  the  vari- 
ous Sciences ;  to  accounts  of  Tours  and 
Voyages  ;  to  topographical  Descriptions, 
particularly  of  Distant  Countries ;  to 
accounts  of  curious  objects  of  remote 
Antiquity;  to  original  Biography,  Anec- 
dotes, and  Letters  of  eminent  or  remark- 
able persons ;  to  observations  on  the 
state  of  Society  and  Manners  in  various 
countries  and  places  ;  to  Copies  or  Ex- 
tracts of  scarce  and  interesting  Tracts ; 
to  illustrations  of  Classical  Authors ; 
to  fugitive  pieces  of  original  Poetry ; 
and  to  letters  of  Literary  persons  on 
points  of  inquiry  connected  with  the  ob- 
jects of  their  pursuits."  In  addition  to 
such  matter  there  was  published  each 
month  a  variety  of  other  useful  infor- 
mation :  a  description  of  patents  lately 
enrolled ;  a  list  of  new  publications  ar- 
ranged under  subject  headings  ;  notices 
of  literary  works  in  progress,  domestic 
and  foreign  ;  a  discussion  of  the  pro- 
ceedings of  learned  societies  ;  a  retro- 
spect of  the  Fine  Arts  and  review  of  mu- 
sical publications  ;  a  statement  of  public 
affairs  containing  extracts  from  official 
documents  ;  reports  of  diseases,  and  of 
the  progress  in  chemistry,  agriculture, 
etc. ;  and  a  full  and  interesting  account 
of  occurrences  arranged  in  the  order  of 
the  counties.  Occasional  wood-cuts  were 
given  to  elucidate  the  text.  At  the  end 
of  every  six  months  a  supplementary 
number  was  issued,  under  the  title  of 
a  Half- Yearly  Retrospect  of  Literature, 
consisting  of  seventy -five  pages,  and 
dealing  with  books  published  not  only  in 
Great  Britain,  but  in  France,  Germany, 
and  the  United  States  of  America. 

Within  a  few  weeks  after  the  victory 
of  Waterloo,  when  to  side  with  Napo- 
leon Bonaparte  was  to  confess  one's  self 
an  enemy  of  England,  the  Monthly 
Magazine  protested  against  the  "  ostra- 
cism "  of  "  that  great  man,"  for  "  the 
supposed  crimes  of  being  beloved  by  the 


368 


The  Story  of  the  English  Magazines.  [September, 


French,  and  for  long  successfully  oppos- 
ing the  enemies  of  France."  "  Of  what 
use  can  be  the  language  of  Truth,"  asks 
the  editor,  "  during  the  ebullitions  of 
passion  and  the  shouts  of  victory  ?  The 
answer  which  follows  the  question  might 
lead  us  to  give  place  to  the  official  doc- 
uments of  the  month  without  commen- 
tary ;  but  silence  at  such  a  moment 
would  be  derilection  of  duty,  unworthy 
of  the  pretensions  of  a  just  cause  and 
disrespectful  to  our  readers.  .  .  .  We  are 
advocates  of  the  eternal  principles  of 
the  law  of  nations,  that  all  people  have 
a  right  to  choose  and  regulate  their  own 
government,  and  that  foreigners  have  no 
right  to  interfere  in  questions  between 
governments  and  their  people.  .  .  .  Jus- 
tice alone  is  power,  and  no  adjustment 
of  human  interests  can  be  solid,  final,  or 
permanent  which  is  not  founded  on  im- 
mutable principles  of  justice.  It  is  a 
foolish  or  wicked  endeavor  to  force  what 
is  not  just  on  the  acceptance  of  man- 
kind that  occasions  all  the  wars  and  dis- 
turbances in  the  world  ;  and  it  is  there- 
fore in  the  last  degree  absurd  and  use- 
less in  the  authorities  of  the  European 
nations  to  expect  to  calm  the  passions 
and  to  procure  a  permanent  peace  except 
by  deferring  in  all  things  to  truth  and 
justice.  We  could  tell  them  in  a  few 
words  how  happiness  and  peace  might 
be  restored  in  Europe  without  the  aid 
of  a  single  soldier  and  without  the  cost 
of  a  single  pound  sterling ;  but  our 
means  would  require  as  a  preliminary 
a  victory  over  their  own  passions,  and 
the  adoption  of  a  policy  in  many  re- 
spects the  very  opposite  of  that  which 
has  been  pursued.  We  should  tell  Eng- 
land to  reestablish  the  treaty  of  Amiens 
and  recall  the  message  of  1803;  we 
should  tell  Prussia  to  maintain  the 
empire  of  Frederic  and  respect  the  prov- 
inces of  her  neighbors ;  Russia  to  stay 
at  home,  cultivate  its  vast  possessions, 
and  civilize  its  people  ;  Austria  to  enjoy 
its  fine  position  and  climate  and  to  re- 
fuse foreign  subsidies ;  and  we  should 


exhort  all  to  leave  France  to  herself,  and 
to  acknowledge  and  live  on  willing  terms 
of  amity  with  whomsoever  the  French 
people  might  freely  elect  as  their  public 
head  or  heads.1'  Such  principles  might 
lend  support  to  the  most  broadly  liberal 
"  platform  "  of  to-day ;  and  the  manner 
in  which  they  are  expressed  would  bring 
no  discredit  to  the  pen  of  the  most  culti- 
vated of  English  writers.  It  is  not  easy 
to  trace  the  authorship  of  the  best  arti- 
cles in  the  Monthly  Magazine,  as  they 
are  mostly  published  with  initials  only, 
or  over  pseudonyms.  But  one  of  the 
most  constant  of  the  editor's  correspon- 
dents for  a  number  of  years  was  a  cer- 
tain Mr.  Capel  Lofft,  who  used  to  annoy 
Charles  Lamb  by  signing  their  common 
initials  —  as,  of  course,  he  had  a  right 
—  to  his  very  feeble  sonnets.  Charles 
Lamb  spoke  of  him  as  being  "  the  gen- 
ius of  absurdity;"  but  Mr.  Lofft's  worst 
fault  seems  to  have  been  a  too  great 
fondness  for  the  gray  goose  quill.  He 
could  never  let  it  lie  idle,  and  wrote 
with  it  on  every  conceivable  subject, 
from  Capital  Punishment  to  the  Flight 
of  Meteors.  The  chief  contributors, 
however,  signed  themselves  "  Common 
Sense,"  "  Plain  Dealer,"  "  Politico- 
Economicus,"  and  the  like.  The  most 
uninteresting  part  of  the  magazine  is 
that  reserved  to  the  poets,  whose  lines  on 
Beauty,  To  Clarissa,  To  a  Fair  Recluse, 
and  so  on,  read  now  as  the  stupidest 
twaddle.  But  poetry  appears  to  have 
been  almost  as  popular  as  prose  in  Sir 
Richard  Phillips's  day. 

In  1814,  when  the  old  Monthly  was 
at  the  zenith  of  its  popularity,  having 
attained  a  circulation  of  eight  thousand, 
the  New  Monthly  Magazine  and  Uni- 
versal Register  was  started  by  Colburn, 
then  of  Conduit  Street.  Three  years 
later  Blackwood's  was  born,  and  three 
years  later  still  the  London  Magazine 
(we  are  not  sure  if  this  was  not  a  new 
series  of  the  older  periodical  of  that 
name),  in  whose  pages  first  appeared  the 
delightful  Essays  of  Elia.  Neither  the 


1884.] 


The  Story  of  the  English  Magazines. 


369 


New  Monthly  nor  Blackwood's,  when 
they  were  first  published,  differed  in  any 
important  particular  —  either  in  their 
general  "make -up,"  or  in  the  matter 
which  appeared  in  their  pages  —  from 
Sir  Richard  Phillips's  magazine.  The 
editor  of  Blackwood's  advertised  his  in- 
tention to  make  that  publication  "  a  re- 
pository of  whatever  may  be  supposed 
to  be  most  interesting  to  general  read- 
ers." The  tastes  of  such  were  best  con- 
sulted, it  seemed,  in  copying  the  plan  of 
the  old  Monthly.  He  simply  followed 
the  order  of  that  publication  in  regard 
to  its  contents,  and  published  a  number 
of  original  communications  and  select 
extracts  ;  an  antiquarian  repertory, 
which  department  the  editor  promised 
would  be  of  special  interest  to  his  read- 
ers, as  access  had  been  allowed  him  "  to 
unpublished  MSS.,  both  in  the  national 
and  family  repositories  ; '  some  pieces 
of  original  poetry ;  a  review  of  new 
publications  and  of  articles  in  the  peri- 
odicals; useful  information  on  literary 
and  scientific  subjects  ;  together  with  a 
monthly  register  of  public  events.  The 
magazine,  which  first  appeared  in  April, 
181 7,  consisted  of  one  hundred  and  twen- 
ty pages.  The  New  Monthly  Magazine, 
which  was  first  issued  in  January,  1814, 
price  2s.,  threw  down  the  gauntlet,  and 
at  once  proclaimed  itself  the  uncompro- 
mising political  opponent  of  the  old 
Monthly.  It  began  with  a  long  address 
to  the  public,  abusive  of  "  the  demon 
Bonaparte  "  and  of  the  editor  of  its  ri- 
val, who,  "  nursed  in  the  school  of  Jac- 
obinism," had  preferred  the  interests  of 
France  to  those  "  of  our  common  coun- 
try." The  country,  nevertheless,  had 
made  a  noble  stand  against  the  usurper, 
and  it  was  the  duty  of  every  honest  Eng- 
lishman to  take  his  stand  by  the  country  ; 
with  a  great  deal  more  to  the  same  pur- 
pose. The  New  Monthly  was  started 
on  political  grounds  chiefly,  and  aimed 
at  securing  the  support  of  the  Tories. 
Later,  it  took  a  literary  turn,  changed 
its  second  title  from  Universal  Register 

VOL.   LIV. — NO.    323. 


to  Literary  Journal,  and  began  an  entire- 
ly new  career.  It  was  one  of  the  first  of 
the  purely  literary  magazines  published 
in  London,  and  was  edited  successively 
by  Thomas  Campbell,  Theodore  Hook, 
Tom  Hood,  and  W.  Harrison  Ainsworth. 
But  before  it  reached  its  greatest  popu- 
larity and  could  afford,  as  it  did,  to  raise 
its  price  from  2s.  and  2s.  6d.  to  3s.  6d. 
a  number,  it  was  indebted  to  another 
periodical  for  many  an  original  idea. 
This  was  the  London  Magazine,  of  the 
second  decade  of  the  century. 

"  Never  was  a  periodical  work  com- 
menced," writes  Talfourd,  in  his  Life  of 
Lamb,  "  with  happier  auspices,  number- 
ing a  list  of  contributors  more  original 
in  thought,  more  fresh  in  spirit,  more 
sportive  in  fancy,  or  directed  by  an  ed- 
itor better  qualified  by  nature  and  study 
to  preside  over  its  fortunes  than  this." 
Taylor  and  Hessey  were  the  publishers, 
John  Scott  was  the  editor,  and  Coventry 
Patmore  his  literary  aid.  Afterwards 
Tom  Hood  joined  the  staff  as  sub-editor. 
The  principal  contributors  were  Lamb, 
at  his  wisest,  sagest,  airiest,  indiscreet- 
est,  best ;  Barry  Cornwall,  "  in  the  first 
bloom  of  his  modest  and  enduring  fame ; " 
John  Hamilton  Reynolds,  "  lighting  up 
the  wildest  eccentricities  and  most  strik- 
ing features  of  many-colored  life  with 
vivid  fancy  ;  "  and  Hazlitt,  "  whose  pen 
gave  radiant  expression  to  the  results  of 
the  solitary  musings  of  many  years." 
Gary,  the  translator  of  Dante,  De  Quin- 
cey,  author  of  the  Confessions  of  an 
English  Opium-Eater,  and  Thomas  Grif- 
fiths Wainwright,  of  infamous  reputa- 
tion, were  others  of  the  original  contrib- 
utors. After  the  good  old  fashion  of 
11  the  great  trade,"  the  publishers  used 
to  assemble  their  contributors  round 
their  hospitable  table  in  Fleet  Street,  and 
discuss  the  bill  for  tho  month.  The  Es- 
says of  Elia  were  the  chief  attraction. 
They  brought  fame  to  the  magazine 
and  renown  to  their  author.  "I  have 
had  the  honor  of  dining  at  the  Mansion 
House,"  wrote  Lamb  to  a  friend,  "  by 


370 


The  Story  of  the  English  Magazines.  [September, 


special  card  from  the  Lord  Mayor,  who 
never  saw  my  face,  nor  I  his  ;  and  all 
from  being  a  writer  in  a  magazine." 
But  Taylor  and  Hessey's  venture,  which 
went  forth  so  merrily,  did  not  meet  with 
all  the  support  it  deserved.  Finding 
their  magazine  go  off  very  heavily  at 
2s.  6d.,  they  raised  the  price  to  3s.  6d., 
and  published  contributions  from  outsid- 
ers, members  of  that  hard-working  con- 
tingent of  obscure  writers  who  are  ever 
willing  to  do  the  most  work  for  the  least 
pay.  "  Having  more  authors  than  they 
want,"  Lamb  gently  complains,  as  if  he 
foresaw  the  inevitable  result,  '•'  they  in- 
crease the  number  of  them."  The  end 
came,  and  the  London  Magazine,  which 
was  started  under  such  promising  condi- 
tions, ceased  to  be.  It  had,  however, 
borne  good  fruit  in  its  day.  It  succeed- 
ed in  giving  a  fresher  and  brighter  form 
to  periodical  literature,  in  providing  the 
public  with  a  miscellany  in  which  fic- 
tion and  well-written  original  essays  and 
amusing  sketches  composed  the  prin- 
cipal part,  to  the  exclusion  of  politics 
and  dull  disquisitions  on  abstruse  sub- 
jects. Thereafter  more  than  one  pub- 
lisher fashioned  his  magazine  on  the 
lines  first  drawn  by  the  projectors  of 
the  London  Magazine. 

We  may  now  gain  an  insight  into 
that  always  interesting,  and  to  many 
hardly  less  important,  matter  of  the  re- 
muneration made  to  authors  for  articles 
contributed  to  the  magazines.  Johnson, 
as  we  have  remarked,  appears  to  have 
considered  himself  fairly  treated  in  be- 
ing paid  at  the  rate  of  two  guineas  per 
sheet  of  copy.  This  is  a  little  better 
than  2s.  6d.  per  page  of  print.  Sir 
Richard  Phillips,  the  reading  matter  of 
whose  magazine  was  cut  up  into  short 
paragraphs,  one  communication  seldom 
extending  over  a  page,  got  most  of  his 
contributions  for  nothing.  An  honora- 
rium of  one  guinea  was  considered  a 
proper  payment  for  a  report;  and  the 
supplementary  reviews  of  books  were 
done  in  the  editor's  office.  In  its  later 


years  eight  guineas  a  sheet  was  consid- 
ered fair  pay.  Lamb,  in  a  letter  to 
Coleridge,  banters  him  upon  a  refusal 
to  write  for  Blackwood's.  "  Why  you 
should  refuse  twenty  guineas  per  sheet 
for  Blackwood's,  or  any  other  maga- 
zine," he  writes,  "  passes  my  poor  com- 
prehension." This  would  seem  to  im- 
ply that  in  Lamb's  time  (1821-1831) 
such  a  rate  of  payment,  namely,  £1  6s. 
3d.  a  page,  was  exceptional ;  though 
later,  when  Lamb  himself  was  writing 
for  Colburn's  New  Monthly,  he  received 
somewhat  more,  £1  11s.  6d.  Later  still 
(1837),  the  contributions  of  authors  of 
acknowledged  reputation  were  made  the 
subject  of  a  special  agreement  with  the 
publishers  ;  but  ordinary  contributors 
received  from  15s.  to  21s.  per  page. 
This  arrangement  would  seem  to  hold 
good  still.  There  were,  and  are,  in 
fact,  two  scales  of  payment,  the  editor 
being  the  judge  of  an  author's  claim  to 
be  paid  according  to  the  higher  or  lower 
rate.  Generally  speaking,  10s.  6d.  per 
page  is  the  lowest  limit,  21s.  the  high- 
est ;  excepting  in  the  case  of  an  author 
whose  literary  reputation  stands  very 
high.  He  may  then  command  almost 
any  terms  he  please,  always  supposing 
that  editor  and  publisher  agree  in  con- 
sidering it  an  object  to  secure  his  copy. 
One  hundred  guineas  is  an  exceptional 
honorarium  for  an  author  to  receive  for 
an  article,  though  even  that  handsome 
fee  has  been  voluntarily  given  ;  indeed, 
we  know  of  one  instance,  at  least,  where 
nearly  twice  that  sum  was  paid  for  a 
contribution  to  one  of  the  London  re- 
views. The  long -established  rule  has 
been,  The  greater  the  author's  reputa- 
tion, the  greater  the  amount  paid  for 
his  services ;  and  this  rule  was  made 
long  previous  to  the  time  when  period- 
ical literature  had  grown  so  popular  in 
England  as  to  be  able  to  command  the 
best  work  of  the  leading  men  of  letters 
of  the  day.  It  originated,  of  course, 
with  the  booksellers  in  that  nursery  of 
England's  earlier  literature,  Fleet  Street, 


1884.] 


TJie  Story  of  the  English  Magazines. 


371 


who  offered  for  an  author's  copy  what 
appeared  to  be  its  market  value,  and 
no  more,  though  perhaps  seldom  judg- 
ing it  by  the  highest  intellectual  stand- 
ard. But  the  maxim  is  as  old  as  trade 
itself,  and  may  be  traced  to  those  most 
elementary  business  principles  which 
say  that  skilled  labor  is  of  higher  value 
than  unskilled  labor,  and  that  a  supe- 
rior article  is  worth  more  money  than 
an  inferior  one. 

In  February,  1830,  Fraser's  Maga- 
zine was  born.  It  was  not  of  Scotch 
origin,  as  some  have  supposed,  but  first 
issued  from  215  Regent  Street,  London, 
the  place  of  business  of  Mr.  James 
Fraser,  a  publisher.  At  the  outset  it 
produced  no  literary  novelty,  unless  its 
prefatory  confession  of  faith  inay  be 
considered  one,  but  closely  followed  the 
old  lines  of  its  predecessors,  Black- 
wood's  and  the  rest.  It  was  an  octavo 
of  one  hundred  and  twenty-eight  pages, 
price  2s.  6d. ;  arid  the  first  article  which 
appeared  in  it  was  one  on  American 
poetry,  —  a  review,  in  fact,  of  "  Fugitive 
Poetry,  by  N.  P.  Willis.  Boston  :  Pierce 
&  Williams.  1829."  Within  five  years 
of  starting,  the  magazine  had  advanced 
to  the  second  place  among  the  period- 
icals, of  which  Blackwood's  was  then 
the  chief.  It  has  been  the  fashion,  in 
praising  the  dash  and  brightness  which 
early  distinguished  the  pages  of  Fraser, 
to  speak  of  its  contributors  as  if  they 
were  specially  enlisted  by  that  maga- 
zine, and  served  on  its  staff  alone.  As 
a  matter  of  fact  the  "  Fraserians,"  so 
called,  were  no  more  exclusively  Frase- 
rians than  they  were  Colburnians,  or 
Bentleyites,  or  supporters  of  any  other 
London  house  which  published  a  maga- 
zine. They  were  literary  free-lances, 
willing  to  take  up  a  pen  in  any  publish- 
er's service,  so  long  as  he  was  of  good 
reputation  and  paid  handsomely.  Nei- 
ther Barry  Cornwall,  nor  Southey,  Cole- 
ridge, Ainsvvorth,  Jerdan,  Father  Prout, 
Lockhart,  Gleig,  Allan  Cunningham,  Da- 
vid Brewster,  Thackeray,  or  Theodore 


Hook,  wrote  exclusively  for  Fraser's. 
Their  writings  may  be  found  in  the  pages 
of  other  contemporary  English  periodi- 
cals, if  one  has  the  leisure  to  search  for 
them  and  space  to  set  them  down.  But 
Fraser's  was  undoubtedly  the  first  maga- 
zine that  brought  together  such  an  ar- 
ray of  talent  in  one  publication  ;  though 
Bentley's  Miscellany  (of  which  we  shall 
have  something  to  say  presently)  shows 
an  infinitely  brighter  galaxy  of  contrib- 
utors to  its  first  numbers  than  did  Fra- 
ser's at  the  starting-point  of  its  career. 
In  the  Preface  to  our  Second  Decade, 
which  opens  the  magazine  for  January, 
1840,  the  editor  dwells  with  becoming 
pride  upon  the  splendid  position  which 
in  so  short  a  time  Fraser's  had  won  for 
itself  in  the  literature  of  the  day.  Men- 
tion is  made  of  the  "  distinct  works  " 
which  had  even  so  early  been  "  woven  " 
out  of  its  pages  by  Mitchell,  "  heart- 
stirring  biographer  of  Wallenstein  ;  " 
Thomas  Carlyle,  "  most  original,  graphic, 
and  exciting  of  historians  of  the  French 
Revolution ; '  M.  J.  Chapman,  "  the 
learned  and  the  poetic ; "  and  John 
Abraham  Heraud,  "  the  metaphysical 
and  profound."  "Yellowplush  (Thack- 
eray) with  pen  and  pencil  contributed 
to  *  the  harmless  mirth  of  nations ; ' 
Morgan  Rattler  (Banks)  wittily  rallied; 
O'Donoghue  (Maguire  ?)  related  many 
a  tale  of  Irish  fun  ;  the  gallant  and 
gallant  Bombardinio  (Colonel  Mitchell) 
has  narrated  his  experiences  in  love  and 
war ;  the  Dominie  (poor  Picken  !)  chat- 
tered over  his  Scotch  anecdotes  in  the 
choicest  patois  of  the  land  of  cakes. 
Besides  these  masqueraders,  we  have 
been  honored  by  the  avowed  contribu- 
tions of  Southey,  Lockhart,  Brewster, 
Gillies,  Gait,  Hogg,  Gleig,  Croker,  Moir, 
Macnish,  Lady  Bulwer,  Lady  Mary 
Shepherd ;  with  the  unavowed  assist- 
ance of  several  other  persons  of  al- 
lowed wit,  talent,  and  learning ;  with 
the  counsel  of  Coleridge  and  the  coun- 
tenance of  Scott.  Into  our  pages  have 
found  their  way  some  rare  specimens  of 


372 


The  Story  of  the  English  Magazines.  [September, 


the  '  old  man  eloquent,'  as  well  as  of 
Byron  and  Shelley,  which  otherwise 
would,  in  all  probability,  not  have  seen 
the  light." 

o 

It  must  be  allowed  that  there  was 
ample  cause  for  congratulation  here, 
and  that  Fraser's  Magazine  was  im- 
mensely in  advance  of  the  majority  of 
its  predecessors.  "  '  From  grave  to  gay, 
from  lively  to  severe,'  from  learning  to 
sport,  from  prose  to  poetry,  from  meta- 
physic  to  fun,  from  science  to  mirth,  the 
brilliant  staff  ranged,"  wrote  the  editor 
of  a  later  series  of  Fraser.  "  In  their 
most  sober  moods  they  tried  not  to  be 
dull ;  in  their  most  jocular  moods  they 
never  ceased  to  inculcate  a  feeling  of 
honor  and  respect  for  religion,  and  those 
institutions  which,  humanly  speaking, 
tend  most  materially  to  secure  it  upon 
earth.  This  was  their  ideal,  at  least,  if 
their  vivacity  sometimes  verged  upon 
offensive  personality,  and  their  expos- 
ure of  formalism  and  hypocrisy  some- 
times went  near  to  license.  In  the  main 
they  were  on  the  side  of  good  taste, 
refinement,  and  moderation  ;  and  their 
literary  appreciation  was  always  varied 
and  free  ranging,  as  with  such  a  staff 
it  could  not  fail  to  be."  So  firm  and 
strong  was  the  position  attained  by 
Fraser's  Magazine  in  the  favor  of  the 
reading  public  that  for  many  years  it 
held  itself  bravely  against  all  comers  at 
the  very  head  of  periodical  literature. 
To  the  original  brotherhood  of  contrib- 
utors were  added  in  after-time  many 
who  have  left  their  impress  on  the  wider 
literature  of  our  day  :  among  the  num- 
ber, Charles  Kingsley,  who  published  in 
it  his  earlier  story  Yeast,  and  Hypatia, 
in  some  respects  the  most  elaborate  and 
brilliant  of  his  works ;  Arthur  Helps, 
who  contributed  to  its  pages  Friends  in 
Council,  and  Companions  of  my  Soli- 
tude ;  John  Stuart  Mill,  who  gave  to  it 
one  of  the  most  mature  productions  of 
his  pen,  the  well-known  essay  on  Utili- 
tarianism ;  H.  T.  Buckle,  who  wrote  for 
it  his  paper  on  the  Influence  of  Women 


on  the  Progress  of  Knowledge ;  and 
last,  not  least,  James  Anthony  Froude, 
sometime  its  editor,  and  a  contributor  of 
some  of  the  best  of  the  shorter  studies. 
The  excess  of  robust  animal  vitality 
which  may  be  said  to  have  characterized 
its  early  years  brought  about  the  inevi- 
table reaction  which  gave  to  its  later  a 
tinge  of  seriousness  and  gloom  which  the 
editor  of  its  final  series  vainly  strove  to 
dispel.  Though,  even  in  its  decline,  no 
duller  than  some  of  its  contemporaries 
which  still  survive,  Fraser's  Magazine, 
once  the  most  vigorous  and  healthful, 
the  most  brilliant  and  witty,  of  all  the 
English  miscellanies,  gradually  fell  away 
in  circulation,  and  died  at  last  of  old 
age.  It  ended  a  long  and  prosperous 
career,  extending  over  a  period  of  fifty- 
two  years,  in  November,  1882.  Wheth- 
er the  present  sixpenny  magazine  of  the 
Messrs.  Longmans  is  to  be  considered 
its  bantling  we  have  no  means  of  judg- 
ing. It  may  be  reasonably  hoped  not. 
for  at  present  it  discovers  all  the  weak- 
ness and  none  of  the  strength  of  its 
distinguished  predecessor. 

Fraser's  was  becoming  famous,  hav- 
ing succeeded  in  attracting  to  its  ser- 
vice some  of  the  best  and  brightest 
writers  of  the  day,  when  another  London 
magazine  appeared,  whose  success  prom- 
ised to  eclipse  that  of  either  of  its  older 
contemporaries.  This  was  Bentley's 
Miscellany,  first  published  in  1837,  and 
incorporated  with  Temple  Bar  in  1859. 
Looking  over  the  contents  of  its  ear- 
lier numbers  and  comparing  them  with 
the  average  of  periodical  literature  now, 
one  cannot  help  thinking  that  the  Eng- 
lish magazines  have  greatly  deteriorated 
in  popular  interest  since  the  days  when 
Bentley's  was  started.  No  magazine  now 
published  offers  anything  like  the  variety 
and  freshness  which  its  pages  afforded. 
It  seems  to  us  that,  taken  altogether,  it 
was  the  liveliest,  the  most  entertaining, 
and  the  most  novel  of  all  the  earlier  mag- 
azines. It  consisted  of  104  pages,  price 
2s.  6d ;  and  though  its  greatest  monthly 


1884.] 


The  Story  of  the  English  Magazines. 


373 


sale  never  exceeded  9000,  such  a  maga- 
zine, published  at  Is.,  with  a  staff  of  con- 
tributors as  brilliant  as  that  which  the 
Miscellany  commanded  —  if  that  were 
possible  —  would  in  these  days  probably 
have  a  circulation  ten  times  as  great, 
and  would  be  the  most  popular  maga- 
zine of  the  day.  The  first  volume  of 
Beutley's  Miscellany  contains  so  much 
that  is  amusing  that  even  at  this  distance 
of  time  it  would  almost  bear  reprinting, 
which  is  more  than  can  be  said  of  the 
initial  numbers  of  the  New  Monthly, 
Blackwood's,  or  Eraser's.  Boz  was  the 
first  editor.  Following  a  characteris- 
tic preface  from  his  pen  conies  a  song 
by  Father  Prout  and  a  Prologue  by  Dr. 
Maguire.  Among  the  other  papers 
appearing  in  it  are  :  Recollections  of 
George  Colman,  by  Theodore  Hook ; 
the  opening  chapters  of  Handy  Andy, 
by  Samuel  Lover;  A  Legend  of  Manoir 
Hall,  by  the  author  of  Headlong  Hall ; 
Terence  O'Shaughnessy,  by  Gleig ;  the 
Sabine  Fathers :  a  serenade,  by  Father 
Prout ;  some  stray  sketches,  by  Boz ; 
the  opening  chapters  of  Oliver  Twist, 
by  the  same  ;  and  articles  by  Thomas 
Ingoldsby  (Barham),  Captain  Marryat, 
Haynes  Bayly,  Hamilton  Reynolds,  W. 
Jerdan,  and  Sheridan  Knowles.  "  The 
scenery  will  be  supplied,"  wrote  Dick- 
ens, in  the  aforesaid  preface,  u  by  the 
creative  pencil  of  Mr.  George  Cruik- 
shank  ;  the  whole  of  the  extensive  and 
beautiful  machinery  will  be  under  the 
superintendence  of  Mr.  Samuel  Bent- 
ley  ;  .  .  .  and  Mr.  Richard  Bentley  has 
kindly  consented  to  preside  over  the 
treasury  department."  These  were  the 
general  arrangements  of  the  new  under- 
taking. 

It  appears  to  have  succeeded  admi- 
rably. The  management  was  from  the 
first  well  supported  by  the  company,  and 
the  public  readily  responded  with  their 
half-crowns.  The  monthly  "bill," drawn 
up  at  the  monthly  magazine  dinner,  was 
exactly  suited  to  the  prevailing  tastes 
of  the  day  in  matters  theatrical,  a  thought 


which  appears  to  have  been  present  in 
the  mind  of  Charles  Dickens  when  he 
penned  his  preface.  A  pleasant  little 
farce  was  always  on  the  programme  "  to 
play  the  house  in  ; '  something  in  the 
nature  of  a  melodrama  of  the  good  "  old 
Adelphi  "  type  followed  ;  and  afterwards 
came  a  lighter  piece,  to  send  the  people 
away  satisfied  and  in  good  humor,  looking 
forward  to  another  "  good  time  "  when 
the  company  came  that  way  again.  Dick- 
ens, Marryat,  Barham,  Lover,  and  Sam 
Slick  were  the  leading  light  comedians  ; 
Ainsworth,  Hamilton  Reynolds,  Jerdan, 
Leigh,  and  Barker  the  "  heavy  "  gentle- 
men, willing,  however,  at  a  pinch,  to  play 
a  part  in  any  piece  which  the  manage- 
ment might  suggest,  so  long  as  it  tended 
to  the  general  success  of  the  company. 
When  Jack  Sheppard  was  "  in  the  bills  ': 
as  the  piece  de  resistance,  the  receipts 
advanced  to  something  like  £800  per 
month.  When  that  popular  romance 
was  concluded,  they  dropped  to  about 
£450.  These  amounts  are  based  upon 
a  circulation  of  8500  and  5000  per  month 
respectively.  With  Jack  Sheppard,  they 
stood  at  the  former,  without  him,  at  the 
latter  figure.  So  that  Thackeray  was 
not  far  from  the  truth  when,  in  his  story 
of  Catherine,  written  just  about  the  time 
that  Ainsworth's  history  was  appearing 
in  serial  form,  he  remarked,  "  The  pub- 
lic will  hear  now  of  nothing  but  rogues." 
Oliver  Twist  was  the  best  written  of 
the  Miscellany ;  after  that,  Jack  Shep- 
pard. 

Ainsworth  succeeded  Charles  Dick- 
ens in  the  editorial  chair,  and  was  for 
some  time  supported  by  a  company  of 
contributors  as  distinguished  as  that 
which  gave  a  lustre  to  the  short  but 
brilliant  engagement  of  Boz. 

With  the  birth  of  the  Cornhill,  in 
1858,  the  English  magazine  enters  upon 
the  last  phase  of  its  career.  The  wild 
oats  of  its  youth  have  been  sown,  and  it 
now  takes  the  form  of  a  sedate,  authori- 
tative, and  highly-cultured  literary  jour- 
nal. We  hear  no  more  of  the  bolster- 


374 


The  Despotism  of  Party. 


[September, 


ous  hilarity  of  Eraser's  or  the  somewhat 
dissolute  manners  of  Bentley's.  The 
public  has  had  enough  of  both,  and  wishes 
now  for  a  season  of  repose.  Moreover, 
the  public  has  grown  older  and  wiser  it- 
self, and  has  done,  at  least  for  the  pres- 
ent, with  adventure  and  extravagance. 
It  has  become  virtuous  and  regretful, 
and  needs  a  little  soothing  and  a  little 
talking  to,  and  is  not  averse  to  having 
its  vices  and  its  errors  pointed  out,  so 
that  while  the  time  remains  it  may 
mend  its  ways,  and  become  a  less  selfish 
and  unprincipled  public.  And  of  all 
men  Thackeray  was  just  the  man  to 
give  the  public  what  it  needed.  Ten 
years  before,  he  had  preached  to  it  with 
admirable  effect  from  the  by-ways  of 
Vanity  Fair,  and  later  from  the  more 
secluded  parts  of  the  city  ;  and  now  it 
desired  that  he  might  take  it,  as  it  were, 
into  his  inner  room,  and  talk  to  it  there. 
The  Roundabout  Papers,  first  published 
in  the  Cornhill  Magazine,  were  the 
pleasant  little  discourses  he  delivered 
on  those  occasions  of  semi-confidential 
intercourse  with  his  readers.  They 
showed  their  appreciation  of  his  kind- 
ly efforts  in  their  behalf  by  subscrib- 
ing for  the  magazine  which  printed  his 
essays  to  the  unprecedented  number 
of  100,000.  These  figures  represent 
actually  and  bona  fide  the  number  of 
copies  sold  to  the  public.  When  the 


Coruhill  was  started,  the    average  sale 

7  o 

of  each  number  of  the  magazine  in  the 
first  year  was  84,427,  and  the  smallest 
sale  of  any  one  number  was  67,019, — 
nearly  ten  times  the  sale  of  Bentley's 
Miscellany  in  its  palmiest  days,  and 
probably  in  the  case  of  any  English 
magazine  never  since  exceeded.  It  would 
be  no  more  than  the  truth  to  say  that, 
without  Thackeray's  name  as  editor,  the 
Cornhill  would  never  have  attained  its 
immense  popularity.  The  papers  which 
he  wrote  for"  it  were  as  eagerly  looked 
for,  month  by  month,  as  were  the  fa- 
mous concluding  numbers  of  Pickwick. 
And  when  Thackeray  died,  the  circula- 
tion gradually  fell  off,  and  the  magazine 
never  afterwards  regained  its  once  su- 
perlative position.  Indeed,  the  sale  in 
Thackeray's  days  was  quite  unparalleled, 
as  may  be  judged  from  the  fact  that  the 
average  monthly  sale  of  its  later  con- 
temporaries, Temple  Bar,  St.  James's, 
Belgravia,  and  the  rest,  has  never  ex- 
ceeded 15,000.  The  quarterly  Reviews, 
which  are  not  here  under  consideration, 
have  without  actually  disappearing  them- 
selves given  rise  to  such  monthly  maga- 
zines as  the  Contemporary,  Nineteenth 
Century,  and  Fortnightly,  and  there  are 
some  signs  that  the  magazine  of  the 
old  school  is  giving  way  in  England 
before  the  newer  school  of  illustrated 


magazines. 


Charles  E.  Pascoe. 


THE   DESPOTISM   OF   PARTY. 


A  GREAT  variety  of  recent  events 
have  combined  to  obscure  the  old  and 
correct  notion  of  a  political  party,  and 
to  substitute  for  it  something  radically 
different  and  vastly  more  dangerous. 
There  has  been  for  several  years  a  vis- 
ible tendency,  both  in  the  habits  of 
speech  and  in  the  acts  of  legislation,  to 
regard  parties  as  actual  corporations, 


susceptible  of  legal  definition,  endowed 
for  certain  purposes  with  what  lawyers 
call  ,a  juridical  personality  ;  not  indeed 
exactly  capable  of  sueing  and  being 
sued,  but  stopping  only  just  short  of 
that,  arid  in  many  other  respects  enti- 
tled to  claim  the  same  protection  from 
the  laws,  and  to  enforce  the  same  obe- 
dience from  the  minority  to  the  major- 


1884.] 


The  Despotism  of  Party. 


375 


ity,  as  is  enforced  in  the-  case  of  all 
legally  organized  joint-stock  companies. 
A  slight  variation  from  this  theory  is 
the  one  which  prefers  to  compare  a 
party  to  a  church,  and  to  exact  of  every 
person  who  at  any  time  acts  with  it  a 
rigid  stihscription  to  certain  articles  of 
faith.  But  the  difference  between  these 
two  theories  is  less  than  at  first  appears  ; 
for  since  the  ecclesiastical  view  of  party 
adopts  also  the  modern  spirit  of  religious 
liberality,  political  creeds  are  generally 
made  broad  or  vague  enough  to  offer  an 
asylum  to  nearly  every  class  of  believ- 
ers. It  is  therefore  chiefly  in  enforcing 
support  of  nominations,  or  obedience  to 
duly  constituted  party  authorities,  that 
the  iron  rigor  of  the  new  system  be- 
comes most  obnoxious. 

There  are  many  objections  to  this 
system,  and  they  will  appear  in  the 
course  of  the  present  article.  As  a  pre- 
liminary text,  it  may  be  said  at  the  out- 
set that  it  places  parties  above  the  state, 
or  at  least  above  the  community ;  and, 
in  doing  this,  renders  them  also  less 
efficient  for  the  fulfillment  of  their  true 
mission. 

The  definition  of  party  by  the  lexi- 
cographers is  of  very  little  benefit  to 
the  discussion.  With  slight  variation  of 
language,  they  agree  substantially  in  de- 
fining a  party  as  a  part  or  portion  of  a 
community,  less  than  the  whole,  united 
in  the  support  of  some  principle  or  in 
the  pursuit  of  some  end  common  to  all 
the  members.  This  is  true,  though  not 
exclusively  so,  of  political  parties.  In 
order  to  find  the  authoritative  definition 
of  a  political  party,  it  is  necessary  to 
search  the  declarations  of  eminent  men 
who  have  been  party  leaders. 

Edmund  Burke  is  perhaps  the  man 
who  has  announced  in  his  writings  and 
illustrated  in  his  life  the  most  correct 
notions  of  the  nature  of  party  and  of 
party  obligations.  It  could  less  fairly 
be  said  of  him  than  of  many  of  his  con- 
temporaries that  he  gave  up  to  party 
what  was  meant  for  mankind.  But  it 


is  also  not  true  that  he  utterly  ignored 
the  advantage,  and  within  certain  limits 
the  sanctity,  of  party  ties,  and  was  a 
mere  freebooter  in  the  field  of  politics. 
"  Party,"  he  says,  in  the  Thoughts  on  the 
Cause  of  the  Present  Discontents,  which 
Mr.  John  Morley  calls  the  pamphlet 
where  he  exhibited  for  the  first  time,  on 
a  conspicuous  scale,  the  strongest  qual- 
ities of  his  understanding,  —  "  party  i.s 
a  body  of  men  united  for  promoting 
by  their  joint  endeavors  the  national  in- 
terest upon  some  particular  principle 
in  which  they  are  all  agreed.  For  my 
part,  I  find  it  impossible  to  conceive 
that  any  one  believes  in  his  own  politics, 
or  thinks  them  of  any  weight,  who  re- 
fuses to  adopt  the  means  of  having 
them  reduced  to  practice.  .  .  .  There- 
fore every  honorable  connection  will 
avow  it  is  their  first  purpose  to  pursue 
every  just  method  to  put  the  men  who 
hold  their  opinions  into  such  a  condition 
as  may  enable  them  to  carry  their  com- 
mon plans  into  execution  with  all  the 
power  and  authority  of  the  state."  The 
agreement  on  certain  principles  or  poli- 
cies thus  precedes  the  formation  of  the 
party  which  is  to  apply  them  in  legisla- 
tion. Nothing  could  have  been  more 
repulsive  to  Burke's  political  philosophy 
than  the  theory  that  a  party  is  above  its 
own  doctrines,  or  even  needs  no  doc- 
trines ;  or  that,  being  already  organized, 
it  can  lay  in  a  stock  of  principles,  as  a 
merchant  does  his  wares.  The  further 
assumption  that  a  man  can  be  enrolled 
in  a  party  as  in  a  regiment,  and  be 
forced  to  obey  without  question  all  the 
orders  issued  by  its  established  author- 
ities, is  one  which  he  would  have  been 
quite  unable  even  to  comprehend. 

Daniel  Webster  is  another  statesman 
who,  like  Burke,  adhered,  through  the 
best  years  of  his  life,  to  the  party  with 
which  he  began  his  career.  What  is 
called  his  final  apostasy  was,  indeed,  in 
a  merely  partisan  aspect,  less  offensive 
than  that  of  Burke ;  for  he  simply  fore- 
saw the  disruption  of  the  Whig  party, 


376 


The  Despotism  of  Party. 


[September, 


owing    to    the    differences    of    opinion 
among    the  members    in  regard  to   the 
question  of  slavery,  and  prepared  to  fol- 
low one  section  rather  than  the  other. 
It  cannot,  therefore,  be  said  that  he  de- 
serted the  Whig  party,  for  at  the  time 
there    practically  was    no  Whig    party. 
Yet  no  man  in  the  long  list  of  American 
statesmen  has  left   on    record  stronger 
protests  against  the  dangers  of   exces- 
sive party  spirit.     In  the  Declaration  of 
Whig  Principles  and  Purposes,  drafted 
by  Mr.  Webster,  and  put  forth  in  1840, 
it   is   affirmed   that  "  party  spirit,  .  .  . 
when    it   gains  such  an  ascendency   in 
men's  minds  as  leads  them  to  substitute 
party  for  country,  to  seek  no  ends  but 
party  ends,  no    approbation    but   party 
approbation,  and  to  fear  no  reproach  or 
contumely  so  that  there  be  no  party  dis- 
satisfaction, not  only  alloys  the  true  en- 
joyment of  our  institutions,  but  weakens, 
every   day,  the    foundations   on    which 
they  stand."     Again,  in  a  speech  before 
a  Whig   convention   at   Valley    Forge, 
in    1844,    Mr.    Webster    said,    "When 
party  spirit  carries  men  so  far  that  they 
will  not  inquire  into  men  and  measures 
that  are  placed  before    them  for   their 
sanction  and   support,  but  will  only  in- 
quire to  what  party  the  men  belong,  or 
what   party  recommends  the  measures, 
that  is  a  state  of  things  which  is  danger- 
ous   to  the    stability  of   a  free  govern- 
ment."    These  declarations  are  signifi 
cant,  not  less  on  account  of  the  man  who 
made  them,   than  of  the  occasions    on 
which  they  were  made.     They  were  not 
ingenious  sophisms,  by  which  a  traitor 
to  a  party  sought  to  excuse  his  treachery, 
but  were  statements  of  the  just  limita- 
tions of  party  authority,  made  by  a  rec- 
ognized party  leader  before  conventions 
of  a  party ;  and  one  of  them  was  even 
embodied  in  the  party's  address  to  the 
country. 

If  now  the  great  Whig  leader  could 
safely  announce  such  doctrines  before 
members  of  his  own  organization,  and 
even  cause  their  adoption  by  a  repre- 


sentative meeting  of  the  party,  it  fol- 
lows, of  course,  that  he  would  permit 
himself  at  least  equal  freedom  on  occa- 
sions of  a  less  formal  character,  and  in 
mere  academical  discourses.  It  will  be 
found  that  this  was  the  case.  In  the 
Eulogy  of  Washington  Mr.  Webster  re- 
fers with  approval  to  the  grave  admoni- 
tions of  the  Farewell  Address,  and  men- 
tions the  danger  that  through  the  excess 
of  party  spirit  "  the  government  itself 
may  become  nothing  but  organized 
party." 

Nothing  but  organized  party  !  These 
words,  which  were  apparently  thrown 
out  only  as  a  patriotic  warning  against 
the  evils  of  excessive  partisanship,  have 
been  transformed  by  the  course  of  events 
almost  into  an  inspired  prophecy.  The 
danger  that  organized  party  will,  in  au- 
thority at  least,  and  in  that  public  def- 
erence, which  is  so  large  an  influence 
in  political  affairs,  eventually  supersede 
organized  government  has  been  stead- 
ily increasing  for  many  years,  and  has 
now  assumed  proportions  at  which  the 
thoughtful  citizen  may  well  be  appalled. 

The  need  of  parties,  as  human  nature 
is  now  constituted,  and  as  political  af- 
fairs are  conducted  in  every  free  gov- 
ernment, is  conceded  by  nearly  all  wri- 
ters and  observers.  By  none  is  the  ad- 
mission made  more  frankly  than  by  the 
two  illustrious  statesmen  whom  I  have 
just  quoted.  It  is  also  evident  that 
some  form  of  organization  is  essential  to 
every  party  ;  and  that,  other  things  be- 
ing equal,  the  party  which  has  the  best 
organization  has  also  the  best  chances 
of  success.  But  there  are  many  meth- 
ods of  effecting  this  object,  and  the 
method  adopted  in  a  particular  case, 
though  it  may  be  from  one  point  of 
view  singularly  calculated  to  insure  suc- 
cess, is  not  necessarily  evidence  that 
success  is  deserved.  The  very  perfec- 
tion of  the  organization  may,  on  tho 
contrary,  show  that  the  triumph  of  the 
party  has  been  placed  before  the  triumph 
of  the  principles,  which  it  represents,  or 


1884.] 


The  Despotism  of  Party. 


377 


that  a  want  of  confidence  in  those  prin- 
ciples, or  the  absence  of  any  principles 
whatever,  has  made  the  party  depen- 
dent for  victory  upon  the  rigor  and  vig- 
ilance of  its  discipline,  and  upon  the  skill 
with  which  it  can  hold  together  the  vo- 
ters who  on  other  occasions  have  given 
it  their  support. 

Party  organization  has  taken  many 
forms  in  the  course  of  ages,  and  still  has 
different  forms  in  existing  states.  In 
England,  the  country  which  has  the 
longest  and  most  brilliant  record  of  gov- 
ernment by  parties,  this  organization 
has  always  been  and  still  is  extremely 
loose.  It  is  true  that  strenuous  efforts 
are  now  making  to  repair  this  supposed 
defect.  Mr.  Chamberlain  is  an  ardent 
advocate  of  the  introduction  of  the 
American  caucus  system  into  English 
politics  ;  and  from  the  opposite  side 
Lord  Randolph  Churchill  is  trying  to 
knit  the  conservatives  into  a  close  cor- 
poration, which  he  or  some  other  leader 
shall  control  by  the  mere  force  of  num- 
bers. But  these  efforts  have  not  as  yet 
met  with  resplendent  success.  Any 
sympathetic  American  would  counsel 
against  them,  and  the  end  at  which 
they  aim  is  opposed  to  all  the  instincts 
and  traditions  of  English  political  life. 
To  Englishmen  a  party  stands  simply 
for  a  policy  or  a  set  of  measures  sup- 
ported by  a  cabinet  and  a  majority  of 
the  House  of  Commons,  or  by  another 
group  of  leaders  and  a  minority  of  the 
House  of  Commons  opposed  to  that  pol- 
icy or  to  those  measures.  It  is  indeed 
the  voters  who  make  the  majority  or  the 
minority,  the  government  or  the  opposi- 
tion. But  after  a  general  election  has 
been  held  the  scene  of  party  divisions 
is  transferred  to  Parliament ;  and  while 
her  majesty's  opposition  has  clearly  de- 
fined constitutional  duties,  like  those  of 
her  majesty's  government,  it  is  as  re- 
sponsible members  of  Parliament,  and 
not  as  representatives  of  a  party. 

The  usage  on  the  Continent  is  some- 
what different,  and  is  a  species  of  com- 


promise between  the  English  and  the 
American  systems.  In  France  and  Ger- 
many the  term  party  is  rarely  extended 
to  the  voters  at  the  polls.  It  means  a 
group  of  representatives  within  the  leg- 
islature, who  are  united  with  nearly  the 
firmness  and  formality  of  a  club.  To 
be  a  member  of  such  a  party,  it  is  not 
enough  that  a  deputy  act  with  it  usually, 
or  even  always  ;  he  must  solemnly  an- 
nounce his  adhesion,  and  inscribe  him- 
self, as  the  French  say,  on  the  roll.  The 
attitude  of  such  groups  toward  pending 
measures  is  determined  by  formal  con- 
ferences, which  are  strictly  legislative 
caucuses,  and  the  decision  of  the  major- 
ity is  enforced  with  a  degree  of  strin- 
gency unknown  even  in  America.  These 
groups  make  their  own  platforms,  issue 
addresses  to  the  voters,  point  with  pride 
to  their  achievements,  and  arraign  the 
records  of  their  opponents.  They  are 
a  conspicuous  part  of  the  parliamentary 
machine,  and  are  regularly  announced 
in  the  official  manuals.  But  outside  the 
legislative  halls  they  have  hardly  any 
recognized  existence.  A  dissolution  puts 
an  end  to  them  ;  and  when,  after  a  gen- 
eral election,  a  new  Parliament  meets, 
and  the  members  again  crystallize  into 
groups,  different  combinations,  and  per- 
haps even  strange  names,  may  appear. 

It  is  evident  now  that  neither  of  these 
systems,  neither  the  English  nor  the 
Continental,  at  all  resembles  our  own 
exquisitely  organized  machine.  To  our 
professional  politicians  they  must  look 
crude,  clumsy,  inefficient ;  worthy  only 
of  a  people  still  in  the  infancy  of  self- 
government,  and  fatally  defective  in  their 
neglect  of  the  people.  Yet  an  almost 
equal  looseness  of  organization  charac- 
terized American  parties  in  what  were 
at  least  not  the  worst  days  of  the  re- 
public. In  the  time  of  Adams  and 
Hamilton  and  Jefferson,  a  party  meant 
the  supporters  of  a  distinct  set  of  prin- 
ciples, formulated,  represented,  and  ad- 
vocated by  a  few  statesmen,  who  for  the 
most  part  were  in  public  office,  and  were 


378 


The  Despotism  of  Party. 


[September, 


instinctively  accepted  as  leaders  ;  while 
it  was  only  by  gradual  steps,  by  a  really 
striking  process  of  evolution,  that  we 
reached  the  system  under  which  the 
great  parties  now  conduct  their  affairs. 
The  mechanical  perfection  of  that  sys- 
tem must  be  admitted.  The  parts  are 
adjusted  with  the  greatest  nicety,  and 
work,  from  the  primary  up  to  the  na- 
tional convention,  with  a  precision,  an 
ease,  a  docility,  which  would  fill  the  soul 
of  Archimedes  with  admiration.  As  a 
piece  of  political  mechanism  it  is  unsur- 
passed. But  it  is  also  unsurpassed  as  a 
device  for  stifling  discussion,  for  foster- 
ing intrigue,  for  depressing  talent  and 
elevating  mediocrity,  for  crushing  all 
spontaneity  out  of  political  life,  and  re- 
ducing what  ought  to  be  the  vigorous, 
healthy,  buoyant  action  of  a  free  peo- 
ple to  a  base  procession  of  mathematical 
factors. 

From  such  laborious  efforts  to  perfect 
the  mere  mechanical  organization  of 
party  must  result,  as  a  natural  conse- 
quence, a  grossly  exaggerated  view  of 
the  sacredness  of  party  itself.  The  party 
becomes  a  species  of  imperium  in  impe- 
rio.  Its  forms,  its  agents,  its  organs,  are 
closely  patterned  after  those  of  the  state ; 
it  exercises  the  three  great  functions  of 
government ;  it  has  its  hierarchy  of  offi- 
cials, acting  within  the  circumscriptions, 
and  ranging  through  all  the  grades  which 
obtain  in  our  political  system.  These 
officials  feel  the  responsibility  of  their 
positions,  which  they  compare  to  places 
of  trust  in  civil  administration.  The 
struggles  for  place  within  the  party  are 
scarcely  less  keen  than  the  struggles  of 
political  life ;  the  same  arts  of  intrigue 
and  persuasion  are  used  ;  the  same  ac- 
quiescence in  the  result  of  a  contest  is 
always  expected,  and  rarely  withheld. 
Thus  the  force  of  imagination  alone, 
excited  by  the  constant  spectacle  of 
this  vast  machine,  completely  equipped 
and  manned  and  always  in  movement, 
leads  people  to  regard  it  as  a  permanent 
institution,  having  a  corporate  existence 


in  the  state,  and  therefore  entitled  to  be 
treated  as  an  end  in  itself,  and  not  as 
means  to  the  attainment  of  an  end. 

It  is  not,  however,  by  the  imagination 
alone  that  this  illusion  is  maintained. 
This  of  itself  would  make  the  error 
dangerous  ;  but  it  has,  besides  that,  led 
to  the  announcement  of  certain  audacious 
propositions,  and  even  to  measures  of 
actual  legislation,  which  grossly  con- 
fuse the  distinction  between  a  political 
party  and  a  political  commonwealth,  and 
disclose  a  fatal  tendency  toward  the  very 
evil  against  which  Mr.  Webster  so  sol- 
emnly warned  his  countrymen. 

The  most  obnoxious  of  the  new  doc- 
trines which  are  thrusting  themselves 
upon  public  recognition  concerns  what 
may  be  called  the  discipline  of  a  party, 
the  seat  of  authority  within  it,  and  the 
duty  of  members  toward  it.  The  doc- 
trine flows  easily  from  the  fiction  which 
compares  a  party  to  a  state.  In  a  state 
with  democratic  institutions  the  major- 
ity rules  ;  and  the  minority  must  obey 
the  officers  whom  it  chooses,  and  respect 
the  laws  which  it  enacts.  Any  other 
system  is  absurd  in  thought,  and  would 
lead  to  chaos.  But  this  principle  of 
democratic  fairness  is  capable  of  a  wide 
application.  It  is  recognized  in  the 
most  varied  concerns  of  human  society  ; 
wherever,  in  fact,  a  body  of  men  meet  to 
deliberate  upon  common  interests,  and 
to  express  their  views  in  some  authori- 
tative and  binding  form.  Everywhere 
the  majority  prevails,  and  the  minority 
acquiesces.  This,  it  is  said,  should  also 
be  the  case  with  a  part}7.  In  the  man- 
agement of  its  affairs,  in  the  attitude 
which  it  is  to  take  toward  pending  pub- 
lic measures,  in  the  choice  of  its  leaders, 
the  decision  of  the  majority  should  be 
final,  and  the  minority  should  accept  it 
with  perfect  loyalty  and  good  faith. 

Yet  this  proposition,  which  presents 
at  first  sight  a  cogency  almost  axiomatic, 
will  be  found  on  examination  to  be  not 
only  fallacious,  but  even  absolutely  irrec- 
oncilable with  the  true  notion  of  party. 


1884.] 


The  Despotism  of  Party. 


379 


A  party  is  a  body  of  men  united  in 
support  of  a  political  principle,  or  set 
of  principles,  in  which  they  all  believe. 
This  is  an  accepted  definition,  which  no 
one  will  contest.  It  follows,  then,  that  a 
body  of  men,  in  which  a  majority  forces 
upon  a  minority  adhesion  to,  or  at  least 
a  formal  acquiescence  in,  doctrines  or 
policies  opposed  to  its  convictions,  may 
be  indeed  legitimate  and  useful  within 
its  sphere,  but  is  not  a  party.  Nor  is 
it  necessary  to  my  point  that  the  defi- 
nition above  given  be  taken  in  a  rigid 
and  inflexible  sense.  It  may  be  freely 
conceded  that  when  a  party  is  united 
upon  some  one  great  political  principle, 
or  some  general  view  of  governmental 
policy,  much  freedom  of  opinion  upon 
minor  points  of  political  belief  may  be 
allowed,  without  robbing  the  association 
of  the  main  quality  which  determines 
its  character.  But  the  character  is  lost 
as  soon  as  this  liberality  becomes  an 
utter  indifference  to  any  political  con- 
victions ;  or,  on  the  other  hand,  when,  on 
any  division  of  opinion,  an  attempt  is 
made  to  coerce  the  minority  by  the  ma- 
jority. An  illustration  of  this  truth  is 
offered  in  the  history  of  the  Whig  party. 
So  long  as  the  party  was  contending 
mainly  for  protection  it  could  properly 
tolerate  among  its  members  different 
views  on  the  question  of  slavery.  But 
when  this  question  became  the  leading 
issue,  it  was  impossible  for  the  majority 
to  force  its  views  upon  the  minority,  or 
for  the  party  to  keep  up  its  formal  or- 
ganization by  ignoring  the  real  problem 
of  the  hour.  The  Whig  party  met,  there- 
fore, a  natural  death,  because  the  ele- 
ments which  composed  it  had  become 
so  inharmonious  that  it  ceased  to  be  a 
party. 

The  case  is  scarcely  less  strong  in  re- 
gard to  the  choice  of  candidates  and 
leaders.  Many  persons  will  indeed  sa}', 
though  without  sufficient  reflection,  that, 
while  the  principles  of  a  party  ought  to 
be  shared  by  all  the  members  of  the 
party,  the  selection  of  the  men  to  repre- 


sent and  advocate  them  ouo;ht  to  be  left 

c5 

to  the  majority.  But  this  theory  over- 
looks the  fact  that  men  stand  for  prin- 
ciples, and  that  each  member  of  a  party 
must  exercise  his  own  judgment,  if  not 
in  regard  to  the  success  with  which 
a  proposed  leader  is  likely  to  support 
them,  at  least  in  regard  to  the  sinceri- 
ty with  which  he  holds  them.  A  party 
may  indeed  be  formed  about  and  be 
held  together  by  the  name  of  some  great 
leader,  instead  of  by  a  measure.  Some 
organizations  of  this  kind  have  been 
among  the  most  powerful  in  history. 
But  would  it  not  be  absurd  to  insist 
that  the  question  of  leadership  should 
be  submitted  each  year  to  the  vote  of 
the  members,  and  that  the  minority 
should  accept  any  new  leader  whom  the 
majority  might  choose,  even  one  of  opin- 
ions radically  opposed  to  those  of  the 
man  who  originally  gave  the  party  its 
name  and  character  ?  Could  the  party, 
after  such  a  revolution,  be  said  still  to 
preserve  its  identity  ? 

But  the  sacred  principle  of  universal 
suffrage  is  brought  in  to  close  the  ar- 
gument.. It  is  asked,  in  a  tone  which 
suggests  that  there  can  be  only  a  single 
answer,  whether  every  member  of  a 
party  has  not  a  right  to  a  voice  in  the 
selection  of  candidates,  and  whether,  if 
so,  the  choice  of  the  majority  ought  not 
to  prevail.  Is  any  other  system  com- 
patible with  popular  government? 

This  has  undeniably  a  very  plausible 
and  convincing  look.  Yet  the  interests 
of  truth,  of  sound  political  thought,  and 
of  correct  political  methods  require  that 
it  be  met  with  an  emphatic  denial.  The 
theory  is  as  false  as  it  is  deceptive,  arid 
as  mischievous  as  it  is  false.  It  could 
never  even  be  entertained  if  the  true 
conception  of  party  were  kept  in  view. 
There  is  no  such  thing  as  the  right  of 
the  people  to  participate  in  the  nomina- 
tion of  candidates.  Under  our  present 
system  they  may  of  course  exercise  such 
a  participation  ;  but  it  is  not  a  right, 
adds  nothing  whatever  to  the  validity  of 


380 


The  Despotism  of  Party. 


[September, 


the  nomination,  and  affects  in  no  respect 
the  political  duty  of  a  single  citizen. 
The  right  of  universal  suffrage  begins 
only  at  the  polls,  and  refers  to  the 
choice  between,  not  the  choice  of,  can- 
didates. Indeed,  to  make  it  begin  at 
the  stage  of  nominations  may  in  prac- 
tice actually  impair  its  exercise  at  the 
polls.  If  the  nomination  of  a  candidate 
by  the  popular  suffrage  of  a  party  has 
the  binding  validity  which  is  claimed 
for  it,  a  member  of  the  minority,  who, 
because  he  concedes  this  validity,  or  has 
a  mistaken  sense  of  honor,  or  fears 
some  kind  of  persecution  or  proscription, 
supports  against  his  conscientious  con- 
victions a  candidate  thus  nominated,  is 
really  not  a  voter  at  the  polls.  He  is 
rather  under  a  most  degrading  species 
of  coercion.  Thus,  in  order  to  force  the 
principle  of  universal  suffrage  into  a 
sphere  where  it  does  not  belong,  politi- 
cians strike  a  deadly  blow  at  its  free- 
dom and  purity  in  the  realm  where  it 
ought  to  reign  supreme  and  be  preserved 
immaculate. 

There  is,  also,  something  disingenuous 
in  the  form  which  is  commonly  given  to 
the  argument  for  the  democratic  basis 
of  party  government.  It  is  asked  wheth- 
er every  man  has  not  a  right  to  a  voice 
in  behalf  of  the  candidate  whom  he 
wishes  to  support.  One  answer  to  this 
is  that  the  laws  give  him  such  a  right  at 
the  polls,  and  protect  him  in  the  exercise 
of  it.  But  a  better  answer  is  that  the 
question  does  not  correctly  describe  the 
right  for  which  the  advocates  of  the 
present  system  really  contend.  What 
they  demand  is,  not  that  each  member 
of  a  party  shall  be  heard  in  behalf  of 
the  candidate  whom  he  wishes  to  sup- 
port, but  that  he  shall,  in  certain  con- 
tingencies, be  permitted  to  name  a  can- 
didate whom  somebody  else  shall  be 
obliged  to  support.  This,  stripped  of  all 
disguise,  is  what  the  proposition  means, 
and  it  would  not  be  easy  to  imagine 
anything  more  iniquitous. 

The   summit   and  crowning  achieve- 


ment of  the  American  party  system  is, 
of  course,  the  national  convention.  The 
party  being  regarded  as  a  body  politic, 
the  convention  becomes  an  official  le<ns- 

o 

lature,  with  officers,  rules  of  order,  and 
powers  of  coercion  exactly  like  those 
of  Congress  itself.  It  is  pronounced, 
even  by  the  most  strenuous  champions 
of  its  dignity,  to  be  a  deliberative  body. 
Yet  it  has  nearly  lost  this  characteris- 
tic. It  is  always  largely  composed  of 
men  whose  opinions  are  mortgaged,  or 
who  are  merely  the  clerical  bearers  of 
instructed  votes,  or  who,  if  unpledged 
and  uninstructed,  can  still  be  influenced 
by  no  arguments  more  cogent  than  num- 
bers and  combinations.  Many  of  the 
conventions  in  recent  years  have  been 
perfectly  useless  formalities.  The  re- 
sult could  have  been  ascertained  and 
made  known  by  telegraph,  without  any 
meeting  of  the  delegates.  From  this 
fact  the  friends  of  independent  politics 
might  indeed  derive  a  legitimate  though 
selfish  and  narrow  advantage,  since  a 
convention  which  excludes  deliberation, 
and  is  controlled  by  mere  brute  force, 
unreflecting,  intolerant,  despotic,  almost 
challenges  a  revolt,  while  men  of  strong 
though  modest  convictions  would  be 
more  reluctant  to  reject  the  decision  of 
a  perfectly  free  and  frank  conference, 
conducted  in  a  spirit  of  liberality  and 
forbearance. 

But  the  caucus  ought  to  be  consid- 
ered from  a  higher  standpoint,  namely, 
from  that  of  its  effect  as  an  educating 
agent  upon  American  youth.  Is  this 
elaborate  machinery  of  caucuses  and 
conventions  the  one  which  is  to  produce 
in  the  future  a  high  type  of  statesmen 
for  the  service  of  the  republic  ?  Is  it 
fitted  to  broaden  the  faculties  ;  to  liber- 
alize the  judgment ;  to  stimulate  inde- 
pendence, courage,  manliness,  fidelity  to 
principle  ;  and  to  make  an  unswerving 
devotion  to  elevated,  noble,  chivalrous 
methods  in  political  life  the  aspiration 
of  all  our  youth  ?  I  should  be  appalled 
by  the  audacity  of  an  affirmative  answer 


1884.] 


The  Despotism  of  Party. 


381 


to  these  questions.  Yet,  lest  one  may 
be  offered,  I  present  in  advance  a  sin- 
gle consideration,  which  seems  to  me 
conclusive  against  not  only  the  claim 
for  despotic  power  made  for  our  con- 
ventions, but  also,  and  more  especially, 
against  anything  that  may  be  said  in 
behalf  of  the  lawfulness  or  propriety 
of  the  position  which  they  hold  in  our 
political  system.  The  consideration  is 
this :  that  it  is  distinctly  unwise  to  fa- 
miliarize young  men  with  the  idea  of 
service  in  a  series  of  elective  bodies 
from  which  debate  and  deliberation  are 
practically  excluded.  All  gatherings 
of  a  free  people  ought  to  permit  an 
exchange  of  views  ;  a  canvass  of  ques- 
tions or  candidates  ;  an  opportunity,  in 
short,  for  those  who  have  strong  con- 
victions to  present  them  in  the  best 
possible  light,  and  an  equal  opportunity 
for  those  who  come  undecided  to  hear 
the  arguments  on  all  sides,  and  to  act 
after  mature  reflection.  This  is  of  the 
very  essence  of  republican  institutions. 
Anglo-Saxon  self-government  has  been 
called  government  by  town  meeting,  or 
government  by  debate  ;  yet  a  demand 
is  made  for  recognizing  as  a  part  of  that 
system  —  and  a  very  important  part  — 
a  scheme  of  party  administration  which 
is  peculiarly  calculated  to  make  debate 
and  consultation  impossible.  Can  any- 
body suppose  that  such  a  scheme  will 
train  a  class  of  men  fitted  to  conduct  in 
the  future  the  affairs  of  this  great  com- 
monwealth ? 

From  the  idea  of  party  as  a  legal 
corporation  to  the  expression  of  the 
idea  in  laws  and  institutions  the  step  is 
easy  and  natural.  Yet  a  step  precisely 
like  that,  an  innovation  so  hostile  to  all 
correct  notions  of  political  society  and 
fraught  with  such  vast  possibilities  for 
evil,  was  needed  to  show  how  powerful 
a  hold  the  error  under  discussion  had 
taken  upon  the  imaginations  of  men. 

The  measures  to  which  I  refer  may 
be  arranged  in  two  groups :  the  one  con- 
sisting of  those  which  recognize  party  in 


the  adjustment  of  certain  administrative 
organs  ;  the  other,  of  those  which  seek 
to  regulate  the  action  of  certain  func- 
tions within  the  parties  themselves. 
The  first  class  is  illustrated  by  various 
executive  boards  or  commissions,  the 
members  of  which  are  divided  in  some 
ratio  between  the  two  parties ;  as  the 
police  commission  of  New  York  city, 
where  they  are  shared  equally,  or  the 
federal  civil  service  commission,  where 
the  ratio  is  two  to  one.  This  last  pro- 
vision, it  may  be  added,  has  been  slav- 
ishly copied  in  the  similar  act  of  the 
State  of  New  York,  and  in  all  bills  on 
the  same  subject  which  have  been  pre- 
sented or  prepared  in  other  States.  The 
best  example  of  the  other  class  of  meas- 
ures is  the  New  York  act  to  regulate 
primary  elections.  Both  classes  are  open 
to  one  general  objection,  but  each  has 
also  evils  peculiar  to  itself.  Let  us  con- 
sider these  classes  in  their  order. 

Of  all  devices  for  taking  parties  for- 
mally into  the  machinery  of  administra- 
tion it  is  first  to  be  said  that  they  in- 
volve a  logical  absurdity.  Their  object 
is,  of  course,  to  secure  non-partisanship 
in  the  conduct  of  certain  charges  ;  and 
yet  it  is  the  very  provision  for  dividing 
the  places  in  a  board  between  men  of 
different  political  views  which  makes 
the  board  partisan.  It  necessarily  does 
that  in  form,  and  often  in  substance. 
Each  member  is  appointed,  not  because 
he  is  independent,  but  because  he  is  a 
partisan  ;  and  each  sits  in  the  board  as 
the  representative  of  a  party,  the  inter- 
ests of  which,  if  they  are  in  question,  he 
is  practically  authorized,  and  very  often 
disposed,  to  prefer  to  those  of  good  gov- 
ernment. At  the  same  time  the  seat  of 
responsibility  is  obscured,  and  miscon- 
duct made  difficult  to  punish. 

There  is,  however,  a  further  objec- 
tion to  all  schemes  of  this  kind.  They 
introduce  as  a  lecjal  distinction  a  term, 

C9 

party,  which,  if  taken  in  its  true  sense, 
and  the  only  one  permitting  it  any  use- 
fulness, cannot  be  reduced  to  exact  pre- 


382 


Tfie  Despotism  of  Party. 


[September, 


cision  ;  or  party  must  take  a  different 
sense,  a  stricter  form,  and  lose  all  its 
wholesome  and  beneficent  flexibility, 
in  order  that  a  vicious  condition  may  be 
satisfied.  The  tests  which  the  laws 
may  require  the  appointing  power  to 
apply  to  candidates  for  office  are  of  two 
kinds :  they  are  tests  of  fact,  and  tests 
of  opinion.  Tests  of  fact  are  such  as 
are  judicially  ascertainable,  as,  for  in- 
stance, a  candidate's  height,  or  age,  or 
color,  or  nationality.  Tests  of  opinion, 
again,  are  those  which  are  applied  by 
the  judgment,  as  a  candidate's  character 
or  fitness.  But  it  is  evident  that  when 
a  law  says  that  of  certain  places  to  be 
filled  only  half  shall  go  to  members  of. 
the  same  political  party,  it  imposes  a 
test  or  qualification  which  can  be  ranged 
in  neither  of  the  two  classes  that  I  have 
given.  Can  a  court  determine,  except 
by  an  extra-judicial  process,  to  what 
party  a  certain  person  belongs,  or  what 
constitutes  legal  membership  in  a  party, 
or  even  what  a  party  is  in  law  ?  The 
test  seems,  therefore,  to  be  one  of  opin- 
ion and  interpretation,  and  worth  no 
more  than  a  clause  providing  that  an 
appointee  must  be  a  person  of  good  mor- 
al character,  or  of  ability,  or  a  patriot. 
Yet  this  is  not  the  case.  The  spirit  and 
purpose  of  such  provisions  permit  no 
other  conclusion  than  that  they  are  to 
be  regarded  as  imperative  tests  of  fact, 
as  actual  restrictions  upon  the  discretion 
of  the  executive,  as  surrounding  his 
freedom  of  choice  in  certain  directions 
with  concrete  and  tangible  barriers. 
But  the  logical  or  metaphysical  difficul- 
ties called  into  being  by  this  vicious 
policy  are  after  all  not  the  gravest  evil. 
These  will  be  dismissed  as  purely  spec- 
ulative. The  real  objection  is  that,  as 
the  policy  was  suggested  by  a  false  con- 
ception of  party,  it  was  sure  to  lead  to 
further  measures,  required  as  a  natural 
development  of  the  conception  and  the 
policy.  If  a  person  is  to  be  appointed 
to  an  office  because  he  is  a  member  of  a 
certain  party,  exactly  as  if  it  were  be- 


cause he  is  a  citizen  of  a  certain  State, 
it  is  obviously  necessary  that  means  be 
found  for  giving  parties  a  more  clearly 
defined  corporate  existence,  and  their 
rolls  of  membership  a  species  of  legal 
authority. 

A  beginning  in  this  direction  has  now 
been  made  in  the  class  of  measures 
which  was  illustrated  by  the  New  York 
statute  for  protecting  the  primaries. 
That  act,  it  is  well  known,  was  intended 
to  secure  a  fair  expression  of  party 
opinion  at  the  caucuses  by  giving  the 
presiding  officers  powers  analogous  to 
those  of  inspectors  *  of  election,  and  by 
imposing  stringent  penalties  upon  false 
swearing,  repeating,  and  other  offenses 
against  the  purity  of  the  ballot.  The 
measure  had  the  support  of  many  inde- 
pendent and  thinking  men,  —  men  who 
would  be  the  first  to  revolt  against  the 
tyranny  of  the  caucus.  It  was  in  fact 
carried  as  a  triumph  of  the  reformers 
over  the  politicians.  Yet  it  seems  not 
the  less  open  to  several  strong  objec- 
tions. 

The  first  of  these  is  that  the  remedy 
is  wholly  inadequate  to  the  evil.  All  re- 
forms should  of  course  aim  at  the  origi- 
nal sources  of  the  disease,  and  a  purifi- 
cation of  our  nominating  system  ought 
therefore  plainly  to  start  with  the  pri- 
maries. But  what  is  a  primary  ?  The 
thing  is  as  difficult  to  define  as  the  orig- 
inal element  in  matter.  Like  matter,  in- 
deed, the  frame  of  our  party  organiza- 
tion is  infinitely  divisible,  and  no  inves- 
tigator can  ever  be  sure  that  he  has 
reached  the  ultimate  atoms.  If  the  pri- 
mary be  fortified  against  corruption,  cor- 
ruption will  organize  a  pre-primary  or 
an  ante-primary,  and  thus  elude  the 
most  dexterous  attempt  to  fetter  its  ac- 
tivity. These  doubts,  which  more  than 
one  person  felt  at  the  time  the  act  was 
passed,  have  been  singularly  justified 
by  results.  The  act  was  aimed,  by  those 
who  most  earnestly  supported  it,  at  one 
peculiarly  obnoxious  leader  in  New 
York  city  politics.  But  he  issued  tri- 


1884.] 


The  Despotism  of  Party. 


383 


umphant,  as  usual,  from  the  very  first 
trial  of  strength  under  the  new  system. 

Since,  then,  the  plan  has  apparently 
failed,  it  deserves  to  be  condemned  for 
that,  if  for  no  other  reason.  But  it  de- 
serves, perhaps,  even  more  severe  con- 
demnation because  it  started  from  false 
principles,  and  gave  encouragement  to 
an  evil  tendency  already  portentously 
strong. 

The  advice  is  often  addressed  to 
young  men  and  good  citizens,,  who  de- 
plore the  vices  of  our  present  political 
methods,  to  attend  the  party  caucuses. 
It  is  made  a  reproach  to  them  that  they 
neglect  this  important  duty  ;  and  when 
they  complain  of  bad  nominations,  or 
platforms  which  are  but  as  sounding 
brass,  the  retort  is  that  they  might  have 
secured  good  candidates,  and  platforms 
with  some  meaning,  if  they  had  not  left 
the  primaries  to  demagogues  and  blath- 
erskites. This  line  of  reasoning:  I  have 

O 

never  been  able  to  comprehend.  I  have 
never  seen  any  sufficient  reason  for  a 
political  system  in  which,  except  at  the 
polls,  the  voice  of  demagogues  and  blath- 
erskites has  equal  weight  with  that  of 
honest  men  who  can  think  and  reason, 
who  have  convictions,  and  who  are  un- 
selfishly devoted  to  the  interests  of  the 
republic.  It  seems  to  me,  on  the  con- 
trary, that  what  is  needed  is  not  greater 
servility  to,  but  greater  independence 
of,  the  caucus  and  the  convention.  This 
may  be  a  false  position ;  but  to  anybody 
who  holds  it,  all  attempts  to  invest  pri- 
mary meetings  with  a  legal  character 
must  appear  to  be  steps  in  the  wrong 
direction.  For  they  surround  with  the 
majesty  of  the  law  an  institution  whose 
chief  function  is  to  coerce  the  action  of 
voters  at  the  polls.  Now  there  is  but 
one  kind  of  force  to  which  the  voter's 
independence  is  properly  subject.  His 
own  conscience  ought  to  compel  him 
to  prefer  good  candidates  to  bad,  and 
wholesome  principles  to  pernicious  ;  and 
since  this  is  largely  a  matter  of  individ- 
ual judgment,  obedience  to  such  a  law 


is,  like  obedience  to  any  proper  law,  the 
largest  freedom.  The  legalized  caucus 

o  o 

is,  however,  a  real  abridgment  of  that 
freedom.  It  practically  pledges  the  par- 
ticipant to  exercise  his  freedom  of  judg- 
ment at  a  stage  antecedent  to  the  elec- 
tion, and  to  abide  by  an  unknown  re- 
sult. If  the  caucus  or  the  convention 
be  regarded  in  its  true  light,  as  a  mere 
conference  of  men  who  hold  similar 
views  of  public  policy,  there  is  perhaps 
not  much  danger  to  the  freedom  of  the 
ballot.  But  this  theory  has  long  since 

v  O 

ceased  to  be  generally  held,  and  the 
New  York  statute  seemed  destined  to 
give  it  a  final  blow.  It  enticed  into  the 
caucus  many  who  had  previously  been 
conspicuous  rather  by  their  absence,  but 
who  affected  to  see  in  the  safeguards 
which  the  law  provided  an  opportunity 
to  rescue  the  institution  from  the  con- 
trol of  the  corrupt  and  the  vicious ;  yet 
at  the  same  time  this  increased  the  num- 
ber of  good  citizens  who  surrendered 
their  freedom  of  judgment  in  advance 
of  the  election.  For  if  the  primary 
could  control  the  actions  of  men  even 
under  the  old  loose  and  irregular  meth- 
ods, what  must  be  its  authority  when 
the  legislature  has  endowed  it  with  sanc- 
tions carrying  a  vastly  greater  degree  of 
legal,  and  accordingly  of  moral,  force? 
The  act  abridges  the  sacred  right  of 
bolting,  and  without  bolting  there  can 
be  no  healthy  political  life. 

Let  us  inquire  for  a  moment  to  what, 
if  pushed  to  its  logical  consequences,  the 
politicians'  view  of  party  would  lead. 
It  is  known  that  they  abhor  indepen- 
dents, and  often  express  the  patriotic 
opinion  that  every  citizen  should  join 
a  party.  The  majority  in  each  party 
should  again  control  its  action,  and  the 
minority  should  frankly  obey.  A  care- 
ful organization,  with  executive  agents 
and  representative  assemblies,  would 
furnish  the  machinery  for  making  the 
system  effective.  This  seems  to  be  a 
fair  statement  of  the  politicians'  ideal. 
Now  what  would  be  the  result  if  this 


884 


The  Despotism  of  Party. 


[September, 


ideal  were  realized  ?     The  result  would 
be  to  collect  the  voters  of  the  country 
into  two  or  three  great  parties,  held  to- 
gether by  inflexible  rules  of  discipline 
and  fealty,  and  each  forbidden  in  effect 
to  allow  desertion  or  to  receive  desert- 
ers.    As  no  changes  of  allegiance  could 
take  place,  the  relative  strength  of  par- 
ties would  be  changed  from  year  to  year 
only  by  the  death  of  existing  members, 
and  the  enrollment  of  new    ones  from 
young  men  just  reaching  their  majority 
and  from  newly  naturalized  immigrants. 
But  even    this    element  of  uncertainty 
can  be  somewhat  reduced.     The  annual 
death-rate  would  probably  bear  the  same 
ratio  to  the  total  membership  in  all  the 
parties.     Again,  young    men  generally 
follow  in  the  political  footsteps  of  their 
fathers  ;  and  as  the  birth-rate  in  the  va- 
rious parties  would  be  also  approximate- 
ly equal,  the  balance  of  power  would  be 
little  affected  from  this  cause.     We  are 
confined,  therefore,  to  the  immigrants ; 
they  would  hold  the  key  to  the  situation. 
If  now    it  be    assumed    that    the  Irish 
would  in  general  go  to  one  party,  and 
the    Germans    to    the    other,  the    issue 
would    really   lie    between    these   two 
classes,  which  compose  the  great  body 
of  our  foreign  population.   The  problem 
of  immigration  would  assume  a  new  and 
startling  interest.    One  party  would  find 
a  potent  ally  in  Irish  famines,  which  en- 
courage emigration  from    the  Emerald 
Isle.  The  other  would  have  a  keen  sym- 
pathy with  the  high  taxes  and  the  mil- 
itary system  of   Germany,   which  drive 
so  many  excellent  men   from  the  father- 
land.    The  battles  of  American  politics 
would   be    fought   out   by  immigration 
agents  and  runners  for  the  rival  steam- 
ship   lines,   all    liberally    supplied  with 
money  from  the  campaign  funds  of  the 
parties,  and  perhaps  also  with  platforms, 


to  be  posted  in  the  leading  seaports 
and  distributed  by  colporteurs  in  the  in- 
terior. 

This  would  be  politics  reduced  to  a 
practical  science.     But  while  this  noble 
ideal  may  never  be  realized,  the  progress 
already  made  toward  its  acceptance  in 
thought  and  in  legislation  has  caused  a 
distinct  loss  of  vitality  to  our  political 
affairs.     The  next   phases   of   develop- 
ment are  hidden  with  the  mysteries  of 
the  future.     But  it  may  safely  be  said 
that    any  event  which  shakes  the  doc- 
trine of  indefeasible  allegiance  to  party, 
any   revolt  which   emphasizes  the  citi- 
zen's right  of  individual  judgment,  even 
though  it  may  involve  the  downfall  of 
a  party  whose   annals   are  resplendent 
with  great  deeds,  is  an  inestimable  gain 
to  the  cause  of   good  government.     It 
is  even  a  gain  to  the  cause  of  govern- 
ment by  party.     For  if  the  evil  tenden- 
cy of  recent  years  should  be  arrested, 
and  the    earlier,  truer   conceptions   re- 
sume  their  place,  the  result  would  be, 
not  that  we  should  have  no  parties,  but 
that  we  should  have  better  ones.     We 
should  have  parties  inspired  by  princi- 
ples and  led  by  statesmen.     These  par- 
ties would  also   be  organized ;  but  the 
organizations  would  be  elastic,  liberal, 
forbearing,  and  would  aim  to  conciliate 
the  wiser  and  better  class  of  citizens. 
Politics  would  then  mean  the  art  of  gov- 
ernment, not  the  art  of  primaries ;  and 
an  electoral  canvass  would  be  an  honest 
struggle    between    clearly   defined    and 
sharply  antagonized  opinions  or  policies 
for  the  suffrages  of  the  people. 

This  is  also,  unhappily,  only  an  ideal. 
But  the  future  of  the  republic  is  in- 
volved in  the  choice  between  it  and 
that  other  ideal,  against  which  this  pa- 
per has  attempted  to  utter  an  earnest 


warning. 


Herbert   Tuttle. 


1884.] 


The  Volcanic  Eruption  of  Krakatoa. 


385 


THE   VOLCANIC   ERUPTION   OF   KRAKATOA. 


WE  know  that  the  effects  of  the  stu- 
pendous volcanic  eruption  in  the  Strait 
of  Sunda  extended  through  many  months 
and  were  exerted  over  a  large  area  of 
surface.  From  the  newspapers  of  the 
day  we  learned  much  of  the  horrors  that 
attended  this  unusual  convulsion,  and  of 
the  disasters  which  followed.  But  as 
information  is  gathered  and  collated,  it 
is  possible  to  present  an  interesting  sum- 
mary of  this  great  effort  of  nature. 

The  eruption  was  at  Krakatoa,  an 
island  in  the  fair-way  of  the  Strait  of 
Sunda,  about  midway  between  Java  and 
Sumatra.  Twenty -six  miles  to  the 
southward  and  westward  was  the  village 
of  Anjer,  where  were  a  light-house  and 
signal-station  for  the  many  vessels  pass- 
ing through  the  strait. 

Krakatoa  was  but  a  small,  uninhabited 
island,  about  five  miles  long  and  three 
miles  wide.  It  had  two  elevations,  of 
which  the  taller,  called  the  Peak  of  Kra- 
katoa, rose  2750  feet  above  the  sea.  On 
the  adjacent  land  are  volcanic  cones  ; 
some  active,  some  slumbering,  and  oth- 
ers dead. 

It  is  recorded  that  Krakatoa  itself 
was  active  in  1680,  and  that  voyagers 
in  the  vicinity  encountered  in  that  year 
a  great  storm  and  an  earthquake  at  sea, 
accompanied  by  most  frightful  thunders 
and  cracklings.  Mention  was  also  made 
of  a  strong  sulphur  atmosphere  and  of 
large  quantities  of  pumice  floating  on 
the  sea.  Since  that  time  the  island  had 
been  at  rest,  and  was  noted  by  travelers 
chiefly  for  the  beauty  of  its  tree-clad 
slopes,  —  the  first  verdant  spot  to  greet 
the  eye  after  long  weeks  at  sea. 

So  far  as  is  known,  the  earliest  infli- 
ction of  any  subterranean  disturbance 
was  felt  at  Batavia,  eighty  miles  distant, 
on  the  20th  of  May,  1883  ;  and  it  is  a 
remarkable  fact  that  while  the  commo- 
tion about  to  be  described  was  taking 

VOL.  LIV.  —  NO.  323.  25 


place  <at  Batavia,  nothing  unusual  was 
noticed  at  Anjer,  but  twenty-five  miles 
away,  nor  at  Merak,  thirty-five  miles 
distant  from  Krakatoa,  although  from 
both  places  there  is  a  clear  outlook  to 
that  island. 

In  the  forenoon  of  the  20th  of  May 
the  inhabitants  of  Batavia  were  startled 
by  a  dull  booming  noise,  followed  by  a 
violent  rattling  of  doors  and  windows. 
Whether  this  proceeded  from  the  air  or 
from  below  was  a  matter  of  doubt,  for 
unlike  most  earthquake  shocks  the  quiv- 
ering was  only  vertical.  The  director 
of  the  observatory  in  Batavia  reported 
the  next  day  that  no  increase  of  earth 
magnetism  accompanied  the  tremblings, 
and  that  a  suspended  magnet  with  a  reg- 
istering apparatus  gave  no  indications  of 
the  slightest  horizontal  oscillations.  An 
instrument  maker  in  the  town  stated 
that  on  a  pendulum  in  his  shop  only 
vertical  trillings  were  observable,  at  a 
time  when  the  windows  and  glass  doors 
were  rattling  in  so  violent  a  way  as  to 
render  conversation  a  matter  of  no  little 
difficulty.  Nowhere  do  there  seem  to 
have  been  observed  any  shocks  of  a  true 
or  undulatory  earthquake.  Another  cu- 
rious circumstance  was  that  at  midday 
at  some  spots  in  the  city  no  vibrations 
were  perceived,  while  in  the  surround- 
ing buildings  they  were  distinctly  expe- 
rienced. It  was  a  natural  conclusion, 
however,  that  an  alarming  volcanic  erup- 
tion had  taken  place  ;  but  it  was  impos- 
sible to  localize  the  direction  of  the 
sounds,  and  at  the  observatory  there 
were  no  instruments  for  making  such 
determinations. 

The  tremblings  continued  throughout 
the  day  and  during  the  forenoon  of  the 
21st.  A  thin  sprinkling  of  ashes  fell 
at  Telok  Betong  and  at  Semangko,  in 
Sumatra  ;  whence  the  ashes  came,  no 
one  could  tell.  At  Buitenzorg,  thirty 


386                          The  Volcanic  Eruption  of  Krakatoa.  [September, 

miles  south  of  Batavia,  the  same  phe-  currents  of  the  Indian  Ocean  will  show 

nomena  were   observed ;  while    in   the  that  any  flotsam  in  the  region  between 

mountains  farther  to  the  southwest  they  west  and  south   of  Java  Head  in  that 

were  even  more  pronounced.     By  this  longitude  could  be  drifted  to  the  locality 

time  general  opinion  had  ascribed«to  the  in  which  it  was  observed  in  the  month 

west  or  northwest  the  direction  whence  of  July. 

the  movements  were  proceeding.     Kra-  In  a  paper    read   before    the    Royal 
katoa  itself  was  mentioned,  but  some  of  Geographical  Society,  Mr.  Forbes  sug- 
the  mountains  in  Sumatra  were  consid-  gested  that  the  sounds  heard  in  Batavia 
ered  more  likely  to  be  the  seat  of  dis-  on  the  20th  of  May,  which  were  unno- 
turbance.  ticed  at  places  so  near  Krakatoa  as  An- 
On  the  evening  of  May  21st  smoke  jer  and  Merak,  and  which  would  be  in- 
was  seen  issuing  from  Krakatoa,  and  on  explicable  if  they  really  originated  there, 
the  22d  it  was  evident  that  the  volcanic  were  the  result  of  a  submarine  eruption 
vent  was  at  that  place.     Shortly  after-  in  the  Indian  Ocean,  somewhere  south- 
ward the  vibrations  in  Batavia  ceased,  westerly  from  Java  Head  ;  and  that  the 
During  the  next  eight  or  nine  weeks  tremors  were  propagated   thither,  per- 
the  eruption  continued  with  great  vigor,  haps,  by   continuous    strata  connecting 
ejecting  masses  of  pumice  and  molten  the  locale  of  the  outburst  with  Batavia, 
stone,  and  volumes  of  steam  and  smoke.  Buitenzorg,  and  more  especially  with  the 
Although  the   prevailing  monsoon  car-  hills  to  the  southwest,  where  the  mani- 
ried  to  the  westward  the  greater  part  of  festations  were  so  distinctly  perceived, 
the  m-itter  thrown  out,  a  cloud  of  lighter  If  such  a  submarine  outburst  did  take 
particles  rose  higher,  and,  encountering  place,  Mr.  Forbes  suggested  that  some- 
an  easterly  current  of  air,  some  of  the  how     the    orifice    very    soon    became 
dust  fell  on  the  island  of  Timor,  twelve  blocked  after  a  great  inrush  of  water 
hundred  miles  distant.  had  taken  place,  which,  becoming  trans- 
During   these    weeks   vessels   passed  formed  into  steam  under  enormous  pres- 
through     extensive     fields    of     pumice  sure,  shaped  its  course  for  the  nearest 
spread   over   the    surface   of    the    sea.  old  earth  scar,  and  found  vent  in  Kra- 
Some  of  these  pumice  nodules,  picked  katoa  by  an  offshoot,  probably,  of  the 
up  about  the  llth  or  12th  of  July,  in  funnel  of  the  eruption  of  1680. 
latitude    6°  S.  and   longitude    94®  E.,  That   such   large   lumps    of    pumice 
were  very  large  and  considerably  worn  ;  should  be  carried  westward   seven  hun- 
several  lumps  were   covered  with  bar-  dred  miles  into  the  Indian  Ocean  does 
nacles  an  inch  long,  which  represented  at  not  seem  probable,  especially  as  the  ear- 
least  four  weeks'  growth.     On  August  Her  outbursts  were  not  of  very  unusual 
1st,  in  latitude  6°  S.,  longitude  89°  E.,  vigor,  for  no  pieces  of  any  size  are  re- 
seven  hundred  miles  from  the  coast  of  ported  to  have  fallen  on  the  neighbor- 
Sumatra,   a  steamer  passed  through  a  ing  coasts  of  Java  and  Sumatra ;  even 
field  of  floating  pumice ;  and  here  the  after  those  of  August,  no  ship  farther 
current  was  running  eastward  fifteen  to  off  than   one  hundred  miles  speaks  of 
thirty  miles  a  day.     The  soundings  at  the  fall  of  any  but  the  finest  dust  and 
the  spot  reached  two  thousand  fathoms,  sand. 

It  is  known  that  a  centre  of  volcanic  On   the   21st  of  August   the  volcano 

disturbance  exists  in  the  Keeling  Atoll,  increased  in  activity.     A  ship  reported 

situated  six  hundred  miles  west  by  south  being  unable  to  venture  into  the  strait 

from  the  mouth  of  the  strait ;  and  it  is  on  account  of  the  great  shower  of  pumice 

also  known   that  pumice   ejected  from  and  ashes.    On  the  afternoon  of  the  26th 

the  sea  bottom  rises  to  the  surface.    The  there  were  violent  explosions  at  Kraka- 


1884.]                      The  Volcanic  Eruption  of  Krakatoa.  387 

toa,  which  were  heard  as  far  as  Batavia.  ing  until  about  eight  p.  M.     There  were 

High    waves   first   retreated,  and   then  some   cumulus  clouds  in    the   sky,  but 

rolled   upon    both   sides   of    the  strait,  many  stars  were  shining,  and  from  E. 

During  a  night  of  pitchy  darkness  these  to  N.  N.  E.  a  strong  white  haze,  or  sil- 

horrors  continued  with  increasing  vio-  very  glare  ;  this  occurred  again  between 

lence,  augmented  at  midnight  by  elec-  nine  and  ten  P.  M.,  but  disappeared  when 

trical  phenomena  on  a  terrifying  scale,  the  moon  rose.    The  clouds  appeared  to 

which  not  only  enveloped  the  ships  in  be  edged  with  a  pinkish-colored  light ; 

the  vicinity,  but  embraced  those  at  a  the  sky  also  seeming  to  have  extra  light 

distance  of  ten   to  twelve  miles.     The  in  it,  as  when  the  Aurora  is    showing 

lurid  gleam  that  played  on  the  gigantic  faintly. 

column  of   smoke  and  ashes  was  seen  "  On  the  24th,  in  latitude  9°  30'  S., 

in  Batavia,  eighty  miles  away.     Some  longitude    105°  E.,   this   was  repeated, 

of  the  debris  fell  as  fine  ashes  in  Cheri-  showing  when  the  sky  was  overcast,  but 

bon,  five  hundred  miles  to  the  eastward,  disappearing  when  the  moon  rose. 

On  the  morning  of  the  27th  there  "  On  the  night  of  the  2oth,  standing 
was  a  still  more  gigantic  explosion,  in  for  Java  Head,  the  land  was  covered 
heard  in  the  Andaman  Islands  and  in  with  thick  dark  clouds,  and  heavy  light- 
India,  which  produced  along  both  shores  ning  was  frequent.  On  the  morning  of 
of  the  strait  an  immense  tidal  move-  the  26th  made  Java  Head  light ;  about 
ment,  occasioning  that  great  loss  of  life  nine  A.  M.  passed  Prince's  Island,  arid 
recounted  in  the  daily  press.  The  mat-  had  a  sharp  squall  from  W.  S.  W.,  with 
ter  expelled  rose  to  an  elevation  so  tre-  torrents  of  rain. 

mendous  that,  on  spreading  itself  out.  it  "  At  noon  Krakatoa  was  N.  E.  of  us  ; 

covered  the  whole  western  end  of  Java  but  only  the  lower  portion  of  the  east 

and  the  south  of  Sumatra  for  hundreds  point  was  to  be  seen,  the  rest   of    the 

of  square  miles  with  a  pall  of  impene-  island  being  enveloped  in  heavy  black- 

trable  darkness.    Abnormal  atmospheric  ness. 

and  magnetic   displays  were  observed,  "At  2.30  P.  M.  we  noticed  some  agita- 

compass  needles  rotated  violently,  and  tion  about  the  point  of  Krakatoa,  clouds 

the  barometer  rose  and  fell  many  tenths  or  something  being  propelled  from  the 

of  an  inch  in  a  minute.     Between  ten  N.  E.  point   with   great  velocity.     At 

and  twelve  o'clock  in  the  forenoon  of  3.30  we  heard  above  us  and  about  the 

that  day  the  subterranean  powers  burst  island  a  strange  sound,  as  of  a  mighty 

their  prison  walls  with  a  terrific  deto-  crackling  fire,  or  the  discharge  of  heavy 

nation,  which  spread  consternation  and  artillery  at  one  or  two  seconds'  interval, 

alarm  among  the  dwellers  within  a  circle  At  4.15  Krakatoa  bore  N.  one  half  E., 

whose  diameter  lay  across  nearly  three  ten  miles  distant.     We  observed  a  repe- 

thousand  miles.  tition  of  the  noise  noted  at  3.30,  only 

The   description    given    at   the    San  much  more  furious    and  alarming ;  the 

Francisco  Hydrographic  Office  by  Cap-  matter,  whatever  it  was,  being  propelled 

tain  Watson,  of  the  British  ship  Charles  with  amazing  velocity  to  the  N.  E.     To 

Bill,  who  was  in  the  near  vicinity  at  that  us  it  looked  like  blinding  rain,  and  had 

time,  is   especially  graphic   and   thrill-  the"  appearance  of   a  furious  squall,  of 

ing.  He  says  that  at  "  about  seven  p.  M.  ashen  hue.     At  once  shortened  sail,  to 

on  the  22d  of  August,  in  latitude  15°  topsails  and  foresail.  At  five  the  roaring 

30'  S.  and  longitude  105°  E.,  the  sea  noise    continued   and   was    increasing; 

suddenly    assumed   a   milky -white   ap-  darkness  spread  over  the  sky,  and  a  hail 

pearance,    beginning   to   the    eastward,  of   pumice    stone  fell  on    us,  of  which 

but  soon  spreading  all  around,  and  last-  many  pieces  were  of   considerable  size 


388 


The  Volcanic  Eruption  of  Krakatoa.  [September, 


and  quite  warm.  We  were  obliged  to 
cover  up  the  skylights  to  save  the  glass, 
while  our  feet  and  heads  had  to  be  pro- 
tected with  boots  and  sou-westers.  About 
six  the  fall  of  larger  stones  ceased,  but 
there  continued  a  steady  downpour  of 
a  smaller  kind,  most  blinding  to  the 
eyes,  and  covering  the  deck  to  a  depth 
of  three  or  four  inches  very  speedily. 
"While  au  intense  blackness  covered  the 
sky  and  land  and  sea,  we  sailed  on  our 
course,  until  at  seven  p.  M.  we  got  what 
we  thought  was  a  sight  of  Fourth  Point 
light ;  then  brought  ship  to  the  wind, 
S.  W.,  as  we  could  not  see  to  any  dis- 
tance, and  knew  not  what  might  be  in 
the  strait. 

"  The  night  was  a  fearful  one  :  the 
blinding  fall  of  sand  and  stones,  the 
intense  blackness  above  and  around 
us,  broken  only  by  the  incessant  glare 
of  varied  kinds  of  lightning,  and  the 
continued  explosive  roars  of  Krakatoa 
made  our  situation  a  truly  awful  one. 

"  At  eleven  p.  M.,  having  stood  off 
from  the  Java  shore,  with  the  wind  strong 
from  the  S.  W.,  the  island,  being  W. 
N.  W.  distant  eleven  miles,  became  visi- 
ble. Chains  of  fire  appeared  to  ascend 
and  descend  between  it  and  the  sky, 
while  on  the  S.  W.  end  there  seemed 
to  be  a  continued  roll  of  balls  of  white 
fire.  The  wind,  though  strong,  was  hot 
and  choking,  sulphurous,  with  a  smell  as 
of  burning  cinders,  some  of  the  pieces 
falling  on  us  being  like  iron  cinders. 
The  lead  came  up  from  the  bottom  at 
thirty  fathoms  quite  warm. 

"  From  midnight  to  four  A.  M.  of  the 
27th,  the  wind  was  strong  but  unsteady 
between  S.  S.  W.  and  W.  S.  W.  The 
same  impenetrable  darkness  continued, 
while  the  roaring  of  Krakatoa  was  less 
continuous  but  more  explosive  in  sound  ; 
the  sky  one  second  intensely  black,  the 
next  a  blaze  of  light.  The  mast-heads 
and  yard-arms  were  studded  with  cor- 
posants, and  a  peculiar  pink  flame  came 
from  fleecy  clouds  which  seemed  to 
touch  the  mast-heads  and  yard-arms. 


"  At  six  A.  M.,  being  able  to  make  out 
the  Java  shore,  set  sail  and  passed  Fourth 
Point  light-house.  At  eight  hoisted  our 
signal  letter,  but  got  no  answer.  At 
8.30  passed  Anjer  with  our  name  still 
hoisted,  and  close  enough  in  to  make  out 
the  houses,  but  could  see  no  movement 
of  any  kind ;  in  fact,  through  the  whole 
strait  we  did  not  see  a  single  moving 
thing  of  any  kind  on  sea  or  land. 

"At  10.15  passed  the  Button  island 
one  half  to  three  fourths  of  a  mile  off, 
the  sea  being  like  glass  all  around  it, 
and  the  weather  much  finer  looking,  with 
no  ashes  or  cinders  falling ;  wind  light 
at  S.  E. 

"  At  11.15  there  was  a  fearful  explo- 
sion in  the  direction  of  Krakatoa,  then 
over  thirty  miles  distant.  We  saw  a 
wave  rush  right  on  to  the  Button  island, 
apparently  sweeping  entirely  over  the 
southern  part,  and  rising  half-way  up 
the  north  and  east  sides,  fifty  or  sixty 
feet,  and  then  continuing  on  to  the  Java 
shore.  This  was  evidently  a  wave  of 
translation,  and  not  of  progression,  for 
it  was  not  felt  at  the  ship.  This  we 
saw  repeated  twice,  but  the  helmsman 
said  he  saw  it  once  before  we  looked. 
At  the  same  time  the  sky  rapidly  cov- 
ered in  ;  the  wind  came  out  strong  from 
S.  W.  to  S.,  and  by  11.30  A.  M.  we  were 
inclosed  in  a  darkness  that  might  almost 
be  felt ;  and  then  commenced  a  down- 
pour of  mud,  sand,  and  I  know  not  what, 
the  ship  going  N.  E.  by  N.  seven  knots 
per  hour  under  three  lower  topsails. 
We  set  the  side  lights,  placed  two  men 
on  the  lookout  forward,  the  mate  and 
second  mate  on  either  quarter,  and  one 
man  washing  the  mud  from  the  binnacle 
glass.  We  had  seen  two  vessels  to  the 
N.  and  N.  W.  of  us  before  the  sky 
closed  in,  which  added  not  a  little  to  the 
anxiety  of  our  position. 

"  At  noon  the  darkness  was  so  intense 
that  we  had  to  grope  our  way  about  the 
decks,  and  although  speaking  to  each 
other  on  the  poop,  yet  we  could  not  see 
each  other.  This  horrible  state  and 


1884.] 


The  Volcanic  Eruption  of  Krakatoa. 


downpour  of  mud  and  debris  continued 
until  1.30  P.  M.,  the  roaring  and  light- 
ning from  the  volcano  being  something 
fearful.  By  two  p.  ar.  we  could  see 
some  of  the  yards  aloft,  and  the  fall  of 
mud  ceased  ;  by  five  P.  M.  the  horizon 
showed  out  to  the  northward  and  east- 
ward, and  we  saw  West  Island  bearing 
E.  by  N.,  just  visible.  Up  to  midnight 
the  sky  hung  dark  and  heavy,  a  little 
sand  falling  at  times,  and  the  roaring 
of  the  volcano  very  distinct,  although 
we  were  fully  seventy-five  miles  from 
Krakatoa.  Such  darkness  and  such  a 
time  in  general,  few  would  conceive, 
and  many,  I  dare  say,  would  disbelieve. 


Bezeel. 


TerttXenT. 


KBAKATQAT. 


Before  the  Eruption. 

The  ship  from  truck  to  water-line  was 
as  if  cemented ;  spars,  sails,  blocks,  and 
ropes  were  in  a  horrible  state ;  but, 
thank  God,  no  one  was  hurt,  nor  was 
the  ship  damaged.  But  think  of  Anjer, 
Merak,  and  other  little  villages  on  the 
Java  coast ! ' 

At  sunrise  on  the  28th  of  May  the 
darkness  began  gradually  to  clear  away, 
and  then  was  seen  the  result  of  this 
paroxysm  of  nature.  The  northwest- 
ern part  of  Krakatoa  Island  had  disap- 
peared. The  line  of  fracture  began  at  a 
point  south  of  Lang  Island,  and  formed 
an  arc  of  a  circle  passing  through  the 
peak  to  the  western  side  of  the  island. 


Boats  from  the  U.  S.  S.  Juniata  entered 
the  crater-like  area,  concave  to  the  north- 
ward, and  sounded  along  the  face  of  the 
heights  ;  but  no  bottom  could  be  found 
with  twenty  fathoms  of  line.  Prior  to 
the  eruption,  Verlaten  and  Lang  islands 
were  green  with  trees  and  foliage  ;  they 
are  now  covered  with  scoria.  Eastward 
of  Verlaten  a  small  island  had  formed  ; 
small  necks  of  land  had  been  thrown 
out  from  the  eastern  side  of  Verlaten 
and  the  western  point  of  Krakatoa. 
The  Polish  Hat  had  disappeared,  but  a 
new  rock,  about  twenty  feet  in  height 
and  as  many  in  diameter,  now  existed  in 
Krakatoa  channel,  near  to  the  southern 


Bezeel* 


After  the  Eruption. 

point  of  Lang  Island.  Within  ten  yards 
of  this  rock  there  were  eight  fathoms  of 
water.  At  the  place  occupied  by  the 
Polish  Hat  the  boats  found  no  bottom 
with  twenty  fathoms  of  line,  while  at 
the  spot  where  the  volcano  had  been  so 
active  later  soundings  showed  no  bot- 
tom at  one  hundred  and  sixty-four  fath- 
oms, nearly  one  thousand  feet.  To  the 
northward  and  eastward  two  new  isl- 
ands, Steers  and  Calmeyer,  had  formed, 
where  before  the  eruption  were  thirty 
to  forty  fathoms  of  water. 

It  has  been  thought  that  the  first 
great  waves  on  the  evening  of  the  26th 
were  caused  by  a  portion  of  Krakatoa 


390                         The  Volcanic  Eruption  of  Krakatoa.  [September, 

being   shot   out   northwards   for   eight  and  returned  to   the  spot  from  which 

miles,  and  dropped  where  now  is  Steers  they  had  started.     Four  times  did  they 

Island  ;  while  the  terrific  detonation  on  go  around  the  earth  before  the  equilib- 

the  27th,  and  the  greater  wave  accom-  rium  of  the  sea  was  so  far  restored  as 

panying  it,  resulted   perhaps  from  that  to  be  insensible  to  instruments, 

still  more  titanic  effort  which  lifted  the  At  the  same  time  an  atmospheric  wave 

greater  portion  of  Krakatoa,  hurled  it  also  started  around  the  globe.     These 

through  the  air  over  Lang  Island,  and  disturbances  were  noted  wherever  there 

plunged  it  into  the  sea  where  Calmeyer  were  barographs,  and  the  dates  are  thus 

Island  now  blocks   the  old  East   Pas-  fixed  when  these  undulations  passed  va- 

sage.  rious  places  on  the  surface  of  the  earth. 

The  captain  of  the  Juniata  stated  in  For  instance,  at  St.  Petersburg,   on 

his  report  that  he  anchored  off  the  site  August    27th,  there  was  a  rise  of  the 

of  Anjer,  and  that   ''the  buoys  which  mercury,  and  immediately  afterwards  a 

mark  the  line  of  the  submarine  cable  to  fall.     At   Valencia,  in   Ireland,   and  at 

Telok  Betong,  Sumatra,  and  the  base  of  Coimbra,  in   Portugal,  similar  phenom- 

the  light-house  at  Fourth  Point  are  the  ena  were  noticed,  and  shortly  afterward 

only  monuments  of   Anjer.     The  plain  the  disturbance  was  observed  all  over 

northward  of  Anjer   )eak  was  swept  by  Europe,  wherever  a  barograph  was  at 

the  flood  of  waters,  and  nothing  remains  hand.     At  the  western  observatories  the 

but    the    vine-like    roots    of    the   cocoa  movement  was    more  pronounced  than 

palm  and  some   scattered   and   ghastly  at  the  eastern,  but  the  general  appear- 

relics  of  the  inhabitants.  .  .  .  Commu-  ances  of  the  curves  at  neighboring  sta- 

nication  with  Telok  Betong  is  now  in-  tions  were  about  the   same.     This  dis- 

terrupted  by  masses  of  floating  pumice  turbance    moved   rapidly  from   east  to 

wedged  in  Lampong  Bay."  west,  requiring  but  two  hours  and  twen- 

A  vessel  which  passed  through  Gas-  ty-five  minutes  to  travel  from  St.  Pe- 

par  Strait  as  late  as  the  23d  of  Novem-  tersburg  to  Valencia,  a  distance  of  thir- 

ber  reported  that  at  places  in  the  Java  teen  hundred  and  fifty  miles.     On  the 

Sea  the  floating   pumice  was  so    thick  28th  there  was  a  somewhat  similar  dis- 

that   headway    was    almost    impossible  turbance   which    moved    from    west   to 

with  light  breezes.  east,   requiring   a  little  less   than    two 

And   yet    another  reported    that   on  hours  to  pass  from  Valencia  to  St.  Pe- 

December  21,  1883,  in  the  S.  W.  part  tersburg.     On  the  29th  there  were  two 

of  the  Java  Sea,  quantities  of  pumice  well-defined    movements  :  one  early  in 

stone,  large  trees,  bushes,  and  roots  were  the  morning,  from  east  to  west,  occupy- 

encountered.  ing  two  hours  and  eight  minutes  from 

St.   Petersburg    to  Valencia;   and    the 

The  tidal  phenomena  which  followed  other  in   the  afternoon,  from   west   to 

this  convulsion   are  particularly  inter-  east,  reaching  St.  Petersburg  one  hour 

esting.  The  waves  formed  in  the  narrow  and  twenty-five  minutes  after  it  was  ob- 

strait  issued  into  the  oceans  east  and  served   at  Valencia.     Similar  phenom- 

west,    and    started    on    their    journey  ena,  less  defined,  were  noted  on  the  30th 

around  the  globe.  The  undulations  were  and  31st. 

registered  at  Mauritius,  the  Seychelles,  Coincident  with  these  atmospheric 
in  South  Africa,  and  on  the  shores  of  fluctuations,  magnificent  sunlight  effects, 
the  Pacific  Islands  on  the  same  day  that  lurid  skies,  prolonged  dawns,  and  length- 
the  Java  villages  were  swept  away.  The  ened  twilights  were  observed.  The  cap- 
waves  continued  their  course,  crossed  tain  whose  experience  has  here  been 
each  other  at  the  antipodes  of  Krakatoa,  given  at  some  length  states  that  on  Sep- 


1884.] 


Elizabeth. 


391 


teinber  9,  1883,  in  latitude  14°  N., 
longitude  114°  E.,  the  sun  rose  perfectly 
green,  and  so  continued  for  forty-eight 
hours  ;  and  that  the  moon  and  the  stars 
gave  a  green  light  as  well.  He  also  re- 
ports that  he  noticed  peculiar  red  sun- 
sets in  the  South  Atlantic  several  weeks 
before  the  Java  eruption,  and  that  he 
carried  them  through  to  Hong  Kong,  and 
from  there  nearly  across  to  San  Fran- 
cisco. The  volcanic  cloud  that  caused 
these  peculiar  effects  seems  to  have  fol- 
lowed a  straight  path,  for  they  appeared 
on  the  east  coast  of  Africa  on  the  sec- 
ond day,  on  the  Gold  Coast  on  the  third, 
at  Trinidad  on  the  sixth,  and  at  Hono- 
lulu on  the  ninth  day.  It  is  impossible 
to  say  how  high  the  lighter  matter  was 
carried ;  it  is  certain  that  months  have 


been  required  for  it  to  descend.  The 
places  situated  below  the  direct  path  of 
the  cloud  were  the  first  to  have  those 
ominous  displays,  which  varied  in  in- 
tensity according  to  their  time  distance 
to  the  westward  ;  for  the  cloud  was  at 
first  elevated  as  a  comparatively  narrow 
column.  This  column  gradually  spread 
out  north  and  south,  until  the  inhabitants 
of  all  lands  obtained  a  view  of  the  beau- 
tiful effects  of  broken  and  absorbed  sun- 
beams, arid  a  demonstration  of  the  pow- 
er of  that  steam  which  was  imprisoned 
by  the  last  convulsion  of  nature. 

NOTE.  The  data  from  which  this  article  is  com- 
piled has  been  taken  from  reports  sent  to  the  U.  S. 
Hydrographic  Office,  from  the  preliminary  survey 
of  the  U.  S.  S.  Juniata,  and  from  the  Proceedings 
of  the  Royal  Geographical  Society. 

E.   W.  Sturdy. 


ELIZABETH. 

A  WHITE  stone  glimmers  through  the  firs, 
The  dry  grass  on  her  grave-mound  stirs ; 

The  sunshine  scarcely  warms  the  skies  ; 
'Pale  cloudlets  fleck  the  chilly  blue ; 
The  dawn  brings  frost  instead  of  dew 

To  the  bleak  hillside  where  she  lies. 

'Tis  something  to  be  near  the  place 
Where  earth  conceals  her  dear,  dead  face ;  - 

But  thou,  true  heart,  thou  art  not  there ! 
Where  now  thou  art  beloved  and  known 
Lo^e  makes  a  climate  of  its  own,  - — 

Perpetual  summer  in  the  air. 

The  language  of  that  neighboring  land 
Already  thou  didst  understand, 

Already  breathe  its  healthful  breath, 
Before  thy  feet  its  shores  had  pressed; 
There  wert  thou  an  awaited  guest, 

At  home  in  heaven,  Elizabeth ! 

I  try  to  guess  what  radiance  now 
Is  resting  on  that  gentle  brow, 
Lovelier  than  shone  upon  it  here ; 


392 


Not  Mute,  but  Inglorious. 

What  heavenly  work  thou  hast  begun, 
What  new,  immortal  friendships  won, 
That  make  the  life  unseen  so  dear. 

I  cannot  think  that  any  change 
Could  ever  thy  sweet  soul  estrange 

From  the  familiar  human  ties  : 
Thou  art  the  same,  though  inmost  heaven 
Its  wisdom  to  thy  thought  has  given, 

Its  beauty  kindled  in  thine  eyes. 

The  same  to  us,  as  warm,  as  true, 
Whatever  beautiful  or  new 

With  thy  unhindered  growth  may  blend : 
Here,  as  life  broadens,  love  expands  ; 
How  must  it  bloom  in  those  free  lands 

Where  thou  dost  walk,  beloved  friend ! 

I  do  not  know  what  death  may  mean ; 
No  gates  can  ever  shut  between 

True  heart  and  heart,  Elizabeth  : 
'T  is  but  to  step  from  time's  rude  strife 
A  little  farther  into  life, 

And  there  thou  art,  Elizabeth ! 


[September, 


Lucy  Larcom. 


NOT  MUTE,   BUT  INGLORIOUS. 


JANUARY  3.  It  is  the  beginning  of 
January,  and  the  world  seems  made  of 
mud  and  vapor. 

I  am  writing  before  a  roaring  fire, 
which  mocks  my  misery  by  scorching 
my  face  while  cold  breezes  are  playing 
around  my  ears.  How  little  the  North- 
ern people  know  what  cold  means ! 
They  don't  live  in  pasteboard  houses, 
with  the  wind  whistling  in  at  every 
crack.  Wood  fires  are  very  picturesque, 
and  so  on  ;  but  the  domestic  hearthstone 
becomes  a  satire  when  one  finds  one's  self 
liable  to  freeze  to  death  upon  it. 

But  I  must  not  be  ungrateful.     Busi- 

O 

ness  connected  with  the  new  railroad 
deposited  me  in  Samola,  and  Mr.  Bett 
has  taken  pity  on  my  homelessness.  A 
kindly  old  fellow :  has  a  red  face,  fringed 


all  around  with  white  hair,  and  walks 
with  the  stiff-legged  gait  of  a  man  who 
has  lived  most  of  his  life  in  the  saddle. 
He  informed  me,  as  we  splashed  through 
the  mud  and  water,  on  our  way  to 
Hampden  Court,  that  his  daughter  Eli- 
nor is  a  genius* 

I  confessed  to  myself,  when  I  saw 
her,  that  she  was  worth  looking  at :  de- 
cidedly tall  and  slender,  without  sug- 
gesting an  anatomical  study ;  head  and 
face  small,  surrounded  by  a  lustre  of 
frizzy  golden  hair ;  neat  little  features, 
which  seem  to  promise  nothing  in  the 
way  of  character;  complexion  strangely 
varying  from  pink  to  a  pallor  almost 
gray  ;  color  of  eyes  a  clear,  pale  violet, 
subdued  by  thick  black  lashes.  They 
have  an  upward  look  which  is  little  short 


1884.] 


Not  Mute,  but  Inglorious. 


393 


of  heavenly.  When,  however,  she  fixes 
them  upon  one,  it  is  with  a  bright  glance, 
almost  fierce,  which  seems  to  cry  out, 
"  What  are  you  ?  " 

January  4.  Feel  quite  at  home  in 
Hampden  Court,  as  my  too  ambitious 
friend  has  named  his  plantation.  The 
house  is  the  customary  collection  of 
rooms  strung  out  in  a  line,  with  long 
galleries  back  and  front.  Prevailing 
style  of  architecture  rather  flat  and  de- 
pressed ;  the  building  looks  as  if  some 
one  had  sat  on  it. 

No  very  great  signs  of  wealth,  past  or 
present,  to  be  seen  in  the  parish.  The 
dwelling-houses  are  mostly  moderate 
frame  erections,  often  lacking  paint.  Am 
told  that  this  section  was  settled  by  the 
poorer  classes  of  Kentucky  and  Tennes- 
see. In  the  neighboring  parish,  which 
was  settled  by  Virginians,  they  tell  me 
one  may  find  handsome  mansions,  pic- 
tures, statuary,  solid  family  plate. 

I  have  made  the  acquaintance  of  all 
the  dogs,  —  a  dozen  or  so,  —  and  also  of 
Wood  Hemphill,  Elinor  Bett's  cousin 
and  k>ver.  The  two  are  a  common  con- 
junction ;  the  bucolic  youth  being  too 
sheepish  and  unenterprising  to  fall  in 
love  with  any  girl  he  has  not  known 
from  his  cradle. 

January  5.  Miss  Bett  has  acquainted 
me  with  all  her  ambitions,  and  most  of 
her  thoughts  and  feelings.  A  sort  of 
neighborhood  prodigy.  Has  no  intimate 
friends  among  the  girls,  and  the  young 
men  stand  a  little  aloof,  awed  by  her 
superiority.  Perceive  that  she  rather 
enjoys  this,  taking  it  as  a  homage. 
She  graduated  from  the  village  semina- 
ry, and  delivered  the  valedictory,  much 
praised  by  the  Sainola  Comet  in  its 
weekly  issue.  This  is  an  enterprising 
sheet.  I  found  in  its  columns  a  poem 
containing  the  following  lines  :  — 

o  o 

4  You  threw  out  the  lasso  of  friendship  and  love, 
To  catch  me,  a  wanderer,  like  Noah's  lost  dove." 

She  likes  to  sit  in  the  green  and  white 
Methodist  church,  with  her  neat  little 
profile  in  relief  against  the  dull  wall. 


Thinks,  I  fancy,  that  the  congregation 
are  whispering,  "  What  a  superior  girl 
Elinor  Bett  is  !  " 

There  is  a  certain  vagueness  about 
her  superiority.  It  has  made  few  out- 
ward signs,  beyond  the  valedictory  and 
occasional  poems  and  mystic  "  commu- 
nications "  in  the  local  paper,  signed 
"  Etoile."  She  is  just  nineteen,  —  just 
emerging  from  the  state  of  feeling  in 
which  tRe  consciousness  of  her  own  pre- 
vailing genius  sufficed.  Now,  she  is 
going  to  make  the  world  gasp.  The 
complaint  is  dolefully  common,  particu- 
larly among  women.  Any  one  of  them 
who  can  string  words  together  thinks 

O  O 

that  she  can  be  an  authoress.  The 
other  arts  are  more  exacting.  Litera- 
ture is  too  often  the  straw  clutched  at 
by  drowning  souls,  —  the  only  straw  in 
sight. 

January  10.  Raining,  —  the  rain  freez- 
ing as  it  falls,  —  with  a  wind  that  pierces 
to  the  bone.  The  cows  are  huddled  by 
the  bars  of  the  cow-pen,  lowing  hide- 
ously, and  the  sheep  are  walking  about 
in  coats  of  mail,  so  to  speak,  with  long 
icicles  hanging  to  their  fleeces. 

Asked  Mr.  Bett  why  he  does  not  have 
a  shelter  for  them.  "  Oh,"  said  he, 
"  't  ain't  wuth  while.  We  don't  have 
a  spell  like  this  more  'n  once  a  winter." 

He  tramps  in  out  of  the  mud  and 
rain,  and  flings  down  his  overcoat  in  the 
corner  of  the  sitting-room,  for  Dodge, 
the  pointer,  to  sleep  on.  Wood  Hemp- 
hill  drops  in  presently  with  a  fresh  re- 
lay of  dogs.  The  smell  of  a  wet  dog 
before  a  fire  is  something  never  to  be 
forgotten. 

Miss  Bett  does  not  appear  to  be  dis- 
turbed by  the  canine  atmosphere.  Any 
little  domestic  incoherences  pass  over 
her  head.  She  is  otherwise  occupied. 
Napoleon,  she  tells  me,  is  her  favorite 
hero,  and  Ouida  her  favorite  romancer. 
She  has  studied  diligently  the  noble 
army  of  English  authors  who  occupy 
themselves  in  burlesquing  nature.  They 
possess  a  miraculous  generosity  of  adjec- 


394 


Not  Mute^  but  Inglorious. 


[September, 


tive.  There  is  a  kind  of  clumsy  spite 
displayed  in  the  delineation  of  certain 
characters,  clearly  not  favorites  of  the 
author.  One  is  reminded  of  the  sprawl- 
ing caricatures  which  school-girls  draw 
of  each  other  on  the  blackboard. 

Of  American  fiction  she  knows  al- 
most nothing,  excepting  what  she  has 
found  in  a  few  stray  volumes  of  Cooper, 
and  does  not  wish  to  be  better  informed. 
She  seems  to  be  what  the  unlearned  of 
these  parts  call  "  mighty  self-opiniated." 

January  13.  Damp  ;  almost  sultry. 
Feel  as  if  I  must  tear  off  my  winter 
clothing.  Remarkable  climate. 

Why  should  I  confess  to  her  that  I 
have  fallen  on  the  same  road  which  she 
is  trying  to  traverse?  How  persistent- 
ly my  fancy  clings  to  the  little  book  that 
no  one  read  but  the  reviewers  !  —  and 
they  no  doubt,  have  long  forgotten  it. 
I  am  a  man  of  business,  of  routine  ;  I 
live  for  use,  now  .  .  .  but  the  father  of 
one  child,  and  that  one  in  heaven,  must 
always  look  wistfully  at  the  boys  and 
girls  he  meets. 

No,  I  won't  tell  her.  Who  could 
confess  himself  a  failure  to  a  worshiper 
of  success  ? 

I  see  that  she  values  me  because  she 
believes  I  can  inform  her  on  certain 
subjects.  This  is  a  most  imperious  spirit 
to  have  found  its  being  in  a  little  frame 
house  in  the  backwoods.  No  man  feels 
ill  disposed,  of  himself,  toward  a  pretty 
girl.  Yet  she  is  not  a  gracious  neophyte. 
She  has  all  the  folly  and  waywardness 
of  girls  brought  up  by  men.  They  can 
never  stand  in  the  needful  critical  atti- 
tude which  woman  assumes  naturally 
toward  woman.  It  is  plain  that  Elinor 
Bett  needs  the  tonic  of  wholesome  neg- 
lect, of  occasional  snubbing.  Her  ego- 
tism is  almost  fierce.  If  one  differs  from 
her,  she  grows  rebellious.  She  wishes 
to  make  a  clean  sweep  of  all  one  's  be- 
liefs and  predilections,  and  set  up  her 
own  in  their  stead ;  not  so  much  from 
interest  in  one's  mental  growth  as  be- 
cause her  opinions  are  best. 


January  14.  This  strange  girl !  She 
arrests  and  fatigues  the  mind,  at  once. 
She  leaves  flying  shreds  of  half-complet- 
ed things  behind  her ;  flings  open  doors 
that  should  be  closed ;  speaks  in  unfin- 
ished sentences  ;  makes  immense  drains 
upon  one's  interest  and  attention  regard- 
ing irrelevant  matters ;  scatters  articles 
for  others  to  pick  up ;  indeed,  like  the 
sheep,  she  leaves  her  fleeces  on  every 
thorn.  But  she  has  an  excuse.  Her 
father  and  cousin,  and  every  one  with 
whom  she  comes  in  contact,  bow  before 
this  indistinct  superiority  of  hers. 

Her  cousin,  with  his  rather  opaque 
blue  eyes  and  wiry  light  hair,  is  a  good- 
looking,  manly  young  fellow  when  he 
has  his  slouched  hat  on  and  his  panta- 
loons tucked  in  his  boots.  But  he  com- 
ports himself  in  his  best  clothes  as  if 
he  had  stolen  them.  He  is  so  ill  at  ease 
in  them  that  one  has  to  make  his  ac- 
quaintance all  over  again  of  a  Sunday. 

January  15.  Damp, —  a  dampness 
that  oozes  in  at  every  pore,  and  makes 
the  atmosphere  like  a  sponge. 

Elinor  has  shown  me  her  great  .work. 
We  were  sitting  together  in  the  parlor. 
It  is  a  repulsive  apartment,  furnished  in 
the  haircloth  of  our  forefathers.  Por- 
traits of  Mr.  Belt's  ancestors,  done  by 
wandering  artists,  deface  the  wall.  The 
high  mantel-piece,  painted  black,  with 
casual  splotches  of  yellow,  is  surmount- 
ed by  a  gilt-framed  mirror  set  length- 
wise and  two  cheap  vases  with  flaring, 
empty  mouths.  Elinor  has  made  no  ef- 
fort to  beautify  it,  —  not  even  a  snow- 
basket.  It  stands  in  unadorned  dignity, 
like  a  hopelessly  plain  woman  who  re- 
fuses to  italicize  her  ugliness  with  finery. 

Elinor  informed  me  that  she  intends 
publishing  her  novel,  the  title  of  which 
is  Feu-Follet. 

"  Don't  you  think,"  I  suggested,  cau- 
tiously, "it  would  be  better  to  try  some- 
thing shorter,  just  at  first  ?  Send  it 
around  to  the  magazines,  and  even  if 
they  refuse  it  you  will  gain  experi- 
ence." 


1884.] 


Not  Mute,  but  Inglorious. 


395 


She  made  an  impatient  movement, 
and  her  facile  brows  quivered  a  de- 
nial. "  But  I  don't  want  to  do  that," 
said  she. 

"  And  of  course,  if  you  don't  want 
to  do  a  thing,  it  is  never  done." 

"  Of  course  not,"  she  replied,  simply. 

If  rapt  belief  in  one's  self  could  in- 
sure success,  it  would  be  hers.  This 
may  be  true  as  regards  society ;  never 
where  art  is  concerned.  It  is  often 
said  that  the  world  takes  us  at  our  own 
valuation  ;  but  this  complaisant  world, 
alas  !  cannot  include  editors  and  publish- 
ers, or  how  many  happy  authors  there 
would  be! 

She  proposed  that  I  should  look  over 
her  novel.  I  have  been  doing  so,  with 
intervals  of  rest,  all  the  evening.  It  is 
punctuated  with  dashes,  and  written  in 
that  pleasing  running  hand  in  which  all 
the  loop  letters  look  alike,  and  all  the 
rest  like  nothing  in  particular.  By  care- 
ful perusal  and  the  laws  of  analogy,  I 
have  succeeded  in  making  out  one  word 
in  ten. 

January  18.  I  have  suggested,  del- 
icately, that  a  first  novel  by  an  unknown 
author  is  always  a  risk.  Even  if  the 
book  should  be  above  the  average  in 
substance,  a  time  would  come  when  she 
would  be  ashamed  of  her  crude  work. 
These  and  other  customary  platitudes. 
I  have  tried  to  point  out  to  her  her  error 
in  choosing  faulty  models ;  have  assured 
her  that  Anglomania  has  not  extended 
to  literary  style.  "  Indicate,  suggest." 
I  reiterate.  "A  book  should  have  a 
perspective.  Never  state  a  fact  in  all 
its  native  coarseness.  It  pays  the  read- 
er a  compliment  to  leave  something  to 
his  imagination.  Check  this  tendency 
to  say  broadly  what  you  mean." 

She  turns  a  deaf  ear ;  she  will  hear 
of  no  delays.  Has  already  selected  the 
name  of  a  publisher  from  one  of  her  re- 
printed English  novels.  She  has  writ- 
ten him  a  rather  imperious  letter  on  pa- 
per which  bears  the  device  of  a  silver 
tortoise  climbing  up  a  gold  ladder, — 


perhaps  symbolical  of  the  slow  ascent  to 
fame. 

January  29.  A  most  poetic  day  ;  one 
of  three  others  as  delightful.  The  air 
is  balm ;  the  sunlight  a  caress.  A  mock- 
ing-bird has  appeared,  and  is  singing  on 
the  banks  of  the  pond,  where  the  gnarled 
quince-tree  has  put  out  a  bloom  or  two. 
I  see  the  sky  shining  blue  between  the 
naked  boughs. 

After  a  season  of  waiting,  the  pub- 
lisher has  replied.  At  present  he  would 
not  feel  justified  in  running  any  risk  ; 
however,  if  Miss  Bett  wishes  to  under- 
take half  the  expenses  —  five  hundred 
dollars,  etc. ;  signing  himself,  with  tren- 
chant sarcasm,  "  Your  obliged  and  obe- 
dient servant." 

This  reply  is  not  what  Elinor  had  ex- 
pected. She  had  wished  to  make  her  own 
fortune,  not  that  of  her  publisher.  But 
between  the  publisher  as  he  is  and  the 
publisher  as  we  would  have  him  there 
is  a  great  gulf  fixed. 

February  2.  Mr.  Bett  has  come  to 
the  rescue.  What  his  Nelly  wants  she 
must  have.  He  has  sold  a  tract  of  land 
on  the  river,  and  Feu-Follet  will  soon 
be  in  press.  He  reverences  genius.  In- 
deed, I  believe  that  he  fancies  he  has 
become,  by  absorption,  a  sort  of  liter- 
ary character  himself.  He  tells  me  that 
in  his  youth  he  used  to  read  a  great  deal 
of  poetry,  but  then  he  got  out  of  the 
way  of  it.  Perhaps  there  may  be  still 
some  confused  echoes  of  Byron  and  Bul- 
wer  and  N.  P.  Willis  knocking  about  in 
his  brain. 

"  Just  at  first,  you  know,"  he  says, 
"  you  have  to  pay  'em  ;  but  when  they 
find  out  that  you  have  first-class  genius, 
then  they  pay  you.  The  papers  are  al- 
ways expectin'  the  great  American  nov- 
el. Why,  the  other  day,  I  was  readin' 
where  one  man  said  he  was  lookin'  for 
it  prayerfully.  Prayerfully,  you  know  ! 
Of  co'se  an  editor  must  be  mighty  hard 
up  for  a  thing  when  he  prays  for  it. 


396 


Not  Mute,  but  Inglorious. 


[September, 


Samola  's  small,  to  be  shore  ;  but  then 
genius  comes  out  o'  queer  places.  There 
was  Burns,  he  was  a  ploughboy ;  and 
Byron,  he  had  a  club-foot  "  — 

"  Well,  pa,"  says  the  expectant  author- 
ess irritably,  "  as  I  'm  not  a  ploughboy, 
and  have  n't  a  club-foot  "  — 

"  Of  co'se  not,  —  of  co'se  not,  hon- 
ey," he  hastens  to  reply  soothingly. 

March  17.  I  don't  suppose  any  mor- 
tal ever  experienced  greater  happiness 
than  Elinor  when  she  untied  the  pack- 
age containing  half  a  dozen  copies  of 
her  novel.  I  watched  her  :  the  color 
in  her  cheeks  pulsated  wildly,  and  her 
pale  violet  eyes  looked  deep  and  bright. 
Here  were  her  finest  thoughts,  her  hap- 
piest efforts  of  wit  and  pathos,  clothed 
in  print. 

She  sat  beside  the  window  as  she  read, 
her  fair  hair  ruffled  up  against  the  light, 
like  a  halo  hastily  put  on. 

Mr.  Bett  alternately  laughs  and  weeps 
over  the  book.  One  is  reminded  of  the 
sensational  posters  heralding  the  domes- 
tic drama :  "  Shouts  of  laughter.  Floods 
of  tears."  I  don't  know  whether  the 
cousin  is  capable  of  the  mental  exertion 
of  reading  it ;  but  he  carries  a  copy  about 
with  him,  and  looks  triumphant. 
•  «••»•• 

The  reaction  has  set  in.  She  has 
waxed  captious  already,  and  points  out 
several  misprints.  For  instance,  "  robes," 
instead  of  "  roses,"  are  described  as 
wreathing  Feu-Follet's  head.  There  are 
also  allusions  to  her  "  dim  brown  hand  " 
and  "  panting  underlip." 

Poor  Nelly ! 

She  has  ordered  her  publisher  to  send 
the  reviews  of  her  book.  It  has,  I  re- 
gret to  say,  all  the  bad  points  of  its 
school,  which  may  be  termed  a  kind  of 
literary  ballet.  The  effect  is  at  once 
shocking  and  absurd,  —  as  if  we  should 
hear  the  voice  of  a  little  child  echoing 
the  curses  and  revilings  of  a  drunkard. 
I  perceive,  moreover,  a  certain  wild, 
vivid  power  of  describing  things  she 
has  never  seen,  which  may  startle  and 


compel  attention.     There  is,  of  course, 
a  chance  that  the  book  may  make  a  hit. 

Mine  did  n't.    Perhaps  it  was  too  good. 

March  23.  The  publisher  is  a  man 
of  his  word :  he  has  sent  the  reviews. 
There  was  silence  for  a  while,  as  Eli- 
nor read  them.  Suddenly,  she  turned 
upon  me,  as  the  person  nearest  at  hand. 

"  Listen,  —  listen  to  them  ! '  she 
cried ;  and  she  read  me  the  following 
extracts  :  — 

"  Italics  are  freely  employed  for  pur- 
poses of  emphasis,  which  suggests  that 
the  book  —  did  not  its  substance  forbid 
the  thought  —  was  intended  to  be  read 
aloud  to  children.  Girls  between  six- 
teen and  eighteen  may  enjoy  this  story, 
excepting  the  Latin,  French,  and  Ger- 
man quotations." 

**  Noted  for  strong  expressions  and 
exciting  positions." 

"  There  is  a  tendency  to  discuss  — 
always  provincially,  Tennyson,  Plato, 
and  other  irrelated  persons,  the  beset- 
ting sin  of  Southern  novelists.  The  book 
is  pert  and  flippant  rather  than  clever, 
and  overstrained  rather  than  strong." 

"  A  curious  production.  Vague,  in- 
definite longings  and  soarings  into  the 
aerial  regions  of  sentiment  are  mingled 
with  conversations  which  are  not  only 
utterly  mundane,  but  stupid  and  inane, 
and  which  make  the  unfortunate  critic 
wonder  which  is  most  lacking  in  the 
dramatis  personce  —  brains  or  heart." 

"  Studded  with  exclamatory  gems 
from  foreign  languages." 

"  Feu-Follet  deserves  a  sort  of  dis- 
tinction. It  is  probably  the  worst  novel 
ever  published,  if  not  the  worst  ever 
written.  Flippant,  bald,  jejune,  ridic- 
ulous, plotless,  it  blunders  around  its 
brief  circle  of  balderdash  like  a  blind 
puppy  stung  by  a  bee.  The  author  of 
such  a  book  deserves  to  be  pitied ;  but 
the  unfortunate  reviewer,  after  having 
read  it,  has  no  tears  for  any  one  but 
himself." 

Certainly  this  "  unfortunate  review- 
er "  must  subsist  on  vinegar  and  lemon 


1884.] 


To 


juice.  Whatever  else  the  book  lacks, 
it  seems  to  possess  the  power  of  lashing 
critics  into  a  fury. 

Another  alludes  to  it  insultingly  as 
« this  thick  little  book,"  and  adds,  "  A 
wild  and  artless  sprightliness  combines 
with  sweetly  sentimental  episodes,  and 
a  tragic  death  or  two  make  the  work  a 
fine  melange." 

"  Why,  honey,  they  're  praisin'  it," 
urged  Mr.  Bett,  who  had  approached 
us.  She  gave  him  a  look  of  impatient 
anguish. 

When  he  had  fully  grasped  the  idea 
of  Nelly's  discomfiture,  he  began  to 
stamp  up  and  down  the  gallery,  exclaim- 
ing, "  It 's  a  conspiracy  !  " 

She  stood  silent,  with  her  arms 
dropped  by  her  side.  A  sickly  pallor 
had  passed  across  her  face.  Her  lips 
moved,  and  I  caught  the  murmured 
words,  "  I  had  nothing  else.  And  now 
it 's  all  —  all  gone.  No  hope." 

I  would  have  said  "  Courage  "  if  I 
could. 

Presently,  her  father  came  to  her, 
and  grasped  her  fine  little  hand  in  his 
harsh  palms. 

"  Don't  you  take  on,  Nelly,"  he  said. 
"  To  fail  the  first  time  does  n't  mean 
anything.  Just  you  wait.  Who  knows 
but  the  great  American  novel  '11  come 
out  o'  this  little  frame  house  yet?  " 

For  the  first  time  in  her  life,  perhaps, 
her  eyes  sought  her  father's  face  for 
comfort  and  reassurance. 

"  I  'm  shore  of  it,"  he  asserted,  stoutly. 


897 

She  clenched  her  fists,  and  looked  up- 
ward. "  I'll  show  them  !  "  she  cried  ; 
and  her  whole  form  seemed  to  dilate. 
"  I  '11  show  them  !  " 

Perhaps  she  will.  Who  knows  ?  Or 
perhaps  she  will  become  a  unit  in  the 
great  unwritten  History  of  the  Souls 
Lost  in  Villages. 

April  29.  Feu-Follet  has  fallen  flat. 
The  reviewers,  who  might  have  done 
Elinor  a  good  turn  by  denouncing  it  as 
unfit  to  be  brought  into  the  family  cir- 
cle, have  found  it  merely  tiresome.  So 
much  vulgar,  silly  trash  is  written  and 
published  and  read  with  avidity  that  I 
had  some  faint  hope  of  its  success.  Still, 
the  vulgar,  silly  trash  which  succeeds 
is  generally  reprinted.  She  is  greatly 
changed.  I  see  her  sitting  silent  for 
hours ;  but  it  is  not  the  uplifted  silence 
of  old.  Life  is  a  certainty,  now ;  no 
longer  a  hope.  Wood  Hemphill  goes 
about  with  his  hat  pulled  down  over  his 
eyes,  almost  as  if  his  Irish  setter  were 
dead. 

I  shall  be  glad  to  leave  the  place. 
She  begins  to  weigh  upon  me  like  a  sor- 
row. 

May  11.  I  looked  my  last  upon  Eli- 
nor and  Samola  this  morning. 

When  I  bade  her  good-by,  she  put 
her  hands  behind  her,  .childishly,  and 
said,  "  No !  we  're  not  friends.  You 
have  never  understood  me.  But  no  one 
—  no  one  does,  not  even  poor  Wood." 

"  Ah,"  said  I,  "  he  only  loves  you. 
Good-by." 

Julie  K.  WetherilL 


TO 

x  \j  .  .  •  • 

SOME  words  are  giants,  and  some  dwarfs,  but  all 
Come  marshaled  duly,  at  thy  minstrel  call,  — 
Invincibly  melodious,  sweet  as  strong,  — 
The  Pyrrhic  phalanx  of  undying  song! 

Paul  ff.  Hayne. 


398 


A  Literary  Curiosity. 


[September? 


A   LITERARY   CURIOSITY.1 


THE  author  of  The  Poets'  Birds  starts 
with  a  theory  that  the  British  poets  are 
profoundly  ignorant  of  natural  history, 
and  thoroughly  unsympathetic  in  their 
treatment  of  "  things  in  fur  and  feath- 
ers." His  purpose  in  the  present  work 
—  the  first  of  a  series,  as  it  has  been  in- 
timated —  is  to  maintain  this  theory  so 
far  as  it  relates  to  birds  ;  arid  with  at 
least  one  branch  of  his  subject  he  claims 
to  have  a  very  exceptional  acquaintance. 
He  writes  with  the  most  unhesitating  as- 
surance about  the  "  whole  range  of  Brit- 
ish poetry,"  "  all  the  range  of  English 
poetry,"  the  "  whole  range  of  the  poets," 
"  all  the  rest  of  the  poets,"  "  no  poet," 
and  so  forth.  In  an  article  published 
since  the  book,  The  American  Eagle  in 
the  Poets,  he  says,  "  During  the  last 
year  or  two,  I  have  rummaged  through 
such  a  prodigious  number  of  European 
poets  as  I  fancy  few  have  ever  done." 
He  is  a  writer  of  experience,  and  has  a 
certain  attractiveness  of  style.  All  this 
tends  to  give  plausibility  to  his  utter- 
ances, and  the  question  arises  how  far 
they  are  worthy  of  credit. 

The  book  is  in  two  parts,  and  consists 
of  notes  by  the  author  on  th'e  poets' 
treatment  of  birds  and  of  quotations 
from  the  poets.  The  notes  abound  in 
novel  assertions  and  criticisms  ;  and  since 
by  far  the  larger  part  of  the  volume  is 
made  up  of  the  poetical  extracts,  se- 
lected, classified,  and  quoted  by  the  au- 
thor himself,  it  is  reasonable  to  expect 
that  these  extracts  will  justify  both  his 
statements  and  his  comments.  This, 
however,  they  signally  fail  to  do. 

"  What  a  '  turtle  '  is,"  he  says  (page 
23),  "  the  poets  cannot  agree.  Some 
make  it  the  male  of  « the  dove,'  others 
the  female  of  the  *  stock  dove,'  and  oth- 
ers, again,  the  male  or  female  of  the  ring 

1  The    Poets'   Birds.      By  PHIL.    ROBINSON. 
London:  Chatto  and  Windus.     1883. 


dove  ;  while  the  stock  dove  and  ring 
dove  are  similarly  mismated  in  bewilder- 
ing combinations,  the  general  result  be- 
ing as  delightful  a  confusion  of  three 
wholly  distinct  species  of  birds  as  even 
poets  could  wish  for."  He  also  tells 
us  repeatedly  and  emphatically  that  the 
poets  are  ignorant  of  the  migration  of 
the  turtle  dove ;  also  that  this  bird  is 
"  habitually  described  as  lamenting  her 
dead  stock  dove  or  ring  dove."  He  has 
given  about  one  hundred  and  seventy 
quotations  from  the  poets  about  doves, 
and  in  the  whole  there  is  not  a  word  to 
sustain  any  one  of  these  charges.  In 
one  passage,  however,  our  author  ap- 
parently designs  to  accuse  Watts  of 
"  mismating 5!  doves :  "  What  relation 
each  species  bears  to  the  other  the  poets 
never  considered  themselves  at  liberty 
to  determine.  Watts  makes  '  the  turtle ' 
the  opposite  sex  of  '  the  dove : '  '  No 
more  the  turtle  leaves  the  dove.'  Poets 
hope  to  have  readers  of  ordinary  intelli- 
gence. Instead  of  saying  here,  "  No 
more  the  turtle  leaves  its  mate,"  Watts, 
for  the  sake  of  his  rhyme,  uses  the  gen- 
eral term  "  dove."  The  only  rational 
interpretation  of  the  expression  is  per- 
fectly obvious.  "  Many  [birds]  of  con- 
spicuous charms,"  says  the  writer, "  might 
be  all  as  dowdy  as  nightingales  or  larks. 
I  take  these  two  birds  '  advisedly,'  for 
they  are  the  supreme  favorites  of  the 
poets,  and  for  one  avowed  reason,  — 
because  they  are  feathered  in  simple 
brown."  Nothing  in  support  of  this 
declaration  can  be  found  in  nearly  three 
hundred  passages  quoted  about  these 
birds,  although  in  two  of  those  on  the 
nightingale  it  is  implied  that  it  does  not 
need  gaudy  or  dazzling  plumage  to  make 
it  attractive. 

But  if  it  is  too  much  to  insist  that  our 
author's  own  selections  from  the  poets 
should  warrant  his  accusations,  let  us 


1884.] 


A  Literary  Curiosity. 


399 


go  to  the  poets  themselves  and  to  nat- 
uralists. In  the  chapter  on  the  lark, 
we  find  this  note :  "  It  is  a  curious  fact 
that  several  poets  mention  a  '  mountain 
lark.'  Is  it  possible  that  their  familiar- 
ity with  Milton's  phrase  *  the  mounting 
lark '  led  to  the  poetical  creation  of  a 
new  species  ?  '  The  brilliancy  of  this 
remark,  which  refers  to  poets,  not  school- 
children, cannot  fail  to  be  appreciated, 
especially  in  view  of  the  fact  that  the 
phrase  "  the  mounting  lark  '•  does  not 
occur  in  the  poems  of  Milton. 

We  read  on  page  232,  "  How  delight- 
fully Virgil's  metaphor,  '  So  the  struck 
eagle  stretched  upon  the  plain,'  etc., 
might  be  misapplied  to  the  goose ! ': 
This  figure  (not  a  metaphor  here,  but 
a  simile)  was  taken  by  JEschylus  from 
Libyan  fables.  Several  poets  since  have 
made  use  of  it,  but  it  is  not  to  be  found 
in  Virgil. 

Poets  are  specified  (page  157)  who 
have  improperly  mated  doves,  thus : 
"  Thomson  uses  '  the  stock  dove  '  as  the 
male  of  the  turtle,  Cowper  as  the  male 
of  '  the  ring  dove,'  and  Wordsworth  as 
the  female  of  it."  Thomson  does  not 
mention  the  turtle  dove,  nor  is  the  ring 
dove  named  by  either  Cowper  or  Words- 
worth, while  the  latter  does  not  allude 
to  any  species  of  dove  with  its  mate. 

Exception  is  also  taken  to  certain 
poets'  references  to  the  haunts  and  nest- 
ing of  the  stock  dove  :  "  Cunningham's 
hint  of  its  nesting  in  the  grove  is  sus- 
picious, and  Wordsworth's 

'  True  as  the  stock  dove  to  her  shallow  nest 
And  to  the  grove  that  holds  it ' 

is,  in  Wordsworth  especially,  inadmissi- 
ble ;  for  the  stock  dove  does  not  build 
in  trees,  but  (by  preference)  in  rabbit 
holes." 

In  Selby's  Illustrations  of  British  Or- 
nithology the  stock  dove  is  described  as 
a  ;<  constant  inhabitant  of  woods,  breed- 
ing in  the  hollows  of  old  and  pollard 
trees."  Morris  (History  of  British  Birds) 
says,  "  It  frequents  woods,  coppices,  and 
groves,  and  these  both  in  low  and  more 


hilly  countries,  suiting  itself  alike  among 
oaks  and  fruit  trees,  beeches  and  firs, 
or  any  others  that  present  facilities  for 
building  purposes  ;  "  also  that  the  nest 
is  placed  "  ordinarily  in  any  suitable 
holes  in  trees."  In  Dresser's  Birds  of 
Europe,  "  fir-trees,"  "  matted  ivy,  close 
to  the  trunks  of  cedars  and  fir-trees," 
and  "  holes  of  old  trees  "  are  mentioned 
among  its  nesting-places.  Stephenson 
(Birds  of  Norfolk)  states  that  this  bird, 
although  generally  considered  by  nat- 
uralists as  only  an  inhabitant  of  the 
woods,  has,  in  a  district  of  that  county, 
the  habit  of  resorting  to  ra.bbit  warrens, 
and  refers  to  Yarrell  as  authority  for  the 
opinion  that  it  acquired  its  name  from 
its  habit  of  nesting  in  the  "  stocks  of  old 
oak  pollards." 

Among  the  "  poets'  dove-fictions  "  of 
which  our  author  had  "  not  space  to 
speak,"  is  "  how  vultures  chase  them." 
One  cannot  well  conjecture  how  much 
space  would  be  needed  to  speak  of  this 
fiction  as  it  deserves,  but  of  the  alarm- 
ing extent  to  which  it  has  prevailed  in 
poetry  this  writer  enables  us  to  judge. 
From  the  "  whole  range  of  the  poets  " 
he  has  gleaned  one  couplet,  the  mean- 
ing of  which  approximates  his  interpre- 
tation of  it :  — 

"  From  the  high-sounding  cliff  a  vulture  springs, 
Swoops    down    and  bears  yon  tim'rous  dove 
away;" 

and  in  his  one  volume  he  has  found 
space  enough  to  allude  to  this  passage 
at  least  five  times. 

Another  of  these  fictions  is  "  how 
they  had  no  galls,  and  were  thus  serenely 
mild."  According  to  the  author's  poet- 
ical quotations,  two  poets  have  spoken 
of  doves  as  "gall-less,"  and  a  third  as 
"  serenely  mild,"  the  latter  making  no 
allusion  to  the  absence  of  gall.  Professor 
Owen  (Anatomy  of  Vertebrates)  says 
that  the  gall-bladder  is  constantly  defi- 
cient in  the  dove  tribe  ;  and  the  late  Pro- 
fessor Garrod,  prosector  to  the  Zoologi- 
cal Society  of  London,  in  one  of  his  scien- 
tific papers,  specifically  mentions  those 


400 


A  Literary  Curiosity. 


[September, 


genera  which  include  all  the  European 
and  American  species  of  doves  as  hav- 
ing no  gall-bladder.  Webster  defines  gall 
as  the  liquid  found  in  the  gall-bladder, 
consisting  of  the  secretion  of  the  liver 
mingled  with  that  of  the  mucous  mem- 
brane of  the  gall  -  bladder ;  therefore, 
when  the  latter  is  absent,  the  gall  must 
also  be  wanting.  So  it  appears  that 
Cowley  and  Oldham,  writing  more  than 
two  centuries  ago  of  gall-less  doves,  re- 
ferred to  a  verv  singular  fact  in  the 

v  O 

natural  history  of  these  birds,  —  a  fact 
which  seems  also  to  have  been  known 
to  a  poet  of  a  much  earlier  day  ;  for 
Shakespeare  allows  Hamlet  to  say,  — 

"But  I  am  pigeon-livered  and  lack  gall 
To  make  oppression  bitter." 

Another  statement,  of  the  truth  of 
which  these  quotations  do  not  furnish 
any  proof,  is  that  the  poets,  following 
tradition,  make  the  dove  "lift  its  head 
after  every  draught,  f  to  thank  the  Giv- 
er,' "  —  a  remark  which  is  supplement- 
ed by  this  note  :  "  As  a  matter  of  fact, 
pigeons  have  not  this  prettily  significant 
gesture.  It  is  reserved  for  the  cock-and- 
hen  tribes."  The  accuracy  and  the  per- 
tinency of  this  note  may  be  seen  by 
an  extract  from  the  account  of  pigeons 
iu  Cassell's  Book  of  Birds  (edited  by 
Professor  Jones  from  the  text  of  Dr. 
Brehm) :  "  They  are  also  remarkable 
for  their  mode  of  drinking,  in  which 
they  differ  from  all  other  birds.  The 
general  practice  of  birds  in  drinking  is 
to  take  up  a  small  portion  of  water  in 
the  bill,  and  then,  by  raising  the  head, 
to  allow  it  to  run  down  into  the  throat ; 
the  pigeons,  on  the  contrary,  dip  their 
bills  into  the  water,  and  hold  them  there 
till  they  have  quenched  their  thirst." 
So  the  "  prettily  significant  gesture  "  is 
not  "reserved'  for  anyHribe,  but  is 
characteristic  of  all  birds  except  doves. 

Again,  speaking  of  the  poets'  "  curi- 
ous fancy  "  in  making  the  singing  night- 
ingale female,  the  writer  says  that  "in 
nature  only  the  male  nightingale  sings, 
and  then  always  to  his  brooding  mate  ; " 


yet  that  in  poetry  this  is  overlooked ; 
that  Milton  and  Gilbert  White  knew  the 
"  solemn  bird  of  night "  was  a  male. 
On  a  previous  page  he  included  with 
them  Montgomery,  but  excluded  the 
rest.  If  Milton  knew  the  fact,  as  is 
possible,  may  we  not  infer  that  other 
poets  also  were  aware  of  it,  who  never- 
theless sometimes  disregarded  it  in  their 
poems,  as  Milton  generally  did,  and  as 
this  writer  himself  has  done  in  the  con- 
cluding paragraph  of  his  chapter  on  the 
nightingale,  where  he  speaks  of  the 
"  sweet  queen  of  song,"  and  of  "  her  sur- 
passing melody  "  ? 

But  should  not  Spenser,  and  Cowper, 
and  Coleridge,  and  Tennyson,  and  many 
other  poets,  some  of  whom  are  some- 
times and  others  always  accurate  in  re- 
gard to  this,  be  taken  into  account  when 
speaking  of  poetry  ?  The  very  expres- 
sion of  the  criticism  that  the  bird  "  sings 
always  to  his  brooding  mate  "  is,  as  far 
as  it  is  correct,  an  expression  of  the  poets 
themselves.  Southey  and  Morris  write 
of  his  "  telling  his  tale  '  or  his  "  love- 
song  to  his  brooding  mate."  Kingsley 
has  it  to  "  his  listening  mate."  But  that 
the  bird  sings  always  to  his  brooding 
mate  is  not  true.  The  male  birds  ar- 
rive in  England  two  weeks,  more  or 
less,  earlier  than  the  females.  This  fact 
has  been  expressly  noticed  by  ornitholog- 
ical writers.  Rev.  C.  A.  Johns  (Brit- 
ish Birds  in  their  Haunts)  says  that  the 
male  birds  sing  from  their  "  first  arrival 
until  the  young  are  hatched  ;  "  also,  that 
it  has  been  fancifully  said  that  they 
employ  the  interval  before  the  coming 
of  their  mates  in  "  contending  for  the 
prize  in  a  musical  contest."  Charles 
Tennyson  Turner  has  made  this  singing 
of  the  nightingale  before  the  arrival  of 
the  female  the  theme  of  one  of  his  son- 
nets. 

"  It  is  doubtful,  indeed,"  continues 
our  critic,  "  whether  the  poets  were 
aware  that  the  nightingale  was  a  sum- 
mer migrant  only.  Waller  and  Carew 
knew  it,  Mrs.  Hemans  suspected  it,  but 


1884.] 


A  Literary  Curiosity. 


401 


there  is  no  evidence  in  the  rest  of  the 
great  fact  of  the  nightingale's  migration 
being  known."  One  poet  speaks  of  it 
as  a  "  brief  sojourner  ; "  another  ques- 
tions it  about  the  many  months  of  its 
absence  ;  Keble  inquires  as  to  its 

"  Spell  unknown  from  genial  southern  grove, 
From  purer  gales,  and  skies  without  a  blot  ;  " 

Wordsworth  addresses  it  as  "  wanderer," 
and  alludes  to  its  "  migratory  flight ;  " 
says  Mrs.  Browning,  — 

"  The  nightingale  did  please 
To  loiter  beyond  seas;  " 

and  Mant,  — 

"  Brief  is  Philomela's  stay  ;  " 
Cochrane,  also,  — 

"The  nightingale  ere  comes  the  snow 
Is  far  off  on  the  wing." 

We  find  one  sonnet  entitled  To  a  Night- 
ingale on  its  Return,  and  another,  The 
Nightingale's  Departure.  This  seems 
like  evidence,  but  our  author's  views 
on  evidence  are  not  less  peculiar  than 
on  other  subjects.  Referring  to  the 
turtle  dove,  he  says  (page  158),  "  As 
1  have  already  shown,  it  is  used  in- 
differently as  the  widow  of  ring  doves 
and  stock  doves  ;  "  whereas  he  only  re- 
peats his  own  assertion,  without  citing 
a  single  passage  to  prove  it. 

One  of  the  most  remarkable  state- 
ments in  the  book  is  that  "  hardly  a 
dozen  references  could  be  found  to  that 
summer  miracle  of  every  year,  the  nest- 
building  of  birds."  Bishop  Mant's  poem, 
The  British  Months,  which  shows  his 
most  careful  observation  of  bird-life, 
contains  fifty  references,  at  least,  to  this 
subject.  Scores  of  British  poets  could 
be  named,  each  of  whom  has  mentioned 
it  from  once  to  a  dozen  times  or  more. 
The  nest-making  of  birds  belonging  to 
many  dozen  species  has  been  noticed. 
Details  as  to  the  time  of  nesting,  place 
selected,  ma^fials  made  use  of,  tools 
employed,  manner  of  building,  different 
degrees  of  skill  manifested,  and  the  va- 
rious results  reached  have  been  noted 
with  surprising  accuracy.  This  is  seen 
not  only  in  the  poets'  minute  descrip- 

VOL.  LIV.  —  NO.  323.  26 


tions  of  nests,  both  of  very  elaborate  and 
of  the  most  simple  construction,  but  also 
in  incidental  allusions. 

Among  the  birds  that  "  with  more 
forward  haste  "  commence  nesting  is  the 
hedge  sparrow,  that  places 

"  On  leafless  bough  his  lowly  home," 

which,  from  being  thus  so  unsheltered, 
is  more  likely  to  be  appropriated  by  the 
cuckoo  for  her  eggs,  or  plundered  by 
the  school-boy,  both  of  which  circum- 
stances poets  also  note. 

Bishop  Stanley,  in  his  Journal  of  our 
Starlings'  Lives,  records  that  investiga- 
tions preparatory  to  building  are  made 
in  March.  Kingsley  had  noticed  the 
same,  who  thus  wrote  :  — 

"  Early  in  springtime,  on  raw  and  windy  morn- 
ings, 
Beneath  the  freezing  house-eaves  I  heard  the 

starlings  sing, 

'  Ah,  dreary  March  month,  is  this  then  a  time 
for  building  wearily  ? '" 

But  it  is  several  weeks  afterwards, 

"  When  whinny  braes  are  garlanded  with  gold, 
And,  blythe,  the  lamb  pursues,  in  merry  chase, 
His  twin  around  the  bush  ;  the  linnet,  then, 
Within  the  prickly  fortress  builds  her  bower, 
And  warmly  lines  it  round,  with  hair  and  wool 
Inwove." 

Most  observers  find  the  swallow  nesting 
in  May.  Browning,  absent  from  Eng- 
land, remembers  that  this  month  "  the 
whitethroat  builds,  and  all  the  swallows." 
"  Towards  the  end  of  April  or  the  be- 
ginning of  May,"  says  Yarrell,  "  should 
the  season  be  favorable,  the  site  of  the 
nest  is  chosen."  Owen  Meredith  recog- 
nizes an  April  builder  as  early  :  — 

"  O  swallow,  chirping  in  the  sparkling  eaves, 

Why  hast  thou  left  far  south  thy  fairy  homes 
To  build  between  these  drenched  April  leaves, 
And  sing  me  songs  of  spring  before  it  comes?  " 

The  swallow  returns  at  this  season  to 
the  "  loved  haunt  which  erst  she  knew," 
as  do  some  other  birds :  — 

"On  ancient  oak,  or  elm,  whose  topmost  boughs 
Begin  to  fail,  the  raven's  twig-formed  house 
Is  built ;  and,  many  a  year,  the  selfsame  tree 
The  aged  solitary  pair  frequent." 

Nests  of  other  species  are  placed  in  al- 
together different  localities  :  — 


402 


A  Literary  Curiosity. 


[September, 


"  In  the  sedge  of  the  river  the  reed-sparrows  build, 
And  the  peewit  among  the  brown  clods  of  the 
field  ;  " 

while  the  curlew,  which  also  frequents 
the  shore,  "  wisely '  builds  her  nest 
"  upon  the  moor  that 's  highest." 

Certain  birds  build  in  communities  ; 
for  instance,  — 

F 

"  Swallows,  that  hatch 
Broods  by  the  dwellings  of  men, 
Colonize  chimney  and  thatch 
Fresh  from  migration  again." 

Other  little  colonists  are  mentioned  by 
Jean  Ingelow,  —  martins,  which 

"cheeped  in  many  a  knot, 
For  they  had  ta'en  a  sandy  plot 
And  scooped  another  Petra  there." 

Thomson  observes  that 

"  lofty  elms  and  venerable  oaks 
Invite  the  rook,  who,  high  amid  the  boughs, 
In  early  spring,  his  airy  city  builds." 

The  foundation  of  this  "  airy  city  "  may 
be  where  the  trees 

"cast  their  solemn  shade  around 
Some  village  churchyard's  hallowed  ground ;  " 

or,  as  Warton  says, 

"  Where  in  venerable  rows 
Widely  waving  oaks  inclose 
The  moat  of  yonder  antique  hall." 

Often  it  is 

"  where  the  quenchless  noise 
Of  jocund  task-remitted  boys, 
Well  pleased,  or  busy  hum  of  men, 
They  hear,  and  back  return  again." 

The  frequent  selection  by  rooks  of  build- 
ing sites  near  schools  and  colleges  leads 
us  to  inquire  whether  there  can  be  an- 
other reason  for  it  than  the  one  sug- 
gested above,  that  they  enjoy  the  noise 
and  bustle  of  such  establishments.  Rev. 
J.  G.  Wood,  in  My  Feathered  Friends, 
tells  us  that  he  had  from  the  window 
of  his  "  garret  in  college '  a  view  of 
the  topmost  branches  of  some  fine  elm- 
trees,  which  contained  rooks'  nests,  and 
adds  that  "  the  rooks  are  especially  un- 
der the  collegiate  protection."  The  rem- 
iniscence of  another  Oxford  graduate, 
well  known  in  the  scientific  world,  af- 
fords a  similar  hint :  "  Once  more  are 
we  seated  beneath  the  old  rook-trees  in 


Christ  Church  meadow,  and  congratu- 
lating the  dark  proprietors  of  the  vil- 
lage overhead  that  their  fortunate  settle- 
ment is  within  the  protective  influence 
of  academic  laws." 

One  of  the  first  things  that  a  visitor 
notices  on  the  school  grounds  at  Rugby 
is  the  rookery.  He  is  at  once  re- 
minded of  the  evening  when  Tom  Brown 
and  his  "  little  chum  "  looked  from  the 
west  window  of  the  latter's  sick-room 
"into  the  tops  of  the  great  feathery 
elms,  round  which  the  rooks  were  cir- 
cling and  clanging,"  young  and  old 
"  talking  in  chorus  ;  "  of  the  boys'  won- 
der as  to  whether  the  "  old  blackies " 
did  talk  or  have  prayers  ;  and  of  Tom's 
pertinent  conclusion,  in  view  of  some 
remorseful  recollections  which  it  is  not 
difficult  to  surmise,  that  Doctor  Arnold, 
for  "  stopping  the  slinging,"  must  be 
gratefully  remembered  in  the  rooks' 
prayers.  And  we  are  inclined  to  specu- 
late, half  seriously,  whether  rooks  place 
themselves  consciously  under  the  pro- 
tection of  academic  laws. 

Like  towns  terrestrial,  these  "  towns 
aerial  'mid  the  waving  tree '  are  of 
gradual  growth.  Poets  have  remarked 
that  birds  "  mend "  "  and  retrim  their 
nests."  As  early  as  February  the  rook 
commences  operations.  According  to 
Gilbert  White, 

"the  cawing  rook 

Anticipates  the  spring,  selects  her  mate, 
Haunts  her  tall  nest-trees,  and  with  sedulous  care 
Repairs  her  wicker  eyrie,  tempest-torn." 

And  Marit  further  notes  the  fact  that 
the  old  birds  reserve  to  themselves  the 
easier  task  — 

"  The  ruins  of  the  former  year 
Afresh  to  garnish,"  — 

remorselessly  imposing  upon  the  young- 
er members  of  the  commonwealth  the 
burden  of  constructing 

"  The  fabric  of  their  mansions  new;  " 
also  that  they  combine   to  punish  any 
thoughtless  or  lawless  young  citizen  that 
may  attempt  to  shirk  and  help  himself 
to    a   house  or   materials    already  pre- 


1884.] 


A  Literary  Curiosity. 


403 


pared.     Herons  also  are  gregarious   in 

nesting,  and 

"make 

On  wooded  isle,  'mid  inland  lake, 
Aloft,  a  congregated  town," 

or  a  "  social  city  beside  the  moist  fen." 

It  has  been  remarked  that  there  is  as 
much  individuality  in  the  nest  as  in  the 
bird.  The  instinct  that  prompts  the 
song  thrush  to  build 

"ere  the  sprouted  foliage  shield 
Her  dwelling  from  the  biting  air 
Bids  her  no  less  her  home  prepare 
Impervious  to  the  impending  storm, 
A  chinkless  mansion,  close  and  warm;  " 

and,  says  Clare, 

"often,  an  intruding  guest, 
I  watched  her  secret  toils,  from  da}*  to  day : 
How  true  she  warped  the  moss  to  form  her  nest, 
And  modeled  it  within  with  wood  and  clay." 

The  plastic  substance  and  bits  of  de- 
cayed wood  which  compose  the  thin  but 
water-tight  lining  of  the  thrush's  nest 
are  prepared,  smoothed,  and  given  a 
"  cup-like  "  shape  by  the  bird's  own 

"  plastic  breast, 
And  bill  with  native  moisture  fraught." 

Another  early  builder  is  the  blackbird : 

"  And  see 

His  jetty  breast  embrowned ;  the  rounded  clay 
His  jetty  breast  has  soiled." 

Other  birds  make  use  of  very  different 
materials.  The  kingfisher 

"  builds  his  nest  of  the  pearly  fish-bone, 
Deep,  deep  in  the  bank,  far  retired  and  alone." 

One  of  the  curiosities  of  bird  architec- 
ture is  the  nest  of  the  long-tailed  tit- 
mouse :  an  "  oval  ball  of  moss,"  with  a 
"  window  in  the  wall,"  and  "  as  full  of 
feathers  as  can  be ;  "  wrought  by  the  lit- 
tle creature 

"  Without  a  tool  to  aid  her  skill,  — 
Nought  but  her  little  feet  and  bill; 
Without  a  pattern  whence  to  trace 
This  little  roofed-in  dwelling-place." 

The  blue  tit  fits  up  the  interior  of  his 
domicile  with  some  soft  substance,  and 
uses  spiders'  webs  for  finishing  :  — 

"  And  now  look  at  his  nest,  made  with  exquisite 

care, 

Of  lichen,  and  moss,  and  the  soft,  downy  feather, 
And  the  web  of  the  spider  to  keep  it  together. 


How  he  twists,  how  he  turns,  with  a  harlequin 

grace ! 

He  can't  lift  a  feather  without  a  grimace; 
He  carries  the  moss  in  his  bill  with  an  air, 
And  he  laughs  at  the  spider  he  robs  of  his  lair." 

The  wren's  nest,  "  close  and  vaulted 
o'er,"  with  its  "little  gateway  porch," 
and  with  the  "  finest  plumes  and  downs  " 
so  '•  softly  warped  "  within,  is  a  marvel 
of  skill,  but  the  pictures  of  Grahame 
and  Wordsworth  scarcely  fail  of  doing 
justice  to  the  exquisite  workmanship  of 
the  little  architect.  Not  less  interest- 
ing, perhaps,  is  Mary  Howitt's  descrip- 
tion of  the  sparrow's  "  uncostly  nest :  " 

"  Not  neatly  wove  with  tender  care, 
Of  silvery  inoss  and  shining  hair; 
But  put  together,  odds  and  ends, 
Picked  up  from  enemies  and  friends." 

Poets  have  observed  the  simple  con- 
struction of  the  wood-pigeon's  "  sprig- 
formed  nest,"  — 

"  laid  so  thinly,  that  the  light  of  day 
Is  through  it  seen;" 

and  how 

"  The  cushat  and  the  turtle  doves 
On  the  tall  fir  of  transverse  sticks 
Their  artless  dwelling  rudely  fix, 
Where  on  the  gazer's  eye  below 
Gleam  their  twin  eggs  of  drifted  snow." 

Sometimes  the  furnishing  within  is  of 
the  most  costly  material.  The  eider 
duck,  that  rears  her  young  on  bleak 
northern  islands,  lines  her  nest  thickly 
with  the  beautiful  down  of  her  own 
breast ;  not  once,  merely,  but,  if  the  nest 
is  plundered,  until  her  own  supply  is 
exhausted,  and  then,  says  Hartwig  in 
his  Polar  World,  "  with  a  plaintive  voice 
she  calls  her  mate  to  her  assistance,  who 
willingly  plucks  the  soft  feathers  from 
his  breast  to  supply  the  deficiency,"  the 
down  furnished  by  the  latter  being  rec- 
ognized by  those  that  rob  these  nests  as 
whiter  than  that  of  the  female.  In  the 
following  extract,  the  soul  of  a  lady  in 
purgatory  is  represented  as  speaking :  — 

"  For  where  the  brown  duck  stripped  her  breast 
For  her  dear  eggs  and  windy  nest, 
Three  times  her  bitter  spoil  was  won 
For  woman;  and  when  all  was  done 
She  called  her  snow-white  piteous  drake, 
Who  plucked  his  bosom  for  our  sake." 


404 


A  Literary  Curiosity. 


[September, 


Surely 

"  With  instinctive  love  is  drest 
The  eider's  downy  cradle." 

The  author  of  The  Paradise  of  Birds 
was  not  ignorant  of  their  nesting  habits : 

"  See,  here  are  burrows  for  the  puffins'  homes, 
Gray  lichens   whence   the  titmice   build  their 

domes, 

Broad  hawthorn  for  the  chaffinches,  and  high 
Spruce  for  the  rook,  the  ring  dove,  and  the  pie. 
Here,  too,  are  streams,  where,  on  the  outreach- 
ing  boughs, 
The  water-hen  may  hang  her  balanced  house." 

Other  British   birds    construct  hanging 
nests  :  — 

"  There  the  wren,  golden-crested,  so  lovely  to  see, 
Hangs  its  delicate  nest  frojn  the  twigs  of  the 
tree." 

It  is  a  British  poet  that  bids  the  golden 

oriole  its 

"  woven  cradle  'mid  my  trees 
Of  black  Morelloes  hang." 

The  nest  of  the  chaffinch  displays  in  a 
striking  manner  the  protective  power 
of  instinct.  "  It  is,"  observes  Morris 
(Nests  and  Eggs  of  British  Birds), 
"  usually  so  well  adapted  to  the  color  of 
the  place  where  it  is  built  as  to  elude 
detection  from  any  chance  passer-by ; 
close  scrutiny  is  required  to  discover  it." 
Sometimes  it  is,  as  described  by  another, 

"  well  disguised 

With  lichens  grey,  and  mosses  gradual  blent, 
As  if  it  were  a  knurle  in  the  bough." 

Hurdis  calls  attention  to  the  apparent 
disadvantages  under  which  a  bird  la- 
bors :  — 

"  No  tool  had  he  that  wrought,  no  knife  to  cut, 
No  nail  to  fix,  no  bodkin  to  insert, 
No  glue  to  join  ;  his  little  beak  was  all." 

But  Courthope  makes  the  birds  claim 
that  the  advantages  of  knowing  how  to 
use  both  tools  and  materials  are  with 
them  rather  than  with  man  :  — 

"  And  next  it  was  plain  that  he  in  the  rain 

Was  forced  to  sit  dripping  and  blind, 
While  the  reed-warbler  swung  in  a  nest  with 

her  young, 

Deep-sheltered  and  warm  from  the  wind. 
So  our  homes  in  the  boughs  made  him  think  of 

the  house ; 
And  the  swallow,  to  help  him  invent, 


Revealed  the  best  way  to  economize  clay, 
And  bricks  to  combine  with  cement. 

The  knowledge  withal  of  the  carpenter's  awl 
Is  drawn  from  the  nuthatch's  bill, 

And  the  sand-martin's  pains  in  the  hazel-clad 

lanes 
Instructed  the  mason  to  drill." 

Nor  are  these  examples  found  exclu- 
sively in  modern  poets,  or  those  even 
since  the  time  of  Thomson.  Marvell 
notes  that  the  corn  crake  builds  in  a 
hollow  "  below  the  grass's  root ;  "'  Mil- 
ton, that 

"  the  eagle  and  the  stork 
On  cliffs  and  cedar  tops  their  eyries  build ; " 

Shakespeare,  that 

' '  the  martlet 
Builds  in  the  weather  on  the  outward  wall," 

utilizing  every  "  jutty,"  "frieze,"  "but- 
tress," and  "  coigne  of  vantage  ;  "  and  a 
hundred  years  before,  Skelton  had  ob- 
served that  the  nest  of  the  stork  was 
made  on  "  chymneyes  to  rest."  That 
birds  occasionally  are  found  nesting  in 
very  unexpected  places  has  been  some- 
times taken  advantage  of  by  poets. 
Leigh  Hunt's  The  Trumpets  of  Dool- 
karnein  and  Cowper's  The  Chaffinch's 
Nest  are  notable  examples  of  this. 

So  far  from  its  being  true  that  this 
wonderful  chapter  in  bird  history  has 
been  almost  wholly  neglected  by  Brit- 
ish poets,  it  could  hardly  be  too  much 
to  say  that  any  one  wholly  ignorant  of 
the  subject  might  become  quite  well  in- 
formed as  to  the  nesting  habits  of  Brit- 
ish birds  by  a  careful  reading  of  British 
poetry.  Some  of  the  most  apt  expres- 
sions employed  by  ornithological  writers, 
even  of  the  present  day,  seem  almost  to 
have  originated  with  the  poets. 

The  author's  assertion  that  the  turtle 
dove  is  "  habitually  described  as  lament- 
ing her  dead  *  stock  dove,'  or  '  ring 
dove,'  "  and  the  fact  that  his  quotations 
from  the  poets  do  not  show  even  an  at- 
tempt to  prove  it,  have  been  mentioned. 
He  goes  on  to  say  that  she  is  "  as  such 
condoled  with,  while  all  the  time  the 
bird  has  just  come  from  Syria,  where 
it  hatched  a  brood  of  young  ones  only 


1884.] 


A  Literary  Curiosity. 


405 


three  months  ago,  and  now,  mated  to 
another  spouse,  is  again  the  happy 
mother  of  another  couplet." 

Three  months  before  the  arrival  of 
the  turtle  dove  in  England,  the  last  of 
April  or  beginning  of  May,  it  is  in  its 
winter  haunts.  That,  as  a  rule,  birds 
do  not  nest  in  their  winter  quarters 
seems  to  be  evident.  Once  a  year,  as  is 
well  known,  birds  have  the  impulse  to 
mate.  This  impulse  is  accompanied  by 
a  remarkable  physical  vigor,  which  pro- 
duces very  striking  changes  in  their  ap- 
pearance and  habits  :  — 

"  In  the  spring  a  fuller  crimson  comes  upon  the 
robin's  breast  ; 

In  the  spring  the  wanton  lapwing  gets  himself 
another  crest ; 

In  the  spring  a  livelier  iris  changes  on  the  bur- 
nished dove;  " 

and 

"  Frae  fields  where  spring  her  sweets  has  blawn 
Wi'  caller  verdure  o'er  the  lawn, 
The  gowdspink  conies  in  new  attire." 

This  change  of  plumage  is  apparent  to 
a  greater  or  less  extent  in  all  the  birds 
with  which  we  are  acquainted,  and 
"  spring  plumage,"  "  nuptial  attire," 
"  wedding  dress,"  are  common  forms  of 
expression  in  describing  birds. 

The  vocal  organs  are  also  especially 
strengthened  and  excited,  so  that  the 
music  of  birds  is  one  of  the  most  notice- 
able features  of  spring.  Even  the  notes 
of  those  not  usually  considered  singing 
birds  are  modified  during  this  period  :  — 

"  The  raven  croaks  a  softer  way, 
His  sooty  love  to  woo." 

Peculiar  gestures  are  observed,  which 
Professor  Newton  speaks  of  as  "  akin 
to  the  song."  The  beginning,  duration, 
and  ending  of  this  season  vary,  lasting 
with  some  species  until  two  or  three 
broods  are  hatched.  These  are  matters 
of  common  observation  in  respect  to  the 
resident  British  birds,  among  which  are 
numbered  many  of  the  most  familiar 
species.  After  this  term  is  past,  the 
seasonal  plumes  and  tufts  and  the  ex- 
ceptional brilliancy  of  plumage  disap- 
pear, the  song  for  the  most  part  ceases, 


and  there  is  no  recurrence  of  them  until 
another  spring.  It  is  said  to  be  a  fact 
(Blackwall's  Researches  in  Zoology) 
that  "  most  songsters  are  absolutely  un- 
able to  continue  their  melodious  strains 
beyond  the  latter  end  of  July  or  the  be- 
ginning of  August."  "Whatever  prolon- 
gation of  this  period  there  may  be  in 
the  case  of  cage  birds  and  domestic 
fowls  is  thought  to  be  due  to  the  con- 
stant supply  of  nutritious  and  suitable 
food,  and  it  is  probable  that  occasional 
irregularities  in  the  nesting  of  wild  birds 
may  be  in  part  thus  explained. 

At  this  season  many  birds  have  the 
instinct  to  migrate,  — 

"  Strange  yearnings  come 
For  the  unknown  shelter  by  undreamed  of  shores." 

The  winter  habits  of  some  of  the  migra- 
tory birds  are  well  known,  for  they 
leave  the  north  to  winter  in  England. 
These  birds  do  not  nest  in  England  in 
the  winter,  but  return  in  spring  to  the 
northern  regions,  and  rear  their  young 
ones  in  their  own  old  homes.  The  num- 
ber of  birds  that  remain  in  New  Eng- 
land throughout  the  year,  or  that  mi- 
grate from  the  north  to  winter  with  us, 
is  comparatively  small,  but  no  winter 
nesting  has  been  noticed  here.  Obvi- 
ously, then,  we  must  infer  that  the  birds 
that  come  from  the  south  to  enliven  the 
spring  of  Great  Britain  and  New  Eng- 
land by  fheir  beauty  and  their  song  re- 
turn in  the  autumn  mute  and  "  sober- 
suited,"  sometimes  to  moult,  at  any 
rate  to  rest,  but  not  to  nest,  in  their 
winter  quarters  ;  in  other  words,  that 
the  nesting  impulse  is  annual,  and  that 
birds  do  not  mate  a  second  time  in  their 
places  of  winter  resort. 

The  correctness  of  this  inference  is 
confirmed  by  the  reports  of  residents 
and  explorers  in  the  countries  which 
become  the  winter  homes  of  migra- 
tory birds.  Dr.  Klunzinger,  for  many 
years  resident  in  Egypt,  whose  volume 
on  Upper  Egypt  includes  sketches  of 
natural  history,  says  that  "on  the  whole 
the  singing  of  birds  is  not  heard  in 


406                                       A  Literary  Curiosity.                         [September, 

Egypt,  as  the  birds  that  pass  through  probably  have  the  same  scientific  value 
or  winter  in  the  country  do  not  sing  in  as  the  stories  of  swallows  having  been 
the  winter  season."  The  late  Professor  found  hibernating  in  caves  and  hollow 
A.  L.  Adams  (Notes  of  a  Naturalist  in  trees,  or  of  toads  having  been  found  in 
the  Nile  Valley  and  Malta)  speaks  of  the  recesses  of  otherwise  solid  rocks." 
certain  song  birds  as  "  mute  from  their  Still,  a  rule  which  is  general  may  not 
arrival  [at  Malta]  in  October  up  to  the  be  universal,  and  some  naturalists  take 
beginning  of  March."  exception  to  so  unqualified  a  statement 
During  a  winter  passed  in  Tennessee,  of  this  law.  Harting  (Our  Summer 
Mr.  Wilson  Flagg  gave  particular  at-  Migrants)  even  thinks  that  many  birds 
tention  to  the  birds  in  the  woods  near  which  summer  in  England  and  nest 
Nashville,  and  he  remarks  that  "  not  there,  "  must  also  nest  in  what  we  term 
one  was  heard  to  sing."  Florida  is  on  their  winter  quarters."  But  he  draws 
the  route  of  passage  for  the  migratory  this  conclusion  from  some  cases  that 
birds  of  Northeastern  America,  and  be-  seem  to  him  to  be  authenticated,  and 
comes  the  winter  abiding  place  of  many  from  certain  inferences  of  his  own  re- 
of  them.  Mr.  J.  A.  Allen  has  written  specting  a  few  other  birds.  One  in- 
a  comprehensive  paper  on  the  winter  stance  is  that  of  the  red-backed  shrike, 
birds  of  East  Florida,  based  on  the  said  by  Andersson  (Birds  of  Damara 
observations  of  Messrs.  Maynard  and  Land)  and  others  to  nest  in  South  Af- 
Boardman  as  well  as  his  own,  the  re-  rica  in  our  winter.  Mr.  Harting  also 
searches  of  the  three  being,  he  thinks,  mentions  two  species  of  sand  martin, 
equivalent  to  the  labors  of  a  single  in-  One  of  them,  the  ordinary  representa- 
dividual  constantly  in  the  field  for  at  tive  of  the  English  sand  martin  (our 
least  four  or  five  winters.  But  Mr.  bank  swallow)  in  India  and  the  coun- 
Allen's  record  shows  no  winter  nesting  tries  eastward,  is  vouched  for  by  Mr. 
of  these  birds.  Audubon,  who  spent  Edward  BJyth,  a  field  naturalist  of  much 
so  many  years  in  extensive  journeyings  experience,  and  for  more  than  twenty 
over  our  continent,  sometimes  with  the  years  curator  of  the  Asiatic  Society's 
special  design  to  trace  the  migrations  Museum  in  Calcutta.  "  The  only  birds 
of  birds,  could  not  have  failed  to  note  a  known  to  me,"  writes  Mr.  Blyth,  "  that 
circumstance  so  interesting  as  the  nest-  breed  in  their  winter  quarters  are  two 
ing  in  a  Southern  State  of  the  winter  species  of  sand  martin.  In  India  I  have 
migrants  there.  The  specimens  of  nests,  been  familiar  enough  with  birds  in  their 
eggs,  or  skins  of  young  birds  of  migra-  winter  quarters,  and  have  no  hesitation 
tory  species  contained  in  our  large  in  asserting  that  migratory  species  (with 
museums  of  natural  history  have  not  the  remarkable  exceptions  named)  do 
been  obtained  from  their  winter  re-  not  even  pair  until  they  have  returned 
treats.  Brehm  (Bird  -  Life)  states  his  to  their  summer  haunts.  Were  they  to 
opinion  very  positively  in  regard  to  this  :  do  so,  I  could  not  but  have  repeatedly 
"  Not  a  single  migratory  bird  makes  a  noticed  the  fact,  and  must  needs  have 
new  home ;  not  one  builds  a  nest  or  seen  very  many  of  their  nests  and 
breeds  in  a  foreign  land  ; "  and  Seebohm  young.  .  .  .  That  our  British  sand  mar- 
(Siberia  in  Europe)  says,  "  We  may  lay  tin  breeds  in  Egypt  during  the  winter 
it  down  as  a  law,  to  which  there  is  months,"  continues  Mr.  Blyth,  "  is  no- 
probably  no  exception,  that  every  bird  ticed  in  the  Proceedings  of  the  Zoo- 
breeds  in  the  coldest  regions  of  its  mi-  logical  Society  for  1863  (page  288)." 
grations.  .  .  .  The  well  -  authenticated  This  case  I  find  to  be  on  the  authority 
stories  of  birds  breeding  a  second  time  of  Canon  Tristram,  whose  language  is, 
in  the  place  of  their  winter  migration  "  I  found  it  breeding  in  Egypt  in  Feb- 


1884.] 


A  Literary  Curiosity. 


407 


ruary."  Now  Mr.  J.  H.  Gurney,  Jr., 
in  bis  Rambles  of  a  Naturalist,  says  of 
this  bird,  "  Tbe  first  of  the  spring  mi- 
grants. On  the  21st  of  February  they 
appeared  [in  Egypt]  in  large  flocks. 
...  On  the  6th  of  March  they  had  com- 
menced nesting  operations  at  Siout." 
Some  persons,  no  doubt,  would  regard 
this  nesting  which  Canon  Tristram  ob- 
served in  February,  as  a  proof  not  of 
the  bird's  nesting  in  its  winter  quarters, 
but  of  an  exceptionally  early  arrival. 
These  are  the  only  cases  that  I  under- 
stand Mr.  Harting  to  mention  as  authen- 
ticated. 

To  return  to  the  turtle  dove.  We  find 
no  evidence  of  its  being  an  exception  to 
the  general  rule  that  migratory  birds 
do  not  nest  in  the  places  of  their  win- 
ter resort.  Captain  Shelley  (Birds  of 
Egypt)  remarks,  "This  turtle  dove  is 
abundant  throughout  Egypt  and  Nubia 
in  the  spring.  It  frequently  breeds  in 
the  country.  I  first  met  with  it  on  the 
20th  of  April  at  Edfoo  [four  hundred 
miles  or  more  from  the  coast],  when  it 
had  evidently  just  arrived."  Dresser 
(Birds  of  Europe)  informs  us  that  it 
winters  in  Africa ;  that  it  is  a  summer 
visitant  in  Northwest  Africa  ;  that  vast 
numbers  arrive  at  the  African  side  of 
the  Straits  of  Gibraltar,  to  cross  in  flocks 
during  April  and  May ;  that  in  Sep- 
tember and  October  this  bird  returns 
there,  to  retire  south  for  the  winter  ; 
that  it  has  been  met  with  as  far  south  as 
ten  degrees  north  latitude ;  also  that 
it  visits  Northeast  Africa  regularly  in 
the  spring  and  autumn.  Mr.  Gurney, 
who  first  saw  it  in  Egypt,  April  2d, 
observed  that  the  tide  of  birds  pressed 
through  Egypt  northward  in  April  ; 
that  by  the  last  of  the  month  the  main 
troop  had  passed  ;  and  that  when  these 
and  a  few  stragglers  had  disappeared 
he  "  saw  no  more  birds  except  the  res- 
idents and  a  few  turtle  doves,  rufous 
warblers,  etc.,  which  had  found  their 
journey's  end  sooner  than  the  main  body, 
and  were  already  commencing  the  duties 


of  incubation,  not  to  migrate  any  more 
until  the  returning  wave  in  autumn 
should  impel  them  south  again."  From 
these  notes  it  appears  that  the  bird  mi- 
grates through  Egypt  as  well  as  North- 
west Africa,  both  north  and  south,  and 
that  at  the  time  of  the  spring  migration 
some  remain  to  nest,  as  birds  of  this 
and  of  other  species  do  at  various  places 
on  their  routes  of  passage  ;  and  Captain 
Shelley's  account  affords  no  proof  that 
the  bird  nests  in  its  winter  quarters, 
but  strongly  implies  the  contrary.  But 
while  a  few  do  not  leave  Egypt,  the 
most  of  them  pass  northward,  vast 
numbers  staying  in  Palestine,  where, 
as  Canon  Tristram  says,  suitable  food 
being  extremely  plentiful,  they  are  more 
abundant  than  in  any  other  country 
that  they  inhabit.  According  to  Dres- 
ser, however,  they  do  not  remain  there 
through  the  winter,  and  on  this  point  the 
testimony  of  Canon  Tristram  is  most 
explicit.  Speaking  of  its  use  for  sac- 
rificial offerings,  he  says,  "  The  turtle 
dove  is  a  migrant,  and  can  only  be  ob- 
tained from  spring  to  autumn  ;  "  and 
again,  "  Its  return  in  spring  is  one  of 
the  most  marked  epochs  in  the  ornitho- 
logical calendar.  .  .  .  Search  the  glades 
and  valleys  even  by  sultry  Jordan,  at 
the  end  of  March,  and  not  a  turtle  dove 
is  to  be  seen.  Return  in  the  second 
week  in  April,  and  clouds  of  doves  are 
feeding  on  the  clovers  of  the  plain. 
.  .  .  So  universal,  so  simultaneous,  so 
conspicuous,  their  migration  that  the 
prophet  might  well  place  the  turtle  dove 
at  the  head  of  those  birds  which  '  observe 
the  time  of  their  coming.' :  It  is  evi- 
dent, then,  that  it  does  not  winter  even 
in  the  southern  part  of  Syria. 

In  his  important  paper  on  the  migra- 
tion of  birds,  August  Weissmann  speaks 
of  it  as  a  well-known  fact  that  the  mi- 
gratory birds  that  cross  the  Mediter- 
ranean make  the  transit  only  at  cer- 
tain fixed  points,  naming  four,  the  first 
of  which  from  the  west  is  the  Straits  of 
Gibraltar.  It  is  easy  to  see  that  the 


408 


A  Literary  Curiosity. 


[September, 


natural  crossing  place  of  the  birds  that 
migrate  from  Africa  to  Great  Britain 
is  the  Straits  of  Gibraltar  ;  also  that  the 
birds  that  cross  at  the  more  eastern 
points  would  naturally  reach,  not  Eng- 
land, but  the  continent  of  Europe,  Syria, 
and  Asia  Minor.  Harting's  Our  Sum- 
mer Migrants  includes  about  fifty  birds, 
and  in  Colonel  Irby's  Ornithology  of 
the  Straits  of  Gibraltar  we  find  nearly 
every  one  of  them  noted  as  a  bird  of 
passage  at  that  point.  So  there  seems 
to  be  no  probability  that  the  turtle  dove 
ever  comes  to  England  from  Syria. 

The  phrase  "  mated  to  another  spouse  " 
suggests  a  question  which  naturalists  an- 
swer with  great  caution,  although  it  pre- 
sents no  difficulty  to  this  writer.  Dres- 
ser, giving  the  characteristics  of  the  ge- 
nus Turtur  (turtle  doves),  says,  "  They 
are  strictly  monogamous,  and  are  said  to 
pair  for  life."  According  to  various  or- 
nithological writers,  the  same  is  believed 
to  be  true  of  rock  doves  (including  tame 
pigeons,  all  the  varieties  of  which  are 
thought  to  have  sprung  from  this  spe- 
cies) ;  and  Canon  Tristram  remarks  that 
"  from  its  fidelity  to  its  mate  and  its 
habit  of  pairing  for  life,  among  other 
reasons,  the  dove  was  selected  as  a  sym- 
bol of  purity  and  an  appropriate  offer- 
ing by  the  ancient  heathens  as  well  as 
the  Jews."  We  must  therefore  inevi- 
tably conclude  that  the  turtle  dove  does 
not  rear  a  brood  three  months  before 
its  arrival  in  England,  for  it  is  then  in 
its  winter  quarters,  and  it  does  not  nest 
in  its  winter  quarters  ;  that  it  does  not 
winter  in  Syria,  but  migrates  into  Syria 
in  the  spring,  and  nests  there  afterwards  ; 
that  it  does  not  come  to  England  from 
Syria;  also  that  it  probably  pairs  for 
life :  and  that  therefore  the  assertion, 
as  quoted  above,  is  erroneous  and  mis- 
leading in  every  particular. 

The  author  thus  expresses  himself 
(page  442)  on  the  migration  of  the 
swallow  :  "  In  swallow  life,  again,  there 
is  one  episode  above  all  the  rest  in- 
stinct with  significance,  —  the  mustering 


of  these  little  sun-worshipers  for  the 
great  autumnal  pilgrimage.  No  one  see- 
ing them  even  once  could  fail  to  under- 
stand the  meaning  of  this  gathering  of 
the  feathered  clans.  .  .  .  Nor  can  there 
be  more  than  one  explanation  of  those 
sudden  impulses  to  launch  out  into  the 
deep-sea  air,  often  checked  as  soon  as 
they  arise,  but  as  often  tempting  the  lit- 
tle travelers  to  take  just  one,  and  then 
another,  and  then  a  third  preliminary 
sweep  round  the  sky.  Yet  Thomson, 
after  watching  them  diligently,  came  to 
the  conclusion  that  they  were  gathered 
'  for  play,'  and  were  having  one  last 
good  game  together  '  ere  to  their  wintry 
slumbers  they  retired ! '  It  is  true  he 
gives  them  the  choice  of 

4  clinging  in  clusters 
Beneath  the  mouldering  bark,  or  where, 
Unpierced  by  frost,  the  cavern  sweats,' 

or  of  being  '  conveyed  into  warmer 
climes  ; '  but  it  is  almost  incomprehen- 
sible that  he  should  have  even  given 
them  a  choice." 

This  opinion  that  only  one  explana- 
tion of  these  swallow  gatherings  is  pos- 
sible, and  that  for  this  only  one  observa- 
tion is  necessary,  also  the  reproach  of 
Thomson  (spoken  of  elsewhere  as  so 
often  absurd,  and  in  similar  terms)  for 
any  doubt  he  may  have  had,  show  our 
critic's  usual  discrimination. 

In  the  time  of  Thomson  and  much 
later,  the  common  interpretation  of  the 
disappearance  of  swallows  was  that 
they  hibernated.  Dr.  Johnson  remarked 
to  Boswell,  "  Swallows  certainly  sleep 
all  winter.  A  number  of  them  conglob- 
ulate  together,  by  flying  round  and 
round,  and  then  all  in  a  heap  throw 
themselves  under  water,  and  lie  in  the 
bed  of  a  river."  More  than  this,  one 
of  the  greatest  scientists  of  any  age, 
Linnaeus,  who  was  a  contemporary  of 
Thomson,  evidently  considered  the  then 
prevalent  theory  as  established ;  for  in 
his  Systema  Naturaa,  published  a  few 
years  after  Thomson's  Autumn,  he 
names  certain  species  of  swallow  that 


1884.] 


A  Literary  Curiosity. 


409 


"  demerge  "'  at  the  approach  of  winter 
and  with  the  return  of  spring  "  emerge." 
This,  however,  was  not  the  only  ex- 
planation possible.  Thomson  had  an- 
other, which  seemed  to  him  more  rea- 
sonable, —  that  of  migration,  as  is  shown 
by  the  very  passage  referred  to  :  — 

"  Or  rather  into  warmer  climes  conveyed, 
With  other  kindred  birds  of  season,  there 
They  twitter  cheerful,  till  the  vernal  months 
Invite  them  welcome  back." 

The  theory  of  migration,  to  be  sure,  did 
not  originate  with  the  poet.  Ray,  the 
great  English  naturalist  of  the  previous 
century,  had  not  long  before  discussed 
the  question  whether  swallows  did  not 
migrate  to  the  moon  ;  concluding,  how- 
ever, that  they  did  not.  But  the  lines 
of  Thomson,  quoted  above,  are  without 
doubt  among  the  earliest  expressions 
from  any  British  poet,  philosopher,  or 
naturalist  so  decidedly  in  favor  of  the 
rational  theory  of  the  migration  of  swal- 
lows, and  as  such  are  a  striking  monu- 
ment to  the  poet's  advanced  views  on 
the  subject.  The  correspondence  of 
Gilbert  White  shows  not  only  his  own 
but  the  doubts  of  other  prominent  nat- 
uralists of  the  last  century  on  this  ques- 
tion. Letters  of  Mr.  White,  written 
forty  years  after  Thomson's  poem,  con- 
tain many  passages  like  this  (which  re- 
ferred to  a  late  brood  of  house  martins, 
a  species  of  swallow)  :  "  Or  rather,  is 
it  not  more  probable  [than  that  they 
migrate]  that  the  next  church,  ruin, 
chalk  cliff,  steep  covert,  or  perhaps  sand- 
bank, lake,  or  pool  (as  a  more  northern 
naturalist  would  say),  may  become  their 
hibernaculum,  and  afford  them  a  ready 
and  obvious  retreat  ?  "  Mr.  White  even 
wrote  some  verses  on  the  torpidity  of 
swallows  in  winter,  drawing  from  their 
revival  in  spring  a  lesson  on  the  resur- 
rection, which  Jesse,  in  his  Gleanings 
in  Natural  History,  has  given  from  the 
unpublished  manuscript  of  Mr.  White. 
Cuvier,  in  his  Animal  Kingdom,  pub- 
lished nearly  a  hundred  years  after 
Thomson's  Autumn,  thus  writes  of  the 


bank  swallow  :  "  It  appears  to  be  un- 
questionable (constant)  that  it  becomes 
torpid  in  the  winter,  and  passes  that  sea- 
son at  the  bottom  of  marshy  waters." 
Even  now  the  subject  of  hibernation  is 
not  beyond  the  pale  of  literature  or  of 
controversy.  One  of  the  most  distin- 
guished ornithologists  of  the  present 
day,  Dr.  Coues,  gives  several  pages  of 
his  Birds  of  the  Colorado  Valley  (1878) 
to  the  question,  "  Do  swallows  hiber- 
nate ? '  In  the  course  of  this  discus- 
sion, he  says  that  he  supposes  our  chim- 
ney swifts  hibernate  in  hollow  trees, 
and  that  he  could  give  reasons  for  the 
supposition ;  also  that  the  "  most  wary 
or  the  most  timid  student  may  be  as- 
sured that  he  will  find  himself  in  per- 
fectly respectable  company,  whichever 
side  of  the  fence  he  may  fall  on." 

I  have  avoided  direct  reference  to  our 
author's  faults  of  style,  since  my  pur- 
pose has  been  to  inquire  into  the  truth 
of  his  theory ;  but  perhaps  attention 
ought  to  be  directed  to  his  strange  use  of 
words,  which  often  renders  it  impossible 
to  see  that  his  expressions  have  any  sig- 
nificance. What  does  the  word  "  pleiad  " 
mean  in  his  phrase  "  the  pleiad  of  the 
doves  "  ?  There  is  no  group  of  seven 
to  which  the  writer  can  have  referred. 
The  stormy  petrel  takes  its  name  "  pe- 
trel "  or  "  peterel "  (little  Peter)  from 
its  appearing  to  run  on  the  top  of  the 
waves.  In  what  sense  is  this  "  name  it- 
self a  tragedy  "  ?  "  The  bittern's  very 
name  is  poetry."  Bittern  is  thought  to 
be  a  corruption  of  Botaurus  (the  scien- 
tific name  of  the  genus),  from  bos  and 
taurus.  The  author  of  British  Birds  in 
their  Haunts  gives  a  different  etymol- 
ogy. "  It  is,"  he  says,  "  called  Botau- 
rus  because  it  imitates  boatum  tauri, 
the  bellowing  of  a  bull," — a  truly  poet- 
ical name.  Not  to  multiply  these  ex- 
amples, I  will  give  but  one  more,  the 
striking  passage  with  which  our  critic 
concludes  his  strictures  as  to  the  poets' 
treatment  of  the  nightingale :  "  Yet 
with  all  their  compliments,  the  poets, 


410 


A  Literary  Curiosity. 


[September, 


so  it  seems  to  me,  do  not  satisfy  even 
the  poetical  requirements  of  the  actual 
facts,  nor  in  any  measure  exhaust  the 
poetry  of  the  natural  bird.  .  .  .  Nor 
are  the  unnatural  merits  imagined  by 
the  poets  —  that  it  scorns  to  mix  its  song 
with  that  of  other  birds,  and  that  it 
alone  of  all  songsters  undertakes  the 
task  of  gladdening  the  gloomy  hours  of 
night  —  so  poetical  as  the  real  circum- 
stances, the  modesty  that  makes  the 
1  sweet  queen  of  song '  merge  her  sur- 
passing melody  into  the  general  choir 
of  nature  during  the  hours  of  daylight, 
the  dignity  of  self-respect  that  leads  it 
to  reserve  yet  one  anthem  more  in  glad 
thankfulness  for  night.  Milton,  Keats, 
and  Shelley  are  able  to  grasp  in  its  full 
compass  the  exquisite  significance  of 
the  parable  of  the  nightingale,  and  of 
night  with  this  her  solemn  bird  ;  but  it 
eludes  most." 

A  goodly  array  of  words,  but  what 
does  it  all  mean  ?  An  appeal  is  made 
from  the  poets'  false  fancies  to  the  "  ac- 
tual facts,"  the  "  real  circumstances." 
But  no  one  for  a  moment  imagines  that 
it  is  "  modesty,"  or  a  real  desire  that 
its  song,  by  being  "  merged  into  the  gen- 
eral choir,"  may  be  disregarded,  that 
prompts  the  nightingale  to  sing  by  day ; 
or  that  it  is  from  a  sense  of  its  own 
"  dignity  "  and  "  self-respect ':  that  it 
sings  at  night.  Moreover,  what  is  the 
propriety  in  saying  that  the  bird  "  re- 
serves yet  one  anthem  more  "  for  night, 
when,  as  is  well  known,  it  sings  at  in- 
tervals throughout  the  night?  What 
does  the  word  "  parable '"  signify  here  ? 
We  have  had  occasion  to  speak  of  this 
writer's  comments  on  Milton  and  the 
nightingale  ;  Keats  and  Shelley  are  free- 
ly criticised  and  misquoted  by  him,  and 
the  "  glaring  errors  "  of  the  latter  are 
recounted  with  the  same  zeal  that  he  has 
shown  in  regard  to  other  poets  ;  and  again 
we  ask,  What  is  this  parable,  the  exqui- 
site significance  of  which,  in  its  full  com- 
pass, these  three  poets,  in  distinction 
from  others,  have  not  failed  to  grasp  ? 


The  value  of  the  author's  notes  and 
criticisms  can  be  estimated  from  the  pre- 
ceding. 

In  the  second  part  of  the  volume  we 
have  a  Synopsis  of  the  Poets'  Refer- 
ences to  Birds,  Arranged  Alphabetically 
according  to  Species.  If  these  refer- 
ences are  really  arranged  according  to 
any  system,  the  basis  of  it  is  quite  be- 
yond our  comprehension.  Quotations 
on  the  albatross  are  found,  not  among 
the  A's,  where  we  naturally  look  for 
them,  but  among  the  S's,  under  the  head 
of  Sea-Fowl,  which  is  not  a  specific  but 
a  general  term,  including  hundreds  of 
species.  The  canary  bird  and  the  par- 
rot are  classed  together  "  alphabetically  ' 
in  the  "  species  "  of  Cage  Birds.  A  quo- 
tation on  chats  and  linnets  is  found  un- 
der the  head  of  Water- Wagtail.  Of  the 
six  extracts  in  this  division,  only  two 
refer  to  the  wagtail ;  the  other  four,  to 
birds  belonging  to  at  least  six  species 
and  three  families,  none  of  them,  how- 
ever, to  the  same  family,  even,  as  the 
wagtail. 

But,  what  is  of  far  more  impor- 
tance, this  collection  is  in  no  sense  what 
it  professes  to  be,  —  a  synopsis  of  the 
poets'  references  to  birds.  The  Amer- 
ican poets,  who  manifest  "  such  an  en- 
gaging pitifulness  >:  and  "  Buddhistic 
kindness  "  to  "  things  in  fur  and  feath- 
ers," are  represented  by  two  lines  from 
Longfellow.  Assuming  what  we  are 
nowhere  told,  that  the  author's  design 
was  to  include  only  British  poetry,  we 
are  led  to  inquire  why  we  find  nothing 
from  Edwin  Arnold,  whom  the  com- 
piler of  these  extracts  calls  the  "  latest 
evangelist "  of  this  "  tender  gospel  of 
sympathy  ;  "  or  from  Tennyson  or  Mor- 
ris, who  (with  one  or  two  earlier  poets, 
not  named)  are  designated  as  "  con- 
spicuous exceptions "  to  the  "  systema- 
tized lack  of  sympathy  with  the  natural 
world  "  "  betrayed  "  in  the  *'  whole  range 
of  British  poetry ; ':'  or  from  dozens  of 
British  poets,  who,  by  the  general  char- 
acter of  their  poetry,  or  by  one  or  more 


1884.] 


A  Literary   Curiosity. 


411 


notable  poems,  have  shown  their  inter- 
est in  birds.  Complaint  is  urged  re- 
peatedly, respecting  the  poets'  failures 
in  this  or  that  particular,  when  the  fail- 
ure has  been  simply  on  the  part  of  the 
caviler  to  mention  poems  and  extracts. 

The  author  quotes  from  Marmion  "  the 
snowy  ptarmigan,"  having  previously 
told  us  that  in  "  all  the  rest  of  the  poets  ' 
there  is  nothing  more  on  this  bird,  al- 
though its  attachment  to  the  north,  its 
love  of  the  cold,  and  its  striking  change 
of  plumage  are  themes  most  appropriate 
for  poetry.  It  is  certainly  a  curious  cir- 
cumstance that  one  conversant  with  the 
whole  range  of  British  poetry  should 
have  overlooked  not  only  Scott's  refer- 
ences to  the  bird  with  one  exception, 
but  those  of  other  Scotch  poets.  Hogg 
designates  it  as  the  "inmate  of  the 
cloud."  Moir  gives  many  vivid  pictures 
of  the  ptarmigan  as  a  "  wintry  bird," 
bringing  to  the  mind  visions  of  "  naked, 
treeless  shores,"  where  "  far  north  the 
daylight  dies,"  and  as  a  frequenter  of 
the  "  herbless  peak,"  a  "  habitant  'twixt 
earth  and  sky  ;  "  also  of  its  "  cloud-em- 
battled nest,"  asking,  — 

"  Where  did  first  the  light  of  day 

See  thee  bursting  from  thy  shell  ? 
Was  it  where  Ben-Nevis  grey 

Towers  aloft  o'er  flood  and  fell? 
Or  where  down  upon  the  storm 

Plaided  shepherds  gaze  in  wonder, 
Round  thy  rocky  sides,  Cairngorm, 

Rolling  with  its  clouds  and  thunder? 
Or,  with  summit,  heaven  directed, 

Where  Ben-Voirlich  views,  in  pride, 
All  his  skyey  groves  reflected 

In  Loch  Ketturin's  tide  ?  " 

English  poets  have  written  of  "  ptarmi- 
gans, too,  from  the  regions  of  snow  ;  " 
the  "  close-feathered  "  leg  and  foot,  the 

"  summer  vest 
Of  brown  with  lighter  tints  arranged," 

and  the  autumn  colors  of  "  mottled 
gray"  before  the  bird 


ct 


assumes 
The  whiteness  of  his  winter  plumes," 

have  not  been  forgotten. 

Again,   the   writer  remarks,  "  Or  as 
expressing  the  quiet  gloom  of  the  wood- 


land in  the  moth-time,  what  more  strik- 
ing than  the  word  '  night- jar '?  Yet 
only  once  (in  Gilbert  White,  a  natural- 
ist) do  we  find  it,  finely  supplementing 
the  worn  -  out  old  owl."  This  bird  is 
known  by  several  names  ;  that  of  Gil- 
bert White,  in  the  passage  cited  by  our 
author,  being  not  night-jar,  but  churn- 
owl.  Wordsworth,  who  employs  still  an- 
other name  for  it,  has  several  times  em- 
phasized the  "  soft  darkness  '  and  the 
"  silence  deeper  far  than  deepest  noon  ' 
of  the  twilight  or  evening  hour  by  men- 
tioning the  "  busy  dor-hawk,"  which 
"  chases  the  white  moth  with  burring 
note."  The  author  of  The  British 
Months,  in  his  description  of  the  night- 
jar's habits,  speaks  of  its  "  issuing  forth 
in  evening  gloom,"  to 

"  chase  in  airy  ring 
The  night-moth's  soft  and  downy  wing." 

I  recall  other  poems  on  this  "  nocturnal 

haunter  of  the  homeless  sky,"  whose 

•"voice  unto  me  seems 
Coming  o'er  the  evening  meadows, 
From  a  dark  brown  land  of  shadows, 
Like  a  pleasant  voice  of  dreams." 

It  is  more  than  once  implied  in  regard 
to  sea-mews  that  they  have  received 
no  special  attention  from  the  poets,  but 
are  only  "  thrown  in  as  adjuncts  of  sea 
scenery."  The  poems  on  this  bird  by 
Mrs.  Browning  and  Jean  Ingelow  (not 
to  mention  others)  cannot  be  unfamiliar 
to  most  readers  of  English  poetry. 

This  synopsis  fails  more  in  respect 
to  what  is  contained  in  it  than  in  what 
is  omitted.  The  extracts  are  often  too 
brief  to  give  any  idea  of  the  poets'  treat- 
ment of  the  birds  ;  yet  very  frequently 
the  references  are  so  inaccurate,  both  as 
to  poems  and  authors,  that  they  would 
not  be  of  service  to  any  one  desiring 
to  investigate  for  himself.  I  will  point 
out  some  of  the  ways  in  which  this  in- 
accuracy is  shown. 

Quotations  are  ascribed  to  the  wrong 
authors.     For  example,  the  line 
"Over  his  own  sweet  voice  the  stock  dove  broods," 
from  one  of  Wordsworth's  best  known 
poems,  is  credited   (page  173)  to  Gra- 


412 


A  Literary  Curiosity. 


[September, 


hame ;  stanzas  from  William  Howitt's 
familiar  poem,  The  Departure  of  the 
Swallow  (page  445),  to  W.  Smith  ;  and 
an  extract  from  Keats's  Epistle  to 
Charles  Cowden-Clarke  (page  451),  to 
Shelley.  Not  only  so,  but  the  same 
passage  is  sometimes  attributed  to  more 
than  oue  author. 

Again,  translations  are  assigned  to  the 
translators  as  original  poems,  to  whom 
is  also  imputed  the  motive  which  prompt- 
ed the  writing  of  them.  A  poem  on  the 
swallow,  by  a  Greek  poet,  Evenus,  is 
(page  450)  ascribed  to  Cowper,  the  lat- 
ter being  one  of  numerous  translators 
of  it ;  but  elsewhere  the  writer,  speak- 
ing of  the  swallow,  says,  "  Cowper  sees 
it  catch  a  locust,  and  remonstrates  with 
it,"  and  cites  ii^  illustration  a  stanza 
from  this  poem.  This  must  be  the  first 
time  since  literature  has  had  a  history 
that  a  poet  has  been  made  responsible 
for  the  conception  of  a  poem,  written 
as  the  result  of  his  personal  experience, 
more  than  two  thousand  years  before 
he  was  born.  On  page  449  is  another 
poem  of  which  Cowper,  who  translated 
it,  is  here  made  the  author.  A  line 
of  this  poem  becomes  (page  441)  the 
text  of  another  equally  forcible  criti- 
cism :  "  Cowper  even  pretends  that  there 
is  not  tradition  enough  [about  the  swal- 
low], and  concocts  a  fiction  for  himself, 
—  that  it  sleeps  on  the  wing  !  It  is  bad 
enough  that  he  did  not  purge  himself  of 
that  same  heresy  with  regard  to  the  bird 
of  paradise  ;  but  that  he  should  extend 
it  with  a  high  hand  to  the  swallow  is 
intolerable."  What  the  author  of  the 
poem  intended  to  say  we  are  not  now 
considering,  but  for  this  poet's  inten- 
tion Cowper  is  not  accountable  ;  further- 
more, as  to  the  bird  of  paradise,  it  is  not 
mentioned  in  Cowper's  poems,  and  we 
have  no  means  of  knowing  what  he 
thought  about  it. 

However,  errors  respecting  the  au- 
thorship of  poems  do  not  affect  their  in- 
trinsic merit.  Poetry  is  poetry,  whoever 
writes  it ;  and  there  still  remain,  it  may 


be  thought,  the  quotations   themselves, 
making  a  compilation  of  the  poets'  own 
expressions  about  birds,  which  must  of 
necessity  be  invaluable.    Unfortunately, 
this  is  not  so.     Not  even  the  poetry  is 
left  to  us.     An    extract   is   frequently 
transposed,  so   that  lines  which   belong 
at  the  beginning  of  it  come  in  the  mid- 
dle or  at  the  close.     Very  often,  by  the 
substitution  of  one  word  for  another,  or 
by  the  omission  or  insertion  of  words, 
phrases,  or  of  one  or  more  lines,  a  pas- 
sage is  transformed,  with  utter  disregard 
to  rhyme,  metre,  syntax,  or  sense ;  and 
to  this  end  the  printers  seem  to  have 
ingeniously  and  cordially  conspired,  al- 
though I  am  by  no  means  disposed  to 
include  among  typographical  errors  all 
that  might  at  first  appear  to  be  such.     I 
will  give  a  few  examples  of  the  curious 
manner  in  which  British  poets  are  per- 
sistently travestied  in  that  part  of  this 
volume  in  which  it  is  claimed  that  they 
speak  for  themselves.     Take  quotation 
(44),  page  318:  — 

"Through  the  sleek  passage  of  her  open  throat 
A  clear  unwrinkled  song:  then  doth  she  point  it 

by  short  diminutions, 

That  from  so  small  a  channel  should  be  raised 
The  torrent  of  a  voice,  whose  melody 
Could  melt  into  such  sweet  variety. 

Crashaw :  Music  Duel." 

The  metre  of  Crashaw's  Music's  Duel 
(not  Music  Duel,  as  given  above)  is  the 
rhymed  iambic  with  five  accents ;  and 
the  slightly  prosaic  second  line  of  the 
quotation  is  made  to  do  duty  for  five  lines 
of  the  poem  according  to  its  author. 

In  the  last  line  of  the  second  quota- 
tion on  page  451,  "  afar  "  takes  the  place 
of  '"  a  fay,"  and  Keats  is  thus  made  to 
say  that  the  swan's  own 

"feet  did  show 

Beneath  the  waves  like  Afric's  ebony, 
And  on  his  back  afar  reclined  voluptuously.'* 

"  Male  '  has  been  substituted  for 
"  mute  "  in  the  extract  from  Wordsworth 
on  page  452  :  — 

"As  the  male  swan  that  floats  adown  the  stream, 
Or  on  the  waters  of  the  unruffled  lake 
Anchors  her  placid  beauty." 


1884.] 


Recent  Fiction. 


413 


On  page  470  occurs  the  following  :  — 

"As  vultures  o'er  a  camp  with  hovering  flight 
Snuff  up  the  future  carriage  of  the  light, 
While  thousand  phantoms  from  th"  unbury'd 

slain 
Who  feed  the  vultures  of  Emathia's  plain. 

Gay:  Trivia." 

The  second  line  of  the  above  should 
finish  the  sentence  in  which  it  stands, 
and  read  thus  :  — 

"  Snuff  up  the  future  carnage  of  the  fight" 

The*  two  lines  that  follow  do  not  be- 
long to  this  poem. 

Thomson  has  a  delightful  picture  of 
the  redbreast  in  winter,  commencing 
with  these  lines  :  — 

"  One  alone, 

The  redbreast,  sacred  to  the  household  gods, 
Wisely  regardful  of  the  embroiling  sky, 
In  joyless  fields  and  thorny  thickets  leaves 
His  shivering  mates,  and  pays  to  trusted  man 
His  annual  visit." 

On  page  33  of  his  notes  our  author 
gives  this  description,  adding  that  "  the 
fidelity  to  nature  in  this  well-known  quo- 
tation invests  the  passage  with  a  rare 
charm."  If  the  passage  as  he  misquotes 
it  has  a  "  rare  charm,"  it  cannot  be  on 
account  of  its  fidelity  to  nature,  since 
the  poet's  expression  "  the  embroiling 
sky  "  has  been  replaced  by  "  the  broil- 


ing sun,"  a  term  suggestive  of  American 
summer  days  rather  than  of  those  of  an 
English  winter. 

Our  author  thinks  that  a  "  serious  in- 
duction is  only  justified  by  a  sufficient 
collocation  of  instances."  Without  ex- 
amining a  tenth  of  the  extracts  with  ref- 
erence to  errors  like  those  last  men- 
tioned, I  have  found  many  more  than  a 
hundred,  —  sufficient,  it  would  seem,  to 
justify  a  serious  induction  as  to  this 
writer's  sense  of  what  is  due  (even  in 
the  simple  matter  of  quoting  poetry)  to 
himself  as  an  author,  to  the  poets  whom 
he  professes  to  quote,  and  to  the  public. 

A  hint  of  the  spirit  by  which  he  was 
actuated  in  the  preparation  of  this  vol- 
ume seems  to  be  afforded  by  another  of 
his  avowals  in  the  article,  already  alluded 
to  :  "  It  has,  then,  been  recently  added 
to  my  other  afflictions  that  I  should 
have  to  go  rooting  about,  like  a  truffle- 
hunting  poodle,  in  a  great  number  of 
volumes  of  American  verse  for  certain 
quotations  that  I  needed."  This  is  the 
kind  of  study  that  has  been  given  to  a 
subject  at  once  so  broad  and  so  impor- 
tant from  its  relations  to  nature,  to 
science,  and  to  literature. 


BE  CENT  FICTION. 


WE  should  have  been  obliged  to  Mr. 
Bellamy  if  he  had  not  added  to  the  title 
of  his  new  story l  the  words  A  Romance 
of  Immortality.  Before  one  begins  the 
book  the  announcement  is  a  little  un- 
pleasant ;  after  one  has  read  it  one  is 
apt  to  regard  it  as  fraudulent.  In  giv- 
ing an  account  of  a  book  which  misses 
—  and  the  miss  is  as  good  as  a  mile  — 
of  being  a  great  book,  we  are  sufficient- 
ly irritated  by  the  trick  which  the  au- 

1  Miss  Ludingtori's  Sister.  A  Romance  of  Im- 
mortality. By  EDWARD  BELLAMY.  Boston: 
James  R.  Osgood  &  Co.  1884. 


thor  has  played  on  us  to  tell  his  secret 
beforehand  to  those  who  may  chance  to 
read  this  notice  before  they  read  the 
book  itself. 

Miss  Ida  Ludington,  at  the  opening 
of  the  story,  is  a  gentlewoman  living  in 
a  New  England  village.  At  the  age  of 
twenty  she  was  stricken  with  a  disease 
which  robbed  her  of  her  beauty,  sudden- 
ly aged  her,  and  threw  her  into  a  hope- 
less state  of  regret  over  her  lost  youth. 
She  has  withdrawn  herself  from  the 
companionship  of  a  society  in  which  she 
was  once  a  central  figure,  and  now 


414 


Recent  Fiction. 


[September, 


Jives  chiefly  in  the  memory  of  an  irre- 
coverable past.  The  death  of  her  father 
leaves  her  almost  without  kin,  but  with 
sufficient  means  to  consult  only  her  own 
whims.  The  accession  to  a  large  prop- 
erty shortly  after  confirms  her  in  a  de- 
cision which  has  long  filled  her  imagina- 
tion. She  removes  from  a  village  which 
is  rapidly  succumbing  to  the  inrush  of 
modern  improvements,  and  takes  up  her 
residence  on  Long  Island ;  but  she  car- 
ries with  her  exact  measurements  of  the 
village  of  her  youth,  and  pleases  herself 
with  a  complete  reconstruction  upon  her 
new  estate.  Not  only  does  she  rebuild 
her  own  house  in  fac-simile,  but  she  re- 
produces the  village  street,  the  other 
houses,  the  meeting-house,  and  the 
school-house. 

In  this  ghostly  village  she  makes  her 
home,  and  so  far  as  is  possible  recon- 
structs in  imagination  her  shattered  girl- 
hood. She  has  had  a  miniature  which 
represents  her  before  the  decay  of  her 
beauty  painted  life-size  and  hung  in 
the  chief  place  in  her  house.  At  this 
point  she  receives  into  her  home  an 
orphan  child,  the  legacy  of  a  remote 
cousin.  The  boy  at  once  stretches  out 
his  hands  to  the  beautiful  lady  hanging 
in  the  picture-frame,  and  thus  wins  the 
love  of  the  lonely  woman.  He  grows 
up  in  her  society,  hears  her  talk  of  her 
lost  youth,  and  every  year  becomes  more 
devoted  in  his  romantic  attachment  to 
the  girl  in  the  frame.  At  last  he  gradu- 
ates from  college,  but  before  returning 
to  his  home  he  writes  to  Miss  Luding- 
ton  a  philosophical  letter,  in  which  he 
discloses  the  faith  which  has  taken  pos- 
session of  him.  He  believes  in  immor- 
tality, but  in  an  immortality  of  persons 
who  go  to  make  up  an  individual.  Lis- 
ten to  him :  — 

"  The  individual,  in  its  career  of  sev- 
enty years,  has  not  one  body,  but  many, 
each  wholly  new.  It  is  a  commonplace 
of  physiology  that  there  is  not  a  particle 
in  the  body  to-day  that  was  in  it  a  few 
years  ago.  Shall  we  say  that  none  of 


these  bodies  has  a  soul  except  the  last, 
merely  because  the  last  decays  more 
suddenly  than  the  others  ?  .  .  .  Either 
there  is  no  immortality  for  us  which  is 
intelligible  or  satisfying,  or  childhood, 
youth,  manhood,  age,  and  all  the  other 
persons  who  make  up  an  individual  live 
forever,  and  oife  day  will  meet  and  be 
together  in  God's  eternal  present ;  and 
when  the  several  souls  of  an  individual 
are  in  harmony,  no  doubt  he  will* per- 
fect their  felicity  by  joining  them  with 
a  tie  that  shall  be  incomparably  more 
tender  and  intimate  than  any  earthy 
union  ever  dreamed  of,  constituting  a 
life,  one  yet  manifold,  —  a  harp  of 
many  strings,  not  struck  successively  as 
here  on  earth,  but  blending  in  rich  ac- 
cord." 

The  practical  outcome  of  this  philos- 
ophy is  that  the  Ida  Ludington  of  the 
portrait  died  during  the  sickness  of  her 
forlorn  successor,  and  now  lives  in  the 
spiritual  life,  and  will  hereafter  be 
known  as  other  souls  are  known.  The 
faith  in  this  investiture  of  immortality 
forbids  Paul  De  Riemer  to  transfer  his 
devotion  to  any  other  woman.  This  is 
his  love  ;  this  shall  remain  his  love  un- 
til he  meets  her  after  his  own  death,  — 
which,  by  the  way,  does  not  seem  con- 
nected in  his  mind  with  that  fragmentary 
personality  bestowed  by  him  on  his  love. 
It  is  an  undivided  Paul  who  is  betrothed 
to  her.  The  confidence  with  which  he 
broaches  this  doctrine  carries  away  Miss 
Ludington,  and  she  becomes  a  joyful 
convert  to  the  same  belief.  Some  day 
she  shall  see  this  beauteous  creature. 
Meanwhile  she  is  consoled  for  her  own 
fading  life,  puts  off  her  cheerlessness  of 
dress  and  behavior,  and  looks  upon  the 
world  with  new  delight. 

It  chances  that,  when  shopping  in 
Brooklyn,  Miss  Ludington  falls  in  with 
an  old  schoolmate,  whom  she  has  not 
seen  since  her  girlhood.  She  persuades 
the  woman  to  return  with  her  to  her 
home,  and  enjoys  the  amazement  with 
\vhich  Mrs.  Slater  discovers  the  village 


1884.] 


Recent  Fiction. 


415 


which  belonged  so  entirely  to  her  past. 
The  conversation  naturally  turns  upon 
this  new  faith  of  Miss  Ludington  and 
Paul,  and  Mrs.  Slater,  who  has  had  some 
half-believing  dealings  with  mediums, 
su£T2;ests,  half  in  earnest  and  half  in  rail- 

OO  ' 

lery,  that  if  their  doctrine  be  correct 
they  may  be  able  to  see  the  materialized 
spirit  of  the  portrait  girl.  She  mentions 
a  friend  who  has  had  successful  encoun- 
ters with  a  very  remarkable  medium. 
Paul  seizes  upon  the  notion.  He  is  in- 
fatuated with  his  love,  and  will  run  any 
risk,  if  by  chance  he  may  realize  her  to 
himself. 

Mrs.  Slater  disappears  from  the  scene 
the  next  day,  but  in  course  of  time 
sends  the  address  of  the  medium,  and 
Paul,  whose  resolution  has  not  faltered, 
although  Miss  Ludington's  has,  prompt- 
ly follows  the  clue.  The  two  arrange  for 
a  seance  with  Mrs.  Legrand,  who,  with 
her  agent,  Dr.  Hull*  has  been  exceed- 
ingly interested  in  the  problem;  and 
sure  enough,  the  conditions  are  favora- 
ble, and  Miss  Ludington  and  Paul  do 
receive  a  material  revelation  of  the  por- 
trait Ida.  The  medium,  however,  is  ex- 
hausted by  the  singular  manifestation  of 
her  power  and  all  that  is  involved  in  it, 
and  it  is  some  time  before  she  is  able  to 
repeat  the  seance.  Paul,  meanwhile,  af- 
ter the  glimpse  he  has  had,  is  in  an  agony 
of  pleasure.  His  mind  dwells  upon  the 
great  problem,  and  the  question  occurs 
to  him,  Since  the  materialization  of  the 
spirit  is  dependent  upon  the  vitality  of 
the  medium,  what  would  be  the  result 
if,  under  the  intense  strain,  the  medium 
should  actually  die  after  the  spirit  had 
been  materialized  ?  Since  the  will  of 
the  medium  called  up  the  spirit  and  sent 
it  back  into  the  spirit  world,  what  if  the 
medium  should  have  no  power  to  remit 
the  spirit? 

The  question  is  answered  by  the  fact. 
The  medium  does  break  down  under  the 
strain  ;  and  while  the  others  are  horror- 
stricken  about  the  couch  of  the  woman, 
Paul  sees,  with  a  tremor,  that  the  beau- 


tiful Ida  hovers  distractedly  about,  be- 
wildered and  overpowered  by  the  loss 
of  some  will,  or  rather  by  the  faithful 
presence  of  a  body.  Miss  Ludington 
and  Paul  take  her  with  them  to  their 
home,  and  there  she  is  shown  her  own 
portrait,  but,  more  than  that,  discovers 
with  delight  the  familiar  scenes  of  her 
earthly  life.  She  is  at  home,  though 
still  in  a  maze ;  but  the  two,  profoundly 
stirred  by  this  realization  of  their  belief, 
indoctrinate  her  with  it,  and  life  begins 
for  her  anew  in  subtle  joy. 

Miss  Ludington  shows  her  old  books 
and  toys,  and  they  dwell  together  upon 
the  former  life,  details  of  which  come 
readily  to  the  mind  of  the  girl.  Paul, 
meanwhile,  is  in  a  state  of  torture.  His 
love  has  matured  through  years  of  con- 
secration, but  what  response  is  there 
from  her  ?  None  at  all,  apparently. 
Why  should  there  be  ?  He  is  a  stranger 
to  her.  The  secret,  however,  is  soon 
told,  and  the  girl  accepts  the  lover  with 
a  simple  straightforwardness.  But  now 
certain  practical  difficulties  arise.  Who 
is  this  maiden  ?  What  name  has  she, 
—  what  right  and  title  before  the  law  ? 
The  questions  propound  themselves 
when  Miss  Ludington  is  moved  to  make 
some  provision  for  her,  in  case  of  her 
own  death  ;  they  occur  very  forcibly 
when  the  material  interests  of  marriage 
are  considered.  The  difficulty  of  rela- 
tionship in  the  intercourse  of  the  two 
women  is  set  aside  for  the  present  by 
regarding  the  girl  as  Miss  Ludington's 
sister ;  but  the  girl  herself  shrinks  pain- 
fully from  a  determination  of  the  sev- 
eral questions.  Indeed,  the  approach  of 
marriage  causes  her  to  manifest  a  most 
painful  sadness,  and  her  lover  surprises 
her  one  day  in  uncontrollable  grief.  He 
seeks  to  comfort  her,  and  is  himself  smit- 
ten with  a  profound  sense  of  the  impos- 
sibility of  turning  the  relation  which  he 
has  held  to  her  into  an  earthly  one.  Who 
is  he,  that  he  should  dare  to  wed  this 
soul  come  back  from  heaven  !  He  rises 
into  a  state  of  self-renunciation ;  he  re- 


416                                            Recent  Fiction.  [September, 

veals  the  thought  of  his  heart,  and  the  lity  when  we  admit  that  we  kept  along 

girl's  grief  is  checked.     She  is  mute,  and  with  the  author  up  to  the  moment  of  the 

then,  as  if  quieted  by  his  resolve,  leaves  denoument  in  an  unsuspicious  frame  of 

him.  mind.     Of   course   we   did  not  believe 

She  leaves  him  and  Miss  Ludington  in   the   actual     materialization    of    the 

in  good  truth,  for  that  night  she  disap-  spirit,  any  more  than  we  accepted  the 

pears.     Possibly,  in  our  hurried  precis,  doctrine  of  momentary  immortality,  or, 

we  have  prepared  the  reader  for  the  in-  farther  back,  were  misled  into  believing 

evitable  note  on  the  dressing-table,  which  that  any  woman  could  have  reproduced 

discloses   the  art  by  which   these  two  a  ghostly  village  on  Long  Island,  within 

dreamers  have  been  beguiled.     The  girl  driving  distance  of  Brooklyn,  and  with- 

come  down  from  heaven  was  the  daugh-  in    calling  distance  of  the  reporters  of 

ter  of  Mrs.  Slater.     Dr.  Hull  was  her  the  Brooklyn  Union.     What  we  mean 

father,  Mrs.  Legrand  her  aunt.     Mrs.  is  that,  accepting  the   author   as  a  ro- 

Slater,  accidentally  thrown  in  with  Miss  mancer,  we  delivered  ourselves  up  to  him, 

Ludington,  devised  the  plot,  and  the  four  and  found  every  step  a  continuation  of 

perfected  it.     Everything  worked  well  the  last.     The  whole  story  as  far  as  the 

up  to  the  point  we  have  reached  in  our  revelation  is  consistent,  and  even  carries 

narrative,  but  now  the  girl's  better  na-  one  over  the  thin  ice  of  a  spiritualistic 

ture  supplied  the  mine  which  exploded  seance.     Nay,  more,  the  conception  is  in 

the  whole  scheme.     She  was  by  nature  a  high  degree  original,  and  is  wrought 

gifted  with  theatrical  power,  and  she  had  with   extraordinary  skill.     The    author 

been  carefully  trained  in  the  piece  by  himself  seems  to  believe  in  his  imagina- 

her  mother,  who  provided  her  with  the  tion.     The  whole  tone  of  the  narrative 

necessary  facts  in  Miss  Ludington's  ear-  is  exquisite  in  its  purity  and  gentle  mel- 

ly  life.     Mrs.  Legrand  did  not  die  ;  the  ancholy.     Dr.  Heidenhoff  s  Process  had 

girl  had  come  down  out  of  a  trap-door,  prepared  us  for  good  work,  but  we  kept 

The  whole  thing  was  a  trick  played  upon  saying  to  ourselves,  This  is  more  than  in- 

two   credulous  people.     But  when    the  genious, — it  is  beautiful ;  it  is  more  than 

girl   entered   their  home   and  received  fancy,  —  it  is  a  piece  of  fine  tJhough  ex- 

their  lavish  love,  and  when,  more  than  travagant  imagination.     The  quaintness 

that,  her  own  heart  went  out  to  Paul,  of  the  conceit   disappeared   before  the 

deception  was  no  longer  possible.     Her  pathos  of  the  situation.     The  unreality 

grief   had  arisen  from  this  cause ;   her  of    scene   and   persons   was   forgotten, 

heart   was   breaking ;    but    when    Paul  The  light  which   never  was  on  sea  or 

placed  her,  an  arrant  cheat,  above  his  land  was   sufficient    to   give   color   and 

reach,  her  nature  could  no  longer  with-  warmth  and  the  breath  of  life  to   this 

stand  the  appeal  of  her  conscience,  and  still   village    and   its   inhabitants.     Not 

she  fled.  a  false  note  seems  to  have  been  struck. 

The  end  is  quickly  told.     Paul  dis-  If  Mr.  Bellamy  had  carried  out  the  ro- 

covers    that    he    loves    the    flesh    and  inance   in  the   same  scheme,  he  would 

blood  which  his  imagination  has  invest-  have  produced    an  original  and  lasting 

ed  with  a  heavenly  nature.    Her  repent-  piece  of  art. 

ance  draws  him  still  closer  to  her.    Now  He  has  not  done  this.    He  has  chosen 

he  can  have  her,  and  he  seeks  her  until  to  throw  away  a  great  opportunity.    He 

he  finds  her.     Miss  Ludington  and  Paul  has  begun  a  statue  in  marble,  and  left  it 

wake  from  their  dream  to  a  more  satis-  upon  legs  of  clay.     There  is  no  excuse 

factory  reality.  for  this  wanton  misuse  of  high  power. 

We  are  perfectly  ready  to  expose  our-  Hawthorne    never    would    have    been 

selves  to  the  charge  of  fatuous  credu-  guilty  of  such  an  outrage,  and  yet  in  the 


1884.] 


Recent  Fiction. 


417 


earlier  part  of  the  story  Mr.  Bellamy 
comes  nearer  to  Hawthorne  than  any 
writer  whom  we  have.  Indeed,  the 
more  we  look  at  the  matter,  the  more 
our  indignation  gives  way  to  a  pity  and 
the  sense  of  personal  loss.  We  thought 
we  were  in  the  hands  of  a  magician,  and 
we  find  he  was  only  a  juggler.  In  these 
days  when  realism  holds  us  in  its  chains, 
we  look  for  an  escape  ;  we  ask  for  some 
strong  spiritual  imagination,  and  when 
we  think  we  are  in  the  shadow  of  its 
wings  we  suddenly  drop  upon  a  very 
disillusionized  earth.  In  truth,  we  can 
almost  fancy  Mr.  Bellamy  himself  shar- 
ing  our  disappointment.  Does  he  not 
look  with  some  dismay  upon  the  wreck 
of  his  imagination  ?  Did  he  foresee  the 
end  from  the  beginning,  or  was  he  be- 
trayed  into  a  trap  and  obliged  to  get  out 
by  sleight  of  hand  ?  Does  he  really  think 
that  the  ethical  change  in  Ida  Slater 

O 

compensates  for  the  loss  of  a  beautiful 
piece  of  art  ? 

If  any  one  wishes  contrasts  in  his 
novel-reading,  let  him  lay  down  Miss 
Ludington's  Sister  and  take  up  The 
Crime  of  Henry  Vane.1  Here  he  will 
find  himself  untroubled  by  any  glimpses 
of  immortality,  whether  real  or  imagi- 
nary,  but  hemmed  about  by  a  most  mer- 
ciless  world,  the  exit  from  which  is  by 
the  narrow  gate  of  suicide.  Henry 
Vane,  upon  whom  a  jury  of  his  friends 
sit  in  the  first  chapter  of  the  book,  is  as 
complete  a  representative  of  the  world 
with  no  nonsense  about  it  as  Paul  De 
Riemer  is  not.  He  is  introduced  to 
the  reader  as  "sitting  on  the  perron  of 
a  small  summer-house  in  Brittany,  pok- 
ing  the  pebbles  in  the  driveway  with  his 
cane."  He  has  just  been  refused  by  the 
young  Englishwoman  to  whom  he  had 
offered  himself  in  marriage.  The  author, 
having  started  his  hero  with  a  supposed 
misfortune,  proceeds  to  rob  him  of  his 
sister,  who  dies;  of  his  trust  in  his  fa- 

The  Crime  of  Henri/  Vane.  A  Study  with  a 
Moral.  By  J.  S.  OF  DALE.  New  York:  Charles 
Scribner's  Sons.  1834. 


ther,  who  has  speculated  and  lost  his  prop- 
erty  ;  then  of  his  father,  who  dies  ;  and 
of  his  mother,  who  goes  insane.  A  doz- 
en  pages  or  so  suffice  for  these  incidents, 
and  Mr.  Vane  is  now  stripped  and  ready 
for  the  fray.  He  is  just  twenty-one,  and 
very  completely  his  own  master.  With 
the  coolness  and  iron  will  which  belongs 
to  heroes  of  that  masterly  age,  he  re- 
turns  to  America,  devotes  himself  for 
three  years  to  the  necessary  struggle 
with  fortune,  and  emerges,  still  cool,  but 
rich  and  with  his  hand  on  the  lever 
which  makes  the  engine  go.  Another 
dozen  pages.  He  is  now  ready  for  the 
great  battle  of  life,  his  antagonist  being 
a  young  lady,  introduced  to  the  reader 
as  Miss  Baby  Thomas.  Why  baby,  the 
reader  is  never  told.  Nothing  in  the 
description  of  the  young  lady,  who  ap- 
pears  to  be  full  grown  in  all  the  arts  of 
feminine  warfare,  answers  to  the  name. 

* 

Perhaps  there  was  a  subtle  suggestion 
in  the  pitting  of  a  baby  against  the  iron- 
bound  hero.  The  author,  however,  does 
not  intend  the  reader  to  remember  the 
name  ;  once  only,  afterward,  does  it  oc- 
cur,  we  think.  Miss  Thomas  now  leads 
the  hero  a  dance  through  the  rest  of  the 
book.  The  incidents  are  not  varied. 
They  belong  to  the  conventional  life  of 
young  men  and  women  in  New  York. 
A  walk  up  Fifth  Avenue  is  taken,  or  it 
is  not  taken.  A  steamboat  ride  up  the 
Hudson,  with  a  picnic  and  a  sudden 
shower  ;  a  handkerchief  ;  a  german  ;  a 
few  weeks  at  a  semi-fashionable  country 
resort,  —  these  supply  the  scenery  of  the 
story.  Mr.  Vane  goes  suddenly  to  Eu- 
rope.  He  puts  an  ocean  between  him- 
self  and  Miss  Thomas,  partly  to  find  out 
his  own  mind.  He  spends  great  inge- 
nuity  in  trying  to  find  out  Miss  Thorn- 
as's  mind.  He  works  assiduously  at  his 
own.  He  is  never  quite  sure  if  she  is 
flirting  ;  he  is  not  quite  sure  if  he  is 
himself  in  earnest.  It  is  a  ballet,  in 

which  the  motions  constantly  suggest  a 

....  ,  Mt»nn 

collision  and  a  narrow  escape. 

while,  the  author,  without  saying  a  word 


VOL.  LIV.  —  NO.  323. 


27 


418 


Recent  Fiction. 


[September, 


in  his  own  person,  appeals  to  the  reader 
like  a  dumb  chorus,  beseeching  him  in 
pantomime  to  observe  what   a  terrible 
encounter  this  is.     The  short,  sharp  sen- 
tences, the  semi-oaths  which  escape  the 
hedge  of  the  teeth,  the  whole  air  of  the 
book,  announce  a  tragedy.     The  lady  is 
beautiful,  she  is  winning ;  she  does  not 
appear  to  the  reader  very  wicked,  but 
he  feels  all  the  while  that  if  the  chorus 
could  only  speak  it  would  burst  out  in  a 
torrent  of  words  to  show  how  unutter- 
ably cruel  the  girl  is.     The  man,  with 
his  hesitations,  with  his  cowardice,  with 
his  playing  with  love,  is  the  victim  of 
one  of  the  deepest-laid  plots  ever  de- 
vised by  serpentine   woman.     So   the 
chorus,  in  its  dumb  anguish,  manages  to 
hint.     Finally,  the  girl  marries  another 
man,  who  has  been  seen  by  the  reader 
scuttling  round  the  corner  several  times. 
Then  Henry  Vane,  the  long  tried,  the 
much    enduring,    the    Job    who    never 
cursed  his  Maker,  because  he  did  not  be- 
lieve  he   had   one,  but  sat  down  in  a 
nineteenth-century    railroad   office    and 
conjured  all  his  flocks  and  herds  back 
again,  —  this  iron-clad  hero,  with  all  the 
coolness  of  a  man  who  has  looked  into 
the   volcano   of    this   world    and   seen 
that  there  was  nothing  in  it,  blows  his 
brains  out.     The  reader  is  expected  to 
join  the  jury  and  give  bis  verdict.     The 
author   apparently   withholds    his   own 
judgment.      What   was    Henry    Vane's 
crime  ?   he  asks  mysteriously  ;    did   he 
commit  it?     And   if  he  committed  it, 
was   he    justly    punished   by    himself  ? 
The  reader  may  fairly  answer,  The  facts 
are  not  all  in  ;  you  have  not  called  some 
of  the   principal    witnesses.     Mr.    Ten 
Eyck,  for  example,  could  have  told  an 
interesting  story.     Miss  Thomas  herself 
was  not  really  on  the  stand,  and  if,  as 
we  dimly  suspect,  the  author  is  under- 
taking to  hold  fickle  woman  responsible 
for  all  the  misery  in  the  world,  we  can 
only  reply  that  the  world  is  not  made 
up  of  young  men  and  women  of  about 
the  age   of   twenty-four,  and   that   the 


jury  which  sits  upon  character  is   not 
made  up  of  club-men. 

The  reader  of  Miss  Jewett's  A  Coun- 
try Doctor1   is  more  inclined  to   com- 
pare it  with  her  previous  stories  than 
with  other  people's  novels.    It  is  always 
interesting  to  see  how  a  writer  of  short 
stories  will   handle  a  novel,  and    Miss 
Jewett   has  made  for   herself  so  good 
a  place  by  her  earlier  books  that  ono 
feels  a  personal  interest  in  the  success 
of  her  first  long  flight.    We  believe  em- 
phatically in  the  wisdom  of  such  ven- 
tures.    An  artist  may  have  a  peculiar 
gift  for  miniature-painting,  but  he  will 
paint  miniatures  all  the  better  for  occa- 
sionally trying  his  hand  at  a  life-size 
picture.     It  may  be  said  that  A  Coun- 
try   Doctor   is   in   effect    an   extended 
short  story  ;    that  is,  more  room  is  al- 
lowed for  the   expansion  of  character, 
more  details  are  given  in  the  separate 
scenes,  a  longer  stretch  of  continuous 
time  is  covered,  but  the  theme  is  as  sim- 
ple and  the  real  action  as  brief  as  if 
the  author  had  undertaken  to  present  a 
study  of  life  within  the  compass  of  an 
ordinary    single -number   story.      Miss 
Jewett  has  an  excellent  subject  in  the 
life  of  a  young  girl  who  is  predestined 
to  the  career  of  a  country  doctor.     She 
has  blended  with  her  delineation  of  this 
life    a   delightful    sketch   of   a   typical 
country  doctor,  and  she  has  introduced 
other  characters,  drawn  chiefly  from  the 
class  with  which  she  has  already  shown 
herself  familiar.     She  has  not  set  her- 
self a  very  complex  problem.     The  res- 
olution to  study  medicine  is  taken  by 
a  girl  who  has  no  great  opposition  to 
brave.     Her  guardian  supports  her  in 
her  resolve,  her  own   nature  witnesses 
to  its  inevitableness,  and   the  world  is 
not  brought  in  to  object  until  the  re- 
solve has  made  good  headway  into  ac- 
tion.    The  task  which  Miss  Jewett  has 
thus  had  to  accomplish   has  been  the 
faithful  portrayal  of  a  character  ripen- 

i  A  Country  Doctor.    By  SARAH  ORNE  JEW- 
ETT.   Boston  :  Houghton,  Mifflin  &  Co.     1884. 


1884.] 


Recent  Fiction. 


419 


ing  under  favorable  conditions,  and  this 
task  exactly  fits  her  power.  In  saying 
this,  we  do  not  in  the  least  disparage 
her  work;  on  the  contrary,  we  assert 
for  her  a  high  quality  of  literary  skill. 
It  is  no  mean  thing  to  dispense  with 
strong  contrasts  and  to  make  much  of 
delicate  shades.  This  is  what  Miss 
Jewett  has  done.  She  has,  in  the  first 
place,  made  an  interesting  book.  Then 
she  has  made  a  wise  book.  One  is  struck 
by  the  serene  good  sense  which  charac- 
terizes the  defense  of  the  girl's  position. 
She  has  made,  finally,  a  graceful  book. 
It  is  much  to  be  in  company  with  such 
genuine  high  breeding,  such  unfailing 
courtesy.  There  are  touches,  moreover, 
of  something  higher ;  quiet  passages 
which  glow  with  a  still  beauty.  How 
charming,  for  example,  is  the  little  se- 
ries of  pictures  illustrating  Dr.  Leslie's 
successive  views  of  the  child  Nan  !  "  He 
always  liked  to  see  her  come  into  church 
on  Sundays,  her  steps  growing  quicker 
and  surer  as  her  good  grandmothers 
became  more  feeble.  The  doctor  was  a 
lonely  man,  in  spite  of  his  many  friends, 
and  he  found  himself  watching  for  the 
little  brown  face  that,  half-way  across 
the  old  meeting-house,  would  turn  round 
to  look  for  him  more  than  once  during 
the  service.  At  first  there  was  only  the 
top  of  little  Nan  Prince's  prim  best  bon- 
net or  hood  to  be  seen,  unless  it  was 
when  she  stood  up  in  prayer-time ;  but 
soon  the  bright  eyes  rose  like  stars 
above  the  horizon  of  the  pew  railing ; 
and  next  there  was  the  whole  well- 
poised  little  head,  and  the  tall  child 
was  possessed  by  a  sense  of  propriety, 
and  only  ventured  one  or  two  discreet 
glances  at  her  old  friend." 

The  development  of  Nan's  mind  is 
well  given.  We  question  only  if  the 
author  has  put  with  sufficient  incisive- 
ness  the  reactionary  period,  when  the 
girl  seems  to  have  forgotten  her  inten- 
tion, and  to  be  waiting  for  the  spirit  to 
move  her  again.  This  eddy  in  her  life 
is  true  to  nature,  but  we  doubt  a  little 


if  its  full  meaning  is  clearly  expressed ; 
for  the  reader  feels  a  little  surprise  when 
Nan  begins  all  over  again,  as  it  were. 
The  faint  struggle  in  her  nature  when 
love  is  offered  is  cleverly  given,  though 
one  is  aware  of  a  certain  timidity  in  the 
author  when  presenting  this  phase.  The 
lover  is  sketched  good-naturedly,  but  not 
with  very  strong  lines,  and  one  feels  that 
Nan's  slight  stirring  of  love  did  not  re- 
ceive a  very  strong  reinforcement  from 
the  nature  of  the  man  who  excited  it. 
The  whole  passage,  however,  is  in  tone 
with  the  rest  of  the  book. 

A  curious  comparison  might  be  insti- 
tuted between  this  book  and  Bjornson's 
The  Fisher  Maiden,  where  the  heroine, 
of  a  much  more  tumultuous  nature,  is 
likewise  possessed  of  a  passion  for  a 
profession  which  the  world  in  which 
she  lives  frowns  upon.  Bjornson  deals 
with  the  whole  matter  in  a  masculine 
manner,  Miss  Jewett  in  a  feminine. 
Nothing  very  strange  in  this,  to  be 
sure ;  but  while  Bjornson,  in  his  vigor- 
ous fashion,  forgets  his  story  for  a  while 
in  his  desire  to  preach  a  doctrine,  Miss 
Jewett  maintains  her  art  successfully  in 
the  animated  scene  of  the  tea-table  dis- 
cussion. We  speak  of  her  treatment  as 
feminine,  and  the  merit  of  it  is  that  the 
womanliness  of  the  work  is  of  a  thor- 
oughly healthy  sort.  Heaven  be  praised 
for  a  handling  of  the  theme  which  is 
absolutely  free  from  hysterics,  and  re- 
gards men  and  women  in  a  wholesome, 
honest  fashion!  The  very  seriousness 
with  which  the  author  regards  her  task 
is  a  sweet  and  fragrant  seriousness,  and 
one  is  unconsciously  drawn  into  think- 
ing and  speaking  of  Nan  Prince  with 
that  affectionate  interest  which  leads 
Miss  Jewett  to  lay  her  hand  on  the 
girl's  shoulder,  as  it  were,  all  through 
the  narrative. 

It  seems  that  we  never  shall  have 
done  with  contrasts.  A  Country  Doc- 
tor takes  one  into  the  regions  of  a  pure, 
honest  maidenhood,  and  one  is  refreshed 
by  contact  with  life  which  is  strong, 


420 


Recent  Fiction. 


[September, 


unsullied,  and  bent  on  high  enterprise. 
The  world  is  wide,  and  Nan  Prince*  is 
not  the  only  type  of  girlhood.  We  must 
worry  ourselves  to  the  end  over  Phcebes 
like  the  one  whose  troubled  career  is 
drawn  out  by  the  author  of  that  volcan- 
ic book  which  flamed  away  years  ago, 
Rutledge.1  Here  also  one  is  confronted 
at  the  outset  with  a  problem  of  life,  but 
of  a  different  sort.  He  finds  himself 
in  company  with  a  matron,  well  poised, 
of  ordered  life,  a  religious  nature  set 
in  smooth  circumstances,  when  she  gets 
sudden  tidings  that  her  only  boy,  at  his 
studies  in  another  town,  has  become  in- 
fatuated with  a  country  girl,  has  won 
her  heart,  lost  his  own  moral  balance, 
and  now  stands  condemned  by  con- 
science, but  still  in  a  position  to  escape 
punishment  at  the  hands  of  the  world 
in  which  he  lives.  We  have  looked  over 
the  shoulders  of  the  mother  who  reads 
the  letter  bringing  this  news,  and  we 
are  permitted  to  attend  her  midnight 
vigils  and  to  hear  her  conversation  with 
the  girl's  mother,  who  has  made  her  way 
to  the  house  of  the  man  who  has  done 
this  evil  thing.  The  narrative  of  this 
interview  is  powerfully  sketched.  It  is 
vivid,  true  to  nature,  and  thoroughly  dra- 
matic. One  is  prepared  by  it  for  any- 
thing in  the  further  treatment  of  the 
subject. 

The  question  is,  What  shall  be  done  ? 
The  mother  and  father  put  to  each  other 
this  formidable  riddle,  and  at  last  they 
decide  to  offer  the  boy  an  alternative 
choice  :  he  may  either  marry  Phoebe, 
bring  her  home  in  the  spring,  take  the 
gardener's  house  to  live  in,  and  receive 
two  thousand  dollars  a  year  from  his 
father  as  clerk  in  his  office  ;  or  he  must 
cut  off  all  his  connections  at  once  and 
take  ship  immediately  for  China,  there 
to  enter  a  mercantile  house  and  remain 
indefinitely.  The  mother,  whose  sense 
of  religious  honor  has  made  the  former 
alternative  the  only  possible  one  to  her 

1  Phce.be.     A  Novel.     By  the  Author  of  Rut- 
ledge.     Boston  :  Houghton,  Mifflin  &  Co.     1884. 


mind,  agrees  not  to  write,  or  in  any  way 
attempt  to  influence  the  son. 

Barry  Crittenden  elects  to  bring  his 
wife  home,  but  he  is  too  proud  to  vouch- 
safe a  word  as  to  his  own  feelings,  and  so 

O     ' 

the  ordeal  is  to  begin.     The  daughters 
of  the  family  know  nothing  more  than 
that  Barry  has  made  a  misalliance ;  the 
mother  endures  the  shameful  secret  in 
silence.    The  problem  which  thus  offers 
itself  is  the  adjustment  of  these  discor- 
dant family  elements.     This  certainly  is 
no  mean  theme,  for  it  involves  the  pres- 
entation of  the  girl,  of  whom  the  only 
hint  so  far   is    that   she   is    handsome, 
which    was   to   be  expected,    and   is    a 
high-school  graduate,  and  therefore,  we 
are  told,  likely  to  be  possessed  of  super- 
ficial culture  ;   it  involves  also  her  en- 
durance of  all  the  tests  which  the  situa- 
tion naturally  offers,  and  the  trial  of  the 
young  man's  temper.     All  the  signs  in 
the  early  part  of  the  book  point  to  this 
as  the  subject  of  the  story,  and  despite 
the  disagreeable  facts  which  lie  at  the 
basis  of  the  novel  the  reader  is  not  un- 
willing to  accompany  the  author  in  her 
development  of    so  interesting   a  plot. 
He  is  encouraged  to  believe  that   she 
takes  it  seriously,  by  some  of  the  inci- 
dents which  are  introduced.     By    this 
we  do  not  mean  that  the  reader  is  eager 
for  an  ethical  treatise,  but  that  he  recog- 
nizes the  knottiness  of  the  problem,  and 
feels   sure  that    an    author    capable    of 
writing  the  early  chapters  will  untie  the 
knot,  and  not  cut  it.     Here  is  an  oppor- 
tunity  for   character  to  be  busily  em- 
ployed, and  a  deus  ex  machina  is  not 
essential.     The   excellent    modeling   of 
Mrs.  Crittenden  prepares  the  reader  for 
an  equally  rounded  figure  in  the  case  of 
each  of  the  other  personages,  and  the 
individuality  of  the  several  dramatis  per- 
sonce  gives  a  fine  chance  for  a  play  of 
the  personal  forces. 

The  reader  is  encouraged,  we  say,  by 
the  appearance  of  incidents  which  give 
promise  of  a  thorough  development  of 
the  ethical  forces.  The  little  scene 


1884.] 


Recent  Fiction. 


421 


where  Phoebe  goes  to  the  Episcopal 
church  for  the  first  time  is  one  of  these 
scenes,  and  the  reader,  calmly  laying 
aside  his  prejudices  or  partialities,  is 
quite  ready  to  listen  to  the  influence 
which  this  sensation  is  to  have  upon  the 
heroine  and  her  character.  To  his  sur- 
prise, he  has  gone  down  a  blind  alley ; 
he  is  on  a  road  that  leads  no  whither. 
He  is  not  a  bit  farther  into  the  real 
story. 

It  is  all  very  well  to  hear  how  the  first 
meeting  between  the  various  persons 
comes  off.  The  quickness  of  the  heroine 
to  take  in  the  situation  and  rip  up  her 
countrified  gown  is  to  be  expected,  — 
any  novelist,  especially  if  a  woman, 
would  have  carried  us  safely  through  this 
phase ;  but  the  trouble  is  that  nearly 
all  the  movements  in  the  story  are  quite 
as  superficial  and  external.  We  say 
this  in  full  recollection  of  the  central 
point  of  the  story,  —  that  upon  which 
the  plot  hinges.  Here  we  have  a  num- 
ber of  carefully  considered  characters, 
each  capable  of  real  thought,  real  suf- 
fering, real  passion  ;  and  when  the  test 
supplied  by  the  author  is  presented, 
they  all  turn  into  automata.  The  most 
threadbare  of  incidents  is  used  for  the 
crisis.  The  heroine  finds  a  note,  in  her 
husband's  handwriting,  which  purports 
to  be  a  passionate  love-letter  to  his  old 
flame.  It  is  really  a  copy  of  a  part  in 
private  theatricals,  but  blinded  by  jeal- 
ousy she  snatches  her  child  up,  packs  her 
trunk,  and  flees.  Instead  of  finding  the 
story  which  the  book  seemed  to  prom- 
ise, one  is  treated  to  a  cheap  piece  of 
sensationalism ;  everybody  is  rendered 
miserable  for  the  rest  of  the  book,  and 
when  the  wreck  is  cleared  at  the  end 
very  few  valuables  are  saved.  It  is  a 
disappointment  indeed  to  the  reader  to 
find  himself  offered  a  stone,  when  his 
hostess  really  had  a  capital  loaf  in  her 
hand  all  the  time.  One  of  the  best 
touches  in  the  book  is  where  the  hero 
laughs  at  the  discovery  of  the  heroine's 
mistake.  The  reader  laughs,  too,  but 


for  all  that  he  has  not  been  invited  to  a 
comedy. 

We  scarcely  need  to  do  more  than 
remind  readers  of  The  Atlantic  that  they 
can  now  enjoy  A  Roman  Singer  1  over 
again  in  the  proportions  of  a  book  ;  but 
after  surveying  recent  fiction,  —  not  only 
the  books  which  we  have  here  noted, 
but  others  which  go  to  make  up  the 
great  account,  —  we  settle  down  to  the 
conviction  that  for  a  good,  honest  story, 
vigorously  told,  Mr.  Crawford's  is  the 
most  satisfactory  thing  we  have  had  in 
America  this  year.  Here  is  the  passion- 
ate, Romeo-like  lover,  the  northern  Ju- 
liet, the  obdurate  father,  the  hoary  vil- 
lain, the  castle  with  the  maiden  immured 
in  its  tower,  the  rescue,  the  marriage,  and 
the  unreconciled  father  —  all  the  stock, 
well-worn,  and  acceptable  properties  of 
the  novel  —  transmuted  into  a  story 
of  to-day,  and  presented  with  the  well- 
restrained  garrulousness  of  a  professor 
who  has  a  story  of  his  own,  which  he 
won't  tell.  What  more  could  one  ask? 
The  charm  of  it  is  that  while  it  might 
have  been  melodrama  it  is  not ;  that  the 
situations  are  not  impossible,  not  highly 
wrought,  yet  are  ingenious  and  follow  in 
swift  succession  ;  that  the  romantic  ele- 
ment, while  fervid,  is  not  blatant ;  and 
above  all,  that  the  love  which  is  the 
theme  of  the  book  is  honest  and  straight- 
forward. We  especially  like  the  form 
in  which  Mr.  Crawford  has  cast  the 
story.  By  putting  it  into  the  mouth  of 
Cornelio  Grandi,  he  allows  himself  to 
suffuse  the  whole  work  with  an  Italian 
air.  It  is  true,  he  now  and  then  forgets 
himself,  and  changes  from  the  slightly 
falsetto  tones  of  Grandi  to  his  natural 
voice,  when  he  is  very  much  in  earnest ; 
but  these  slips  are  not  obtrusive,  and 
one  comes  to  have  a  very  good  acquaint- 
ance with  the  old  fellow,  and  to  see  him 
on  his  way  back  to  Served  with  hearty 
good  will.  The  use  of  this  form  is  main- 
tained with  tolerable  consistency,  but 

i  A  Roman  Singer.     By  F.  MARION  CRAW- 
FORD.   Boston :     Houghton,  MifHiu  &  Co.   1884. 


422 


A  Bibliographical  Rarity. 


[September, 


we  have  learned  to  accept  carelessness 
in  it,  much  as  we  accept  good-naturedly 
the  absurdities  of  opera.  There  are  not 
many  instances  of  thorough  faithfulness 
in  carrying  out  the  conception  of  one 
man  telling  the  story,  who  is  not  the 
principal  character,  and  yet  tells  it  in 
the  first  person.  Mr.  James  achieved  a 
greater  feat  in  Roderick  Hudson,  where 
Rowland  Mallet  is  the  concealed  story- 
teller ;  he  crippled  himself  by  not  even 
taking  advantage  of  the  autobiographic 
form,  while  telling  nothing  which  does 
not  come  immediately  under  Mallet's 
cognizance.  Now  Mr.  Crawford  recol- 
lects himself  from  time  to  time,  and  ex- 
plains how  Grandi  comes  into  possession 
of  scenes  which  take  place  between  two 
other  characters,  and  sometimes  no  ex- 
planation is  necessary  ;  but  there  is  after 
all  a  good  deal  of  action  and  conversa- 
tion which  suppose  the  narrator  to  be 
merely  the  all-potent  author. 

We  are  disposed  to  grumble  a  little  at 
the  device  by  which  the  fiction  of  the 
Wandering  Jew  redivivus  in  the  person 
of  Beuoni  is  made  to  crumble  at  the  end. 
We  distrust  insane  people  in  novels. 


They  can  do  anything  they  want  to,  and 
their  lawlessness  is  their  destruction  as 
component  elements  of  a  piece  of  art. 
Why  could  not  Mr.  Crawford  have  al- 
lowed Benoni  to  end  as  mysteriously  as 
he  began  ?  At  least  a  hint  would  have 
been  better  than  so  matter  of  fact  an 
explanation.  Hawthorne  would  have 
teased  the  reader,  and  allowed  him  to 
take  sides  upon  the  question  whether 
Benoni  was  the  Wandering  Jew  or  not ; 
and  Hawthorne  would  have  been  right 
in  conserving  so  capital  a  figure.  For 
all  that,  Benoni  is  a  very  clever  study. 
He  is  like  one  of  those  photographs 
over  which  one  claps  a  hand  and  says, 
If  you  cover  up  the  mouth,  that  is  a 
capital  portrait  of  So  and  So  ;  of  the 
Wandering  Jew,  let  us  say,  in  this  case. 
One  of  the  brightest  scenes  in  the  book 
is  where  Benoni  nearly  drives  Nino  wild 
by  playing  incessantly  upon  one  string 
of  his  violin. 

It  may  be  said  of  this  book  —  and 
it  is  a  fine  thing  to  say  of  any  novel  — 
that  it  really  does  carry  one  away,  and 
when  one  comes  back  he  is  none  the 
worse  for  the  adventure. 


A  BIBLIOGRAPHICAL   RARITY. 


WHAT  profit  or  entertainment  there 
is  in  the  perusal  of  a  list  of  book  titles, 
however  learnedly  selected  and  elegant- 
ly printed,  may  not  be  altogether  plain 
to  the  uninitiated  ;  but  to  the  lover  of 
books,  not  so  much  for  their  own  sake 
as  for  their  history,  or  scarcity,  or  some 
other  purely  bibliographical  interest,  — 
in  other  words,  to  that  highly  organized 
being  who  experiences  the  sensation  that 
is  known  as  "  the  feel  of  a  library,"  — 
this  catalogue  of  the  first  books  issued 

1  Titles  of  the  First  Books  from  the  Earliest 
Presses  established  in  different  Cities,  Towns,  and 
Monasteries  in  Europe,  before  the  end  of  the  Fif- 
teenth Century,  with  Brief  Notes  upon  their  Print- 


from  the  first  presses  will  probably  af- 
ford a  refined  pleasure.1  It  is  true  that 
Mr.  Hawkins  has  introduced  these  titles 
with  a  short  preface  in  which  he  discusses 
once  more  the  long-debated  contest  of 
Holland  and  Germany  for  the  honor  of 
the  invention  of  printing ;  but  as  this  is 
nothing  more  than  a  very  learned  re- 
joinder by  a  partisan  on  the  side  of  Ger- 
many to  Mr.  Hessels'  recent  argument 
in  defense  of  the  claims  of  Holland,  and 
in  particular  as  it  does  not  add  anything 

ers.  Illustrated  with  Reproductions  of  Early  Types 
and  First  Engravings  of  the  Printing  Press.  By 
RUSH  C.  HAWKINS.  New  York:  J.  W.  Bouton. 
London:  B.  Quaritch.  1881. 


1884.]  A 

to  the  stock  of  evidence,  but  only  re- 
arranges in  a  very  lucid  and  convincing 
manner  the  old  facts,  we  need  not  be 
detained  by  its  musty  antiquity.  Prob- 
ably the  real  moral  character  of  that 
thievish  runaway  servant  of  Laurens 
Coster,  whose  flight  from  Holland  with 
the  secret  of  his  master's  invention  was 
first  remembered  a  century  and  a  half 
after  it  took  place,  will  never  be  known ; 
and  until  there  is  some  better  reason 
than  has  yet  been  brought  forward  to 
identify  him  with  Gutenberg,  or  in  fact 
to  believe  that  he  existed,  or  even  that 
his  master  experimented  with  matrixes 
at  all,  the  world  will  continue  to  ascribe 
the  most  powerful  element  in  modern 
civilization  to  the  obscure  Mentz  print- 
er, whose  legal  difficulties  in  the  course 
of  his  invention  were  miraculously  pre- 
served in  the  rotting  records  of  Stras- 
burg. 

Besides  this  discussion  of  the  old  ques- 
tion, the  origin  of  the  art,  Mr.  Haw- 
kins gives  nothing  in  this  beautiful  vol- 
ume except  the  titles  —  two  hundred 
and  thirty-six  in  number  —  of  the  first 
books  published  in  any  European  city  or 
town  before  the  year  1500,  with  some 
brief  comments  of  a  bibliographical  na- 
ture and  several  admirable  reproduc- 
tions from  pages  of  the  original  vol- 
umes interleaved  in  the  text. 

To  the  antiquarian  the  volume  has  a 
peculiar  flavor ;  and  since  it  affords  a 
bird's-eye  view,  as  it  were,  of  the  state 
of  knowledge  and  of  literature  in  Eu- 
rope at  the  beginning  of  a  new  age, 
the  scholar,  also,  who  is  interested  in 
the  successive  phases  of  civilization  will 
find  much  that  is  suggestive  in  these 
mere  names.  Naturally  the  first  books 
printed  in  any  community  were  either 
those  of  the  highest  repute  among  the 
learned,  or  of  the  greatest  popularity. 
The  Bible,  of  course,  —  the  great  Bib- 


Rarity. 


423 


lia  Sacra  Latinaof  1455,  —  in  two  large 
folio  volumes,  heads  the  list,  and  as  one 
turns    over  the   pages   devoted   to   the 
German    press   he  finds   that    theology 
practically  monopolized  attention.  Italy, 
on  the  other  hand,  the  heir  of  antiquity, 
began  her  printed  literature  character- 
istically with  Cicero  de  Oratore  (1465), 
which  the  little  town  of  Subiaco,  where 
the  German  printers  had   settled,  sent 
forth  ;  and   in  Rome   and  Venice,  too, 
Cicero  was  the  first   author  to  receive 
the   honor   of   print.     Throughout   the 
Italian  list  the  classics  occupy  the  same 
place  as  theology  in  the  German.     Bo- 
logna published  Ovid,  Parma  Plutarch, 
Fivizzano  and  Modena  Virgil,  Savona 
Boethius  ;  and  in  the  native  tongue,  to 
which  the  art  was  at  once  applied,  Pa- 
dua first  gave  its  citizens  Boccaccio,  Jesi 
Dante,  Polliano  Petrarch.     Similarly  in 
the  publications  of  every   country  one 
finds  the  national  characteristic.    One  of 
the  first  French  books  was  Le  Liure  des 
Bonnes  Meurs,  printed  at  Chablis,  and 
in  England  Caxton's  first- book  was  The 
Dictes  and   Sayinges  of    Philosophres. 
Before  the  end  of  the  century  that  saw 
the  earliest  leaflets  of  the  Gutenberg  press 
the  invention  had  spread  over  Europe ; 
the  Germans  carried  it  to  their  neigh- 
bors, and  the  Jews  took  it  from  them  and 
disseminated  it  to  the  borders  of  Spain 
and  Turkey.    One  cannot  obtain  an  idea 
of  the  course  of  this  movement  more 
directly  and  simply  than  by  the  aid  of 
this  volume,  by  far  the  most  complete 
of   its  kind ;   but   it  should    be    added 
that  the  utility  of  it  in  these  ways  as  a 
chart  of  the  times  depends  almost  whol- 
ly on    the  knowledge    that  the   reader 
brings  with  him.     Generally  speaking, 
it  is  merely  a  curious  and  well-annotated 
handbook  for   bibliographers,  who  will 
take  further  pleasure  in  the  beauty  of 
the  volume. 


424 


The   Contributors'   Club. 


[September, 


THE    CONTRIBUTORS'    CLUB. 


TOWARDS  the  close  of  one  after- 
noon, when  George  Fuller  was  tired, 
having  been  at  work  on  two  portraits 
all  day,  I  dropped  in,  and  we  had  a 
long,  rambling  talk  about  Millet,  Corot, 
Henner,  the  old  masters,  and  art  in 
general.  Fuller  was  in  a  genial,  talka- 
tive, twilight  mood,  arid  I  am  sorry  that 
I  can  remember  only  a  part  of  what 
he  said.  He  was  a  good  talker,  because 
he  was  so  much  in  earnest.  "  Portrait- 
painting,"  said  he,  "  is  a  downright 
grind,  and  if  it  were  not  so  interesting 
it  would  be  quite  too  hard  work.  My 
eyes  get  tired  looking,  and  my  legs 
walking  to  and  fro.  If  I  can  satisfy 
the  sitter's  family,  I  am  happy.  I  was 
very  shaky  about  the  hands  in  Mr. 

's  portrait,  and  worked  like  fury 

over  them.  If  he  knew  I  was  painting 
on  the  hands,  those  hands  would  grow 
perfectly  rigid ;  so  I  tried  to  fool  him, 
sometimes,  by  saying,  Now  I  am  going 
to  work  on  the  hair,  or  the  coat;  and 
then  he  would  forget  about  his  hands, 
so  I  got  a  chance  to  observe  them  when 
they  were  natural.  His  wife  pleased 
me  by  saying,  when  she  saw  the  por- 
trait, '  Those  are  his  hands,  sure  enough, 
and  nobody's  else.'  In  that  portrait  of 

Miss the  dress  bothered  me  more 

than  a  little.  I  repainted  it  I  don't 
know  how  many  times.  It  was  always 
too  prominent.  I  wanted  to  get  away 
from  it ;  I  wanted  to  get  something  be- 
tween it  and  me.  At  last,  when  the 
sitter  was  not  here,  I  simplified  it,  and 
got  it  to  suit  me  better." 

I  quote  these  remarks  to  show  how 
carefully  and  devotedly  he  worked  over 
every  part  of  a  portrait,  till  he  was  sat- 
isfied that  it  was  as  good  as  he  could 
make  it.  In  fact,  more  than  a  few  per- 
sons were  surprised  by  the  portraits  in 
the  Fuller  Memorial  Exhibition  :  they 
had  much  "  quality,"  and  the  best  were 


remarkable  for  a  warm  and  rich  har- 
mony of  color. 

Had  Fuller  been  educated  thoroughly 
in  his  art,  I  believe  he  would  have  left 
a  name  far  greater  than  any  of  modern 
times.  He  hated  his  materials,  because 
they  impeded  his  utterance.  Suppose 
him  to  have  had  them  under  almost  per- 
fect control,  like  Velasquez,  and  there 
is  no  saying  what  he,  with  his  exquisite 
ideals,  might  not  have  accomplished. 
Of  course  this  is  supposing  a  great  deal. 
As  it  is,  he  accomplished  surprising 
things  through  force  of  will  and  loving 
labor,  though  a  most  faulty  workman. 
He  never  had  what  is  called  facility  in 
the  slightest  degree.  Men  who  have 
it,  he  once  remarked,  seldom  have  any- 
thing important  to  say.  I  believe  he 
was  thinking  of  modern  men  when  he 
said  this,  for  he  knew  too  much  not  to 
admire  the  mechanical  superiority  of 
many  old  Dutch  and  Flemish  works, 
for  instance,  the  motives  of  which  could 
make  no  appeal  to  his  sympathies.  He 
regarded  tricks  of  technique  with  indiffer- 
ence, if  not  with  contempt.  One  of  his 
favorite  practices  was  to  scrape  his  pic- 
tures with  the  brush-handle.  He  wished 
by  this  means  to  permit  the  cool  grays 
of  the  under-painting  to  show  through 
and  temper  the  warm  flesh- tones ;  but  he 
finally  carried  the  practice  to  excess,  ap- 
plying it  apparently  without  discrimina- 
tion to  flesh,  draperies,  background,  etc. 
It  became  a  mannerism,  but  he  defend- 
ed it  by  saying  that  it  made  no  differ- 
ence which  end  of  the  brush  you  painted 
with  ;  a  remark  intended  to  cover  the 
whole  ground  of  the  practice  of  the  art, 
but  which  was  liable  to  be  misinter- 
preted. In  point  of  fact,  it  makes  no 
difference  in  the  world  which  end  of  the 
brush  you  use,  if  you  know  what  you 
want  to  do  and  how  to  do  it.  He  never 
learned  to  draw  well,  and  this  defect 


1884.] 


The   Contributors'   Club. 


425 


was  conspicuous  in  some  of  his  leading 
works,  whereas  in  others  it  was  either 
hidden  or  vanquished.  His  sense  of 
color,  always  fine,  grew  more  delicate 
and  more  refined,  so  that  some  of  his 
latest  pictures  are  the  best  in  this  regard. 
It  was  interesting  to  see  how  he  wres- 
tled with  a  picture,  now  gaining  and  now 
losing  ground,  but  never  giving  up  until 
he  got  what  he  wanted.  He  always 
knew  just  what  that  was.  It  was  not 
likely  to  be  appreciated  at  once  by  oth- 
ers, but  it  was  almost  always  beautiful 
in  a  certain  original  way,  —  sometimes 
exceedingly  beautiful;  and  its  beauty 
was  of  a  sort  that  grew  upon  you  and 
held  you.  Power  of  expression  was  the 
gift  that  made  Fuller  great.  With  all 
his  faults  he  knew  how  to  express  per- 
sonal character,  and  could  thus  create 
ideal  works,  destined  to  live.  As  he  was 
integer  vitce,  scelerisque  purus,  and  over- 
flowed with  the  milk  of  human  kindness, 
he  was  capable  of  feeling  the  moral 
beauty  that  dwells  in  maidens'  minds, 
and  his  youthful  Winifred  Dysart  stands 
for  all  that  is  amiable,  sweet,  and  true 
in  our  sisters. 

To  name  his  pictures  was  always  a 
vexatious  affair  for  him.  One  day  there 
were  several  of  us  in  the  studio  look- 
ing at  a  painting  which  was  almost  fin- 
ished. «  What  shall  I  call  it?  "  he  asked. 
Various  absurd  suggestions  were  made 
and  rejected:  Doubt,  Waiting,  Listening, 
Suspicion,  and  the  like.  The  picture 
was  afterwards  named  Priscilla  Faunt- 
leroy.  The  title  of  Winifred  Dysart 
created  an  untold  amount  of  mystifica- 
tion. It  was  a  pure  invention,  but  every 
one  thought  it  must  be  a  character  in 
fiction,  and  there  were  not  wanting  per- 
sons who  insisted  that  they  had  read 
about  such  a  person  "  somewhere."  I  do 
not  know  exactly  when  Arethusa  was 
named,  but  it  was  not  long  before  she 
was  put  on  exhibition  ;  for  many  visi- 
tors to  the  studio  had  seen  the  unfinished 
work,  during  the  two  or  three  years  it 
was  in  process  of  completion,  and  noth- 


ing was  said  about  a  name.  Fuller  had 
many  misgivings  about  this  picture,  and 
asked  me  if  in  my  judgment  it  would 
create  scandal  to  put  "  a  nude  "  on  pub- 
lic exhibition  in  Boston.  I  thought  not. 
He  remarked  that  a  certain  painting 
by  Benjamin  Constant,  lately  exhibited, 
was,  "  to  all  intents  and  purposes,"  a 
much  grosser  picture  than  his,  though 
not  a  nude.  This  was  true  enough. 
Every  one  who  knew  Fuller  was  aware 
of  his  unusual  scrupulousness ;  he  be- 
lieved in  art  as  a  didactic  and  ethical 
force  as  well  as  in  "  art  for  art's  sake." 
Beauty  was  to  be  loved  because  it  was 
beauty,  but  he  appreciated  the  fact  that 
moral  truth  constituted  the  highest  and 
most  enduring  form  of  beauty.  It  was 
this  instinct  which  inspired  the  Winifred 
Dysart,  of  which  the  unique  value  con- 
sists in  its  being  a  type.  No  artist  has 
better  expressed  the  purity  and  sweet- 
ness of  maidenhood  ;  and  what  clearer 
title  to  fame  could  any  one  desire  ?  We 
have  plenty  of  American  artists  who,  in 
spite  of  superior  educational  advantages, 
great  skill  and  facility,  with  all  their 
industry  and  ambition,  perhaps  even 
endowed  with  exceptional  taste,  do  not 
give  the  slightest  promise  of  greatness. 
What  was  it  that  Fuller  had  and  that 
they  lack  ?  Nothing  but  an  artist's  tem- 
perament. His  hand  was  not  as  ready 
as  the  thought. 

He  never  studied  abroad,  but  spent 
about  eight  months  in  the  year  1859 
traveling  in  Europe  and  seeing  the 
works  of  the  old  masters.  He  did  not 
believe  that  American  young  men 
should  seek  instruction  in  Paris.  He 
advised  them  to  stay  in  this  country. 
He  considered  that  the  time  was  almost 
ripe  for  the  foundation  of  a  national 
"  school "  of  art,  and  that  it  was  de- 
layed by  the  denationalization  of  so 
many  of  our  young  men.  "  They  never 
outgrow  the  foreign  habit  of  thought 
in  which  they  are  unconsciously  being 
trained  all  the  while  they  are  in  France," 
he  said.  In  his  view,  the  manual  train- 


426                                     The  Contributors'   Club.  [September, 

ing  they  received  at  the  same  time  was  cline  to  magnify  the  object  on  which  it 

not  so  perfect  in  its  way  as  to  atone  for  rests  ?     Almost  invariably  the  tyro  en- 

this  calamity.     Undoubtedly  the  artistic  larges  the  proportions  of  any  design  set 

gods  before  which  he  himself  first  wor-  him  to  copy. 

shiped  were  the  early  Americans,  —  All-  The  eye  of  a  child  and  the  eye  of  an 
ston,  Stuart,  and  Copley.  When  he  aged  person  differ  by  something  more 
roomed  with  Thomas  Ball,  the  sculptor,  than  the  degree  of  convexity  in  the  vis- 
in  Boston,  in  the  early  days,  all  the  ual  lenses  of  each,  by  something  more 
young  artists  looked  upon  Allston  as  the  than  the  sharp  sight  of  the  one  and  the 
bright  particular  star  in  the  American  dim  sight  of  the  other.  Something 
firmament.  Afterwards,  through  all  the  back  of  the  eye  plays  the  despot.  From 
palmy  days  of  the  Diisseldorf  school  and  childhood  the  proportions  of  objects 
of  the  French  school,  Fuller  brooded  in  gradually  but  surely  diminish  to  the  be- 
the  silence  of  his  home  over  those  gra-  holder  :  the  great  houses  of  our  early 
cious  fancies  of  his  which  were  later  to  admiration  dwindle,  as  by  a  reverse 
find  adequate  expression  on  canvas,  to  Arabian  Nights  charm  ;  the  once  frown- 
bring  him  a  measure  of  fame  he  hardly  ing  hills  at  length  abase  themselves,  and 
expected,  but  which  was  surely  no  more  become  mere  gentle  land-waves  ;  besides, 
than  his  due.  there  are  not  now,  as  formerly,  men  of 
— "  All  in  your  eye  "  is  a  common  such  notable  stature  as  we  once  knew, 
jocose  remark  which  has  more  literal  Experience  and  conversance  with  new 
truth  in  it  than  is  usually  intended,  the  magnitudes  and  magnificent  distances 
reference  generally  being  to  some  whim-  furnish  us  with  other  measuring  criteria, 
sicality  or  prejudice  in  the  mental  vision  sophisticate  the  simple  eye,  and  lend  it 
of  the  person  addressed.  The  physical  a  prudence  and  moderation  which  it  had 
eye  often  abuses  the  authority  it  enjoys  not  in  the  beginning.  "  It  is  all  in  your 
over  the  other  senses  ;  it  is  a  born  hy-  eye,"  cautions  age  ;  "  It  is  all  in  your 
perbolist,  a  kind  of  mercurial  Gulliver,  spectacles,"  thinks  youth, 
touching  now  at  Lilliput,  now  at  Brob-  —  Is  there  conceivable  any  greater 
dingnag,  and  returning  with  amusing,  contrast  of  manner  and  method  between 
though  sometimes  fallacious,  reports  of  two  literary  workmen  than  that  between 
what  it  has  seen  abroad.  How  can  I  Daudet  and  the  late  Anthony  Trollope  ? 
trust  implicitly  my  own  eyes'  witness,  There  is  something  very  droll  in  the 
when  I  take  into  account  the  prevarica-  picture  I  make  for  myself  of  the  two 
tions  practiced  by  the  optic  organs  of  men  sitting  face  to  face,  and  expound- 
other  people  ?  Let  the  testimony  of  dif-  ing  to  each  other  their  literary  theories 
ferent  sets  of  eyes  be  admitted,  it  would  and  individual  modes  of  working.  Im- 
almost  seem  that  no  sublunary  object  is  agine  the  inward  amazement  of  the 
possessed  of  absolute  and  constant  size  ;  painstaking  Daudet  if  he  could  have 
.or,  to  go  higher,  not  even  the  moon  listened  to  the  easy-going  Trollope,  as 
itself  appears  of  unvarying  magnitude,  the  latter  related  the  history  of  his  liter- 
since  to  one  its  disk  is  no  larger  than  a  ary  successes  and  of  the  system  of  labor 
dinner-plate,  while  to  another  it  is  ex-  to  which  he  attributed  them.  Fancy  the 
actly  commensurate  with  a  cart-wheel,  smile  of  good-natured  compassion  with 
As  great  diversity  prevails  even  in  the  which  Trollope  would  have  looked  into 
matter  of  estimating  distance  and  mak-  the  interior  of  the  Frenchman's  men- 
ing  nice  chromatic  distinctions.  It  is  tal  workshop  and  seen  him  at  his  task 
all  in  the  eye,  or  in  the  disciplining  of  polishing  a  perfect  page.  Each 
which  the  eye  receives.  Why  does  the  would  appreciate  the  other's  intellectual 
natural,  untrained  sight  so  generally  in-  industry,  while  marveling  at  that  on 


1884.] 


The  Contributors*   Club. 


427 


which  it  was  expended,  —  in  the  one 
case  the  simple  quantity  of  the  product, 
in  the  other  mainly  the  quality  of  the 
same.  How  could  Trollope  have  com- 
prehended even  faintly  the  Frenchman's 
anxious  concern  for  the  artistic  finish  of 
the  form  into  which  his  conceptions 
were  to  be  thrown  !  Why  should  a  man 
take  the  matter  of  writing  a  novel  more 
or  less  with  such  intense  seriousness, 
when  if  he  would  only  set  himself  to 
work  in  a  sensible,  practical  fashion, 
observing  a  few  rules  as  to  simplicity 
of  expression  and  to  hours  of  labor, 
nothing  could  be  easier  for  him  than  to 
turn  out  a  couple  of  novels  a  year  that 
should  please  the  great  general  public 
and  put  a  comfortable  number  of  pounds, 
or  francs,  into  his  pocket  ?  Nothing 
more  than  a  little  systematic  regulation 
of  one's  time  and  a  common-sense,  busi- 
ness-like way  of  managing  one's  affairs 
was  needful  —  as  Trollope  could  prove 
by  his  own  example  —  to  secure  success 
in  literature  as  in  any  other  way  of  get- 
ting a  living.  One  might  not  make  a 
fortune :  seventy  thousand  pounds  was 
of  course  no  more  than  a  fair  remunera- 
tion for  as  many  years  of  work  as  he 
himself  had  put  into  the  novel-writing 
business  ;  yet  it  ought  to  satisfy  any  but 
a  grasping  man.  Can  we  not  see  Dau- 
det's  puzzled  shake  of  the  head  as  he 
gives  up  the  attempt  to  fathom  Monsieur 
Trollope's  philosophy  ?  Seventy  thou- 
sand pounds,  or  seventeen  hundred  thou- 
sand francs,  roughly  speaking,  —  the 
Englishman  need  not  complain  of  for- 
tune, certainly.  And  how  many  nov- 
els had  he  composed,  did  he  say  ?  Ah, 
't  was  an  enormous  number  !  A  won- 
derful man,  that  Trollope. 

Between  the  method  of  a  Daudet  and 
a  Trollope,  which  to  choose  ?  What  is 
the  outcome  respectively  of  their  labors  ? 
Repelled  by  the  English  novelist's  lack 
of  all  grace  of  form,  by  the  slovenliness 
and  wearisome  verbosity  of  his  style  and 
his  uniform  prosaic  coloring,  we  may 
be  tempted  to  deny  him  his  due,  to  re- 


fuse him  the  recognition  of  his  fidelity 
to  the  truth  of  the  average  human  nature 
which  he  paints.  The  reverse  is  apt  to 
be  the  case  with  the  reader  of  Daudet,  or 
other  of  the  skillful  French  writers  of 
to-day.  Their  charm  is  the  thing  first 
felt ;  the  delightful  conviction  that  we 
have  to  do  with  an  artist  who  takes  him- 
self and  his  creative  work  most  serious- 
ly, and  who  will  treat  us  to  no  slouched, 
rough-cast,  half-complete  work.  Only 
after  continued  perusal  of  these  accom- 
plished writers  does  the  sense  of  some- 
thing wanting  make  itself  felt.  Admira- 
ble as  they  are,  highly  as  we  enjoy  them, 
we  note  the  absence  of  a  certain  impres- 
sion of  reality  ;  there  has  not  been  enough 
of  vital  sympathy  in  the  author  with  the 
humanity  he  would  depict  to  create  an 
illusion  for  the  reader,  who  feels  little  or 
no  warmth  of  personal  interest  in  the 
characters,  but  is  rather  occupied  most- 
ly in  pleased  appreciation  of  the  author's 
cleverness  of  construction  and  charm  of 
narrative  and  descriptive  style.  The  re- 
sult of  Trollope's  intellectual  activity  is 
quite  disproportionate  to  the  effort  itself. 
If  the  time  spent  on  twenty  novels  had 
been  given  to  the  perfecting  of  four,  the 
four  would  have  been  worth  to  us  five 
times  as  much  as  the  twenty.  No  won- 
der the  man  could  write  to  order  as  he 
did,  cutting  off  his  manuscript  in  foot 
or  yard  lengths,  according  to  the  require- 
ments of  the  publishers  !  Does  the  out- 
come of  Daudet's  minute  and  scrupulous 
labor  justify  the  theory  of  literary  art 
which  guides  him  ?  If  we  want  bread, 
a  stone  will  not  satisfy  us,  no  matter 
how  brilliant  the  crystal,  nor  how  ex- 
quisitely cut.  Yet  we  must  acknowledge 
and  allow  the  fact  of  every  man's  limi- 
tations, and  perhaps  comment  and  com- 
plaint are  needless  and  useless.  Great 
writers  are  few  in  any  period,  we  know, 
and  the  glory  they  win  is  "  the  cry  of 
gratitude  "  with  which  mankind  receives 
the  benefit  bestowed.  When  our  Thack- 
eray and  George  Eliot,  our  Balzac  and 
George  Sand,  pass,  we  must  try  to  put 


428 


The  Contributors'   Club. 


[September, 


up  contentedly  with  the  gifts  of  the  dii 
minores. 

—  There  is  a  book  by  Fischer,  a 
German  scholar  of  high  reputation,  en- 
titled Prolusiones  de  Vitiis  Lexicorura, 
which  may  be  freely  translated  as  "  Fun 
made  out  of  the  Faults  of  Dictionaries," 

—  a  subject  which  would  be  very  funny 
indeed,  were  there  not  so  much  that  is 
sadly  serious  involved  in  it.     The  fact 
probably  is  that  there  is  very  little  of 
fresh  work  done  in  the  making  of  what 
is  called  a  new  dictionary.     Were  the 
whole  field  passed  under  careful  review, 
it  would  be  the  task  of  more  than  one 
life.      A   recent   dictionary-maker   em- 
ployed as   a   proof-reader  a   scholar  of 
preeminent  learning  and  accuracy,  but 
soon  dispensed  with  his  services,  saying 

—  and  undoubtedly  with  perfect  truth  — 
that  with  such  work  the  dictionary  could 
not  make  its  appearance  till  the  middle 
of  the  next  century.     A  large  propor- 
tion of  the  matter  in  a  new  dictionary 
must,    almost   of   necessity,   be   merely 
copied  from  those  that  went  before.     I 
have  sometimes  traced  a  false  reference 
through  half  a  score  of  dictionaries,  and 
in  one  instance  I  have  been  for  years 
attempting  to  find  a  Latin  word  in  the 
book  in  which  it  is  said  to  have  been 
first   used,  but  in  which   it   occurs  no- 
where in  the  neighborhood  of  the  place 
assigned  to  it  in  all  dictionaries.     I  am 
not  a  young  man,  but  I  cannot  remem- 
ber when  the  term  lymphatic  was   not 
currently  applied  to  a  dull,  heavy  (water- 
logged?) temperament.     The    question 
of  its  meaning  was  raised  the  other  day 
in   a  friend's  house,  and  we  looked  in 
vain  for  the  sense  to  which  I  have  re- 
ferred in  three  quite  recent  dictionaries, 
one  of  them  being  the  Imperial,  a  work 
that  makes  very  large  pretensions.     I 
have  since  examined  several  more,  with 
the  same  result.    In  my  edition  of  Wor- 
cester's quarto,  the  adjective  lymphatic  is 
defined,  "  1.     Enthusiastic  ;  raving  ;  in- 
sane ;  mad.  2.  (Anatomical.}  Pertaining 
to  lymph."  This  is  substantially  the  defi- 


nition in  all  the  dictionaries  I  have  con- 
sulted (and  they  are  not  few),  with  the 
single  exception  of  the  quarto  edition  of 
Webster,  1882,  in  which  (perhaps,  too, 
in  earlier  editions)  lymphatic,  as  an  ad- 
jective, is  defined,  "  1.  Pertaining  to, 
containing,  or  conveying  lymph  ;  hence, 
as  applied  to  temperament,  heavy,  dull. 
2.  Madly  enthusiastic  ;  frantic.  ( Obso- 
lete.) '  This  instance  is  but  one  of  many 
in  which  the  major  part  of  our  diction- 
aries have  an  antiquarian  rather  than  a 
present  value. 

—  I  have  tried  to  arrest  in  English 
the  evanescent  charm  of  Gautier's  hu- 
man landscape :  — 

ELEGIE. 

D'ELLE  que  reste-t-il  aujourd'hui  ?    Ce  qui  reste, 
Au  re"  veil  d'un  beau  reve,  illusion  celeste; 
Ce  qui  reste  1'hiver  des  parfums  du  printemps, 
De  1'dmail  veloute  du  gazon  ;  au  beau  temps, 
Des  f  rim  as  de  1'hiver  et  des  neiges  fondues; 
Ce  qui  reste  le  soir  des  larmes  repandues 
Le  matin  par  1' enfant,  des  chansons  de  1'oiseau, 
Du  murmure  leger  des  ondes  du  ruisseau, 
Des  soupirs  argent  ins  de  la  cloche,  et  des  ombres 
Quand  1'aube  de  la  nuit  perce  les  voiles  sombres. 

THEOPHILE  GAUTIER. 

ELEGY. 

OF  her  what  doth  remain  to-day  ?     So  much 
As  of  a  dream  survives  the  daylight's  touch  ; 
As  of  the  scented,  velvet-swarded  spring 
The  winter  keeps;  as  of  the  winter's  sting  — 
Hoar-frost  and  snow  — the  laughing  summer  feels; 
As  of  a  morning  grief  the  eve  reveals 
In  infant  eyes ;  as  sound  of  stream  gone  by ; 
As  song  of  vanished  bird ;  as  chimes,  that  die 
A  silver  death  ;  as  shadows  put  to  flight 
When  day  wings  arrows  to  the  breast  of  night. 

—  From    the    same    treasure-house 
whence  I  lately  drew  information  con- 
cerning certain  old  sayings  I  have  been 
able  to  gather  the  description  of  several 
kinds  of  dishes,  drinks,   etc.,  in  vogue 
among    our    English    ancestors,    which 
may   be   of   interest   to    some   persons. 
First,  let  us  hear  what  was  the  posset, 
a  name   with  which  we  are  all  doubt- 
less familiar.     There  was    nothing   re- 
markable about  it,  for  it  was  composed 
simply   of  hot   milk    curdled    by    some 
strong  infusion.     It  was  held  in  great 
favor,  however,  both  as  a  luxury  and  as 


1884.] 


The   Contributors'   Club. 


429 


a  medicine.  Our  nearest  approach  to  it 
is  whey,  or  milk  curdled  with  wine  or 
acid.  The  posset  made  with  sack  was  a 
treat  usually  prepared  for  bridegrooms. 
Macbeth  alludes  to  this  drink  when, 
speaking  of  the  king's  guards,  he  says, 
"  I  have  drugged  their  possets."  An 
odd  custom  was  that  of  putting  the  flow- 
ers called  sops,  but  now  called  pinks, 
into  wine  at  weddings,  to  give  it  a  fla- 
vor. Cakes,  wafers,  etc.,  were  generally 
blessed  and  put  into  the  sweet  wine 
which  was  presented  to  the  bride ;  and 
probably  because  in  shape  or  color  these 
cakes  were  thought  to  resemble  the 
flowers,  the  former  were  called  u  sops 
in  wine."  LamVs-wool  was  the  curious 
name  for  a  favorite  liquor  of  the  com- 
mon people,  composed  of  ale  and  roast- 
ed apples,  the  pulp  of  the  fruit  being 
worked  into  a  smooth  mixture  with  the 
ale.  Hippocras  was  a  medicated  drink 
of  red  wine  with  sugar  and  spices,  also 
commonly  given  at  weddings. 

The  manchet  was  a  fine  white  roll, 
named,  it  is  thought,  either  from  the 
French  michette  or  main,  because  small 
enough  to  hold  in  the  hand.  Manchets 

O 

are  used  at  Oxford  and  Cambridge  to- 
day. One  recipe  for  manchet,  taken 
from  the  True  Gentlewoman's  Delight, 
by  Lady  Arundel,  date  1676,  orders  the 
compounder  to  take  to  a  bushel  (!)  of 
fine  wheat-flour  twenty  eggs  and  three 
pounds  of  fresh  butter,  together  with 
salt  and  barm  and  "  new  milk  pretty 
hot."  Another  later  recipe  makes  of 
manchet  what  we  should  call  a  pudding ; 
the  directions  being  to  put  into  a  but- 
tered dish  a  pound  of  minced  beef  suet 
mixed  with  a  quart  of  cream,  eight  yolks 
of  eggs  and  the  whites  of  four,  season- 
ing with  nutmeg,  cinnamon,  rose  water, 
and  two  grated  manchets.  Marchpane 
is  a  confection  not  unlike  our  maca- 
roons, composed  of  sugar  and  almonds, 
according  to  an  old  housewife's  book 
called  Delightes  for  Ladies,  1608.  This 
cake  is  of  very  old  origin,  and  was  an 
especial  favorite  in  olden  times. 


Speaking  of  the  manchet  being  still 
eaten  at  the  English  universities  re- 
minds me  of  an  anecdote  told  me  by  a 
friend  of  an  American  gentleman  who 
was  once  dining  at  Cambridge,  in  com- 
pany with  various  university  dignitaries ; 
and  after  the  long  and  stately  meal  was 
over,  and  the  cloth  removed,  a  waiting- 
man  brought  in  a  large  roll  of  linen, 
about  half  a  yard  wide,  placed  it  on  the 
table,  and  unrolled  a  very  little  of  it, 
after  which  a  great  silver  bowl  was  set 
in  the  middle  of  the  board.  The  bowl 
was  empty,  and  the  whole  ceremony 
passed  unheeded  by  the  company.  The 
stranger  guest  had  the  curiosity  to  in- 
quire of  his  neighbor  the  meaning  of 
the  observance.  He,  however,  confessed 
his  ignorance,  and  the  question  went 
round  the  table  till  it  came  to  a  person 
of  antiquarian  tastes,  who  said  that  the 
custom  dated  back  to  the  days  when 
gentlefolk  ate  with  their  fingers  and 
used  no  napkins  ;  that  then  the  bowl  of 
water  was  passed  to  each  guest  that  he 
might  dip  his  fingers  in  it,  drying  them 
afterward  upon  the  linen  which  was 
unrolled  the  length  of  the  table  as  a 
common  napkin.  While  still  at  table, 
or  soon  after  the  company  left  it,  the 
American  heard  the  sounding  of  a  bell, 
and  on  asking  for  what  purpose  it  rang 
he  met  with  the  same  difficulty  in  get- 
ting an  answer.  Again  the  antiquarian 
came  to  the  rescue  with  the  information 
that  it  was  the  "  Fen-Bell,"  rung  at  the 
same  hour  every  evening,  in  accordance 
with  the  will  of  a  person  dead  ages  be- 
fore, who  once,  belated  on  his  homeward 
way,  lost  himself  in  the  mist  among  the 
fens,  and  only  found  his  road  at  last 
by  help  of  a  bell,  which  indicated  to 
him  the  direction  of  the  town  ;  in  grat- 
itude for  which  circumstance  he  or- 
dained that  a  bell  should  ring  at  fixed 
hours  of  the  evening,  for  all  time  to 
come,  to  guide  the  wanderer  upon  the 
marsh.  The  last  of  the  fens  having 
been  drained  hundreds  of  years  since, 
the  survival  is  an  amusing  instance  of 


430 


Books  of  the  Month. 


[September, 


the  English  clinging  to  ancient  usages. 
But  the  humor  of  the  whole  to  the  stran- 
ger present  was  the  fashion  in  which 
the  college  dons  took  his  inquiries.  Ap- 
parently they  had  accepted  those  mean- 
ingless customs  for  an  indefinite  term  of 
years,  without  a  thought  of  challenging 


them,  as  part  of  the  scheme  of  things, 
—  like  the  rising  and  the  setting  of  the 
sun,  —  and  woke  up  to  the  question  of 
their  origin  and  meaning  with  as  much 
bewilderment  as  though  it  had  been  sud- 
denly demanded  of  them  why  two  and 
two  make  four. 


BOOKS  OF  THE  MONTH. 


Poetry  and  the  Drama.  Messrs.  T.  Y.  Crowell 
&  Co.  (New  York)  publish  an  edition  of  Dante 
Gabriel  Rossetti's  Poems  in  a  style  of  binding 
which  would  have  made  the  poet  sigh  for  some 
law  which  should  compel  American  publishers, 
when  reprinting  the  works  of  an  English  author, 
to  reprint  the  covers  as  well.  Indeed,  one  takes 
leave  to  doubt  if  Mr.  Rossetti's  poems  can  possi- 
bly be  read  by  his  admirers  unless  they  are  printed 
without  red  rules  in  a  book  bound  in  smooth  green 
cloth,  with  a  significant  stamp,  and  with  lining 
papers  especially  designed  by  Mr.  Rossetti  or  Mr. 
Morris.  Of  course  this  is  all  nonsense,  but  the  fol- 
lowers of  the  school  do  require  that  there  shall  be 
fitness  all  the  way  through,  and  the  more  devout 
would  not  sit  down  to  this  poetry  at  all  if  dressed 
in  a  ready-made  suit  and  compelled  to  live  in 
a  boarding-house.  —  The  same  publishers  send 
Scott's  Marmion  and  Lay  of  the  Last  Minstrel  in 
the  same  dress.  Let  any  one  tr}r  to  open  the  lat- 
ter of  the  two  books,  and  he  will  not  succeed  un- 
less he  breaks  the  back  of  the  book.  A  volume 
of  poems  should  certainly  invite  a  reader,  and  not 
slam  the  door  in  his  face.  —  The  Poetical  Works 
of  Aubrey  De  Vere  have  been  collected  in  three 
volumes  (Kegan  Paul,  Trench  &  Co.,  London), 
and  will  be  welcomed  not  only  by  Irish  patriots, 
but  by  lovers  of  tuneful  song,  not  led  astray  by 
the  fashion  of  the  hour.  —  Song  and  Story,  Later 
Poems,  by  Edgar  Fawcett.  (Osgood.)  — The 
Highlanders  in  Nova  Zembla  is  an  arctic  poem, 
translated  from  the  Dutch  of  Hendrik  Tollens  by 
Daniel  Van  Pelt,  and  supplied  with  a  preface  and 
a  historical  introduction  by  S.  R.  Van  Campen. 
(Putnams.)  The  prose  introduction,  at  any  rate,  is 
readable.  It  passes  one's  imagination,  however, 
to  conceive  of  people  really  and  truly  supposing 
that  a  trade  with  the  Orient  could  be  secured  bv 

•/ 

the  northeast  passage.  If  a  vessel  by  once  get- 
ting through  could  clear  all  the  ice  out  of  the 
way,  the  venture  were  worth  trjMng,  but  one  looks 
upon  one's  ancestors  with  amazement  as  one  sees 
them  deliberately  offering  prizes  and  expecting 
to  reap  golden  rewards  from  the  discovery  of  a 
northeast  passage.  It  would  seem  almost  as  rea- 
sonable to  look  for  great  wheat-fields  in  Spitz- 
bergen.  —  Scientific  and  Poetical  Works  of  the 
Last  of  the  Hereditary  Bards  and  Skalds.  (The 


J.  M.  W.  Jones  Stationery  and  Printing  Com- 
pany, Chicago.)  We  don't  understand  the  scien- 
tific works,  which  are  condensed  into  twenty-four 
pages  of  pemmican,  so  we  have  made  a  dash  at 
the  poetry,  and  are  struck  at  once  with  the  beauty 
of  the  line,  uttered  by  a  soldier  in  a  fragmentary 
Play,  - 

"  Lammh  dearg  aboo !    Lammh  dearg  aboo ! ': 

Not  know  what  aboo  means  ?  Read  the  lines  im- 
mediateljr  preceding :  — 

"  Tell  him  that  ere  the  moon's  red  targe  appears 
The  clans  will  pour  like  thunder  to  the  field, 
While  their  wild   ABOO'S,  massed   in    tempestuous 

cheers, 

Will  knock  at  the  capricious  clouds, 
And  startle  their  echoes  unto  England." 

—  Estelle,  an  Idyl  of  Old  Virginia,  by  Marcus  B. 
Allmond  (J.  P.  Morton  &  Co.,  Louisville,  Ky.), 
a  not  overstrained  nor  unmelodious  story  in  verse, 
of  a  kind  which  sometimes  tempts  one  to  think 
that  there  is  more  chance  for  honest  sentiment  at 
the  South  than  at  the  North.  —  Eos,  a  Prairie 
Dream,  and  Other  Poems,  by  Nicholas  Flood  Da- 
vin.  (Citizen  Printing  and  Publishing  Company, 
Ottawa.)  The  author  of  this  little  pamphlet  is 
stirred  by  Canadian  patriotism.  Well,  that  is  not 
a  bad  breeze  for  Pegasus  to  flap  his  wings  on. 

Travel.  It  is  not  quite  clear  under  what  head 
should  be  placed  J.  B.  Thayer's  little  volume, 
A  Western  Journey  with  Mr.  Emerson  (Little, 
Brown  &  Co.),  but  inasmuch  as  the  book  came 
into  existence  because  of  a  journey,  we  place  it 
here.  Mr.  Thayer  wrote  home  from  time  to  time 
letters  narrating  his  experience  upon  a  journey 
to  California  with  a  party  of  which  Mr.  Emerson 
was  the  sequoia.  Thirteen  years  ago  such  a  jour- 
ney was  a  novelty,  and  the  impressions  then  pro- 
duced were  worth  preserving,  if  for  no  other  rea- 
son ;  but  the  death  of  Mr.  Emerson  has  made 
such  chance  glimpses  of  him  as  the  narrative 
affords  to  have  a  special  value.  If  this  little 
book  had  been,  for  example,  a  record  of  a  jour- 
ney in  company  with  Franklin,  and  had  just  come 
to  light,  it  would  be  hailed  with  enthusiasm. 
If  it  should  lie  /r.  manuscript  until  1930  and  then 
were  brought  out,  it  would  be  regarded  with 
equal  favor.  It  suffers  a  little  now  from  associa- 
tion with  other  reminiscences,  but  it  will  keep 


1884] 


Books  of  the  Month. 


431 


better  in  print  than  it  could  in  manuscript,  and 
we  advise  all  who  own  it  to  bind  it  carefully  and 
leave  it  for  an  heirloom.  If  too  many  persons  do 
not  do  this,  the  copies  on  hand,  a  half  century 
hence,  will  figure  at  good  prices  on  the  auction 
lists.  —  To  Mexico  by  Palace  Car,  by  James  W. 
Steele  (Jansen,  McClurg  &  Co.),  is  intended  as  a 
guide  to  her  principal  cities  and  capital,  and  gen- 
erally as  a  tourist's  introduction  to  her  life  and 
people.  Mr.  Steele's  enthusiasm  is  manifest,  but 
it  is  under  control,  and  he  has  made  a  capital  lit- 
tle handbook,  not  too  desiccated,  and  at  the  same 
time  free  from  mere  fine  writing. 

Fiction.    Funk  &  Wagnalls,  New  York,  pub- 
lish a  translation  of  Daudet's  L'Evangeliste,  by 
Mary  Neal  Sherwood.    It  is  not  exactly  a  case  of 
Saul  among  the  prophets,  but  perhaps  the  picture 
here  presented  may  lead  some  readers  of  English 
and  American  versions  of  the  Romish  faith  in  fic- 
tion to  be  a  little  cautious  as  to  what  they  accept. 
-The  Mistress  of  Ibichstein  is  a  novel  by  Fr. 
Henkel,  translated  from  the  German  by  S.  E. 
Boggs,  which  one  may  read  with  heightening 
alarm,  but  with  an  undercurrent  of  faith  that  the 
most  inexplicable  situations  will  be  cleared  before 
the  close,  and  the  two  people  made  happy.  —  The 
sixth  and  closing  volume  of  the  series  of  The 
Surgeon'o    Stones,   by  Z.  Topelius,   is  Times  of 
Alchemy.    (Jansen,  McClurg  &  Co.)    The  detail 
of  these  stories  differs  from  that  of  the  realistic 
stories  to  which  we  are  most  accustomed  chiefly 
by  the  infusion  of  a  strong  historical  and  imagi- 
native element.     The  books  form  an  interesting 
escape  from  much  contemporary  fiction,  but  one 
is  plunged  into  new  and  confusing  perils.  —  Dis- 
solving Views,  by  Mrs.  Andrew  Lang  (Harpers): 
an  attractive  novel,  in  which  the  movement  of 
the  story  is  helped  by  making  the  characters  change 
their  places  a  good  many  times.    Mrs.  Lang  has 
caught  the  bright,  half-jesting  tone  of  the  refined 
novel  very  cleverly,  but  has  not  dissipated  her 
story  in  mere  badinage. — Himself  Again,  byJ. 
C.  Goldsmith  (Funk  &  Wagnalls):   a  preposter- 
ous story,  in  which  the  author  uses  ever  so  much 
machinery,  which  he  does  not  wholly  understand, 
for  bringing  about  a  psychological  change  in  a 
man.  —  A  Fair  Device,  by  Charles  Wolcott  Bales- 
tier  (John  W.  Lovell  Company,  New  York),  comes 
out  just  in  time  for  the  summer  boarder.  —  The 
Shadow  of  the  War,  a  story  of  the  South  in  recon- 
struction times  (Jansen,  McClurg  &  Co.),  appears 
to  be  written  by  a  person  better  able  to  describe 
scenes  in  Southern  life  than  to  construct  a  piece  of 
fiction.     It  is,  in  effect,  an  apology  for  the  forcible 
recovery  of  political  power  by  the  native-born 
Southern  whites,  a  passage  in  our  history  which  is 
likely  for  a  long  while  to  come  to  offer  a  fruitful 
theme  for  discussion  to  historian  and  moralist.  — 
Miss  Nancy  (David  McKay,  Philadelphia)  is  a 
society  novel,  in  which  simple  virtue  comes  out 
triumphant.  —  Mr.  Laurence  Oliphant's  Piccadilly 
has  been  published  in  book  form  by  Harpers,  who 
also  reprint  the  Miz  Maze,  already  recorded  in 
these  pages.  —  Charles  Reade's  A  Perilous  Secret 
and  A  Hero  and  a  Martyr  appear  both  in  IGmo 
and  in  the  Franklin  Square  Library.    (Harpers.) 
In  the  Franklin  Square  Library  also  appear  God- 


frey Helstone,  by  Georgiana  M.  Craik,  My  Ducats 
and  my  Daughter,   and  Lucia,  Hugh,  and  An- 
other, a  novel  by  Mrs.  J.  H.  Needell.  —  Eustis,  by 
Robert  Apthorp  Boit  (Osgood),  holds  out  hopes 
that  writers  will  turn  from   the   international   to 
the  intersectional  novel,  and  gives  us  the  contrast- 
ed forms  of  Northern  and  Southern  life.  —  Stage- 
Struck,  or  She  Would   be  an  Opera  Singer,  by 
Blanche  Roosevelt  (Fords,  Howard  &  Hulbert),  is 
a  coarse-flavored  novel,  which  professes  to  illus- 
trate the  career  of  a  Western  girl  who  goes  abroad 
to  qualify  herself  for  the  stage.  —  A  Palace  Prison, 
or  the  Past  and  Present  (Fords,  Howard  &  Hul- 
bert), is  a  story  intended  to  expose  the  vicious- 
ness  of  the  insane-asylum  system.  —  Wheels  and 
Whims.  (Cupples,  Upham  &  Co.)  The  wheels  are 
those  of  tricycles ;  the  whims  those  of  four  young 
ladies,  who  make  an   excursion   on  or  in  these 
centaur  vehicles.    One  of  the  young  ladies  in  the 
introductory  chapter  has  blighted  hopes  ;  the  blight 
is  so  entirely  fictitious  that  the  reader  has  not  the 
slightest  fear  that  the  wheels  will  roll  her  into  a 
state  of  perennial  happiness  with  the  fictitiously 
base  young  man  of  the  first  chapter.  —  A  Mid- 
summer Madness,  by  Ellen  Olney  Kirk  (Osgood), 
has  the  author's  cleverness  which  lacks  —  who  shall 
say  what  it  lacks?    Just  the  something  which 
would  make  her  stories  thoroughly  enjoyable,  in- 
stead of  constantly  suggesting  echoes  and  second 
thoughts.  —  The  Fortunes  of  Rachel,  by  Edward 
Everett  Hale   (Funk  &  Wagnalls),  is  an  enter- 
taining story  ;  it  is  also  an  indirect  plea  for  the 
new  world  which  Mr.  Hale's  charity  and  hope 
have  never  ceased  to  construct  for  men  and  women. 
If  he  sands  his  granite  to  make  it  more  life-like, 
who  shall  complain  ?  —  An  Average  Man,  by  Rob- 
ert Grant  (Osgood)  suggests  its  measure  too  readi- 
ly. —  There  was  Once  a  Man,  by  R.  H.  Newell 
(Fords,  Howard  &  Hulbert),  includes  the  author's 
whole  duty  of  man.  —  At  Daybreak,  by  A.  Stir- 
ling.    (Osgood.)  —  Mingo,  and  other  Sketches  in 
Black  and  White,  by  Joel  Chandler  Harris  (Os- 
good), contains  four  stories  of  Southern  life. — 
Tinkling  Cymbals,  by  Edgar  Fawcett.    (Osgood.) 
—  The  Usurper,  an  Episode  in  Japanese  History, 
by  Judith  Gautier,  has  been  translated  by  Miss 
Alger.    (Roberts.)  —  The  Loyal  Ronins  is  an  his- 
torical romance  •  translated  from  the  Japanese  of 
Tamenaga  Shunsui  by  Edward  Greey  and  Shin- 
ichiro  Saito.    (Putnams.)  —  The  fourth  volume  of 
Stories  by  American  Authors   (Scribner's   Sons) 
contains  short  tales  by  Miss  Woolson,  H.  C.  Bun- 
ner,  N.  P.  Willis,  Mrs.  Foote,  J.  W.  De  Forest, 
and  Noah  Brooks.     Mr.    Bunner's  Love  in  Old 
Clothes  is  altogether  the  best  sketch  in  the  present 
collection.  — In  The  Giant's  Robe  (D.  Appleton 
&  Co.)  Mr.  Anstey  has  given  us  a  delightful  story. 
Though  not  so  fantastic  as  Vice  Versa,  The  Giant's 
Robe  is  quite  as  original  and  diverting. — Mr. 
Frank  R.  Stockton's  very  ingenious  sketch,  The 
Lady,  or  the  Tiger?  furnishes  the  title  to  a  col- 
lection of  his    clever  short  stories.     (Scribner's 
Sons.)    We  do  not  mean  to  dispraise  them  when 
we  say  that  none  is  so  clever  as  the  first. 

Art  and  Archaeology.  National  Academy  Notes, 
edited  by  Charles  M.  Kurtz  (Cassell),  has  passed 
to  its  fourth  year.  It  contains  a  complete  cata- 


432                                       Books  of  the  Month.  •  [September. 

logue  of  the  fifty-ninth  spring  exhibition  of  the  an  introduction  and  notes.  (Little,  Brown  &  Co.) 
National  Academy  of  Design,  New  York ;  122  il-  —  A  First  Book  in  Geology,  designed  for  begin- 
lustrations,  115  of  them  reproduced  from  drawings  ners,  by  N.  S.  Shaler.  (Ginn,  Heath  &  Co.)  The 
by  the  artists  ;  personal  notices  of  the  artists  whose  author's  ingenuity  of  imagination  serves  an  ex- 
works  are  reproduced  ;  a  brief  history  of  the  Na-  cellent  purpose  in  vivifying  the  facts  of  geology  to 
tional  Academy;  a  plan  of  the  building  and  dia-  the  young  student. —A  Method  of  English  Com- 
grauis  of  the  galleries.  The  personal  notices,  fort u-  position,  by  T.  Whiting  Bancroft.  (Ginn,  Heath 
nately,  are  condensed  statements  of  the  artistic  &  Co.)  The  book  is  intended  as  an  accompani- 
career  of  the  artists,  entirely  free  from  any  com-  ment  to  formal  works  on  rhetoric.  It  will  be 
ment;  the  reproductions  are  convenient  memo-  valued  most,  we  think,  for  its  practical  portion,  in 
randa ;  and  the  descriptions  of  the  pictures  are  as  a  which  themes  are  suggested  and  examples  of  an- 
rule  free  from  impertinence.  — The  Trustees  of  the  alytic  treatment  given.  — The  Mother's  and  Kin- 
Museum  of  Fine  Arts,  Boston,  have  issued  their  dergartner's  Friend,  by  Harvey  Carpenter.  (Cup- 
eighth  annual  report.  It  contains  an  interesting  pies,  Upham  &  Co.)  It  is  doubtful  if  the  ordinary 
special  report  on  the  increase  of  the  collections.  —  mother  or  kindergartner  could  fathom  this  work. 
The  fifth  annual  report  of  the  Executive  Commit-  -  On  History  and  the  Study  of  History,  by  W. 
tee  and  the  third  annual  report  of  the  Committee  P.  Atkinson,  consists  of  three  lectures  given  to  his 
on  the  American  School  of  Classical  Studies  at  classes  by  the  Professor  of  English  and  History 
Athens  have  appeared  in  a  single  number.  (John  in  the  Massachusetts  Institute  of  Technology.  It 
Wilson  &  Son,  Cambridge,  Mass.)  The  reports  has  some  very  sensible  notions  well  put,  but  a 
are  incidentally  interesting  contributions  to  archse-  true  student  of  history  would  be  the  last  to  decry 
ological  science.  —  The  Amateur  Photographer  is  the  study  of  the  classics,  although  he  may  object 
the  title  of  a  little  handbook  by  Ellerslie  Wallace,  to  certain  methods  in  that  study.  —  The  Meister- 
Jr.,  M.  D.  (Porter  &  Coates),  which  serves  as  a  schaft  system  has  been  applied  to  the  Spanish 
manual  for  photographic  manipulation,  intended  language  by  Dr.  Richard  S.  Rosenthal,  and  is  pre- 
especially  for  beginners  and  amateurs,  with  sug-  sented  in  fifteen  parts.  (Estes  &  Lauriat.) 
gestions  as  to  the  choice  of  apparatus  and  of  pro-  Religion  and  Philosophy.  The  Apostles'  Creed, 
cesses.  It  appears  to  be  in  the  interest  of  those  tested  by  Experience,  by  Charles  R.  Baker  (VVhit- 
who  wish  to  make  use  of  this  art,  and  not  of  taker):  the  work  of  a  man  who  has  caught  at  the 
those  who  have  goods  to  sell.  —  Cottages,  or  Hints  larger  interpretation  of  the  standard,  and  is  more 
on  Economical  Building,  containing  twenty-four  eager  to  find  an  inclusive  meaning  in  it  than  to 
plates  of  medium  and  low  cost  houses,  contributed  make  it  a  mere  touchstone  of  ecclesiastical  stand- 
by different  New  York  architects,  together  with  ing.  —  Travels  in  Faith  from  Tradition  to  Reason, 
descriptive  letter-press,  giving  practical  sugges-  by  Robert  C.Adams.  (Putnams.)  The  opening 
tions  for  cottage  building,  compiled  and  edited  by  chapter  is  a  curious  piece  of  autobiography,  by 
A.  W.  Brunner,  architect  ;  to  which  is  added  a  which  the  reader  is  enabled  to  account  for  the  au- 
chapter  on  the  water  supply,  drainage,  sewerage,  thor's  reasoning  in  the  rest  of  the  book. --The 
heating,  and  ventilation,  and  other  sanitary  ques-  Great  Argument,  or  Jesus  Christ  in  the  Old  Testa- 
tions  relating  to  country  houses,  by  William  Paul  ment,  by  William  H.  Thompson.  Dr.  Thompson 
Gerhard.  (W.  T.  Comstock,  New  York.)  The  labors  to  establish  the  Messianic  prophecies  and 
limitsof  a  book  of  fifty  pages  permit,  of  course,  only  their  fulfillment.  The  value  of  the  book  lies 
suggestions  and  hints,  but  the  plates  will  give  fur-  largely  in  its  incidental  illustration  of  the  physical 
ther  information  to  those  who  know  how  to  look  conditions  of  Hebraic  life.  —  Agnosticism  of  Hume 
at  them.  A  narrow  examination  would  make  a  and  Huxley,  with  a  notice  of  the  Scottish  School 
good  housekeeper  think  twice  before  yielding  to  (Scribners),  is  the  sixth  number  in  Dr.  McCosh's 
the  seductive  exteriors.  Philosophic  series.  —  Buddhism  in  China,  by  the 
Education  and  Text  -  Books.  The  queer  con-  Rev.  S.  Beal,  is  a  volume  in  the  series  of  Non- 
glomeration  which-  is  issued  by  the  Bureau  of  Christian  Religious  Systems,  published  by  the  S. 
Education,  at  Washington,  under  the  title  Circu-  P.  C.  K.  (Young,  New  York.)  Mr.  Beal  is  an 
lars  of  Information,  is  represented  by  two  recent  erudite  scholar,  and  his  book  is  necessarily  rather 
issues:  The  Teaching,  Practice,  and  Literature  of  a  digest  of  Buddhist  writings  than  the  result  of 
Shorthand,  by  J.  E.  Rockwell,  is  one,  a  volume  direct  personal  familiarity  with  the  system.  —  The 
of  curious  information  on  the  subject,  contain-  Consolations  of  Science,  or  Contributions  from 
ing  for  one  thing  a  bibliography  a  hundred  pages  Science  to  the  Hope  of  Immortality,  and  Kindred 
in  length;  the  second  gives  statistics  regarding  Themes,  by  Jacob  Straub.  (The  Colegrove  Corn- 
illiteracy,  and  contains  an  appendix  on  national  pany,  Chicago.)  Mr.  Straub  writes  temperately, 
aid  to  education.  — Mr.  John  Tetlow,  master  of  but  with  firm  conviction  that  science  points  to  an 
the  Girl's  Latin  School  in  Boston,  has  prepared  a  endless  life  for  the  person,  and  of  the  existence  of 
progressive  series  of  inductive  lessons  in  Latin,  a  future  world  commensurate  with  the  needs  of 
based  on  material  drawn  from  classical  sources,  humanity.  —  "Catholic,"  an  Essential  and  Exclu- 
chiefly  from  Cesar's  Commentaries.  (Ginn,  Heath  sive  Attribute  of  the  True  Church,  by  Right  Rev- 
&  Co.)  The  system  seems  better  adapted  to  ma-  erend  Monsignor  Capel.  (Sadlier,  New  York.)  Mr. 
turer  minds  than  to  those  that  take  up  elementary  Capel  rests  his  argument  upon  a  basis  which  would 
work,  but  in  the  hands  of  a  good  teacher  such  a  make  the  Catholic  Church  dependent  wholly  upon 
book  ought  to  offer  opportunity  for  close  and  human  instrumentality.  The  Catholic  Church,  ap- 
valuable  work.  —  Dr.  A.  P.  Peabody  has  trans-  parently,  is  such  by  the  count  of  noses  and  by 
lated  Cicero  de  Senectute,  and  furnished  it  with  tactual  transmission. 


THE 


ATLANTIC    MONTHLY: 


;fftaga?itte  of  Literature^ 


ant) 


VOL.  LIV.—  OCTOBER,  1884.  —  No.  CCCXXIV. 


IN  WAR  TIME. 


XIX. 


EDWARD  had  insisted  upon  taking 
what  was  properly  Arthur's  task,  —  the 
telling  of  the  latter's  engagement  to 
Mrs.  Morton.  He  was  well  aware  that 
she  would  listen  to  her  elder  son  when 
she  would  listen  to  no  one  else,  but  he 
had  also  other  reasons  for  desiring  to 
come  between  his  mother  and  brother. 
Edward  was  now  of  age,  his  own  estate 
was  ample,  and  he  knew  that  she  would 
present  arguments  about  money  which 
his  means  gave  him  the  ability  to  put 
aside  ;  moreover,  he  had  taken  this  duty 
on  himself  with  some  vague  sense  of  its 
being,  as  it  were,  a  penance  for  the 
wild  desires  which  still  at  times  shook 
his  firmest  resolves. 

He  found  his  mother  busy  in  the 
library. 

"  I  want  a  few  moments  of  your  time, 
mother,"  he  said. 

She  turned  to  listen,  with  the  gentle 
readiness  of  attention  she  had  always  for 
him.  u  What  is  it,  my  boy  ?  " 

"  I  have  asked  Arty  to  let  me  tell  you 
of  his  engagement  to  Hester.  It  is  a 
great  pleasure  to  me,  for  you  know  I 
am  very,  very  fond  of  her." 

"  Engaged  to  Arthur  !  Nonsense,  Ed- 
ward, they  are  mere  children  ;  and  if 
they  were  not,  it  is  a  thing  I  should 
totally  disapprove,  —  totally  !  I  shall 
tell  Arthur  so.  I  can  understand  very 


well  why  he  was  unwilling  to  speak  to 
me  about  it.  There  was  a  time  when 
I  was  consulted  about  the  affairs  of  my 
own  household." 

"  But,  my  dear  mother,"  said  Ed- 
ward, a  little  amused,  despite  his  sore 
heart,  "  these  are  not  children,  and  you 
must  have  seen  what  was  going  on.  As 
for  Arthur,  he  has  made  a  name  for  him- 
self, and  so  far  as  I  can  see  has  the  right 
every  man  has  to  marry  whom  he  will. 
War  ages  people  fast,  mother." 

"  Marry  J  "  she  returned,  —  "  marry, 
indeed  !  On  what  is  he  to  marry  ?  They 
have  neither  of  them  a  cent." 

"  But  I  don't  suppose  he  wants  to 
marry  her  to-morrow.  Fox  wishes  him 
to  take  a  share  in  his  iron  works,  so  as 
to  be  himself  more  at  liberty ;  and  I 
mean,  if  you  don't  altogether  disapprove, 

—  and   you    won't,    will   you,   mother? 

—  to  give  Arty  the  capital  he  will  re- 
quire." 

"  Of  course,"  said  Mrs.  Morton,  pet- 
ulantly, "  it  is  all  to  be  managed  with- 
out the  slightest  reference  to  me.  An 
unknown  girl,  half  educated,  coming 
from  nobody  knows  where,  and  brought 
up  by  these  common  Yankee  Wendells  ! " 

Clearly  Mrs.  Morton  was  angry  and 
unjust. 

"  They  may  be  plain,  but  common  or 
vulgar  they  are  not ;  and  really,  you 
know,  as  to  what  you  say  about  Hester, 
my  dear  mother,  that  is  —  well,  not 


Copyright,  1884,  by  HOUGHTON,  MIFFLLN  &  Co. 


434 


In  War  Time. 


[October, 


quite  true.  The  Grays  are  good  old 
Carolina  people.  Now  please  don't  talk 
so.  It  is  n't  like  you.  It  is  n't  at  all 
like  you." 

"  Still,  among  them,  Ned,  they  have 
trapped  Arthur  ;  and  as  to  the  girl  "  — 

"  Stop,  mother ! "  he  entreated ;  "  don't 
say  any  more.  No  one  has  trapped  him. 
You  hurt  me." 

"  Hurt  you !     What  do  you  mean  ? ' 

"  I  had  not  meant  to  tell  even  you, 
dear  mother,  but  now  I  must.  I  loved 
her  myself,  mother,  —  I  most  dearly 
loved  her  !  But  I  am  an  old,  battered, 
useless  man,  and  no  fair  young  life  like 
that  is  to  be  mine." 

"You  loved  her,"  she  said,  softly, 
"  and  he  has  taken  her  from  you.  Oh, 
my  boy  ! " 

"  No,  you  are  again  unjust.  Neither 
she  nor  he  knows  this,  or  ever  will  know 
it.  No  one  but  you  knows  it." 

"  My  poor  Ned !  Ah,  if  only  I  could 
help  you." 

"  But  you  can  help  me.  No  one  can 
help  me  better  than  by  bringing  Hester 
as  near  to  me  as  it  is  God's  good  will 
that  she  should  be." 

"  There  is  nothing  you  can  say,  my 
son,  that  has  not  full  weight  with  me ; 
but  about  this  matter  I  should  have  been 
consulted  sooner.  I  must  think  about 
it.  Oh,  if  it  had  been  you,  Ned,  you 
would  have  told  me." 

"  I  don't  know  that,  mother ;  and  you 
must  remember  that  it  is  my  fault  he 
did  not  tell  you." 

"  And  you  loved  this  girl,  my  son, 
and  you  gave  her  away." 

"  No,  she  went  away,"  said  Ned, 
smiling. 

"  Who  is  that  on  the  porch,  Ned  ?  " 

"  It  is  Miss  Ann." 

"  I  don't  want  to  see  her.  I  do  not 
want  to  see  any  one.  I  shall  never  get 
over  this,  Edward,  —  never." 

"  She  may  have  come  about  this  very 
thing.  It  would  be  quite  like  her  straight- 
forward ways.  I  am  sure  she  will  feel, 
.mother,  that  she  is  in  the  place  of  a 


mother  to  Hester,  and,  knowing  how 
mueh  her  brother  owes  to  you,  will  think 
as  I  do,  —  that  we  can  do  nothing  with- 
out you." 

"  It  would  be  a  very  correct  and 
proper  feeling  for  her  to  have,  but  I  am 
surprised  that  any  one  either  thinks  or 
feels  correctly  nowadays." 

11  But  you  will  see  her  ?  " 

"  Yes,  as  you  wish  it.  The  servants 
know  that  I  am  at  home."  i 

"  And  shall  I  go  ?  " 

"No.     Why  should  you?" 

Miss  Ann  entered,  looking  rosy  and 
plump,  with  her  usual  expression  of  un- 
disturbed calm.  Duties  were  not  always 
pleasant  to  Ann,  but  they  were  to  be 
done,  and  done  effectively,  like  any 
household  tasks.  In  ordinary  social  in- 
tercourse Mrs.  Morton  was  a  trifle  dread- 
ed by  Ann  Wendell,  who  felt  that  her 
own  ways  were  not  as  the  ways  of  these 
people  ;  but  in  matters  of  graver  nature 
no  human  being  would  have  awed  or 
stayed  the  spinster  for  a  moment. 

There  was  a  hearty  welcome  from 
Edward  Morton,  and  a  kind  but  not 
over -hearty  greeting  from  his  mother, 
who,  as  Ned  said  afterwards,  had  on  a 
black  silk  dress  and  her  sternest  expres- 
sion, and  who,  with  the  light  of  battle 
in  her  eyes,  looked  at  the  rosy,  plump 
little  woman  as  if  she  were  an  emissary 
from  the  camp  of  a  foe. 

Ann  Wendell  talked  very  little  at  any 
time,  and  was  unskilled  in  the  civilized 
art  of  saying  non-committal  nothings. 
The  winds  and  the  storms  interested  her, 
and  she  spoke  of  them,  but  with  an  un- 
common earnestness ;  and  this  was  be- 
cause she  had  been  born  on  Cape  Cod, 
and  they  had  been  the  rough  playmates 
of  her  calm  and  ordered  childhood. 
But  her  talk  about  weather  was  almost 
the  only  minor  chat  she  knew  how  to 
use.  She  was  disturbed  as  she  came  in 
by  the  presence  of  Edward  Morton,  and 
thinking  he  might  leave  before  long  was 
relieved  when  Mrs.  Morton,  who  felt 
the  need  of  a  little  neutral  conversation, 


1884.] 


In  War  Time. 


435 


began  with  the  usual  commonplace  in- 
troductories. 

"  Did  you  walk  over,  Miss  Wendell  ? 
What  a  famous  walker  you  are  !  In 
these  delicious  May  days  it  is  a  pleasure 
to  breathe.  But  you  ought  to  wear  a 
veil ;  the  wind  burns  one  so  badly." 

"  Yes,  I  walked.  It  is  n't  very  far. 
I  have  never  been  brought  up  to  wear 
veils  ; ' '  and  then  she  added  with  con- 
secutive exactness  of  reply,  "  You  men- 
tioned the  weather ;  I  don't  feel  quite 
sure  about  it.  It  looks  like  a  northeast- 
er brewing,  and  you  know  that  makes 
one  anxious.  It 's  so  bad  for  the  fisher- 


men. 

Mrs.  Morton  did  not  know,  but  she 
felt  faintly  amused,  which  was  well  just 
at  this  time. 

"Indeed,  I  hardly  ever  notice  the 
weather  much.  I  am  luckily  one  of  those 
happy  people  who  have  no  interest  in 
the  weather-cock." 

"  I  wish  I  had  not,"  said  her  son.  "  I 
think  old  Nick  invented  the  east  wind." 

"  The  winds  are  all  of  God's  sending, 
Edward,"  returned  Ann,  gently  shaking 
her  head,  and  with  some  mild  censure 
in  her  tones,  while  Mrs.  Morton  looked 
up  abruptly,  with  displeased  surprise 
that  this  woman  should  address  her  eld- 
est son  in  this  familiar  fashion.  She 
had  heard  her  do  so  before,  but  just  now 
was  doubly  ready  to  make  disagreeable 
comments. 

"  And  so  are  many  unpleasant  things, 
Miss  Ann,"  said  Edward,  smiling.  "  But 
you  see,  if  the  winds  were  predestined,  I 
was  predestined  to  abuse  them,  and  so  it 's 
all  a  part  of  the  foreordained  arrange- 
ments of  the  universe."  He  liked  to 
puzzle  Arm  Wendell. 

"  Yes,  I  dare  say,"  returned  Ann,  se- 
riously, getting  her  mind  in  order  for  a 
skirmish  on  free  will,  and  the  like. 

"  My  dear  Ned,"  said  Mrs.  Morton, 
smiling,  "  you  are  a  great  preacher  lost. 
Won't  you  take  off  your  cloak,  Miss 
Wendell  ?  " 

"No,  thank  you,"  she  replied.     "I 


have  but  a  few  minutes.  I  came  over 
to  talk  to  you  about  a  thing  which  has 
been  on  my  mind ;  a  matter  "  — 

"  And  shall  I  leave  you  with  mother?  " 

"Is  it  about  Miss  Hester  Gray?" 
asked  Mrs.  Morton,  who  was  getting  im- 
patient. 

"  Yes,  it  is  about  her ;  but  I  was  think- 
ing that  perhaps  your  son  "  — 

"  If  it  is  about  Hester  I  should  pre- 
fer that  Mr.  Morton  stayed.  We  were 
discussing  that  very  disagreeable  affair 
when  you  came  in,  and  as  Edward  rep- 
resents his  father,  just  now,  it  is  my 
wish  that  he  remain.  Will  you  have  the 
kindness  to  go  on,  Miss  Wendell  ?  " 

Ann  did  not  like  it,  but  the  formal 
directness  of  this  speech  in  no  way 
troubled  her ;  and  she  felt  that  after  all 
it  was  a  family  matter,  and  that  Mrs. 
Morton  had  a  right  to  choose  who  should 
be  present. 

"  It  must  be  as  you  like.  You  know 
—  I  suppose  you  know  —  that  Arthur 
has  asked  Hester  to  marry  him,  and 
that  she  has  said  she  would." 

"Yes,  I  have  heard  as  much,"  re- 
turned Mrs.  Morton,  stiffly. 

"  I  am  sorry,  very  sorry,  about  it.  I 
did  not  think  it  would  have  come  about 
so  soon,  or  I  should  have  felt  it  my  duty 
to  speak  of  it  before.  I  am  to  blame, 
because  I  know,  and  I  think  you  must 
know,  that  it  is  a  thing  which  can  never 
be." 

"  Never  be  !  "  broke  in  Edward. 
"  Why,  what  reason  on  earth,  Miss 
Ann,  can  you  have  to  say  that  ?  ' 

"  Be  so  good  as  to  keep  quiet,  Ed- 
ward !  *'  exclaimed  his  mother.  "  I  am 
glad  to  hear  a  little  common  sense  from 
some  one.  ,  Pray  go  on,  Miss  Wendell. 
I  quite  agree  with  you." 

A  little  puzzled,  Ann  hesitated  for  a 
moment,  but  only  for  a  moment.  "I 
was  afraid,"  she  continued,  "  that  I  was 
wrong.  It  is  very  difficult  to  be  always 
right,  but  I  could  not  see  how  any  one 
who  knew  what  we  know  could  just 
look  on  and  say  nothing." 


436 


In  War  Time. 


[October, 


"Knew  what  we  know?"  repeated 
Mrs.  Morton.  "  I  don't  quite  clearly 
understand  you." 

"  Nor  I,"  added  Edward. 

"  And  yet  you  do  know  that  when 
Captain  Gray  was  dying  he  said  over 
and  over  that  it  was  your  husband  who 
killed  him ;  and  can  a  dying  man  lie  ? 
The  law  says  he  cannot." 

"  And  have  you  really  kept  that  non- 
sense in  your  head  all  this  time  ? ''  ex- 
claimed Mrs.  Morton. 

"  I  have  had  it  on  my  mind,"  replied 
Ann.  "  But  it  is  not  nonsense.  The 
law  says  "  — 

"  But  the  law  deals  thus  only  with 
the  sane  !  "  exclaimed  Mrs.  Morton,  be- 
wildered an  instant  by  the  firm  hold 
which  this  incident  had  obtained  on 
Ann's  faith. 

"  What  does  this  all  mean,  mother  ?  " 
said  Edward.  "  I  have  listened  simply 
with  astonishment,  but  our  good  friend 
Miss  Ann  is  not  a  rash  or  hasty  talk- 
er. Please  explain  it  to  me.  What 
does  it  mean  ?  " 

*'  It  is  easily  explained,  Edward.  Hes- 
ter's father  died  delirious  at  the  hospi- 
tal, and  unhappily  occupied  the  bed  next 
to  your  father.  Something  your  father 
said  put  it  in  Captain  Gray's  mind  that 
the  shot  which  finally  cost  him  his  life 
was  fired  by  your  father.  This  idea  in- 
cessantly haunted  his  brain,  and  at  last 
was  so  annoying  that  we  were  obliged  to 
move  your  father  before  it  was  quite 
prudent.  I  have  heard  that  poor  Gray 
raved  about  this  delusion  until  he  died." 

"But" — said  Ann. 

"One  moment,  excuse  me,"  continued 
Mrs.  Morton.  "  This  is  the  simple  state- 
ment of  what  happened.  Mr.  Morton 
said  it  was  impossible  and  absurd ;  Dr. 
Lagrange  and  Dr.  Wendell  said  the 
same ;  and  now  comes  Miss  Wendell  to 
ask  us  to  consider  this  story  from  a 
tragic  point  of  view  !  " 

It  certainly  did  seem  to  Edward  as 
nearly  ludicrous  as  so  grave  a  matter 
could  be. 


"  Does  n't  it  seem  strange,  Miss  Ann, 
that  you,  of  all  these  various  people, 
should  be  the  only  one  to  continue  to 
think  seriously  of  this  matter  ?  Cannot 
you  see  in  what  an  exceptional  position 
it  places  you  ?  Can  you  be  right,  and 
all  these  others  who  know  more  of  it 
than  you  altogether  wrong  ?  Surely  you 
cannot  have  reflected  upon  the  mat- 
ter." 

"  But  he  said  it,  —  he  said  it,"  urged 
Ann,  firmly.  For  years  she  had  brood- 
ed over  this,  and  now  it  had  become  for 
her  a  fact  not  to  be  questioned.  To 
pass  it  over  in  silence  appeared  an  in- 
conceivable mode  of  dealing  with  what 
was  for  her  an  awful  reality. 

"  Said  it !  Of  course  he  said  it,"  an- 
swered Mrs.  Morton ;  "  I  heard  him  say 
it.  But  what  then  ?  Dying  men  say 
many  silly  things,  and  Dr.  Lagrange 
told  me  that  this  was  perfectly  nonsensi- 
cal. In  fact,  how  could  the  man  know 
who  hurt  him,  in  such  a  scene  as  that  ? j: 

"  But  Colonel  Morton  told  him  it  was 
so,"  replied  Ann. 

"  Told  him !  Nonsense.  That,  at 
least,  is  distinctly  untrue." 

"  Your  husband  will  not  say  so,  I  am 
sure,"  insisted  Ann. 

"  And  I  am  as  sure  he  will,"  said 
Edward.  "  I  never  heard  the  story  be- 
fore, but  of  all  the  absurd  things  I  ever 
did  hear  this  seems  to  me  the  most 


so." 

"  Indeed,  I  agree  with  you,"  said 
Mrs.  Morton. 

"And  how  could  you,  Miss  Ann,  of 
all  people,"  urged  Edward,  "  entertain 
for  a  moment  such  an  idea  ?  Cannot 
you  see  what  an  impossible  thing  it  is, 
and  what  mischief  it  may  make  ?  ' 

"  We  must  do  our  duty,  and  leave  the 
issues  to  God.  It  is  true,  —  I  am  sure 
it  is  true.  I  think  I  am  sure,"  she 
added,  recalling  what  Dr.  Lagrange  was 
reported  to  have  said.  "  Even  if  you 
do  not  credit  it,  Hester  must  be  enabled 
to  use  her  own  judgment  upon  it.  I 
shall  tell  her." 


1884.] 


In  War  Time. 


437 


"  No,  by  heavens,  no ! "  cried  Ed- 
ward, angrily. 

"  But  I  must." 

"  You  cannot  dream  of  such  a  course," 
exclaimed  Mrs.  Morton.  "  Remember 
that  my  husband,  Arthur,  all  of  us,  are 
concerned  !  It  seems  to  me,  Miss  Wen- 
dell, a  strange  return  for  what  we  have 
tried  to  do  for  your  brother." 

"  Mother,  mother !  "  said  Edward. 

Ann  began  to  see  that  there  were 
several  sides  to  this  question,  clear  as  it 
had  seemed  to  her,  plain  as  she  had 
thought  that  it  must  be  to  every  one. 

"  I  am  not  ungrateful.  We  owe  you 
much,"  and  her  eyes  filled.  "  I  have  not 
wanted  to  be  unjust,  and  least  of  all  to 
you  and  yours." 

"  Oh,  my  mother  did  not  mean  that," 
declared  Edward. 

"  No,"  assented  Mrs.  Morton,  "  I  did 
not ;  but  when  such  absolute  nonsense 
is  talked,  how  can  we  stop  to  choose  our 
words ! ' 

Ann  was  hurt  and  troubled.  "  And 
what  can  I  do?':  she  asked,  much 
moved.  "  I  see  before  me  a  duty.  To 
you  it  is  absurd.  And  yet  it  remains. 
I  ask  you,  as  a  Christian  woman,  what 
can  I  do  ?  " 

"  Do  ?  Do  nothing,"  returned  Mrs. 
Morton. 

"  Wait,  at  least,  till  I  hear  from  my 
father,"  urged  Edward,  sensibly,  little 
knowing  the  train  of  events  his  purpose 
was  to  start. 

"  You  will  believe  him,  I  presume  ?  " 
said  Mrs.  Morton. 

"  If  he  can  say  that  it  was  not  so,  and 
can  show  us  that  it  was  not,  I  shall  be- 
lieve." 

Edward  was  somewhat  amused  at  her 
doubts,  but  also  much  relieved.  "  That 
will  answer  perfectly.  And  you  and  I 
will  talk  it  all  over.  I  am  sure  I  can 
satisfy  you,  —  quite  sure.  And  you 
will  not  speak  of  this  to  Hester  until 
we  have  heard  from  my  father." 

*  No,  I  will  not ;  not  now,  at  least." 

"Then  it  is  settled?" 


"  Yes,  for  the  present; "  and  she  rose 
and  went  away,  not  quite  as  well  satis- 
fied with  herself  as  she  had  been. 

"  Yet  I  was  right,"  she  thought ;  "  if 
it  were  only  an  accident  of  war,  I  should 
still  be  right !  " 

"  Well,  my  son,"  said  Mrs.  Morton, 
rather  illogically,  "  you  see  what  comes 
of  association  with  such  people  as  these, 
and  how  it  ends  ?  " 

Edward  smiled.  "  Hardly.  But,  moth- 
er, did  you  ever  dream  or  hear  of  such 
inconceivable  nonsense  ?  Poor  Miss  Ann 
has  lived  so  out  of  the  world  that  she  is 
really  to  be  excused ;  but  the  mischief 
of  it  all,  mother,  — r  the  mischief  !  Why, 
the  mere  whisper  of  such  a  thing  would 
craze  a  girl  like  Hester ;  and  then  — 
poor  Arty ! ' 

"  I  said  it  could  n't  possibly  come  to 
any  good,  and  now  you  see." 

"  But  it  must  come  to  good,  mother, 
and  it  will.  And  now  you  are  going  to 
try  to  see  it  as  I  do,  and  think  what  it 
will  be  for  me  to  have  a  sister  like  Hes- 
ter." 

"  I  shall  do,  as  I  have  always  done, 
the  best  for  my  children ;  but  I  am  sure 
your  father  won't  like  it." 

"  Wait  till  he  hears  what  I  say,"  he 
returned.  "  I  shall  write  at  once.  I  can- 
not get  this  thing  out  of  my  head.  It 
seems  to  me  so  full  of  danger." 

"  It  is  certainly  very  disagreeable. 
You  may  say  to  Arthur,  Ned,  that  I  will 
think  it  over.  I  cannot  see  my  way  to 
any  conclusion  as  yet ;  and  meanwhile  I 
would  rather  not  talk  to  him  about  it." 

"  But  won't  he  feel  hurt  ?  " 

"  That  he  should  have  thought  about 
before,"  she  said,  and  went  upstairs, 
resolving  that  she  would  talk  it  all  over 
with  Alice  Westerley,  who  had  heard 
this  strange  tale,  and  who,  as  her,  friend 
remembered,  had  simply  smiled  at  it  as 
a  matter  of  odd  interest. 

Edward  wrote  at  once  to  his  father, 
inclosing  a  note  from  Arthur,  and  with 
less  patience  than  was  usual  with  him 
awaited  a  reply. 


438 


In  War  Time. 


[October, 


XX 


Mrs.  Grace  by  degrees  recovered  from 
the  shock  of  her  tilt  with  Mrs.  Wester- 
ley.  Hers  was  a  moral  constitution  not 
prone  to  suffer  long  from  wounds,  and 
she  soon  began  again  to  take  a  compla- 
cent interest  in  the  affairs  of  her  neigh- 
bors. She  had  not  quite  liked  a  letter 
she  had  received  from  Colonel  Fox,  and 
had  also  had  some  difficulty  in  explain- 
ing to  Mr.  Grace  what  she  had  done  to 
justify  her  cousin's  refusal  to  act  longer 
as  her  trustee.  At  present  she  was  a 
good  deal  taken  up  with  her  daughter, 
who  was  malarious  from  much  furtive 
ingestion  of  bon-bons ;  but  the  mother 
still  found  leisure  to  do  a  little  dull  talk 
when  occasion  offered.  It  had  seemed 
to  her  that  it  was  wise  to  ignore  Alice 
Westerley's  rebuffs,  and  she  therefore 
lost  no  occasion  to  speak  to  her,  —  a 
course  alike  unpleasing  and  amazing  to 
her  sensitive  victim. 

There  had  been  a  meeting  at  Miss 
Clemson's  house,  and  the  rooms  had 
been  filled  with  women  interested  in 
the  care  of  the  orphans  made  by  the 
war.  As  usual  Mrs.  Morton  kept  things 
straight,  and  so  checked  diffusive  talk 
that  the  work  was  soon  over  and  as- 
signed to  committees.  Then  most  of 
the  women  went  away,  and  the  few  who 
were  left  fell  to  chatting. 

Miss  Clemson  looked  taller  than  ever 
in  her  small  rooms,  and  also  more  gaunt, 
having  adopted  a  new  and  wholesome 
but  implacable  kind  of  dress,  which 
seemed  to  have  disposed,  once  for  all,  of 
the  kindly  curves  of  the  human  frame. 

"Where  did  you  get  the  pattern  of 
that  table  cover  ?  "  asked  Mrs.  Grace. 

"  Is  n't  it  quaint  ?  "  said  Miss  Clem- 
son.  "  Miss  Wendell  made  it ;  or  rath- 
er, to  be  precise,  Miss  Gray  made  it 
after  a  design  which  Miss  Wendell  gave 
her ;  but  I  added  the  fringe  myself." 

"  It  is  very  nice,"  assented  Mrs.  Grace. 
"  I  suppose  we  shall  soon  have  news  of 


Hester  Gray  and  Arthur  Morton.  But 
how  his  mother  will  hate  it !  Not  a  cent, 
my  dear.  And  in  her  old  age,  too !  " 

"  Really,"  returned  Miss  Clemson, 
"  the  interest  which  marriage  appears  to 
possess  for  some  people,  Mrs.  Grace,  is 
curious  to  me." 

"  But  why  curious  ?  "  asked  Mrs.  Bul- 
lock. "  I  can  understand  your  own  in- 
difference to  it,  my  dear.  It's  a  bad 
habit  you  acquired  young :  "  which  was 
true,  since  in  her  blonde  youth  Miss 
Clemson  had  been  fatal ;  but  then  and 
always  had  vaguely  resented  the  admi- 
ration of  men. 

"  Why  ?  '  she  returned.  "  If  you 
would  read  Quetelet  or  Buckle,  you 
would  see  that  marriage  is  purely  a  mat- 
ter of  statistics.  Given  so  many  men 
and  women,  there  will  be  just  so  many 
marriages.  The  unit  in  such  matters  is 
of  mere  fractional  value." 

"  I  don't  think  I  quite  approve  of 
your  views,"  exclaimed  Mrs.  Grace. 

"  I  dare  say,"  said  Miss  Clemson, 
indifferently;  and  then  Mrs.  Bullock 
laughed. 

At  that  moment  Alice  Westerley, 
who  overheard  them,  and  who  was  in 
high  good  humor,  joined  the  group. 

"  Don't  any  of  you  trust  Jane  Clem- 
son on  the  subject  of  marriage,"  she 
said.  "  After  filling  her  wigwam  with 
countless  scalps,  she  sits  down  and  says 
that  nobody  else  ought  to  go  on  the  war- 
path." 

"  I  don't  think,"  rejoined  Miss  Clem- 
son, who  took  all  discussion  gravely,  — 
"  I  don't  think  that  marriage  should  be 
the  single  goal  of  a  woman's  existence. 
Let  us  educate  women  as  well  as  men 
are  educated,  and  then  they  will  have  so 
many  higher  aims  in  life  that  they  will 
not  condescend  to  dress  and  talk  and 
dance  merely  to  please  men." 

"  I  should  think  that  just  a  little  ig- 
norance might  be  conducive  to  bliss  in 
those  days,"  said  Alice.  "  I  should  like 
to  start  a  rival  college,  with  professor- 
ships of  the  art  of  pleasing.  What  not 


1884.] 

to  know  should  be  one  branch  of  study. 
Your  wise  girl  graduates  would  be  no- 
where." 

"  Men  will  never  truly  respect  us," 
returned  Miss  Clemson,  "  until  we  com- 
pete with  them  in  their  universities  and 
in  their  professions." 

"  I  shall  advise  Arty  to  apply  for  ad- 
mission at  Vassar." 

"  I  don't  think  he  could  pass." 

"  Perhaps  not.  It  would  depend 
somewhat  on  the  age  of  the  examiners. 
But  I  must  speak  to  Helen  Morton  be- 
fore I  go,"  and  she  turned  away,  laugh- 
ing. 

"  It  is  impossible  for  Alice  to  discuss 
anything  seriously,"  said  Miss  Clemson. 
"It  is  really  a  sad  defect  in  so  fine  a 
nature." 

"  I  quite  agree  with  you,"  murmured 
Mrs.  Grace,  to  whom  the  remark  was 
not  addressed. 

Miss  Clemson  rather  resented  her  as- 
senting opinion,  but  said  nothing  fur- 
ther. 

Then  Mrs.  Bullock  spoke  with  de- 
cisiveness about  the  warmth  of  the 
weather. 

"  Yes.  It  seems  nearly  impossible  to 
regulate  the  temperature  of  one's  rooms. 
I  looked  at  my  thermometers  before  you 
came,  but  they  don't  quite  agree.  One 
does  expect  thermometers  to  agree,  even 
if  people  do  not.  Please  to  open  that 
window  behind  you,  Mrs.  Bullock." 

"  Dr.  Withers,"  remarked  Mrs.  Grace, 
"  says  that  I  keep  my  house  too  cool ; 
but  Sarah  —  she  is  never  hot  enough." 

"  Dr.  Withers  !  "  exclaimed  Mrs.  Bul- 
lock. "  I  thought  Dr.  Wendell  attended 
you." 

"Not  now.  I  could  not  get  him  to 
come  into  my  views.  He  says  Sarah 
has  no  liver." 

'  Rather  odd,  that,  I  must  say,"  com- 
mented Miss  Clemson. 

"  Yes,  was  n't  it  ?  —  when  I  know  she 
is  just  all  liver  and  malaria,  and  that 's 
what 's  the  matter  with  her.  But  then 
he  never  was  of  much  account  about 


In  War  Tune.  439 

livers,  and  they  do  say  his  practice  is 
going  to  pieces.  Mrs.  Starr  has  left 
him,  and  Mrs.  Evans  is  going  to  give 
him  up." 

"  I  am  afraid,"  said  Mrs.  Bullock, 
who  had  also  her  views  as  concerned 
doctors, —  "  I  am  afraid  he  does  n't  con- 
sider constitutions  enough.  There  is 
everything  in  knowing  people's  consti- 
tutions." 

"I  hope  you  are  both  wrong,"  re- 
sponded Miss  Clemson,  who  liked  Wen- 
dell. "  I  never  change  my  doctor." 

"  Oh,  don't  you  ?  "  said  Mrs.  Grace. 

"  Because  I  never  have  one ! "  cried 
Miss  Clemson,  laughing. 

During  this  talk  Mrs.  Westerley,  who 
was  pretending  to  sympathize  with  a 
sad  tale  of  departing  cooks,  and  like 
grievances,  was  keenly  listening  to  the 
chat  beside  her.  She  knew  that  Wen- 
dell was  not  keeping  his  patients,  and 
a  sense  of  indignant  annoyance  arose 
in  her  mind  that  this  wretched  woman 
should  dare  to  sit  in  judgment  on  a  man 
like  Wendell.  She  felt  more  and  more 
that  she,  at  least,  must  stand  by  him. 
Then  a  new  phase  of  the  talk  caught 
her  ear. 

"  I  don't  think,"  continued  Miss  Clem- 
son, who  never  allowed  abuse  of  the  ab- 
sent, "that  people  here  appreciate  Dr. 
Wendell's  abilities.  He  ought  to  be  in 
a  great  city.  I  think  myself  that  it  is 
very  difficult  to  judge  of  a  physician. 
We  have  n't  the  opportunities  or  even 
the  knowledge." 

"  I  dare  say,"  replied  Mrs.  Bullock, 
who  was  facile  in  abandoning  her  opin- 
ions. "And  I  must  say  this  for  Dr. 
Wendell :  he  went  last  week  to  see  my 
farmer's  wife,  and  she  and  three  of  her 
children  had  small-pox ;  and  I  can  tell 
you  if  I  were  a  doctor  I  certainly  would 
not  attend  cases  of  small-pox  !  I  did 
hear  that  Dr.  Withers  would  n't  go." 

"  Oh,  I  suppose  it  is  n't  his  specialty," 
explained  Mrs.  Grace;  "and  after  all, 
it  is  their  business." 

"  Still,  I  think  it  is  a  brave  thing," 


440                                           In  War  Time.                                  [October, 

said  Miss  Clemson,  "  to  face  diseases  as  replied   the   young   lady,  beginning  to 

they  do.     I  call  a  man  brave  who  just  grow  quite  unreasonably  warm. 

coolly  goes  as  an  every-day  affair,  and  "  Oh,  but  he  has  told  me  all  about  it," 

takes  these  risks.     It  is  the  only  pursuit  said  Wilmington. 

in  quiet  times  in  which  the  peril  is  in-  "  Then   you  had  best   not  believe  a 

cessant   and  the  call  for  quiet  courage  word  he   says,"  she   returned,  smiling. 

constant."  "  I  never  do." 

"  Well,  I  am  glad  my  doctor  does  n't  "  Watch  him  well,  my  dear ;  watch 

go   to   such   cases,"   said   Mrs.    Grace,  him  well.     The  godfather  who  could  re- 

"  But  I  must  speak  to  Mrs.  Morton."  nounce  for  any  of  that  Morton  breed  the 

Alice   listened   eagerly.      It   soothed  devil  and  the  —      What 's  the  rest  of 

her  immeasurably  to  feel  that  here  was  it  ?  ' 

some  one  who  could  call  Wendell  brave.  "  How  should   I   know  ?  "    answered 

She  would  have  liked  to  kiss  the  tall  Hester.     "  I  never  was  a  godfather." 

spinster,  who  had  thus  ignorantly  poured  '  "  Nor  I.     But  there  is  something  they 

balm   on    her   wounds,   but    contented  renounce.     I  would  n't  do  it  for  Ed- 

herself  with   saying,  as  she  turned  to  ward,  and  I  would  n't  for  Arthur.     Oh, 

leave,  —  you  are  a  rash  young  woman  ! " 

"  My  dear,  how  well  you  look  !    And  "  But  I  am  not  to  be  a  godfather ; 

what  is  your  secret  for  keeping  a  com-  and  with  your   counsel,"   she  returned 

plexion  like  a  baby's  ?     It  must  be  the  archly,  "  and  your  experience  of  those 

way  you  're  dressed ;  but  then  you  wo-  things  he  ought  to  have  had  renounced 

men  who  never  think  about  such  things  for  him,  don't  you   think  we   may  get 

have  always    the  nicest   dresses ; "    for  along  ?  ' 

which   little   fib   let   us   hope   the  fair  "  Oh,  it 's  '  we '  now  !     Be  very  good, 

widow  may  be    forgiven,  and  her  flat-  and  tell  me  what  you  want  for  a  wed- 

tery  set   down  to  an   honest   desire  to  ding  present." 

pay  her  debts  with  usury  thereto.  "  A  house,  and  a  carriage  and  four," 

Altogether  the  morning  had  been  a  she  cried,  laughing. 

good  one  for  her  lover,  and  with  a  new  "  Gracious,  I  shall  be  a  ruined  man ! 

tenderness  and  a  pride  that  set  her  won-  But    here    come   Mrs.  Westerley   and 

dering  if  Fox  himself  would  have  stood  Mrs.  Morton." 

this  other  test  of  courage,  she  went  out  "  Oh !  "   exclaimed  Hester,  who  had 

into  the  May  sunshine  feeling  in  pleas-  not  seen  the  latter  lady  for  some  time, 

ant  accord  with  the  weather.  and  who  dreaded  the  encounter.     Mrs. 

Then  Mrs.  Morton  overtook  her,  and  Westerley  kissed  her,  and  Mrs.  Morton 

said  that  she  would  walk  to  her  house,  as  asked  how  she  was,  and  was  coldly  civil, 

she  had  something  to  say  to  her  ;  and  so,  as  such  a  woman  well  knows  how  to  be ; 

leaving  the  other  women,  they  turned  while  poor  Hester,  who  fully  understood 

into   Mrs.   Westerley's    gate.     In    the  that  she  was  by  no  means  to  be  wel* 

drawing-room   they  found   Hester   and  corned  into  the  Morton  family,  felt  as 

Mr.  Wilmington,  who  was  apt  to  make  if  no  corner  could  be  undesirably  smal] 

some  excuse  to  see  Mrs.  Westerley  as  as  a  refuge. 

often  as  he  could.     He  had  not  misused  Wilmington  was  aware  that  there  was 

his  leisure,  and  in  fact  preferred,  as  he  an  unpleasant  check  in  Hester's  love  af» 

said,  one  woman  at  a  time.  fair,  and  ho  also  liked    to  annoy  Mrs. 

;'  So,  Miss  Hester,"  he  had  remarked,  Morton  at  times  ;  so  partly  from  disap-. 

Master  Arthur  has  been  saying  pretty  proval  of  her  present  course,  and  partly 

things  to  you,  I  hear  ? "  from   habit,  he  lapsed  into  the  repeti- 

"  Indeed,  you  must  be  misinformed,"  tions  which  were  apt  to  overtake  him 


1884.] 


In  War  Time. 


Free  Public  Lit 

441 


when  with  more  than  one  person,  or 
when  it  pleased  him  not  to  help  the 
talk. 

"  I  don't  think  Edward  is  very  well," 
said  Mrs.  Morton,  speaking  past  Hes- 
ter. 

"  No,  he  is  n't  well,"  muttered  Wil- 
mington. "  Looks  sick." 

"  And  I  have  lost  two  cows  in  a 
week." 

"  Two  cows  in  a  week !  " 

"  Don't  you  think  that  is  atrociously 
bad  luck,  Mr.  Wilmington  ?  " 

"  Yes,  that 's  bad  luck." 

Then  Mrs.  Morton  felt  forced  to  fall 
back  on  Hester,  as  Mrs.  Westerley, 
standing  apart,  had  just  said,  "  Pardon 
me,  Helen;  I  must  open  these  notes." 
She  began  to  talk  to  Hester  about  her 
studies,  and  was  presently  struck  with 
the  girl's  gentle  self-possession. 

"  And  was  Edward  a  good  teacher  ?  " 
she  inquired,  watching  her  critically. 

"  Surely,"  thought  Hester,  quite  con- 
scious of  being  under  inspection,  "  a 
mother-in-law  that  is  to  be  is  terrible ; " 
and  then,  remembering  whose  mother 
she  was,  her  pride  melted.  "  But  what 
woman  would  want  to  let  a  girl  like  me 
marry  such  a  son  as  Arty  ?  "  And  think- 
ing thus,  she  replied,  "  Oh,  Mrs.  Mor- 
ton, Mr.  Edward  was  the  best  of  teach- 
ers ;  and  who  is  there  like  him  ?  I  think 
him  the  best  of  men." 

Wilmington  opened  his  eyes  at  her, 
murmured,  "  Indeed ! "  and  relapsed  into 
what  might  have  seemed  slumber  to 
those  who  did  not  know  his  ways. 

"  Yes,  and  life  has  been  hard  for  him, 
poor  fellow ! ' 

"  But  perhaps  that  is  why  he  makes 
it  gentler  for  every  one  else.  I  think  in 
the  old  Round  Table  days  there  might 
have  been  people  like  him,  but  not 
now." 

Hester  had  lost  her  terror  in  the 
pleasant  task  of  praising  her  hero,  Ed- 
ward. 

"  You  are  a  wise  little  woman."  It 
was  enough  to  talk  about  Edward  to 


gi 


satisfy  Mrs.  Morton,  and 
been  artlessly  clever  in  her 
Then  Mr.  Wilmington  woke 

o 

is  n't  worth  much  compared  to  Arthur," 
he  said ;  "  rather  a  sentimental  young 
man." 

Mrs.  Morton  laughed.  "  Oh,"  she 
said,  gayly,  "  that  hook  was  not  too 
well  baited  !  Come  and  dine  with  us  to- 
morrow." 

"  On  one  condition,"  he  returned, 
looking,  as  Mrs.  Westerley  afterwards 
declared,  as  wicked  as  the  scapegoat : 
"  and  that  is  that  I  may  have  Miss  Hes- 
ter." 

Mrs.  Morton  was  equal  to  the  occa- 
sion. "  Certainly,"  she  assented,  in  her 
most  quiet  tone,  "  we  shall  expect  you, 
Miss  Gray." 

"  But  Hester  dines  with  me,"  rejoined 
Mrs.  Westerley,  promptly. 

"  Then  you  will  both  come,"  con- 
tinued Mrs.  Morton,  with  frosty  polite- 
ness. "  At  seven,  dear." 

"  You  are  very  good,  Mrs.  Morton," 
Hester  replied,  "  but  I  think  I  promised 
to  dine  here  with  Mr.  Edward  and  Mr. 
Arthur  Morton." 

"What,  all  the  family!  You  will 
have  to  endure  me  quite  alone,  Mr.  Wil- 
mington ; "  and  then  Mrs.  Morton  felt 
that  somehow  the  battle  was  not  for  her 
to-day,  but  she  had,  nevertheless,  a  dis- 
tinct sense  of  approval  of  the  calmness 
of  her  young  adversary  under  fire. 

In  a  little  while  Mr.  Wilmington 
went  away  with  Hester,  and  made  him- 
self pleasant,  as  he  knew  full  well  how 
to  do,  and  the  two  elder  women  were 
left  alone. 

"  I  wonder,  Alice,  that  you  allow  that 
woman  Mrs.  Grace  to  speak  to  you. 
Edward  calls  her  the  '  news  fiend.'  Is  n't 
that  delightfully  descriptive  ?  ' 

"  My  dear,  I  never  cut  people  now. 
It  is  an  endless  annoyance.  You  have 
to  be  so  on  your  guard  not  to  speak  to 
them.  I  don't  know  how  it  may  be  with 
you,  but  time  does  betray  one  so.  I 
want  to  scalp  some  woman  to-day,  and 


442 


In  War  Time. 


[October, 


in  a  year  I  only  care  just  to  pinch  her 
a  little,  and  in  another  year  I  am  indif- 
ferent about  her  altogether.  I  think  I 
like  that  big  angel  Ned's  views.  He  told 
me  that  he  quarreled  outright  with  a 
man  once  in  Texas,  and  that  it  was  like 
having  measles :  it  prevented  him  from 
ever  quarreling  with  anybody  else." 

"  Oh,  there  is  no  one  like  that  boy. 
But  he  can  be  angry,  I  assure  you." 

"  Of  course  he  can.  A  man  is  worth 
little  who  cannot." 

"  I  have  always  lived  with  men  who 
were  capable  enough  in  that  line.  And 
do  you  know,  dear,  that  is  one  of  the 
things  I  never  did  like  about  Dr.  Wen- 
dell. He  seems  to  be  quite  unable 
to  get  into  a  good  honest  rage  at  any- 
thing." 

"  Perhaps  he  controls  himself." 

"  No,  the  man  is  too  gentle.  He  has, 
I  think,  a  —  well,  a  sleek  disposition." 

"  Oh,  what  an  unpleasant  phrase, 
Helen  ! "  cried  her  friend,  coloring  slight- 
ly. "  I  think  you  are  unfair,  and  this 
matter  of  Arty's  has  made  you  irritable, 
too." 

"  Take  care,"  said  Mrs.  Morton,  play- 
fully shaking  her  finger  at  her  friend,  — 
"  take  care  !  It  is  n't  only  Mrs.  Grace 
who  talks  about  you.  I  have  always 
wanted  you  to  marry,  —  and  it  is  very 
good  of  me,  too,  dear,  —  but  not  Dr. 
Wendell,  Alice.  At  least  marry  a  gen- 
tleman." 

"  I  think  he  is  one,"  retorted  Alice, 
angry,  and  governing  herself  with  diffi- 
culty. 

"  A  kind  of  one ;  not  just  precisely 
our  kind." 

"  And  pray,  Helen,  what  are  our  kind 
like  ?  " 

"  You  know,  Alice,  quite  as  well  as  I 
do." 

"  I  don't  think  I  do,  or  if  I  do  I  am 
tired  of  our  kind.  When  I  mean  to 
marry  Dr.  Wendell  or  any  one,  I  will  let 
you  know." 

Then  Mrs.  Morton  understood  that 
she  had  said  enough,  and  made  up  her 


mind  that  her  friend  would  marry  Wen- 
dell. 

"  Well,  I  am  glad  that  you  are  not 
committed  in  any  way." 

"  Of  that  you  may  rest  assured,"  said 
Alice.  This  was  hardly  true,  but  she 
believed  that  she  had  a  fair  right  to  so 
construe  her  present  relations.  More 
and  more  had  she  felt  to-day  that  she 
was  keeping  him  and  herself  in  a  false 
position.  She  was  sore,  too,  from  the 
whips  of  these  idle  tongues.  Now  she 
would  end  it  all,  and  do  the  thing  and 
abide  by  it,  and  so  put  herself  where  no 
one  could  dare  to  talk  thus  to  her  of  the 
man  she  loved. 

"  But,  Helen,"  she  added,  "  what  was  it 
you  wanted  to  say  to  me  ?  Of  course 
it  was  n't  about  this.  I  think  we  may 
drop  Dr.  Wendell." 

"  No,  it  was  quite  another  matter  ;  " 
and  then  she  told  Alice  the  story  of  Miss 
Ann's  visit.  "  And  now  what  do  you 
think  of  it  ?  What  with  these  Wen- 
dells, and  this  absurd  love  affair  of  Ar- 
thur's, and  this  serio-comic  performance 
of  that  Yankee  old  maid,  I  am  what  my 
old  nurse  used  to  describe  as  '  about 
done  out.'  ' 

Alice  winced  a  little,  but,  keeping  her 
repeated  hurts  to  herself,  she  answered, 
"  I  don't  wonder.  But  is  it  so  bad,  after 
all  ?  Let  us  look  at  it  calmly.  I  warned 
you  about  Hester,  and  you  did  noth- 
ing." 

"  I  know,"  said  Mrs.  Morton,  grave- 


"  And  of  course  you  will  have  to 
yield." 

"  I  suppose  so,"  groaned  Mrs.  Mor- 
ton, who  was  what  Mrs.  Bullock  called 
"  low  in  her  mind." 

"  And  except  as  to  money,  what  can 
you  say?  The  girl  is  pretty,  well- 
mannered,  intelligent,  sweet-tempered. 
What  more  on  earth  can  you  want  ?  '' 

Mrs.  Morton  was  too  shrewd  to  talk 
to  Alice  as  she  had  done  to  Edward. 
u  Every  one  is  against  me,"  she  said  so 
plaintively  that  Alice  laughed  aloud. 


1884.] 


In  War  Time. 


443 


"  And  every  one  ought  to  be  against 
you." 

"  Edward  wants  to  give  him  money 
to  join  Colonel  Fox  in  his  iron  works," 
said  Mrs.  Morton  sorrowfully. 

"  Not  really  ?  How  hard  on  you, 
Helen  ! " 

"  You  are  really  too  outrageous," 
rejoined  the  injured  lady ;  "  but  it  is 
always  so  !  I  never  have  my  own 
way." 

Alice  smiled.  "  If  Hester  had  come 
to  you,  and  said,  '  Mr.  Morton  wants  to 
marry  me,  and  I  think  I  ought  not  to  let 
him  without  your  consent,'  you  would 
have  kissed  her,  and  said,  *  Now  that 's 
the  kind  of  girl  for  a  daughter ! ' 
Would  n't  you,  Helen  ?  " 

Mrs.  Morton  smiled  despite  herself. 
"  I  dare  say  I  should." 

"  You  always  do  come  right  in  the 
end.  But  I  overheard  you  say  to  Mr. 
Wilmington  that  Ned  was  not  so  well. 
Is  it  this  tragedy  of  Miss  Ann's  ? ' 

"  Partly  that,  I  think ;  and  I  am 
afraid  I  have  worried  him  about  Arty." 

"  The  more  reason  for  doing  so  no 
longer." 

"  Perhaps  you  are  right,  Alice.  I 
will  talk  to  Arty." 

"  Do,  dear.  And  about  the  other 
matter.  Miss  Wendell,  you  say,  has 
promised  to  be  silent,  and  Edward  has 
written,  and  asked  an  answer  by  cable  ?  " 

«  Yes." 

"  Then,"  continued  Alice,  "  you  can 
do  no  more.  Tell  Arty  you  must  wait 
to  hear  from  his  father,  but  of  course 
not  a  word  about  the  other  trouble.  In 
twelve  days  —  let  me  see,  that  will  be 
about  May  14th.  We  shall  hear  then, 
and  it  will  be  all  cleared  up,  even  to 
Ann's  satisfaction,  and  you  will  welcome 
this  dear  child  to  your  heart.  I  wish 
she  were  my  daughter." 

'  I  will  think  of  it,  dear.  How  good 
and  patient  you  are,  Alice  !  I  don't 
wonder  every  one  loves  you."  And  so 
the  two  women  cried  a  little,  and  kissed 
one  another,  and  Mrs.  Morton  went 


away  feeling  somehow  that  her  burden 
was  lighter,  while  Alice  went  upstairs 
happy  in  her  victory,  and  singing  like  a 
bird  for  pure  joy. 

By  and  by  she  sat  down  at  a  table 
near  to  the  window,  and,  after  a  mo- 
ment's thought,  wrote  thus  to  Wen- 
dell :  — 

"  I  wondered  why  you  had  not  been 
here  to-day,  but  now  I  know  it  is  be- 
cause you  have  cases  of  small  -  pox. 
Come  and  see  me  when  you  feel  it  to 
be  safe.  Tell  Hester  to  be  patient  and 
to  wait.  I  have  had  a  satisfactory  talk 
with  Mrs.  Morton.  As  soon  as  they 
hear  from  Colonel  Morton  everything 
will  come  right.  I  have  delayed  an- 
swering you  in  form,  partly  from  an  in- 
decision which  has  been  as  painful  to 
me  as  to  you,  as  you  must  know  by  this 
time.  But  now  I  mean  to  end  it,  and 
if  I  ask  you  after  this  to  wait  a  few  days 
you  will  not  mind  it,  I  am  sure.  I  have 
had  a  fancy  —  and  you  ought  to  be  glad 
to  think  that  I  am  yet  young  enough  to 
have  caprices  —  that  I  would  not  say, 
frankly,  Yes,  until  we  have  heard  from 
Colonel  Morton  about  this  other  mat- 
ter. Now  I  am  very  truly  Alice  Wes- 
terley ;  but  after  that  I  shall  be  very 
truly  yours.  A.  W." 

That  she  was  even  yet  quite  free 
from  indecision  cannot  be  said  ;  but  this 
was  all  that  was  left  of  it,  and  she  felt 
happier  than  she  had  done  for  many 
days. 

Decision  is  a  pleasant  inn  after  a 
troubled  journey  that  has  led  us  hither 
and  thither.  To  the  wholesome-minded 
guest  it  is  apt  to  open  wide  the  kind- 
liest hospitalities  of  hope,  where  we  are 
served  by  cheerful  fancies  and  feed  on 
what  we  will. 

Having  thus  ended  this  matter,  Alice 
looked  out  over  the  shrubbery  and 
across  the  hills  and  fields  ;  and  every- 
where the  little  riddles  of  last  autumn's 
thousand  seeming  deaths  were  being  an- 
swered in  the  swarming  life  of  spring. 
Birds  went  busily  from  bough  to  bough, 


444 


The  Battle  of  Lake   George. 


[October, 


with  wooings  in  which  there  was  little 
indecision.  The  air  was  dotted  with  in- 
sect life  forever  on  the  wing,  and  over 
all  a  bustling  western  wind  drove  a 
great  flock  of  clouds  across  the  sky. 

A  warm,  inquisitive  sunshine  stirred 
all  creation  with  throbs  of  reawakened 
life,  and  in  the  woman's  heart  also  was 
springtime,  and  mysterious  longings, 
and  growth  of  sweet  feminine  hopes, 
and  welcomes  for  the  tender  happiness 


which  promised  her  a  larger  and  yet  a 
truer  life  in  the  days  to  come.  Such 
sense  of  exaltation  to  higher  levels  of 
existence  and  its  better  purposes  comes 
instinctively  to  those  who  nobly  love. 

As  she  sat  and  thought,  Wendell's 
face  came  before  her,  with  its  prevalent 
undertone  of  sadness  and  its  air  of 
scholarly  refinement.  "  Not  a  gentle- 
man !  "'  she  murmured,  smiling.  "  Ah, 
we  shall  see ! ' 

8.  Weir  Mitchell 


THE  BATTLE  OF  LAKE  GEORGE. 

EARLY  in  1755,  the  British  and  colo-  peditions;  some  in  the  pay  of  the  prov- 
nial  authorities,  without  a  declaration  of  ince,  and  some  in  that  of  the  king.  It 
war,  attempted  a  series  of  combined  op-  remained  to  name  a  commander  for  the 
erations  to  repel  what  were  regarded  as  Crown  Point  enterprise.  Nobody  had 
encroachments  of  the  French.  One  of  power  to  do  so,  for  Braddock  was  not 
these  movements  was  directed  against  yet  come ;  but  that  time  might  not  be 
Fort  Duquesne,  and  resulted  in  the  de-  lost,  Shirley,  at  the  request  of  his  assem- 
feat  of  Braddock ;  another  against  the  bly,  took  the  responsibility  on  himself. 

If  he  had  named  a  Massachusetts  officer, 
it  would  have  roused  the  jealousy  of  the 
other  New  England  colonies ;  and  he 
therefore  appointed  William  Johnson,  of 
New  York,  thus  gratifying  that  impor- 
tant province  and  pleasing  the  Five  Na- 
tions, who  at  this  time  looked  on  John- 
son with  even  more  than  usual  favor. 
Hereupon,  in  reply  to  his  request,  Con- 
necticut voted  twelve  hundred  men,  New 
Hampshire  five  hundred,  and  Rhode 
proposed  an  attack  on  it  to  the  minis-  Island  four  hundred,  all  at  their  own 
try,  in  January ;  and  in  February,  with-  charge  ;  while  New  York,  a  little  later, 
out  waiting  their  reply,  he  laid  the  plan  promised  eight  hundred  more.  When, 
before  his  assembly.  They  accepted  it,  in  April,  Braddock  and  the  council  at 
and  voted  money  for  the  pay  and  main-  Alexandria  approved  the  plan  and  the 
tenance  of  twelve  hundred  men,  provid-  commander,  Shirley  gave  Johnson  the 
ed  the  adjacent  colonies  would  contrib-  commission  of  major-general  of  the 


French  in  Acadia,  ending  in  the  removal 
of  the  inhabitants  of  that  country.  The 
third,  against  Niagara,  was  never  com- 
pleted ;  while  the  fourth,  that  against 
Crown  Point,  led  to  a  curious  and  note- 
worthy passage-of-arms  on  the  banks  of 
Lake  George. 

Crown  Point  was  a  dangerous  neigh- 
bor which,  for  a  quarter  of  a  century, 
had  threatened  the  Northern  colonies. 
Shirley,  Governor  of  Massachusetts,  had 


ute   in  due  proportion.     Massachusetts 
showed  a  military  activity  worthy  of  the 


levies  of  Massachusetts  ;   and  the  gov- 
ernors of   the    other  provinces  contrib- 


reputation    she   had   won.      Forty  -  five  uting  to  the  expedition  gave  him  similar 

hundred  of  her  men,  or  one  in  eight  of  commissions  for  their  respective  contin- 

her  adult  males,  volunteered  to  fight  the  gents.     Never  did  general  take  the  field 

French,  and  enlisted  for  the  various  ex-  with  authority  so  heterogeneous. 


1884.] 


The  Battle  of  Lake  G-eorge. 


445 


He  had  never  seen  service,  and  knew 
nothing  of  war.  By  birth  he  was  Irish, 
of  good  family,  being  nephew  of  Ad- 
miral Sir  Peter  Warren,  who,  owning 
extensive  wild  lands  on  the  Mohawk, 
had  placed  the  young  man  in  charge  of 
them  nearly  twenty  years  before.  John- 
son was  born  to  prosper.  He  had  am- 
bition, energy,  an  active  mind,  a  tall, 
strong  person,  a  rough,  jovial  temper, 
and  a  quick  adaptation  to  his  surround- 
ings. He  could  drink  flip  with  Dutch 
boors,  or  madeira  with  royal  governors. 
He  liked  the  society  of  the  great,  would 
intrigue  and  flatter  when  he  had  an  end 
to  gain,  and  foil  a  rival  without  looking 
too  closely  at  the  means  ;  but  compared 
with  the  Indian  traders  who  infested  the 
border,  he  was  a  model  of  uprightness. 
He  lived  by  the  Mohawk  in  a  fortified 
house,  which  was  a  stronghold  against 
foes  and  a  scene  of  hospitality  to  friends, 
both  white  and  red.  Here  —  for  his 
tastes  were  not  fastidious — presided  for 
many  years  a  Dutch  or  German  wench, 
whom  he  finally  married ;  and  after  her 
death  a  young  Mohawk  squaw  took  her 
place.  Over  his  neighbors,  the  Indians 
of  the  Five  Nations,  and  all  others  of 
their  race  with  whom  he  had  to  deal,  he 
acquired  a  remarkable  influence.  He 
liked  them,  adopted  their  ways,  and 
treated  them  kindly  or  sternly  as  the 
case  required,  but  always  with  a  justice 
and  honesty  in  strong  contrast  with  the 
rascalities  of  the  commission  of  Albany 
traders  who  had  lately  managed  their 
affairs,  and  whom  they  so  detested  that 
one  of  their  chiefs  called  them  "  not 
men,  but  devils."  Hence,  when  John- 
son was  made  Indian  superintendent 
there  was  joy  through  all  the  Iroquois 
confederacy.  When,  in  addition,  he  was 
made  a  general,  he  assembled  the  war- 
riors in  council  to  engage  them  to  aid 
the  expedition. 

This  meeting  took  place  at  his  own 
house,  known  as  Fort  Johnson  ;  and  as 
more  than  eleven  hundred  Indians  ap- 
peared at  his  call,  his  larder  was  sorely 


taxed  to  entertain  them.  The  speeches 
were  interminable.  Johnson,  a  master 
of  Indian  rhetoric,  knew  his  audience 
too  well  not  to  contest  with  them  the 
palm  of  insufferable  prolixity.  The 
climax  was  reached  on  the  fourth  day, 
and  he  threw  down  the  war-belt.  An 
Oneida  chief  took  it  up ;  Stevens,  the 
interpreter,  began  the  war-dance,  and 
the  assembled  warriors  howled  in  chorus. 
Then  a  tub  of  punch  was  brought  in, 
and  they  all  drank  the  king's  health. 
They  showed  less  alacrity,  however,  to 
fight  his  battles,  and  scarcely  three  hun- 
dred of  them  would  take  the  war-path. 
Too  many  of  their  friends  and  relatives 
were  enlisted  for  the  French. 

While  the  British  colonists  were  pre- 
paring to  attack  Crown  Point,  the 
French  of  Canada  were  preparing  to 
defend  it.  Duquesne,  recalled  from  his 
post,  had  resigned  the  government  to 
the  Marquis  de  Vaudreuil,  who  had  at 
his  disposal  the  battalions  of  regulars 
that  had  sailed  in  the  spring  from  Brest 
under  Baron  Dieskau.  His  first  thought 
was  to  use  them  for  the  capture  of  Os- 
wego ;  but  the  letters  of  Braddock, 
found  on  the  battle-field,  warned  him 
of  the  design  against  Crown  Point ; 
while  a  reconnoitring  party  which  had 
gone  as  far  as  the  Hudson  brought  back 
news  that  Johnson's  forces  were  already 
in  the  field.  Therefore  the  plan  was 
changed,  and  Dieskau  was  ordered  to 
lead  the  main  body  of  his  troops,  not  to 
Lake  Ontario,  but  to  Lake  Champlain. 
He  passed  up  the  Richelieu,  and  em- 
barked in  boats  and  canoes  for  Crown 
Point.  The  veteran  knew  that  the  foes 
with  whom  he  had  to  deal  were  but  a 
mob  of  countrymen.  He  doubted  not  of 
putting  them  to  rout,  and  meant  never 
to  hold  his  hand  till  he  had  chased  them 
back  to  Albany.  "Make  all  haste," 
Vaudreuil  wrote  to  him  ;  "  for  when  you 
return  we  shall  send  you  to  Oswego  to 
execute  our  first  design." 

Johnson  on  his  part  was  preparing  to 
advance.  In  July  about  three  thousand 


446                                The  Battle  of  Lake   George.                       [October, 

provincials  were  encamped  near  Albany :  lain  of  his  regiment,  and  his  brother 
some  on  the  "  Flats "  above  the  town,  Thomas  was  its  surgeon.  Seth  Pome- 
and  some  on  the  meadows  below.  Hith-  roy,  gunsmith  at  Northampton,  who,  like 
er,  too,  came  a  swarm  of  Johnson's  Mo-  Titcomb,  had  seen  service  at  Louis- 
hawks, —  warriors,  squaws,  and  children,  bourg,  was  its  lieutenant-colonel.  He 
They  adorned  the  general's  face  with  had  left  a  wife  at  home,  an  excellent 
war-paint,  and  he  danced  the  war-dance ;  matron,  to  whom  he  was  continually 
then  with  his  sword  he  cut  the  first  slice  writing  affectionate  letters  ;  mingling 
from  the  ox  that  had  been  roasted  whole  household  cares  with  news  of  the  camp, 
for  their  entertainment.  "  I  shall  be  and  charging  her  to  see  that  their  eldest 
glad,"  wrote  the  surgeon  of  a  New  Eng-  boy,  Seth,  then  in  college  at  New  Ha- 
land  regiment,  "  if  they  fight  as  eagerly  ven,  did  not  run  off  to  the  army.  Pome- 
as  they  ate  their  ox  and  drank  their  roy  had  with  him  his  brother  Daniel ; 
wine."  and  this  he  thought  was  enough.  Here, 

Above  all  things  the  expedition  need-  too,  was  a  man  whose  name  is  still  a 
ed  promptness ;  yet  everything  moved  household  word  in  New  England,  —  the 
slowly.  Five  popular  legislatures  con-  sturdy  Israel  Putnam,  private  in  a  Con- 
trolled the  troops  and  the  supplies,  necticut  regiment  ;  and  another  as  bold 
Connecticut  had  refused  to  send  her  as  he,  John  Stark,  lieutenant  in  the  New 
men  till  Shirley  promised  that  her  com-  Hampshire  levies,  and  the  future  victor 
manding  officer  should  rank  next  to  of  Bennington. 

Johnson.   The  whole  movement  was  for  The   soldiers    were   no   soldiers,  but 

some  time  at  a  deadlock  because  the  five  farmers  and  farmers'  sons  who  had  vol- 

governments  could  not  agree  about  their  unteered   for    the    summer    campaign, 

contributions   of    artillery   and    stores.  One  of  the  corps  had  a  blue   uniform 

The  New  Hampshire  regiment  had  taken  faced  with   red.     The   rest  wore  their 

a  short  cut  for  Crown  Point  across  the  daily  clothing.  Blankets  had  been  served 

wilderness  of  Vermont,  but  had  been  out  to  them  by  the   several  provinces, 

recalled  in  time  to  save  them  from  prob-  but  the  greater  part  brought  their  own 

able  destruction.     They  were  now  with  guns  :  some  under  the  penalty  of  a  fine 

the  rest  in  the  camp  at  Albany,  in  such  if  they  came  without   them,  and  some 

distress  for  provisions  that  a  private  sub-  under    the    inducement    of    a   reward, 

scription  was  proposed  for  their  relief.  They   had    no    bayonets,    but    carried 

Johnson's  army,  crude  as  it  was,  had  hatchets  in  their  belts  as  a  sort  of  sub- 
in  it  good  material.  Here  was  Phineas  stitute.  At  their  sides  were  slung  pow- 
Lyman,  of  Connecticut,  second  in  com-  der-horns,  on  which,  in  the  leisure  of  the 
mand,  once  a  tutor  at  Yale  College,  and  camp,  they  carved  quaint  devices  with 
more  recently  a  lawyer,  —  a  raw  soldier,  the  points  of  their  jackknives.  They 
but  a  vigorous  and  brave  one ;  Colonel  came  chiefly  from  plain  New  England 
Moses  Titcomb,  of  Massachusetts,  who  homesteads,  —  rustic  abodes,  unpainted 
had  fought  with  credit  at  Louisbourg ;  and  dingy,  with  long  well-sweeps,  capa- 
and  Ephraim  Williams,  also  colonel  of  cious  barns,  rough  fields  of  pumpkins 
a  Massachusetts  regiment,  a  tall  and  and  corn,  and  vast  kitchen  chimneys, 
portly  man,  who  had  been  a  captain  in  above  which  in  winter  hung  squashes  to 
the  last  war,  member  of  the  General  keep  them  from  frost,  and  guns  to  keep 
Court,  and  deputy-sheriff.  He  made  his  them  from  rust. 

will  in  the  camp  at  Albany,  and  left  a  As  to  the  manners  and  morals  of  the 

legacy  to  found   the   school  which  has  army  there  is  conflict  of  evidence.     In 

since   become   Williams    College.     His  some  respects  nothing  could   be  more 

relative,  Stephen  Williams,   was   chap-  exemplary.     "  Not  a  chicken  has  been 


1884.] 


The  Battle  of  Lake   George. 


447 


stolen,"  says  William  Smith,  of  New 
York;  while,  on  the  other  hand,  Colo- 
nel Ephraim  Williams  writes  to  Colonel 
Israel  Williams,  then  commanding  on 
the  Massachusetts  frontier,  "We  are 
a  wicked,  profane  army,  especially  the 
New  York  and  Rhode  Island  troops. 
Nothing  to  be  heard  among  a  great  part 
of  them  but  the  language  of  hell.  If 
Crown  Point  is  taken,  it  will  not  be  for 
our  sakes,  but  for  those  good  people  left 
behind."  There  was  edifying  regularity 
in  respect  to  form.  Sermons  twice  a 
week,  daily  prayers,  and  frequent  psalm- 
singing  alternated  with  the  much-needed 
military  drill.  "  Prayers  among  us  night 
and  morning,"  writes  Private  Jonathan 
Caswell,  of  Massachusetts,  to  his  father. 
"  Here  we  lie,  knowing  not  when  we 
shall  march  for  Crown  Point;  but  I 
hope  not  long  to  tarry.  Desiring  your 
prayers  to  God  for  me  as  I  am  agoing  to 
war,  I  am  Your  Ever  Dutiful  Son." 

To  Pomeroy  and  some  of  his  broth- 
ers in  arms  it  seemed  that  they  were  en- 
gaged in  a  kind  of  crusade  against  the 
myrmidons  of  Rome.  "  As  you  have 
at  heart  the  Protestant  cause,"  he  wrote 
to  his  friend  Israel  Williams,  "  so  I  ask 
an  interest  in  your  prayers  that  the  Lord 
of  Hosts  would  go  forth  with  us  and 
give  us  victory  over  our  unreasonable, 
encroaching,  barbarous,  murdering  en- 
emies." 

Both  Williams  the  surgeon  and  Will- 
iams the  colonel  chafed  at  the  incessant 
delays.  "  The  expedition  goes  on  very 
much  as  a  snail  runs,"  writes  the  former 
to  his  wife ;  "  it  seems  we  may  possi- 
bly see  Crown  Point  this  time  twelve 
months."  The  colonel  was  vexed  be- 
cause everything  was  out  of  joint  in  the 
department  of  transportation  :  wagoners 
mutinous  for  want  of  pay ;  ordnance 
stores,  camp-kettles,  and  provisions  left 
jhind.  "  As  to  rum,"  he  complains, 
'  it  won't  hold  out  nine  weeks.  Things 
ippear  most  melancholy  to  me."  Even 
he  was  writing  a  report  came  of  the  de- 
it  of  Braddock ;  and,  shocked  at  the 


blow,  his  pen  traced  the  words,  "  The 
Lord  have  mercy  on  poor  New  Eng- 
land ! " 

Johnson  had  sent  four  Mohawk  scouts 
to  Canada.  They  returned  on  the  21st 
of  August  with  the  report  that  the 
French  were  all  astir  with  preparation, 
and  that  eight  thousand  men  were  com- 
ing to  defend  Crown  Point.  On  this  a 
council  of  war  was  called ;  and  it  was 
resolved  to  send  to  the  several  colonies 
for  reinforcements.  Meanwhile,  the 
main  body  had  moved  up  the  river  to 
the  spot  called  the  Great  Carrying  Place, 
where  Lyman  had  begun  a  fortified 
storehouse,  which  his  men  called  Fort 
Lyman,  but  which  was  afterwards  named 
Fort  Edward.  Two  Indian  trails  led 
from  this  point  to  the  waters  of  Lake 
Cham  plain,  one  by  way  of  Lake  George, 
and  the  other  by  way  of  Wood  Creek. 
There  was  doubt  which  course  the  army 
should  take.  A  road  was  begun  to 
Wood  Creek ;  then  it  was  countermand- 
ed, and  a  party  was  sent  to  explore  the 
path  to  Lake  George.  "  With  submis- 
sion to  the  general  officers,"  Surgeon 
Williams  again  writes,  "  I  think  it  a  very 
grand  mistake  that  the  business  of  re- 
connoitring was  not  done  months  agone." 
It  was  resolved  at  last  to  march  for 
Lake  George  :  gangs  of  axemen  were 
sent  to  hew  out  the  way  ;  and  on  the 
26th  two  thousand  men  were  ordered  to 
the  lake,  while  Colonel  Blanchard,  of 
New  Hampshire,  remained  with  five  hun- 
dred to  finish  and  defend  Fort  Lyman. 

The  train  of  Dutch  wagons,  guarded 
by  the  homely  soldiery,  jolted  slowly 
over  the  stumps  and  roots  of  the  newly 
made  road,  and  the  regiments  followed 
at  their  leisure.  The  hardships  of  the 
way  were  not  without  their  consolations. 
The  jovial  Irishman  who  held  the  chief^ 
command  made  himself  very  agreeable 
to  the  New  England  officers.  "  We 
went  on  about  four  or  five  miles,"  says 
Pomeroy  in  his  journal,  u  then  stopped, 
ate  pieces  of  broken  bread  and  cheese, 
and  drank  some  fresh  lemon-punch  and 


448                               The  Battle  of  Lake  G-eorge.                      [October, 

the  best  of  wine  with  General  Johnson  enemies."     On  the  next  Sunday,  Sep- 

and  some  of  the  field  officers."     It  was  tember  7th,  Williams   preached   again, 

the  same  on  the  next  day  :  "  Stopped  this  time  to  the  whites,  from  a  text  in 

about   noon,    and   dined   with    General  Isaiah.     It  was  a  peaceful  day,  fair  and 

Johnson  by  a  small  brook  under  a  tree ;  warm,  with  a  few  light    showers  ;   yet 

ate  a  good  dinner  of  cold  boiled  and  not  wholly  a  day  of  rest,  for  two  hun- 

roast  venison  ;  drank  good  fresh  lemon-  dred  wagons  came  up  from  Fort  Lyman, 

punch  and  wine."  loaded  with  bateaux.    After  the  sermon 

That    afternoon   they   reached   their  there  was  an  alarm.     An  Indian  scout 

destination,  fourteen    miles    from    Fort  came  in  about  sunset,  and  reported  that 

Lyman.     The    most   beautiful   lake   in  he  had  found  the  trail  of  a  body  of  men 

America  lay  before    them ;    then  more  moving  from  South  Bay  towards  Fort 

beautiful  than  now>  in  the  wild  charm  Lyman.     Johnson   called   for  a  volun- 

of  untrodden  mountains  and  virgin  for-  teer  to  carry  a  letter  of  warning  to  Col- 

ests.     "  I  have   given    it   the  name  of  onel    Blanchard,   the    commander.      A 

Lake  George,"  wrote   Johnson   to   the  wagoner  named  Adams  offered  himself 

Lords  of  Trade,  "  not  only  in  honor  of  for  the  perilous  service,  mounted,  and 

his  majesty,  but  to  ascertain  his  undoubt-  galloped  along  the  road  with  the  letter, 

ed   dominion    here."      His   men   made  Sentries  were  posted,  and  the  camp  fell 

their  camp  on  a  piece  of  rough  ground  asleep. 

by  the  edge  of  the  water,  pitching  their  While  Johnson  lay  at  Lake  George, 

tents  among  the  stumps  of   the  newly  Dieskau   prepared  a  surprise   for   him. 

felled  trees.     In  their  front  was  a  forest  The  German  baron  had  reached  Crown 

of  pitch-pine ;  on  their  right,  a  marsh,  Point  at  the  head  of  three  thousand  five 

choked  with  alders  and  swamp-maples ;  hundred  and  seventy-three   men,  regu- 

on  their  left,  the  low  hill  where  Fort  lars,  Canadians,  and  Indians.     He  had 

George  was   afterwards   built;   and   at  no  thought  of   waiting  there  to  be  at- 

their  rear,  the  lake.     Little  was  done  to  tacked.     The  troops  were  told  to  hold 

clear  the  forest  in  front,  though  it  would  themselves  ready  to  move  at  a  moment's 

give  excellent  cover  to  an  enemy.     Nor  notice.     Officers  —  so  ran  the  order  — 

did  Johnson  take  much  pains  to  learn  will   take   nothing  with  them  but   one. 

the  movements  of  the  French  in  the  di-  spare  shirt,  one  spare  pair  of  shoes,  a 

rection  of  Crown  Point,  though  he  sent  blanket,  a  bear-skin,  and  provisions  for 

scouts   towards    South    Bay  and  Wood  twelve  days ;  Indians  are  not  to  amuse 

Creek.     Every  day  stores  and  bateaux,  themselves  by  taking  scalps  till  the  ene-» 

or  flat  boats,  came  on  wagons  from  Fort  my  is  entirely  defeated,  since  they  can 

Lyman,  and  preparation  moved  on  with  kill    ten  men    in  the  time   required  to 

the  leisure  that  had  marked  it  from  the  scalp   one.     Then  Dieskau   moved  on, 

first.     About   three  hundred  Mohawks  with  nearly  all  his  force,  to  Carillon,  or 

came  to  the  camp,  and  were  regarded  Ticonderoga,  a  promontory  commanding 

by  the  New  England  men  as  nuisances,  both  the  routes  by  which  alone  Johnson 

On    Sunday   the    gray-haired   Stephen  could  advance,  that  of  Wood  Creek  and 

Williams  preached  to  these  savage  allies  that  of  Lake  George. 

a  long  Calvinistic  sermon,  which  must  The   Indian   allies  were  commanded 

have   sorely  perplexed   the   interpreter  by  Legardeur  de  Saint-Pierre,  the  officer 

whose  business   it  was   to   turn  it  into  who   had   received  Washington  on  his 

Mohawk ;   and  in  the  afternoon  young  embassy  to  Fort  Le  Bosuf.     These  un- 

Chaplain  Newell,  of  Rhode  Island,  ex-  manageable   warriors   were   a   constant 

pfounded  to  the  New  England  men  the  annoyance  to  Dieskau,  being  a  species 

somewhat   untimely  text,  "  Love  your  of  humanity  quite  new  to  him.     "  They 


1884.] 


The  Battle  of  Lake  George. 


449 


drive  us  crazy,"  he  says,  "  from  morn- 
ing till  night.  There  is  no  end  to  their 
demands.  They  have  already  eaten  five 
oxen  and  as  many  hogs,  without  count- 
ing the  kegs  of  brandy  they  have  drunk. 
In  short,  one  needs  the  patience  of  an 
angel  to  get  on  with  these  devils  ;  and 
yet  one  must  always  force  himself  to 
seem  pleased  with  them." 

They  would  scarcely  even  go  out  as 
scouts.  At  last,  however,  on  the  4th  of 
September,  a  reconnoitring  party  came 
in  with  a  scalp  and  an  English  prisoner 
caught  near  Fort  Lyman.  He  was 
questioned  under  the  threat  of  being 
given  to  the  Indians  for  torture  if  he 
did  not  tell  the  truth ;  but,  nothing 
daunted,  he  invented  a  patriotic  false- 
hood, and,  thinking  to  lure  his  captors 
into  a  trap,  told  them  that  the  English 
army  had  fallen  back  to  Albany,  leav- 
ing five  hundred  men  at  Fort  Lyman, 
which  he  represented  as  indefensible. 
Dieskau  resolved  on  a  rapid  movement 
to  seize  the  place.  At  noon  of  the  same 
day,  leaving  a  part  of  his  force  at  Ti- 
conderoga,  he  embarked  the  rest  in 
canoes,  and  advanced  along  the  narrow 
prolongation  of  Lake  Champlain  that 
stretched  southward  through  the  wilder- 
ness to  where  the  town  of  Whitehall 
now  stands.  He  soon  came  to  a  point 
where  the  lake  dwindled  to  a  mere  canal, 
while  two  mighty  rocks,  capped  with 
stunted  forests,  faced  each  other  from 
the  opposing  banks.  Here  he  left  an 
officer  named  Roquemaure  with  a  de- 
tachment of  troops,  and  again  advanced 
along  a  belt  of  quiet  water  traced 
through  the  midst  of  a  deep  marsh, 
green  at  that  season  with  sedge  and 
water-weeds,  and  known  to  the  English 
as  the  Drowned  Lands.  Beyond,  on 
either  hand,  crags  feathered  with  birch 
and  fir,  or  hills  mantled  with  woods, 
looked  down  on  the  long  procession  of 
canoes.1  As  they  neared  the  site  of 

L  I  passed  this  way  three  weeks  before  writing 
the  above.  There  are  some  points  where  the  scene 
is  not  much  changed  since  Dieskau  saw  it. 

VOL.  LIV.  —  NO.  324.  29 


Whitehall,  a  passage  opened  on  the 
right,  the  entrance  to  a  sheet  of  lonely 
water  slumbering  in  the  shadow  of 
woody  mountains,  and  forming  the  lake 
then,  as  now,  called  South  Bay.  They 
advanced  to  its  head,  landed  where  a 
small  stream  enters  it,  left  the  canoes 
under  a  guard,  and  began  their  march 
through  the  forest.  They  counted  in 
all  two  hundred  and  sixteen  regulars  of 
the  battalions  of  Languedoc  and  La 
Heine,  six  hundred  and  eighty-four 
Canadians,  and  about  six  hundred  In- 
dians. Every  officer  and  man  carried 
provisions  for  eight  days  in  his  knap- 
sack. They  encamped  at  night  by  a 
brook,  and  in  the  morning,  after  hearing 
mass,  marched  again.  The  evening  of 
the  next  day  brought  them  near  the 
road  that  led  to  Lake  George.  Fort 
Lyman  was  but  three  miles  distant.  A 
man  on  horseback  galloped  by ;  it  was 
Adams,  Johnson's  unfortunate  messen- 
ger. The  Indians  shot  him,  and  found 
the  letter  in  his  pocket.  Soon  after, 
ten  or  twelve  wagons  appeared,  in  charge 
of  mutinous  drivers,  who  had  left  the 
English  camp  without  orders.  Several 
of  them  were  shot,  two  were  taken,  and 
the  rest  ran  off.  The  two  captives  de- 
clared that,  contrary  to  the  assertion  of 
the  prisoner  at  Ticonderoga,  a  large 
force  lay  encamped  at  the  lake.  The 
Indians  now  held  a  council,  and  pres- 
ently gave  out  that  they  would  not  at- 
tack the  fort,  which  they  thought  well 
supplied  with  cannon,  but  that  they 
were  willing  to  attack  the  camp  at  Lake 
George.  Remonstrance  was  lost  upon 
them. 

Dieskau  was  not  young,  but  ha  was 
daring  to  rashness,  and  inflamed  to  em- 
ulation by  the  victory  over  Braddock. 
The  enemy  were  reported  greatly  to 
outnumber  him  ;  but  his  Canadian  ad- 
visers had  assured  him  that  the  English 
colony  militia  were  the  worst  troops  on 
the  face  of  the  earth.  "  The  more  there 
are,"  he  said  to  the  Canadians-  and  In- 
dians, "the  more  we  shall  kill;"  and 


450 


The  Battle  of  Lake  George. 


[October, 


in  the  morning  the  order  was  given  to 
march  for  the  lake. 

They  moved  rapidly  on  through  the 
waste  of  pines,  and  soon  entered  the 
rugged  valley  that  led  to  Johnson's 
camp.  On  their  right  was  a  gorge 
where,  shadowed  in  bushes,  gurgled  a 
gloomy  brook ;  and  beyond  rose  the 
cliffs  that  buttressed  the  rocky  heights 
of  French  Mountain,  seen  by  glimpses 
between  the  boughs.  On  their  left  rose 
gradually  the  lower  slopes  of  West 
Mountain.  All  was  rock,  thicket,  and 
forest ;  there  was  no  open  space  but  the 
road  along  which  the  regulars  marched, 
while  the  Canadians  and  Indians  pushed 
their  way  through  the  woods  in  such 
order  as  the  broken  ground  would  per- 
mit. 

They  were  three  miles  from  the  lake, 
when  their  scouts  brought  in  a  prisoner, 
who  told  them  that  a  column  of  Eng- 
lish troops  was  approaching.  *DLeskau's 
preparations  were  quickly  made.  While 
the  regulars  halted  on  the  road,  the 
•Canadians  and  Indians  moved  to  the 
'front,  where  most  of  them  hid  in  the 
forest  along  the  slopes  of  West  Moun- 
tain, and  the  rest  lay  close  among  the 
thickets  on  the  other  side.  Thus,  when 
the  English  advanced  to  attack  the  reg- 

o  o 

ulars  in  front,  they  would  find  them- 
selves caught  in  a  double  ambush.  No 
sight  or  sound  betrayed  the  snare ;  but 
behind  every  bush  crouched  a  Canadian 
or  a  savage,  with  gun  cocked  and  ears 
intent,  listening  for  the  tramp  of  the 
approaching  column. 

The  wagoners  who  escaped  the  even- 
ing before  had  reached  the  camp  about 
midnight,  and  reported  that  there  was  a 
war-party  on  the  road  near  Fort  Lyman. 
Johnson  had  at  this  time  twenty-two 
hundred  effective  men,  besides  his  three 
hundred  Indians.  He  called  a  council 
of  war  in  the  morning,  and  a  resolution 
was  taken  which  can  only  be  explained 
by  a  complete  misconception  as  to  the 
force  of  the  French.  It  was  determined 
i to  send  out  two  detachment*  of  five  hun- 


dred men  each,  one  towards  Fort  Ly- 
man  and  the  other  towards  South  Bay ; 
the  object  being,  according  to  Johnson, 
"  to  catch  the  enemy  in  their  retreat." 
Hendrick,  chief  of  the  Mohawks,  a  brave 
and  sagacious  warrior,  expressed  his  dis- 
sent after  a  fashion  of  his  own.  He 
picked  up  a  stick  and  broke  it ;  then  he 
picked  up  several  sticks,  and  showed 
that  together  they  could  not  be  broken. 
The  hint  was  taken,  and  the  two  de- 
tachments were  joined  in  one.  Still  the 
old  savage  shook  his  head.  "  If  they 
are  to  be  killed,"  he  said,  "  they  are 
too  many  ;  if  they  are  to  fight,  they  are 
too  few."  Nevertheless,  he  resolved 
to  share  their  fortunes ;  and  mounting 
on  a  gun  -  carriage,  he  harangued  his 
warriors  with  a  voice  so  animated  and 
gestures  so  expressive  that  the  New 
England  officers  listened  in  admiration, 
though  they  understood  not  a  word. 
One  difficulty  remained.  He  was  too 
old  and  fat  to  go  afoot ;  but  Johnson 
lent  him  a  horse,  which  he  bestrode,  and 
trotted  to  the  head  of  the  column,  fol- 
lowed by  two  hundred  of  his  warriors 
as  fast  as  they  could  grease,  paint,  and 
befeather  themselves. 

Captain  Elisha  Hawley  was  in  his 
tent,  finishing  a  letter  which  he  had  just 
written  to  his  brother  Joseph  ;  and  these 
were  the  last  words  :  "  I  am  this  minute 
agoing  out  in  company  with  five  hun- 
dred men  to  see  if  we  can  intercept  'em 
in  their  retreat,  or  find  their  canoes  in 
the  Drowned  Lands  ;  and  therefore  must 
conclude  this  letter."  He  closed  and 
directed  it,  and  in  an  hour  received  his 
death-wound. 

It  was  soon  after  eight  o'clock  when 
Ephraim  Williams  left  the  camp  with 
his  regiment,  marched  a  little  distance, 
and  then  waited  for  the  rest  of  the 
detachment,  under  Lieutenant -Colonel 
Whiting.  Thus  Dieskau  had  full  time 
to  lay  his  ambush.  When  Whiting  came 
up,  the  whole  moved  on  together,  so  lit- 
tle conscious  of  danger  that  no  scouts 
were  thrown  out  in  front  or  flank  ;  and, 


1884.] 


The  Battle  of  Lake   G-eorge. 


451 


in  full  security,  they  entered  the  fatal 
snare.  Before  they  were  completely  in- 
volved in  it,  the  sharp  eye  of  old  Hen- 
drick  detected  some  sign  of  an  enemy. 
At  that  instant,  whether  by  accident  or 
design,  a  gun  was  fired  from  the  bushes. 
It  is  said  that  Dieskau's  Iroquois,  seeing 
Mohawks,  their  relatives,  in  the  van, 
wished  to  warn  them  of  danger.  If  so, 
the  warning  came  too  late.  The  thick- 
ets on  the  left  blazed  out  a  deadly  fire, 
and  the  men  fell  by  scores.  In  the 
words  of  Dieskau,  the  head  of  the  col- 
umn "  was  doubled  up  like  a  pack  of 
cards."  Hendrick's  horse  was  shot  down, 
and  the  chief  was  killed  with  a  bayonet 
as  he  tried  to  rise.  Williams,  seeing  a 
rising  ground  on  his  right,  made  for  it, 
calling  on  his  men  to  follow  ;  but  as  ho 
climbed  the  slope  guns  flashed  from  the 
bushes,  and  a  shot  through  the  brain 
laid  him  dead.  The  men  in  the  rear 
pressed  forward  to  support  their  com- 
rades, when  a  hot  fire  was  suddenly 
opened  on  them  from  the  forest  along 
their  right  flank.  Then  there  was  a 
panic  ;  some  fled  outright,  and  the  whole 
column  recoiled.  The  van  now  became 
the  rear,  and  all  the  force  of  the  enemy 
rushed  upon  it,  shouting  and  screeching. 
There  was  a  moment  of  total  confusion; 
but  a  part  of  Williams's  regiment  ral- 
lied under  command  of  Whiting,  and 
covered  the  retreat,  fighting  behind  trees 
like  Indians,  and  firing  and  falling  back 
by  turns,  bravely  aided  by  some  of  the 
Mohawks  and  by  a  detachment  which 
Johnson  sent  to  their  aid.  "  And  a  very 
handsome  retreat  they  made,"  writes 
Pomeroy,  "  and  so  continued  till  they 
came  within  about  three  quarters  of  a 
mile  of  our  camp.  This  was  the  last 
fire  our  men  gave  our  enemies,  which 
killed  great  numbers  of  them  ;  they  were 
seen  to  drop  as  pigeons."  So  ended 
the  fray  long  known  in  New  England 
fireside  story  as  the  "  bloody  morning 
scout."  Dieskau  now  ordered  a  halt, 
and  sounded  his  trumpets  to  collect  his 
scattered  men.  His  Indians,  however, 


were  sullen  and  unmanageable,  and  the 
Canadians  also  showed  signs  of  waver- 
ing. The  veteran  who  commanded  them 
all,  Legardeur  de  Saint-Pierre,  had  been 
killed.  At  length  they  were  persuaded 
to  move  again,  the  regulars  leading  the 
way. 

About  an  hour  after  Williams  and  his 
men  had  begun  their  march,  a  distant 
rattle  of  musketry  was  heard  at  the 
camp  ;  and  as  it  grew  nearer  and  louder, 
the  listeners  knew  that  their  comrades 
were  on  the  retreat.  Then,  at  the  elev- 
enth hour,  preparations  were  begun  for 
defense.  A  sort  of  barricade  was  made 
along  the  front  of  the  camp,  partly  of 
wagons  and  partly  of  inverted  bateaux, 
but  chiefly  of  the  trunks  of  trees  hastily 
hewn  down  in  the  neighboring  forest, 
and  laid  end  to  end  in  a  single  row. 
The  line  extended  from  the  southern 
slopes  of  the  hill  on  the  left  across  a 
tract  of  rough  ground  to  the  marshes 
on  the  right.  The  forest,  choked  with 
bushes  and  clumps  of  rank  ferns,  was 
within  a  few  yards  of  the  barricade,  and 
there  was  scarcely  time  to  hack  away 
the  intervening  thickets.  Three  cannon 
were  planted  to  sweep  the  road  that  de- 
scended through  the  pines,  and  another 
was  dragged  up  to  the  ridge  of  the  hill. 
The  defeated  party  began  to  come  in : 
first,  scared  fugitives,  both  white  and 
red  ;  then,  gangs  of  men  bringing  the 
wounded ;  and  at  last,  an  hour  and  a 
half  after  the  first  fire  was  heard,  tho 
main  detachment  was  seen  marching  in 
compact  bodies  down  the  road. 

Fivo  hundred  men  were  detailed  to 
guard  tho  flanks  of  the  camp.  The  rest 
stood  behind  the  wagons,  or  lay  flat  be- 
hind the  logs  and  inverted  bateaux :  the 
Massachusetts  men  on  the  right,  and  the 
Connecticut  men  on  the  left.  Besides 
Indians,  this  actual  fighting  force  was 
between  sixteen  and  seventeen  hundred 
rustics,  very  few  of  whom  had  been 
under  fire  before  that  morning.  They 
were  hardly  at  their  posts  when  they 
saw  ranks  of  white-coated  soldiers  mov- 


452 


The  Battle  of  Lake   George. 


[October, 


ing  down  the  road,  and  bayonets  that  to 
them  seemed  innumerable  glittering  be- 
tween the  boughs.  At  the  same  time  a 
terrific  burst  of  war-whoops  rose  along 
the  front ;  and,  in  the  words  of  Pome- 
roy,  "  the  Canadians  and  Indians,  helter- 
skelter,  the  woods  full  of  them,  came 
running  with  undaunted  courage  right 
down  the  hill  upon  us,  expecting  to  make 
us  flee."  Some  of  the  men  grew  un- 
easy, while  the  chief  officers,  sword  in 
hand,  threatened  instant  death  to  any 
who  should  stir  from  their  posts.  If 
Dieskau  had  made  an  assault  at  that  in- 
stant, there  could  be  little  doubt  of  the 
result. 

This  he  well  knew ;  but  he  was  pow- 
erless. He  had  his  small  force  of  reg- 
ulars well  in  hand ;  but  the  rest,  red 
and  white,  were  beyond  control,  scatter- 
ing through  the  woods  and  swamps, 
shouting,  yelling,  and  firing  from  behind 
trees.  The  regulars  advanced  with  in- 
trepidity towards  the  camp  where  the 
trees  were  thin,  deployed,  and  fired  by 
platoons,  till  Captain  Eyre,  who  com- 
manded the  artillery,  opened  on  them 
with  grape,  broke  their  ranks,  and  com- 
pelled them  to  take  to  cover.  The  fu- 
sillade was  now  general  on  both  sides, 
and  soon  grew  furious.  "  Perhaps," 
Seth  Pomeroy  wrote  to  his  wife,  two 
days  after,  "  the  hailstones  from  heaven 
were  never  much  thicker  than  their  bul- 
lets came ;  but,  blessed  be  God !  that 
did  not  in  the  least  daunt  or  disturb  us." 
Johnson  received  a  flesh-wound  in  the 
thigh,  and  spent  the  rest  of  the  day  in 
his  tent.  Lyman  took  command  ;  and 
it  is  a  marvel  that  he  escaped  alive,  for 
he  was  four  hours  in  the  heat  of  the  fire, 
directing  and  animating  the  men.  "  It 
was  the  most  awful  day  my  eyes  ever 
beheld,"  wrote  Surgeon  Williams  to  his 
wife  ;  "  there  seemed  to  be  nothing  but 
thunder  and  lightning  and  perpetual  pil- 
lars of  smoke."  To  him,  his  colleague 
Dr.  Pyrichon,  one  assistant,  and  a  young 
student  called  "  Billy  "  fell  the  charge 
of  the  wounded  of  his  regiment.  "  The 


bullets  flew  about  our  ears  all  the  time 
of  dressing  them  ;  so  we  thought  best 
to  leave  our  tent  and  retire  a  few  rods 
behind  the  shelter  of  a  log-house."  On 
the  adjacent  hill  stood  one  Blodget, 
who  seems  to  have  been  a  sutler,  watch- 
ing, as  well  as  bushes,  trees,  and  smoke 
would  let  him,  the  progress  of  the  fight, 
of  which  he  soon  after  made  and  pub- 
lished a  curious  bird's-eye  view.  As  the 
wounded  men  were  carried  to  the  rear, 
the  wagoners  about  the  camp  took  their 
guns  and  powder-horns,  and  joined  in 
the  fray.  A  Mohawk,  seeing  one  of 
these  men  still  unarmed,  leaped  over  the 
barricade,  tomahawked  the  nearest  Ca- 
nadian, snatched  his  gun,  and  darted 
back  unhurt.  The  brave  savage  found 
no  imitators  among  his  tribesmen,  most 
of  whom  did  nothing  but  utter  a  few 
war-whoops,  saying  that  they  had  come 
to  see  their  English  brothers  fight. 
Some  of  the  French  Indians  opened  a 
distant  flank  fire  from  the  high  ground 
beyond  the  swamp  on  the  right,  but 
were  driven  off  by  a  few  shells  dropped 
among  them. 

Dieskau  had  directed  his  first  attack 
against  the  left  and  centre  of  Johnson's 
position.  Making  no  impression  here, 
he  tried  to  force  the  right,  where  lay 
the  regiments  of  Titcomb,  Ruggles,  and 
Williams.  The  fire  was  hot  for  about 
an  hour.  Titcomb  was  shot  dead,  a  rod  in 
front  of  the  barricade,  firing  from  behind 
a  tree  like  a  common  soldier.  At  length 
Dieskau,  exposing  himself  within  short 
range  of  the  English  line,  was  hit  in  the 
leg.  His  adjutant,  Montreuil,  himself 
wounded,  came  to  his  aid,  and  was  wash- 
ing the  injured  limb  with  brandy,  when 
the  unfortunate  commander  was  again 
hit  in  the  knee  and  thigh.  He  seated, 
himself  behind  a  tree,  while  the  adju- 
tant called  two  Canadians  to  carry  him 
to  the  rear.  One  of  them  was  instantly 
shot  down.  Montreuil  took  his  place  ; 
but  Dieskau  refused  to  be  moved,  bit- 
terly denounced  the  Canadians  and  In- 
dians, and  ordered  the  adjutant  to  leave 


1884.] 


The  Battle  of  Lake  George. 


453 


him  and  lead  the  regulars  in  the  last  ef- 
fort against  the  camp. 

It  was  too  late.  Johnson's  men,  sin- 
gly or  in  small  squads,  were  already 
crossing  their  row  of  logs ;  and  in  a  few 
moments  the  whole  dashed  forward  with 
a  shout,  falling  upon  the  enemy  with 
hatchets  and  the  butts  of  their  guns. 
The  French  and  their  allies  fled.  The 
wounded  general  still  sat  helpless  by  the 
tree,  when  he  saw  a  soldier  aiming  at 
him.  He  signed  to  the  man  not  to  fire  ; 
but  he  pulled  trigger,  shot  him  across 
the  hips,  leaped  upon  him,  and  ordered 
him  in  French  to  surrender.  "  I  said," 
writes  Dieskau,  "  *  You  rascal,  why  did 
you  fire  ?  You  see  a  man  lying  in  his 
blood  on  the  ground,  and  you  shoot 
him  !  '  He  answered,  *  How  did  I 
know  that  you  had  not  got  a  pistol  ?  I 
had  rather  kill  the  devil  than  have  the 
devil  kill  me.'  '  You  are  a  French- 
man ?  '  I  asked.  '  Yes,'  he  replied  ;  *  it 
is  more  than  ten  years  since  I  left  Can- 
ada ; '  whereupon  several  others  fell  on 
me  and  stripped  me.  I  told  them  to 
carry  me  to  their  general,  which  they 
did.  On  learning  who  I  was,  he  sent 
for  surgeons,  and,  though  wounded  him- 
self, refused  all  assistance  till  my  wounds 
were  dressed." 

It  was  near  five  o'clock  when  the  final 
rout  took  place.  Some  time  before, 
several  hundred  of  the  Canadians  and 
Indians  had  left  the  field  and  returned 
to  the  scene  of  the  morning  fight,  to 
plunder  and  scalp  the  dead.  They  were 
resting  themselves  near  a  pool  in  the 
forest,  close  beside  the  road,  when  their 
repose  was  interrupted  by  a  volley  of 
bullets.  It  was  fired  by  a  scouting  par- 
ty from  Fort  Lyman,  chiefly  backwoods- 
men, under  Captains  Folsom  and  Mc- 
Giimis.  The  assailants  were  greatly 
outnumbered  ;  but  after  a  hard  fight  the 
Canadians  and  Indians  broke  and  fled. 
McGinnis  was  mortally  wounded.  He 
continued  to  give  orders  till  the  firing 
was  over ;  then  fainted,  •  and  was  car- 
ried, dying,  to  the  camp.  The  bodies  of 


the  slain,  according  to  tradition,  were 
thrown  into  the  pool,  which  bears  to 
this  day  the  name  of  Bloody  Pond. 

The  various  bands  of  fugitives  re- 
joined each  other  towards  night,  and  en- 
camped in  the  forest ;  then  made  their 
way  round  the  southern  shoulder  of 
French  Mountain,  till,  in  the  next  even- 
ing, they  reached  their  canoes.  Their 
plight  was  deplorable  ;  for  they  had  left 
their  knapsacks  behind,  and  were  spent 
with  fatigue  and  famine. 

Meanwhile,  their  captive  general  was 
not  yet  out  of  danger.  The  Mohawks 
were  furious  at  their  losses  in  the  am- 
bush of  the  morning,  and  above  all  at 
the  death  of  Hendrick.  Scarcely  were 
Dieskau's  wounds  dressed,  when  several 
of  them  came  into  the  tent.  There  was 
a  long  and  angry  dispute  in  their  own 
language  between  them  and  Johnson, 
after  which  they  went  out  very  sullen- 
ly. Dieskau  asked  what  they  wanted. 
"  What  do  they  want  ? '"  returned  John- 
son. "  To  burn  you,  by  God  !  eat  you, 
and  smoke  you  in  their  pipes,  in  revenge 
for  three  or  four  of  their  chiefs  that 
were  killed.  But  never  fear  ;  you  shall 
be  safe  with  me,  or  else  they  shall  kill 
us  both."  The  Mohawks  soon  came 
back,  and  another  talk  ensued,  excited 
at  first,  and  then  more  calm;  till  at 
length  the  visitors,  seemingly  appeased, 
smiled,  gave  Dieskau  their  hands  in  sign 
of  friendship,  and  quietly  went  out 
again.  Johnson  warned  him  that  he 
was  not  yet  safe  ;  and  when  the  prison- 
er, fearing  that  his  presence  might  in- 
commode his  host,  asked  to  be  removed 
to  another  tent,  a  captain  and  fifty  men 
were  ordered  to  guard  him.  In  the 
morning,  an  Indian,  alone  and  apparent- 
ly unarmed,  loitered  about  the  entrance, 
and  the  stupid  sentinel  let  him  pass  in. 
He  immediately  drew  a  sword  from  un- 
der a  sort  of  cloak  which  he  wore,  and 
tried  to  stab  Dieskau,  but  was  prevented 
by  the  colonel  to  whom  the  tent  be- 
longed, who  seized  upon  him,  took  away 
his  sword,  and  pushed  him  out.  As  soon 


454 


The  Battle  of  Lake  G-eorge. 


[October, 


as  his  wounds  would  permit  Dieskau  was 
carried  on  a  litter,  strongly  escorted,  to 
Fort  Lyman,  whence  he  was  sent  to  Al- 
bany and  afterwards  to  New  York.  He 
is  profuse  in  expressions  of  gratitude  for 
the  kindness  shown  him  by  the  colonial 
officers,  and  especially  by  Johnson.  Of 
the  provincial  soldiers  he  remarked  soon 
after  the  battle  that  in  the  morning  they 
fought  like  good  boys,  about  noon  like 
men,  and  in  the  afternoon  like  devils. 
In  the  spring  of  1757  he  sailed  for 
England,  and  was  for  a  time  at  Fal- 

O  7 

mouth,  whence  Colonel  Matthew  Sewell, 
fearing  that  he  might  see  and  learn  too 
much,  wrote  to  the  Earl  of  Holdernesse, 
"  The  baron  has  great  penetration  and 
quickness  of  apprehension.  His  long  ser- 
vice under  Marshal  Saxe  renders  him  a 
man  of  real  consequence,  to  be  cautiously 
observed.  His  circumstances  deserve 
compassion,  for  indeed  they  are  very 
melancholy,  and  I  much  doubt  of  his 
being  ever  perfectly  cured."  He  was 
afterwards  a  long  time  at  Bath,  for  the 
benefit  of  the  waters.  In  1760  the  fa- 
mous Diderot  met  him  at  Paris,  cheer- 
ful and  full  of  anecdote,  though  .wretch- 
edly shattered  by  his  wounds.  He  died 
a  few  years  later. 

On  the  night  after  the  battle  the  yeo- 
man warriors  felt  the  truth  of  the  say- 
ing that,  next  to  defeat,  the  saddest 
thing  is  victory.  Comrades  and  friends 
by  scores  lay  scattered  through  the  for- 
est. As  soon  as  he  could  snatch  a.  mo- 
ment's leisure,  the  overworked  surgeon 
sent  the  dismal  tidings  to  his  wife  :  "  My 
dear  brother  Ephraim  was  killed  by  a 
ball  through  his  head ;  poor  brother  Jo- 
siah's  wound  I  fear  will  prove  mortal ; 
poor  Captain  Hawley  is  yet  alive,  though 
I  did  not  think  he  would  live  two  hours 
after  bringing  him  in."  Daniel  Pome- 
roy  was  shot  dead,  and  his  brother  Seth 
wrote  the  news  to  his  wife  Rachel,  who 
was  just  delivered  of  a  child:  "Dear 
sister,  this  brings  heavy  tidings,  but  let 
not  your  heart  sink  at  the  news,  though 
it  be  your  loss  of  a  dear  husband.  Mon- 


day, the  8th  instant,  was  a  memorable 
day,  and  truly  you  may  say,  had  not  the 
Lord  been  on  our  side  we  must  all  have 
been  swallowed  up.  My  brother,  being 
one  that  went  out  in  the  first  engage- 
ment, received  a  fatal  shot  through  the 

o 

middle  of  the  head."  Seth  Pomeroy 
found  time  to  write  also  to  his  own 
wife,  whom  he  tells  that  another  attack 
is  expected  ;  adding,  in  quaintly  pious 
phrase,  "But  as  God  hath  begun  to 
show  mercy,  I  hope  he  will  go  on  to 
be  gracious."  He  was  employed  during 
the  next  few  days  with  four  hundred 
men  in  what  he  calls  "  the  melancholy 
piece  of  business  "  of  burying  the  dead. 
A  letter-writer  of  the  time  does  not  ap- 
prove what  was  done  on  this  occasion. 
"  Our  people,"  he  says,  "  not  only  buried 
the  French  dead,  but  buried  as  many  of 
them  as  might  be  without  the  knowl- 
edge of  our  Indians,  to  prevent  their  be- 
ing scalped.  This  I  call  an  excess  of 
civility;"  his  reason  being  that  Brad- 
dock's  dead  soldiers  had  been  left  to  the 
wolves. 

The  English  loss  in  killed,  wounded, 
and  missing  was  two  hundred  and  sixty- 
two,  and  that  of  the  French,  by  their 
own  account,  two  hundred  and  twenty- 
eight,  —  a  somewhat  modest  result  of 
five  hours'  fighting.  The  English  loss 
was  chiefly  in  the  ambush  of  the  morn- 
ing, where  the  killed  greatly  out-num- 
bered the  wounded,  because  those  who 
fell  and  could  not  be  carried  away  were 
tomahawked  by  Dieskau's  Indians.  In 
the  fight  at  the  camp,  both  Indians  and 
Canadians  kept  themselves  so  well  un- 
der cover  that  it  was  very  difficult  for 
the  New  England  men  to  pick  them  off, 
while  they  on  their  part  lay  close  be- 
hind their  row  of  logs.  On  the  French 

O 

side  the  regular  officers  and  troops  bore 
the  brunt  of  the  battle  and  suffered  the 
chief  loss,  nearly  all  of  the  former  and 
nearly  half  of  the  latter  being  killed  or 
wounded. 

Johnson  did  not  follow  up  his  success. 
He  says  that  his  men  were  tired.  Yet 


1884.]                            The  Battle  of  Lake   G-eorge.                               455 

five  hundred  of  them  had  stood  still  all  began  to  come  in,  till  in  October  there 
day,  and  boats  enough  for  their  trans-  were  thirty  -  six  hundred  men  in  the 
portation  were  lying  on  the  beach.  Ten  camp  ;  and  as  most  of  them  wore  sum- 
miles  down  the  lake  a  path  led  over  a  mer  clothing  and  had  but  one  thin  do- 
gorge  of  the  mountains  to  South  Bay,  mestic  blanket,  they  were  half  frozen  in 
where  Dieskau  had  left  his  canoes  and  the  chill  autumn  nights, 
provisions.  It  needed  but  a  few  hours  Johnson  called  a  council  of  war.  He 
to  reach  and  destroy  them,  but  no  such  was  suffering  from  inflamed  eyes  and  his 
attempt  was  made.  Nor,  till  a  week  af-  wound  still  kept  him  in  his  tent.  He 
ter,  did  Johnson  send  scouts  to  learn  the  therefore  asked  Lyman  to  preside,  not 
strength  of  the  enemy  at  Ticonderoga.  unwilling,  perhaps,  to  shift  the  responsi- 
Lyman  strongly  urged  him  to  make  an  bility  upon  him.  After  several  sessions 
effort  to  seize  that  all-important  pass,  and  much  debate,  the  assembled  officers 
but  Johnson  thought  only  of  holding  decided  that  it  was  inexpedient  to  pro- 
Ins  own  position.  "  I  think,"  he  wrote,  ceed.  Yet  the  army  lay  more  than  a 
"  we  may  expect  very  shortly  a  more  month  longer  at  the  lake,  while  the  dis- 
formidable  attack."  He  made  a  solid  gust  of  the  men  increased  daily  under 
breastwork  to  defend  his  camp,  and,  the  rains,  frosts,  and  snows  of  a  dreary 
as  reinforcements  arrived,  set  them  at  November.  On  the  22d,  Chandler,  chap- 
building  a  fort  on  a  rising  ground  by  the  lain  of  one  of  the  Massachusetts  regi- 
lake.  It  is  true  that  just  after  the  bat-  ments,  wrote  in  the  interleaved  almanac 
tie  he  was  deficient  in  stores,  and  had  that  served  him  as  a  diary,  "  The  men 
not  bateaux  enough  to  move  his  whole  just  ready  to  mutiny.  Some  clubbed 
force.  It  is  true,  also,  that  he  was  their  firelocks  and  marched,  but  returned 
wounded,  and  that  he  was  too  jealous  of  back.  Very  rainy  night.  Miry  water 
Lyman  to  delegate  the  command  to  him ;  standing  in  the  tents.  Very  distressing 
and  so  the  days  passed,  till  within  a  time  among  the  sick."  The  men  grew 
fortnight  his  nimble  enemy  were  en-  more  and  more  unruly,  and  went  off  in 
trenched  at  Ticonderoga  in  force  enough  squads  without  asking  leave.  A  difficult 
to  defy  him.  question  arose  :  Who  should  stay  for  the 
The  Crown  Point  expedition  was  a  winter  to  garrison  the  new  forts,  and 
failure  disguised  under  an  incidental  sue-  who  should  command  them  ?  It  was 
cess.  The  Northern  provinces,  especial-  settled,  at  last,  that  a  certain  number  of 
ly  Massachusetts  and  Connecticut,  did  soldiers  from  each  province  should  be 
what  they  could  to  forward  it,  and  after  assigned  to  this  ungrateful  service,  and 
the  battle  sent  a  herd  of  raw  recruits  to  that  Massachusetts  should  have  the  first 
the  scene  of  action.  Shirley  wrote  to  officer,  Connecticut  the  second,  and  New 
Johnson  from  Oswego,  declared  that  his  York  the  third.  Then  the  camp  broke 
reasons  for  not  advancing  were  insuffi-  up.  "  Thursday,  the  27th,"  wrote  the 
cient,  and  urged  him  to  push  for  Ticon-  chaplain  in  his  almanac,  "  we  set  out 
deroga  at  once.  Johnson  replied  that  about  ten  of  the  clock,  marched  in  a 
he  had  not  wagons  enough,  and  that  his  body,  about  three  thousand,  the  wagons 
troops  were  ill-clothed,  ill-fed,  discon  and  baggage  in  the  centre,  our  colonel 
tented,  insubordinate,  and  sickly.  He  much  insulted  by  the  way."  The  sol- 
complained  that  discipline  was  out  of  diers  dispersed  to  their  villages  and  , 
the  question,  because  the  officers  were  farms,  where,  in  blustering  winter  nights, 
chosen  by  popular  election  ;  that  many  by  the  blazing  logs  of  New  England 
of  them  were  no  better  than  the  men,  hearthstones,  they  told  their  friends  and 
unfit  -for  command,  and  like  so  many  neighbors  the  story  of  the  campaign, 
"heads  of  a  mob."  The  reinforcements  The  profit  of  it  fell  to  Johnson.  If 


456                                                  Ave.  [October, 

he  did  not  gather  the  fruits  of  victory,  confessed  in  private  that  he  owed  him 

at  least  he  reaped  its  laurels.     He  was  the  victory.     He  himself  found  no  lack 

a  courtier  in  his  rough  way.     He  had  of  eulogists,  and,  to  quote  the  words  of 

changed  the  name  of  Lac  St.  Sacrement  an  able  but  somewhat  caustic  and  preju- 

to  Lake  George,  in  compliment  to  the  diced  opponent,  "  to  the  panegyrical  pen 

king.      He  now  changed  that  of  Fort  of  his  secretary,  Mr.  Wraxall,  and  the 

Lyman  to  Fort  Edward,  in  compliment  sic  volo  sicjubeo  of  Lieutenant-Governor 

to  one  of  the  king's  grandsons ;  and,  in  Delancey,  is  to  be  ascribed  that  mighty 

compliment  to  another,  called  his  new  renown  which  echoed  through  the  colo- 

fort,  at  the  lake,  William  Henry.     Of  nies,  reverberated  to  Europe,  and  ele- 

General  Lyman  he  made  no  mention  in  vated  a  raw,  inexperienced  youth  into  a 

his  report  of  the  battle,  and  his  parti-  kind  of  second  Marlborough."     Parlia- 

saus  wrote  letters  traducing  that  brave  ment  gave  him  five  thousand  pounds, 

officer,  though  Johnson  is  said  to  have  and  the  king  made  him  a  baronet. 

Francis  Parkman. 


AVE. 

[PRELUDE  TO  "ILLUSTRATED  POEMS."] 

FULL  well  I  know  the  frozen  hand  has  come 
That  smites  the  songs  of  grove  and  garden  dumb, 
And  chills  sad  autumn's  last  chrysanthemum ; 

Yet  would  I  find  one  blossom,  if  I  might, 

Ere  the  dark  loom  that  weaves  the  robe  of  white 

Hides  all  the  wrecks  of  summer  out  of  sight. 

Sometimes  in  dim  November's  narrowing  day, 
When  all  the  season's  pride  has  passed  away, 
As  mid  the  blackened  stems  and  leaves  we  stray, 

We  spy  in  sheltered  nook  or  rocky  cleft 
A  starry  disk  the  hurrying  winds  have  left, 
Of  all  its  blooming  sisterhood  bereft : 

Some  pansy,  with  its  wondering  baby  eyes,  — 
Poor  wayside  nursling !  —  fixed  in  blank  surprise 
At  the  rough  welcome  of  unfriendly  skies  ; 

Or  golden  daisy,  —  will  it  dare  disclaim 
The  lion's  tooth,  to  wear  this  gentler  name  ? 
Or  blood-red  salvia,  with  its  lips  aflame  : 

The  storms  have  stripped  the  lily  and  the  rose, 
Still  on  its  cheek  the  flush  of  summer  glows, 
And  all  its  heart-leaves  kindle  as  it  blows. 


1884.]  Relation  of  Fairies  to  Religion.  457 

So  had  I  looked  some  bud  of  song  to  find 
The  careless  winds  of  autumn  left  behind, 
With  these  of  earlier  seasons'  growth  to  bind. 

Ah  me !  my  skies  are  dark  with  sudden  grief, 
A  flower  lies  faded  on  my  garnered  sheaf ; 
Yet  let  the  sunshine  gild  this  virgin  leaf, — 

The  joyous,  blessed  sunshine  of  the  past, 

Still  with  me,  though  the  heavens  are  overcast,  — 

The  light  that  shines  while  life  and  memory  last. 

Go,  pictured  rhymes,  for  loving  readers  meant ; 
Bring  back  the  smiles  your  jocund  morning  lent, 
And  warm  their  hearts  with  sunbeams  yet  unspent ! 

Oliver    Wendell  Holmes. 
BEVERLY  FARMS,  July  24,  1884. 


RELATION  OF   FAIRIES  TO   RELIGION. 

LITTLE,  if  anything,  remains  to  be  ion,  —  that  is,  if  we  accept  Herbert 
added  to  the  genealogical  records  of  Spencer's  definition  of  religion  as  an  "  a 
fairies  of  Indo-European  descent.  But  priori  theory  of  the  universe." 
the  comparative  mythologist,  while  he  The  meaning  given  to  the  word,  fairy 
has  traced  their  pedigree,  has  not  told  in  the  dictionaries  is  so  vague,  and  the 
us  how  belief  in  them  as  a  class  came  to  use  made  of  it  both  by  poets  and  prose- 
be  accepted,  nor  what  was  the  special  writers  so  much  vaguer,  that  it  is  well 
mission  assigned  them  in  the  superuat-  at  the  outset  to  explain  what  is  really 
ural  sphere.  These  questions  are  with*  meant  by  it  here.  The  English  fairy  is 
out  his  province,  yet  they  are  of  vital  derived  immediately  from  the  French 
importance  to  all  who  would  study  fee  or  faerie,  and  remotely  from  the 
aright  the  development  of  man's  con-  Latin  fatum,  fate,  destiny.  At  first,  it 
ception  of  the  something  beyond  the  sometimes  signified  illusion,  enchant- 
world  of  the  senses.  Interesting  as  it  ment ;  sometimes  the  land  of  fairies,  or 
is  to  know  that  the  story  of  Ogier  the  the  earthly  paradise  of  the  days  of  ro- 
Dane  and  Morgan  the  Fay  is  but  a  mance ;  but  as  a  rule  it  was  applied  to 
late  version  of  the  Dawn  Myth,  and  the  Melusinas  and  Morganas,  or  medi- 
that  the  legend  of  the  Wild  Huntsman  seval  representatives  of  the  classic  fates, 
and  his  fairy  train  is  but  a  new  form  Later,  the  name  was  given  to  the  little 
of  tales  once  told  of  the  god  of  the  elves  of  Northern  mythology,  and  finally 
winds,  it  is  still  more  necessary  to  un-  it  became  a  class  designation  for  the 
derstand  why  these  were  received  in  hobgoblins,  dwarfs,  gnomes,  kobolds, 
their  second  signification.  The  object  and  all  "  such  other  bugs,"  as  Reginald 
of  the  present  article,  therefore,  is  not  Scott,  in  his  scornful  skepticism,  calls 
to  go  over  ground  explored  by  scholars,  them,  who,  though  born  of  paganism, 
but  to  define  the  position  which  fairy  long  remained  rivals  of  the  Christian 
mythology  holds  in  the  history  of  relig-  saints.  In  its  largest  and  most  extended 


458 


Relation  of  Fairies  to  Religion. 


[October, 


sense,  it  includes  the  whole  race  —  no 
matter  in  what  part  of  the  world  its  dif- 
ferent branches  may  be  found  —  of  mi- 
nor supernatural  beings,  who  have  been 
ranked  as  entirely  different  in  nature, 
substance,  and  attributes  from  the  su- 
preme spiritual  hierarchy,  and  yet  have 
been  placed  much  higher  in  the  scale  of 
life  than  man  ;  being  supposed  to  pos- 
sess power  vastly  superior  to  his,  and 
able,  in  fact,  to  exercise  a  large  influ- 
ence in  shaping  his  destiny.  They  stand 
midway  between  humanity  and  divinity. 

Man  must  have  defined  his  belief  in 
one  supernatural  world  and  in  one  spe- 
cies of  supernatural  beings  very  clearly 
before  he  could  conceive  of  two  such 
worlds  and  two  such  species.  Fairy 
mythology  is  really  the  product  of  a 
somewhat  advanced  stage  of  religious 
thought,  when  the  ideal  of  deity  is  so 
high  and  scientific  knowledge  so  small 
that  the  lesser  natural  phenomena  and 
accidents  of  daily  life  cannot  be  account- 
ed for  without  the  introduction  to  the 
unseen  sphere  of  action  of  a  second  or- 
der of  conscious  agents.  While,  then, 
there  are  fairy-like  creatures  in  all  my- 
thologies, there  are  genuine  fairies  only 
in  a  few.  It  is  true  that  it  is  difficult 
at  first  to  distinguish  Greek  dryads  from 
mediaeval  Elle  maidens,  or  the  sirens  of 
Hellenic  waters  from  the  Lorelei  of 
German  streams.  But  the  latter  are  as 
distinct  from  the  former,  from  whom, 
however,  they  are  descended,  as  civilized 
man  is  from  his  cave-dwelling  progeni- 
tors ;  a  fact  which  a  brief  examination 
of  the  subject  will  make  evident. 

Spontaneous  generation  is  no  more 
common  in  the  creations  of  the  human 
mind  than  it  is  in  those  of  the  physical 
world.  As  the  existence  of  the  flower 
implies  that  of  the  root  and  the  earth  in 
which  it  was  planted,  so  the  appearance 
of  full-fledged  fairies  presupposes  their 
origin  in  the  very  groundwork  of  my- 
thology. The  Adams  and  Eves  of  the 
fairy  race  are  to  be  found  in  primitive 
animism.  That  is  to  say,  though  indi- 


vidual fairies  cannot  always  be  referred 
to  their  radical  source,  they  can  as  a 
class  be  traced  to  their  beginning  in  the 
first  rude  explanations  man  made  of  the 
world  in  which  he  lives.  Like  Leib- 
nitz, primitive  philosophers  believe  that 
nothing  can  happen  without  its  sufficient 
reason,  but  the  only  cause  they  can  im- 
agine for  all  events  is  an  immediate 
personal  will.  Hence,  in  their  earliest 
speculations  they  animate  all  inanimate 
things,  until  the  unseen  world  seems  as 
densely  populated  as  the  seen.  They 
discriminate  but  little,  however,  between 
important  and  insignificant  phenomena. 
If  they  think  there  is  life  like  their  own 
in  the  mighty  forest  trees,  they  can  see 
it  also  in  the  lowest  underbrush.  If 
they  attribute  conscious  energy  and  per- 
sonality to  the  far-distant  mountain,  so 
likewise  do  they  to  the  stone  picked  up 
near  their  dwelling.  There  is  for  them 
a  spirit  in  the  gentle  summer  breeze  as 
in  the  wild  winter  tempest,  in  the  tiniest 
star  as  in  the  sun  and  moon.  But  just 
as,  during  the  days  of  Vedic  henothe- 
ism,  whatever  god  to  whom  the  Hindu 
chanced  to  be  praying  became  for  the 
time  being  the  one  god,  so  to  men  whose 
intellect  is  at  a  low  degree  of  develop- 
ment each  animated  object  or  force  be- 
comes the  most  important  as  its  pres- 
ence is  actively  felt.  There  is  no  dis- 
tinction between  the  greater  arid  smaller 
creations  of  their  animistic  philosophy, 
but  in  the  latter  lie  the  germs  of  future 
fairies.  So  soon  as  men,  probably 
prompted  thereto  by  their  more  firmly 
established  social  relations,  begin  to  sys- 
tematize the  ideas  they  have  evolved 
of  supernatural  life,  they  necessarily 
subordinate  local  to  general  phenom- 
ena, individual  to  more  universal  con- 
ceptions. Among  almost  all  existing 
savages  a  system  of  mythology  has  al- 
ready replaced  the  vagueness  of  prim- 
itive animism.  Their  heroes  have  be- 
come cosmical,  like  the  Maui  of  New 
Zealand  legendary  lore,  or  the  Mano- 
bozho  of  Indian  renown.  Their  chief 


1884.] 


Relation  of  Fairies  to  Religion. 


459 


deities  are  those  which  are  of  equal  im- 
portance to  an  entire  tribe  or  people,  as, 
for  example,  Messukkummik-Okoi,  or 
mother  earth,  is  to  the  Algonquins,  or 
as  Taaroa,  the  heaven  god,  is  to  the  So- 
ciety Islanders.  As  the  office  of  king 
requires  the  existence  of  subjects,  so 
the  recognized  superiority  of  these  he- 
roes and  deities  necessitates  the  inferi- 
ority of  the  others. 

This  difference  of  rank  becomes  doub- 
ly marked  in  the  mythologies  of  more 
civilized  nations.  Thus  the  little  elves 
in  the  Scandinavian  cosmogony  are  al- 
lotted a  separate  abode  from  that  of  the 
great  gods.  The  fauns  and  satyrs,  dry- 
ads arid  naiads,  of  Greece  are  infinitely 
beneath  the  god  of  ^Eschylus'  Sup- 
pliants, he  who  is  the  "  king  of  kings, 
happiest  of  frhe  happy,  and  of  the  per- 
fect, perfect  in  might,  —  blest  Zeus." 
The  Farvashis  and  Pairikas  of  the  Zend- 
Avesta  are  to  Ormazd  and  Ahriman 
very  much  what  scouts  and  spies  are  to 
the  generals  of  two  opposing  forces. 
Nagas  and  Rakshasas  are  pigmies  com- 
pared to  the  great  giant  gods,  Brahma, 
Vishnu,  and  Siva.  The  Maskim  and 
Utuk  of  the  Chaldean  demonology  are 
not  to  be  named  in  the  same  breath  as 
the  mystic  triune,  Anu,  Hea,  and  Bel. 
However,  in  none  of  these  cases  is  an 
accurate  line  drawn  between  the  chief 
deities  and  the  lesser  beings.  Frey,  one 
of  the  principal  gods  in  the  Eddaic  Pan- 
theon, dwelt  in  Ali'heim  with  the  elves. 
And  indeed,  at  times,  it  was  doubtful 
whether  the  latter,  together  with  the 
black  elves  or  dwarfs,  were  not  greater 
than  the  divinities  of  Asgard,  who  were 
dependent  upon  them  in  many  ways. 
What  would  Frey  have  done  without 
the  ship  Skidbladnir,  or  Odin  without 
his  good  spear  Gungnir,  or  Thor  with- 
out Mjolner  ?  And  these  they  could 
never  have  had,  had  it  not  been  for 
the  dwarfs  who  made  them.  While  the 
Greek  gods  were  associated  with  the 
elements  ;  while  Zeus  was  still  identi- 
fied with  the  heavens,  Poseidon  with 


the  sea,  and  Demeter  with  the  earth, 
the  Greeks  could  hardly  suppose  the  in- 
ferior personifications  of  physical  forces 
and  natural  phenomena  to  belong  to  an- 
other race.  What  essential  difference 
could  there  be  between  Pan  and  his 
satyrs,  Artemis  and  her  nymphs,  or 
Aphrodite  and  her  naiads  ?  The  kin- 
ship of  the  gods  to  their  attendants  is 
shown  in  the  fact  that  many  of  the  lat- 
ter were  present  at  the  councils  of  Zeus, 
and  were  fed  upon  the  divine  ambrosia. 
Persian  dualism,  despite  its  later  high 
moral  interpretation,  was  not  founded 
on  ethics,  and  the  enmity  between  Or- 
mazd and  Ahriman  accounted  for  every 
minute  event  in  the  natural  world.  The 
innumerable  gods,  spirits,  and  devils 
were  enlisted  in  the  ranks  of  the  two 
chief  beings,  so  that  there  was  no  room 
in  this  religious  system  for  belief  in  an- 
other supernatural  race.  Hinduism  and 
Buddhism,  notwithstanding  the  agnosti- 
cism of  the  one  and  the  pantheism  of 
the  other,  have  been  so  willing  to  retain 
old  gods  and  demons,  and  so  ready  to 
admit  new  ones,  and  to  allow  people 
professing  these  creeds  to  add  ad  libitum 
to  the  population  of  the  one  spiritual 
world,  that  the  creation  of  a  second 
would  be  equally  impossible  and  super- 
fluous. The  pantheism  which  was  the 
fundamental  principle  of  the  later  Baby- 
lonian religion  recognized  in  all  spiritual 
beings  emanations  from  Ilu,  the  great 
source  of  life ;  so  that  the  Maskim  and 
Utuk,  the  Alal  and  Gigim,  and  the  host 
of  spirits  born  of  Turanian  animism 
differed  from  the  gods  of  Semitic  cul- 
ture in  degree,  but  not  in  kind.  In  this 
gradation  of  being  the  triune  occupied 
the  first  rank,  the  protecting  genii  the 
last ;  but  there  was  no  break  in  the 
chain  that  united  them. 

In  like  manner,  the  pantheism  which 
underlies  the  doctrines  of  mystics,  wheth- 
er they  be  of  the  Orient  or  the  Occi- 
dent, of  ancient  mediaeval  or  modern 
times,  prevents  the  spirits  of  these  sys- 
tems from  being  classified  with  fairies. 


460 


Relation  of  Fairies  to  Religion. 


[October, 


As  primitive  men  ascribe  human  life  to 
everything,  so  mystics  have  believed  all 
natural  objects  and  forces  to  be  animated 
with  a  reasoning  faculty.  But  where 
the  conclusions  of  the  former  result 
from  an  inability  to  understand  any 
rule  but  that  of  caprice,  those  of  the 
latter  are  brought  about  by  the  recog- 
nition of  a  perfect  harmony  reigning 
throughout  the  world.  The  order  of 
the  cosmos,  they  declare,  is  preserved 
because  all  things,  having  emanated  in 
a  gradual  progression  from  one  supreme 
inconceivable  source,  contain  a  spark  of 
the  universal  spirit  which  enables  each 
to  perform  its  task  in  the  great  scheme 
of  the  universe.  "  It  is  necessary,"  says 
Cornelius  Agrippa, "  that  the  earth  should 
have  the  reason  of  terrene  things,  and 
water  of  watery  things  ;  and  so  in  the 
rest."  According  to  such  systems,  the 
spirits  of  earth  and  water,  of  fire  and 
air,  are  no  more  fairies  than  the  souls  of 
human  beings.  But  the  doctrine  that 
men  could  hold  communication  with 
them  has  often  been  corrupted  by  the 
Wagners  of  mysticism,  and  then  the  un- 
dines and  gnomes,  the  salamanders  and 
sylphs,  of  the  Kabbalists  have  been  ma- 
terialized. In  which  case  they  can  be 
included  with  the  nymphs  of  the  unini- 
tiated. 

But  when  the  rule  of  the  supreme 
supernatural  powers  is  recognized  to  be 
not  in,  but  over,  nature,  and  when  mo- 
rality is  made  the  mainspring  of  their 
activity,  it  is  impossible  to  believe  that 
the  elements  are  immediately  animated 
by  deity,  or  that  divinities  act  from  self- 
interest.  When  religious  ideals  have 
reached  this  stage,  a  god,  to  seem  a  god 
to  men,  must,  in  his  relations  to  them, 
be  prompted  by  his  desire  for  their  good, 
and  not  from  selfish  impulses.  If  the 
chief  spirits  be  now  waited  on  by  atten- 
dants, the  latter  must  be  inspired  by 
similar  motives ;  and  should  they  be  op- 
posed by  a  devil,  it  also  logically  follows 
that  he  must  be  incited  by  a  counter- 
determination  to  work  evil  to  men.  His 


activity  is  likewise  manifested  in  the 
moral  sphere.  But  if,  with  this  advance 
in  abstract  reasoning,  exact  knowledge 
be  not  increased,  there  will  be  a  discrep- 
ancy between  belief  and  experience. 
Men  who  know  nothing  of  the  true  laws 
of  the  physical  world,  nor  of  the  inter- 
dependenc3  of  cause  and  effect,  attrib- 
ute to  every  natural  phenomenon  and 
extraordinary  event  a  personal  interfer- 
ence. The  ignorant  miner  ascribes  to 
a  basilisk  or  a  gnome  that  which  the 
scientist  explains  as  the  action  of  car- 
bonic acid  gas.  The  imprudent  man, 
who  understands  nothing  of  his  diges- 

o  o 

tive  organs,  thinks  he  is  visited  by  a 
vampire,  when  the  physician  knows  that 
a  too  hearty  supper  is  the  occasion  of 
his  distress.  Now,  when  this  ignorance 
is  general,  and  not  confined  to  individu- 
als, and  when,  at  the  same  time,  wholly 
unmoral  actions  can  be  referred  to  nei- 
ther god  nor  devil,  a  belief  will  inevi- 
tably arise  in  a  lower  species  of  super- 
natural beings,  who,  while  they  are  pow- 
erless to  govern  the  universe  or  to  di- 
rect their  own  fate,  hold  no  insignificant 
sway  over  human  beings. 

This  is  what  has  actually  occurred  in 
the  great  monotheisms,  Judaism,  Ma- 
hometanism,  and  Christianity.  The 
Jews,  while  they  obtained  minor  spirits 
from  foreign  sources,  remained  faithful 
to  Jehovah,  but  the  people  who  em- 
braced Christianity  and  Mahometanism 
were  compelled  to  sacrifice  their  chief 
gods.  In  Arabia,  tribal  deities,  one 
after  another,  perished  before  the  cres- 
cent of  Islam.  In  Europe,  when  the 
cress  of  Christ  was  raised,  the  bright 
beautiful  Apollos  and  Aphrodites  of  the 
South  faded  into  phantoms  or  degener- 
ated into  devils  and  the  Odins  and  Bal- 
ders  of  the  North  were  hastened  to  a 
Ragnarok,  from  which  the  only  awaken- 
ing was  in  fairy-land.  But  the  decree 
which  banished  the  high  gods  did  not 
affect  the  minor  beings  of  paganism. 
The  people,  although  converted  to  the 
new  creeds,  had  always  been  keenly  sen- 


1884.] 


Relation  of  Fairies  to  Religion. 


461 


sitive  to  the  influence  of  the  genii,  of 
the  naiads  and  dryads,  of  the  alfs  and 
the  duergar,  who  haunted  every  stream 
and  cavern,  every  mountain  and  forest, 
every  city  and  desert ;  and  these  spirits 
survived  as  fairies,  long  after  the  my- 
thologies to  which  they  properly  be- 
longed had  been  destroyed.  It  was  the 
same  with  all  the  nations  won  over  to 
Islam  and  Christianity.  In  Persia,  the 
divs  and  peris,  who  had  originally  served 
under  Ormazd  and  Ahriman,  were  iden- 
tified with  the  Mahometan  ginns.  The 
compromise  which  was  made  by  medi- 
eval Europeans  between  the  forsaken 
cultus  and  the  new  one  reappears  to-day 
among  the  Roman  Catholic  Indians  of 
North  America.  The  latter,  just  as  the 
former  did  of  old,  adore  Christ  and  rev- 
erence his  mother  and  the  saints,  but 
they  cling  to  the  tales  and'  traditions  of 
their  forefathers,  and  have  populated  a 
vast  fairyland  with  the  spirits  and  he- 
roes which  figured  in  them. 

The  theories  developed  as  a  raison 
d'etre  for  the  fairies  are  as  significant 
as  they  are  curious.  The  rabbis,  with 
that  familiar  knowledge  of  the  unknown 
which  usually  exists  in  exact  proportion 
to  man's  ignorance  of  the  known,  de- 
clared the  schedim  to  be  the  offspring  of 
Lilith,  the  night- walking  spectre. 

"  Not  a  drop  of  her  blood  was  human, 
But  she  was  made  like  a  soft,  fair  woman." 

Having  quarreled  with  Adam,  whose  first 
wife  she  was,  because  he  disputed  her 
equal  rights,  she,  as  the  rabbis  affirm, 
married  Samael,  chief  of  the  fallen  an- 
gels, by  whom  she  had  a  large  family 
of  imps  and  hobgoblins.  Other  rabbis 
maintained  that  they  were  the  children 
Adam  had  by  intercourse  with  spirits. 
The  Bible  says,  "  And  Adam  lived  one 
hundred  and  thirty  years,  and  begat  a 
son  in  his  own  likeness  after  his  image," 
and  the  Talmudists  wisely  concluded 
that  this  meant  that  until  then  his  sons 
and  daughters  were  not  after  his  own 
image,  but,  according  to  Rabbi  Jere- 
miah Ben  Eliezer,  "  in  all  these  years 


during  which  Adam  was  under  excom- 
munication he  begat  spirits,  demons,  and 
spectres  of  the  night,  as  it  is  written." 
Eve,  also,  it  is  added,  became  during 
that  time  the  parent  of  a  like  uncanny 
brood.  One  difficulty  leads  to  another. 
As  the  Hindus,  after  they  placed  the 
earth  on  the  back  of  an  elephant,  had 
to  give  that  animal  a  tortoise  to  stand 
upon,  so,  after  the  schedim  had  been 
thus  accounted  for,  the  question  arose 
as  to  whence  came  the  spirits  by  whom 
Adam  and  Eve  had  produced  such  mon- 
strosities. The  rabbis,  however,  were 
always  ready  with  their  explanations. 
These  spirits,  they  asserted,  were  the 
last  of  living  beings  created  by  God, 
and,  because  daylight  had  faded  away 
before  he  had  completed  his  task,  he 
could  not  give  them  bodies,  as  he  had 
originally  intended  to  do.  They  were 
therefore  not  pure  spirits,  like  the  an- 
gels, but  merely  imperfect  creations,  and 
hence  they  and  all  their  descendants 
possess  natures  semi-spiritual,  semi-mor- 
tal. "  Six  things,"  the  Talmud  teaches, 
"  are  said  respecting  schedim.  In  three 
particulars  they  are  like  angels,  and  in 
three  they  resemble  men.  They  have 
wings,  like  angels  ;  like  angels,  they  fly 
from  one  end  of  the  world  to  the  other ; 
and  they  know  the  future,  as  angels  do, 
with  this  difference,  that  they  learn  by 
listening  behind  the  veil  what  angels 
have  revealed  to  them  within.  In  three 
respects  they  resemble  men :  they  eat 
and  drink,  like  men ;  they  beget  and 
increase,  like  men ;  and,  like  men,  they 
die." 

Mahometans  were  not  a  whit  less 
daunted  by  the  mysteries  of  the  un- 
known than  the  Talmudists.  Had  they 
been  the  counselors  of  Allah  when  he 
created  the  universe,  they  could  not 
have  been  more  certain  of  what  then 
took  place.  The  ginns,  they  declared, 
were  beings  created  by  him  before  he 
called  man  into  life,  and  were  made,  not 
of  common  clay,  but  of  fire,  like  the  an- 
gels, from  whom,  however,  they  differed 


462 


Relation  of  Fairies  to  Religion. 


[October, 


in  being  of  a  grosser  nature.  Influenced 
by  the  rabbinical  philosophy,  Mahomet 
taught  that  the  ginns  eat  and  drink, 
propagate  their  kind,  and  are  subject  to 
death.  When  they  were  the  sole  in- 
habitants of  the  earth,  they  paid  no  at- 
tention to  the  prophets  sent  to  admonish 
them,  and  so  they  were  driven  by  Eblis, 
or  Sheitan,  and  his  hosts,  or,  according 
to  the  Persian  legend,  by  Tahmurath, 
to  Mount  Q'af,  the  mountain-chain  that 
encircles  the  globe.  There  they  took 
up  their  headquarters,  but  —  and  in  this 
particular  their  identification  with  pre- 
Mahometan  spirits  is  shown  —  individ- 
uals of  the  race  sought  an  abode  in  every 
corner  of  the  world :  in  the  water  and 
on  land,  in  lonely  deserts  and  in  crowd- 
ed cities,  in  tombs  and  in  houses.  So 
entire  was  the  faith  in  them  that  Ma- 
homet believed  that  he,  as  last  of  the 
prophets,  was  sent  to  convert  them  as 
well  as  men.  Nor  did  he  think  his  mis- 
sion would  be  in  vain,  for  once,  in  a  vis- 
ion, he  saw  them  in  multitudes  bowing 
in  adoration  before  him,  and  listening  to 
the  message  which  had  been  scornfully 
rejected  by  his  fellow-beings.  This  be- 
lief is  substantiated  in  the  Qur'an,  where, 
in  the  chapter  relating  to  the  ginns, 
these  beings  declare  of  themselves,  — 

"  And  of  us  are  some  who  are  pious, 
and  of  us  are  some  who  are  otherwise  ; 
we  are  in  separate  bands. 

"  And  verily  of  us  are  some  who  are 
Muslims,  and  of  us  some  are  trespassers  ; 
but  of  us  who  are  Muslims,  they  strive 
after  right  direction,  and  as  for  the  tres- 
passers, they  are  fuel  for  hell." 

Christians  had  no  dogmatic  utterance 
upon  the  subject  in  their  sacred  books, 
and  it  therefore  became  with  them,  in 
the  words  of  Postellus,  "  full  of  contro- 
versie  and  ambiguitie."  Doctors  and 
theologians,  poets  arid  peasants,  were  all 
alike  at  liberty  to  hold  their  own  views, 
so  long  as  these  did  not  encroach  upon 
dogma.  Those  of  the  former  were  taint- 
ed by  oriental  mysticism.  Atbenagoras 
taught  that  there  are  fallen  angels  whose 


sin  was  less  grievous  than  that  of  the  hosts 
of  Satan,  and  whose  nature,  after  the 
fall,  was  therefore  less  morally  perverse. 
They  haunt  air,  earth,  fire,  and  water, 
and  are  unable  to  rise  to  heavenly  things 
or  to  descend  to  pure  evil.  Tertullian, 
too,  made  a  distinction  between  the  rebel 
angels  headed  by  Satan  arid  those  who 
had  committed  the  much  milder  offense 
of  loving  the  daughters  of  men  and  of 
showing  them  how  to  dye  wool  and 
paint  their  faces.  Justin  Martyr  referred 
to  the  demons  or  spirits  who  are  the  off- 
spring of  the  amours  of  transgressing 
angels  with  mortal  women.  Origen, 
Lactantius,  and  indeed  almost  all  the 
earliest  authorities,  agreed  that  the  spir- 
its who  hold  this  intermediate  position 
are  grosser  in  substance  than  the  heav- 
enly legions,  and  that  they  often  assume 
material  shape  in  order  to  work  out 
their  designs,  just  as  the  devils  were 
supposed  to  do.  Therefore,  while  the 
old  gods  and  goddesses  were  said  to 
be  illusions  raised  by  Satan,  fairy-like 
apparitions  were  attributed  to  interme- 
diate spirits.  But  even  among  saints 
and  fathers  this  Maya-like  explanation 
could  not  always  destroy  belief  in  the 
real  presence  of  the  minor  beings  of 
the  old  mythologies.  St.  Jerome,  in  his 
life  of  the  Hermit  Paul,  gravely  relates 
the  meetings  of  St.  Anthony  with  cen- 
taurs and  goat-footed,  horned  dwarfs, 
with  whom  he  held  conversations  and 
exchanged  compliments. 

To  the  people  whose  abjuration  of 
the  earlier  religions  was  but  nominal 
the  doctrine  which  reduced  nymphs  and 
elves,  dwarfs  and  satyrs,  to  phantoms 
and  illusions  was  untenable.  They  had 
been  for  so  many  years  familiar  with 
the  habits  and  customs,  the  appearance 
and  even  the  habitations,  of  these  crea- 
tures, that  they  would  as  soon  have 
questioned  their  own  bodily  existence 
as  that  of  their  fairy  neighbors.  So 
general  was  the  conviction  that  the  lat- 
ter had  bodies,  and  that  they  married, 
begot  children,  ate  and  drank,  in  the 


1884.] 


Relation  of  Fairies  to  Religion. 


463 


same  way  as  mortals,  that  most  of  the 
popular  theories  accounting  for  their 
origin,  differing  from  those  of  learned 
theologians,  gave  them  men  for  ances- 
tors. They  were  a  branch  of  the  hu- 
man family,  laboring  under  a  curse. 
Now,  they  were  the  descendants  of 
Cain.  From  him,  according  to  Beowulf, 

"...  monstrous  births 
all  sprang  forth, 
eotens  and  elves 
and  orkens, 
so  likewise  the  Giants 
Who  against  God  warr'd 
for  a  long  space. 
He  for  that  gave  them  their  reward." 

Again,  they  were  children  of  Adam  and 
Eve,  who  because  they  had  been  hidden 
from  God  Almighty  on  one  occasion 
when  he  visited  their  parents  were  des- 
tined by  him  forever  after  to  live  in- 
visible to  their  brothers  and  sisters. 
"  What  man  hides  from  God,  God  will 
hide  from  man,"  he  had  said,  and  at 
once  they  had  been  banished  to  mounds 
and  hills  and  rocks.  The  quaint  Ice- 
landic version  of  this  legend  treats 
cleanliness  as  nearly  akin  to  godliness, 
for  it  was  because  these  children  were 
not  washed  that  Eve  concealed  them. 
It  seems  to  have  occurred  sometimes 
to  true  believers  that  these  fairy  de- 
scendants of  Adam  and  Eve,  or  of  Cain, 
had  on  the  whole  not  been  losers  by 
being  so  cursed.  A  life  of  feasting  and 
revelry,  together  with  much  more  than 
mortal  power  and  wealth,  far  out- 
weighed, when  measured  in  the  scales 
of  material  pleasure,  the  pain-laden  por- 
tion of  mankind.  It  was  probably  to 
counterbalance  their  temporal  superi- 
ority that,  less  fortunate  than  the  Ma- 
hometan ginns,  they  were  cut  off  from 
all  hopes  of  spiritual  joys.  Christ,  it 
was  said,  did  not  include  them  in  his 
scheme  of  redemption.  By  gaining  an 
earthly  paradise,  they  lost  heaven.  In 
almost  all  the  theories  advanced  to  ac- 
count for  their  origin,  the  hopelessness 
of  their  eternal  salvation  is  prominently 
set  forth.  Thus,  the  Devonshire  pixies 


are  the  materialized  souls  of  infants 
who  die  without  baptism ;  the  fays  of 
romance  are  beings  possessing  spirits, 
but  not  immortal  souls.  The  inhabitants 
of  the  Welsh  "  green  meadows  of  the 
sea'3  are  uubaptized  Druids,  who  of 
course  could  not  enter  heaven,  and  who 
were  too  good  to  be  consigned  to  hell ; 
and  the  korrigan  of  Brittany  are  the 
princesses  of  Armorica,  so  transformed 
because  they  gave  a  deaf  ear  to  the 
preachers  of  Christ's  gospel.  The  con- 
sciousness of  their  loss  is  the  reason  fre- 
quently given  for  the  ill-will  of  the  fairy 
race  to  mankind,  and  to  it  is  attributed 
the  special  fury  which  seizes  them  on 
Friday,  when  an  encounter  with  them 
is  dangerous  for  men  and  women.  For 

"  This  is  the  day  when  the  fairy  kind 
Sit  weeping  alone  for  their  hopeless  lot, 
And  the  wood-maiden  sighs  to  the  moaning 

wind, 

And  the  mermaiden  weeps  in  her  crystal  grot ; 
For  this  is  a  day  when  a  deed  was  done 
For  which  they  had  neither  part  nor  share  : 
For  the  children  of  clay  was  salvation  wrought, 
But  not  for  the  forms  of  earth  and  air. 
And  ever  the  mortal  is  most  forlorn 
Who  meeteth  their  race  on  Friday  morn." 

When  God  and  his  arch-enemy,  the 
principle  of  evil,  are  believed  to  be  gov- 
erned by  a  desire  for  or  against  the 
moral  welfare  of  men,  the  latter  are  so 
assured  of  a  regularity  in  their  actions 
that  they  know  how  by  certain  large 
means  to  defend  themselves  against  the 
one  and  to  conciliate  the  other.  But 
nothing  short  of  unceasing  vigilance  can 
disarm  the  malice  or  win  the  favor  of 
beings  whose  conduct  is  without  any 
definite  end.  Consequently,  in  the  three 
monotheisms  a  second  creed,  with  cere- 
monial and  commandments,  has  flour- 
ished side  by  side  with  the  chief  cultus, 
the  latter  being  sometimes  really,  if  not^ 
nominally,  subordinate  to  it.  Even  when 
the  children  of  Israel  were  not  stray- 
ing after  foreign  gods,  or  making  for 
themselves  golden  calves,  they  constant- 
ly turned  from  Jehovah  to  the  schedim. 
As  it  is  said  in  the  New  Republic,  a 
man  who  regretfully  cancels  his  faith  in 


464 


Relation  of  Fairies  to   Religion. 


[October, 


the  Deity  may  forget  the  loss  of  his  God 
when  his  portmanteau  is  mislaid.  In 
like  manner,  the  fear  of  Jehovah's  dis- 
pleasure could  escape  the  memory  of 
the  Jews  in  their  anxiety  not  to  incur 
that  of  Samael  or  Lilith.  There  was 
but  one  Jehovah,  and  he,  even  in  his 
wrath,  was  just.  But  there  were  innu- 
merable schedim,  and  since  they  could 
bear  children,  their  numbers  ever  in- 
creased, and  their  malevolence  was  ruled 
by  caprice.  In  all  his  goings-out  and 
comings-in,  in  his  waking  and  sleeping 
hours,  in  disease  and  in  health,  man  was 
subject  to  their  persecutions.  Because 
the  creator  had  not  given  them  bodies, 
they  sought  to  obtain  possession  of  those 
of  their  human  rivals,  to  whom  they 
therefore  allowed  but  little  peace.  In 
the  daytime,  they  would  not  permit  men 
and  women  to  go  into  the  street  with- 
out pressing  upon  them  from  either  side 
by  hundreds  and  thousands.  They  fol- 
lowed them  in  multitudes  to  the  tem- 
ple and  the  synagogues,  where,  in  the 
struggle,  if  not  for  existence,  at  least 
for  standing-room,  they  tore  their  clothes 
and  beat  them  black  and  blue.  So  great 
were  their  numbers  that  Abba  Benja- 
min says,  "  If  our  eyes  were  permitted 
to  see  the  malignant  sprites  that  beset  us, 
we  could  not  rest  on  account  of  them." 
Nor  did  their  malignance  cease  with 
daylight.  At  night  man  was  exposed 
not  only  to  the  attacks  of  the  night-vis- 
iting Lilith,  but  to  those  of  whole  armies 
of  demons,  —  a  fact  easily  proved.  For 
if  he  strewed  ashes  about  his  bedside 
before  going  to  sleep,  the  next  morning 
he  would  find  in  them  countless  foot- 
marks, looking  like  those  of  fowls.  At 
certain  times  and  places  their  supremacy 
was  greater  than  at  others.  Vigilance 
against  them  had  to  be  redoubled  from 
the  Passover  to  Pentecost.  Woe  to  the 
unwary  Jew  who  ventured  beyond  his 
doorsteps  after  dark  on  Wednesdays 
and  Saturdays ;  for  Agrath,  daughter  of 
Machloth,  and  her  eighteen  myriads  of 
followers  were  then  abroad,  all  endowed 


with  power  to  destroy  whomsoever  they 
chanced  to  meet.  Children  flogged  or 
allowed  to  go  out  after  four  in  the  after- 
noon, between  June  17th  and  July  9th, 
fell  victims  to  the  demon  Ketef,  then 
let  loose,  and  wandering  like  a  raging 
lion,  seeking  whom  he  might  devour. 
Even  if  a  man's  nose  bled,  it  was  the 
schedim  who  caused  it.  It  is  no  wonder 
that  the  rites  and  practices  by  which 
the  designs  of  these  demons  could  be 
frustrated  became  as  important  as  at- 
tendance at  the  synagogues  an$  the  tem- 
ple. There  was  scarcely  an  action  or 
duty  of  the  day  in  the  fulfillment  of 
which  the  Jew  did  not  bear  the  schedim 
in  mind.  His  breakfast  was  converted 
into  a  religious  ceremony  to  free  him 
from  them.  His  family,  friends,  or  ser- 
vants who  lived  with  him  were  a  pro- 
tection to  him  against  Lilith,  who  could 
do  as  she  chose  with  mortals  sleeping 
alone  in  a  house.  His  bedposts  were 
marked  with  the  inscription  Et  Zelo 
Chuizlilith,  a  charm  'which  effectually 
disarmed  her.  He  would  not  drink  bor- 
rowed water  or  step  across  that  which 
had  been  spilt,  because  he  thought  by 
so  doing  he  annoyed  the  demons.  Nei- 
ther would  he  drink  water  by  night,  for 
he  would  then  have  become  the  victim 
of  Shaviri,  the  demon  of  blindness.  The 
enormous  power  of  the  fairy  demons 
which  caused  them  to  be  such  deadly 
foes  made  them  invaluable  as  allies. 
Under  rare  circumstances,  a  man  could 
obtain  command  over  them,  and  then 
he  seemed  almost  as  great  as  Jehovah. 
This,  therefore,  was  represented  as  a 
most  exceptional  event,  Solomon  being 
the  only  human  being  who  ever  gained 
full  ascendency.  The  miracles  which 
he  performed  by  the  aid  of  the  subject- 
ed spirits  were  no  less  wonderful  than 
those  worked  by  Jehovah.  The  swal- 
lowing of  Jonah  by  the  whale  or  the  as- 
cent of  Elias  and  Enoch  to  heaven  was 
surpassed  by  the  marvelous  journeys 
through  the  air  made  by  Solomon  and 
his  court  on  the  magic  carpet  spread  by 


1884.] 


Relation  of  Fairies  to  Religion. 


465 


schedim.  The  fall  of  the  walls  of  Jer- 
icho at  the  sound  of  Joshua's  trumpets 
was  equaled  by  the  rise  of  those  of  the 
temple  at  Jerusalem  under  the  hands  of 
Aschmodai  and  his  legions.  It  was*  very 
natural  that  after  their  return  from  the 
Captivity  the  Jews  were  less  prone  to 
relapses  into  idolatry  and  polytheism 
than  they  had  ever  been  before.  It  was 
because  of  their  demonology  that  their 
monotheism  was  in  the  end  triumphant. 

It  is,  however,  in  connection  with 
Christianity  that  this  minor  cultus  has 
gained  its  greatest  magnitude.  Nor  is 
it  strange  that  this  should  have  been  so. 
The  Hebrews,  as  has  been  seen,  when 
they  borrowed  demons  and  angels  from 
other  creeds  did  not  alter  the  main  prin- 
ciples of  their  religious  belief.  Though 
Mahometanism  was  much  more  spirit- 
ual than  the  systems  it  replaced,  its  doc- 
trines were  still  so  of  the  earth,  earthy, 
that  they  were  suited  to  the  compre- 
hension of  converts.  But  Christianity, 
in  supplanting  paganism,  necessitated  a 
radical  change.  It  not  only  called  for 
the  abandonment  of  polytheism  for  a 
monotheistic  worship,  but  it  held  up  a 
rigid  asceticism  and  a  spiritual  code  of 
morals  to  men  who  either,  as  in  Greece 
and  Rome,  had  kept  their  philosophy 
and  morality  distinct  from  their  religion, 
or  else,  as  in  Northern  and  Central  Eu- 
rope, could  not  yet  appreciate  the  high- 
er ethics  or  grasp  an  abstract  idea. 
While  rites  and  ceremonies,  feasts  and 
fusts,  once  held  in  honor  of  Odin  and 
Zeus,  of  Aphrodite  and  Freya,  could  be 
retained  by  consecrating  them  to  Christ 
and  the  Virgin  Mother,  it  was  impossi- 
ble to  ascribe  to  the  latter  the  physical 
and  sensual  qualities  of  earlier  deities. 
Though  the  people  were  baptized  and 
swore  allegiance  to  Christ,  they  remained 
pagan  at  heart.  And  it  was  for  this 
reason  that  they  continued  so  devoted 
to  the  fairy  family,  to  whom  the  chief 
characteristics  of  the  forsaken  gods  had 
been  transferred,  and  to  whom,  therefore, 
they  could  apply  for  the  earthly  rap- 

VOL.  LIV.  —  NO.  324.  30 


tures  and  the  temporal  aid  which  were 
denied  to  them  by  the  Christian  Deity. 
Wine,  women,  and  song  were  the  reward 
of  mortals  who  pledged  faith  to  fairies. 
Fresh,  clean  houses  and  a  full  larder 
awaited  the  friends  of  nisses  and  brown- 
ies. To  obtain  their  present  good- will 
the  far-distant  pleasures  of  heaven  were 
at  times  forfeited.  During  the  Middle 
Ages  tales  of  saints  and  martyrs  who 
scorned  the  world  and  the  flesh  were 
rivaled  by  stories  of  heroes  who,  like 
the  British  King  Gavran,  departed  in 
search  of  an  earthly  paradise.  Not  a. 
few  among  true  believers  would  have 
proclaimed  the  fate  of  a  King  Arthur 
in  the  Isle  of  Avilion  happier  than1 
that  of  a  St.  Peter  guarding  the  gate; 
of  heaven.  Like  a  challenge  to  the 
doctrine  of  penance  and  discipline,  of 
the  nothingness  of  this  life  and  the  all- 
importance  of  the  next,  rang  out  the 
legends  of  Tannhauser  happy  in  the 
Horselberg,  and  Ogier  the  Dane  con- 
tent in  fairy-land.  The  tenderness  felt 
for  the  fairy  folk  also  revealed  itself  in 
the  unwillingness  of  the  people  to  be- 
lieve in  the  impossibility  of  their  eter- 
nal salvation.  Some  of  the  dwarfs  and 
kobolds  of  folk-lore  went  to  church  and 
sang  hymns.  Hinzelmann,  the  famous 
household  sprite,  indignantly  cried  out 
to  the  priest  who  came  to  exorcise  him, 
"  I  am  a  Christian,  like  any  other  man, 
and  I  hope  to  be  saved ! "  When,  in 
the  Scandinavian  legend,  the  priest  told 
the  neckan  that  before  he  would  be  re- 
deemed his  pilgrim's  staff  would  bear 
leaves, 

"  .  .  .  lo,  the  staff  it  budded  ! 
It  greened,  it  branched,  it  waved !'" 

Even  the  dwarf  met  by  St.  Anthony 
made  profession  of  faith  in  Christ  the 
Redeemer,  and  begged  for  the  prayers 
of  the  saint.  But  the  voice  of  rebellion 
which  thus  found  utterance  was  not  often 
heard.  As  a  rule,  the  pleasures  of  fairy- 
land are  represented  as  being,  like  the 
Elle  maidens,  fair  to  look  upon,  but  hol- 
low. Fairy  music  and  dances  are  en- 


466                             Relation  of  Fairies  to  Religion.  [October, 

trancing,  but  he  who  crosses  the  elfin  pitiated  throughout  Europe  by  food  and 

ring  or  listens   to   the   singing   of   the  drink,  and  these  offerings  ranked  as  not 

Lorelei  is  lost  forever.     The  fairy  wine-  in    the   least   less   important   than    the 

cup  is  seductive,  but  that  upon  which  prayers   and   ceremonies    of    legitimite 

its    contents  fall   is   consumed   as  with  ritual.     Brownies,  nisses,  and  damovays 

fire.     Beautiful  and  bewitching  beyond  were  conciliated  by   a   corner  left  for 

man's  power  of  resistance,  the  fairy  at-  them  in  the  chimney-place  and  a  bowl 

tractions  can  but  bring  misery  and  woe.  of  porridge,  and  attention  to  their  corn- 

The  dance  goes  well  in  the  grove,  but  forts   was  as  important  a  duty  as  the 

what  of  Sir  Olaf  ?     Sweet  is  the  kiss  of  recital  of  morning  and  evening  prayers, 

the  fountain  fay,  but  how  fares  it  with  In  a  word,  so  great  was  the  priority,  at 

the  spirit  of  him  she  kisses  ?  one  time,  of  the  fairy  kingdom  that  there 

But  whether  friends  or  foes,  all  were  seemed  a  probability  of  the  higher  su- 

alike  agreed  in  believing  in  the  exist-  pernatural  world  being  reduced  to  its 

ence  and  immediate  neighborhood  of  fair-  level.   In  many  mediaeval  legends  Satan 

ies.     A  man  could  not  ride  out  without  degenerates  into  an  easily  fooled  giant 

risking  an  encounter  with  a  Puck  or  or  hungry  demon,  like  those  of  pagan 

a  will-o'-the-wisp.      He  could    not   ap-  mythologies.  St.  Michael  and  St.  George 

proach   a   stream   in    safety   unless   he  play   together  at  bowls,  whence  comes 

closed  his  ears  to  the  sirens'  songs  and  the  sound  of  thunder ;  or  else  they  shake 

his  eyes  to  the  fair  form    of   the   mer-  their  beds  and  pluck  feathers  and  down, 

maid.     In  the  hillside  were  the  dwarfs,  which  in  falling  to  earth  turn  into  snow. 

in  the  forest  Queen  Mab  and  her  court.  St.  Collen  visits  fairy-land  and  converses 

Brownie  ruled  over  him  in    his  house,  with  its  king,  and   St.  Brandain  builds 

and  Robin  Goodfellow  in  his  walks  and  his  cathedral  on  the  site  pointed  out  to 

wanderings.    From  the  moment  a  Chris-  him  by  fairies.     Pilate,  like  Barbarossa 

tian  came  into  the  world  until  his  de-  in  the  Kyfhauser,  sits  in  a  subterranean 

parture  therefrom,  he  was  at  the  mercy  cave,  and  there   he  reads  and  re-reads 

of  the  fairy  folk,  and  his  devices  to  elude  the    sentence    he   passed   upon    Christ. 

them   were   many.     Unhappy  was    the  Charles's  Wain    becomes  the   wagon  in 

mother  who  neglected  to  lay  a  pair  of  which  Elias  and  other  saints,  and  even 

scissors  or  of  tongs,  a  knife  or  her  hus-  the  Saviour  himself,  journey  to  heaven, 

band's  breeches,  in    the  cradle  of   her  Prayers  are  addressed  to  the  beard  of 

new-born  infant ;  for  if  she  forgot,  then  the  first  person  of  the  Trinity.  The  Vir- 

was  she  sure   to  receive  a  changeling  in  gin  Mother  disputes  supremacy  over  the 

its   place.     Great  was   the  loss  of   the  hearts  of  knights  with  Morgan  the  Fay, 

child  to  whose  baptism  the  fairies  were  and  wears  their  rings  upon  her  finger ; 

not  invited,  or  the  bride  to  whose  wed-  or  else  she  is  found  like  a  hamadryad, 

ding  the  nix,  or  water-spirit,  was  not  bid-  dwelling  within  a  tree,  as  was  the  case  on 

den.     If  the  inhabitants  of  Thale  did  the  Heinzenberg,  near  Zell.  Religion  was 

not  throw  a  black  cock  annually  into  drawn    down  to    the  comprehension  of 

the  Bode,  one  of  them  was  claimed  as  the  people.     Fortunately  for  the  purity 

his   lawful    victim   by    the   nickelmann  of  Christianity,  the  ever-developing  spirit 

dwelling  in   that  stream.     The  Russian  of  rationalism  made  the  long  continuance 

peasant  who  failed   to  present   the  ru-  of  this  childlike  stage  of  belief  impossi- 

salka.  or  water-sprite,  he  met  at  Whit-  ble,  and  Christ,  the  Virgin,  and  all  the 

sun  tide  with  a  handkerchief  or  a  piece  heavenly  court  were  gradually  reestab- 

torn  from  his  or  her  clothing  was  doomed  lished  in  their  proper  sphere, 

to  death.     Spirits  of  the  four  elements,  Just  as  individual  dwarfs  and  kobolds 

of  earth,  fire,  air,  and  water,  were  pro-  departed  forever  and  aye  when  people 


1884.] 


An  English  Literary  Cousin. 


467 


became  too  curious  in  regard  to  them, 
so  as  men  have  sought  to  know  more  of 
earth  and  the  living  things  it  contains 
the  spirits  have  fled  from  tree  and  rock, 
from  stream  and  cavern.  Not  that  the 
belief  in  them  has  been  entirely  de- 
stroyed. In  the  East  ginns  are  still 
realities  to  Mahometans.  In  the  West 
there  are  many  among  the  peasantry 
who  place  implicit  faith  in  the  "  good 
people."  Savages  and  barbarous  tribes, 
despite  their  Christianity,  remain  true 
to  the  Glooskap  and  the  Mikamwess  of 
their  forefathers.  But  these  are  mere 
survivals  of  primitive  forms  of  thought. 
The  whole  tendency  of  modern  culture 
is  antagonistic  to  the  animistic  concep- 
tion of  nature.  Increase  in  exact  knowl- 
edge does  away  with  the  necessity  which 
brought  fairies  and  spirits  of  the  ele- 
ments into  existence,  for  positive  science 


demonstrates  absolutely  that  natural  phe- 
nomena and  physical  forces  act  accord- 
ing to  law,  and  are  not  subject  to  chance 
interference  from  conscious  agents.  A 
better  understanding  of  the  sequence 
of  cause  and  effect  and  the  law  of  conti- 
nuity has  established  the  fact  that  even 
the  most  extraordinary,  or  what  seems 
the  most  accidental,  occurrence  is  the 
inevitable  result  of  previous  events, 
though  these  may  not  always  be  appar- 
ent to  man.  Before  this  scientific  in- 
vestigation of  nature  the  beautiful  fays 
and  Elle  maidens,  the  thrifty  dwarfs  and 
merry  Pucks,  fade  away,  even  as  the 
old  frost  and  snow  covered  man  in  the 
Chippewa  legend  melted  at  the  approach 
of  the  spring-breathing,  rose-garlanded 
youth.  As  the  voice  of  Science  increases 
in  strength,  the  horns  of  Elfland  blow 
ever  fainter  and  fainter. 

Elizabeth  Robins  PenneU. 


AN  ENGLISH  LITERARY  COUSIN. 


PERHAPS  every  reader  of  Haw- 
thorne's Old  Home  will  remember  his 
delightfully  unscrupulous  appropriation 
of  Leigh  Hunt  as  a  sort  of  stray  Amer- 
ican, with  whom  it  behooved  him  to 
fraternize.  "  There  was  not  an  English 
trait  in  him  from  head  to  foot,  morally, 
intellectually,  or  physically,"  wrote  our 
willful  romancer:  "beef,  ale  or  stout, 
brandy  or  port- wine,  entered  not  at  all 
into  his  composition.  ...  It  was  on 
account  of  the  fineness  of  his  nature 
generally  that  the  English  appreciated 
him  no  better,  and  left  this  sweet  and 
delicate  poet  poor  and  with  scanty  lau- 
rels, in  his  declining  age.  It  was  not,  I 
think,  from  his  American  blood  that 
Leigh  Hunt  derived  either  his  amiabil- 
ity or  his  peaceful  inclinations ;  at  least, 
I  do  not  see  how  we  can  reasonably 
claim  the  former  quality  as  a  national 
characteristic,  though  the  latter  might 


have  been  fairly  inherited  from  his  an- 
cestors on  the  mother's  side,  who  were 
Pennsylvania  Quakers.  But  the  kind 
of  excellence  that  distinguished  him  — 
his  fineness,  subtilty,  and  grace  —  was 
that  which  the  richest  cultivation  has 
heretofore  tended  to  develop  in  the  hap- 
pier examples  of  American  genius,  and 
which,  though  I  say  it  reluctantly,  is 
perhaps  what  our  future  intellectual  ad- 
vancement may  make  general  among  us. 
His  person,  at  all  events,  was  thoroughly 
American,  and  of  the  best  type,  as  were 
also  his  manners ;  for  we  are  the  best 
as  well  as  the  worst  mannered  people  in 
the  world." 

It  goes   toward  the    confirmation   of 

o 

Hawthorne's  theory  that  Benjamin  West, 
the  painter,  who  married  one  of  Leigh 
Hunt's  relatives,  once  told  him  that, 
meeting  himself  or  any  of  his  broth- 
ers on  the  street,  and  knowing  naught 


468 


An  English  Literary  Cousin. 


[October, 


of  them,  he  should  unhesitatingly  have 
pronounced  them  Americans. 

This  lost  compatriot  of  ours,  then, 
this  literary  changeling,  was  born  at 
Southgate,  in  Middlesex,  one  hundred 
years  ago  this  month, —  October  19, 
1784.  Like  Emerson,  he  was  descend- 
ed from  an  ancestry  of  clergymen,  and 
from  venturesome  people  who  left  their 
homes  for  the  New  World.  His  father's 
father  was  rector  of  Bridge  Town,  Bar- 
badoes.  His  father,  a  Tory  in  politics, 
who  afterwards  found  it  safer  to  re- 
turn to  the  mother  country,  took  his  de- 
grees in  New  York  and  in  Philadelphia, 
where  he  married  the  daughter  of  Ste- 
phen Shewell,  a  merchant  of  that  city, 
and  a  friend  of  Franklin  and  Thomas 
Paine. 

James  Henry  Leigh  Hunt,  a  name- 
sake of  his  father's  favorite  pupil,  was 
the  youngest  of  a  large  family,  "  all  of 
whom  inherited  the  knack  of  making 
sacrifices  for  the  sake  of  principle."  "  I 
call  myself,"  he  said,  "  in  every  sense, 
etymological  not  excepted,  a  son  of 
mirth  and  melancholy  :  for  my  father's 
Christian  name  (as  old  students  of  ono- 
mancy  would  have  heard  with  serious 
faces)  was  Isaac,  which  is  Hebrew  for 
laughter ;  and  my  mother's  was  Mary, 
which  comes  from  a  word  in  the  same 
language  signifying  bitterness.  And 
indeed,  as  I  do  not  remember  to  have 
seen  my  mother  smile,  save  in  sorrowful 
tenderness,  so  now  my  father's  shouts 
of  laughter  are  ringing  in  my  ears."  A 
shy,  sensitive,  introspective  child,  he 
was  sent  to  Christ's  Hospital  in  1792, 
and  distinguished  himself  straightway, 
despite  his  gentleness,  by  successfully  de- 
fending a  small  berated  boy  from  abuse, 
and  by  resisting  the  system  of  "fag- 
ging "  with  indomitable  perseverance, 
even  to  the  extent  of  bearing  a  nightly 
punishment.  Leigh  Hunt,  all  his  life, 
save  in  one  very  excitable  period  of  his 
early  manhood,  was  anything  but  com- 
bative ;  yet  his  mettle  never  failed  him 
when  the  need  came  for  action.  His 


schoolfellow,  Barnes,  afterwards  sub-ed- 
itor of  the  Times,  seems  to  have  been 
at  that  time  his  chosen  companion.  They 
went  together  along  the  Hornsey  fields, 
shouting  Metastasio's 

"  Scendi  propizia 
Col  tuo  splendore," 

or  resting  on  their  oars  at  Richmond,  to 
call  vociferously  on  the  spirit  of  Thom- 
son to  "  rest."  It  is  worth  remember- 
ing that  it  was  this  same  genial  Barnes 
who,  when  asked  later  by  a  silly  woman 
whether  he  liked  children,  sententious- 
ly  answered,  "Yes,  ma'am.  Boiled." 

Leigh  Hunt  left  the  blue-coat  school 
as  first  Deputy  Grecian,  in  the  same 
rank,  at  the  same  age,  and  for  the  same 
reason  as  his  predecessor,  Charles  Lamb. 
The  slight  stammer  in  his  speech  (which 
he  afterwards  overcame)  took  away  his 
chance  of  success  in  making  a  valedic- 
torian address  in  public ;  and  since  Gre- 
cians were  all  expected  to  go  into  the 
church,  there  also  it  stood  against  him. 
So  plunging  at  once  into  the  profane 
state,  he  began  writing  comedies,  trag- 
edies, farces,  and  odes  and  pastorals ; 
after  the  fashion  of  Spenser,  Pope,  and 
Goldsmith.  What  darts  of  raillery  his 
elder  hand,  in  the  Autobiography,  threw 
at  these  boyish  glories  ! 

An  incident  of  Hunt's  early  youth 
reveals  his  exceeding  proneness  to  de- 
liberation and  leisurely  fancy.  He  had 
gone  out  in  a  little  decked  skiff  on  the 
Isis,  with  a  friend  ;  he  had  fastened  the 
sail-line,  thrust  his  feet  into  a  small 
opening,  and  placidly  betaken  himself 
to  reading.  The  wind  suddenly  arose, 
and,  so  caught,  over  went  the  skiff,  the 
bookish  mariner  fastened  to  it.  Worst 
of  all,  the  sail-line  got  tangled  about  his 
neck.  Now,  in  this  imminent  danger, 
which  his  comrade  escaped,  and  from 
which  he  was  at  length  rescued  by  Ox- 
onians, started  the  diverting  mental  re- 
flection that  he,  Leigh  Hunt,  was  about 
to  nullify  an  ancient  and  respectable 
proverb  which  averred  that  a  man  born 
to  be  hanged  would  never  be  drowned, 


1884.] 


An  English  Literary  Cousin. 


469 


as  he  was  likely  to  suffer  both  ways! 
The  coherence  of  that  under-water  spec- 
ulation was  worthy  of  Shelley. 

He  retained,  to  record  it  over  sixty 
years  after,  a  ludicrous  reminiscence  of 
Boyer,  the  famous  Christ's  Hospital  mas- 
ter, and  of  a  luckless  pupil  who  read 
badly,  drawled,  and  forgot  his  periods. 
The  victim  is  supposed  to  stand  before 
the  awful  Boyer,  holding  the  text-book, 
Dialogues  between  a  Missionary  and 
an  Indian,  and  casting  an  eye  over  the 
corner  of  the  page  towards  the  locality 
whence  blows  are  to  proceed.  Here  is 
Leigh  Hunt's  narration  :  — 

"  Master.  Now,  young  man,  have  a 
care,  or  I  '11  set  you  a  swingeing  task. 
[A  common  phrase  of  his.] 

"  Pupil.  [Making  a  sort  of  heavy 
bolt  at  his  calamity,  and  never  remem- 
bering the  stop  after  the  word  mission- 
ary.] Missionary  can  you  see  the 
wind  ? 

"  [Master  gives  him  a  slap  on  the 
cheek.] 

"  Pupil.  [Raising  his  voice  to  a  cry, 
and  still  forgetting  the  stop.]  Indian 
no ! 

"  Master.  God's-my-life,  young  man  ! 
have  care  how  you  provoke  me. 

"  Pupil.  [Always  forgetting  the 
stop.]  Missionary  how  then  do  you 
know  there  is  such  thing  ? 

"  [Here  a  terrible  thump.] 

"  Pupil.  [With  a  shout  of  agony.] 
Indian  because  I  feel  it ! ' 

"  The  pity  of  it "  may  be  evident,  but 
the  humor  is  irresistible. 

At  the  time  of  Bonaparte's  threat- 
ened invasion,  young  Hunt  belonged  as 
volunteer  to  St.  James's  regiment.  In 
1809,  after  a  great  deal  of  deliberation, 
no  doubt,  on  the  respective  merits  of  a 
single  life  and  its  opposite,  he  married 
Miss  Kent,  the  "  Marian  "  of  his  charm- 
ing verses.  Mrs.  Hunt,  who  died  in 
1857,  had  a  notable  talent  for  plastic 
art.  She  was  not  handsome  nor  espe- 
cially accomplished,  and  became,  later, 
a  hopeless  invalid.  But  she  had  the 


brave  virtues  of  reserve,  endurance,  and 
independence.  Her  wit  was  keen  and 
quiet,  like  a  rapier  thrust.  Byron,  who 
did  not  admire  her  to  excess,  once  com- 
plained to  her  at  Pisa  that  Trelawney 
had  been  speaking  slightingly  of  his 
morals.  "It  is  the  first  time,  my  lord," 
was  her  laughing  but  caustic  answer, 
"  that  I  have  ever  heard  of  them."  My 
lord  never  forgave  her. 

Leigh  Hunt  is  known  to  the  careless 
majority  as  the  author  of  Abou  Ben 
Adhem,  and  as  the  man  who  spent  two 
years  in  Horsemonger  Lane  Jail,  for  a 
just  if  unsparing  attack  in  The  Exami- 
ner, on  George  IV.,  then  prince  regent. 
With  his  customary  invincible  cheerful- 
ness, he  made  the  best  of  a  position 
sadly  detrimental  to  his  prospects  and 
his  health.  His  wife  and  children  being 
allowed  to  join  him,  he  hung  the  doors 
of  his  cell  with  garlands,  covered  the 
walls  with  prints,  casts,  and  hangings, 
sent  for  a  piano,  "  and  lived,  despite  the 
king's  attorney -general,  in  a  bower ;  " 
even  planting  an  apple-tree  near  his 
window,  out  of  which  he  managed  to 
eke  a  pudding  the  second  year :  typify- 
ing, in  smiling  quaintness,  said  Richard 
Hengist  Home,  the  sweetness  and  bit- 
terness, the  constraint  and  gay-hearted- 
ness,  of  his  whole  life  beside.  Long  af- 
ter he  recalled  the  two  among  his  keep- 
ers who  were  kind  to  him,  and  instanced 
the  exquisite  delicacy  of  the  jailer's 
wife,  who,  obliged  to  secure  the  doors 
against  her  prisoner  at  night,  was  only 
once  caught  doing  it,  so  softly  had  she 
turned  the  key,  for  fear  of  distressing 
him.  He  notes  also  that  to  his  imprison- 
ment he  owed  his  friend  of  friends,  Per- 
cy Bysshe  Shelley,  who,  knowing  him 
but  lightly  before,  now  wrote  to  him, 
making  him  a  princely  offer,  of  which, 
however,  he  would  not  avail  himself. 
Once  liberated,  Leigh  Hunt  and  his 
brother  John,  who  had  been  implicated 
with  him,  continued  to  edit  The  Exami- 
ner ;  "  H.  R.  H.,"  as  the  more  brilliant 
of  the  two  wrote,  "  still  affecting  us  with 


470 


An  English  Literary  Cousin. 


[October, 


anything  but  solemnity,  as  we  took  care 
to  manifest." 

It  is  not  here  intended  to  follow  the 
events  of  Hunt's  career,  nor  to  chronicle 
in  due  order  the  journals  that  he  edited, 
nor  the  delightful  books  that  lie  made. 
He  was  all  his  life  friend  and  abettor  to 
men  of  genius  ;  exceedingly  personal  and 
unreserved  with  his  "  gentle  reader,"  he 
talked  of  them  and  to  them  in  public, 
with  a  gracious  word  for  those  who  died 
prematurely,  like  Egerton  Webbe,  and 
whose  morning  was  rich  in  promise.  His 
love  and  comprehension  of  early  English 
literature  ran  over  like  a  generous  foun- 
tain, and  chapter  after  chapter  from  his 
pen  treated  of  Chaucer,  of  the  Eliza- 
bethan poets,  of  the  wonderful  wit  of 
Congreve,  Farquhar,  Pope,  and  Atter- 
bury  ;  of  the  actors  and  musicians  of  his 
own  day  ;  of  the  enchanting  lore  of  Per- 
sia and  Greece  and  old  Italy.  He  was  al- 
ways studying  and  planning,  in  his  tran- 
quil way,  taking  infinite  pains  to  attest 
the  slightest  fact  which  he  put  forth, 
and  doing  a  vast  amount  of  excellent 
work  under  painful  circumstances  and  in 
face  of  changeless  opposition  ;  battling, 
too,  with  the  rancorous  and  coarse  abuse 
of  Quarterly  and  Blackwood  criticism, 
such  as  is  fortunately  obsolete  now,  and 
out  of  all  adequate  conception.  "  It  was 
nothing  to  revile  Hunt's  opinions,  his 
writing,  his  public  conduct,"  says  a  liv- 
ing author  ;  "  his  private  and  dearest  re- 
lationships, his  very  person  and  habits, 
were  made  subjects  of  attack,  and  un- 
der the  wildest  misconception  in  regard 
to  them  all."  Rumor  announced  him 
as  a  rash  speculator  in  the  money-mar- 
ket :  "  I  who  was  never  in  a  market  of 
any  kind,"  he  cries,  "  but  to  buy  an  ap- 
ple or  a  flower."  A  more  amusing  in- 
stance of  this  false  interpretation,  which 
pursued  Hunt  wherever  he  went,  —  a 
"sample  of  the  fantastical  nature  of 
scandal,"  as  he  called  it,  —  is  given  in 
the  anecdote  of  Wordsworth,  who,  when 
asked  his  opinion  of  the  young  Whig 
editor  (before  having  met  him),  said 


that  he  had  nothing  against  him  save 
that  he  was  badly  given  to  swearing! 
Now  Hunt,  as  a  child,  had  been  bred 
into  an  intense  abhorrence  of  violent 
words.  Once  he  got  into  a  corner, 
quite  by  himself,  to  indulge  in  the  for- 
bidden novelty,  and  thereafter  endured 
awful  pricks  of  conscience  when  patted 
approvingly  on  the  head,  each  caress 
forcing  him  to  soliloquize  in  the  depths 
of  his  small  troubled  spirit,  "  How  little 
they  know  that  I  am  the  boy  who  said 
'  D — n  it ! '  Hunt  had  occasion,  many 
years  later,  to  send  for  Theodore  Hook's 
acceptance  a  certain  sketch,  which  for 
absolute  accordance  with  the  characters 
introduced  needed  a  few  light  oaths,  and 
begged  hard,  pleading  the  practice  of 
the  honest  old  English  writers,  for  their 
insertion  ;  Hook,  on  his  editorial  virtue, 
persistently  refusing,  put  the  would-be 
swearer  into  a  singular  predicament. 
Wordsworth  had  probably  heard  of  the 
incident  in  some  perverted  shape.  Subse- 
quently to  the  "fearful  joy  "  snatched 
in  the  corner,  it  so  chanced  that  an  oath 
never  escaped  Leigh  Hunt's  lips ;  al- 
though he  hoped  no  good  fellow  would 
think  less  of  him  for  it,  and  promised,  in 
that  contingency,  immediately  to  begin 
swearing,  purely  to  vindicate  his  char- 
acter. 

Hawthorne,  who  had  a  strong  spirit- 
ual kinship  with  Leigh  Hunt,  and  who 
looked  upon  him,  in  their  very  brief  in- 
tercourse with  anointed  eyes,  as  it  were, 
divined  at  a  glance  his  penetration  and 
his  constitutional  love  of  praise.  How 
easily  and  gracefully  he  took  true  homage 
of  any  sort  we  know  from  Mary  Cow- 
den  Clarke,  who  as  a  young  child  in  her 
father's  house  crept  around  to  the  sofa- 
back,  where  Leigh  Hunt's  hand  was  rest- 
ing, to  kiss  it  softly  and  shyly,  and  steal 
away,  while  her  idol,  with  a  nod  and 
smile  to  his  little  votary,  tossed  his 
lithe  foot  to  and  fro,  and  went  on  with 
his  vivacious  talk.  Any  reader  of  Mrs. 
Carlyle's  Letters  will  remember  a  ludi- 
crous evidence  of  the  same  old  passion 


1884.] 


An  English  Literary  Cousin. 


471 


concerning  the  young  lady  whom  Hunt 
God-blessed  and  otherwise  rewarded.  It 
was,  perhaps,  a  natural  hunger  in  one 
who  had  ever  been  foremost  with  en- 
couraging words,  and  who  had  himself 
suffered  so  much  from  harshness  and 
malice.  In  any  case,  it  was  among  the 
oddly  winsome  traits  of  his  character. 

Hunt's  humor  exactly  fitted  Thack- 
eray's noble  definition :  wit  and  love. 
It  was  born  of  natural  gladness  of  heart, 
of  airy  courtesy  and  assurance.  Its 
sparkling  wing  flitted  ever  and  anon 
over  his  earnest  essays  and  along  the 
windings  of  his  musical  verse,  show- 
ing most  of  all,  if  we  are  to  believe 
those  who  best  knew  him,  in  his  every- 
day conversation.  It  was  of  the  flavor 
which  Suckling's  had  once,  and  Carew's ; 
roguish  always,  and  always  humane. 
It  runs  into  the  delicious  doggerel,  — 

"  Saint  of  sweethearts,  Valentine  ! 
Connubialest  of  clergymen  ;" 

into  the  bantering  preface  of  the  Round 
Table,  and  into  the  choice  of  its  topics  ; 
into  the  triumphant  dating  of  the  Seer 
"  at  our  suburban  abode,  with  a  fire  on 
one  side  of  us,  and  a  vine  at  the  win- 
dow on  the  other,  this  nineteenth  day 
of  October,  one  thousand  eight  hundred 

o 

and  forty,  in  the  very  green  and  invin- 
cible year  of  our  life  the  fifty- sixth." 
Hunt's  keenness  enabled  him  to  give 
epigrammatic  expression,  when  he  so 
willed  it,  to  his  criticism.  He  said  of 
his  friend,  his  "  splenetic  but  kindly 
philosopher,  who  worried  himself  to 
death  over  the  good  of  nations,"  — 

:<  Dear  Hazlitt,  whose  tact  intellectual  is  such 
That  it  seems  to  feel  truth,  as  pure  matter  of 
touch." 

He  cites  "  Spenser's  fine  stanza,  with 
its  organ-like  close. "  He  stamps  Rossini 
as  "  the  genius  of  animal  spirits  ; "  Han- 
del as  the  "  wielder  of  choirs  :  his  halle- 
lujahs open  the  heavens.  Wonderful ! 
he  utters,  as  if  all  their  trumpets  spake 
together."  "  There  is  champagne  in  the 
thought  of  him,"  is  his  disquisition  on 
Thomas  Moore.  This  deft  touch,  which 


he  knew  to  be  his,  Leigh  Hunt  exercised 
in  The  Royal  Line,  where  every  English 
sovereign,  down  to  George  IV.,  is  struck 
off  to  the  life  in  a  single  rhyming  pen- 
tameter. 

It  was  another  of  Hunt's  peculiari- 
ties to  be  ultra-liberal  in  his  arguments. 
His  principles  were  decided  enough,  and 
his  instincts  sure ;  but  he  had  a  con- 
stant leaning  towards  allowances,  cir- 
cumstances, considerations,  which  might 
further  the  very  issue  he  was  oppos- 
ing. The  faculty  of  over-refining  which 
he  deprecated  in  Coleridge  was  his  own 
failing.  He  did  not  temporize  with 
wrong ;  yet  the  ever-abiding  spirit  of 
gentleness  and  charity  which  was  with 
him  seemed  to  break  the  force  of  his 
scorn.  To  use  a  choice  and  expressive 
Saxon  phrase,  Leigh  Hunt  was  not  pig- 
headed. He  lacked  the  victorious  brute 
energy,  the  "  insolence  of  health,"  as 
Hazlitt  called  it,  which  admits  of  no 
hesitancy,  and  clears  its  way  straight  to 
its  end.  His  nature  was  too  representa- 
tive. Every  possible  bearing  which  a 
question  might  take  appealed  to  him  and 
deterred  him.  He  had,  as  his  son  pointed 
out,  a  Hamlet-like  deliberation,  in  which 
are  yet  elements  of  the  finest  wisdom 
and  courage. 

It  was  the  habit  of  melancholy  frank- 
ness with  himself  and  faith  in  his  own 
good  meanings  which  served  to  make 
Leigh  Hunt  unusually  sensitive.  Never- 
theless, the  most  admirable  qualities  in 
him,  and  those  which  best  stood  the  test 
of  nearly  seventy  years,  were  the  gen- 
erous simplicity,  the  utter  tolerance  and 
patience,  which  enabled  him,  after  long 
annoyance,  to  waive  an  unlovely  rela- 
tionship, and  to  take,  with  affectionate 
hope,  the  hand  of  a  contrite  foe. 

When  Christopher  North,  who  in  by- 
gone days  had  penned  it  of  Hunt  that 
"  to  the  mowling  malice  of  the  monkey 
he  added  the  hissiness  of  the  bill-pouting 
gander  and  the  gobble-bluster  of  the 
bubbly-jock,"  and  a  hundred  fold  more 
of  such  elegant  Jocoseria,  —  when  Chris- 


472 


An  English  Literary  Cousin. 


[October, 


topher  North  atoned  cordially  and  kind- 
ly for  his  treatment  not  only  of  Hunt, 
but  of  Shelley  and  John  Keats  (whom, 
in  a  certain  sense,  he  "  hooted  out  of 
the  world"),  Hunt,  without  any  airs  of 
injured  innocence,  quietly  accepted  the 
proffered  reparation,  and  spoke  there- 
after of  his  "  rich-writing  Tory,"  as  if 
they  had  been  friends  from  boyhood  on. 
All  this  cost  Hunt  a  pang,  for  he  held 
the  memory  of  Shelley  and  Keats  jeal- 
ously at  heart.  But  his  sense  of  hon- 
or forbade  even  the  ghost  of  a  resent- 
ment when  the  blade  that  had  been 
lifted  against  them  was  surrendered  to 

O 

him  in  sorrow.  Had  he  not,  as  Lord 
Houghton  beautifully  said,  "  a  supersti- 
tion of  good  "  ?  Was  he  not,  as  a  cele- 
brated associate  also  wrote  of  him,  "  the 
visionary  in  humanity,  the  fool  of  vir- 
tue ?  "  Under  all  obloquy,  he  confidently 
expected  the  righting  of  it,  and  viewed 
the  change,  when  it  came  to  pass,  with 
calm  content.  It  was  as  if  Plato's  cave- 
dweller  fostered  a  life-long  dream  of 
sunshine  and  of  moving  crowds,  glad 
with  life  ;  and,  released  from  the  dark- 
ness and  the  silence,  walked  without 
surprise  through  the  hitherto  invisible 
world,  un  jar  red  by  all  its  mystery  and 
wonder. 

Nor  was  Leigh  Hunt,  "  the  indomita- 
ble forgiver,"  less  ready  to  undo  what- 
ever wrong  he  might  himself  have  done. 
He  was  not  capable,  willingly,  of  a 
momentary  injustice.  In  Italy,  he  once 
saw  a  street  procession,  in  which  was  a 
group  of  "  hideous-looking  friars,  whose 
cowls  were  drawn  over  the  face,  leaving 
only  two  holes  for  the  eyes."  On  the 
heels  of  the  first  depreciatory  adjective 
follows  the  quick  amendment :  "  Or  were 
they  the  brethren  of  the  benevolent  Or- 
der of  the  Misericordia  "  (as  they  were), 
"  who  disguise  themselves  only  the  more 
nobly  to  attend  to  any  disaster  that  calls 
on  them  for  aid  ?  If  so,  observe  how 
people  may  be  calumniated  merely  in 
consequence  of  a  spectator's  ignorance." 
The  little  forbearing  touch  and  the  in- 


evitable deduction  are,  as  we  say  in  plain 
talk,  Leigh  Hunt  all  over.  He  reviewed 
past  differences  with  the  utmost  mild- 
ness and  candor,  and  with  touching  dis- 
regard of  self.  Indeed,  the  Autobiog- 
raphy is  overloaded  with  conscience ; 
a  "  religious  book,"  Carlyle  called  it. 
Whatever  hastiness  or  resentment  may 
have  led  Leigh  Hunt  to  do  or  say,  in 
the  course  of  a  long  life,  is  canceled  by 
the  suppliant  manliness  of  its  pages. 
Right  or  wrong,  he  was  alike  sincere. 

He  was  not  a  very  good  hater.  Hav- 
ing, like  that  rare  writer  whom  he  liked 
to  call  his  ancestor,  "  no  genius  for  dis- 
putes," he  could  look  suavely  on  his  bit- 
terest disagreements.  Despising  the  re- 
gent as  he  did,  and  with  the  old  griev- 
ances against  him,  Hunt  could  yet  say 
of  him,  in  one  of  his  relenting  moods, 
"  In  some  corner  of  the  Elysian  Fields, 
charity  may  have  room  for  both  of  us." 

Leigh  Hunt  felt  all  cruelty  as  if  he 
were  the  object  of  it.  Lack  of  tender- 
ness grieved  him.  His  quarrels  were 
those  of  humanity,  and  not  his  own. 
Although,  in  his  proper  words,  might 
of  any  kind  never  astonished  him  so 
much  that  he  could  not  discern  in  it  what 
was  not  right,  he  was  of  necessity  the 
apostle  of  peace,  where  peace  could  be 
had  with  honor.  His  main  creed  was 
that  there  is  nothing  finally  potential  but 
gentleness  and  persuasion,  and  nothing 
ultimately  worth  striving  for  here  below 
but  to  see  whom  of  all  men  shall  be  the 
kindest. 

His  thoughts  led  him,  through  par- 
tisan feeling,  into  a  cheerful  indiffer- 
ence :  he  looked,  as  the  angry  knights 
in  the  fable  did  not  look,  on  the  golden 
and  on  the  silver  side  of  the  shield,  and 
contended  for  neither.  His  life  in  jail 
was  painfully  dull ;  he  was  suffering  from 
poor  health,  insufficient  comfort,  and  the 
loss  of  beloved  liberty  ;  his  life  abroad 
was  happy  and  comparatively  affluent, 
permeated  with  new  and  intense  enjoy- 
ments. Yet,  in  a  maze  of  reasoning,  and 
in  a  strict  comparison  of  effects,  seen 


1884.] 


An  English  Literary  Cousin. 


473 


and  unseen,  he  could  admit  afterwards, 
<k  I  am  sometimes  in  doubt  whether  I 
would  rather  be  in  prison  or  in  Italy." 
He  tasted  always  the  dregs  of  pleasure, 
and  found  comfort  in  apparently  barren 
places. 

Leigh  Hunt's  friendship  for  Keats  and 
Shelley  brought  him  into  undeserved 
reproach ;  but  he  never  for  an  instant 
wavered  in  his  allegiance  to  either  of 
them  Magazines  of  the  Blackwood 
stamp  looked  on  him  as  the  arch-vaga- 
bond of  the  literary  world,  and  on  the 
two  young  poets,  whose  genius  was 
greater  than  his  own,  as  his  meek  and 
deluded  disciples.  Hunt  was  the  herald 
and  helper  of  John  Keats  :  he  introduced 
him  to  public  notice  before  he  had  pub- 
lished a  line  ;  he  discerned  the  beauties 
of  Endymion  when  its  very  name  was 
drowned  over  England  in  hisses  and 
sneers ;  he  filled  number  after  number 
of  his  journals  with  the  same  careful, 
discriminating,  enthusiastic  criticism  of 
his  young  friend's  work  as  he  would  de- 
vote to  the  Faerie  Queen  itself.  He 
kept  Keats  with  him  in  his  house,  and 
watched  mournfully  the  first  symptoms 
of  his  physical  decay.  He  delighted  to 
associate  himself  with  that  "  monastic 
mind  "  in  writing  a  sonnet,  or  a  review, 
or  an  essay.  Most  of  all,  he  talked  of 
him  as  he  talked  confidently  to  the  pub- 
lic of  everything  he  cherished,  year  after 
year.  When  the  Memoir  appeared,  in 
which  were  chronicled  Keats'  excusablv 

V 

petulant  words  that  he  once  suspected 
both  Shelley  and  Leigh  Hunt  of  a  desire 
to  see  him  undervalued,  the  surviving 
friend,  deeply  wounded,  could  find  noth- 
ing harsher  to  answer  but  that  "  Leigh 
Hunt  would  as  soon  have  wished  the 
flowers  or  the  stars  undervalued,  or  his 
own  heart  that  loved  him."  Of  Keats 
he  wrote  to  the  last  with  unvarying  af- 
fection and  admiration.  He  prized  him 
for  his  "  fine  heart  and  his  astonishing 
faculties ;  "  not  indeed,  he  adds,  with  his 
quaint  candor,  "  so  dearly  as  Shelley, 
because  that  was  impossible." 


In  The  Examiner,  under  Hunt's  edi- 
torship, Shelley  had  his  first  hearing. 
Their  esteem  for  each  other,  even  at  its 
closest,  was  something  impersonal  and 
exalted.  Nothing  pleased  them  more, 
in  the  Italian  days,  than  utterly  to  con- 
fuse the  limits  of  their  material  belong- 
ings. Hunt  would  appropriate  indiffer- 
ently a  book  or  a  dinner ;  and  Shelley, 
with  his  childish  aiir,  would  walk  in  upon 
the  household  arrayed  in  his  friend's 
most  elaborate  waistcoat.  Keats'  last  vol- 
ume, which,  after  the  memorable  storm 
in  the  Bay  of  Spezia,  was  found  open  in 
Shelley's  pocket,  belonged  to  Hunt,  and 
was  laid  upon  the  funeral  pyre  and  con- 
sumed. It  was  at  this  time,  in  1822,  that 
Hunt  wrote  to  a  correspondent,  with  a 
stoicism  unconsciously  plaintive,  "  I  have 
reason  to  be  thankful  that  I  have  suffered 
so  much  during  my  life,  as  the  habit 
makes  endurance  now  more  tolerable." 
The  final  words  which  Leigh  Hunt 
permed  for  the  public  were  to  correct 
a  misapprehension  in  regard  to  Shelley ; 
the  last  letter  he  dictated  had  reference 
to  him,  and  served  a  like  purpose.  He 
lived  to  see  England  intensely  proud  of 
the  exile  whom  she  had  scorned.  Hunt 
never  lost  his  veneration  for  genius,  how- 
ever familiarly  he  walked  with  its  out- 
ward self.  Scarce  any  contemporary  so 
well  understood  Landor,  Coleridge,  Haz- 
litt,  and  especially  Charles  Lamb.  In 
and  out  of  his  bright  intercourse  with 
high  minds  ran  a  steady  fibre  of  homage. 
He  would  have  associated  just  as  grace- 
fully, just  as  reverently,  with  Mar  veil 
or  Sir  Thomas  Browne.  Yet  he  records 
with  merriment  how  Shelley  sailed  his 
paper  boats,  or  screwed  his  bright  brown 
hair  into  "  horns,"  to  divert  the  children ; 
how  Keats  used  to  sit  listening,  clasping 
one  foot  over  his  knee,  and  how  the  ti- 
tle "  Junkets,"  a  whimsical  liaison  of  his 
names,  was  given  to  him  because  of  his 
fairy-folk  ;  and  how  he,  Hunt,  in  turn, 
became  "  Leontius,"  though  "  Christian 
nomenclature  knows  none  such."  Noth- 
ing more  beautiful  than  Hunt's  friendli- 


474 


An  English  Literary  Cousin. 


[October, 


ness  for  the  author  of  Adonais  and  the 
subject  of  it  can  be  found  in  the  literary 
annals  of  the  nineteenth  century ;  it 
was  fellowship,  and  it  was  also  a  pro- 
phetic tribute  of  mind  to  mind. 

What  a  judicious,  discursive  critic  he 
was,  with  a  flavor  of  sarcasm  and  dog- 
matism ever  and  anon  in  his  beneficent 
pages  !  Hunt,  as  James  Hannay  con- 
cisely put  it,  was  a  born  taster.  His 
sense  of  artistic  propriety  was  unique. 
He  was  not  afraid  to  be  liberal,  being 
sure  of  himself.  He  was  an  epicure  at 
quotations,  and  the  chief  charm  both  of 
his  style  and  his  scholarship  is  that  he 
knew  and  upheld  the  "  peerage  of  words," 
the  nobilities  of  English  speech.  There- 
fore it  is  that  if  Hunt  is  not  popular, 
in  the  sense  he  wished,  he  has,  at  least, 
a  choice  circle  perpetually  about  him. 
The  lovers  of  "  the  exhaustless  world  of 
books  and  art,  of  the  rising  genius  of 
young  authors,  the  immortal  language 
of  music,  trees,  and  flowers,  and  the  old 
memorial  nooks  of  town  and  country," 
are  his  friends. 

Hunt  was  tall,  erect,  and  slender, 
with  the  "  sweet  and  earnest  look  "  that 
Shelley  notes.  In  his  early  manhood, 

"  His  face  was  like  a  summer  night 
All  flooded  with  a  dusky  light," 

and  sparkling  with  animation  ;  but  in 
his  declining  years  the  gayety,  save  in 
his  smile  and  in  the  occasional  "  flashes 
of  youth '  in  his  fine  eyes,  seemed  to 
have  died  away  ;  and  in  its  stead  came 
the  aspect  of  grave  thoughtfulness  which 
we  see  in  the  portrait  prefixed  to  his 
latest  book.  He  had  undergone  the 
combined  attacks  of  melancholy  and  ill- 
health,  but  his  step  was  always  elastic 
and  his  chest  ample.  His  head  was  hand- 
somely shaped,  and  covered  with  rather 
straight,  Indian-like  black  hair  ;  Byron's 
hats,  as  well  as  Keats'  and  Shelley's, 
were  too  small  for  him.  Carlyle  some- 
where refers  to  his  "  pretty  little  laugh, 
sincere  and  cordial ;  his  voice,  with  its 
ending  musical  warble  ('  chirl,'  we  called 
it),  which  reminded  one  of  singing-birds." 


It  would  have  been  better  for  Hunt, 
since  his  lines  lay  not  in  the  planet 
Mercury,  but  in  this  rough-and-tumble 
world,  had  he  been  cast  in  a  less  delicate 
mould ;  unless  we  hold  with  Lowell  that 
the  infusion  of  "  some  finer-grained  stuff 
for  a  woman  prepared  "  is  no  drawback, 
and  that  Nature 

"  Could  not  have  hit  a  more  excellent  plan 
For  making  him  fully  and  perfectly  man." 

Hunt's  preferences  were  after  Evelyn's 
own  heart,  and  turned  towards  books 
and  a  garden.  He  was  not  too  exact- 
ing ;  he  relished  a  page  "  bethumbed 
horribly,"  and  found  beauty  in  a  toad- 
stool. But  he  had  little  personal  claim 
over  any  land  or  any  library.  He  was 
doctor  sine  libris  the  greater  part  of  his 
life;  wretchedly  poor  from  1830  to  1840, 
and  forced  to  sell  his  folios  for  the  bare 
necessities  of  life. 

"  Fair  lover  all  his  days  of  all  things  fair," 
none  deserved  better,  by  services,  tem- 
perament, and  generous  habits,  to  be 
surrounded  with  luxuries,  and  to  be 
blessed  with  some  other  revenue  than 
his  good  spirits  merely.  Hazlitt  un- 
derstood his  needs  and  their  involved 
denials.  "  Leigh  Hunt,"  he  said,  con- 
scious that  he  was  speaking  in  a  world 
where  labor  is  the  immutable  law, 
"  ought  to  be  allowed  to  play,  sing, 
laugh,  and  talk  his  life  away  ;  to  patron- 
ize men  of  letters  ;  to  write  manly  prose 
and  elegant  verse."  Not  a  tithe  of  such 

o 

luck  befell  his  sunny -hearted  friend. 
The  deprivations  which  Hunt  could  not 
lessen,  he  bore  with  philosophic  serenity. 

This  brings  us  to  a  mention  of  his 
money  matters,  and  to  the  question  of 
Harold  Skimpole.  First  and  last,  let  it 
not  be  forgotten  that  Leigh  Hunt  would 
have  been  comparatively  prosperous  if 
his  political  opinions  had  accommodated 
themselves  to  the  powers  that  be,  as  did 
those  of  several  among  his  brother 
poets. 

He  was  to  some  extent  improvident, 
as  his  father,  "  deeply  acquainted  with 
arrests,"  had  been  before  him.  Of  the 


1884.] 


An  English  Literary  Cousin. 


475 


vicissitudes  of  his  own  childhood  the  son 
wrote :  "  We  struggled  on  between  quiet 
and  disturbance,  between  placid  readings 
and  frightful  knocks  at  the  door,  between 
sickness  and  calamity  and  hopes  which 
hardly  ever  forsook  us."  The  younger 
Hunt  had  a  sort  of  willful  attachment  to 
his  inherited  failing.  He  would  almost 
have  chosen  to  be  poor,  on  the  odd  prin- 
ciple that  it  showed  forth  his  friends 
clearly,  and  that  it  hindered  his  heart 
from  being  eaten  up  with  the  love  of 
gain.  "  I  could  not  dabble  in  money 
business  if  I  would,"  he  writes  with  fas- 
tidious directness,  "  from  sheer  igno- 
rance of  the  language."  Just  as  for  his 
thrift  and  uuspiritual  shrewdness  he  dis- 
liked Franklin,  whom  he  believed,  with 
all  his  ability,  to  be  merely  at  the  head 
of  those  who  think  man  lives  by  bread 
alone,  so  he  rejoiced  in  Christmas  time, 
for  one  reason,  because  Mammon  was 
then  suspended;  and  so  he  honored  his 
elected  saint,  Francis  of  Assisi,  because 
neither  he  nor  his  followers  could  be 
brought  to  handle  the  coin  of  the  realm. 
Hunt  was  thoroughly  impractical,  and 
very  willing  to  own  it.  He  was  full  to 
the  brim  of  what  he  himself  called  "  oth- 
er worldliness,"  and  he  knew  it.  Yet 
he  spared  no  legitimate  effort,  not  des- 
perate, for  his  family's  sake.  He  was  a 
persistent  worker,  busy  with  book  and 
pencil  even  at  the  breakfast-table ;  but 
somehow  the  largesses  never  came,  and 
he  found  it  fitting  to  despise  Mammon, 
since  Mammon  so  unconscionably  slight- 
ed him.  While  in  prison,  under  a  heavy 
fine,  Leigh  Hunt  refused  all  aid,  and  his 
brother  and  himself  paid  the  last  far- 
thing ;  later,  however,  he  learned  to  go 
a-borrowing.  From  Shelley  he  received 
regal  help,  which  there  was  no  obliga- 
tion to  return  ;  unless  Jaffar  and  per- 
fect fidelity  to  his  memory  more  than 
discharged  the  debt.  Happily,  it  was 
Shelley  himself  who  wrote  of  Leigh 
Hunt  that  no  man  could  so  nobly  give 
or  take  a  benefit,  though  he  aver  con- 
ferred far  more  than  he  could  receive. 


Bounties,  indeed,  Hunt  accepted  from 
none  other,  save,  long  after,  from  Shel- 
ley's widow  and  his  heir,  the  present 
Sir  Percy ;  and  offerings,  in  the  case  of 
friends  like  these,  lose  their  name,  and 
are  not  to  be  considered. 

Nothing  monetary  worried  Hunt  so 
much  that  he  was*  not  able  to  jest  over 
it.  It  may  have  been  at  a  time  when 
he  most  lamented  his  "  handsome  in- 
firmity "  that  he  wrote,  with  boyish  hu- 
mor, to  Mrs.  Novello,  "  Somebody  in  the 
world  owes  me  tenpence.  It 's  a  woman 
at  Finchley.  I  bought  twopenny  worth 
of  milk  of  her  one  day,  to  give  a  draught 
to  Marianne  *  (Mrs.  Hunt),  "  and  she 
had  n't  change ;  so  I  left  a  shilling  with 
her,  and  cunningly  said  I  should  call. 
Now,  I  never  shall  call,  improvident  as 
you  may  think  it ;  so  that,  upon  the 
principle  of  compound  interest,  her 
great-grandchildren,  or  their  great-great, 
or  whichever  great  it  is,  will  owe  my 
posterity  several  millions  of  money.  I 
mention  this  to  give  you  a  lively  sense 
of  the  shrewdness  experience  has  taught 
me." 

Thornton  Hunt  (the  "  favorite  child  * 
of  Lamb's  pretty  poem)  states  that  his 
father  had  a  real  incapacity  to  under- 
stand any  subject  when  it  was  reduced 
to  figures.  It  was  a  peculiarity  of  the 
system  at  Christ's  Hospital  that  a  boy 
might  grow  to  his  fifteenth  year  in  the 
grammar  school  without  having  learned 
the  rudiments  of  arithmetic.  So  it 
chanced  with  Leigh  Hunt ;  and  in  the 
decline  of  life  he  averred,  with  jocose 
penitence,  that  he  had  never  known  his 
multiplication  table.  When  he  went  as 
a  clerk  to  the  war  office,  before  the  start- 
ing of  The  Examiner,  he  taught  himself 
a  small  stock  of  mathematics,  wisely 
calculated  to  last  while  he  stayed  there, 
and  no  longer,  and  which  served  him 
very  well  according  to  his  intent.  Again, 
in  the  preface  to  Lord  Byron  and  his 
Contemporaries,  he  laments  his  bad  hab- 
its of  business  and  his  sorry  arithmetic. 
The  shortcoming  was  a  limitation  of  his 


476 


An  English  Literary  Cousin. 


[October, 


mind ;  as  the  French  would  say,  one  of 
the  defects  of  his  qualities.  An  idealist, 
a  poet,  and  a 

"  scorner  of  the  ground," 
he  dismissed  the  significance  of   seven 
times  seven  as  an  effete  imposition. 

All  this   is  Harold  Skimpole  to  the 
life.     We  can  go  further.     The  fantas- 
tic gentleman  of   Bleak  House  desires 
to  lie  upon  the  grass  by  the  day,  and 
declares  that  he  was  born  to  lie  there, 
gazing  tranquilly  at  the  sky,  and  free  of 
meaner  obligations,  eking  out  solace  for 
any  and  all  of  his  woes.     Leigh  Hunt, 
with  his  "  gay  and  ostentatious  willful- 
ness," —  has  he  no  parallel  to  Mr.  Skim- 
pole's  rural  unconcern  ?     "  In  the  midst 
of   awful   vexations,  the    sight   of   one 
open  face,  I  could  almost   say  of   one 
green  and  quiet  field,  is  enough  to  make 
me  hope  to  the  last.  ...  I  could  spend 
the  rest  of  my  life  lodging  above  one 
of  the  bookseller's   shops  on  the  Quai 
de  Voltaire,  where  I  might  look  over 
to  the  Tuileries,  and  have  the  Champs 
Ely  sees  in  my  eye  for  an  evening  walk. 
.  .  .  Oh,  I   wish    we   were   all   of    us 
gypsies  !  —  I  mean  all  of  us  who  have 
a  value  for  one  another ;  and  that  we 
could  go,  seeking  health  and  happiness, 
without  a  care,  up  all  the  green  lanes 
in  England,  half  gypsy  and  half   gen- 
try, with  books    instead   of   peddlery." 
Skirapole's    earnest    and    disinterested 
wishing  his  dues  to  the  butcher,  who  in 
turn  wishes  that  he  had  wished  Skim- 
pole   the  lamb  in  the  same  sense,  and 
Skimpole's  reply  that  that  could  not  be, 
as  he,  the  butcher,  possessed  the  meat, 
and  he,  the  eater  thereof,  had  not  the 
money,  are  exquisitely  funny  to  any  one 
who  knows  Leigh  Hunt,  and  who  knows, 
moreover,  that  though  Hunt  never  com- 
mitted so  palpable  an  absurdity,  it  was  in 
him  to  make  a  like  arch  and  innocent 
reply. 

It  is  a  pity  to  confess  the  casual  reci- 
procity between  an  odious  character  in 
fiction  and  a  man  of  such  sane  and  up- 
right temper  as  Leigh  Hunt ;  and  the 


admission,    certainly,   should   never   be 
made  to  those  who  do  not  understand, 
besides  this  irreconcilable  difference  be- 
tween the  two,  Charles  Dickens's  meth- 
ods of  appropriating  remnants  of  real 
life  for  his  novels,  and  the  laws  where- 
by the  transferring  of  such  material  is 
fair  and  desirable.     Dickens  was  a  lit- 
tle piratical  in  this  respect :  he  could  not 
lose  the  chance  of   a  favorable   effect, 
even  if  the  indulging  of  it  sacrificed  the 
memory  of  his  not  over-admirable  par- 
ents.    To  him,  Hunt  offered  extremely 
tempting  oddities ;  and  for  Hunt,  at  the 
same   time,    he   had   a   cordial   regard, 
which  had  been  more  than  once  proven. 
The    whole    affair   became,    ultimately, 
painful  to  all  concerned  ;  but  no  grudge 
should  stand  now  against  the  trusty  and 
affectionate  explanation  of  Dickens,  given 
in  All  the  Year  Round,  in  1859.    Leigh 
Hunt's  "  animation,  his  sympathy  with 
what    was    gay    and    pleasurable,    his 
avowed  doctrine  of  cultivating  cheerful- 
ness," and  his  insisting  on  these  traits 
with   a  "gay  and    ostentatious  willful- 
ness "  impressed  Dickens  as  "  unspeak- 
ably whimsical  and   attractive  :  *    they 
furnished  the   airy  element  he  wanted 
for  the  man  of  his  tale  ;  and  after  taking 
them  for  his  purpose,  he  showed  proofs 
of  the  sketch  to  Hunt's  best  friends,  that 
they  might  alter  whatever  was  too  much 
like  his  "  way."     With  all  this  careful 
manoeuvring,   the    public  were  bent  on 
identifying  Skimpole  with  Leigh  Hunt. 
No  one  mistook  that  Arcadian  careless- 
ness, that  inexpressibly  engaging  man- 
ner, even  linked,  as  they  were,  with  dis- 
agreeable   sequences.     Bleak  House  is 
written,  and  the  excitement  is  over  ;  but 
there  is  the  witchcraft  of  resemblance  to 
be   traced  out.     Alas,  not  every  reader 
is  so  constituted  as  to  realize  that  enjoy- 
ment of  Mr.  Skimpole  is  compatible  with 
loyalty  to  Leigh  Hunt. 

Peace  to  his  happy-hearted  spirit ! 
He  bore  much  and  outlived  much,  sus- 
tained by  natural  piety ;  he  moved  the 
"  world  which  neweth  everie  daie  "  a 


1884.] 


The  Lakes  of  Upper  Italy. 


477 


little  farther  into  the  sun,  as  he  had 
wished ;  and  left  helpful  words  to  be- 
speak him  to  other  generations.  On 
August  29,  1859,  he  died  ;  and  in  Ken- 
sal  Green,  London,  whither  many  of  his 
family  had  preceded  him,  and  towards 
which  he  looked  often,  in  his  solitary 
walks,  with  "  eyes  at  once  most  mel- 
ancholy, yet  consoled,"  he  was  laid  to 
rest. 

Leigh  Hunt  deserves  a  memorial  day 
to  his  name  in  his  forgetful  England. 
He  deserves  the  bust  in  Westminster 


Abbey,  which  our  Hawthorne  awarded 
him,  and  which  is  yet  among  the  possi- 
bilities of  a  marble  quarry.  He  deserves 
homage,  which  were  perhaps  fittest,  be- 
ing unspoken,  this  hundredth  anniversa- 
ry of  his  birth.  If  he  has  none  of  these 
things  in  full  measure, —  for  his  was 
precisely  the  temperament  which  is  apt 
ever  to  be  misconstrued,  —  we  may  still 
assent  to  the  general  proposition  that 
the  verdict  of  Time  is  good ;  and  the  fine 
scorn  and  the  speculation  we  may  keep 
to  ourselves. 

Louise  Imogen  Guiney. 


THE   LAKES   OF   UPPER  ITALY. 


II.  would  bring  over  a   trotting-wagon  on 

his  wedding  journey,  and  pass  his  honey- 

THE  lake  of  Lugano  is  ten  miles  moon  in  skimming  over  the  smooth  val- 
from  Lago  Maggiore  as  the  crow  flies,  ley  roads.  As  the  horses,  tired  from  the 
For  travelers,  the  most  direct  route  is  start,  slowly  toil  up  the  steep,  narrow 
from  Luino,  on  the  Lombard  shore  of  street,  arched  gateways  in  the  unpre- 
the  latter  lake,  to  the  town  of  Lugano,  possessing  house  fronts  give  sudden 
To  escape  the  midday  heat  upon  the  glimpses  of  gardens  like  bits  of  rainbow, 
water,  they  should  take  the  earliest  over  which  the  lake  is  seen  sparkling 
steamboat  on  a  fine  day,  and  see  Lago  against  its  curving  shore.  The  road 
Maggiore  in  the  hour  after  sunrise,  when  climbs  up-hill  for  some  time  after  the 
there  is  not  a  cloud  in  the  sky  and  only  town  is  left  behind,  while  one  looks 
a  few  white  breaths  linger  over  the  backward  for  a  last  view  of  the  queen 
Sasso  di  Ferro,  and  when  the  magic  of  Italian  lakes;  it  then  descends  into 
gleam  of  morning's  first  smile  has  not  a  brooky  vale  of  charming  rural  dispo- 
faded  from  the  world.  The  day  is  well  sition,  flowery  meadows  with  groups 
on  its  way  before  the  boat  arrives  at  of  fine  trees  bordering  the  bright  little 
Luino,  and  then  there  is  delay  about  river  Tresa,  which  keeps  company  with 
post-horses  even  though  they  have  been  the  thirsty  road  during  most  of  the 
ordered  in  advance,  to  give  the  hotel-  drive.  At  Ponte  Tresa  the  rivulet  flows 
keeper  a  chance  of  forcing  tourists  to  into  a  cove  of  Lake  Lugano,  with  a 
swallow  an  extremely  bad  meal  while  twin  pool  near  by,  both  of  them  so 
waiting  for  the  stage-coach  or  for  sepa-  shut  in  by  a  pictorial,  cheerful-looking 
rate  conveyances.  The  former  is  about  village  that  they  seem  to  be  independent 
equally  uncomfortable  all  the  world  lakelets.  The  road  after  passing  them 
round,  and  the  smaller  vehicles  are  such  turns  from  the  water  into  another  val- 
jingling  rattle-traps  that  I  wonder  no  ley,  which  it  divides  by  a  long,  straight 
American  has  carried  out  the  happy  track  regularly  planted  with  noble  shade- 
thought  of  a  young  fellow-countryman  trees,  like  a  private  avenue.  A  mile  or 
I  met  at  Lucerne,  who  declared  that  he  two  of  this,  and  then  a  little  aside  from 


478  The  Lakes  of  Upper  Italy.  [October, 

the  highway  lies  the  tiny  lake  of  Muz-  waters  of  Como  flash  into  sight.  Seen 
zauo,  encircled  by  a  broad  belt  of  water-  from  the  railroad,  Lake  Lugano  loses 
lilies,  under  which  springs  bubble  up,  its  rather  stern  aspect,  and  smiles  and 
making  the  white  flowers  rock.  When  sparkles  like  a  true  daughter  of  Italy. 
I  first  saw  it,  peasant  women  were  mak-  I  know  of  no  more  beautiful  excur- 
ing  hay  and  steeping  flax  on  the  turfy  sion  than  to  cross  the  St.  Gothard,  with 
banks  beneath  the  chestnut-boughs,  while  its  wonders  of  engineering,  its  sudden 
their  children  were  paddling  in  the  clear  alternations  of  darkness  and  light,  its 
ripples,  some  with  their  clothes  on,  oth-  precipices,  chasms,  snow  summits,  its 
ers  without  them ;  one  little  fellow,  whose  prodigious  revelations  of  height  and 
brown  limbs  were  clad  only  in  a  white  depth,  —  those  sublime  "  creatures,"  as 
shirt,  was  standing  up  to  his  knees  in  St.  Paul  calls  them,  —  its  cascades,  and 
the  water  and  scooping  it  into  his  lap.  swirling  torrents,  and  pine  forests  ;  then 
It  was  altogether  such  a  perfect  eclogue  to  descend  through  the  vine-clad  canton 
that  a  few  days  later  I  walked  back  of  Ticino  upon  the  upper  sheet  of  Lago 
there  from  Lugano  by  steep,  stony  by-  Maggiore,  and  proceed  along  the  fairy 
ways  full  of  picturesque  surprises.  As  marges  of  Lugano  and  Como  until  the 
I  struck  across  the  grass  beside  the  lake,  pinnacles  of  Milan  cathedral  come  into 
dilating  my  nostrils  for  the  perfume  of  view.  It  is  marvelous  that  so  much  of 
new-mown  hay,  they  inhaled  instead  a  the  majesty  and  loveliness  of  nature  can 
shocking  smell  like  that  of  a  lamp  gone  be  brought  within  the  range  of  a  rail- 
out.  The  idyllic  task  of  laving  the  fresh  way-carriage  window, 
stalks  of  flax  is  followed  by  drying  them  The  station  at  Lugano  is  a  really  fine 
in  the  sun,  and  their  bleaching  skeletons  building,  with  a  marble-pillared  porch 
lay  about,  giving  out  a  fetid,  oily  odor,  and  two  wings  ;  its  arched  and  pillared 
This  is  a  drawback  to  enjoyment  along  porticoes  framing  a  series  of  pictures  of 
the  lake-edges  for  a  short  time  towards  lake,  mountains,  and  town,  which  boasts 
the  end  of  summer,  but  it  does  not  last  more  than  one  Romanesque  tower  and 
many  days ;  after  that  the  women  are  a  fine  Renaissance  church  front.  The 
to  be  seen,  sitting  in  the  shade,  hackling  floor  of  these  handsome  galleries  is  mo- 
the  fibres  with  an  implement  as  primi-  saic ;  the  restaurant,  waiting-rooms,  and 
tive  as  a  spinning-wheel.  various  offices  open  upon  them  on  one 
The  lake  of  Lugano  is  very  much  side,  and  on  the  other  upon  a  long,  cov- 
smaller  than  Maggiore,  and  more  Swiss  ered,  paved  platform  above  the  railway, 
than  Italian  in  character.  It  is  narrow,  Nothing  could  be  more  suitable  and  con- 
and  winds  between  steep,  dark  moun-  venient  for  the  practical  purposes  of  a 
tains  which  overshadow  the  water ;  the  passenger  depot,  nor  at  the  same  time 
scenery  is  striking,  almost  rugged.  For-  more  in  keeping  with  its  position  as  the 
merly  it  was  not  altogether  easy  of  ac-  portal  to  a  region  of  natural  beauty  en- 
cess,  as  the  road  from  Luino,  or  a  still  hanced  by  the  presence  of  art. 
longer  one  by  way  of  the  lake  of  Va-  "  Hotel  du  Pare,  Lugano,  August  18, 
rese,  or  a  more  hilly  one  from  Lake  1882.  This  is  a  terribly  hot  and  noisy 
Como,  were,  I  believe,  the  only  carriage  place.  Under  the  clipped  lindens  beside 
routes  by  which  it  could  be  reached,  the  quay  opposite  the  hotel,  the  boat- 
and  its  austere  expression  was  consistent  men  sit  all  day  in  wait  for  fares,  shout- 
with  its  isolation.  Now  the  St.  Gothard  ing,  playing  cards,  quarreling,  and  mak- 
railroad  passes  the  town  of  Lugano  and  ing  altogether  more  row  than  a  stand  of 
skirts  the  lake  for  some  distance,  cross-  Irish  hack-drivers  would.  Three  or 
ing  its  lower  bay  on  a  causeway,  and  four  times,  between  dawn  and  bedtime, 
keeping  it  in  view  almost  until  the  stage-coaches,  carriages,  and  omnibuses 


1884.] 


The  Lakes  of  Upper  Italy. 


479 


jingle,  rattle,  and  crackle  past,  going  to 
and  from  the  steamboats  and  trains. 
The  harsh  bells  of  half  a  dozen  churches 
clang  for  service  at  all  hours,  beginning 
at  five  A.  M.  Every  other  day  —  per- 
haps only  twice  a  week  in  reality,  but 
it  seems  to  be  twice  as  often  —  the 
peasants  in  troops  come  by  to  market, 
with  their  livestock,  cattle,  sheep,  pigs, 
and  poultry,  attended  by  yelping  dogs. 
The  horned  beasts  take  their  troubles 
quietly,  but  there  is  no  dignity  or  reti- 
cence about  swine  :  they  come  from  the 
country  grunting  and  squealing  at  every 
step,  as  if  in  anticipation  of  a  cruel 
fate,  but  those  that  return  unsold  go 
back  to  their  pastures  as  full  of  grum- 
bling and  complaint  as  they  came ;  there 
is  no  satisfying  them.  Even  when  one 
of  them  stops  to  root,  while  his  owner 
rests  under  the  trees,  he  grunts  and 
squeals  incessantly,  pausing  in  his  grub- 
bing, but  not  in  his  threnody,  to  look  up 
and  down  the  road ;  under  these  circum- 
stances there  is  no  ground  for  discontent, 
and  it  must  be  that  the  grievance  lies 
merely  in  the  fact  that  he  is  a  pig. 

"  The  hotel  itself  is  not  pleasant,  al- 
though it  might  be,  for  it  is  a  spacious, 
curious  old  place,  and  was  once  a  mon- 
astery ;  but  everybody  is  churlish,  from 
the  landlord  to  the  porter,  and  the  table 
d'hote  is  crowded  by  over  a  hundred  and 
fifty  Babel-like  people,  not  counting  the 
rude  waiters.  The  racket  and  clatter 
are  distracting.  The  truth  is,  we  are 
socially  and  politically  in  Switzerland  ; 
for,  coming  from  Luino,  one  crosses  the 
frontier,  which  makes  a  scalloped  line 
between  and  across  the  lakes,  so  that 
one  must  sometimes  go  through  the  cus- 
tom-house three  times  in  half  a  day's 
excursion.  The  hotel  gardens  are  fine, 
rising  in  many  terraces  up  a  stiff  hill- 
side behind  the  house,  laid  out  on  a 
pleasant,  old-fashioned  plan,  with  shade 
and  fruit  trees  mingled,  flower  borders 
and  vegetables  and  current  bushes  in 
rows,  and  walks  ending  in  bowers  of 
white  jasmine.  There  is  a  dependance. 


or  colony,  called  the  Beau  Sejour,  in  an 
adjoining  villa,  once  a  royal  residence 
(of  one  of  the  Tuscan  arch-dukes,  I 
think),  which  would  be  altogether  the 
better  place  to  stop  at,  if  one  had  not 
to  come  to  the  hotel  for  meals,  a  steep 
and  sunny  ten  minutes'  walk.  The  Beau 
Sejour  grounds  are  extremely  beautiful : 
there  is  a  noble  terrace  blazing  with 
flowers,  lined  with  orange-trees,  and 
shaded  by  magnificent  lindens,  which 
overlooks  the  lake ;  a  footpath  leads 
from  it  up  a  wooded  hillside  broken  by 
a  wild  glen  and  brook. 

"  Sunday,  August  20.  Very  warm, 
but  a  fine  air  on  the  water.  At  10  A.  M. 
took  a  little  steamer  which  carries  trav- 
elers for  the  lake  of  Como  to  Porlezza, 
the  last  town  on  these  waters.  Got  out 
after  half  an  hour  at  the  village  of  San 
Mamette,  in  Italy,  to  look  for  the  cas- 
cade of  the  Drano.  The  population  of 
this  picturesque  little  emporium  was 
keeping  the  festival  of  its  sponsor  and 
patron  saint  ;  the  holy-day  falls  two 
days  earlier,  but  a  peasant  woman  told 
me  that  they  had  put  off  the  celebration 
until  Sunday,  as  they  could  not  afford  to 
spare  a  week  day  from  their  work,  —  a 
wonderful  revolution  brought  about  by 
the  pressure  of  the  taxes.  Inquiring 
my  way,  I  was  directed  to  go  straight  up 
the  church  steps,  which  seemed  odd  for 
the  first  stage.  However,  they  lead  not 
to  the  door  of  the  church,  which  crowns 
the  town,  but  to  a  sort  of  small  piazza, 
or  platform,  before  it,  whence  a  path 
strikes  up  among  the  hills.  Up,  up,  I 
went,  over  nearly  four  hundred  rough 
steps  and  ridges  of  cordonate,  alternating 
with  steep  pitches  paved  with  sharp  lit- 
tle cobble-stones,  slippery  as  glass  and 
hot  as  live  coals.  But  it  was  a  beautiful 
walk  between  low  vineyard  and  orchard 
walls.  On  the  left  the  fine  gorge  of  the 
Drano  burrowed  deep  down  among  rocks 
and  dense  foliage,  the  mountains  rising 
on  its  further  side,  with  wild  hamlets, 
each  hoisting  its  campanile  and  clinging 
to  the  ledges.  The  path,  after  passing 


480 


The  Lakes  of  Upper  Italy. 


[October, 


through  one  or  two  similar  collections  of 

O 

houses,  at  length  winds  off  into  solitude, 
crossing  the  ravine  by  an  arched  bridge 
of  audacious  spring.  Below,  to  the  right, 
I  saw  the  head  of  the  valley  ;  so  I  turned 
off  and  entered  a  pretty  dell  with  green, 
shady  sides,  closed  by  a  great,  sheer 
wall  of  rock,  over  which  falls  a  long 
white  tress  of  water,  trickling  away  in  a 
clear  strand  over  the  stones  ;  in  the  cleft 
of  the  hills  directly  above  the  waterfall 
rises  a  grand  bare  mountain,  breast  and 

o 

brow.  I  sat  down  on  the  grass  among 
blue-bells,  pink  cyclamens,  and  wild 
sweet-peas,  and  presently  espied,  on  the 
other  side  of  the  rivulet,  a  little  ruined 
mill  with  a  red  tile  roof,  wreathed  in 
creepers ;  it  did  not  trouble  the  seclu- 
sion. .  .  .  For  once  descent  was  more 
difficult  than  ascent ;  I  found  it  hard  to 
keep  my  feet,  as  I  slid  on  tottering  legs 
down  to  San  Mamette,  catching  glimpses 
of  the  peacock-colored  lake  across  the 
tree-tops  below  me.  Passed  the  afternoon 
in  the  church  of  Santa  Maria  degli 
Angeli,  adjoining  the  hotel,  looking  at 
Luini's  frescoes." 

It  is  not  possible  to  speak  of  Lugano 
and  be  silent  about  the  works  of  Ber- 
nardino Luini ;  but  what  I  have  to  say 
is  merely  the  opinion  of  an  unsesthetic 
traveler  who  likes  to  look  at  pictures. 
There  are  several  of  Luini's  frescoes  in 
this  favored  church,  the  principal  being 
a  Crucifixion,  which  covers  a  wall  stretch- 
ing entirely  across  the  church,  the  aisles 
passing  under  it.  When  I  was  first  at 
Lugano  I  had  not  gone  through  an  ap- 
prenticeship in  the  great  galleries,  and 
the  immense  size  of  the  composition 
and  the  number  of  figures  overwhelmed 
land  confused  me.  After  one  or  two 
efforts  to  understand  and  enjoy  it  I 
gave  up  the  attempt,  and  devoted  myself 
to  the  smaller  ones,  a  lovely  Madonna 
with  the  two  children,  and  a  Last  Sup- 
per in  three  compartments.  The  latter 
inevitably  challenges  comparison  with 
Leonardo  da  Vinci's  far  more  famous 
work,  and  suffers  accordingly;  but  if 


there  is  less  power  and  harmony  in 
Luini's,  there  is  no  less  beauty  or  relig- 
ious feeling.  Judas  is  treated  with  pe- 
culiar originality :  he  sits  at  the  end  of 
the  bench,  which  he  grasps  spasmodical- 
ly with  one  hand,  averting  his  head  from 
his  companions  so  as  to  face  the  specta- 
tor ;  he  seems  to  be  apart  from  the  rest, 
the  common  emotion,  acting  inversely 
upon  him,  separates  him  from  them  ;  he 
has  an  expression  of  contrition  for  the 
deed  to  be  committed,  a  foretaste  of  the 
remorse  which  was  to  end  in  Aceldama. 
It  was  eleven  years  before  I  saw  the 
Crucifixion  again,  and  then  it  absorbed 
my  attention  for  hours  together  on  many 
successive  days.  As  a  whole  it  lacks 
unity,  a  want  which  is  felt  in  many  of 
Luini's  large  productions  ;  and  this  fault 
is  exaggerated  by  the  introduction  of 
the  entire  Passion.  The  closing  scene, 
crowded  with  life-size  figures,  occupies 
the  foreground ;  higher  up,  in  a  sort  of 
middle  distance,  is  the  Procession  to  Cal- 
vary ;  still  higher  is  the  Flagellation  on 
one  side,  and  on  the  other  are  the  En- 
tombment and  Resurrection,  these  inci- 
dents being  reduced  in  scale,  and  artifi- 
cially divided  from  each  other  by  painted 
columns ;  above,  in  the  air,  are  weeping 
angels  and  cherubs,  and  highest  of  all 
the  Eternal  enthroned.  The  composi- 
tion, which  is  certainly  defective,  resolves 
itself  into  a  number  of  groups  and  sin- 
gle figures,  some  of  which  are  so  extraor- 
dinarily beautiful  and  graceful  that  the 
neglect  with  which  they  have  been  treat- 
ed by  copyists  and  photographers  is  un- 
accountable. Among  the  most  charm- 
ing of  them  are  a  child  in  white  trip- 
ping through  the  garden  near  the  tomb, 
a  lad  with  a  spear  mounting  guard  at  the 
flagellation,  and  a  woman  watching  the 
crucifixion,  with  a  babe  on  her  left  arm 
and  holding  with  her  right  hand  a  little 
boy  three  or  four  years  old  who  is  hid- 
ing his  face  in  her  skirt  with  a  move- 
ment of  fright.  Many  of  the  heads  — 
too  many  for  enumeration  —  are  noble 
studies;  the  centurion's  is  one  of  the 


1884.] 


The  Lakes  of  Upper  Italy. 


481 


finest.  There  are  also  some  majestic 
prophets  in  grisaille  between  the  arches  ; 
these  have  been  somewhat  retouched, 
and  very  badly,  but  the  other  frescoes 
are  in  excellent  preservation,  especially 
the  Last  Supper  and  the  Virgin  and 
Children.  The  colors  of  the  Crucifix- 
ion have  probably  grown  pale  ;  still  I 
have  never  been  struck  by  any  general 
effect  of  richness  or  harmony  of  coloring 
in  Luini's  larger  frescoes.  It  is  clear 
and  cheerful,  with  a  predominance  of 
the  lighter  shades  of  red,  which  he  be- 
stows most  liberally  upon  his  human  be- 
ings. He  sometimes  produces  the  hap- 
piest combinations,  such  as  the  apple- 
green  and  salmon-colored  robes  of  two 
exquisite  angels  who  float  above  our 
Saviour's  cross,  the  tints  being  repeated 
in  the  cherubs  overhead. 

Next  to  the  positive  beauty  of  Luini's 
figures,  their  principal  charm  lies  in 
their  dignity,  simplicity,  and  sweetness, 
and  in  a  deep  consistency  of  expression 
which  defines  the  relation  of  each  per- 
sonage to  the  subject  of  the  picture. 
The  disciple  of  Leonardo  is  hardly  to 
be  called  naif,  but  even  where  the  teach- 
er's influence  is  most  apparent,  as  in 
the  subtle  refinement  of  certain  female 
heads,  there  is  no  dubious  after-thought, 
no  equivocal  insinuation.  He  has  not 
great  strength,  but  he  abounds  in  puri- 
ty, delicacy,  and  quiet  religious  feeling, 
sometimes  touched  by  sadness,  yet  free 
from  mystery  and  mysticism.  His  ex- 
ecution of  detail,  although  never  obtru- 
sive, is  often  marvelous  in  minuteness 
and  fidelity.  In  following  this  gentle 
master  from  town  to  town,  I  discovered, 
what  was  new  to  me,  at  least,  how  dis- 
tinctly he  has  been  the  model  of  Mr. 
Burne  Jones  and  his  imitators,  as  well 
as  of  the  Frenchman  M.  Puvis  de  Cha- 
vannes,  who  has  caught  the  spirit  of  the 
early  school  better  than  his  English  com- 
peers. Sandro  Botticelli  is  generally  as- 
signed as  the  prototype  and  model  of 
these  gentlemen,  and  Luini  has  not  the 
ineffable  melancholy  and  suggestiveness 


of  Botticelli,  nor  some  of  his  defects,  for 
which  the  painters  of  the  pseudo-Re- 
naissance pine  and  yearn.  But,  not  to 
pursue  the  comparison  further,  the  ques- 
tion will  be  settled  for  most  people  by 
a  glance  at  the  fresco  of  three  girls  play- 
ing at  forfeits,  in  a  corridor  of  the  Brera 
at  Milan,  and  at  the  painting  of  red  and 
white  rose-bushes  in  a  picture  of  the 
Madonna,  in  a  small  room  of  the  same 
gallery. 

There  are  other  excursions  to  make 
from  Lugano,  a  mountain  to  climb,  and 
Monte  Caprino  to  be  reached  by  rowing, 
where  the  grotto  cellars  give  tourists 
an  excuse  for  drinking  a  sweet,  spark- 
ling, and  heady  wine,  Asti  Mousseux  by 
name :  these  are  duly  set  down  in  all 
guide-books.  But  a  grateful  traveler 
will  not  turn  away  from  the  spot  with- 
out recording  his  thanks  to  the  gener- 
ous owner  of  a  fine  place  on  a  point 
across  the  cove  upon  which  the  town 
stands  where  strangers  are  permitted 
to  land  and  walk  under  the  broad 
shade  of  sycamore  and  linden  groves, 
with  dazzling  openings  on  the  hot  lake 
from  the  cool  depths.  It  is  not  just, 
either,  to  leave  the  neighborhood  with- 
out speaking  of  the  mode  of  approach 
by  which  the  scenery  is  seen  to  the 
greatest  advantage,  although  it  does  not 
come  exactly  into  the  order  of  my  go- 


ing. 


"August  24,  1883.  Left  Bellagio  (on 
the  lake  of  Como)  at  ten  A.  M.  by  steam- 
boat. Got  off  at  Menaggio,  on  the  op- 
posite side,  and  had  a  row  with  a  ras- 
cal about  a  pony-carriage  to  Porlezza, 
which  lost  us  an  hour,  although  I  got 
the  better  of  him.  This  delay  had  the 
solitary  advantage  of  giving  the  dili- 
gence such  a  start  of  us  that  its  dust 
had  subsided  before  we  set  out.  The 
drive  is  hilly  at  first,  and  gradually  be- 
comes mountainous,  going  higher  and 
higher  by  zigzags  among  vineyards, 
olive  orchards,  and  chestnut  groves,  over 
a  white  powdery  road,  between  blinding 
white  walls.  As  we  looked  back  there 


VOL.  LIV.  —  NO.  324. 


31 


482                                 The  Lakes  of  Upper  Italy.                       [October, 

was  an  ever-changing  view  of  the  en-  the  starting-point,  since  the  completion 
chanting  lake,  until  at  last  the  hill-sides,  of  the  railway,  is  the  station  of  Men- 
closing  round  us,  shut  it  out.  By  and  drisio.  There  are  two  modes  of  going 
by  darker  heights  began  to  rise  over  up  the  mountain  :  one  in  a  carretta,  a 
against  us,  and  the  landscape  wore  a  vehicle  unknown  to  us,  a  sort  of  rough 
more  sombre  face  than  we  had  seen  for  arm-chair  on  wheels,  holding  but  one 
weeks.  We  crossed  a  babbling  brook  person  ;  the  other  on  a  donkey,  or  on 
in  a  ravine,  and  passed  a  little  lake  with  foot  by  a  bridle-path  if  you  prefer  it. 
marshy  borders,  a  mere  pool.  By  the  When  I  made  the  expedition  one  of  my 
time  we  had  driven  an  hour  and  a  half,  companions  chose  the  carretta,  and  re- 
the  Italian  flowers  in  the  college  garden  ported  it  to  be  an  instrument  of  torture 
had  given  place  to  Swiss  ones,  — dahlias,  for  dislocating  the  bones  and  shaking  the 
hollyhocks,  and  marigolds,  —  and  the  breath  out  of  the  body.  My  other  corn- 
scenery  had  lost  much  of  its  softness,  rade  and  I  took  the  shorter  way,  as  we 
The  hour's  detention  at  Menaggio  made  supposed,  but  we  arrived  simultaneously 
us  five  minutes  late  for  the  steamboat  at  with  the  carretta ;  he  walked,  I  rode, 
Porlezza,  and  we  had  three  hours  to  wait  and  although  he  had  the  light  foot  of 
for  the  next  one.  Porlezza  is  a  small  youth  he  declared  that  he  had  done  noth- 
town,  which  has  apparently  stood  still  ing  in  the  Alps  so  fatiguing  as  that  slip- 
for  a  long  time.  There  is  a  hotel,  where  ping  and  scrambling  over  loose  stones, 
we  had  a  bad  lunch,  a  church,  a  villa  which  rolled  down-hill  with  him  at  every 
of  some  pretensions,  —  pretty,  as  a  gar-  step.  For  a  short  distance  we  followed 
den  on  a  mountain  lake  must  needs  be,  the  so-called  carriage-road  :  it  turns  first 
— and  a  crooked  street,  all  of  which  stand  among  walnut  groves;  then  through 
upon  or  tend  towards  a  shabby,  grass-  chestnuts,  some  of  which  are  great  boles 
grown  piazza  along  the  steamboat  land-  bound  with  small  five-pointed  ivy ;  then 
/ing.  To  escape  from  this,  I  wandered  between  rocky  banks  supporting  big, 
into  a  meadow  fringed  with  trees  on  a  mossy,  gnarled  beech-stumps,  with  plan- 
•bank  above  a  strip  of  shingle  beach,  tations  of  saplings  springing  from  their 
;and  there  sat  drinking  the  breeze  and  old  stocks.  Not  far  above  Men  drisio 

o 

•looking  out  upon  the  lake.  It  is  nar-  there  is  a  spot  fit  for  a  picture :  a  dilapi- 
row  at  this  end,  and  the  mountains  are  dated  paper-mill,  with  many  wheels  dash- 
high,  sloping  in  a  single  line  from  peak  ing  the  spray  of  a  brook  into  the  ravine 
to  base.  The  steamboat,  which  reaches  below  with  a  refreshing  plash  ;  and  op- 
Lugano  in  an  hour,  soon  carried  us  into  posite  to  this  a  wide,  vaulted,  stone  re- 
wider  waters,  and  we  passed  a  cascade  cess  lined  with  delicate  ferns,  sheltering 
•dropping  over  the  mouth  of  a  grotto  at  a  large  marble  tank  brimful  of  clear 
the  ripple's  edge.  The  scenery  has  char-  water,  where  the  tired  donkey-boys  stop 
acter,  what  painters  call  *  style  ;'  it  re-  to  drink  from  the  hollow  of  their  hand, 
calls  the  lake  of  Lucerne  in  greatly  di-  It  is  the  last  mouthful  of  moisture  or 
minished  proportions.  As  we  advanced  coolness  on  the  road.  The  rest  of  the 
the  mountains  rose  sharp  and  serrate,  way  is  first  dusty  and  steep,  then  steeper 
some  of  them  like  a  hand  with  blunt  fin-  and  paved  with  cobble-stones,  and  finally 
gers ;  the  lake  widened  still  more  and  the  it  becomes  like  the  dry  bed  of  a  New 
upper  bay  came  into  sight,  and  finally  Lu-  England  hill-brook  where  it  lies  nearest 
gano,  looking  almost  like  a  city,  seated  to  the  perpendicular.  It  was  very  hot; 
on  a  natural  amphitheatre  in  the  north-  the  only  trees  were  scrub-growth  that 
most  curve."  shut  out  the  air,  but  not  the  sun  ;  the 
Between  the  lakes  of  Lugano  and  only  traces  of  water  two  or  three  empty 
'Como  stands  Monte  Generoso,  for  which  torrent-courses  and  a  spring  which  for  the 


1884.] 


The  Lakes  of  Upper  Italy. 


483 


moment  was  a  mere  mud-hole.  There 
was  no  view  except  of  mountain  flanks, 
forest  below  and  pasture-land  above.  We 
came  once  upon  a  few  furlongs  of  wood- 
land, where  wild  pinks  and  superb  dark 
blue  campanulas  grew  among  the  grass, 
and  we  hailed  it  as  a  veritable  oasis.  My 
donkey  was  fat  and  sleek ;  every  quar- 
ter of  an  hour  he  stopped  as  if  ready  to 
drop,  and  I  got  off  and  walked  for  a 
quarter  of  an  hour  to  let  him  rest.  The 
donkey-boy  beat  him  with  incessant  me- 
chanical strokes,  like  a  pendulum,  and 
replied  to  my  remonstrances  that  he  was 
"  a  malicious  beast."  He  was  also  sly 
and  lazy,  and  by  degrees  my  zoophilism 
gave  out :  I  noticed  that  he  was  neither 
hot  nor  blown,  while  I  was  both  ;  so  at 
length  I  scrambled  into  the  saddle  to  dis- 
mount no  more  before  the  end  of  the 
journey,  and  bade  the  boy  thwack  as 
much  as  he  thought  fit.  But  the  don- 

O 

key,  at  an  earlier  day,  had  made  up  his 
mind  that  he  preferred  being  beaten  to 
making  speed,  and  nothing  could  shake 
his  determination. 

After  nearly  three  hours  of  this  prog- 
ress, which  would  have  become  intoler- 
able if  it  had  been  much  more  pro- 
longed, we  reached  the  Monte  Generoso 
hotel,  standing  alone  on  a  small  plateau 
three  quarters  of  the  way  to  the  moun- 
tain-top. It  is  a  big,  square,  five-story 
building,  solid,  but  otherwise  as  ugly  as 
if  it  belonged  in  New  Hampshire.  The 
grounds  are  small,  rough,  and  untidy. 
The  near  view  is  Swiss,  mountains  cov- 
ered with  short  grass  and  beech  copse; 
beyond  them  the  plain  of  Lombardy 
stretches  out  vast  and  vague  as  the  sea, 
through  a  hot  haze  which  muffles  its  out- 
lines. Behind  the  hotel,  a  walk  of  ten 
minutes  through  the  beech  thickets  leads 
to  a  path  along  a  ridge  overhanging  the 
lake  of  Lugano,  and  ending  at  the  Bella 
Vista,  a  railed  platform,  which  com- 
mands a  grand  panorama.  I  never  saw 
this  entirely  unclouded,  but  it  was  always 
imposing.  My  first  sight  of  it  was  just 
before  sunset,  when  the  gorges  were  full 


of  dark  vapors,  heavy  gray  and  black 
clouds  thronging  and  crowding  together 
above  the  peaks,  diffusing  darkness, 
through  which  came  flashes  of  lightning 
and  mutterings  of  thunder  ;  the  lake 
had  a  strange,  dull  green,  marble-like 
surface,  reflecting  every  anfractuosity  of 
the  rock,  every  house  and  clump  of  trees 
on  its  banks,  every  cloud  that  crossed 
the  sky  ;  over  the  nearest  ridge  Lago 
Maggiore  could  be  seen  gleaming  dimly 
in  the  distance,  catching  some  sunset 
lights  through  rifts  in  the  gloomy  can- 


"  Monte  Generoso,  Sunday,  August 
26,  1883.  This  is  a  comfortless  house, 
and  there  is  the  tyranny  in  its  hours  and 
habits  and  the  indifference  to  the  con- 
venience of  travelers  which  are  usually 
to  be  found  where  there  is  but  one  hotel. 
Furthermore,  it  is  a  fief  of  the  Church 
of  England  ;  there  is  daily  morning 
prayer  at  8.30  A.  M.  ;  on  Saturday  the 
corridors  resound  with  practicing  the 
chants  and  hymns,  and  on  Sunday  there 
are  three  services,  the  first  beginning  at 
10  A.  M.,  when  the  same  bell  which  sum- 
mons us  to  meals  announces  church  by 
more  measured  strokes.  The  majority 
of  the  lodgers  are  botanizing,  geologiz- 
ing, sketching,  ascensioriizing  English  of 
both  sexes.  They  attend  public  worship 
in  an  exemplary  manner.  To-day,  after 
the  sermon,  before  the  final  hymn  and 
benediction,  the  clergyman  made  an  ear- 
nest appeal  for  contributions  to  the  fund 
for  maintaining  the  services,  on  the  reg- 
ularity and  frequency  of  which  he  dwelt 
with  just  emphasis,  affirming,  poor  man, 
that  he  should  derive  no  advantage  from 
this  collection.  Having  no  money  with 
me,  I  slipped  out  and  went  to  my  room 
for  my  pocket-book.  Most  of  my  Eng- 
lish fellow  Christians  went  out  at  the 
same  time,  but  did  not  go  back." 

"  Monday,  August  27.  There  is  pleas- 
ant walking  here  over  miles  of  soft, 
elastic,  close-cropped  turf,  and  the  air  is 
very  fine,  pure,  and  rare.  We  are  four 
thousand  feet  above  the  sea  ;  the  moun- 


484 


The  Lakes  of  Upper  Italy. 


[October, 


tain-top  is  two  thousand  feet  higher. 
The  drawback  to  walking  is  the  absence 
of  shade.  The  greater  views,  too,  are 
not  visible  from  the  pastures.  Took  a 
long  hot  pull  to  a  point  whence  we  were 
assured  that  we  could  see  the  lake  of 
Como.  We  did  see  an  inch  or  two  of  it, 
and  the  town,  —  a  flat  bird's-eye  view  ; 
the  cathedral  stood  up  handsomely,  how- 
ever. There  is  a  fine  breed  of  cattle  on 
this  mountain,  with  most  dulcet  bells ; 
when  a  number  of  them  are  grazing  to- 
gether the  sound  is  like  musical-glasses. 
The  heifers  are  extremely  tame,  and 
come  to  be  fed  and  petted. 

"  Dialogue  at  table  d'hote  between 
American  gentleman  from  an  Atlantic 
State  and  English  lady.  She.  Did  you 
ever  meet  the  Indians  ?  He.  The  In- 
dians ?  She.  Yes  ;  your  red  men,  you 
know.  He  (aside).  Does  she  mean  in 
society  or  on  the  war-path,  I  wonder. 
(Aloud.)  No,  I  live  too  far  east.  They 
are  in  the  west,  —  the  far  west.  She.  Oh, 
yes  ;  Chicago  and  Cincinnati,  you  know. 
He.  Yes,  a  good  deal  further  than  that. 
She.  Aw  —  really  !  Your  country  is 
so  very  —  very  large,  you  know.  And 
for  these  long  journeys  do  you  have 
something  like  our  Pullman  cars?  He 
(with  self-command).  Something  quite 
like  them.  She.  Fancy  I 

"Tuesday,  August  28.  Spent  the 
morning  at  the  Bella  Vista.  The  horizon 
was  not  clear,  but  the  clouds  had  riot  yet 
gathered  compactly,  and  the  black  bulks 
of  the  Monte  Rosa  Alps,  with  their 
death-like  white  faces,  were  looking  over 
fields  of  lower  ranges.  What  are  they 
like  ?  There  is  something  personal  and 
supernatural,  conscious  and  deliberate, 
in  their  appearance,  and  how  remote 
and  alien  from  earth  and  man  !  The 
moment  they  become  visible  the  whole 
scene  changes,  as  if  Nature  herself  were 
affected  by  their  presence.  The  exten- 
sion wliich  the  prospect  gains  by  their 
altitudes  deepens  the  profound  silence 
which  always  broods  over  these  lakes  at 
this  season  ;  it  grows  more  intense  with 


the  expansion  of  the  view.  To-day  the 
stillness  was  oppressive  :  not  a  bird  or  in- 
sect gave  a  note  ;  there  was  no  noise  of 
steam,  or  trade,  or  traffic  from  the  white, 
motionless  towns  thousands  of  feet  be- 
low me,  no  voice  of  agricultural  labor 
from  the  hill-sides.  Once  in  the  course 
of  the  morning  a  dull  rumble  was  heard 
far  down,  and  a  railway  train  wriggled 
along  the  ground  like  a  huge  black 
reptile,  tainting  the  air  with  its  breath. 
The  view  must  be  magnificent  when  it 
is  at  its  best,  and  it  is  very  fine  at  its 
worst,  as  it  is  said  to  be  at  present.  The 
mountains  are  seamed  and  scarred  by 
the  tracks  of  torrents,  and  gray-brown 
crags  jut  out  from  their  green  covering, 
as  if  Generoso  had  worn  though  his 
coat.  They  stand  up  in  peaks,  ridges, 
and  bluffs,  shutting  in  the  narrow  lake. 
There  is  an  awful  harmony  in  the  gen- 
eral configuration.  The  one  flaw  in  it 
is  a  flat  strip  along  the  water  between 
the  headlands  of  Mendrisio  and  Ma- 
roggia,  which  is  marked  with  a  long  St. 
Andrew's  cross  by  the  oblique  intersec- 
tion of  the  railroad  and  highway ;  it  is 
a  commonplace,  work-day  feature,  an- 
noyingly  out  of  keeping  with  the  majesty 
of  the  surrounding  scenery.  There  is 
nothing  Italian  here  except  the  atmos- 
phere, and  that  invests  the  severity  of 
the  prospect  with  some  softness.  But 
it  is  not  simpatico." 

Southward  from  Monte  Generoso, 
among  the  lessening  hills,  there  is  a 
small  sheet  of  water  aside  from  the  com- 
mon track  of  travel,  called  the  lake  of 
Varese.  It  is  accessible  by  carriage- 
roads  from  several  points  on  the  larger 
lakes,  and  from  Arona  on  Lago  Mag- 
giore  by  a  branch  of  the  railroad  to 
Milan.  I  drove  thither  from  Mendrisio 
by  a  dusty  and  monotonous  route  be- 
tween maize-fields,  with  hems  of  white 
buckwheat  and  rows  of  cropped,  stunted- 
looking  mulberry-trees.  After  passing 
the  frontier,  where  the  vexations  of  the 
custom-house  were  abridged  as  much  as 
possible  by  the  good-humor  and  good- 


1884.] 


The  Lakes  of  Upper  Italy. 


485 


manners  of  the  officials,  the  road  begins 
to  ascend;  higher  and  bolder  mountains 
come  into  sight;  the  finger  of  Italy 
touches  the  landscape.  On  one  side  a 
Lombard  church  tower,  eight  stories 
high,  starts  into  view  ;  on  the  other,  upon 
a  knoll  above  the  road,  appears  the  tall 
fragment  of  an  amphitheatre  wall  cut 
in  the  foliage  of  a  closely  planted  row 
of  trees,  a  bit  of  old-fashioned  gardening 
which  seemed  to  belong  to  the  grounds 
of  an  adjacent  convent.  The  curves  of 
the  champaign  are  in  the  immortal  line 
of  beauty.  Cream-colored  oxen  with 
liquid,  dark  eyes  pass  by,  dragging  hay- 
carts  ;  carnations  loll  heavily  from  the 
window-sills ;  and,  framed  by  a  small 
square  casement  sunk  in  vines,  a  wo- 
man's face  looks  out,  fit  for  a  tragedy 
of  the  sixteenth  century. 

Varese  is  unlike  any  other  Italian 
town  with  which  I  am  familiar,  yet  it 
looks  as  if  it  might  be  the  type  of  a 
good  many.  Its  dimensions  are  small 
and  its  pretensions  are  great.  In  the 
environs  there  are  shabby,  mangy  little 
promenades  and  parks  at  every  turn  ; 
tablets  in  the  walls  with  pompous  Latin 
inscriptions,  commemorating  personages 
and  events  unknown  to  the  next  parish  ; 
ill-kept  villas  with  elaborate  iron  gate- 
ways. In  the  outskirts  of  the  town  there 
is  a  church  which  exceeds  in  bad  taste 
anything  of  the  same  style  I  have  ever 
seen  :  it  has  a  square  tower,  a  polygonal 
cupola,  and  side  apses,  crammed  togeth- 
er without  regard  to  proportion,  and  a 
triple  porch  upheld  by  colossal  satyrs 
and  surmounted  by  allegorical  figures 
with  trumpets.  The  place  is  thriving 
and  uninteresting ;  its  narrow  streets 
smell  as  ill  as  those  of  more  picturesque 
and  less  prosperous  communities.  To 
judge  by  the  signboards,  there  is  a  lively 
trade  in  spirituous  liquors  ;  but  silk  man- 
ufacture is  the  principal  industry  of  the 
place. 

I  went  to  see  a  large  Jilanderia,  or 
establishment  where  the  silk  in  its  nat- 
ural state  is  prepared  for  the  loom.  Mil- 


lions of  cocoons  were  lying  on  shelves 
of  slats  to  avoid  moisture.  They  were 
of  three  colors,  white,  cream,  and  pale 
yellow :  this  variety  does  not  arise  from 
differences  in  the  food  of  the  worm,  but 
from  diversity  of  species  ;  "  like  the  races 
of  mankind,"  as  the  superintendent  ex- 
plained, laughing.  The  best  variety  is 
Chinese  ;  "  Mongoli,"  he  called  them.  I 
stupidly  did  not  ask  whether  the  Mon- 
golians are  yellow.  Some  cocoons  are 
notably  larger  than  others  and  those  are 
double,  —  '•  married,"  said  the  superin- 
tendent, there  being  two  chrysalides  in 
the  egg,  like  a  philopoena  almond;  they 
are  as  numerous  as  the  single  ones,  and 
are  kept  separate  from  them.  In  a  long, 
airy  room  several  hundred  women,  prin- 
cipally young  girls,  were  putting  the 
cocoons  through  successive  stages  of  a 
process  by  which  the  downy  cover  is 
separated  from  the  chrysalis  and  spun 
into  threads  like  gossamer  ;  there  was  a 
subdued  rattle  of  treadles  and  reels,  like 
an  accompaniment  to  a  sweet  melancholy 
chant  which  the  women  were  singing  in 
parts.  In  a  side-room  sat  a  young  girl 
with  a  distaff  and  spindle,  running  off 
the  spider's-web  substance  into  shining 
hanks  of  silk ;  they  looked  like  immense 
skeins  of  spun  glass  and  spun  gold.  The 
white  remains  white,  the  straw-color  be- 
comes paler  and  takes  a  greenish  cast, 
while  the  cream-color  turns  out  bright 
yellow,  almost  like  old  gold  ;  these  are 
the  only  natural  shades.  As  I  gave  the 
young  girl  some  trouble  by  interrupting 
her  work  to  make  her  show  me  how  it 
was  done,  I  offered  her  at  parting  a  small 
sum  with  my  thanks  ;  she  refused  it  with 
a  gesture  almost  scornful  and,  starting 
up,  ran  out  of  the  room.  The  merry 
superintendent  laughed,  as  he  did  at 
everything,  hut  when,  on  saying  good- 
by  to  him,  I  ventured  to  proffer  him  a 
much  larger  bonus  he  too  drew  back,  and 
declined  it  with  comic  pantomime  of  put- 
ting away  a  bribe.  Believing  that  there 
was  no  indelicacy  in  pressing  it  upon 
him  gently,  I  did  so ;  but  he  shook  his 


486                                 The  Lakes  of  Upper  Italy.                      [October, 

head,  and  said  gayly  that  he  could  not  the  Excelsior,  and  until  twenty  years 
accept  money,  having  violated  the  rules  ago  belonged  to  the  Recalcati  family  of 
of  the  establishment,  which  are  very  Milan.  It  is  an  enormous  house,  to 
strict,  in  allowing  me  to  visit  it,  and  which  only  a  wing,  with  the  dining- room 
that  to  take  money  would  compromise  and  offices,  has  been  added  for  its  present 
him  with  the  proprietor,  his  employer,  purpose  ;  and  although  riot  a  handsome 
I  suppose  my  unscientific  questions  at  building,  it  has  good  points,  especially 
the  outset  convinced  him  of  my  inca-  indoors.  There  is  a  spacious  suite  of 
pacity  to  steal  the  secrets  of  the  pro-  reception-rooms  opening  on  the  garden, 
cess,  but  how  he  supposed  his  breach  and  one  of  them,  for  music,  is  most 
of  trust  would  become  known  I  cannot  charmingly  designed  and  decorated.  It 
imagine,  unless  the  work-people  act  as  is  in  white  and  a  fresh,  delicate  green ; 
spies.  the  walls  have  green  panels  set  in  very 
Th  e  lake  of  Varese  is  much  smaller  and  rich  flower-chaplets  of  white  stucco;  it 
less  beautiful  than  its  three  neighbors  ;  has  a  gambrel  ceiling,  with  an  elegant 
the  hills  about  it  are  long  and  low,  the  frieze  of  garlands,  medallions,  and  groups 
immediate  landscape  is  tame.  It  is  to  of  Cupids ;  between  the  panels  opposite 
this  absence  of  salient  heights  that  it  the  long  windows  are  mirrors  reflecting 
owes  its  chief  title  to  consideration,  —  an  the  garden,  and  there  are  a  quantity  of 
unobstructed  view  of  Monte  Rosa  and  silver  sconces  and  candlesticks  of  a  very 
her  snowy  myrmidons,  said  to  be  unique  pretty,  old-fashioned  pattern  ;  the  furni- 
in  its  effect  of  juxtaposition.  The  clouds  ture  is  in  pale  green  damask,  white 
hid  it  entirely  during  my  short  stay,  and  wood- work  with  a  touch  of  gold.  Up- 
I  know  it  only  by  a  highly-colored  lith-  stairs  the  principal  rooms  open  into  an 
ograph  in  the  hall  of  the  hotel.  The  antechamber,  with  floors  of  scagliola,  or 
hotel  itself  is  the  most  remarkable  villa  red,  white,  and  black  marble,  furnished 
near  Varese,  although  on  the  higher*  with  heavy,  obsolete  black  chairs,  ta- 
ground  above  the  lake  there  are  several  bles,  and  settees,  such  as  fill  the  modern 
handsome  ones  in  good  order.  One  of  bricabrac  hunter  with  envy.  The  walls 
these,  the  Villa  Taccioli,  which  is  old  are  paneled  with  frightful  frescoes,  or 
enough  to  have  a  history,  but  has  changed  hung  with  great  canvases  by  third  and 
hands  too  often,  boasts  of  a  chapel  con-  fourth  rate  Venetian  and  Bolognese 
taining  an  original  work  by  Agostino  painters,  and  even  the  bad  taste  is  gran- 
Busti,  a  famous  Lombard  sculptor  of  diose.  The  gardens  have  extent,  but  not 
the  Cinquecento.  It  is  a  graceful  but  style,  and  though  they  are  large  the 
feeble,  insignificant  group  of  the  Ma-  trees  are  small ;  they  are  a  most  agreea- 
donna  and  Child  ;  the  best  part  is  the  ble  adjunct  to  the  lower  rooms,  how- 
base,  which  evidently  does  not  belong  ever,  which  seem  almost  part  of  them, 
to  the  figures.  As  I  observed  this  to  When  I  was  there,  long,  high  banks  of 
the  gardener,  he  instantly  replied  that  roses  and  mignonette  filled  the  air  with 
he  had  heard  conoscenti  say  that  it  was  sweetness,  and  mimosa-trees,  covered 
probably  a  portion  of  the  widely-scat-  with  puffs  of  pink-tipped  blossoms  as 
tered  monument  of  Gaston  de  Foix,  by  light  as  thistle-down,  lent  some  of  their 
the  same  sculptor.  This  intelligent  gar-  own  exquisite  refinement  to  the  grounds, 
dener  had  a  large  bed  of  cyclamens  The  great  attraction  of  the  hotel  is  its 
which  he  had  transplanted  from  the  own  excellence ;  it  is  one  of  the  best 
mountains;  it  is  the  only  time  I  have  kept  houses  in  Europe,  luxuriously  clean, 
seen  them  cultivated  in  Italy.  The  comfortable,  well  appointed  and  served 
hotel,  however,  surpassed  all  the  neigh-  in  every  respect.  It  is  astonishing  to 
boring  seats  that  I  saw.  It  is  called  find  such  an  admirable  establishment  in 


1884.] 


The  Lakes  of  Upper  Italy. 


487 


an   out-of-the-way  and   not  much  fre- 
quented place. 

After  the  St.  Gothard  road,  the  other 
railways  from  the  lakes  to  Milan  seem 
uninteresting  and  the  excursions  one 
makes  by  them  tedious,  short  as  they 
are  perforce.  It  is  a  proof  of  how  a 
great  enjoyment  spoils  most  people  for 
lesser  ones,  as  the  routes  are  not  unat- 
tractive. They  run  for  miles  between 
well-sodded  banks  and  close  rows  of 
crop-headed  locust-trees,  which  are  pretty 
all  summer  and  lovely  when  in  bloom, 
with  occasional  peeps  at  a  lake  or  moun- 
tain ;  and  every  station  offers  its  picture 
of  Italian  existence,  past  or  present,  in 
some  noble  building,  graceful  bit  of 
gardening,  or  dramatic  incident  of  daily 
life.  This  is  the  home  of  Lombard 
architecture,  which  in  its  large  simplicity 
attains  to  a  degree  of  dignity  that  to 
my  eyes  Gothic  does  not  possess.  Broad 
masses  of  dark  red  brick,  or  of  alternate 
terra  cotta  and  granite  or  marble,  in 
square  or  round  surfaces,  divided  by  a 
method  as  natural  as  the  formation  of 
the  crystal  or  the  bee's  cell  into  many- 
sided  forms  of  baptistery  or  bell-tower  ; 
the  basilica  ground  plan  of  early  Chris- 
tian churches,  with  the  dome  borrowed 
from  the  East ;  lofty  round-arched  por- 
tals ;  tall,  slender  shafts ;  tiers  of  round- 
headed  windows  marked  off  into  minia- 
ture colonnades  by  small,  slim  pillars,  — 
these  are  the  features  of  the  style  which 
the  traveler  can  recogaize  as  far  as  he 
can  see  them  across  their  native  plains. 
The  fertility  of  the  surrounding  country 
is  a  beauty  in  itself ;  the  maize,  rice,  and 
grain  fields  are  sprinkled  with  scarlet 
poppies,  and  separated  by  rows  of  mul- 
berry-trees or  poplars  twined  together 
by  vines  in  full  bearing,  intersected  and 
irrigated  by  runlets  of  glassy  water  bor- 
dered by  osiers  ;  there  is  a  constant  shim- 
mer on  the  golden-green  crops  and  the 
silvery-green  willows.  The  iufrequency 
of  hamlets  or  isolated  farm -buildings 
is  strange  to  a  foreigner ;  he  wonders 
Whether  the  farmers  and  laborers  all 


live  in  towns.  Of  these  there  is  no  dearth, 
and  the  smaller  they  are  the  greater  in 
proportion  are  their  possessions  in  the 
way  of  art.  Pavia,  with  its  decaying 
vestiges  of  royal  pomp,  and  the  glori- 
ous, incomparable  Certosa,  or  Carthusian 
monastery ;  Monza,  with  a  cathedral 
thirteen  centuries  old  and  the  legendary 
Iron  Crown  ;  Saronno,  where  the  Lom- 
bard painters  decorated  a  church  which 
is  the  monument  of  their  school ;  me- 
diaeval Bergamo,  richest  of  them  all  in 
treasures  of  this  sort,  lie  within  the  cir- 
cumference of  a  circle  drawn  from  Milan 
as  the  centre  to  the  lakes  of  Como, 
Varese,  Maggiore,  and  Garda. 

Saronno  is  on  one  of  the  carriage- 
roads  from  Varese  to  Milan,  not  so  often 
traveled  now  as  formerly,  the  place  be- 
ing more  accessible  from  the  city  by  the 
railway  or  steam  tramway  than  from  the 
lake.  It  is  a  bright,  compact  little 
town  among  the  corn-fields,  standing  out 
against  a  background  of  dark  mountains 
overtopped  by  snowy  ones.  It  has  such 
a  cheerful  and  modern  air  that  I  thought 
I  must  have  come  to  the  wrong  place 
for  the  early  Lombard  masters  ;  but  fol- 
lowing my  directions,  I  walked  to  the 
Sanctuary  of  the  Madonna,  beyond  the 
last  houses  and  about  ten  minutes  from 
the  station.  My  doubts  increased  when 
I  saw  on  the  very  edge  of  the  tramway 
an  ugly  seventeenth-century  Renaissance 
front,  newly  painted  and  plastered,  look- 
ing like  nothing  so  much  as  a  Roman 
Catholic  village  church  in  America.  The 
first  view  on  entering  the  structure  is 
no  better :  whatever  its  architectural 
merits  may  be,  they  are  disguised  by  the 
tasteless,  hideous  restorations  and  dec- 
orations of  the  last  two  centuries ;  gaudy 
daubing  meets  the  eye  wherever  it  turns. 
But  as  I  advanced  up  the  aisle  the  in- 
terior of  a  cupola  painted  by  Gaudenzio 
Ferrari  revealed  itself,  which  called  forth 
a  cry  of  admiration.  The  central  glory 
is  surrounded  by  a  wreath  of  cherubs 
with  bodies,  singing  and  trampling  on 
the  clouds ;  and  below  them  a  joyous 


488 


The  Lakes  of  Upper  Italy. 


[October, 


throng  of  angels  are  harping,  trumpet- 
ing, and  hymuing  with  a  delightful  in- 
dependence of  attitude  and  motion.  I 
had  to  break  my  neck  backwards  to  look 
at  them,  not  a  favorable  position  for 
judging  of  a  work  of  art,  but  I  thought 
it  a  beautiful  composition,  replete  with 
energy  and  exultation.  On  all  sides, 
between  arches  and  over  windows,  are 
figures  of  saints  by  Luini  and  his  com- 
peers and  followers,  Cesare  da  Sesto, 
Lanini,  Suardi.  In  the  passage  from 
the  nave  to  the  choir  there  are  two 
large  frescoes  by  Luini,  one  on  each 
wall :  the  Marriage  of  the  Virgin  and 
Christ  disputing  with  the  Doctors  in  the 
Temple.  On  the  choir  walls  there  are 
two  more  great  groups,  the  Adoration 
of  the  Magi  arid  the  Presentation  at  the 
Temple,  and  in  a  small  apse  behind  the 
high  altar  two  beautiful  female  figures 
and  an  angel,  all  by  the  master's  hand. 
They  are  in  almost  perfect  preserva- 
tion, only  the  flesh  seems  to  have  changed 
a  little,  and  are  extremely  calm  and 
beautiful,  showing  Luini's  finest  quali- 
ties without  his  defects  in  composition. 
There  are  all  sorts  of  traditions  about 
his  connection  with  this  church,  it  being 
said  that  he  ended  his  days  here,  and 
that  these  are  his  last  works ;  but  they 
are  guide-book  stories  at  best,  for  there 
is  not  much  known  of  his  life  or  the 
exact  dates  of  his  different  productions, 
though  these  and  the  Crucifixion  at  Lu- 
gano are  among  the  latest.  The  church 
is  curiously  constructed ;  I  have  never 
seen  anything  exactly  like  the  entrance 
to  the  choir  or  that  hindermost  apse. 
It  was  begun  in  1498  and  finished  two 
centuries  afterwards,  and  the  original 

•  o 

design  was  cast  aside  by  each  architect 
for  one  of  his  own.  The  cloister,  as  I 
saw  it,  was  a  little  gem  for  water-color 
artists  ;  the  simple  columns  were  fes- 
tooned together  by  grape-vines  full  of 
purple  clusters  ;  there  was  a  small  square 
of  green  turf,  from  the  centre  of  which 
rose  a  fine  stone  -  pine,  with  a  small 
square  of  deep  blue  sky  above  it;  and 


a  well-proportioned  tower  of  brick  and 
granite  and  a  handsome  cupola,  both 
sixteenth-century  additions,  were  visi- 
ble above  the  roof  of  the  church.  Over 
a  door  in  the  cloister  there  is  another 
Luini,  a  Nativity,  with  angels  announ- 
cing the  good  tidings  to  the  shepherds 
in  the  background.  The  helplessness  of 
the  new-born  child  is  singularly  tender 
and  pathetic. 

I  could  not  learn  by  what  claims  this 
church  had  been  so  lavishly  adorned  ; 
pilgrimages  are  made  to  it,  and  its  name, 
the  Sanctuary  of  the  Madonna,  undoubt- 
edly has  some  significance.  The  rever- 
ence in  which  it  was  founded  nearly 
four  hundred  years  ago  has  not  entirely 
died  out,  as  in  a  side-chapel  there  is  a 
marble  alto-rilievo  of  the  Deposition  from 
the  Cross,  by  the  modern  sculptor  Mar- 
chesi,  —  a  graceful  and  touching  work 
of  art.  I  left  it  with  a  parting  prayer 
that  it  may  never  be  despoiled  in  the 
interest  of  the  Brera,  as  it  is  a  museum 
itself,  and  gives  the  masterpieces  which 
it  contains  a  prominence  they  could  not 
have  in  a  collection. 

In  my  goings  to  and  fro  among  the 
lakes  I  stopped  one  day,  on  the  way  to 
Como,  at  Monza,  which  like  Saronno  is 
less  than  an  hour  from  Milan  by  rail. 
It  is  a  dead-alive  town,  from  which  all 
strong  mediaeval  character  has  been  ex- 

o 

punged  by  a  modern  royal  residence  and 
a  large  railway  station.  There  is  a  fine 
old  Gothic  brick  town-hall  and  a  hand- 
some terra-cotta  church,  Santa  Maria  in 
Strada,  besides  tho  cathedral.  The  last, 
associated  in  my  mind  with  its  foundress, 
Queen  Theodelinda,  of  magnificent  name 
and  fame,  had  always  appeared  to  my 
fancy  as  the  stronghold  of  the  Lombard 
dynasty,  but  I  could  discover  no  traces 
of  its  royal  origin.  It  was  rebuilt  in 
the  thirteenth  and  fourteenth  centuries, 
and  as  it  stands  now  is  a  heavy  Gothic 
pile,  with  a  highly  decorated  Renaissance 
facade  of  black  and  pale  yellow  marble 
clapped  on  like  a  mask.  One  feature 
of  the  latter  is  a  great  parallelogram, 


1884.] 


The  Lakes  of  Upper  Italy. 


489 


or  oblong  tablet,  of  rectilinear  ornamen- 
tation, interspersed  with  rosettes,  set  in 
among  the  statues  and  busts  immedi- 
ately above  the  main  door,  and  includ- 
ing a  rose-window  within  its  limits  ;  the 
whole  effect  is  singularly  odd  and  by  no 
means  pleasing.  The  interior  is  a  hor- 
rible example  of  late  Renaissance  resto- 
ration. 

The  cathedral  contains  several  relics 
of  great  antiquity,  among  them  the  Iron 
Crown  which  has  pressed  so  many  august 
brows,  from  Constantine's  to  Napoleon's. 
On  asking  to  see  it  I  was  startled  to 
learn  that  the  cost  would  be  five  lire 
(or  francs),  exactly  five  times  as  much 
as  the  most  expensive  exhibition,  sacred 
or  secular,  I  had  hitherto  seen  in  Italy, 
and  ten  times  the  sum  usually  exacted. 
But  I  ceased  to  be  surprised  when  the 
sacristan  culled  a  custodian,  the  custodian 
called  a  priest,  and  the  priest  came,  — 
a  tall,  robust,  unshaven  personage,  with 
some  native  dignity,  like  Friar  Tuck,  — 
accompanied  by  two  acolytes  bearing 
four  great  silver  candelabra  and  other 
sacred  properties.  The  candlesticks  were 
placed  on  the  balustrade  of  a  side-chapel 
where  the  relic  is  kept ;  tapers  were  put 
into  them  and  lighted,  and  the  vessels 
arranged  in  order.  The  priest  then  re- 
cited a  short  orison  before  the  altar, 
above  which  is  a  sort  of  press,  the  size 
of  an  ordinary  wardrobe,  with  a  very 
poor  gilded  alto  rilievo  on  the  door,  of 
angels  bearing  the  instruments  of  the 
Passion.  The  custodian  then  mounted 
a  ladder  and  opened  the  first  door,  which 
disclosed  a  second  one  with  two  leaves 
of  beautiful  gilded  bronze-work  ;  these, 
being  opened,  showed  a  rare  curtain  of 
golden  tissue,  and  that,  falling,  revealed 
the  treasures,  —  a  great  cross  set  with 
precious  stones  and  crystal,  and  other 
objects  which  I  did  not  notice,  perturbed 


as  I  was  by  the  ceremony  and  the  at- 
tention which  it  drew  upon  me,  poor 
solitary,  sheepish  Anglo-Saxon,  from  the 
rest  of  the  people  in  church.  The  fa- 
mous coronal,  inclosed  in  a  circular 
glass  case,  was  then  taken  down  and  dis- 
played to  me  by  the  elder  acolyte,  who 
recited  its  history  for  my  edification. 
The  foundation  and  origin  of  the  crown 
is  a  narrow  iron  band,  believed  by  the 
devout  to  have  been  made  out  of  a  nail 
which  pierced  our  Saviour's  hand ;  this 
is  encased  within  a  broad,  thick  gold 
circlet  inlaid  with  three  rows  of  immense 
jewels  in  a  splendid,  simple,  enameled 
Byzantine  pattern.  One  of  the  most 
significant  facts  in  its  memorable  history 
is  that  it  was  never  taken  out  of  Loni- 
bardy  until  this  century.  What  Char- 
lemagne did  not  do,  what  Charles  V. 
did  not  do,  what  Napoleon,  with  his 
stupendous  audacity,  did  not  do,  the  un- 
chronicled  Francis  Joseph  II.  presumed 
to  do.  He  had  the  vulgar  impudence  to 
carry  this  venerable  relic  and  symbol  of 
universal  sovereignty  to  Vienna,  where 
it  remained  for  seven  years.  It  was  re- 
stored by  Victor  Emmanuel,  who  might 
most  justly  have  used  it  to  crown  him- 
self King  of  United  Italy,  but  refrained, 
with  that  curious  mixture  of  personal 
modesty  and  want  of  imagination  which 
was  a  characteristic  in  common  between 
himself  and  another  brave  man,  General 
Grant. 

I  looked  my  fill  and  thought  my 
thoughts ;  then  the  case  was  replaced, 
the  priest  repeated  a  prayer,  the  aco- 
lyte swung  a  censer,  the  glittering  cur- 
tain rose,  the  bronze  doors  closed,  the 
wooden  one  was  locked,  and  the  show 
was  at  an  end.  And  I  went  on  my  way 
to  the  lake  of  Como,  having  seen  the 
Iron  Crown  of  Lombardy  with  candle, 
book,  and  bell. 


490  In  Tuscany.  [October, 


IN  TUSCANY. 

DOWN  San  Miniato  in  the  afternoon 

Slowly  we  drove  through  still  and  golden  air. 
'T  was  winter,  but  the  day  was  soft  as  June  : 

Florence  was  spread  beneath  us,  passing  fair. 

The  matchless  city !     Set  about  with  flowers, 
Peaceful  along  her  Arno's  banks  she  lay ; 

Her  treasured  splendors,  roofs  and  domes  and  towers, 
In  tender  light  of   the  Italian  day. 

Sweet  breathed  the  roses  blowing  far  and  wide, 

Pink,  gold,  and  crimson  ;  dark  in  stately  gloom 

Stood  the  thick  cypresses ;  on  every  side 

The  laurestinus,  rich  with  creamy  bloom  ; 

And  exquisite,  pale,  sharp-leaved  olives  grew 
In  moonlight  colors,  silver-green  and  gray, 

While,  lifting  their  proud  heads  high  in  the  blue, 
Sprang  the  superb  stone-pines  beside  the  way. 

O  wonderful,  I  thought,  beyond  compare ! 

And  hushed  with  pleasure  silent  sat  and  gazed, 
When  lo !  a  child's  voice,  and  I  grew  aware 

Of  loveliness  that  left  me  all  amazed. 

A  little  beggar  girl  that  leaping  came 

Forth  from  the  roadside  and  put  out  a  hand, 

And  dancing  like  a  bright  and  buoyant  flame, 
Besought  us  in  the  music  of  her  land. 

Her  eyes  were  like  a  midnight  full  of  stars, 
Below  the  dazzling  beauty  of  her  brows, 

Her  dusky  hair  dark  as  the  cloud  that  bars 

The  moon  in  troubled  skies  when  tempests  rouse ; 

A  mouth  where  lightning-sweet  the  sudden  smile 

Came,  went  and  came,  and  flashed  into  my  face, 

And  caught  my  heart,  as  holding  fast  the  while 
The  carriage  edge,  she  ran  with  rapid  grace. 

Who  could  withstand  her  pleading,  —  who  resist 
The  magic  of  those  love-compelling  eyes, 

Those  lips  the  red  pomegranate  flowers  had  kissed, 
The  voice  that  charmed  like  woven  melodies ! 


1884.]  Minor  Songsters.  491 

Not  we  !     Surely,  I  thought,  imperial  blood, 

Some  priceless  current  from  a  kingly  line, 
Ran  royal  in  her  veins,  —  a  sunny  flood 

That  marked  her  with  its  fine,  mysterious  sign. 

She  was  not  born  to  ask,  but  to  command ; 

She  seemed  to  crown  the  wonder  of  the  day, 
The  perfect  blossom  of  that  glorious  land, 

While  her  sweet  "  Grazie  !  "  followed  on  our  way, 

As  down  mid  olive,  cypress,  stately  pine, 

Among  the  roses  in  a  dream  we  passed 
Through  glamour  of  the  time  and  place  divine, 

Till  Arno's  quiet  banks  were  reached  at  last, 

And  pleasant  rest.     'T  is  years  since  those  fair  hours, 
But  their  rich  memories  live,  their  sun  and  shade, 

Beautiful  Florence,  set  about  with  flowers, 
And  San  Miniato's  peerless  beggar  maid. 

Celia  Thaxter. 


MINOR  SONGSTERS. 


AMONG  those  of  us  who  are  in  the 
habit  of  attending  to  bird-songs,  there 
can  hardly  be  anybody,  I  think,  who 
has  not  found  himself  specially  and  per- 
manently attracted  by  the  music  of  cer- 
tain birds  who  have  little  or  no  general 
reputation.  Our  favoritism  may  per- 
haps be  the  result  of  early  associations  : 
we  heard  the  singer  first  in  some  un- 
commonly romantic  spot,  or  when  we 
were  in  a  mood  of  unusual  sensibility ; 
and,  in  greater  or  less  degree,  the  charm 
of  that  hour  is  always  renewed  for  us 
with  the  repetition  of  the  song.  Or  it 
may  be  (who  will  assert  the  contrary  ?) 
that  there  is  some  occult  relation  be- 
tween the  bird's  mind  and  our  own.  Or, 
once  more,  something  may  be  due  to  the 
natural  pleasure  which  amiable  people 
take  (and  all  lovers  of  birds  may  be 
supposed,  a  priori,  to  belong  to  that 
class)  in  paying  peculiar  honor  to  merit 
which  the  world  at  large,  less  discrim- 
inating than  they,  has  thus  far  failed  to 


recognize,  and  in  which,  therefore,  by 
"  right  of  discovery,"  they  have  a  sort 
of  proprietary  interest.  This,  at  least,  is 
evident :  our  preference  is  not  wholly 
due  to  the  intrinsic  worth  of  the  song; 
the  mind  is  active,  not  passive,  and  gives 
to  the  music  something  from  itself,  — 
"  the  consecration  and  the  poet's  dream." 
Furthermore,  it  is  to  be  said  that  a 
singer  —  and  a  bird  no  less  than  a  man 
—  may  be  wanting  in  that  fullness  and 
scope  of  voice  and  that  large  measure  of 
technical  skill  which  are  absolutely  es- 
sential to  the  great  artist,  properly  so 
called,  and  yet,  within  his  own  limita- 
tions, may  be  competent  to  please  even 
the  most  fastidious  ear.  It  is  with  birds 
as  with  other  poets :  the  smaller  gift 
need  not  be  the  less  genuine  ;  and  they 
whom  the  world  calls  greatest,  and 
whom  we  ourselves  most  admire,  may 
possibly  not  be  the  ones  who  touch  us 
most  intimately,  or  to  whom  we  return 
oftenest  and  with  most  delight. 


492 


Minor  Songsters. 


[October, 


This   may  be   well   illustrated    by  a 
comparison   of   the  chickadee  with   the 
brown  thrush.     The  thrush,  or,  as  he  is 
sometimes  profanely  styled,  the  thrash- 
er, is   the  most  pretentious,  perhaps  I 
ought  to  say  the  greatest,  of  New  Eng- 
land songsters,  if  we  rule  out  the  mock- 
ing-bird, who  is  so  very  rare  with  us  as 
scarcely  to  come  into  the  competition ; 
and  still,  in  my  opinion,  his  singing  sel- 
dom produces  the  effect  of  really  fine 
music.     With  all  his  ability,  which  is 
nothing  short  of  marvelous,  his  taste  is 
so  deplorably  uncertain,  and  his  passion 
so  often   becomes  a  downright  frenzy, 
that  the  excited  listener,  hardly  know- 
ing what  to  think,  laughs   and  shouts 
Bravo  !  by  turns.     Something  must  be 
amiss,  certainly,  when  the  deepest  feel- 
ings of  the  heart  are  poured  forth  in  a 
manner  to  suggest  the  performance  of 
a  buffo.     The  chickadee,  on  the  other 
hand,  seldom  gets  mention  as  a  singer. 
Probably  he  never  looked  upon  himself 
as  such.     You  will  not  find  him  posing 
at   the    top   of   a  tree,  challenging  the 
world  to  listen  and  admire.     But,  as  he 
hops  from  twig  to  twig  in  quest  of  in- 
sects' eggs  and  other  dainties,  his  merry 
spirits  are  all  the  time  bubbling  over  in 
little  chirps  and  twitters,  with  now  and 
then  a  Chickadee,  dee,  or  a  Hear,  hear 
me,  every  least  syllable  of  which  is  like 
"  the   very  sound   of  happy  thoughts." 
For  my  part,  I  rate  such  trifles  with  the 
best  of  all  good  music,  and  feel  that  we 
cannot  be  grateful  enough  to  the  brave 
tit,  who  furnishes  us  with  them  for  the 
twelve  months  of  every  year. 

80  far  as  the  chickadee  is  concerned, 
I  see  nothing  whatever  to  wish  differ- 
ent; but  am  glad  to  believe  that,  for 
my  day  and  long  after,  he  will  remain 
the  same  unassuming,  careless-hearted 
creature  that  he  now  is.  If  I  may  be 
allowed  the  paradox,  it  would  be  too 
bad  for  him  to  change,  even  for  the  bet- 
ter. But  the  bluebird,  who  like  the  tit- 
mouse is  hardly  to  be  accounted  a  mu- 
sician, does  seem  to  be  somewhat  blame- 


worthy.    Once  in  a  while,  it  is  true,  he 
takes  a  perch  and  sings ;    but  for  the 
most  part  he  is  contented  with  a  few 
simple  notes,  having  no  semblance  of  a 
tune.     Possibly  he    considers    that   his 
pure  contralto  voice  (1  do  not  remem- 
ber ever  to  have  heard  from  him  any 
note  of  a  soprano,  or  even  of  a  mezzo- 
soprano  quality)  ought  by  itself  to  be  a 
sufficient  distinction ;  but  I  think  it  like- 
lier that  his  slight  attempt  at  music  is 
only  one  manifestation  of  the  habitual 
reserve  which,  more  than  anything  else 
perhaps,  may    be    said    to   characterize 
him.     How  differently  he  and  the  robin 
impress  us  in  this  particular  !    Both  take 
up  their  abode   in  our  door-yards    and 
orchards ;  the  bluebird  goes  so  far,  in- 
deed, as  to  accept  our  hospitality  out- 
right, building  his  nest  in  boxes  put  up 
for  his  accommodation,  and  making  the 
roofs  of  our  houses  his  favorite  perch- 
ing stations.     But,   while   the  robin  is 
noisily  and  jauntily  familiar,  the  blue- 
bird   maintains   a   dignified    aloofness ; 
coming  and  going  about  the  premises, 
but  keeping  his  thoughts  to  himself,  and 
never  becoming  one  of  us  save  by  the 
mere  accident  of  local  proximity.     The 
robin,  again,  loves    to    travel   in    large 
flocks,  when  household  duties  are  over 
for  the  season  ;  but  although  the  same 
has   been    reported  of   the  bluebird,   I 
have  never  myself  seen   such  a  thing, 
and  am  satisfied  that,  as  a  rule,  this  gen- 
tle spirit  finds  a  family  party  of  six  or 
seven  company  enough.     His  reticence, 
as    we  cheerfully  admit,  is  nothing  to 
quarrel  with ;  it   is  all    well  bred,    and 
not  in  the  least  unkindly ;  in  fact,  we 
like  it,  on  the  whole,  rather  better  than 
the  robin's  pertness  and  garrulity  ;  but, 
none  the  less,  its  natural  consequence  is 
that  the  bird  has  small  concern  for  mu- 
sical display.     When  he  sings,  it  is  not 
to  gain  applause,  but  to  express  his  af- 
fection ;  and  while,  in  one  aspect  of  the 
case,  there  is  nothing  out  of  the  way  in 
this,  —  since  his   affection  need  not  be 
the  less  deep  and  true  because  it  is  told 


1884.] 


Minor  Songsters. 


493 


in  few  words  and  with  unadorned  phrase, 
—  yet,  as  I>said  to  begin  with,  it  is  hard 
not  to  feel  that  the  world  is  being  de- 
frauded, when  for  any  reason,  however 
amiable,  the  possessor  of  such  a  match- 
less voice  has  no  ambition  to  make  the 
most  of  it. 

Tli ere  is  always  a  double  pleasure  in 
finding  a  plodding,  humdrum -seeming 
man  with  a  poet's  heart  in  his  breast; 
and  a  little  of  the  same  delighted  sur- 
prise is  felt  by  every  one,  I  imagine, 
when  he  learns  for  the  first  time  that 
our  little  brown  creeper  is  a  singer. 
What  life  could  possibly  be  more  pro- 
saic than  his  ?  Day  after  day,  year  in 
and  out,  he  creeps  up  one  tree-trunk 
after  another,  pausing  only  to  peer  right 
and  left  into  the  crevices  of  the  bark,  in 
search  of  microscopic  tidbits.  A  most 
irksome  sameness,  surely !  How  the 
poor  fellow  must  envy  the  swallows, 
who  live  on  the  wing,  and,  as  it  were, 
have  their  home  in  heaven  !  So  it  is 
easy  for  us  to  think ;  but  I  doubt  whether 
the  creeper  himself  is  troubled  with  such 
suggestions.  He  seems,  to  say  the  least, 
as  well  contented  as  the  most  of  us  ;  and, 
what  is  more,  I  am  inclined  to  doubt 
whether  any  except  "  free  moral  agents," 
like  ourselves,  are  ever  wicked  enough 
to  find  fault  with  the  orderings  of  Di- 
vine Providence.  I  fancy,  too,  that  we 
may  have  exaggerated  the  monotony  of 
the  creeper's  lot.  It  can  scarcely  be  that 
even  his  days  are  without  their  occa- 
sional pleasurable  excitements.  After 
a  good  many  trees  which  yield  little  or 
nothing  for  his  pains,  he  must  now  and 
then  light  upon  one  which  is  like  Canaan 
after  the  wilderness,  —  "a  land  flowing 
with  milk  and  honey."  Indeed,  the 
longer  I  think  of  it  tho  more  confident 
I  feel  that  every  aged  creeper  must  have 
had  sundry  experiences  of  this  sort, 
which  he  is  never  weary  of  recounting 
for  the  edification  of  his  nephews  and 
nieces,  who,  of  course,  are  far  too  young 
to  have  anything  like  the  wide  knowl- 
edge of  the  world  which  their  venerable 


three-years-old  uncle  possesses.  Certhia 
works  all  day  for  his  daily  bread  ;  and 
yet  even  of  him  it  is  true  that  *'  the  life 
is  more  than  meat."  He  has  his  inward 
joys,  his  affectionate  delights,  which  no 
outward  infelicity  can  touch.  A  bird 
who  thinks  nothing  of  staying  by  his 
nest  and  his  mate  at  the  sacrifice  of  his 
life  is  not  to  be  written  down  a  dullard 
or  a  drudge,  merely  because  his  dress 
is  plain  and  his  occupation  unromantic. 
He  has  a  right  to  sing,  for  he  has  some- 
thing within  him  to  inspire  the  strain. 

There  are  descriptions  of  the  creep- 
er's music  which  liken  it  to  a  wren's. 
I  am  sorry  that  I  'have  myself  heard  it 
only  on  one  occasion  :  then,  however, 
so  far  was  it  from  being  wren-like  that 
it  might  rather  have  been  the  work  of 
one  of  the  less  proficient  warblers,  —  a 
somewhat  long  opening  note  followed 
by  a  hurried  series  of  shorter  ones,  the 
whole  given  in  a  sharp,  thin  voice,  and 
having  nothing  to  recommend  it  to  no- 
tice, considered  simply  as  music.  All 
the  while  the  bird  kept  on  industrious- 
ly with  his  journey  up  the  tree  ;  and  it 
is  not  in  the  least  unlikely  that  he  may 
have  another  and  better  song,  which  he 
reserves  for  times  of  more  leisure. 

Our  American  wood-warblers  are  all 
to  be  classed  among  the  minor  song- 
sters ;  standing  in  this  respect  in  strong 
contrast  with  the  true  Old  World  war- 
blers, of  whose  musical  capacity  enough, 
perhaps,  is  said  when  it  is  mentioned 
that  the  nightingale  is  one  of  them. 
But,  comparisons  apart,  our  birds  are 
by  no  means  to  be  despised,  and  not  a 
few  of  their  songs  have  a  good  degree  of 
merit.  That  of  the  well-known  summer 
yellow-bird  may  be  taken  as  fairly  repre- 
sentative of  the  entire  group,  being  nei- 
ther one  of  the  best  nor  one  of  the  poor- 
est. He,  I  have  noticed,  is  given  to 
singing  late  in  the  day.  Three  of  the 
New  England  species  have  at  the  same 
time  remarkably  rough  voices  and  black 
throats,  —  I  mean  the  black-throated 
blue,  the  black-throated  green,  and  the 


494 


Minor  Songsters. 


[October, 


blue  golden-wing,  —  and  seeing  that  the 
first  two  are  of  the  genus  Dendrceca, 
while  the  last  is  a  Helminthophaga,  I 
have  allowed  myself  to  query  whether 
they  may  not,  possibly,  be  more  nearly 
related  than  the  systematists  have  yet  dis- 
covered. Several  of  the  warbler  songs 
are  extremely  odd.  The  blue  yellow- 
back's, for  example,  is  a  brief,  hoarse, 
upward  run,  —  a  kind  of  scale  exercise  ; 
and  if  the  practice  of  such  things  be 
really  as  beneficial  as  music  teachers  af- 
firm, it  would  seem  that  this  little  beau- 
ty must  in  time  become  a  vocalist  of  the 
first  order.  Nearly  the  same  might  be 
said  of  the  prairie  warbler ;  but  his 
etude  is  a  little  longer  and  less  hurried, 
besides  being  in  a  higher  key.  I  do  not 
call  to  mind  any  bird  who  sings  a  down- 
ward scale.  Having  before  spoken  of 
the  tendency  of  warblers  to  learn  two 
or  even  three  set  tunes,  I  was  the  more 
interested  when,  last  summer,  I  added 
another  to  my  list  of  the  species  which 
aspire  to  this  kind  of  liberal  education. 
It  was  on  the  side  of  Mount  Clinton 
that  I  heard  two  Blackburnians,  both 
in  full  sight  and  within  a  few  rods  of 
each  other,  who  were  singing  two  en- 
tirely distinct  songs.  One  of  these  —  it 
is  the  common  one,  I  think  —  ended 
quaintly  with  three  or  four  short  notes, 
like  zip,  zip,  zip  ;  while  the  other  was 
not  unlike  a  fraction  of  the  winter 
wren's  melody.  Those  who  are  familiar 
with  the  latter  bird  will  perhaps  recog- 
nize the  phrase  referred  to  if  I  call  it 
the  willie,  willie,  winkie,  —  with  a  triple 
accent  on  the  first  syllable  of  the  last 
word.  Most  of  the  songs  of  this  family 
are  rather  slight,  but  the  extremest  case 
known  to  me  is  that  of  the  black-poll 
(Dendrceca  striata),  whose  zee,  zee,  zee 
is  almost  ridiculously  faint.  You  may 
hear  it  continually  in  the  higher  spruce 
forests  of  the  White  Mountains ;  but  you 
will  look  a  good  many  times  before  you 
discover  its  author,  and  not  improbably 
will  begin  by  taking  it  for  the  call  of  the 
kinglet.  The  music  of  the  bay-breasted 


warbler  is  similar  to  the  black-poll's, 
but  less  weak  and  formless*.  It  seems 
reasonable  to  believe  not  only  that  these 
two  species  are  descended  from  a  com- 
mon ancestry,  but  that  the  divergence 
is  of  a  comparatively  recent  date  :  even 
now  the  young  of  the  year  can  be  dis- 
tinguished only  with  great  difficulty, 
although  the  birds  in  full  feather  are 
clearly  enough  marked. 

Warblers'  songs  are  often  made  up  of 
two  distinct  portions  :  one  given  delib- 
erately, the  other  hurriedly  and  with  a 
concluding  flourish.  Indeed,  the  same 
may  be  said  of  bird-songs  generally,  — 
those  of  the'  song  sparrow,  the  bay- 
winged  bunting,  and  the  wood  thrush 
being  familiar  examples.  Yet  there  are 
many  singers  who  attempt  no  climax  of 
this  sort,  but  make  their  music  to  con- 
sist of  two,  or  three,  or  more  parts,  all 
alike.  The  Maryland  yellow  -  throat, 
for  instance,  cries  out  uninterruptedly, 
44  What  a  pity,  what  a  pity,  what  a 
pity ! '  So,  at  least,  he  seems  to  say  ; 
though,  I  confess,  it  is  more  than  likely 
I  mistake  the  words,  since  the  fellow 
never  appears  to  be  feeling  badly,  but, 
on  the  contrary,  delivers  his  message 
with  an  air  of  cordial  satisfaction.  The 
song  of  the  pine-creeping  warbler  is  af- 
ter still  another  fashion,  —  one  simple 
short  trill.  It  is  musical  and  sweet ;  the 
more  so  for  coming  almost  always  out 
of  a  pine-tree. 

The  vireos,  or  greenlets,  are  akin  to 
the  warblers  in  appearance  and  habits, 
and  like  them  are  peculiar  to  the  west- 
ern continent.  We  have  no  birds  that 
are  more  unsparing  of  their  music  (prod- 
igality is  one  of  the  American  virtues, 
we  are  told)  :  they  sing  from  morning 
till  night,  and  —  some  of  them,  at  least 
—  continue  thus  till  the  very  end  of  the 
season.  It  is  worth  mentioning,  how- 
ever, that  the  red-eye  makes  a  short 
day  ;  becoming  silent  just  at  the  time 
when  the  generality  of  birds  grow  most 
noisy.  Whether  the  same  is  true  of  the 
rest  of  the  family  I  am  unable  to  testify. 


1884.] 


Minor  Songsters. 


495 


Of  the  five  New  England  species  (I 
omit  the  brotherly-love  greenlet,  never 
having  been  fortunate  enough  to  know 
him)  the  white-eye  is  decidedly  the  most 
ambitious,  the  warbling  and  the  solitary 
are  the  most  pleasing,  while  the  red-eye 
and  the  yellow-throat  are  very  much 
alike,  and  both  of  them  rather  too  monot- 
onous and  persistent.  It  is  hard,  some- 
times, not  to  get  out  of  patience  with 
the  red-eye's  ceaseless  and  noisy  itera- 
tion of  his  trite  theme  ;  especially  when 
you  are  doing  your  utmost  to  catch  the 
notes  of  some  rarer  and  more  refined 
songster.  In  my  note-book  I  find  an 
entry  describing  my  vain  attempts  to 
enjoy  the  music  of  a  rose-breasted  gros- 
beak, —  who  happens  never  to  have  been 
a  common  bird  with  me,  —  while  "  a 
pesky  Wagnerian  red-eye  kept  up  an 
incessant  racket." 

The  warbling  vireo  is  admirably 
named  ;  for  there  is  no  one  of  our  birds 
who  can  more  properly  be  said  to  war- 
ble. He  keeps  further  from  the  ground 
than  the  others,  and  shows  a  strong  pref- 
erence for  the  elms  of  village  streets, 
out  of  which  his  delicious  music  drops 
upon  the  ears  of  all  passers  underneath. 
How  many  of  them  hear  it  and  thank 
the  singer  is  unhappily  another  question. 

The  solitary  vireo  may  once  in  a 
while  be  heard  in  a  roadside  tree,  chant- 
ing as  familiarly  as  any  red-eye  ;  but  he 
is  much  less  abundant  than  the  latter, 
and,  as  a  rule,  more  retiring.  His  or- 
dinary song  is  like  the  red-eye's  and  the 
yellow-throat's,  except  that  it  is  pitched 
somewhat  higher  and,  unless  I  mistake, 
has  a  slightly  different  inflection.  This, 
however,  is  only  the  smallest  part  of  his 
musical  gift.  One  morning  in  May, 
while  strolling  through  a  piece  of  thick 
woods,  I  came  upon  a  bird  of  this  spe- 
cies, who,  all  alone  like  myself,  was 
hopping  from  one  low  branch  to  another, 
and  every  now  and  then  breaking  out 
into  a  kind  of  soliloquizing  song,  —  a 
musical  chatter,  shifting  suddenly  to  an 
intricate,  low-voiced  warble.  Later  in 


the  same  day  I  found  another  in  a  chest- 
nut grove.  This  last  was  in  a  state  of 
quite  unwonted  fervor,  and  sang  almost 
continuously  ;  now  in  the  usual  discon- 
nected vireo  manner,  and  now  with  a 
chatter  and  warble  like  what  I  had 
heard  in  the  morning,  but  louder  and 
longer.  His  best  efforts  ended  ab- 
ruptly with  the  ordinary  vireo  call,  and 
the  instantaneous  change  of  voice  gave 
to  the  whole  a  very  strange  effect.  The 
chatter  and  warble  appeared  to  be  re- 
lated to  each  other  precisely  as  are  those 
of  the  ruby-crowned  kinglet ;  while  the 
warble  had  a  certain  tender,  affection- 
ate, some  would  say  plaintive  quality, 
which  at  once  put  me  in  mind  of  the 
goldfinch. 

I  have  seldom  been  more  charmed 
with  the  song  of  any  bird  than  I  was  on 
the  7th  of  last  October  with  that  of  this 
same  Vireo  solitarius.  The  morning  was 
bright  and  warm,  but  the  birds  had 
nearly  all  taken  their  departure,  and 
the  few  that  remained  were  silent.  Sud- 
denly the  stillness  was  broken  by  a  vireo 
note,  and  I  said  to  myself  with  surprise, 
A  red-eye  ?  Listening  again,  however, 
I  detected  the  solitary's  inflection  ;  and 
after  a  few  moments  the  bird,  in  the 
most  obliging  manner,  came  directly  to- 
wards me,  and  began  to  warble  in  the 
fashion  already  described.  He  sang  and 
sang,  —  as  if  his  song  could  have  no  end- 
ing, —  and  meanwhile  was  flitting  from 
tree  to  tree,  intent  upon  his  breakfast 
As  far  as  I  could  discover,  he  was  with- 
out company  ;  and  his  music,  too,  seemed 
to  be  nothing  more  than  an  unpremed- 
itated, half-unconscious  talking  to  him- 
self. Wonderfully  sweet  it  was,  and  full 
of  the  happiest  content.  "  I  listened 
till  I  had  my  fill,"  and  returned  the  fa- 
vor, as  best  I  could,  by  hoping  that  the 
little  wayfarer's  lightsome  mood  would 
not  fail  him,  all  the  way  to  Guatemala 
and  back  again. 

Exactly  a  month  before  this,  and  not 
far  from  the  same  spot,  I  had  stood  for 
some  minutes  to  enjoy  the  "  recital "  of 


496 


Minor  Songsters. 


[October, 


the  solitary's  saucy  cousin,  the  white- 
eye.  Even  at  that  time,  although  the 
woods  were  swarming  with  birds,  — 
many  of  them  travelers  from  the  North, 
—  this  white-eye  was  nearly  the  only 
one  who  was  still  in  song.  He,  how- 
ever, was  fairly  brimming  over  with  mu- 
sic ;  changing  his  tune  again  and  again, 
and  introducing  (for  the  first  time  in 
Weymouth,  as  concert  programmes  say) 
a  notably  fine  shake.  Like  the  solitary, 
he  was  all  the  while  busily  feeding 
(birds  in  general,  and  vireos  in  partic- 
ular, hold  with  Mrs.  Browning  that  we 
may  "  prove  our  work  the  better  for  the 
sweetness  of  our  song  "),  and  one  while 
was  exploring  a  poison-dogwood  bush, 
plainly  without  the  slightest  fear  of  any 
ill-result.  It  occurred  to  me  that  possi- 
bly it  is  our  fault,  and  not  that  of  Rhus 
venenata,  when  we  suffer  from  the  touch 
of  that  graceful  shrub. 

The  white-eyed  greenlet  is  a  vocalist 
of  such  extraordinary  versatility  and 
power  that  one  feels  almost  guilty  in 
speaking  of  him  under  the  title  which 
stands  at  the  head  of  this  paper.  How 
he  would  scold,  out-carlyling  Carlyle, 
if  he  knew  what  were  going  on !  Nev- 
ertheless, I  cannot  rank  him  with  the 
great  singers,  exceptionally  clever  and 
original  as,  beyond  all  dispute,  he  is ; 
and  for  that  matter,  1  look  upon  the 
solitary  as  very  much  his  superior,  in 
spite  of  —  or,  shall  I  say,  because  of  ?  — 
the  latter's  greater  simplicity  and  re- 
serve. 

But  if  we  hesitate  thus  about  these 
two  inconspicuous  vireos,  whom  half  of 
those  who  do  them  the  honor  to  read 
what  is  here  said  about  them  will  have 
never  seen,  how  are  we  to  deal  with 
the  scarlet  tanager?  Our  handsomest 
bird,  and  with  musical  aspirations  as 
well,  shall  we  put  him  into  the  second 
class  ?  It  must  be  so,  I  fear  :  yet  such 
justice  is  a  trial  to  the  flesh ;  for  what 
critic  could  ever  quite  leave  out  of  ac- 
count the  beauty  of  a  prima  donna  in 
passing  judgment  on  her  work  ?  Does 


not  her  angelic  face  sing  to  his  eye,  as 
Emerson  says  ? 

Formerly  I  gave  the  tanager  credit 
for  only  one  song,  —  the  one  which  sug- 
gests a  robin  laboring  under  an  attack 
of  hoarseness  ;  but  I  have  discovered 
that  he  himself  regards  his  chip-cherr  as 
of  equal  value.  At  least,  I  have  found 
him  perched  at  the  tip  of  a  tall  pine, 
and  repeating  this  inconsiderable  and 
not  very  melodious  trochee  with  all 
earnestness  and  perseverance.  Some- 
times he  rehearses  it  thus  at  nightfall  ; 
but  even  so  I  cannot  call  it  highly  ar- 
tistic. I  am  glad  to  believe,  however, 
that  he  does  not  care  in  the  least  for 
my  opinion.  Why  should  he  ?  He  is 
too  true  a  gallant  to  mind  what  anybody 
else  thinks,  so  long  as  one  is  pleased; 
and  she,  no  doubt,  tells  him  every  day 
that  he  is  the  best  singer  in  the  grove. 
Beside  his  divine  chip-cherr  the  rhapso- 
dy of  the  wood  thrush  is  a  mere  nothing, 
if  she  is  to  be  the  judge.  Strange,  in- 
deed, that  so  shabbily  dressed  a  creature 
as  this  thrush  should  have  the  presump- 
tion to  attempt  to  sing  at  all !  '•  But 
then,"  she  charitably  adds,  "  perhaps  he 
is  not  to  blame  ;  such  things  come  by 
nature ;  and  there  are  some  birds,  you 
know,  who  cannot  tell  the  difference  be- 
tween noise  and  music." 

We  trust  that  the  tanager  will  im- 
prove as  time  goes  on  ;  but  in  any  case 
we  are  largely  in  his  debt.  How  we 
should  miss  him  if  he  were  gone,  or 
even  were  become  as  rare  as  the  sum- 
mer red-bird  and  the  cardinal  are  in  our 
latitude !  As  it  is,  he  lights  up  our 
Northern  woods  with  a  truly  tropical 
splendor,  the  like  of  which  no  other  of 
our  birds  can  furnish.  Let  us  hold  him 
in  hearty  esteem,  and  pray  that  he  may 
never  be  exterminated  ;  no,  not  even  to 
beautify  the  head-gear  of  our  ladies,  who, 
if  they  only  knew  it,  are  already  suffi- 
ciently bewitching. 

What  shall  we  say  now  about  the  les- 
ser lights  of  that  most  musical  family, 
the  finches  ?  Of  course  the  cardinal 


1884.] 


Minor  Songsters. 


497 


and  rose-breasted  grosbeaks  are  not  to 
be  included  in  any  such  category.  Nor 
will  /put  there  the  goldfinch,  the  linnet, 
and  the  song  sparrow.  These,  if  no 
more,  shall  stand  among  the  immortals ; 
so  far,  at  any  rate,  as  my  suffrage  counts. 
But  who  ever  dreamed  of  calling  the 
chipping  sparrow  a  fine  singer?  And 
yet,  who  that  knows  it  does  not  love  his 
earnest,  long-drawn  trill,  dry  and  tune- 
less as  it  is  ?  I  can  speak  for  one,  at  all 
events  ;  and  he  always  has  an  ear  open 
for  it  by  the  middle  of  April.  It  is  the 
voice  of  a  friend,  —  a  friend  so  true  and 
gentle  and  confiding  that  we  do  not 
care  to  ask  if  his  voice  be  smooth  and 
his  speech  eloquent. 

The  chipper's  congener,  the  field  spar- 
row, is  less  neighborly  than  he,  but  a 
much  better  musician.  His  song  is  sim- 
plicity itself ;  yet,  even  at  its  lowest  es- 
tate, it  never  fails  of  being  truly  melo- 
dious, while  by  one  means  and  another 
its  wise  little  author  contrives  to  impart 
to  it  a  very  considerable  variety,  albeit 
within  pretty  narrow  limits.  Last  spring 
the  field  sparrows  were  singing  constant- 
ly from  the  middle  of  April  till  about 
the  10th  of  May,  when  they  became 
entirely  dumb.  Then,  after  a  week  in 
which  I  heard  not  a  note,  they  again 
grew  musical.  I  pondered  not  a  little 
over  their  silence,  but  concluded  that 
they  were  just  then  very  much  occupied 
with  preparations  for  housekeeping. 

The  bird  who  is  called  indiscriminate- 
ly the  grass  finch,  the  bay-winged  bunt- 
ing, the  bay-winged  sparrow,  the  vesper 
sparrow,  and  I  know  not  what  else  (the 
ornithologists  have  nicknamed  him  POCB- 
cetes  gramineus),  is  a  singer  of  good  parts, 
but  is  especially  to  be  commended  for 
his  refinement.  In  form  his  music  is 
strikingly  like  the  song  sparrow's ;  but 
the  voice  is  not  so  loud  and  ringing,  and 
the  two  or  three  opening  notes  are  less 
sharply  emphasized.  In  general  the 
difference  between  the  two  songs  may 
perhaps  be  well  expressed  by  saying 
that  the  one  is  more  declamatory,  the 

VOL.  LIV. — NO.  324.  32 


other  more  cantabik ;  a  difference  ex- 
actly such  as  we  might  have  expected, 
considering  the  nervous,  impetuous  dis- 
position of  the  song  sparrow  and  the 
placidity  of  the  bay-wing. 

As  one  of  his  titles  indicates,  the 
bay-wing  is  famous  for  singing  in  the 
evening,  when,  of  course,  his  efforts  are 
doubly  acceptable ;  and  I  can  readily 
believe  that  Mr.  Minot  is  correct  in  his 
"  impression  "  that  he  has  once  or  twice 
heard  the  song  in  the  night.  For  while 
spending  a  few  days  at  a  New  Hamp- 
shire hotel,  which  was  surrounded  with 
fine  lawns  such  as  the  grass  finch  de- 
lights in,  I  happened  to  be  awake  in  the 
morning,  long  before  sunrise,  —  when, 
in  fact,  it  seemed  like  the  dead  of  night, 
• — and  one  or  two  of  these  sparrows 
were  piping  freely.  The  sweet  and  gen- 
tle strain  had  the  whole  mountain  valley 
to  itself.  How  beautiful  it  was,  set  in 
such  a  broad  "  margin  of  silence,"  I  must 
leave  to  be  imagined.  I  noticed,  more- 
over, that  the  birds  sang  almost  inces- 
santly the  whole  day  through.  Much 
of  the  time  there  were  two  singing  an- 
tiphonally.  Manifestly,  the  lines  had 
fallen  to  them  in  pleasant  places :  at 
home  for  the  summer  in  those  luxuriant 
Sugar-Hill  fields,  in  continual  sight  of 
that  magnificent  mountain  panorama, 
with  Lafayette  himself  looming  grandly 
in  the  foreground ;  while  they,  innocent 
souls,  had  never  so  much  as  heard  of 
hotel-keepers  and  their  bills.  "  Happy 
commoners,"  indeed  !  Their  "  songs  in 
the  night"  seemed  nowise  surprising. 
I  fancied  that  I  could  be  happy  myself 
in  such  a  case. 

Our  familiar  and  ever-welcome  snow- 
bird, known  in  some  quarters  as  the 
black  chipping-bird,  and  often  called  the 
black  snow-bird,  has  a  long  trill,  not  al- 
together unlike  the  common  chipper's, 
but  in  a  much  higher  key.  It  is  a  mod- 
est lay,  yet  doubtless  full  of  meaning; 
for  the  singer  takes  to  the  very  tip  of  a 
tree,  and  throws  his  head  back  in  the 
most  approved  style.  He  does  his  best, 


498 


Minor  Songsters. 


[October, 


at  any  rate,  and  so  far  ranks  with  the 
angels  ;  while,  if  my  testimony  can  be 
of  any  service  to  him,  I  am  glad  to  say 
('t  is  too  bad  the  praise  is  so  equivocal) 
that  I  have  heard  many  human  singers 
who  gave  me  less  pleasure;  and  further, 
that  he  took  an  indispensable  though 
subordinate  part  in  what  was  one  of  the 
most  memorable  concerts  at  which  I  was 
ever  happy  enough  to  be  a  listener.  This 
was  given  some  years  ago  in  an  old 
apple-orchard  by  a  flock  of  fox-colored 
sparrows,  who,  perhaps  for  that  occasion 
only,  had  the  *'  valuable  assistance  "  of 
a  large  choir  of  snow-birds.  The  latter 

o 

were  twittering  in  every  tree,  while  to 
this  goodly  accompaniment  the  sparrows 
were  singing  their  loud,  clear,  thrush- 
like  song.  The  combination  was  felici- 
tous in  the  extreme.  I  would  go  a  long 
way  to  hear  the  like  again. 

If  distinction  cannot  be  attained  by 
one  means,  who  knows  but  that  it  may 
be  bv  another  ?  It  is  denied  us  to  be 

v 

great  ?  Very  well,  we  can  at  least  try 
the  effect  of  a  little  originality.  Some- 
thing like  this  seems  to  be  the  philos- 
ophy of  the  indigo-bird  ;  and  he  carries 
it  out  both  in  dress  and  in  song.  As  we 
have  said  already,  it  is  usual  for  birds 
to  reserve  the  loudest  and  most  taking 
parts  of  their  music  for  the  close, 
though  it  may  be  doubted  whether  they 
have  any  intelligent  purpose  in  so  do- 
ing. Indeed,  the  apprehension  of  a 
great  general  truth  such  as  lies  at  the 
basis  of  this  well-nigh  universal  habit,  — 
the  truth,  namely,  that  everything  de- 
pends upon  the  impression  finally  left 
on  the  hearer's  mind  ;  that  to  end  with 
some  grand  burst,  or  with  some  surpris- 
ingly lofty  note,  is  the  only,  or,  to  speak 
cautiously,  the  principal,  requisite  to  a 
really  great  musical  performance,  —  the 
intelligent  grasp  of  such  a  truth  as  this, 
I  say,  seems  to  me  to  lie  beyond  the 
measure  of  a  bird's  capacity  in  the  pres- 
ent stage  of  his  development.  Be  this 
as  it  may,  however,  it  is  noteworthy  that 
the  indigo-bird  exactly  reverses  the  com- 


mon plan.  He  begins  at  his  loudest  and 
sprightliest,  and  then  runs  off  into  a  di- 
minuendo,  which  fades  into  silence  al- 
most imperceptibly.  The  strain  has  no 
great  quality  of  beauty  ;  nevertheless  it 
is  unique,  and,  further,  is  continued  well 
into  August.  Moreover,  —  and  this  adds 
grace  to  the  most  ordinary  song,  —  it 
is  often  let  fall  while  the  bird  is  on  the 
wing. 

This  eccentric  genius  has  taken  pos- 
session of  a  certain  hillside  pasture, 
which,  in  another  way,  belongs  to  me 
also.  Year  after  year  he  comes  back 
and  settles  down  upon  it  about  the  mid- 
dle of  May ;  and  I  have  often  been 
amused  to  see  his  mate  —  who  is  not 
permitted  to  wear  a  single  blue  feather 
—  drop  out  of  her  nest  in  a  barberry 
bush  and  go  fluttering  off,  both  wings 
dragging  helplessly  through  the  grass. 
I  should  pity  her  profoundly  but  that  I 
am  in  no  doubt  her  injuries  will  rapidly 
heal  when  once  I  am  out  of  sight.  Be- 
sides, I  like  to  imagine  her  beatitude, 
as,  five  minutes  afterward,  she  sits  again 
upon  the  nest,  with  her  heart's  treas- 
ures all  safe  underneath  her.  Many  a 
time  was  a  boy  of  my  acquaintance  com- 
forted in  some  ache  or  pain  with  the 
words,  "  Never  mind  !  't  will  feel  better 
when  it  gets  well ;  "  and  so,  sure  enough, 
it  alwavs  did.  But  what  a  wicked  world 

* 

this  is,  where  nature  teaches  even  a  bird 
to  play  the  deceiver ! 

On  the  same  hillside  is  always  to  be 
found  the  chewink,  —  a  creature  whose 
dress  and  song  are  so  unlike  those  of 
the  rest  of  his  tribe  that  the  irreverent 
amateur  is  tempted  to  believe  that,  for 
once,  the  men  of  science  have  made  a 
mistake.  What  has  any  finch  to  do  with 
a  call  like  cherawink,  or  with  such  a 
three-colored  harlequin  suit  ?  But  it  is 
unsafe  to  judge  according  to  the  out- 
ward appearance,  in  ornithology  as  in 
other  matters ;  and  I  have  heard  that  it 
is  only  those  who  are  foolish  as  well  as 
ignorant  who  indulge  in  off-hand  crit- 
icisms of  wiser  men's  conclusions.  So 


1884.] 


Minor  Songsters. 


499 


let  us  call  the  towhee  a  finch,  anc(  say 
no  more  about  it. 

But  plainly  the  chewink,  whatever 
his  lineage,  is  not  a  bird  to  be  governed 
very  strictly  by  the  traditions  of  the  fa- 
thers. His  usual  song  is  characteristic 
and  pretty,  yet  he  is  so  far  from  being 
satisfied  with  it  that  he  varies  it  contin- 
ually and  in  many  ways,  some  of  them 
sadly  puzzling  to  the  student  who  is  set 
upon  telling  ail  the  birds  by  their  voices. 
I  remember  well  enough  the  morning  I 
was  inveigled  through  the  wet  grass  of 
two  pastures  —  and  that  just  as  I  was 
shod  for  the  city  —  by  a  wonderfully 
foreign  note,  which  filled  me  with  lively 
anticipations  of  a  new  bird,  but  which 
turned  out  to  be  the  work  of  a  most  in- 
nocent-looking towhee.  It  was  perhaps 
this  same  bird,  or  his  brother,  whom  I 
one  day  heard  throwing  in  between  his 
customary  cherawinks  a  profusion  of 
staccato  notes  of  widely  varying  pitch, 
together  with  little  volleys  of  tinkling 
sounds  such  as  his  every-day  song  con- 
cludes with.  This  medley  was  not 
laughable,  like  the  chat's,  which  it  sug- 

O  '  ^J 

gested,  but  it  had  the  same  abrupt,  frag- 
mentary, and  promiscuous  character. 
All  in  all,  it  was  what  I  never  should 
have  expected  from  this  paragon  of  self- 
possession. 

For  self-control,  as  I  have  elsewhere 
said,  is  Pipilo's  strong  point.  One  af- 
ternoon last  summer  a  young  friend  and 
I  found  ourselves,  as  we  suspected,  near 
a  chewink's  nest,  and  at  once  set  out  to 
see  which  of  us  should  have  the  honor 
of  the  discoverv.  We  searched  dili- 

V 

gently,  but  without  avail,  while  the  fa- 
ther-bird sat  quietly  in  a  tree,  calling 
with  all  sweetness  and  with  never  a 
trace  of  anger  or  trepidation,  cherawink, 
cherawink.  Finally  we  gave  over  the 
hunt,  and  I  began  to  console  my  com- 
panion and  myself  for  our  disappoint- 
ment by  shaking  in  the  face  of  the  bird 
a  small  tree  which  very  conveniently 
leaned  toward  the  one  in  which  he  was 
perched.  By  rather  vigorous  efforts  I 


could  make  this  pass  back  and  forth 
within  a  few  inches  of  his  bill ;  but  he 
utterly  disdained  to  notice  it,  and  kept 
on  calling  as  before.  While  we  were 
laughing  at  his  impudence  (his  impu- 
dence !)  the  mother  suddenly  appeared, 
with  an  insect  in  her  beak,  and  joined 
her  voice  to  her  husband's.  I  was  just 
declaring  that  it  was  cruel  as  well  as 
useless  for  us  to  stay,  when  she  ungrate- 
fully gave  a  ludicrous  turn  to  what  was 
intended  for  a  very  sage  and  consider- 
ate remark,  by  dropping  almost  at  my 
feet,  stepping  upon  the  edge  of  her 
nest,  and  offering  the  morsel  to  one  of 
her  young.  We  watched  the  little  ta- 
bleaux admiringly  (I  had  never  seen 
a  prettier  show  of  nonchalance),  and 
thanked  our  stars  that  we  had  been 
saved  from  an  involuntary  slaughter  of 
the  innocents  while  trampling  all  about 
the  spot.  The  nest,  which  we  had  tried 
so  hard  to  find,  was  in  plain  sight,  con- 
cealed only  by  the  perfect  agreement 
of  its  color  with  that  of  the  dead  pine- 
branches  in  the  midst  of  which  it  was 
placed.  The  shrewd  birds  had  some- 
how learned  —  by  experience,  perhaps, 
like  ourselves  —  that  those  who  would 
escape  disagreeable  conspicuity  must 
conform  as  closely  as  possible  to  the 
world  around  them. 

According  to  my  observation,  the  tow- 
hee is  not  much  given  to  singing  after 
July ;  but  he  keeps  up  his  call,  which  is 
little  less  musical  than  his  song,  till  his 
departure  in  late  September.  At  that 
time  of  the  year  the  birds  collect  to- 
gether in  their  favorite  haunts  ;  and  I 
remember  my  dog's  running  into  the 
edge  of  a  roadside  pasture  among  some 
cedar-trees,  when  there  broke  out  such 
a  chorus  of  cherawinks  that  I  was  in- 
stantly reminded  of  a  swamp  full  of 
frogs  in  April. 

After  the  tanager  the  Baltimore  ori- 
ole (named  for  Lord  Baltimore,  whose 
colors  he  wears)  is  probably  the  most 
gorgeous,  as  he  is  certainly  one  of  the 
best  known,  of  New  England  birds.  He 


500 


Minor  Songsters. 


[October, 


has  discovered  that  men,  bad  as  they 
are,  are  less  dangerous  than  hawks  and 
weasels,  and  so,  after  making  sure  that 
his  wife  is  not  subject  to  sea -sick- 
ness, he  swings  his  nest  boldly  from  a 
swaying  shade-tree  branch,  in  full  view 
of  whoever  may  choose  to  look  at  it. 
Some  morning  in  May  —  not  far  from 
the  10th — you  will  wake  to  hear  him 
fifing  in  the  elm  before  your  window. 
He  has  come  in  the  night,  and  is  already 
making  himself  at  home.  Once  I  saw 
a  pair  who  on  the  very  first  morning 
had  begun  to  get  together  materials  for 
a  nest.  His  whistle  is  one  of  the  clear- 
est and  loudest,  but  he  makes  little  pre- 
tensions to  music.  I  have  been  pleased 
and  interested,  however,  to  see  how 
tuneful  he  becomes  in  August,  after 
most  other  birds  have  ceased  to  sing, 
and  after  a  long  interval  of  silence  on 
his  own  part.  Early  and  late  he  pipes 
and  chatters,  as  if  he  imagined  that  the 
spring  were  really  coming  back  again 
forthwith.  What  the  explanation  of  this 
lyrical  revival  may  be  I  have  never 
been  able  to  gather ;  but  the  fact  itself 
is  very  noticeable,  so  that  it  would  not 
be  amiss  to  call  the  "  golden  robin  "  the 
bird  of  August. 

The  oriole's  dusky  relatives  have  the 
organs  of  song  well  developed ;  and  al- 
though most  of  the  species  have  alto- 
gether lost  the  art  of  music,  there  are 
none  of  them,  even  now,  who  do  not  be- 
tray more  or  less  of  the  musical  impulse. 
The  red-winged  blackbird,  indeed,  has 
some  really  praiseworthy  notes  ;  and  to 
me  —  for  personal  reasons  quite  aside 
from  any  question  about  its  lyrical  value 
—  his  rough  cucurree  is  one  of  the  very 
pleasantest  of  sounds.  For  that  mat- 
ter, however,  there  is  no  one  of  our 
birds  —  be  he,  in  technical  language, 


"  oscine  '    or    " 


non-oscine  "  —  whose 


voice  is  not,  in  its  own  way,  agreea- 
ble. Except  a  few  uncommonly  super- 
stitious people,  who  does  not  enjoy  the 
whip-poor-will's  trisyllabic  exhortation, 
and  the  yak  of  the  night-hawk  ?  Bob 


White's  weather  predictions,  also,  have 
a  wild  charm  all  their  own,  albeit  his 
persistent  No  more  wet  is  often  sadly  out 
of  accord  with  the  farmer's  hopes.  We 
have  no  more  untuneful  bird,  surely, 
than  the  cow  bunting ;  yet  even  the 
serenades  of  this  shameless  polygamist 
have  one  merit,  —  they  are  at  least 
amusing.  With  what  infinite  labor  he 
brings  forth  his  forlorn,  broken-winded 
whistle,  while  his  tail  twitches  convul- 
sively, as  if  tail  and  larynx  were  worked 
by  the  same  spring ! 

The  judging,  comparing  spirit,  the 
conscientious  dread  of  being  ignorant- 
ly  happy  when  a  broader  culture  would 
enable  us  to  be  intelligently  miserable, 
—  this  has  its  place,  unquestionably,  in 
concert  halls  ;  but  if  we  are  to  make 
the  best  use  of  out-door  minstrelsv,  we 

V      7 

must  learn  to  take  things  as  we  find 
them,  throwing  criticism  to  the  winds. 
Having  said  which,  I  am  bound  to  go 
farther  still,  and  to  acknowledge  that  on 
looking  back  over  the  first  part  of  this 
paper  I  feel  more  than  half  ashamed  of 
the  strictures  therein  passed  upon  the 
bluebird  and  the  brown  thrush.  When 
I  heard  the  former's  salutation  from  a 
Boston  Common  elm  on  the  morning  of 
the  22d  of  February  last,  I  said  to  my- 
self that  no  music,  not  even  the  night- 
ingale's, could  ever  be  sweeter.  Let 
him  keep  on,  by  all  means,  in  his  own 
artless  way,  paying  no  heed  to  what  I 
have  foolishly  written  about  his  short- 
comings. As  for  the  thrasher's  smile- 
provoking  gutturals,  I  recall  that  even 
in  the  symphonies  of  the  greatest  of 
masters  there  are  here  and  there  quaint 
bassoon  phrases,  which  have,  and  doubt- 
less were  intended  to  have,  a  some- 
what whimsical  effect ;  and,  remember- 
ing this,  I  am  ready  to  own  that  I  was 
less  wise  than  I  thought  myself  when 
I  found  so  much  fault  with  the  thrush's 
performance.  I  have  sins  enough  to 
answer  for  :  may  this  never  be  added  to 
them,  that  I  set  up  my  taste  against  that 
of  Beethoven  and  Harporhynchus  rufus. 

Bradford    Torrey. 


1884.]        Washington  and  his  Companions  viewed  Face  to  Face.  501 


WASHINGTON  AND  HIS  COMPANIONS  VIEWED  FACE  TO  FACE. 

THE  following  letter  was  copied  di-  degree  of  doctor  of  medicine  ;  that  he 

rectly  from  the  original,  which  I  discov-  resided  for  some  time  in  Paris  and  in 

ered  in  the  library  of  the  Royal  Institu-  England;  that  in  1779  he  was  appoiut- 

tion  of  Great  Britain,  during  a  recent  ed  chief  of  the  Hessian  Medical  Staff 

visit   to    London,   when    a   commission  in  America,  and  in  1785  was  elected  a 

from  the  New  York  Historical  Society  member  of  the  American  Philosophical 

led  me  to  devote  some  time  to  examin-  Society  at  Philadelphia.     After  the  war 

ing  and  partially  indexing   the  twenty  he  became  professor  of  anatomy  at  the 

thousand    or   more    manuscripts    which  College   of    Cassel,   and   in    1786    was 

constitute  the  so-called  Lord  Dorchester  called  to  the  same  position  in  the  Acad- 

Papers.  emy  of    Marburg,  where   he   later  re- 

This  ill  -  arranged  and  uncatalogued  ceived  the  appointment  of  chief  profes- 
collection  of  American  manuscripts  has  sor  of  medicine,  in  which  post  he  con- 
thus  far  escaped  scrutiny  by  historians,  tinned  until  his  death,  February  17, 
Nevertheless,  it  well  deserves  attention,  1814,  which  was  occasioned  by  over- 
including,  as  it  does,  the  entire  official  work  in  his  attendance  at  the  Prussian 
and  private  correspondence  of  Sir  Guy  General  Hospital. 

Carleton  (afterward  Lord  Dorchester),  I  also  find,  in  an  official  list  of  Hes- 

the  last  British  commander  at  New  York,  sian  troops  present  in  North  America  in 

together  with  reports  of  the  military  and  January,   1782,   that  the  name  of  Dr. 

civil  departments,  inquisitions  of  spies  Michaelis  appears  as  "  Head  Physician 

and  refugees,  newspaper  clippings,  and  to  the  General  Hospital  at  New  York ;  " 

vouchers  of   expenditures,  both  official  and  this  office  naturally  afforded   him 

and  personal,  —  all  of  which  were  con-  ample  opportunities  for  acquainting  him- 

veyed  by  Carleton  to  Canada,   at   the  self   with    the    important    events    then 

time  of  his  evacuation  of  New  York,  on  transpiring  in  this  country,  and  with  the 

November  25,  1783.  individuality  of  the  leading  participants. 

The  Dorchester  Papers  are  divided  Like  all  spectators   at  that  critical  pe- 

into  fifty-six  parts,  though  with  little  riod  in  American  affairs,  he  was  keenly 

reference  to  date  or  subject  matter,  and  interested  in  the  tripartite  struggle  for 

pasted  into  scrap-books.    The  document  political  supremacy,  then  at  its  height ; 

in  question  appears  in  the  book  num-  and  his  reputation   as   an  accurate  ob- 

bered  45,  and  is  unaccompanied  by  ref-  server  evidently  caused  his  letter,  con- 

erences  of  any  kind,  so  far  as  I  was  able  taining  a  detailed  report  of  the  situation 

to  discover.     The  writer  was  Christian  as  viewed  from   his    standpoint,   to  be 

Frederic  Michaelis,  of  Hanover,  physi-  deemed  worthy  of  the  notice  of  the  Brit- 

cian  and  author,  son  of  the  Orientalist  ish  commander-in-chief.     He  naturally 

and  biblical  critic,  John  David  Michaelis,  sympathized  with  the  cause  of  England  ; 

and  grandson  of  Christian  Benedict  Mi-  but  the  value  of  his  statements  is  em- 

chaelis,  professor  of  Hebrew  at  the  Uni-  phasized  by  the  fact  that  his  report  is 

versity  of  Halle.     From  the  records  of  not  that  of   an  advocate,  expected  to 

this  distinguished  family  we  learn  that  dress  and  color  his  testimony  to  serve  a 

Dr.  Michaelis  was  born  at  Gb'ttingen  in  specific  purpose,  but  merely  a  personal 

1754,  pursued  his  studies  at  Coburg  and  letter  to  an  acquaintance,  never  intended 

Gottingen,  and  graduated  from  the  Uni-  for  the  public  eye ;  in  view  of  which  no 

versity  of  Strasbourg  in  1776,  with  the  apology  is  demanded  for  its  freedom  of 


502         Washington  and  his  Companions  vieived  Face  to  Face.     [October, 


expression,  which  might  otherwise  seem 
unguarded. 

With  this  explanation,  I  reproduce 
the  entire  letter,  verbatim  et  literatim : 

NEW- YORK,  October  4,  1783. 

MAJOR  BECKWITH, 

DEAR  SIR  :  Here  are  the  observa- 
tions I  had  an  opportunity  of  making 
during  a  late  trip  out  of  the  lines.  I 
have  suppressed  only  confidential  intel- 
ligence ;  a  restriction  which  needs  no 

O 

apology  to  a  man  of  your  delicacy. 

To  avoid  repetition  I  shall  bring  my 
remarks  under  certain  heads.  Forgive 
if  I  abuse  of  the  permission  of  tiring 
you. 

SIR  GUY  CARLETON. — No  man  stands 
higher  in  the  estimation  even  of  the  most 
violent  Whigs.  Had  he  come  sooner 
they  say  he  would  have  made  Tories  of 
them  all.  His  treatment  of  them  in 
Canada,  in  which  the  dignity  of  a  brit- 
tish  Commander  and  the  humanity  of 
the  man  of  feeling  were  so  happily 
blended,  laid  the  basis  of  that  esteem 
which  his  later  conduct  encreased  to 
such  a  degree  that  Washington  himself 
is  not  more  respected  than  Sir  Guy. 
Even  what  thev  call  his  breach  of  the 

V 

peace,  his  sending  away  those  Negroes 
who  came  in  under  the  sanction  of  proc- 
lamation, is  not  looked  upon  as  the  least 
bright  part  of  his  character.  The  only 
objection  some  individuals  have  against 
him,  is  his  not  giving  up  all  the  houses 
to  their  american  owners. 

There  was  a  time  when  they  were 
sanguine  enough  to  flatter  themselves 
Sir  Guy  would  be  brittish  Ambassador 
at  Philadelphia,  and  this  was  what  many 
of  the  most  violent  Whigs  who  dread 
French  influence,  most  devoutly  wished 
for.  The  French  respect  him,  fear  him, 
and  I  believe  hate  him  most  cordially, 
and  in  this  do  justice  both  to  his  superior 
abilities  and  the  darkness  of  their  de- 
signs. 

LORD  CORNWALLIS.  —  Hated  and  de- 
spised by  both  the  allied  nations.  The 


French  call  him  "  the  american  travel- 
ler," and  the  younger  students  of  the 
Princetowu  Athens  "  the  infamous,  ra- 
pacious Plunderer."  Marboir  asked  me 
publicly  if  there  was  any  man  in  our 
Army  who  still  looked  upon  Lord  C.  as 
a  general. 

GENERAL  WASHINGTON.  —  Soon  the 
Protector  of  America.  A  deep,  endless 
ambition,  too  thinly  veiled  to  escape  the 
penetration  of  some  of  those  who  saw 
him  constantly  in  the  various  scenes  of 
this  revolution,  saw  him  behind  the  cou- 
lisse as  well  as  upon  the  stage,  makes 
the  basis  of  the  character  of  this  man, 
who  has  for  ever  inscribed  his  name  in 
the  annals  of  the  world,  great,  not  by 
shining  talents,  but  by  a  happy  concur- 
rence of  circumstances,  a  good,  usefull 
understanding,  an  unwearied,  passive 
persevearance,  the  mediocrity  of  all  his 
competitors,  and  the  weakness  or  perfidy 
of  his  antagonists.  Genius,  it  seems,  is 
not  the  growth  of  this  western  world, 
and  even  when  imported  droops  and 
dies  under  this  unfavorable  sky.  May 
this  be  as  it  will,  genius  at  least  was  not 
the  lot  of  Washington.  Without  a  spark 
of  imagination,  enthusiasm,  or  that  tor- 
rent of  talent  that  carries  every  thing  be- 
fore it,  cold,  deliberate,  slow,  patient,  per- 
severing, he  now  finds  himself  elevated 
to  a  pitch  of  grandeur  he  never  dreamed 
of,  and  would  not  even  now  grasp  at  the 
supreme  power  if  to  obtain  it  he  must 
as  Cromwell  surround  the  State  house 
and  tell  them  "  be  gone !  the  Lord  you 
seek  has  left  this  place  ! '' 

But  no  such  exertion  will  be  required. 
The  nation  is  sick  of  Congress  ;  they 
speak  of  them  with  the  utmost  contempt ; 
Congress  themselves  are  tired  of  their 
situation,  the  unpopularity  of  which 
they  feel  even  in  the  streets  of  Prince- 
town,  and  which  is  neither  lucrative, 
nor  honorable,  nor  durable  enough  to 
attach  them.  I  know  that  they  all  ex- 
pect, and  that  most  of  them  look  for  a 
revolution. 

The  revolution  is  near  at  hand,  but 


1884.]         Washington  and  his  Companions  viewed  Face  to  Face.  503 


I  do  not  venture  to  affirm  that  it  will 
affect  all  America.  There  is  an  oppo- 
sition to  it  in  Congress,  a  weak  one,  I 
believe,  in  number  and  power,  though 
not  in  abilities,  for  I  think  Thomson  is 
at  the  head  of  it.  Besides,  all  the  east- 
ern provinces  oppose  it.  But  their  joint 
endeavors  cannot  entirely  prevent  it. 
The  Junto  of  Washington,  Wederspun 
[Witherspoon],  Plarboir,  and  the  Cin- 
ciiiati,  besides  the  clear  majority  in 
Congress,  and  I  am  confident  a  majority 
of  the  people  at  large  will  certainly 
carry  the  point. 

CONGRESS.  —  Never  was  the  Areopa- 
gus of  America  composed  of  men  so  lit- 
tle respectable  either  by  their  abilities, 
family  or  fortune.  They  are  so  con- 
scious cf  it  themselves  that  they  retire 
from  the  eye  of  the  traveller,  to  hide 
their  weakness  and  poverty  ;  but  none 
of  them  seems  more  fearful  to  expose 
the  mock  majesty  of  his  public  charac- 
ter by  a  knowledge  of  his  private  one 
than  their  President.  [Dr.  Boudinot, 
as  it  afterward  appears.]  Mr.  Wilson, 
it  is  thought,  will  be  nominated  his  suc- 
cessor, but  will  not  accept  of  it.  His 
ostensible  reason  for  declining  this  office 
is  his  business ;  but  his  real  one,  per- 
haps, that  he  would  lose  his  influence 
by  becoming  the  speaker  of  this  Senate, 
that  is  to  say,  the  only  man  in  it  that 
never  speaks  at  all.  He  is  generally 
thought  a  french  pensioned1  and  man 
of  abilities. 

Maryland  is  most  likely  to  become 
the  residence  of  Congress,  as  that  State 
has  made  the  largest  offers  ;  this  cer- 
tainly must  be  an  object  with  men  half 
a  dozen  of  whom  used  even  at  Philadel- 
phia to  live  together,  with  their  families, 
in  a  paltry  boarding  house.  At  Prince- 
town  they  certainly  will  not  remain.  I 
heard  the  objection  stated  that  Balti- 
more was  too  warm ;  but  the  answer 
was,  "  by  the  time  the  weather  grows 
warm  Congress  will  sit  no  where."  The 
source  of  this  conversation  was  a  tavern. 

Their  High  -  Mmdedness    themselves 


acknowledge  that  they  have  no  power  at 
all,  and  that  their  situation  is  hard  in- 
deed, for  being  hated  on  account  of  their 
impotence.  But  they  deny  that  the  per- 
secution of  the  Loyalists  springs  from 
this  fountain  ;  the  majority  of  Congress 
is  for  this  cruel  measure. 

DR.  WETHERSPOON.  —  An  account 
of  the  present  face  of  things  in  America, 
would  be  very  defective  indeed  if  no 
mention  was  made  of  this  political  fire- 
brand, who  perhaps  has  not  a  less  share 
in  the  revolution  than  Washington  him- 
self. He  poisons  the  minds  of  his  young 
students,  and  through  them  the  Conti- 

7  O 

nent. 

He  is  the  intimate  friend  of  the  Gen- 
eral ;  and  had  I  no  other  arguments  to 
support  my  ideas  of  Washington's  de- 
signs, I  think  his  intimacy  with  a  man 
of  so  different  a  character  of  his  own 
(for  Washington's  private  one  is  perfect- 
ly amiable)  would  justify  my  suspicions. 

The  commencement  was  a  favorable 
opportunity  of  conveying  certain  senti- 
ments to  the  Public  at  large  (for  even 
women  were  present),  which  it  now  be- 
comes important  to  make  them  familiar 
with.  This  farce  was  evidently  intro- 
ductory of  the  drama  that  is  to  follow. 
The  ffreat  maxim  which  this  commence- 

O 

ment  was  to  establish  was  the  following  : 
"  A  time  may  come  in  every  republic, 
and  that  may  be  the  case  with  America^ 
when  Anarchy  makes  it  the  duty  of  the 
man  who  has  the  majority  of  the  peo- 
ple with  him,  to  take  the  helm  into  his 
own  hands  in  order  to  save  his  country  ; 
and  the  person  who  opposes  him  de- 
serves the  utmost  revenge  of  his  nation, 
—  deserves  —  to  be  sent  to  Nova  Scotia. 
Vox  populi,  vox  Dei  ! ' 

These  were  the  very  words  of  the 
Moderator,  who  decided  on  the  question, 
was  Brutus  justifiable  in  killing  Csesar. 
Or  they  thought  us  all  that  heard  them 
blockheads,  or  they  were  not  afraid  of 
avowing  their  designs.  This  was  plainer 
English  still  than  the  confederation  of 

o 

the  Cincinati. 


504         Washington  and  his  Companions  viewed  Face  to  Face.     [October, 


When  the  young  man,  who  with  a 
great  deal  of  passionate  claquere,  de- 
feuded  his  favorite  Brutus,  extolled  the 
virtues  of  the  man  who  could  stab  even 
his  father  when  attempting  the  liberties 
of  his  country,  I  thought  I  saw  Wash- 
ington's face  clouded ;  he  did  not  dare 
to  look  the  Orator  in  the  face  who  stood 
just  before  him,  but  with  downcast  look 
seemed  wishing  to  hide  the  impression 
which  a  subject  that  touched  him  so  near, 
had,  I  thought,  very  visibly  made  in  his 
countenance.  But  we  are  so  apt  to 
read  in  the  face  what  we  suppose  passes 
in  the  heart,  maybe  that  this  was  the 
case  with  me.  But  if  ever  what  I  ex- 
pect should  happen,  I  shall  think  that 
moment  one  of  the  most  interesting  ones 
of  my  life. 

The  orations  of  the  younger  boys 
were  full  of  the  coarsest  invectives 
against  brittish  tirany.  I  will  do  Mr. 
Wetherspoon  the  justice  to  think  he 
was  not  the  author  of  them,  for  they 
were  too  poor  indeed ;  besides,  they  evi- 
dently conveyed  different  sentiments ; 
there  was  one  of  them  not  unfavorable 
to  liberal  sentiments  even  toward  Brit- 
tons.  But  upon  the  whole,  it  is  but 
just  to  suppose  that  Wetherspoon  had 
read  them  all. 

The  Minister  of  France  was  not  pres- 
sent  though  expected.  But  I  have  a 
right  to  think  that  all  or  almost  all  the 
members  of  Congress  and  all  the  Cin- 
cinati  there  in  the  Neighborhood  assisted 
at  this  Entertainment.  The  Cincinati 
sat  together  en  corps. 

THE  FRENCH  MINISTER  AND  FRENCH 
GOLD.  —  Of  all  the  men  France  could 
have  chosen,  the  most  improper.  One 
should  think  the  Court  of  London  had 
had  the  apointment  of  this  French  Min- 
ister, and  that  of  Versailles  the  nomina- 
tion of  some  of  our  Generals.  Even 
if  Mr.  de  la  Luzene  was  possessed  of 
all  the  abilities  he  wanted  (and  then 
he  would  be  a  most  able  man  indeed), 
his  petty  national  and  nobility  pride, 
and  his  former  residence  at  the  pragmat- 


ical court  of  Munichen,  would  have  en- 
tirely disqualified  him  for  his  present 
station.  What  do  you  think  of  the 
savoir  faire  of  a  French  Ambassador  at 
Philadelphia  who  remained  an  entire 
stranger  to  many,  and  has  afronted  all 
the  members  of  Congress  on  account  of 
a  punctiglio  of  etiquette?  who  invites 
the  Americans  to  his  house,  entertains 
them  there  with  the  condescendence  of 
a  French  Lord  of  the  Manor,  who  gives 
a  feast  to  his  tenants  ?  who  leaves  the 
supper  table  when  the  company  are  just 
seated,  to  pay  a  visit  at  half  after  ten 
at  night  to  the  charming  Mile.  Cr.,  and 
who  by  every  look,  word  or  action  tells 
the  inhabitants  of  America:  Vous  etes 
de  la  canaille,  et  moije  suis  Baron  Fran- 
cois t 

This  picture  is  not  too  high  colored ; 
had  you  patience  and  I  leisure  I  might 
finish  it  still  higher,  —  but  this  I  think 
is  sufficient. 

Marbois,  the  soul  of  that  Embassy, 
possesses  every  talent  the  other  wants, 
that  of  pleasing  excepted.  You  plainly 
see  the  moment  he  enters  the  room, 
that  he  passed  his  life  at  the  bar  of  Col- 
mar.  Stiff,  formal,  cold,  polite,  grave, 
he  puts  every  body  upon  his  guard,  with- 
out being  upon  his  own.  A  Frenchman 
is  indiscreet  because  he  is  a  Frenchman, 
but  never  more  so  than  when  the  hon- 
our of  his  nation  is  at  stake.  Their 
grand  aim  was  to  prove  that  they  had 
done  a//,  and  the  Americans  nothing. 
These  they  represented  as  an  indolent, 
apathetic,  stupid,  happy  set  of  beings. 
If  we  believe  them,  the  Sun  spent  all 
his  genial  influence  in  the  east  to  form 
the  fiery  Frenchman,  before  she  reached 
their  western  Hemisphere.  Incredible  as 
their  open  contempt  of  the  nation  they 
protect  seems  to  be,  and  impolitic  as  it 
is  to  make  it  the  common  subject  of 
their  conversation  at  table,  yet  I  heard 
myself  the  maxim  laid  down  there : 
"  Que  leurs  femmes  sont  des  anges,  et  les 
hommes  des  betes" 

All   this   the   Americans   know   full 


1884.]      Washington  and  his  Companions  viewed  Face  to  Face. 


505 


well,  and  gratefully  return  the  compli- 
ment. The  french  interest  extends  not 
an  inch  further  than  their  gold  ;  who  is 
not  paid  to  speak  well  of  them  detests 
them.  The  father  trembles  for  his 
daughter,  artd  the  husband  for  his  wife  ; 
for  such  is  the  influence  of  french  man- 
ners already  that  both  have  some  rea- 
son to  tremble.  Some  say  they  dread 
french  Atheism,  and  it  is  their  religion 
they  fear  for.  But  the  fact  is  they  do 
not ;  for  religion  they  have  none.  But 
a  more  just  and  more  general  complaint 
is  that  french  luxury  which  begins  to 
pervade  all  classes  of  people,  will  ruin  a 
poor  republic,  whose  exports  are  not 
one  half  of  its  imports.  But  this  field 
is  too  wide,  and  I  have  already  trespassed 
too  long  on  your  patience. 

Give  me  leave  only  to  add  one  word 
more,  and  that  is  that  I  am  perfectly 
convinced  that  it  would  be  very  easy 
for  a  Brittish  Ambassador  to  ruin  the 
French  interest  in  this  country.  I  do 
not  mean  only  that  it  would  be  easy  for 
a  Minister  of  Sir  Guv's  talent.  In- 

»• 

finitely  less  would  do.  Send  a  man  of 
social  turn  who  can  stoop  to  conquer, 
but  let  this  man  be  a  man  of  rank  ;  for 
pride  is  after  all  the  bosom  passion  of 
the  Americans.  French  stiffness  and 
formality  will  be  no  match  for  brittish 
Hospitality,  nor  french  gold  for  good 
old  Madeira  wine.  If  a  Minister  of 
this  turn  had  an  intelligent  Secretary, 
Monsieur  de  la  Luzerne  would  be  un- 
done. 

I  hope  for  your  indulgence  in  treating 
on  a  subject  so  foreign  to  my  pursuits, 
and  in  a  language  not  my  own.  But 
your  goodnature  I  know  will  be  my  ad- 
vocate. Besides,  I  think  my  ignorance 
in  political  matters  is  rather  an  advan- 
tage to  you.  When  I  wish  to  get  an 
account  of  any  subject  of  natural  history, 
I  always  chuse  as  ignorant  a  man  as  I 
can.  He  has  no  system,  and  sees  neither 
through  Linneas  nor  Buffon's  spectacles, 
but  merely  with  his  own  unprejudiced 
eyes. 


I  have  the  honor  to  be,  with  great  es- 
teem, Dear  Sir, 

Your  most  obdt.  humble  servant, 

C.  F.  MICHAELIS. 

The  foregoing  account  of  the  com- 
mencement exercises  at  Princeton  is 
fully  confirmed  by  the  official  records 
of  the  college,  which,  through  the  cour- 
tesy of  one  of  the  present  professors, 
I  have  been  permitted  to  examine  and 
compare  with  the  statements  left  by  Dr. 
Michaelis. 

According  to  them,  it  appears  that 
the  commencement  of  1783  was  "  a 
memorable  occasion  in  the  history  of 
the  college,  rendered  so  by  the  presence 
of  General  Washington,  of  the  National 
Congress,  and  of  two  foreign  minis- 
ters." The  record  continues  as  follows  : 
"  Driven  from  Philadelphia  by  a  tur- 
bulent corps  of  soldiers,  Congress  had 
assembled  at  Princeton,  and  they  held 
their  sessions  in  the  library-room  of  the 
college,  which  was  in  the  front  projec- 
tion, and  on  what  is  now  the  second  or 
middle  story  of  the  building."  It  also 
appears  that,  at  the  period  in  question, 
Dr.  Elias  Boudinot,  a  trustee  of  the 
college,  was  president  of  Congress ;  and 
it  was  partly  out  of  compliment  to  him 
that  the  members  adjourned  and  at- 
tended the  commencement.  We  learn, 
moreover,  from  this  source  that  the  val- 
edictorian of  the  day  —  referred  to  by 
Dr.  Michaelis  as  "  the  young  man, 
who,  with  a  great  deal  of  passionate  cla- 
guere,  defended  his  favorite  Brutus  "  — 
was  Ashbel  Green,  afterward  Rev.  Dr. 
Green,  and  the  eighth  president  of  the 
college,  who  held  that  office  for  a  pe- 
riod of  ten  years,  beginning  with  1812. 
The  exercises  were  held  in  the  First 
Presbyterian  Church,  then  the  only  one 
in  Princeton ;  and  at  the  close  of  his 
valedictory  young  Green  made  an  ad- 
dress to  Washington,  which  is  described 
as  having  been  "  received  with  manifest 
feeling"  Dr.  Green  further  records  the 

o 

fact  that  the  General  met  him  the  next 


506 


Buckshot :  A  Record. 


[October, 


day  in  the  entry  to  the  college,  while 
on  his  way  to  a  congressional  commit- 
tee-room, when  he  "  took  me  by  the 
hand,  walked  with  me  a  short  time, 
flattered  me  a  little,  and  desired  me  to 
present  his  best  respects  to  my  class- 


mates, and  his  best  wishes  for  their  suc- 
cess in  life."  Dr.  Green  adds,  still  re- 
ferring to  the  same  occasion,  "  There 
has  never  been  such  an  audience  at  a 
commencement  before,  and  perhaps  there 
never  will  be  again."  * 

George  Houghton. 


BUCKSHOT:   A  RECORD. 


I. 


SEVEN  years  ago  occurred  the  events 
herein  recorded ;  and  if  in  all  that  time 
I  have  cherished  a  fitful  desire  to  put 
down  in  black  and  white  what  I  then 
witnessed,  that  same  desire  was  spurred 
to  action  by  an  incident,  trivial  in  itself, 
which  took  place  since  the  fall  term  of 
our  school  began.  As  usually  happens 
on  that  occasion,  more  or  less  new  pu- 
pils were  added  to  our  classes.  Among 
them  came  young  Stagsey.  A  day  or 
two  afterwards,  the  doctor  came  into  mv 

«/ 

class-room,  leading  him  by  the  arm,  and 
said,  "  This  is  Master  Stagsey ;  you  will 
please  examine  him  in  Latin.  And  I 
think,  if  you  observe  him  closely,  that 
he  will  remind  you  of  some  one  whom 
you  have  seen  before ; "  as  the  doctor 
finished  speaking  the  boy  suddenly  threw 
up  his  head  and  looked  me  full  in  the 
face ;  his  clear  dark  complexion  and 
keen  black  eyes  did  indeed  so  remind 
me  of  some  one  I  had  seen  before  that 
the  resemblance  fairly  startled  me  for 
the  time,  and  sent  me  off  into  a  dream 
of  the  past  for  the  rest  of  the  day. 

Such  was  the  incident.  Moreover,  I 
am  urged  to  record  these  facts  because 
I  know  it  will  gratify  the  doctor  to  re- 
call our  memorable  summer  in  these 
pages  ;  and  Mrs.  Algernon  (the  doctor's 
daughter)  has  more  than  once  given  me 
to  understand  that  it  would  be  a  pleas- 
ure indeed,  though  tinged  with  sadness, 
—  as  what  pleasure  is  not  ?  — to  review 


those  scenes  once  more  ;  as  for  Mr.  Al- 
gernon himself,  I  know  he  would  gladly 
spare  half  an  hour  to  read  this  record 
in  the  gloom  of  his  office,  and  to  reflect 
upon  the  incident  which  had  so  near- 
ly affected  his  own  happiness.  Seven 
years  ago  !  Yes.  At  that  time  Mr.  and 
Mrs.  Algernon,  who  were  but  recently 
married,  had  resolved  to  spend  the  ap- 
proaching summer  away  from  home,  and 
with  much  urging  they  had  prevailed 
upon  the  doctor  to  accompany  them. 
After  the  temporary  adoption  and  final 
rejection  of  various  plans,  it  was  at  last 
agreed  to  visit  Colorado,  and  to  pass 
the  summer  months  somewhere  in  the 
mountains  of  that  famous  region.  To 
account  for  my  own  presence  in  these 
pages,  I  must  add  that  they  kindly  in- 
vited me  to  make  one  of  the  party,  and 
that  I  was  glad  to  accept  of  the  invi- 
tation. 

At  the  proper  time,  therefore,  after 
we  had  supplied  ourselves  with  what 
I  may  call  the  orthodox  articles  be- 
longing to  the  outfit  of  the  true  tourist, 
such  as  field  glasses,  pocket  flasks,  pat- 
ent drinking  cups,  not  to  mention  shot 
guns,  fishing  tackle,  and  the  like,  we 
bade  adieu  for  the  time  to  our  hot  and 
dusty  Eastern  home,  and  turned  our 
faces  toward  the  cool  breezes  and  pine- 
clad  hills  of  the  land  of  the  setting  sun. 
After  a  journey  of  several  days  by  rail, 
unmarked  by  anything  unusual,  we  ar- 
rived in  Denver,  and  here  our  eyes  were 
gladdened  by  the  first  view  of  the  mag- 


1884.] 


Buckshot :  A  Record. 


507 


nificent  panorama  of  the  Rocky  Moun- 
tains. Let  me  hasten  to  affirm  at  this 
point  that  it  is  not  my  intention  to  waste 
any  time  over  tiresome  descriptions  of 
scenery  ;  to  be  appreciated  the  moun- 
tains must  be  seen,  not  read  about. 

We  remained  in  Denver  some  three 
or  four  days,  undecided  what  course  to 
take,  until  finally  we  learned,  from  a 
pleasant  and  affable  gentleman  whom 
we  met  at  our  hotel,  that  there  was  a 
certain  section  of  Colorado  called  the 
u  Divide,"  consisting  of  a  chain  of  hills, 
or,  more  properly  speaking,  remnants 
of  mountains,  running  east  and  west,  at 
right  angles  with  the  main  range.  We 
were  informed  that  on  the  southern 
slope  of  this  Divide  there  were  streams 
to  fish  in,  and  antelope,  grouse,  and 
other  kinds  of  game  to  shoot,  or  to  shoot 
at,  as  the  case  might  be  ;  moreover,  we 
were  further  told  that  it  was  a  section 
of  country  seldom  or  never  visited  by 
pleasure-seekers,  and  therefore,  as  we 
were  in  for  what  Algernon  called  a 
"  pleasant,  lazy  time,"  we  concluded 
that  we  could  do  no  better  than  -seek 
that  favored  region,  and  take  up  our 
abode  there. 

Accordingly,  one  bright,  breezy  morn- 
ing in  July,  we  took  our  seats  in  the 
coach,  and  rolled  out  of  Denver  behind 
four  noble  grays,  a  happy  party,  south- 
ward bound  for  a  holiday  in  the  hills. 
Traveling  all  that  day  and  night,  we  ar- 
rived next  morning  at  Spring  Valley, 
which  we  found  to  be  a  rather  pretty 
place,  low-lying  in  the  hills  ;  but  beyond 
the  passing  of  occasional  freight-trains 
and  the  arrival  of  the  daily  stage,  it  of- 
fered few  inducements  to  a  prolonged 
stay.  However,  after  several  days' 
search,  we  succeeded  in  securing  accom- 
modations with  an  old  ranchman  and  his 
wife,  who  lived  in  a  beautiful  little  val- 
ley on  the  Monument,  at  the  base  of 
the  foot-hills,  and  in  full  view  of  the 
canon  through  which  that  charming  lit- 
tle stream  breaks  out  of  the  mountains. 

We  found  our  host  and  his  wife  to  be 


a  simple,  kind-hearted  couple,  bent  on 
making  our  stay  with  them  as  pleasant 
as  possible.  The  old  gentleman  himself 
was  quite  remarkable  for  the  "  battles, 
sieges,  fortunes,"  he  had  passed  in  the 
early  days  of  the  Territory,  and  I  recall 
now  many  pleasant  and  profitable  hours 
spent  in  listening  to  his  characteristic 
tales.  Here,  then,  in  this  quiet,  secluded 
nook,  far  away  from  the  roar  and  rush 
of  the  world,  our  ever-memorable  sum- 
mer began  ;  and  here,  correctly  speak- 
ing, this  record  opens. 


II. 


In  my  idle  hours,  I  am  given  to  smok- 
ing a  brier-root  pipe.  Perhaps  I  should 
blush  to  make  this  admission,  but  I  fear 
I  do  not.  I  smoke,  partly  because  it  is 
pleasant,  and  partly  because  I  consider 
that  the  act  of  smoking  is  one  of  the 
few  inducements  to  sound  reflection. 
Sitting  quietly  smoking,  one  often  sees 
visions  round  about  him,  in  the  fragrant 
clouds,  that  cheer  and  refresh  him  for 
his  after-work.  Who  can  tell  how  many 
of  the  worrying  hours  of  his  daily  life 
are  "  rounded  into  calm  "  by  the  sooth- 
ing spirit  of  the  Indian  weed  ? 

So  then,  a  few  mornings  after  our  ar- 
rival at  the  ranch,  in  accordance  with 
my  custom,  I  was  enjoying  my  pipe  in 
the  open  air,  in  front  of  the  house. 
Near  by  the  doctor,  in  accordance  with 
his  custom,  was  pacing  to  and  fro,  in  an 
after-breakfast  walk.  Mr.  and  Mrs. 
Algernon  were  standing  in  the  doorway, 
laughing  and  talking  with  each  other, 
tossing  now  and  then  a  word  to  the  doc- 
tor or  myself.  Presently  the  doctor 
paused  in  his  walk,  and  faced  us  :  — 

"  I  have  been  thinking  of  a  plan 
whereby  we  might  extend  our  acquaint- 
ance with  the  mountains.  Suppose  we 
should  employ  some  one  familiar  with 
this  region  to  lead  us  to  the  trout- 
streams  and  places  of  interest  to  stran- 
gers ?  With  some  one  to  guide  us,  we 


508 


Buckshot:  A  Record. 


[October, 


might  make  excursions  of  days  at  a 
time,  and  so  really  '  rough  it '  in  the 
hills,  doubtless  with  much  pleasure  and 
profit."  This  project  was  no  sooner 
broached  than  it  was  eagerly  applauded 
by  all  hands. 

"But,"  said  Algernon,  "I  fear  we 
should  find  trouble  in  procuring  such  a 
guide.  I  fancy  the  Pioneer,  for  instance, 
would  decline  the  appointment  himself, 
on  account  of  other  duties." 

I  may  here  explain  that,  as  our  host 
had  given  us  to  understand  that  he  was 
an  "  old-timer  "  in  the  country,  we  had 
begun  to  call  him,  amongst  ourselves, 
the  Pioneer. 

"  Yes,"  rejoined  the  doctor  thought- 
fully, "  I  suppose  he  has  more  pressing 
duties." 

"  At  any  rate,"  said  Meta,  "  if  he 
cannot  be  our  guide  himself,  he  may  be 
able  to  direct  us  to  some  one  who  can." 

"  A  timely  suggestion.  Let  us  con- 
sult the  Pioneer,  then,"  replied  her  hus- 
band. 

Accordingly,  the  Pioneer  was  sum- 
moned to  council,  and  the  question  of  a 
guide  was  laid  before  him.  I  recollect 
that  he  came  fresh  from  the  field,  and 
that  there  were  "  cuckle  burrs  "  clinging 
to  his  legs.  After  he  had  carefully  re- 
moved these,  he  straightened  himself, 
scratched  his  grizzly  cheeks  in  a  reflec- 
tive manner,  and  said,  — 

"I  don't  —  really  —  know  of  any  one 
jist  now.  Most  of  the  men  is  away  in 
the  mines  in  summer,  and  them  thet  's 
at  home  has  ther  ban's  full  gittin*  in  hay. 
But  then,  thar  's  Pettigrew,  two  mile 
below  here  on  the  crick  :  he  mos'  giner- 
ally  has  a  houseful  of  boys,  and  you 
might  git  what  you  want  down  there." 

Whereupon  it  was  moved,  and  second- 
ed, and  unanimously  carried,  that  a  com- 
mittee, consisting  of  Algernon  and  my- 
self, should  wait  upon  Mr.  Pettigrew 
without  delay,  for  the  purpose  of  pro- 
curing a  guide,  if  possible,  from  his 
houseful  of  boys. 

"  As  we  are  to  interview  the  gentle- 


man, then,"  remarked  Algernon,  "  I  pro- 
pose, as  there  is  no  time  like  the  pres- 
ent, that  we  go  at  once."  And  so,  with- 
out farther  ado,  the  council  adjourned, 
and  the  committee  departed  on  its  er- 
rand. 

Even  at  this  distant  day  I  recall  the 
cool,  fresh  splendor  of  that  morning. 
Far  below  us  the  Monument  brawled 
along  its  rocky  bed,  rippling  and  spark- 
ling in  the  sunshine,  and  winding  in  and 
out  between  the  rustling  aspens  that 
lined  its  banks.  Above  us  were  the 
foot-hills,  green  and  shady  with  ancient 
pines ;  and  far  beyond  them  we  caught 
occasional  glimpses  of  the  snowy  range, 
like  dim  white  clouds  motionless  in  the 
sky.  On  this  side  and  that  of  the  road 
lay  huge  masses  of  rock,  hurled  down 
from  the  hills,  who  knows  how  many 
hundreds  of  years  ago  ?  After  walking 
a  mile  or  so,  a  sudden  turn  in  the  road 
disclosed  an  upland  meadow,  where  two 
men  were  mowing  hay.  No  sooner  did 
I  see  the  two  men  than  I  was  conscious 
of  a  strong  impulse  to  cross  over  and 
talk  to  them ;  so  I  proposed  to  Algernon 
that  we  should  stop  and  have  a  chat. 

"  Of  course,"  he  answered,  "  and  may 
be  they  can  assist  us  in  our  search."  So 
we  turned  out  of  the  road  and  walked 
towards  them  ;  and  they  stopped  work- 
ing, and  regarded  us  with  no  small  curi- 
osity. They  were  tall,  powerful  fellows, 
and,  judging  from  a  slight  facial  resem- 
blance, I  set  them  down  as  brothers. 
After  the  customary  salutations  and 
some  original  remarks  on  the  beauty  of 
the  weather  and  the  excellence  of  the 
grass,  Algernon  went  on  to  tell  them  of 
our  object. 

"  We  want  to  employ  some  one  with 
a  knowledge  of  the  country  round  about, 
who  could  make  it  convenient  to  take 
up  his  abode  with  us  for  the  summer, 
for  a  reasonable  compensation,  and  who 
would  act  as  guide  for  us,  you  know." 

"  Jis  so,"  assented  the  elder  of  the 
two,  — "  jis  so;  but  I 'm  afeard  you'll 
have  trouble  a-findin'  anybody  jis  now. 


1884.] 


Buckshot :  A  Record. 


509 


It 's  a  busy  season  with  us  ranchmen,  — 
hayin'  time." 

"  Yes,"  chimed  in  the  other ;  "  and 
men  's  pretty  skearce  in  these  parts,  any- 
how." 

"  I  suppose  so,"  answered  Algernon, 
"  and  I  fear  our  search  will  be  in  vain." 

"  But  I  say,"  suddenly  broke  out  the 
younger,  "  thar  's  Buckshot !  " 

"  Sure  enough  !  Sure  enough!  Thar's 
Buckshot !  I  never  thought  o'  Buck- 
shot," replied  the  elder  ;  and  thereupon 
the  two  men  grinned,  and  burst  out  laugh- 
ing. Somewhat  amazed  at  this  sudden 

o 

mirth,  Algernon  and  I  looked  at  each 
other,  and  Algernon  asked, — 

"  Who  is  Buckshot  ?  " 

"  Buckshot,"  replied  the  ranchman, 
in  general  terms,  "  is  a  young  fellow 
that  knows  more  about  these  mountains 
than  any  man  in  the  Territory.  He 
knows  every  canon,  and  every  pass,  and 
every  crick  in  'em,  and  he  's  about  the 
best  hand  at  trailin'  I  ever  see.  But 
then,  to  tell  you  the  truth,  Buckshot's 
mighty  skittish,  an'  if  he  don't  take  to 
you  on  the  start  he  won't  bother  you 
long ;  he  '11  turn  up  missin',  some  fine 
mornin'." 

"  That 's  what  he  '11  do,"  assented  the 
other,  grinning. 

"  Buckshot,"  repeated  Algernon,  slow- 
ly, —  "  that 's  a  queer  name." 

"  Yes,  it  is,"  replied  the  ranchman  ; 
"  an'  Buckshot 's  a  queer  young  feller, 
too." 

Whereat  the  two  men  fell  a-laughing 
again.  Further  inquiry  elicited  the  fact 
that  the  mysterious  youth  in  question 
was  stopping  at  present  at  the  house  of 
a  neighbor ;  and  on  our  expressing  an 
earnest  desire  for  an  interview,  the  two 
men  volunteered  to  get  word  to  him  in 
the  course  of  the  day,  and  furthermore 
considered  it  more  than  likely  that  he 
might  "  look  in  on  us  "  early  the  fol- 
lowing day. 

"  Now,  then,"  remarked  Algernon,  as 
we  walked  leisurely  back,  "  it  remains 
to  be  seen  whether  we  have  done  wisely 


in  engaging  this  same  young  Buckshot. 
I  dare  say  he  is  a  specimen  of  the 
average  mountain  youth,  —  red-haired, 
freckle-faced,  with  large  hands  and  feet, 
and  a  tendency  to  blush  whenever  he  is 
spoken  to." 

"  Perhaps,  in  spite  of  his  physical 
drawbacks,  he  may  serve  our  turn  ex- 
actly," said  I. 

"  Let  us  hope  BO,"  rejoined  my  com- 
panion. 

The  doctor  was  amused  at  our  sudden 
success,  and  he  even  ventured  to  predict 
that  we  should  find  quite  a  "character" 
in  our  guide  when  we  became  acquainted. 
For  my  own  part,  I  was  impressed  that 
we  had  met  with  a  very  decided  char- 
acter, and  I  did  not  doubt  that  Mrs. 
Algernon  would  bear  me  out. 

I  wish  I  might  present  every  incident 
that  followed  Buckshot's  arrival  in  the 
same  vivid  colors  with  which  they  are 
portrayed  upon  my  memory  and  upon  the 
memory  of  all  of  us ;  but  since  that  may 
not  be,  let  me  endeavor  to  relate  as  faith- 
fully as  possible  how  he  came  among 
us,  how  we  fared  together  for  a  time, 
and  how  at  last  — 


III. 

The  next  morning  Buckshot  came, 
and  I  was  so  fortunate  as  to  be  first  to 
receive  him.  I  had  just  returned  from 
my  customary  early  walk,  and  was  stand- 
ing in  front  of  the  house,  enjoying  the 
cool,  soft  splendor  of  the  morning.  On 
a  sudden  I  heard  somebody  at  a  distance 
singing  in  a  clear,  bell-like  voice,  of  won- 
derful tone  and  sweetness,  and  shortly 
afterward  a  light,  swift  step  sounded  on 
the  rocky  path,  and  I  saw  a  boy  some 
twelve  or  fourteen  years  of  age,  to  judge 
at  a  glance,  coming  toward  the  house. 
He  was  not  as  tall,  may  be,  as  most 
youths  of  fourteen,  but  he  made  up  for 
his  lack  of  inches  by  a  wonderful  grace 
and  symmetry  of  build.  His  cheeks 
were  brown ;  his  hair  was  dark  and  curly ; 


510 


Buckshot :  A  Record. 


[October, 


his  eyes  were  large,  lustrous,  black,  and 
keen  as  a  hawk's.  These  few  points  I 
observed  as  he  swung  towards  me  with  a 
swift,  springy  gait  and  all  the  lithe  and 
lissome  beauty  of  a  young  panther. 

His  manner  was  as  frank  and  easy  as 
possible,  as  he  gave  me  his  hand,  and 
simply  said,  "  I  'm  Buckshot." 

For  a  moment  Algernon's  fanciful 
description  of  the  "average  mountain 
youth  "  flashed  before  me,  and  I  laughed, 
with  an  odd  mixture  of  surprise  and 
pleasure,  as  I  clasped  the  boy's  hand  in 
mine.  I  observed,  too,  that  his  dress 
was  of  the  plainest,  —  dark,  tight-fitting 
breeches,  a  snuff-colored  shirt,  and  Mex- 
ican moccasins  of  deer-hide  ;  his  hand- 
some curly  head  was  half  hidden  by  a 
black  slouch  hat,  and  he  wore  no  coat. 
May  be  the  absence  of  the  latter  garment 
showed  off  his  lithe  form  to  still  greater 
advantage.  I  confess  that  I  was  attract- 
ed toward  him  at  once :  perhaps  by  the 
force  of  his  youthful  beauty ;  perhaps, 
also,  by  his  free  and  easy  manner,  which 
was  at  once  void  of  pertness  and  modest. 
As  we  turned  to  the  house,  Meta  came 
to  the  door,  looking  very  pretty  indeed 
in  her  crisp  white  morning-dress. 

Now  in  all  Buckshot's  young  experi- 
ence amongst  the  mountains  and  moun- 
tain people,  it  is  questionable  whether 
he  had  ever  met  with  any  really  refined 
and  cultured  woman  until  that  morning, 
when  he  saw  Mrs.  Algernon  smiling  on 
him  from  the  step.  At  least,  such  was 
my  impression  at  the  time,  for  the  boy 
stopped  and  stared  as  if  he  had  seen  a 
vision. 

"Meta,"  I  said,  "let  me  present  a 
new  friend.  This  is  Buckshot." 

The  boy's  black  eyes  fairly  shone  as 
she  took  his  hand  and  gave  him  wel- 
come. "  So  you  have  come  to  show  us 
the  mountains,  have  you  ?  " 

He  nodded  in  reply,  and  looked  up 
suddenly  as  the  -doctor  and  Algernon 
came  out.  Again  introductions  and  wel- 
comes took  place,  and  the  doctor,  turning 
to  me,  said  in  a  low  tone,  "  What  a  re- 


markable face  !    But  what  an  outlandish 
name  !  ' 

"  What  is  your  name,  my  young 
friend  ?  '  he  added,  raising  his  voice. 

"  Buckshot,"  replied  his  young  friend, 
promptly. 

The  doctor,  being  a  sound  churchman, 
perhaps  unconsciously  followed  up  with 
the  second  question  in  the  catechism : 
"  Who  gave  you  this  name  ?  ': 

To  which  came  the  answer,  clearly 
and  modestly  uttered,  but  hardly  quoted 
from  the  Prayer-Book,  "  Be  d — d  if 
/  know !  You  see  I  've  been  called 
Buckshot  ever  since  "  —  But  here, 
catching  sight  of  the  horrified  counte- 
nance of  the  strange  lady  and  the  serio- 
comic expression  on  the  face  of  his 
catechiser,  he  relapsed  iuto  sudden  si- 
lence, and  stood  bashfully  swinging  his 
hat. 

But  the  doctor  was  not  to  be  repulsed 
in  this  manner.     "  Ever  since  when  ?  ' 
he  asked  again. 

"  Ever  since  I  've  been  in  the  moun- 
tains," replied  Buckshot.  "  You  see," 
he  went  on  rapidly,  "  I  was  born  in 
Missourer,  and  wa'n't  much  higher  'n  a 
grasshopper  when  the  ole  man  started 
to  Pike's  Peak  with  the  ole  woman  an' 
me.  But  the  Indians  got  away  with  us 
down  on  the  Republican.  They  killed 
the  ole  folks  and  took  me  off  with  'em, 
and  kep'  me  about  five  year,  till  one  day, 
when  they  was  camped  close  to  Larned, 
I  took  a  notion  to  leave  ;  so  I  up  and 
dusted  into  the  post,  an'  hid  there  till 
they  left.  Then  I  got  in  with  a  train 
that  was  comin'  out  to  Denver,  an'  I  've 
been  knockin'  around  in  the  mountains 
ever  since." 

"  Poor  boy,"  said  Meta,  softly,  '•  what 
an  experience  ! ' 

"  Do  you  know  how  to  read,  Buck- 
shot ?  ';'  asked  the  doctor. 

"  Mighty  little,"  answered  the  boy. 

"  Can  you  write  ?  ' 

"  No  ;  I  never  had  no  chance  to  learn." 

"  Would  you  like  to  learn  ?  ' 

"You  bet  your  life,"  replied  Buckshot. 


1884.] 


Buckshot:  A  Record. 


511 


The  doctor  smiled,  and  turned  away  ; 
and  Meta,  coming  up,  laid  her  hand 
gently  on  the  boy's  shoulder,  arid  said, 
"  Well,  if  you  will  stay  with  us  this 
summer,  you  shall  learn  to  read  and 
write  both." 

And  Buckshot  closed  the  contract  at 
once  by  raising  his  splendid  eyes  to  her 
face,  and  saying,  "  All  right." 

It  remained  for  us,  also,  to  discover 
that  Buckshot  and  the  Pioneer  were  old 
acquaintances  ;  for  when  the  latter  en- 
tered the  room  and  found  a  new  arrival 
he  stared  a  moment,  and  then  came  for- 
ward with  a  grin  and  held  out  his  hand. 

"  Why,  Buckshot !  —  why,  this  ain't 
you  ?  Why,  I  ain't  seed  you  since  the 
time  of  the  bear  hunt.  How  d'  ye  come 
on  ?  " 

To  which  the  boy  replied,  in  an  off- 
hand manner,  that  he  "  came  on  "  first 
rate,  and  asked,  "  How  's  the  ole  wo- 
man ?  " 

"  She  's  middlin',"  replied  the  Pioneer. 
And  then  they  went  off  together  to  see 
the  "  ole  woman,"  the  Pioneer's  wife. 

That  day  the  doctor  resolved  him- 
self into  a  committee  of  one,  and  sallied 
out  among  the  neighbors  to  gain  what 
information  he  could  in  regard  to  the 
young  stranger.  But  all  that  he  could 
learn  was  what  Buckshot  had  already 
told  us  ;  except  that  he  made  his  living 
by  doing  light  work  for  the  ranchmen, 
such  as  sheep-herding,  as  long  as  it 
suited  him,  arid  striking  out  over  the 

'  O 

mountains  when  he  grew  tired  of  it,  to 
spend  a  month  or  two  among  the  miners 
of  South  Park  and  other  diggings,  far 
and  near.  With  the  latter  class,  in  fact, 
he  was  said  to  be  an  universal  favorite. 
And  here  I  may  remark  that  nothing 
more  was  ever  learned  concerning  him. 
His  real  name,  his  birthplace,  and  his 
parentage  are  as  much  of  a  mystery  to 
us  to-day  as  they  were  on  that  memora- 
ble morning  when  he  first  came  to  us. 
After  he  had  been  with  us  some  little 
time,  the  doctor,  who  was  fortunately 
able  to  gratify  so  praiseworthy  a  whim, 


resolved  to  befriend  him,  and  to  give 
him  an  opportunity  of  acquiring  an  ed- 
ucation, if  that  suited  the  boy's  inclina- 
tion. And  on  that  score  none  of  us  had 
the  least  doubt.  Meanwhile,  to  lose  no 
time,  Meta  began  to  teach  him  such  ru- 
diments as  might  best  prepare  him  for 
school  when  we  should  return  East  in 
the  fall ;  and  being  of  a  remarkably  apt 
and  ready  turn,  he  made  no  small  prog- 
ress. I  am  glad  to  record  the  fact,  also, 
that  he  and  I  grew  to  be  fast  friends, 
and  that  he  honored  me  in  a  great  meas- 
ure with  his  confidence. 

As  an  instance  of  the  vast  respect 
which  he  entertained  for  the  doctor,  he 
informed  me  gravely,  one  day,  that  he 
"  reckoned  the  doctor  knowed  it  all," 
and  he  drank  in  every  word  that  fell 
from  the  doctor's  lips  as  if  they  were 
inspired. 

As  before  remarked,  he  was  carried 
away  from  the  first  by  Meta's  beauty 
and  her  kind  arid  gentle  manner,  and  I 
really  believe  he  worshiped  her,  in  his 
boyish  fashion,  as  devotedly  as  ever  a 
man  loved  a  woman.  Speaking  of  her 
to  me  once,  he  said  she  was  "  as  white 
as  a  pigeon ; "  and  ever  after  he  ignored 
her  name  of  "  Mrs.  Algernon  "  except 
to  her  face,  and  when  he  referred  to  her 
in  conversation  with  the  rest  of  us  he 
invariably  spoke  of  her  as  the  "  White 
Lady."  Owing  in  part  to  the  rough  and 
rude  experience  of  his  childhood,  and  in 
part  also  to  a  naturally  sturdy  spirit, 
Buckshot  was  a  very  self-reliant  and 
enterprising  young  fellow  ;  he  rarely 
undertook  a  thing  without  putting  it 
through.  Like  most  boys  of  a  like  na- 
ture, he  was  very  sensitive.  A  word  of 
praise  from  the  White  Lady,  for  a  task 
well  learned  or  a  deed  well  done,  would 
bring  a  blush  to  his  cheeks  and  a  sparkle 
to  his  splendid  eyes  in  an  instant. 

Attention  was  early  directed  to  the 
scantiness*  of  his  wardrobe,  and  he  was 
abundantly  supplied  with  what  he  called 
a  "  new  outfit."  But  he  reappeared  the 
next  day  in  his  old  costume,  with  the 


512 


Buckshot:  A  Record. 


[October, 


remark  that  the  new  clothes  "  bothered 
him,"  and  it  was  not  without  great 
difficulty  that  we  could  persuade  him  to 
wear  them  ;  and  no  amount  of  coaxing 
could  induce  him  to  wear  an  ordinary 
jacket,  until  Meta,  with  her  woman's 
wit,  fashioned  a  sort  of  zouave  blouse 
for  him,  which  at  her  request  he  con- 
sented to  wear  on  extraordinary  occa- 
sions. I  recollect  it  gave  him  the  ap- 
pearance of  a  handsome  young  brigand. 

As  soon  as  he  observed  —  which  he 
was  quick  to  do  —  that  swearing  was  not 
regarded  in  the  light  of  an  accomplish- 
ment by  his  new  friends,  as  it  was  by 
the  miners  of  South  Park,  he  informed 
me  in  private  that  it  was  his  intention 
for  the  future  to  u  skip  all  the  big 
words,"  and  I  bear  record  now  that  he 
kept  his  resolution. 

As  an  instance  of  his  implicit  belief 
in  all  that  was  taught  him,  and  also  as 
an  evidence  of  his  inquiring  mind,  let 
me  relate  the  following  :  — 

It  was  the  doctor's  custom  every  Sun- 
day afternoon  to  read  some  portion  of 
the  Bible  aloud,  and  then  to  impress  the 
lesson  still  further  on  the  boy's  memory 
by  a  few  well-timed  remarks.  On  one 
particular  afternoon  he  had  been  read- 
ing the  account  of  the  murder  of  Abel 
by  his  brother  Cain,  and  after  closing 
the  book  he  expatiated  at  some  length 
on  the  enormity  of  Cain's  crime,  and 
concluded  by  saying,  "  You  see,  my 
boy,  how  this  wretched  young  man  was 
punished  for  his  wickedness.  He  be- 
came a  wanderer  on  the  earth,  with  no 
home,  no  friends,  no  country.  Every 
man  he  might  meet  was  his  enemy ;  any 
man  might  slay  him,  and  by  so  doing 
obey  the  divine" —  When  Buckshot 
suddenly  broke  in  upon  his  peroration 
with  a  question  that  has  puzzled  many 
a  wiser  head  than  his  own  probably : 
"  Why,  what  was  the  use  of  his  dodgin' 
around  like  that  ?  There  wa'n't  nobody 
in  the  whole  world  but  himself  and  his 
father.  He  must  'a  been  mighty  lazy 
if  he  could  n't  keep  out  of  the  ole  man's 


way  !  '  It  is  hardly  necessary  to  add 
that  the  lesson  closed  rather  abruptly 
after  this. 

But  it  must  not  be  supposed  that  all 
the  time  was  occupied  with  instilling 
into  his  youthful  mind  Bible  lessons  or 
the  multiplication  table,  for  many  a 
hunting  party,  and  many  a  fishing  party, 
and  many  a  tramp  through  wild  and 
wonderful  mountain  passes,  was  organ- 
ized and  carried  out  under  his  guidance, 
and  his  knowledge  of  the  mountains 

o 

gave  evidence  that  he  had  the  bump  of 
locality  excessively  developed.  He  led 
us  to  the  region  of  the  Petrified  Stumps, 
to  the  Garden  of  the  Gods,  to  the  Gar- 
den of  the  Giants  ;  we  drank  soda-water 
brewed  hundreds  of  feet  underground, 
at  his  bidding ;  in  fact,  he  was  never  at 
a  loss  for  a  new  adventure.  One  in 
particular  occurs  to  me  now,  which  it 
may  not  be  out  of  place  to  narrate. 

It  was  drawing  towards  the  close  of 
summer  when  we  were  tempted,  by 
Buckshot's  representations  of  a  certain 
stream,  to  try  our  luck  in  its  waters. 
Accordingly,  equipped  with  self  regulat- 
ing rods  and  artificial  flies  (which,  I 
regret  to  observe,  the  Pioneer  used  to 
regard  with  polite  contempt),  Algernon 
and  I  set  out,  one  dull,  cloudy  morning, 
with  our  young  guide  on  a  trouting  ex- 
pedition. Buckshot  as  usual  beguiled 
the  walk  by  his  characteristic  conversa- 
tion, and  on  this  occasion  even  by  a 
legend.  After  making  our  way  with 
some  difficulty  over  a  rocky  spur  thickly 
covered  with  scrub  oaks,  we  emerged  at 
last  upon  a  broad,  open  road  which  had 
the  appearance  of  having  been  much 
used  at  some  former  time.  Coming  to 
a  turn  in  the  road,  we  found  some  ruins, 
consisting  of  a  standing  chimney  in  a 
very  dilapidated  state  and  the  crum- 
bling remains  of  a  log  cabin.  If  my  cu- 
riosity was  at  all  aroused  by  the  sight, 
it  was  still  further  pricked  by  a  solitary 
grave,  covered  with  grass  and  tall,  rank 
weeds,  and  having  a  half-sunken  head- 
stone of  slate-colored  rock.  So  when 


1884.] 


Buckshot:  A  Record. 


513 


we  sat  down  upon  some  bowlders  to  rest 
I  questioned  Buckshot  in  regard  to  the 
matter,  and  he  delivered  himself  as  fol- 
lows :  — 

"  You  see,  this  here  is  the  ole  Pike's 
Peak's  trail ;  an'  right  here  is  where 
ole  Buster  used  to  keep  a  ranch  ;  an' 
every  winter,  when  the  water  froze  in 
the  mines,  some  of  the  boys  would  come 
down  to  put  in  the  winter  with  the  ole 
man  ;  an'  one  fall  Handsome  Jack,  he 
come  with  'em.  Handsome  Jack  ?  Why, 
he  was  a  poker-player.  I  dun  no  what 
they  called  him  that  fur,  because  he 
was  the  homelies'  man,  I  believe,  I  ever 
did  see.  Well,  one  night  Jack  and  the 
ole  man  got  into  a  little  game,  an'  they 
was  makin'  it  all  right,  till  at  last  the 
ole  man  he  seed  two  king  o'  hearts,  an' 
he  knowed  right  off  there  was  somethin' 
wrong.  He  wa'n't  much  of  a  man  to 
fuss  about  a  little  thing,  ole  Buster 
wa'n't,  but  when  he  did  go  into  a  fuss 
he  went  in  mighty  sudden.  So  he  says 
to  Jack,  'Why,  Jack,  you  ain't  tryin' 
to  knock  down  on  me  that  way,  air 
you?' 

"  '  What  way  ? '  says  Jack. 

"  *  Why,  ringin'  in  a  cold  deck,'  says 
the  ole  man. 

"  Then  Jack,  he  remarked  that  the 
ole  man  lied.  That  settled  the  business 
right  off,  for  ole  Buster,  he  jerked  his 
six-shooter  and  blowed  a  hole  through 
Jack's  head.  That 's  his  grave  there." 

"  Whose  grave  ?  '  I  asked,  consider- 
ably startled  by  the  tragic  termination 
of  the  little  game. 

"  Jack's.  So  ole  Buster,  he  skinned 
out  the  same  night,  and  the  boys,  they 
shied  off  from  the  place,  an*  bimeby 
the  roof  fell  in  and  the  house  went  to 
rack,  and  that 's  all,  —  let 's  go." 

And  Buckshot  having  thus  concluded 
we  arose  and  wended  our  way,  thought- 
fully and  in  silence.  In  due  time  we 
arrived  at  the  stream,  and  proceeded  at 
once  to  business.  We  found  the  water 
fairly  alive  with  trout,  and  we  became 
so  absorbed  in  the  sport,  and  followed 

VOL.  LIV.  —  NO.  324.  33 


the  creek  so  far,  that  the  waning  day 
and  an  approaching  shower  found  us  a 
long  way  from  home. 

I  discovered,  during  my  short  stay  in 
Colorado,  that  a  very  brief  space  of 
time  is  essential  for  the  preparation  of 
a  first-class  storm ;  and  the  one  in  ques- 
tion was  not  destined  to  be  an  exception 
to  the  rule.  Its  first  mutterings  were 
hardly  over  before  we  were  sensible  of 
its  swift  approach  by  the  advance  guard 
of  great  drops  that  beat  into  our  faces. 
Here  was  a  pickle.  But  Buckshot  hur- 
ried us  off  to  a  house  which  he  said 
was  near  at  hand,  where  we  could  pass 
the  night,  and  go  home  in  the  morning  \: 
for  he  cheerfully  informed  us  that  it 
was  his  opinion  that  the  rain  would  last 
all  night. 

A  brisk  walk  of  ten  or  fifteen  minutes- 
brought  us  to  a  substantial-looking  log 
house,  with  evidences  of  cultivation  in 
a  field  that  lay  behind;  but  without 
waiting  to  observe  things  very  closely, 
we  hurried  to  the  door  and  knocked. 
It  was  opened  by  a  tall,  rawboned  wo- 
man, who  stared  at  us  in  no  very  hos- 
pitable manner,  as  Algernon  civilly  in- 
quired if  we  could  obtain  shelter  until 
morning. 

The  woman  hesitated ;  in  fact,  she; 
waited  so  long  that  Buckshot,  who  was 
busying  himself  with  the  string  of  trout, 
suddenly  made  his  way  to  the  front,  at 
a  little  distance,  and,  eying  the  woman 
with  amazement,  exclaimed,  — 

"  Look  here,  young  woman,  we  've  got 
to  stay!  —  that's  all  about  it.  D'ye' 
think  we  are  goin'  to  camp  out  in  the 
rain  ?  " 

"  Who  is  it  ?  "  queried  a  voice  from 
the  interior. 

"  It 's  that  there  young  Buckshot," 
answered  the  woman,  with  a  grin.  "That 
boy  's  got  more  impiddence  !  Come  in 
then,  you  young  limb  ! ' 

Thus  invited  the  young  limb  walked 
coolly  in,  and  we  followed  meekly  in 
his  wake.  As  soon  as  we  were  inside, 
the  woman  excused  her  seeming  want 


514 


Buckshot:  A  Record. 


[October, 


of  hospitality  on  the  score  of  having  a 
sick  husband  and  being  all  alone.  It 
was  a  large,  square  room  into  which  we 
were  admitted,  and  on  a  bed  in  the  cor- 
ner lay  a  sick  man,  whose  pain-distorted 
face,  lighted  by  a  pair  of  lustrous  black 
eyes,  was  turned  toward  us. 

Evidently  he  and  Buckshot  were  ac- 
quainted, for  the  boy  nodded  to  him 
with  easy  nonchalance,  and  addressed 
him  as  "  pardner." 

"  Aha  !  Buckshot !  So  it 's  you,  is 
it?  Come,  shake  hands.  By  the  love- 
ly, it  does  a  feller  good  to  see  you ! ' 

"  What  ails  ye,  anyhow  ?  '  inquired 
the  boy,  as  he  approached  the  bed  and 
took  the  sufferer's  quivering  hand  in  his 
own. 

"  Rheumatiz,  ole  man,  —  rheumatiz," 
replied  the  other,  with  a  feeble  smile. 
"  I  rastled  with  it  all  summer,  but  it 
fetched  me  at  last.  How  's  times  with 
you  ? ' 

To  which  Buckshot  made  answer  that 
times  were  "  loomin'  up "  with  him ; 
then  he  proceeded  to  inform  the  sick 
man  that  the  carrying  of  potatoes  in 
one's  pocket  was  held  to  be  efficacious 
in  attacks  of  rheumatism,  by  those  best 
informed  on  the  subject ;  and  he  en- 
joined upon  the  sufferer  the  advisability 
of  giving  that  novel  remedy  a  trial,  — 
all  of  which  was  listened  to  with  ludi- 
crous gravity  by  the  patient,  and  with  a 
succession  of  grins  on  the  part  of  his 
wife. 

After  he  had  thus  prescribed  for  the 
man,  Buckshot  turned  to  the  woman, 
and  gave  her  to  understand  that  it  would 
be  about  the  correct  thing  for  her  to 
"  fly  around "  and  get  supper,  and  he 
even  volunteered  his  own  services  to- 
ward the  accomplishment  of  that  end ; 
and,  as  a  result  of  their  joint  efforts,  a 
delicious  meal  of  trout  and  hot  biscuit 
and  fragrant  coffee  was  soon  smoking 
on  the  board. 

After  supper,  as  the  storm  still  held 
on  its  way,  roaring  down  the  canons 
and  driving  against  the  door  in  windy 


gusts  of  rain,  we  sat  about  the  fire,  and 
endeavored  to  draw  our  hostess  into  con- 
versation. It  must  be  admitted,  how- 
ever, that  all  our  efforts  would  have 
been  in  vain,  without  the  aid  of  Buck- 
shot, who  kept  up  such  a  fusillade  of 
small  talk,  that  Algernon  and  I  were 
glad  to  drop  into  silence  and  play  the 
part  of  listeners. 

Bright  and  early  next  morning  we 
were  called  to  breakfast.  Bright  and 
early  it  literally  was,  for  the  valley  was 
still  in  shadow,  and  only  the  moun- 
tains were  glowing  in  the  light  of  the 
rising  sun.  Bidding  good-by  to  our  en- 
tertainers, we  set  off  gayly  on  our  home- 
ward journey.  Every  tree  and  shrub, 
and  every  blade  of  grass  sparkled  and 
flashed  like  diamonds  in  the  early  light. 
A  cool  fresh  wind  came  bowling  out  of 
the  west,  and  far  below  us  the  mist  was 
rolling  away  before  it. 

Thus,  with  various  adventures,  for  the 
narration  of  which  this  brief  chronicle 
affords  not  sufficient  space,  day  by  day, 
like  the  leaves  of  a  book,  the  summer 
folded  itself  up  and  vanished  away, 
and  the  early  mountain  autumn  was  at 
hand,  with  hazy,  dreamy  days,  and  cool, 
crisp,  starry  nights,  and  the  Appointed 
Time  came  on  apace. 


IV. 

In  the  Rocky  Mountain  regions  the 
clouds  sometimes  indulge  in  certain 
freaks  which  are  known  to  the  dwellers 
in  the  hills  as  "  cloud-bursts  "  or  "  water- 
spouts." In  other  words,  great  masses 
of  vapor  come  into  close  proximity,  ap-' 
parently,  to  the  high  table-lands,  or  to 
the  foot-hills,  and  the  consequence  is  a 
literal  deluge  down  the  canons.  More 
curious  still,  the  people  far  below  in  the 
valley  are  likely  to  be  startled  and  ap- 
palled by  the  sudden  rush  and  roar  of 
water  down  dry  arroyos,  leading  from 
the  hills,  when  the  sky  above  is  clear  and 
the  sun  is  shining,  and  only  the  distant 


1884.] 


Buckshot:  A  .Record. 


515 


mountains  are  shaded  by  dense  black 
clouds.  I  do  not  propose  here  to  ad- 
vance any  theory  of  my  own  in  regard 
to  these  phenomena,  nor  yet  to  argue  for 
or  against  the  theories  of  others.  Some 
people  believe  that  these  "  cloud-bursts  " 
are  cloud-bursts  literally,  while  others 
claim  that  the  sudden  floods  which  fol- 
low these  nebulous  eccentricities  are 
due  solely  to  an  accumulation  of  water 
from  extraordinarily  severe  rainfalls 
within  a  given  circumference.  However 
the  case  may  be,  this  record  has  naught 
to  do  with  the  probabilities  or  possibil- 
ities of  either  theory.  My  object  is  sim- 
ply to  describe,  as  far  as  in  me  lies, 
what  I  really  saw  myself;  for  here  upon 
the  Monument  we  were  destined  to  wit- 
ness one  of  these  wonderful  sights,  and 
the  picture  of  its  awful  grandeur  must 
remain  with  us  as  long  as  life. 

I  have  already  hinted  that  the  Monu- 
ment was  a  beautiful  stream  ;  its  banks 
were  grassy  and  green  in  places,  and 
steep  and  rocky  in  others,  and  it  brawled 
along  with  a  pleasant  sound  one  always 
liked  to  hear.  But  we  were  yet  to  look 
upon  it  in  its  wrath,  to  see  the  little 
stream  transformed,  as  if  by  magic,  into 
an  angry,  rushing  river. 

Amongst  the  many  rocks  that  strove 
to  bar  its  rippling  currents  was  one  of 
a  dull  red  color,  torn  from  the  womb  of 
the  mountain  when  laboring  with  vol- 
canic throes,  and  hurled  far  below  into 
the  valley,  while  yet,  may  be,  the  world 
was  young.  It  lay  in  the  middle  of  the 
stream,  and  its  top  was  smooth  and  level ; 
on  the  lower  side  was  a  ledge,  wide 
enough  for  a  comfortable  seat,  the  side 
of  the  rock  forming  a  good  support  for 
the  back.  Here,  on  either  bank  of  the 
river,  grew  tall  aspens  ;  and  their  out- 
stretched limbs,  rustling  with  green  and 
f  silver  leaves,  barred  out  the  noonday 
heat,  and  threw  a  cool  and  pleasant 
shadow  on  the  rock.  At  some  former 
time  there  had  been  a  foot-bridge  at  this 
place,  part  of  which  yet  remained,  from 
the  shore  to  the  rock.  It  was  a  won- 


derfully primitive  foot-bridge,  too,  con- 
sisting, as  it  did,  only  of  a  broad,  heavy 
board,  one  end  resting  on  the  bank,  the 
other  end  on  the  ledge.  The  connec- 
tion between  the  rock  and  the  opposite 
bank  was  gone,  possibly  carried  away 
by  the  water. 

This  was  Mrs.  Algernon's  favorite 
place  of  resort,  in  the  long,  warm  after- 
noons, to  read  or  sketch,  sometimes  ac- 
companied by  her  husband  or  father, 
but  quite  often  alone ;  and  from  this  cir- 
cumstance we  had  come  to  dignify  the 
spot  with  the  name  of  the  Red  Rock. 

And  now  the  shouting  of  the  boys 
outside  is  hushed,  the  dull,  gray,  wintry 
sky  is  blotted  out,  the  creaking  of  the 
leafless  trees  outside  my  window  is 
stilled,  and  I  lean  back  in  my  chair  and 
drift  away  into  the  past.  How  idle  to 
think  my  old  steel  pen  can  ever  paint 
the  picture  I  see  before  me ! 

It  is  the  afternoon  of  a  clear  day  in 
September.  The  sky  is  cloudless  over- 
head, and  the  sun  shines  with  a  mel- 
lowed brilliance  through  the  hazy  air 
around  us.  A  black  mass  of  clouds 
rests  upon  the  far-off  mountains  ;  per- 
haps a  storm  is  passing  down  the  range. 
There  is  no  breeze  ;  the  trees  that  grow 
beside  the  river  stretch  their  long  arms 
motionless  in  the  air.  The  brawling  of 
the  water  is  muffled  and  deadened  by 
the  smoky  atmosphere.  A  bird,  chirp- 
ing in  a  bush  near  by,  sounds  as  if  he 
might  be  miles  away.  The  foot-hills 
show  like  pictures  paintetl  dimly  on  the 
background  of  the  sky.  It  is  the  time 
for  day-dreams,  and  I  am  dreaming 
them  as  the  smoke  of  my  pipe  curls 
softly  around  my  head. 

On  the  walk  in  front  of  the  house  the 
doctor  is  thoughtfully  pacing  to  and  fro ; 
near  by  Algernon  is  seated,  lazily  talk- 
ing with  Buckshot,  who  is  lying  on  the 
grass. 

All  this  I  see  now  as  I  write,  hun- 
dreds of  miles  away,  as  clearly  as  I 
saw  it  then,  standing  in  the  door  regard- 
ing it. 


516 


Buckshot :  A  Record. 


[October, 


Presently  the  doctor  pauses  in  his 
walk,  and  says,  "  Yet  a  few  more  days, 
and  our  pleasant  rambling  holidays  are 
over,  and  we  get  back  to  work.  Buck- 
shot goes  with  us  too,  of  course,"  he 
adds,  eying  that  young  gentleman  kind- 
ly ;  "  henceforth  our  home  is  his  home  ; 
he  is  to  become  a  rare  scholar,  and  final- 
ly develop  into  a  wise  and  good  man." 
Buckshot  rises  to  a  sitting  posture  on  be- 
ing thus  alluded  to,  and  his  eyes  bright- 
en as  he  gazes  shyly  at  the  speaker. 

With  a  smile  the  doctor  resumes  his 
walk,  and  silence  falls  upon  us,  broken 
only  by  the  doctor's  steady  tread  and 
the  far-off  murmur  of  the  waters.  Mean- 
time, our  thoughts  go  drifting  backward 
through  the  happy  summer  now  draw- 
ing swiftly  to  its  close,  and  in  the  midst 
of  this  dreamy  stillness  we  are  suddenly 
startled  by  a  loud,  resounding  peal  of 
thunder,  that  breaks  from  the  clouds 
above  the  mountains  and  goes  echoing 
and  rumbling  down  the  canons. 

"  Ha  !  "  says  Algernon,  starting,  "  we 
shall  have  a  storm.  Hark  !  "  he  adds, 
as  another  peal  leaps  out  upon  the  quiet 
air.  The  doctor  pauses  again,  and  all 
eyes  are  fixed  upon  the  mountains. 
Buckshot,  reclining  on  his  side,  with  his 
head  resting  on  his  hands,  regards  the 
clouds  long  and  earnestly. 

"I  believe,"  he  says  slowly,  and  in 
a  low  tone,  "  I  believe  that 's  a  cloud- 
burst, and  it's  right  over  the  head  of 
Monument  Canon.  Look  !  "  he  cries 
suddenly,  as  he'rises  to  his  knees,  "  look 
at  that !  " 

By  degrees  a  low  humming  sound  is 
wafted  toward  us,  swelling  in  volume 
and  growing  louder  as  we  listen,  like 
the  roaring  of  a  mighty  wind  through 
the  pines. 

"  What 's  that  ?  "  cries  Algernon,  as 
a  heavy  white  mist  comes  slowly  out  of 
the  canon,  waving  and  rolling  like  smoke. 
The  booming  sound  grows  louder  and 
louder,  and  we  hear  distinctly  the  noise 
of  rushing  water. 

"  The  White  Lady  would  like  to  see 


this,"  cries  Buckshot  excitedly  ;  "  let 's 
call  the  White  Lady  !  " 

The  doctor  is  under  the  impression 
that  she  is  sketching  on  the  Red  Rock, 
and  he  calmly  imparts  this  fact. 

Buckshot  leaps  to  his  feet  with  a 
shout :  "  Where ! "  he  cries.  The  change 

o 

in  the  boy's  face  is  absolutely  startling ; 
his  cheeks  are  aflame,  and  his  great 
black  eyes  blaze  like  lightning.  Drop- 
ping upon  the  ground,  he  tears  off  his 
shoes  in  a  jiffy,  and  leaping  to  his  feet 
once  more,  he  cries,  "  In  five  minutes 
that  ci  ick  '11  be  full  from  bank  to  bank ! 
If  ever  you  did  a  good  thing  in  your 
life,  come  on  ! "  and  he  turns  and  shoots 
over  the  hill  like  an  antelope,  swift  and 
steady  and  strong. 

Roused  and  alarmed  by  the  boy's  wild 
actions,  we  call  aloud  to  each  other  and 
race  madly  after  him. 

•  ••••• 

Meantime,  the  White  Lady  sat  upon 
the  Red  Rock,  half  working,  half  drean> 
ing ;  upon  her  lap  lay  an  unfinished, 
sketch  of  a  grand  and  rugged  canon. 
So  absorbed  was  she,  that  the  dense 
mass  of  clouds  piled  upon  the  mountain 
tops  failed  to  attract  her  attention.  The 
little  river  rippled  along  with  a  musical 
sound,  and  broke  into  foam  at  her  feet. 
Its  steep  rocky  banks  were  flecked  with 
alternate  patches  of  shadow  and  gold, 
as  the  sunlight  glinted  upon  them,  and 
danced  away  on  the  water.  Once,  twice, 
a  burst  of  thunder  startled  her,  but  she 
glanced  around  and  above,  the  sky  was 
cloudless  overhead,  and  the  warning 
passed  unheeded.  Presently  a  low  hum- 
ming sound  was  audible,  but  she  heard 
it  not,  or  if  she  heard  it  she  fancied  the 
wind  was  rising  in  the  mountains.  But 

o 

it  grew  louder  and  louder,  and  the  boom- 
ing of  waters  struck  upon  her  ears. 
Roused  at  last,  she  arose  slowly  to  her 
feet  and  looked  up  the  stream,  and  saw 
a  great  white  cloud  waving  and  rolling 
like  smoke  rushing  down  upon  her,  and 
she  hurried  to  the  bridge  in  terror. 

o 

Too   late!     The   terrible    pressure    up- 


1884.] 


Buckshot :  A  Record. 


517 


stream  had  already  forced  the  water 
above  its  usual  limits,  and  it  was  steadily 
rising  around  the  rock,  and  lapping  and 
floating  the  frail  board  that  alone  stood 
between  her  and  death.  She  cried  aloud 
for  help,  and  wrung  her  hands  in  an 
agony  of  despair.  Should  she  trust  her- 
self to  the  board  that  was  already  swing- 
ing loose  from  the  rock,  or  should  she 
cling  to  the  ledge  ? 

The  booming  noise  grew  louder  and 
louder,  and  the  great  white  mist  was 
speeding  faster  and  faster  toward  her. 
And  yet  not  so  fast  as  the  feet  that, 
through  long  years  of  aimless  wander- 
ing, hither,  there,  and  everywhere,  were 
yet  steadily  setting  in  toward  this  self- 
same spot  with  the  tireless  persistence 
of  fate. 

In  this  supreme  moment  she  heard 
a  shout,  and  looked  up  ;  she  saw  Buck- 
shot come  flying  down  the  slope  to  the 
river.  He  ran  across  the  bridge  like  a 
squirrel,  and  leaped  lightly  on  the  rock 
at  her  side.  "  Hurry  across,"  he  gasped, 
"  while  I  hold  the  board  down ! " 

One  look  at  him,  and  one  at  the  an- 
gry water,  and  she  obeyed.  She  stepped 
upon  the  board,  it  bent  slightly  with  her 
weight,  and  the  cold  water  filled  her 
shoes ;  but  steadily  she  crossed  and 
stepped  upon  the  shore,  and  was  caught 
to  her  husband's  breast.  By  this  time 
the  roar  of  the  waters  was  absolutely 
deafening,  and  the  air  was  filled  with 
spray.  But  through  it  all  she  found 
courage  to  look  back.  She  saw  Buck- 
shot step  upon  the  already  floating  board, 
she  saw  him  midway  across,  she  saw  the 
racing  wall  of  water,  with  its  long  trail- 
ing veil  of  mist  and  foam,  leap  madly  at 
him  and  strike  him  down,  and  drag  him 
in  and  under,  and  whirl  him  away  in 
the  twinkling  of  an  eye. 

Not  far  below,  the  stream  takes  a  sud- 
den bend  to  the  right,  and  here  on  a  low, 
shelving  bank  we  found  him,  where  the 
water  had  flung  him  ashore,  senseless, 
bloody,  and  dripping.  We  took  him 


in  our  arms  and  bore  him  up  the  hill 
in  silence  toward  the  house.  Half-way 
up,  the  Pioneer  met  us,  bareheaded  and 
breathless  with  running.  He  gazed  upon 
the  boy's  unconscious  form  with  looks 
of  commiseration,  and  once  or  twice  I 
heard  him  mutter  under  his  breath, 
"  Poor  little  cuss  !  "  Nothing  would  do 
but  we  must  surrender  our  burden  to 
him,  and  he  bore  the  senseless  boy  in 
his  own  arms  to  the  house. 

By  all  the  means  in  our  power  we 
strove  to  call  back  the  fluttering  spirit  to 
his  breast,  and  presently  he  gave  signs  of 
life  ;  but  it  was  evident  by  the  dimness 
of  his  eyes  and  the  ghastly  pallor  of  his 
face  that  he  had  sustained  some  inter- 
nal injury  beyond  our  power  to  allevi- 
ate. The  only  physician  the  country 
could  boast  lived  in  the  Old  Town,  twen- 
ty miles  distant ;  and  it  devolved  upon 
me,  therefore,  to  go  for  him  at  once. 
Accordingly,  I  lost  no  time  in  saddling 
one  of  the  Pioneer's  horses  and  gallop- 
ing away. 

The  sun  was  already  behind  the  moun- 
tains when  I  started,  and  by  and  by  the 
sun  went  down,  and  twilight  fell,  and 
the  stars  came  out,  and  the  night  wind 
blew  keen  in  my  face  as  I  sped  along 
the  road.  However,  I  arrived  at  Old 
Town  at  last ;  but  only  to  find  the  lights 
all  out,  and  the  straggling  houses  look- 
ing grim  and  silent  in  the  darkness. 
Being  a  stranger,  I  was  at  a  loss  how  to 
proceed  in  my  search  for  the  doctor,  and 
every  moment  was  a  lifetime  ;  when  to 
my  great  relief  I  saw  some  one  coming 
down  the  middle  of  the  street.  I  rode 
at  once  to  meet  him,  and  a  nearer  view 
disclosed,  as  well  as  the  darkness  per- 
mitted, a  gentleman  evidently  "deep  in 
his  cups,"  for  he  swayed  to  and  fro  on 
his  legs,  and  his  voice  was  gruff  and 
husky. 

"  Who  sick  ?  Tha'  s  wha'  I  want  er 
know.  Who'  sick  ?  "  he  demanded  de- 
fiantly, when  I  addressed  him. 

"  Buckshot,"  I  replied  briefly. 

"  Wha'  ?   No  !    Little  Buckshot  sick  ? 


518 


Buckshot:  A  Record. 


[October, 


Wha'  s  matter  wi'  little  Buckshot  ?  "  he 
asked  again. 

Stifling  my  impatience,  I  told  him  of 
the  accident  in  as  few  words  as  possible, 
and  urgently  begged  him  to  show  me 
the  doctor's  house. 

"  Stranger,"  he  replied  with  drunken 
politeness,  "  'scuse  me,  if  you  please ; 
jis  come  along  o'  me,  stranger." 

So  I  dismounted,  and,  leading  my 
horse,  walked  alongside  of  my  conduc- 
tor, who  took  up  much  more  than  his 
own  share  of  the  street. 

"  This  is  'bout  the  'erect  locality,  sir, 
I  believe ;  yes,  sir,"  he  said,  stopping 
in  front  of  a  small  white  house,  with  a 
huge  black  patch  upon  the  door,  which 
I  took  to  be  the  doctor's  sign  ;  and  with- 
out further  remark  my  new  friend  began 
to  hammer  the  door  with  his  knuckles. 
After  some  fruitless  efforts  in  this  direc- 
tion, he  turned  around  and  said  with 
tipsy  irony,  "  Durned  ef  I  don't  think 
he  tuck  a  pint  or  two  o'  laudnum  afore 
he  went  to  bed.  Stop  a  bit,  though ;  I  '11 
rout  him."  Thereupon  he  fell  to  kick- 
ing the  door  steadily  with  his  heavy 
boots.  These  vigorous  means  speedily 
had  the  desired  effect,  for  a  voice  from 
the  interior  cried,  "  You  need  n't  break 
that  door  down  !  I  'm  coming  ! ' 

"  Oh,  you  are,  are  you ! ' '  said  my 
guide  briskly ;  and  then  as  he  ceased 
his  attentions  to  the  panels  and  sat  down 
upon  the  step,  he  muttered  to  himself 
disgustedly,  "  Yes,  you  're  a-comin',  'n 
so  's  Christmas,  'n  it 's  mos'  likely  to  git 
here  fust." 

By  this  time,  however,  a  light  glim- 
mered through  the  window,  the  door 
swung  open  and  the  doctor  appeared. 
As  briefly  as  possible  I  made  known  my 
errand  ;  and  in  the  course  of  half  an 
hour  the  doctor  and  I  were  driving  rap- 
idly out  of  town,  leaving  my  friend  and 
conductor  in  peaceful  slumber  on  the 
doorstep. 

The  autumn  night  waned,  the  stars 
went  out  in  a  gray  darkness,  the  sky  be- 
gan to  redden  and  glow,  and  at  last  the 


sun  rolled  up  arid  kindled  the  laud  into 
warmth  before  we  arrived  at  home. 

As  we  crossed  the  Monument,  now 
reduced  to  its  usual  current,  arid  brawl- 
ing along  in  the  sunshine  as  musically 
as  ever,  I  glanced  toward  the  fatal 
rock  with  a  nervous  apprehension  of 
woe.  Not  a  sound  broke  the  stillness 
as  we  alighted  and  walked  up  the  path 
to  the  house,  and  I  knew  at  once  that 
the  merry  voice  that  had  so  often  sound- 
ed here  was  hushed  and  silent  now  for-r 
ever.  No  need,  O  White  Lady !  to  meet 
us  silently  at  the  door  and  lead  us  to 
the  bed,  whereon  lay  the  stiff  and  rigid 
form,  so  changed,  yet  so  familiar.  His 
poor  bruised  hands  were  folded  meekly 
upon  his  breast,  a  smile  was  on  his  lips, 
and  about  his  head  were  scattered  white 
wild  flowers  that  perchance  his  light 
feet  had  pressed  but  yesterday. 

Yes,  Buckshot  was  dead !  The  only 
vision  of  grace,  and  beauty,  and  char- 
itable love  upon  which  his  poor  eyes 
had  ever  rested  had  bent  above  his  dy- 
ing bed ;  perhaps  her  gentle  counsel  had 
led  him  back  to  that  heaven  away  from 
which  his  youthful  feet  in  ignorance 
were  straying ;  doubtless,  also,  his  last 
hours  were  soothed  by  the  reflection, 
that  he  had  given  his  young  life  that 
another  might  live. 

"It  was  after  midnight,"  said  Meta 
tearfully,  "  before  he  gave  the  first  signs 
of  consciousness.  He  raised  his  head 
and  looked  around,  and  strove  to  speak ; 
and  as  we  listened  to  catch  his  words, 
he  suddenly  fixed  his  eyes  on  me  and 
smiled,  and  then  his  head  dropped  back 
upon  my  arm,  and  so,  without  a  word, 
he  died." 

All  the  fond  hopes  we  had  cherished 
for  his  future  vanished  utterly,  as  we 
looked  down  upon  the  beautiful  face, 
the  lustrous  eyes  darkened  forever,  and 
the  features  white  and  still  in  the  serene 
repose  of  death. 

And  now  no  more  remains  for  me  to 
tell ;  save  that,  when  the  next  day's  sun 
was  wheeling  to  its  rest,  all  that  was 


1884.]  Boating.  519 

mortal  of  Buckshot  was  borne  by  kindly  we  made  his  grave  ;  through  long  years 
hands  up  the  well-remembered  path,  out  to  come  to  be  green  and  fragrant  with 
upon  the  hill ;  and  there,  in  the  shadow  the  flowers  of  spring,  and  white  and 
of  the  mountains  he  had  loved  so  well,  shining  with  the  snows  of  winter. 

J.  Howard  Corbyn. 


BOATING. 

A  JUNE  day,  cool  from  recent  rain ; 

The  sky  without  a  speck  or  stain 

To  mark  the  gray  storm's  toil  and  stress ; 

The  brimming  river  rippleless. 

Into  the  stream  the  long  boat  swings ; 

Soft  drop  her  oars,  like  sinewy  wings ; 

And  more  than  lifeless  steel  and  wood, 

She  leaps  into  the  middle  flood. 

Her  strength  is  ours,  our  will  is  hers, 

One  life  within  us  thrills  and  stirs. 

What  joy  with  rhythmic  sweep  and  sway 

To  fly  along  the  liquid  way, 

To  feel  each  tense-drawn  muscle  strain, 

And  hear  the  dripping  blade's  refrain; 

Or,  resting  on  the  level  oar, 

To  drift  beside  the  dusky  shore, 

Through  green  pads,  whispering  as  we  pass, 

And  bending  beds  of  pickerel  grass, 

And  watch  with  eager,  grateful  eye 

The  woodland's  changing  pageantry  : 

The  gnarled  oaks  spreading  broad  and  low, 

The  elms  that  like  leaf-fountains  grow ; 

Ash,  chestnut,  lightsome  maple  grove, 

With  elder-thickets  interwove, 

And  sharply  clear  against  the  green 

The  swaying  birch's  silver  sheen. 

We  catch  the  smell  of  sun-warmed  pines, 

Of  marsh-pinks  and  of  wild  grapevines, 

And  scent,  to  make  the  bee's  heart  glad, 

Of  pungent  balm  of  Gilead. 

And  now,  in  sunlight  once  again, 

We  round  the  headland's  narrow  plain  ; 

Three  strokes,  and  on  the  shelving  sand 

We  bring  the  willing  boat  to  land  ; 

Then  off  through  stubbly  pasture  dells, 

Sparse-set  with  cedar  sentinels, 

To  where  in  cool,  leaf-laughing  nook 

Slips  o'er  the  stones  the  swollen  brook. 


520 


The  Migrations  of  the  Grods. 

Outstretched  full-length  beside  the  stream, 
We  lie  half  waking,  half  in  dream, 
And  feast  our  ears  with  woodland  notes. 
Down  the  warm  air  the  wren's  song  floats, 
Sharp  trumpets  out  the  angry  jay  ; 
Hark  !    from  some  tree-top  far  away 
The  cat-bird's  saucy  answer  falls ; 
And  when  all  else  is  silent  calls, 
Deep-bowered  on  some  shady  hill, 
The  day-caught,  sleepy  whip-poor-will. 


[October, 


But  look !    the  level  sunbeams  shine 

Along  the  tree  trunks'  gleaming  line; 

A  sea  of  gold,  the*  water  fills 

The  purple  circle  of  the  hills. 

Home  then  our  sparkling  path  we  trace, 

The  sunset's  glory  in  our  face, 

Which  fades  and  fades,  till  as  we  reach 

The  low  pier  and  the  shingly  beach, 

On  stream,  and  wood,  and  hill-top  bare 

The  moon's  soft  light  lies  everywhere. 

Augustus  M.  Lord. 
CHARLES  RIVER,  June,  1884. 


THE  MIGRATIONS   OF  THE   GODS. 


IT  is  exactly  three  quarters  of  a  cen- 
tury since  the  greatest  English  poet  of 
his  time  turned  the  weapons  of  his  keen- 
est and  most  trenchant  satire  against  a 
Scotch  lord,  who  had  transferred  to  the 
smoky  air  of  London  the  matchless 
marbles  of  Pheidias  and  his  disciples. 
This  nobleman,  however,  was  not  the 
first,  but  one  of  the  very  last  in  a  long 
line  of  plunderers,  who  had  been  unable 
to  resist  the  temptations  presented  to 
them  by  the  plastic  masterpieces  of  an- 
tiquity. He  might  have  replied  that  if 
he  had  erred,  he  had  done  so  in  most 
respectable  company,  —  that  kings  and 
princes,  victorious  generals,  governors, 
and  emperors  had  been  guilty  of  the 
same  offense  before  him  ;  so  that  his  sin, 
if  sin  it  could  be  called,  should  be  taken 
only  as  an  evidence  of  greatness.  This 
method  of  defense  Lord  Elgin  seems 


never  to  have  thought  of ;  and  even  had 
he  done  so  it  may  be  questioned  if  it 
would  have  afforded  him  any  great  con- 
solation under  the  stigma  which  Byron's 
immortal  verses  have  forever  affixed  to 
his  name. 

The  vicissitudes  to  which  the  works 
of  ancient  art  have  been  exposed,  as  a 
result  of  the  cupidity  of  external  nations, 
form  one  of  the  most  striking  chapters 
in  its  entire  history.  From  the  time 
when  Rachel  stole  her  father's  gods, 
and  by  her  neat  ruse  defeated  the  close- 
fisted  and  unscrupulous  old  fellow  in  his 
attempts  to  find  them,  down  to  that 
comparatively  recent  day  when  a  recog- 
nition of  the  reciprocal  rights  and  duties 
of  nations  put  an  end,  as  we  may  hope 
forever,  to  the  pillaging  of  conquered 
states,  the  only  principle  accepted  by 
the  world  appears  to  have  been, 


1884.]                            The  Migrations ^of  the  G-ods.  521 

"  That  they  should  take  who  have  the  power,  were  carried  to  Rome  in  265  B.  C.     In 

And  they  should  keep  who  can."  01  .              -.r 

214  B.  c.  Marcellus  was  sent  into  Sicily 

The  original  motive  to  these  robberies  to  subdue  those  towns  which  had  formed 
is  well  seen  in  the  case  of  Rachel  her-  an  alliance  with  the  Carthaginians.  In 
self.  It  was  to  obtain  objects  of  wor-  these  Hellenic  art  had  been  cultivated 
ship.  By  degrees,  however,  as  skill  in  for  nearly  three  centuries  and  a  half, 
the  use  of  the  brush  and  chisel  rose  to  and  the  Roman  general,  set  face  to  face 
the  dignity  of  art,  works  of  painting  and  with  its  finished  beauties,  was  not  slow 
sculpture  came  to  be  admired  and  cov-  in  recognizing  its  superiority  over  that 
eted  for  their  own  sake,  and  to  be  every-  with  which  he  was  already  familiar, 
where  regarded  as  lawful  plunder.  As  On  the  capture  of  Syracuse,  in  212 
early  as  the  sixth  century  before  Christ,  B.  c.,  he  gratified  his  taste  for  the  newly 
Cambyses  carried  away  from  Egypt  discovered  treasures  by  rem'oving  a  large 
large  numbers  of  statues,  to  be  set  up  in  number  to  Rome,  and  depositing  them 
the  cities  of  his  own  dominion.  Many  in  the  Capitol  and  the  temples  of  Honor 
of  these  were  recovered  by  Ptolemy  and  Virtus,  which  he  himself  erected. 
Euergetes  on  the  conquest  of  Syria,  al-  These  are  said  to  have  been  the  earliest 
most  three  hundred  years  afterwards ;  Greek  works  which  the  Roman  people 
that  monarch  returning  to  his  capital  possessed.  The  statement,  however,  is 
with  no  less  than  twenty-five  hundred  not  strictly  correct,  since  statues  of  Py- 
which  he  had  taken  from  the  Persian  thagoras  and  Alkibiades,  undoubtedly 
king.  The  Artemis  and  Athene  of  Di-  by  their  own  countrymen,  stood  in  the 
poinos  and  Skyllis  seem  to  have  been  Comitium  from  324  B.  c.  till  the  die- 
transported  from  Sikyon  to  Asia  in  tatorship  of  Sulla.  Still,  according  to 
the  struggle  between  Cyrus  and  Croesus.  Plutarch,  Marcellus  was  accustomed  to 
The  Carthaginians,  on  capturing  the  boast  that  he  was  the  first  to  teach  his 
Sicilian  cities,  conveyed  to  Africa  the  fellow-citizens  the  beauties  of  Grecian 
bronze  Artemis  from  Sergesta,  the  bull  sculpture,  and  his  pride  seems  to  have 
of  Phalaris,  and  various  works  from  Him-  been  just.  Cicero  records  it  to  his  honor 
era,  Gela,  and  Agrigentum.  Xerxes,  that  he  molested  no  figure  of  the  gods, 
in  addition  to  what  he  destroyed,  re-  On  the  fall  of  Capua,  in  the  following 
moved  from  Greece  the  Apollo  of  Kana-  year,  Rome  was  again  enriched  by  sim- 
chos  and  the  statues  of  Harmodios  and  ilar  acquirements.  On  the  conquest  of 
Aristogeitou.  The  latter  were  subse-  Tarentum,  in  209  B.  c.,  Quintus  Fabius 
quently  recovered  and  sent  back  to  the  Maximus,  like  Marcellus  sparing  the 
Athenians  by  Alexander,  or  one  of  his  images  of  deities,  conveyed  to  the  Capi- 
successors,  and  the  Apollo  by  the  Se-  tol  the  famous  sitting  Herakles,  which 
leukidae,  who  claimed  descent  from  that  remained  one  of  the  chief  ornaments  of 
god.  the  city  for  several  centuries. 

It  was  at  the  time  of  the  second  Punic  The  conquerors  of  Sicily  were  not 

war  that  the  Romans  began  to  awake  to  long  in  learning  the  lesson  which  Mar- 

an  appreciation  of  Grecian  sculpture,  cellus  sought  to  teach  them.  Painting 

Hitherto  their  art,  like  a  great  part  of  had  already  risen  into  such  fashionable 

their  institutions,  had  been  derived  from  prominence  that  it  was  even  cultivated 

Etruria ;  such  works  as  they  possessed  as  an  accomplishment  by  the  nobility, 

being  either  of  wood,  terra  cotta,  or  In  403  B.  c.  Caius  Fabius  had  produced 

bronze,  wrought  by  Etruscans,  who  had  for  the  temple  of  Salus  a  battle-piece, 

been  invited  to  the  Latian  capital,  or  which  enjoyed  the  distinction  of  being 

plundered  from  conquered  cities  like  the  first  work  from  a  purely  Roman 

Volsinii,  whose  two  thousand  statues  source,  and  gained  for  its  author  the 


522 


The  Migrations  of  the  Gods. 


[October, 


complimentary  title  of  Pictor.  His  son, 
Numericus,  and  his  grandson,  Quintus, 
received  the  same  honorable  designation 
from  their  skill  in  the  use  of  the  brush, 
and  the  young  Pacuvius,  now  a  boy 
just  entering  his  teens,  was  destined  to 
become  not  less  an  artist  than  a  poet. 
The  mind  of  the  Romans  was  therefore 
in  a  condition  to  receive  the  impression 
which  Marcellus  wished  to  make  upon 
it,  and  circumstances  in  the  political 
world  placed  within  their  reach  the 
means  of  gratifying  the  recently  awak- 
ened taste.  In  216  B.  c.  Philip  V.  of 
Macedon,  jealous  of  his  Italian  neigh- 
bors, had  concluded  an  offensive  and  de- 
fensive treaty  with  the  Carthaginians. 
At  the  close  of  the  second  Punic  war  an 
army  accordingly  marched  against  him. 
After  an  indecisive  campaign  of  two 
years  Philip  was  deserted  by  the  Achae- 
an League,  and  a  few  months  later  was 
entirely  routed  by  Titus  Quinctus  Fla- 
mininus.  The  consul,  on  his  return 
home,  took  with  him  a  lar^e  number  of 

o 

statues,  both  in  marble  and  bronze, 
among  them  the  celebrated  Zeus  Ourios, 
of  which  more  will  be  said  hereafter. 
But  no  sooner  had  he  departed  than  in- 
trigues broke  out  anew,  and  Antiochus 
the  Great  was  induced  to  come  into 
Thessaly  with  an  army  of  ten  thousand 
men.  This  fact  again  called  the  Ro- 
mans into  Greece.  On  the  defeat  of  the 
Syrian  king  at  Thermopylae,  in  191  B.  c., 
the  victors  destroyed  the  temple  of  the 
Itonic  Pallas  which  contained  his  statue, 
plundered  the  sacred  edifices  in  the 
island  of  Bacchium,  and  carried  away 
the  images  of  the  gods.  In  the  follow- 
ing year  the  war  was  transferred  into 
Asia,  another  brilliant  triumph  was  won 
at  Magnesia  by  Cornelius  Scipio,  and 
the  city  was  stripped  of  its  sculpture  to 
adorn  the  all-powerful  mistress  of  the 
West. 

Meanwhile,  the  ^tolians,  taking  ad- 
vantage of  the  disturbances  in  the  East, 
had  made  an  attack  upon  the  Macedo- 
nians. The  latter,  after  their  defeat  at 


Cynoscephalae,  had  according  to  custom 
been  admitted  to  alliance  by  the  senate, 
and  Marcus  Fulvius  Nobilior  was  there- 
fore sent  to  protect  them.  The  -ZEtolians 
had  retired  to  Arnbrakia,  which,  having 
formerly  been  the  royal  residence  of 
Pyrrhus,  was  filled  with  works  of  art 
of  every  kind.  Upon  the  fall  of  the 
town  Fulvius  carried  to  Rome  all  its 
pictures,  and  no  less  than  five  hundred 
and  fifteen  statues,  of  which  two  hun- 
dred and  thirty  were  of  marble  and  the 
rest  of  bronze.  Among  the  latter  were 
the  nine  Muses,  for  which  Fulvius  erect- 
ed the  temple  of  Hercules  Musagetes, 
near  the  Circus  Flaminius.  So  com* 
plete  was  the  pillage  that  the  inhabitants 
complained  that  they  had  not  a  deity 
left  whom  they  could  worship. 

On  the  death  of  Philip,  and  the  sue- 
cession  of  his  son  Perseus,  the  Romans,, 
alarmed  at  the  alliances  which  the  am* 
bitious  young  monarch  seemed  to  be 
forming  against  them,  at  length  declared 
war  upon  him.  In  167  B.  c.  Perseus 
was  totally  defeated  at  Pydna  by  Lucius 
JEmilius  Paulus,  and  soon  after  fell  into 
the  hands  of  his  conqueror.  In  this 
battle  the  liberties  of  Macedonia  became 
extinct,  and  it  was  reduced  to  a  Roman 
province.  The  treasures  of  the  entire 
country  were  now  at  the  mercy  of  the 
consul.  How  well  he  improved  the  op- 
portunity given  him  may  be  judged  from 
the  fact  that,  in  the  triumph  celebrated 
on  his  return  to  Rome,  it  required  no 
less  than  two  hundred  and  fifty  wagons 
to  transport  through  the  streets  of  the 
capital  the  works  of  painting  and  sculp- 
ture, including  an  Athene  by  Pheidias, 
which  he  exhibited  to  the  people  as 
among  the  fruits  of  his  expedition.  On 
the  capture  of  the  pseudo-Philip,  in  148 
B.  c.,  another  supply  of  statues  was  se- 
cured by  Metellus,  and  employed  to 
adorn  his  portico.  These  included  the 
twenty-five  equestrian  figures  from  the 
hand  of  Lysippos,  erected  by  Alexander 
in  honor  of  the  captains  who  fell  in  the 
battle  of  the  Granicus. 


1884.] 


The  Migrations  of  the  Gods. 


523 


For  seventeen  years  the  Greek  lead- 
ers who  favored  the  cause  of  Perseus 
languished  in  Italian  prisons.  When 
they  were  released,  out  of  a  thousand 
only  three  hundred  remained.  In  this 
number  were  Diaios  and  the  historian 
Polybios.  The  former,  in  whom  long 
captivity  had  begotten  a  rankling  hatred 
and  the  most  inconsiderate  rashness, 
soon  plunged  the  Achaean  League  into 
war  with  Laced asmon.  The  Spartans 
appealed  to  Rome  for  help,  and  an  army 
again  crossed  the  Adriatic.  The  battle 
of  Corinth,  which  followed  in  146  B.  c., 
was  to  the  Hellenic  states  what  that  of 
Pydna  had  been  to  Macedonia.  In  it 
perished  the  independence  of  the  land 
of  Plato,  Perikles,  and  Leonidas,  and 
the  country  was  added  to  the  ever-in- 
creasing dominion  of  Rome.  An  im- 
mense booty  also  enriched  the  victors. 
The  wealth  of  Corinth  had  enabled  its 
inhabitants  to  indulge  their  luxurious 
tastes  without  restraint,  and  the  city 
was  filled  with  the  masterpieces  of  Gre- 
cian art.  These  were  first  collected  with 
the  other  plunder,  and  the  town  was 
then  set  on  fire  and  was  burned  to  the 
ground.  So  great  was  the  spoil  secured 
here,  and  in  Sikyon,  Thespise,  and  other 
parts  of  Greece,  that  Lucius  Mummius, 
the  consul,  embellished  not  only  Rome 
and  Italy,  but  even  the  provinces,  with 
the  paintings  and  statues  thus  obtained. 
Polybios,  in  one  of  those  fragmentary 
chapters  of  which  only  a  few  lines  re- 
main, speaks  of  seeing  soldiers  seated 
on  the  ground,  after  the  battle,  and  play- 
ing dice  upon  the  celebrated  picture  of 
Dionysos  by  Aristides,  and  another  rep- 
resenting Herakles  tortured  by  the  poi- 
soned robe  of  Deianeira.  It  was  only 
when  Aratos  offered  him  a  large  sum  for 
one  of  these  that  Mummius  awoke  to  a 
sense  of  its  real  value,  and  ordered  it 
to  be  carefully  preserved.  Among  the 
works  carried  away  from  Thespise  were 
the  statues  of  the  Muses,  with  other 
marbles,  which  in  Cicero's  time  stood 
in  front  of  the  temple  of  Felicitas.  The 


celebrated  Eros  of  Praxiteles  was  spared 
to  the  town,  however,  on  account  of  its 
sacredness  in  the  eyes  of  the  people. 
The  language  of  Mummius  to  the  sea- 
men who  engaged  to  convey  these  rich 
treasures  to  Brundusium  has  ever  since 
been  regarded  as  a  sort  of  standing  joke 
on  the  Roman  ignorance  of  art.  "  If 
they  are  lost  or  broken,"  said  he,  "  you 
will  have  to  secure  others  equally  good, 
at  your  own  expense,  to  replace  them."  ' 

It  was  on  this  occasion  that  sculpture 
was  first  brought  from  Greece  itself  to 
Italy.  Henceforward  the  Romans  seem 
to  have  considered  the  art  of  every  land 
as  their  lawful  prey.  On  the  capture 
of  Carthage  a  large  number  of  statues 
fell  into  the  hands  of  Scipio,  and  were 
employed  to  grace  his  triumph,  and  sub- 
sequently to  beautify  the  forum,  streets, 
and  temples  of  the  city.  The  generos- 
ity of  the  conqueror  was  shown,  more- 
over, by  restoring  to  the  Sicilian  towns, 
as  far  as  they  could  be  identified,  the 
gods  which  had  been  taken  from  them 
by  the  Carthaginians  two  centuries  and 
a  half  before.  In  the  Mithridatic  war 
Sylla  plundered  Athens  and  the  cities  of 
Bceotia,  the  fane  of  Apollo  at  Delphi, 
of  Asklepios  at  Epidauros,  and  of  Zeus 
at  Olympia ;  even  robbing  the  Olympie- 
ion  at  Athens  of  its  columns  to  adorn 
the  Capitol  at  Rome  and  the  temple  of 
Fortuna  at  Praeneste.  The  sanctuary 
of  Zeus  at  Olympia,  however,  probably 
remained  uninjured  so  far  as  its  archi- 
tecture was  concerned,  since  the  gold 
and  ivory  figure  by  Pheidias  was  to  be 
seen  there  for  a  long  time  afterward. 
The  Luculli  and  Pompey  secured  great 
quantities  of  sculpture  in  their  Asiatic 
campaigns,  including  the  great  Apollo 
from  Apollonia  in  Pontus,  which  was 
forty-five  feet  in  height,  and  in  the  time 
of  Pliny  stood  in  the  Capitol.  Murena 
and  Varro,  in  their  aedileship,  removed 
to  Rome  the  pictures  of  Sparta  and  the 
walls  on  which  they  were  painted.  Mar- 
cus ^Emilius  Scaurus,in  the  games  which 
have  made  his  name  so  famous,  stripped 


524 


The  Migrations  of  the  Gods. 


[October, 


the  temples  and  other  public  buildings 
of  Sikjon  of  paintings  which  that  city 
had  pledged  as  security  for  its  debts,  and 
also  obtained  in  other  parts  of  Greece 
no  less  than  three  thousand  bronze 
statues  for  the  sumptuous  theatre  which 
he  erected.  Antony  seized  in  Samos 
Myron's  Zeus,  Herakles,  and  Athene, 
all  of  colossal  size.  For  the  first  of 
these  Augustus  constructed  a  shrine  on 
the  Capitol,  but  restored  the  other  two 
to  the  Samians. 

The  example  set  by  the  victorious 
generals  was  eagerly  followed  by  the 
Roman  propraetors,  who,  so  long  as  their 
plunderings  fell  short  of  a  national  dis- 
grace, seem  not  to  have  been  molested 
by  the  government  at  home.  Verres, — 
and  he  was  only  one  of  many,  —  after 
desecrating  the  temple  of  Athene  at 
Athens,  of  Apollo  at  Delos,  of  Here  at 
Samos,  of  Artemis  at  Perga,  and  of  sev- 
eral other  deities  in  Greece  and  Asia 
Minor,  received  the  proconsulship  of  the 
rich  province  of  Sicily.  His  infamous 
conduct  here  is  well  known  from  the 
trial  conducted  against  him  by  Cicero. 
There  was  scarcely  a  temple,  portico, 
public  square,  or  even  private  dwelling, 
in  the  whole  island  whose  masterpieces 
escaped  his  hands.  Among  the  more 
famous  works  thus  seized  were  a  mar- 
ble Eros  of  Praxiteles,  the  bronze  Her- 
akles of  Myron,  the  two  Kanephori  of 
Polykleitos,  an  Apollo  belonging  to  Ly- 
son  of  Lilyba3um,  the  beautiful  colossal 
bronze  Artemis  at  Sergesta  (one  of  the 
works  restored  by  Scipio  on  the  capture 
of  Carthage),  the  Hermes  at  Tyndaris 
(also  presented  to  the  town  by  Scipio 
from  the  Carthaginian  spoils),  the  Dem- 
eter  at  Catine,  two  ivory  Nikes  at  Me- 
lite,  and  the  bronze  Demeter  and  Nike 
at  Henna.  From  Syracuse  he  carried 
off  the  celebrated  painting  of  Agatho- 
kles  charging  at  the  head  of  his  caval- 
ry, which  hung  in  the  temple  of  Athene, 
and  was  regarded  as  one  of  the  won- 
ders of  the  city  ;  twenty-seven  portraits 
of  Sicilian  sovereigns  from  the  same 


sanctuary ;  the  Sappho  of  Silanion  from 
the  Prytaneion  ;  the  famous  Apollo  from 
the  shrine  of  Asklepios  ;  the  statue  of 
Aristaios  from  the  fane  of  Dionysos  ;  a 
beautiful  bust  from  the  temple  of  Per- 
sephone ;  and  the  renowned  figure  of 
Zeus  Ourios,  of  which  there  were  but 
two  beside  this  in  existence,  —  one  at 
the  mouth  of  the  Bosphorus  on  the 
Black  Sea,  the  other  that  brought  to  the 
Capitol  by  Flamiuinus  after  the  con- 
quest of  Philip.  Cicero,  indeed,  says 
that  Syracuse  lost  more  gods  through 
Verres  than  it  formerly  had  lost  men 
through  Marcel  1  us.  The  doors  of  the 
temple  of  Athene  seem  to  have  held  in 
antiquity  a  rank  corresponding  to  that 
of  the  celebrated  works  of  Ghiberti  in 
more  recent  times.  They  were  entirely 
sheathed  with  gold,  upon  which  the  ar- 
gumenta,  or  representations  of  events, 
were  elegantly  wrought  in  ivory  in  the 
highest  style  of  art.  Cicero  declares 
that  nothing  more  elaborate  or  magnifi- 
cent was  anywhere  to  be  seen,  and  says 
that  the  number  of  Greek  authors  who 
had  left  descriptions  of  them  was  in- 
credible. These,  too,  were  completely 
ruined  by  Verres,  who  tore  away  the 
ivory  figures,  stripped  off  the  sheathing, 
and  pulled  out  the  gold  nails  by  which 
they  were  held  together.  It  is  diffi- 
cult for  the  modern  mind  to  realize  the 
splendor  of  works  like  these.  If  the 
renowned  productions  of  Ghiberti  were 
thought  worthy  to  be  the  gates  of  Par- 
adise, what  language  will  adequately 
describe  these  wonderful  creations,  in 
which  the  finished  skill  of  the  goldsmith 
united  with  the  consummate  art  of  the 
worker  in  ivory  to  produce  a  result  that 
even  to  the  instructed  eyes  of  the  an- 

^ 

cients  was  a  marvel  and  surprise  ! 

It  will  readily  be  conceded  that  the 
countrymen  of  Marcellus  had  proved 
apt  pupils.  Within  fifty  years  from  the 
date  of  his  death  the  sentiment  which 
he  strove  to  awaken  had  become  so 
strong  that  JEmilius  Paulus,  the  con- 
queror of  Perseus,  even  appointed  paint- 


1884.] 


The  Migrations  of  the   Grods. 


525 


ers  and  sculptors  to  instruct  his  sons  in 
the  rudiments  of  their  respective  arts. 
From  nobles  the  feeling  passed  to  the 
people,  until  in  the  Mithridatic  war  the 
common  soldiers  of  Sylla  were  as  eager 
as  the  commanding  general  himself  to 
plunder  every  object  of  beauty  on  which 
they  could  lay  their  hands.  Still,  the 
instincts  of  the  Romans  were  essential- 
ly foreign,  if  not  antagonistic,  to  true 
esthetic  feeling.  They  seem  at  first  to 
have  coveted  the  products  of  Hellenic 
genius  from  cupidity  rather  than  from 
any  just  appreciation  of  excellence.  This 
fact,  seen  in  its  strongest  light,  perhaps, 
in  the  case  of  Mummius  at  Corinth,  is 
plainly  discernible  in  the  nation  as  a 
whole.  By  degrees,  however,  connois- 
seurship  in  such  things  became  the  fash- 
ion and  culminated  in  what  may  be  fitly 
characterized  as  a  rage  for  Greek  works. 
But  the  Romans  never  rose  above  the 
rank  of  amateurs.  With  them  art  at 
best  was  only  a  matter  of  the  intellect ; 
with  the  Greeks  it  was  a  matter  of  feel- 
ing. Influenced  by  the  fame  of  the  chef- 
d'ceuvres  of  Pheidias  and  his  successors, 
the  Romans  sought,  by  learning  rules 
and  technicalities,  to  acquire  the  ability 
to  understand  and  enjoy  them.  With 
the  nation  that  conceived  and  executed 
these  masterpieces  they  were  the  result 
of  a  direct  creative  impulse  that  could 
not  be  restrained.  They  were  the  vis- 
ible embodiment  of  conceptions  which 
could  find  expression  in  no  other  way, 
—  the  consummate  blossoming  of  the 
entire  life  of  the  people.  The  Roman 
mind  might  respond  to  them,  but  it  could 
not  originate  them ;  and  though  its  ser- 
vices to  humanity  have  been  equally 
great  in  other  directions,  it  never  at- 
tained to  that  sublime  ideal  height  in 
the  spiritual  realm  which  has  made  the 
Greeks  leaders  for  all  time.  So  dissim- 
ilar were  the  feelings,  lives,  and  modes 
of  thought  developed  by  the  two  civiliza- 
tions that  the  Latin  capital  was  never 
without  a  strong  party  who  held  in  hon- 
est contempt  everything  emanating  from 


the  eastern  shore  of  the  Adriatic.  Cato 
was  accustomed  to  complain  in  bitter 
irony  of  the  fondness  of  his  countrymen 
for  pictorial  and  plastic  excellence,  re- 
garding it  as  a  proof  of  luxury  and  the 
decadence  of  virtue ;  while  Pliny  praised 
the  good  old  times,  when  even  the  im- 
ages of  the  gods  were  confined  to  the 
simplicity,  or,  as  we  should  say,  the 
rudeness,  of  early  representations.  This 
feeling  was  sufficiently  strong  to  induce 
Cicero,  when  conducting  the  prosecution 
of  Verres,  to  speak  of  Greek  sculpture 
as  if  acquainted  with  it  only  by  hear- 
say, for  fear  of  injuring  his  case  before 
the  judges.  Petronius,  alluding  to  the 
national  character,  declared  that  to  all, 
men  and  gods  alike,  a  lump  of  gold 
seemed  more  beautiful  than  anything 
which  Apelles  or  Pheidias,  crazy  Greek- 
lings,  had  produced.  Certain  it  is  that 
the  stern,  practical  qualities  that  made 
the  Romans  rulers  of  the  world  were 
incompatible  with  that  fineness  of  or- 
ganism which  is  the  first  requisite  in  the 
artistic  temperament.  Hence  it  is  that 
no  statues  of  the  first,  second,  or  even 
third  grade  of  merit  have  come  to  us 
from  a  purely  Roman  chisel.  From  the 
age  of  Marcellus  to  that  of  the  Anto- 
nines  the  best  works  were  brought  from 
beyond  the  sea,  or  were  moulded  by 
Grecian  artists  who  had  settled  in  the 
Italian  metropolis.  Still,  the  rank  of  in- 
telligent amateurs  should  not  be  denied 
to  the  conquerors  of  Hellas,  and  it  is 
with  interest  that  we  picture  to  our- 
selves scenes  like  those  which  must  have 
been  presented  at  Cicero's  country  house, 
when  Brutus,  Metellus,  Pompey,  CaBsar, 
Lucullus,  Varro,  and  others  who  lived 
near  him  on  the  Tusculan  hill,  came  in 
to  look  at  some  fine  statue,  bust,  or 
painting  which  had  been  picked  up  for 
him  in  Greece.  His  love  of  such  things 
is  well  known,  and  passages  occur  in  his 
letters  in  which  he  urged  friends  who 
happened  to  be  traveling  abroad  to  se- 
cure for  him,  regardless  of  expense, 
anything  that  could  beautify  his  four- 


526 


The  Migrations  of  the  Gods. 


[October, 


teen  or  fifteen  villas,  scattered  about  in 
different  parts  of  Italy. 

The  pillaging  which  had  been  be- 
gun by  the  Roman  generals,  and  had 
been  kept  up  by  the  governors  of  prov- 
inces, was  continued  by  the  emperors. 
Augustus,  on  the  defeat  of  Antony  and 
Cleopatra,  transported  from  Alexandria, 
the  richest  city  in  the  world  after  Rome, 
a  multitude  of  statues  of  the  highest 
rank,  which  had  been  collected  by  the 
triumvir  in  Greece  and  Asia  Minor  as  a 
present  for  the  Egyptian  queen.  Four 
oxen  by  Myron  were  ranged  around  an 
altar  in  the  portico  of  the  Apollo  Pal- 
atinus,  and  an  Aphrodite  by  Pheidias 
was  placed  in  the  colonnade  of  Octavia. 
At  Cos  the  emperor  appropriated  the 
renowned  painting  of  the  Anadyomene 
by  Apelles,  for  which  the  celebrated 
Phryne,  or  as  others  say,  Pankaste,  had 
furnished  the  model.  This  was  hung 
in  the  temple  of  the  deified  Caesar  at 
Rome,  but  was  in  a  condition  of  decay 
as  early  as  the  time  of  Nero.  Augustus 
also  obtained  the  Zeus  Brontaios  and 
Alean  Athene  of  Endoios,  the  Kastor 
and  Polydeukes  of  Hegias,  and  various 
works  by  Boupalos  and  Sthenis.  Asin- 
ius  Pollio,  the  well-known  litterateur 
and  patron  of  art  under  this  emperor, 
possessed  in  his  valuable  collection  the 
Aphrodite  of  Kephisodotos,  the  Dio- 
nysos  of  Eutychides,  a  Kanephoros  by 
Scopas,  and  figures  of  Maenads  and 
Sileni  by  Praxiteles.  He  also  brought 
from  Rhodes  the  famous  group  repre- 
senting Dirke  bound  to  the  horns  of  the 
bull,  which,  either  in  the  original  or  a 
copy,  is  now  to  be  seen  in  the  Toro  Far- 
nese  of  the  Naples  Museum.  Tiberius 
seized  at  Syracuse  the  colossal  Apollo 
Temenites,  which  Verres  himself  had 
spared.  Caligula  sent  Memmius  Regu- 
lus  to  Greece  with  instructions  to  ship 
to  Rome  the  masterpieces  of  every  city, 
and  distributed  them  among  his  various 
country-seats.  At  this  time  was  secured 
the  beautiful  Thespian  Eros  of  Prax- 
iteles, which  Metellus  had  not  ventured 


to  molest,  and  which  Claudius,  a  few 
years  later,  sent  back.  Caligula  even 
intended  to  carry  away  the  Olympian 
Zeus  of  Pheidias,  but  was  dissuaded  by 
certain  persons  at  Athens,  who  assured 
him  that  so  large  a  work  could  not  safe- 
ly be  disturbed.  According  to  another 
account,  he  had  actually  entered  upon 
the  task  of  removing  it ;  but  the  vessel 
prepared  to  convey  it  across  the  Adriatic 
was  struck  by  lightning,  and  the  labor- 
ers engaged  about  the  figure  heard  a 
laugh  of  derision  from  its  ivory  lips, 
and  fled  in  terror.  It  is  probable,  how- 
ever, that  the  statue  had  before  this  time 
been  robbed  of  its  gold  and  of  the  rich 
and  varied  ornaments  of  the  throne  and 
base.  Nero  also  dispatched  emissaries 
to  Greece,  Asia  Minor,  and  the  Italian 
cities,  plundering  the  former  country  of 
its  sculpture  even  more  mercilessly  than 
Caligula  had  done.  From  Delphi  alone 
the  superb  Apollo  and  no  less  than  five 
hundred  bronze  statues  were  sent  to 
Latium.  Many  of  these  were  used  to 
adorn  the  emperor's  Golden  House,  near 
where  the  ruined  baths  of  Constantino 
now  stand.  At  this  time  the  Thespian 
Eros  was  again  dragged  from  its  shrine 
and  placed  in  the  portico  of  Octavia, 
where  it  was  destroyed  by  fire  on  the 
burning  of  that  celebrated  colonnade  in 
the  reign  of  Titus.  The  spirit  in  which 
Nero  worked  may  be  seen  in  the  enor- 
mous picture  of  himself,  one  hundred 
and  twenty  feet  in  height,  which  he 
caused  to  be  painted  on  canvas ;  and 
in  the  bronze  colossus,  a  hundred  and 
ten  feet  high,  representing  him  as  Sol 
crowned  with  rays,  which  he  erected 
in  front  of  his  palace.  This  immense 
figure  was  subsequently  taken  away,  to 
make  room  for  the  temple  of  Venus 
and  Roma,  and  required  the  combined 
strength  of  twenty-four  elephants  to 
convey  it  to  its  new  position.  Its  square 
base  still  exists  in  the  area  near  the  en- 
trance to  the  Coliseum.  In  addition  to 
the  works  already  mentioned  there  were 
then  to  be  seen  in  Rome  the  famous 


1884.] 


The  Migrations  of  the  G-ods. 


527 


Niobe  group,  now  in  Florence  ;  the  nude 
Aphrodite,  the  Achilles  group,  the  Ares, 
and  the  Apollo  Kitharoidos  of  Scopas ; 
the  Apoxyomenos  of  Lysippos ;  the 
Leto  of  Euphranor ;  the  Silenos  of  Prax- 
iteles ;  the  Artemis  of  Timotheus ;  the 
Zeus  Xenios  of  Papylos  ;  and  the  Leto, 
Artemis,  and  Asklepiosof  Kephisodotos. 
Of  the  Apoxyomenos  it  is  related  that  it 
was  so  great  a  favorite  with  the  people 
that  when,  on  one  occasion,  Tiberius  re- 
moved it  from  the  baths  of  Agrippa  to 
his  own  palace,  the  populace,  at  the  next 
circus  games,  rose  in  a  mass  and  so  vo- 
ciferously demanded  its  return  that  the 
emperor  was  obliged  to  comply.  It  is 
probable,  however,  that  their  conduct 
was  prompted  by  a  feeling  that  his  ac- 
tion was  an  encroachment  upon  their 
rights,  rather  than  by  any  intelligent  ap- 
preciation of  this  masterpiece  itself. 

It  is  estimated  that  the  number  of 
statues  which  had  thus  been  collected  at 
Rome  amounted  to  not  less  than  a  hun- 
dred thousand.  It  might  be  supposed 
that  the  cities  and  shrines .  of  Greece 
were  by  this  time  without  a  deity.  Such 
was  by  no  means  the  case.  Although 
similar  robberies  continued  till  the  reign 
of  Vespasian,  Pliny,  the  contemporary 
of  that  emperor,  declares  that  there  still 
remained  twelve  thousand  works  of 
sculpture  distributed  equally  between 
Athens,  Delphi,  the  island  of  Rhodes, 
and  the  sacred  inclosure  of  Olympia. 
Even  a  century  later  Pausauias  found 
the  Grecian  cities  well  stocked  with  art, 
and  enumerated  more  than  three  hun- 
dred pieces  which  were  then  standing 
at  Olympia.  There  is  nothing,  perhaps, 
which  can  give  us  a  better  conception 
of  the  fertile  genius  of  this  wonderful 
people.  Although  wronged  and  plun- 
dered for  more  than  nine  successive 
generations,  their  possessions  in  marble 
and  bronze  would  still  have  put  to  the 
blush  the  treasures  of  any  modern  coun- 
try, if  we  except  the  productions  of  their 
own  hands  now  garnered  in  the  different 
museums  of  Europe. 


But   it  would  be  wrong   to  suppose 
that  Greece  was  always  pillaged  by  her 
neighbors.     Indeed,  there  seems  never 
to  have  died  out  of  more  generous  minds 
a  certain  chivalrous  feeling  for  that  na- 
tion, which,  above  all  others,  has  been 
the  intellectual  light  of  the  world.   This 
sentiment  was  especially  strong  toward 
Athens,  although  it  was  by  no  means 
limited  to  that  city.     Even  before  the 
Romans  had  set  foot  on  Attic  soil,  At- 
talos,  King  of    Pergamos,  had  erected 
on  the  Acropolis  a  votive  offering,  con- 
sisting of   four  pjastic  groups  :    one  of 
which  represented  the  war  between  the 
gods  and  the  giants ;  a  second,  the  con- 
flict   between    the   Amazons    and   the 
Athenians  ;  a  third,  the  battle  of  Mara- 
thon ;    and  the  fourth,  the  struggle  of 
Attalos  himself  with  the  Gauls.     These 
were  to  be  seen  in  position  as  late  as 
the  fourth  century  after  Christ,  and  ten 
of   the   individual    figures  are  believed 
still   to   exist  in  the  Vatican  museum, 
and  at  Venice,  Naples,  Paris,  and  Aix. 
Antiochus  IV.  of  Syria  not  only  placed 
many  statues  in  the  shrine  of  Apollo  at 
Delos,  but  also  roofed  in  the  Olympieion, 
finished   the   interior    in  a  magnificent 
manner,  and  provided  it  with  an  image 
of  the  god  corresponding  in  size  to  that 
executed  by  Pheidias  at  Olympia.    Oth- 
er  temples    and   secular   edifices   were 
erected  by  various  kings  of  Egypt,  Syria, 
and  Cappadocia.     The   same   spirit   at 
length  began  to  manifest  itself   among 
those    great    plunderers,    the    Romans. 
Appius,  father  of  the  infamous  Clodius, 
constructed  a  portico  at  Eleusis  ;  Cicero 
at  one  time  contemplated  the   erection 
of  a  new  gate  for  the  Athenian  Acade- 
my, a  place  rendered  sacred  to  him  by 
the  memories  of  Plato  and  his  disciples ; 
Pollio   and   Agrippa,   the    favorites   of 
Augustus,  also   contributed   generously 
to    similar    undertakings ;    and    Trajan 
and  Hadrian  returned  to  that  much-pil- 
laged land  many  works  which  had  been 
taken  from  it  by  their  predecessors.     It 
was  the  latter  emperor,  however,  who 


528 


The  Migrations  of  the  Crods. 


[October, 


showed  himself  the  great  friend  of  Hel- 
las. In  this  he  was  influenced  both  by 
a  recollection  of  its  glorious  past  and 
by  a  far-reaching  plan  for  restoring  and 
beautifying  the  cities  of  the  entire  em- 
pire. Of  the  twenty-one  years  of  his 
reign,  fifteen  were  spent  in  visiting  every 
part  of  his  dominions ;  and  wherever  he 
went,  sumptuous  and  useful  monuments 
remained  as  memorials  of  his  munifi- 
cence and  enlightenment.  It  was  but 
natural  that  the  country  of  Perikles 
and  Pheidias  should  receive  the  richest 
favors  of  his  patronage.  At  Athens  he 
built  temples  to  Zeus,  Here,  and  Di- 
onysos,  the  Pantheon  and  the  Stoa  which 
bore  his  name,  besides  greatly  enlarging 
and  adorning  the  Attic  capital  in  other 
respects.  The  Olympieion,  which  had 
been  in  process  of  erection  for  seven 
hundred  years,  was  now  completed  and 
furnished  with  sculptures  in  ivory  and 
gold.  Among  these  was  a  colossal  im- 
age of  Zeus  ;  the  one  placed  there  by 
Antiochus  IV.  having  probably  been 
destroyed  in  the  plunderings  of  near- 
ly three  centuries  which  had  elapsed 
since  that  monarch's  reign.  The  struc- 
ture also  received  many  figures  of  the 
emperor  himself,  dedicated  by  different 
cities  in  his  honor.  The  generosity  and 
zeal  of  Hadrian  awakened  in  the  breasts 
of  the  Greeks  the  hope  that  they  might 
yet  regain  their  former  glory,  and  He- 
rodes  Attikos,  the  celebrated  orator  and 
statesman,  erected  at  his  own  expense 
statues,  theatres,  stadia,  and  similar  monu- 
ments at  Marathon,  in  Athens,  and  other 
towns,  and  in  the  islands  of  the  -SCgean. 
But  it  was  in  vain.  No  second  Hadrian 
arose,  and  art  relapsed  into  decay.  In 
the  fourth  century  it  was  practically 
extinct 

The  change  of  the  seat  of  government 
from  Rome  to  Constantinople  was  the 
signal  for  another  extensive  removal  of 
art.  Statues  were  now  as  much  in  de- 
mand to  beautify  the  seven-hilled  city 
on  the  Bosphorus  as  formerly  to  adorn 
the  seven-hilled  city  on  the  Tiber.  It 


might   have   been   supposed   that  Con- 
stantine  would  employ  for  this  purpose 
the  innumerable  works  which  thronged 
the  streets,  temples,  porticoes,  palaces, 
and  villas  of  the  West.     That  such  was 
not   the   case   is  shown  by  subsequent 
events,  to  which  we  shall  have  occasion 
to  allude,  as  well  as  by  the  discoveries 
which   in   the  last  four  hundred   years 
have  been  made   on  Italian   soil.     His 
aim  seems  rather  to  have  been  to  collect 
the    scattered  remnants  which  still  ex- 
isted in  the  minor  cities  of  the  empire, 
and  to  supplement  them  by  such  addi- 
tions from  Rome  as  would  impart  espe- 
cial dignity  to   the  colonnades  and  fo- 
rums of  his  new  capital.     In  pursuance 
of  this  policy  he  ransacked  the  provinces 
from  end  to  end,  until  there  was  scarce- 
ly an    important   town  which   had  not 
yielded  up  its  possessions  more  or  less 
completely  to  his  hands.    Of  the  statues 
obtained    at    Rome,  sixty  of   the    most 
celebrated  were  assigned  to  the  hippo- 
drome, among  them  the  colossal  Hera- 
kles,  which  Maximus  had  conveyed  to, 
the  capital  on  the  capture  of  Tarentum, 
and  which  remained  thenceforth  undis- 
turbed till  destroyed  by  the  crusaders, 
nearly   nine    centuries   later.     In    that 
part  of  the  hippodrome  where  the  ath- 
letes practiced  were  placed  an  Artemis, 
and  figures  of  pugilists,  wrestlers,  and 
charioteers  almost  without  number.    The 
spina  of  the  racecourse  was  ornamented 
with  the  usual  line  of  altars,  bases,  obe- 
lisks of  marble  and  bronze,  and  columns 
supporting  sculpture.     A  representation 
of  Thessalia  stood  above  the  emperor's 
throne,  another  of  the  Dioscuri  in  the 
surrounding    portico.      The    Sminthian 
Apollo  was  set  up  in  a  different  quarter 
of   the  city,  and  the  celebrated  Muses 
that   had   graced  the    sacred  grove   on 
Mount  Helikon  were  now  employed  to 
adorn  the  imperial  palace.     A  statue  of 
Alexander  the  Great,  which  for  six  cen- 
turies and  a  half  had  been  one  of  the 
treasures  of  Chrysopolis,  on  the  opposite 
shore  of  the  Bosphorus,  was  transferred 


1884.] 


The  Migrations  of  the  Gods. 


529 


to  the  strategion ,  or  public  training-field, 
where  also  was  a  Fortuna  Urbis  holding 
a  horn  of  plenty.  Among  the  works 
brought  from  far-off  Iconium  were  a  well- 
known  Zeus  and  the  Perseus  and  An- 
dromeda that  had  stood  above  the  city 
gate.  The  former  was  placed  in  the  al- 
ready crowded  hippodrome,  the  other 
two  were  conveyed  to  the  baths  of  Con- 
stantine.  The  forum  received  a  Fortuna 
Urbis  and  a  Kybele,  probably  of  mar- 
ble, which,  with  a  statue  of  Jason,  had 
been  dedicated  by  seamen  on  Mount 
Dindyrnos,  overlooking  the  ancient  city 
of  Kyzikos.  By  changing  the  hands 
of  the  goddess  and  removing  the  lions 
which  are  her  ordinary  attributes,  the 
Kybele,  however,  was  made  over  into 
a  praying  woman.  In  the  forum  Con- 
stantine  also  erected  his  great  porphyry 
pillar,  which  was  eleven  feet  in  diam- 
eter and  over  eighty-six  feet  in  height. 
The  shaft  consisted  of  eight  sections, 
the  joints  being  concealed  by  laurel 
wreaths  of  bronze,  and  the  whole  was 
so  enormously  heavy  that  three  years 
are  said  to  have  been  consumed  in  trans- 
porting it  from  Rome.  The  column 
was  surmounted  by  a  bronze  figure  of 
Apollo,  whose  head  was  surrounded  by 
a  circle  of  rays  made  of  the  nails  used 
to  fasten  the  body  of  Christ  to  the  cross. 
This  was  dedicated  to  the  emperor  him- 
self, to  typify  his  character  as  giving 
light  to  the  city.  By  some  it  was  said 
to  have  been  brought  from  ancient  Ilion ; 
by  others  to  have  come  from  Athens, 
and  to  have  been  a  work  of  Pheidias. 
Such  statements  merit  little  attention. 
From  Delphi  Constantine  obtained  an- 
other image  of  Apollo,  probably  erected 
to  replace  the  one  carried  off  by  Nero, 
and  also  the  great  tripod,  some  fifteen 
feet  in  height,  which  after  the  battle  of 
Platsea  the  allied  Greeks  had  made  from 
the  Persian  spoils  and  consecrated  to 
the  son  of  Leto.  This  magnificent  of- 
fering consisted  of  a  large  golden  bowl 
supported  between  the  heads  of  three 
intertwined  serpents  of  bronze,  on  the 
VOL.  LIV.  —  NO.  324.  34 


coils  of  which  were  inscribed  the  names 
of  the  states  that  had  assisted  in  repel- 
ling the  invaders.  The  bowl  was  melted 
and  coined  into  money  when  the  Pho- 
kians  plundered  the  temple  in  the  second 
sacred  war  ;  but  the  standard  was  left 
uninjured,  and,  with  the  statue  of  the 
god,  was  placed  by  Constantine  in  the 
hippodrome.  The  heads  of  the  serpents 
were  broken  off  long  ago,  —  probably 
by  the  Turks,  whose  religion  forbids  the 
representation  of  animate  objects,  —  and 
the  debris  of  centuries  gradually  accu- 
mulated around  the  base  to  the  height 

o 

of  about  ten  feet.  It  was  at  length  ex- 
humed in  1855  by  Mr.  Charles  T.  New- 
ton, of  the  British  Museum,  its  folds  re- 
taining, still  distinctly  legible,  the  list  of 
states  engraved  upon  it,  the  whole  hav- 
ing been  preserved  from  injury  by  the 
earth  that  had  hidden  it  from  view.. 
There  it  may  yet  be  seen  amid  the 
strange  surroundings  of  the  Moslem 
capital,  one  of  the  most  venerable  relics 
of  the  past,  which  for  more  than  twenty- 
three  hundred  years  has  stood  in  silent 
but  eloquent  commemoration  of  the  glo<- 
rious  deeds  of  "  old  Plata3a's  day,"  — 
doubly  precious  because  so  few  monu* 
ments  of  its  kind  have  come  down  to 
modern  times.  The  lines  of  Byron  on 
the  field  of  Marathon  express  a  well- 
nigh  universal  truth  in  regard  to  the 
\visible  tokens  of  those  great  achieve- 
ments whose  memory  has  become  the 
heritage  of  all  succeeding  ages  :  — 

"  The  flying  Mede,  his  shaftless,  broken  bow, 
The  fiery  Greek,  his  red  pursuing  spear, 
Mountains  above,  earth's,  ocean's  plain  below, 
Death  in  the  front,  destruction  in  the  rear,  — 
Such  was  the  scene.    What  now  remaineth  here  ? 
"What  sacred  trophy  marks  the  hallowed  ground, 
Recording  Freedom's  smile  and  Asia's  tear? 
The  rifled  urn,  the  violated  mound, 
The   dust  thy  courser's  hoof,  proud  stranger, 
spurns  around." 

But  Constantine  was  not  content  to 
be  merely  a  collector.  He  caused  no 
less  than  thirty  new  works  to  be  erected 
in  the  forum,  and  there  is  reason  to  be- 
lieve that  other  parts  of  the  city  were 
similarly  embellished  with  such  crea- 


530 


The  Migrations  of  the  Gods. 


[October, 


tioiis  as  the  expiring  genius  of  antiquity 
was  able  to  produce.  It  is  probable 
that  these,  with  the  exception  of  a  few 
religious  subjects,  were  nearly  all  por- 
trait figures,  as  also  were  multitudes  of 
those  secured  by  him  and  later  emper- 
ors in  various  parts  of  the  world.  Of 
such  in  general  our  space  forbids  us  to 
speak. 

The  task  of  providing  the  city  with 
statues  was  continued  by  Constantine's 
successors.     We  read  of   eleven  which 
were  removed  from  Rome  in  the  con- 
sulship of  Julian.     One  of  these,  a  Her- 
cules, found  shelter  in  the  Cistern  Basil- 
ica, but  was  afterward  transferred  to  the 
hippodrome.    Four  horses  of  gilt  bronze 
were  secured   in    Chios   by  Theodosius 
the  Younger,  who    also    obtained  from 
the  temple  of  Ares  at  Athens  the  ele- 
phants which  stood  at  the  Golden  Gate. 
According  to  another  account,  these  were 
original  works,  made  in  Constantinople 
to  represent  animals  on  which  the  em- 
peror had  ridden  into  the  city.     Justin- 
ian placed  above  the  arch  in  front  of 
the  Chalke,  or  vestibule  of  the  palace, 
four    Gorgon's   heads  and   two   bronze 
horses  which  had  belonged  to  the  tem- 
ple of  Artemis  at  Ephesus.     Constans 
II.,  in  the  middle  of   the  seventh  cen- 
tury, is  said  to  have  carried  away  from 
Rome  all  the  sculpture  of  marble  and 
bronze,  and  all  the  most  beautiful  orna- 
ments of  the  temples,  and  to  have  com- 
mitted greater  depredations  in  one  week 
than  the  barbarians   had   done   in  two 
centuries  and  a  half.     A  large  part  of 
these  treasures  was  lost  in  a  storm  in 
the  Straits  of  Messina.     The  statement 
of  his  plunderings  is  without  doubt  ex- 
aggerated, since  many  of   the  choicest 
plastic   monuments    of    antiquity   have 
been   found   among   the  Roman   ruins. 
The  Eastern  emperors,  indeed,  felt  no 
direct  antipathy  toward  the  city  of  Rom- 
ulus.    Though  choosing  Constantinople 
as  the  place  of  their  abode,  they  were, 
as  a  class,  men  of  too  much  enlighten- 
ment to  devastate  the  ancient  capital,  or 


allow  it  to  fall  into  decay.  Constantius, 
the  son  of  Constantine,  on  visiting  Italy 
twenty  years  after  his  father's  death, 
was  so  impressed  by  the  august  and 
massive  greatness  of  those  structures 
that  have  ever  since  been  the  wonder 
of  mankind  that  he  transported  to  the 
Circus  Maximus  the  obelisk  of  Thebes, 
which  Constantine  had  brought  down 
the  Nile  to  adorn  some  one  of  the  By- 
zantine forums.  This  monument,  the 
largest  of  existing  monoliths,  now  sur- 
veys the  modern  world  from  the  piazza 
of  the  Lateran. 

Thus  fostered  by  its  rulers,  Constan- 
tinople had  become  not  only  an  elegant 
city,  but  a  vast  magazine  of  art.    It  con- 
tained no  less  than  five  palaces,  fourteen 
churches,  two  public  baths,  two  basilicas, 
four  forums,  two  senate-houses,  two  the- 
atres, a  hippodrome  or  circus,  and  fifty- 
two  porticoes.     Of  the  latter,  the  four 
erected  by  Euboulos,  in  the  time  of  Con- 
stantine, were  lofty  and  extensive  colon- 
nades, supporting  each  a  platform  paved 
with  slabs  of  hewn  stone,  and  forming  a 
magnificent  promenade.    They  may  find 
illustration  at   the  present   day  in    the 
Grand  Marble  Terrace  at  Genoa,  which, 
lifted  above  the  arcades  of  the  Via  Carlo 
Alberto,  extends  a  third  of   a  mile  in 
length  and  sixty  feet  in  width,  and  over- 
looks the  busy  harbor  of  the  Ligurian 
Gulf.     But,  unlike  it,  the  porticoes  of 
Euboulos  were  ornamented  with  count- 
less bronzes,  and  when  covered  with  gay 
throngs  of  pleasure-seekers,  sauntering 
listlessly  in  the  clear,  delicate  atmosphere 
of  the  Byzantine  capital,  must  have  pre- 
sented a  scene  capable  of  awakening  the 
admiration  of  the  dullest  eye.     Statues, 
too,   were    set   along   all    the  principal 
streets,  and  in  the   theatres,  baths,  pal- 
aces, and  even  churches.     A  Diana  and 
Venus  were  placed  in  the  great  senate- 
house,  which  was  also  well  stocked  with 
works  in  porphyry  and  bronze ;  and  an- 
other Diana  in   the  Xerolophos,  after- 
wards known  as  the  forum  of  Theodo- 
sius or  Arcadius.     The  forum  of  Con" 


1884.] 


The  Migrations  of  the  Gods. 


531 


stantine  was  adorned  with  an  Amphitrite, 
sirens,  the  Ephesian  Artemis,  Poseidon, 
several  figures  of  Pan,  and  giraffes,  cen- 
taurs, and  tigers.  A  suburb  of  the  city 
took  its  name  from  a  Daphne  which  had 
been  brought  from  Rome  ;  a  very  an- 
cient Kybele  stood  in  a  shrine  in  one  of 
the  porticoes  of  the  Forum  Augusteum, 
a  statue  of  Alexander  the  Great  in  the 
Pittakion,  others  of  Jupiter  and  Saturn 
in  the  citadel ;  while  by  the  horologium 
of  the  forum  a  Minerva  of  silver  was  to 
be  seen  as  late  as  the  eleventh  or  twelfth 
century.  In  the  place  known  as  the 
Amastrianum  were  a  reclining  Hercules 
and  the  great  temple  of  Sol  and  Luna, 
whose  images  the  unsuspecting  Kedrenos 
declares  to  have  been  by  the  hand  of 
Pheidias.  A  head  of  Apollo,  said  to  have 
been  by  the  same  artist,  was  in  existence 
until  the  latter  half  of  the  twelfth  cen- 
tury. In  the  hippodrome,  besides  the 
works  already  mentioned  as  referable  to 
earlier  emperors,  were  a  seated  Minerva, 
a  Felicitas,  and  a  bronze  Sol  borne  in  a 
chariot ;  in  the  Forum  Tauri,  a  reposing 
Hercules,  representations  of  swine,  and 
the  colossal  bull  from  which  the  square 
derived  its  name.  In  the  Milion  —  a 
building  so  called  because  it  contained  a 
column  covered  with  a  network  of  gold, 
from  which,  as  from  the  milliarium  au- 
reum  at  Rome,  distances  were  reckoned 
-  were  to  be  found,  among  other  highly 
esteemed  productions,  two  bronze  ele- 
phants, a  much  venerated  kneeling  Her- 
cules, and  a  Fortuna  Urbis ;  the  latter, 
by  a  strange  mixture  of  paganism  and 
Christianity,  being  chained  to  a  large 
cross.  The  baths  of  Zeuxippos,  erected 
by  Severus  after  his  destruction  of  the 
city  in  196  A.  D.,  and  embellished  by 
Constantine  and  later  emperors,  were 
crowded  with  statues  of  the  great  heroes, 
heroines,  statesmen,  philosophers,  his- 
torians, orators,  poets,  and  poetesses  of 
Greece,  a  few  portraits  of  famous  Ro- 
mans, and  images  of  Apollo,  Poseidon, 
Hermes,  Artemis,  and  Aphrodite;  some 
of  marble,  others  of  bronze,  and  all 


of  such  beauty  and  excellence  that,  in 
the  language  of  the  old  chroniclers,  they 
failed  of  perfection  only  in  not  being  en- 
dowed with  life.  This  testimony  we  may 
accept  with  a  good  degree  of  confidence. 
The  names  of  the  works,  as  given  in  the 
list  of  Kedrenos,  compel  us  to  regard 
them  as  included  in  the  number  of  those 
which  were  collected  from  the  Hellenic 
cities  of  Europe  and  Asia  Minor,  and 
hence  as  by  Grecian  artists.  This  mag- 
nificent collection  also  contained  an  im- 
mense number  of  engraved  gems,  and  an 
extensive  series  of  bronze  busts  of  re- 
nowned personages  of  former  times.  In 
the  edifice  known  as  the  Lausos  was 
preserved  the  Athene  of  Lindos,  whose 
epithet,  Laossoos,  the  Arouser  of  the 
People,  probably  gave  name  to  the 
building.  The  statue  was  of  emerald, 
six  feet  in  height,  and  was  reputed  to 
be  by  the  early  masters,  Dipoinos  and 
Skyllis.  Here,  also,  are  said  to  have 
been  the  Knidian  Aphrodite  of  Prax- 
iteles, the  Samian  Here  and  a  supposed 
Kronos  of  Lysippos,  the  winged  Eros 
from  Myndos,  and  the  Olympian  Zeus 
of  Pheidias.  The  names  given  by  By- 
zantine writers,  however,  are  to  be  taken 
with  more  or  less  distrust.  The  identity 
of  early  productions  was  involved  in 
much  uncertainty  even  in  antiquity,  and 
this  uncertainty  increased  with  every 
century.  In  the  case  of  the  Olympian 
Zeus  it  was  especially  easy  to  confound 
the  chef-d'oeuvre  of  the  age  of  Perikles 
with  the  image  erected  by  Hadrian  in 
the  Olympieion  at  Athens.  Still,  as 
regards  the  figure  which  stood  in  the 
Lausos,  it  may  be  said  that  Constantine 
or  his  successors  would  hardly  have 
been  content  to  secure  in  Greece  th^ 
later  and  less  valuable  work,  while  leav- 
ing: behind  that  matchless  creation  of 

o 

which  the  whole  world  had  been  talking 
for  seven  hundred  years,  and  which  it 
was  considered  a  misfortune  to  die  with- 
out having  seen.  The  probability  is, 
therefore,  that  it  was  this  masterpiece 
of  which  the  Lausos  had  a  right  to  boast. 


532 


The  Migrations  of  the  G-ods. 


[October, 


Some  conception  of  the  amount  of  sculp- 
ture at  Constantinople  may  be  formed 
from  the  fact  that  when  Justinian  re- 
built the  church  of  St.  Sophia  he  found 
in  its  area  alone  no  less  than  five  hun- 
dred and  seven  statues,  of  which  eighty 
were  portraits  of  Christian  kings,  and 
the  rest  antique.  The  greater  part,  in- 
deed, were  of  pure  Greek  origin,  and 
over  seventy  were  of  Hellenic  gods  and 
goddesses.  These  were  all  distributed 
in  various  quarters  of  the  city.  Euse- 
bius,  in  his  Life  of  Con stan tine,  says 
that  the  Eastern  capital  was  everywhere 
filled  with  elegant  bronzes  which  had 
once  been  scattered  throughout  the 
provinces  of  the  empire.  Later  emper- 
ors continued  feebly  to  protect  these, 
and  to  employ  them  in  adorning  new 
structures  which  they  erected  ;  but  the 
creative  power  and  impulse  were  alike 
dead,  and  the  discriminating  faculty  was 
no  longer  able  to  distinguish  between 
masterly  excellence  and  the  veriest  of 
rubbish. 

After  the  fall  of  Rome  the  taste  for 
the  beautiful  constantly  sank  lower  and 
lower  in  the  West,  until  marble  statues 
were  not  considered  worth  the  stealing. 
With  figures  of  silver,  gold,  and  bronze 
the  case  was  different,  though  even 
these  were  valued  chiefly  for  the  old 
metal  contained  in  them.  With  art  as 
art  the  mediaeval  world  had  little  to  do. 
Europe  had  been  overrun  by  the  bar- 
barian nations,  and  society  everywhere 
was  in  a  state  of  restless  ferment.  Life 
was  a  serious  business,  and  the  problems 
which  it  presented  for  solution  left  no 
time  to  be  bestowed  upon  the  elegant 
trivialities  of  Greek  painters  and  sculp- 
tors. Still,  such  works  as  had  survived 
the  calamities  of  war  and  the  iconoclasm 
of  over-zealous  Christians  apparently 
remained  undisturbed  for  the  greater 
portion  of  the  Middle  Ages,  mankind 
no  longer  concerning  itself  with  them 
either  one  way  or  another.  If  they 
stood,  they  stood ;  if  they  tottered  from 
their  bases  through  decay,  or  were  over- 


thrown by  accident  or  malice,  they  were 
allowed  to  lie  where  they  fell,  till  cov- 
ered up  by  the  drifting  sand  which  no 
one  cared  to  sweep  from  above  them. 
Indeed,  so  little  were  they  prized  that 
they  were  often  broken  to  pieces  to  serve 
the  purposes  of  ordinary  stone  or  to  be 
burned  into  lime,  though  it  was  only  in 
the  centuries  immediately  preceding  the 
modern  period  that  anything  like  whole- 
sale destruction  was  begun. 

O 

Of  more  recent  plunderings  there  is 
little  to  be  said.  The  reader  will  re- 
member the  rapacity  of  Bonaparte  in 
the  campaign  of  1796,  when  he  extorted 
from  the  helpless  Pius  VI.  a  hundred 
of  the  choicest  paintings  and  statues  in 
Italy ;  and  again  in  the  following  year, 
when  the  Vatican  and  other  celebrated 
galleries  were  mercilessly  robbed  to 
supply  the  needs  of  the  Musee  Napo- 
leon. Among  the  treasures  thus  car- 
ried off  were  the  bronze  horses  of  St. 
Mark's,  which  adorned  the  triumphal 
arch  of  the  Place  du  Carrousel  until 
returned  to  the  Venetians  by  the  Em- 
peror Francis  in  1815.  From  the  ill- 
fated  Parthenon,  in  addition  to  the  Elgin 
Marbles  now  in  London,  numerous  frag- 
ments have  been  conveyed  to  Paris, 
Vienna,  Baden,  Copenhagen,  and  other 
places,  where  they  may  still  be  found. 

To  discuss  the  various  removals  of 
sculpture  in  modern  times  would  take 
us  beyond  the  limits  of  the  present  arti- 
cle, involving,  as  it  would,  an  account 
of  the  discovery  of  the  principal  works, 
the  founding  of  the  great  European 
museums,  and  the  variations  of  owner- 
ship dependent  on  gift,  purchase,  or  in- 
heritance. So  extensive  have  these 
changes  been  that  it  is  often  impossible 
to  locate  with  certainty  statues  described 
by  Winckelmann,  Visconti,  Clarac,  and 
other  writers  of  a  generation  or  two  ago. 
The  antiquities  of  the  Giustiniani  Pal- 
ace have  in  part  been  left  undisturbed, 
in  part  have  been  taken  to  the  Vatican,  in 
part  have  become  the  property  of  Prince 
Torlonia.  Of  those  formerly  in  the  Far- 


1884.] 


A  Bourgeois  Family. 


533 


nese  Palace,  some  are  now  in  the  museum 
of  Naples,  others  in  England.  The  pos- 
sessions of  the  Villa  Campana  have  been 
transferred  to  St.  Petersburg  and  Paris, 
those  of  the  Villa  Negroni  to  Paris  and 
England.  Of  the  two  hundred  and  nine- 
ty-four statues  of  the  Villa  Albani,  which 
were  seized  and  sent  to  France  by  Na- 
poleon, all  except  a  relief  of  Antinous 
were  sold  there  by  Cardinal  Albani,  on 
their  restoration  in  1815,  to  avoid  the 
enormous  expense  of  carrying  them  back 
to  Italy.  In  the  future,  as  in  the  past, 


similar  vicissitudes  will  of  course  occur, 
as  family  lines  become  extinct,  or  the 
loss  of  wealth  compels  the  sale  of  pri- 
vate collections,  to  retrieve  the  shattered 
fortunes  of  their  owners.  Only  when 
all  the  products  of  the  ancient  chisel 
have  been  gathered  into  national  galler- 
ies, like  the  British  Museum,  the  Lou- 
vre, and  the  Glyptothek  of  Munich,  can 
they  expect  to  find  a  permanent  and  set- 
tled abode.  For  the  benefit  of  all  stu- 
dents and  lovers  of  art,  let  us  hope  that 
this  may  be  at  no  distant  day. 

William  Shields  Liscomb. 


A  BOURGEOIS   FAMILY. 

WITH  feelings  anything  but  jubilant  and  covered  with  gray  moss  and  strag- 

we  received  our  first  impressions  of  the  gling  ivy.  Gothic  spires  rose  above  the 

interieur  in  which  we  had  engaged  to  roofs,  time-worn  and  gray  ;  picturesque 

pass  several  months.  And  yet  the  priv-  ruins,  with  voluminously  draped  Virgins 

ilege  of  entering  thus  a  French  house-  flaunting  gaudy  raiment  from  gabled 

hold  was  one  not  to  be  found  every  and  cusped  niches,  gathered  close  upon 

day  ;  was  one  that  we  had  searched  for,  the  quays.  The  abrupt  cote,  rising  like 

plotted  and  manoeuvred  for,  ever  since  a  background  of  solid  emerald  behind 

we  had  been  in  provincial  France,  and  the  town,  was  crowned  with  even  greater 

one  which  we  had  finally  obtained  only  antiquity,  and  from  its  summit  grim, 

by  means  of  the  quiet  treachery  of  one  fortress-like  Norman  walls  looked  down 

member  of  the  family  to  the  rigid  prin-  upon  the  Gothic  airiness  below  as  a 

ciple  of  exclusion  and  seclusion  which  septuagenarian  might  gaze  upon  the 

governed  the  rest.  youthful  frivolity  of  half  a  century. 

That  we  had  no  choice  in  families  Through  the  dusky  streets  fishers' 
bourgeoises  goes  without  saying.  It  was  wives,  in  gay  kerchiefs,  profuse  petti- 
Hobson's  choice,  and  one  which  we  coats,  and  clanking  sabots,  cried  their 
ought  to  be  thankful  for.  So  we  were,  glistening  merchandise.  Norman  peas- 
later,  when  we  found  our  French  speech  ant  women,  in  tall  snowy  caps  and  russet- 
becoming  glib,  and  our  manners  un-  hued  garments,  drove  in  from  outlying 
bending  from  their  Anglo-Saxon  stiff-  farms  donkey  carts  laden  with  brilliant 
ness  into  something  of  the  suppleness  fruit  and  vegetables.  Foreign-looking 
and  suavity  of  those  around  us ;  but  sailors  and  native  fishermen,  almost  as 
that  time  of  thankfulness  seemed  some-  bronzed  and  as  jeweled  as  the  sailors, 
what  remote  as  we  received  our  first  loitered  and  basked  in  the  sunshine, 
impressions.  Even  the  bourgeois  element  (there  is  no 

The  seaport  town  was  centuries  old  aristocracy  in  that  sleepy,  provincial 

and  marvelously  quaint.  Its  appearance  town),  with  its  dress  of  yesterday  and 

from  the  sea  was  a  cluster  of  colorful  its  dull,  listless  air,  seemed  entirely  of 

walls  steeped  in  antiquity,  high-roofed,  another  race  and  world  from  the  gay  and 


534 


A  Bourgeois  Family. 


[October, 


bustling  Parisians  upon  whom  we  had 
founded  our  knowledge  of  French  life 
and  character. 

As  we  turned  away  from  all  this  pic- 
turesqueness,  it  was  with  something  of 
a  shock  that  we  faced  the  interieur  that 
was  to  be  our  temporary  home.  There 
was  nothing  picturesque  about  it;  for 
what  in  the  heavens  above,  in  the  earth 
beneath,  or  in  the  waters  under  the 
earth  can  be  less  picturesque  than  pro- 
vincial bourgeoisism  ?  Peasant  homes 
are  picturesque,  although  comfortless, 
and  a  beauty-loving  temperament  can 
find  some  compensation  for  chill  and 
gloom,  dampness  and  disorder,  in  quaint 
irregularity  of  forms,  the  half  mystery 
of  unwindowed  and  noontide  twilight, 
the  antiquity  of  household  gods  handed 
down  from  one  generation  to  another 
with  religious  care.  Provincial  bour- 
geoisism, dressed  by  cheap  tailors  and 
dressmakers,  its  interieurs  furnished 
from  vulgar  modern  shops,  —  what  can 
be  more  bourgeois  ?  Not  even  the  cab- 
bage roses  and  sad  haircloth  of  Amer- 
ican rural  "  best  rooms  "  are  less  beau- 
tiful than  the  waxed  or  painted  floors 
with  showy,  rectangular  tapis  in  their 
centre,  the  stiff  and  ghostly  chairs  and 
tables  from  the  first  empire,  the  wax 
fruit,  paper  roses,  atrocious  pictures, 
china  vases,  superabundant  gilt  clocks, 
and  mantel  statuettes  in  painted  faience 
of  French  provincial  middle  life. 

Our  household  was  more  interesting 
than  many,  for  the  reason  that  it  repre- 
sented an  unusual  blending  of  social  dis- 
tinctions, a  coming  together  of  two  dif- 
ferent strains,  and  a  consequent  uneasy 
position  between  the  upper  strata  of  the 
unconventional  basse  classe  and  the  low- 
er of  the  respectable  and  priggish  bour- 
geoisie. One  grandfather  had  lived  in 
a  chateau  (his  own  by  purchase,  not  by 
heritage),  as  we  were  soon  told.  The 
other  had  commanded  a  fishing-boat,  as 
we  more  tardily  learned  from  the  in- 
discreet revelations  of  the  garret.  The 
chatelain's  daughter  invested  her  reduced 


fortune  in  a  trimming-shop,  and  the  fish- 
erman's sou  put  his  into  an  education. 
By  the  marriage  of  the  fisherman's  so- 
cially promoted  son  and  the  chatelain's 
socially  descended  daughter  the  trim- 
ming-shop was  turned  into  a  cheap  board- 
ing-school, patronized  mostly  by  fisher- 
men's sons,  peasants'  sons,  and  the  sons 
of  town  butchers  and  shoemakers.  The 
fisherman's  son  and  the  chatelain's  daugh- 
ter had  long  ago  accomplished  their  war- 
fare with  life,  with  poverty,  with  baffled 
ambitions,  and,  if  truth  must  be  told, 
with  each  other,  and  for  years  had  slept 
in  one  grave  in  the  parish  cemetery. 
The  boarding-school  had  been  turned 
into  money,  and  upon  that  feeble  sum, 
supplemented  by  the  trifling  wage  en- 
joyed by  one  of  the  sons  as  a  govern- 
ment employe,  lived  the  celibate  family 
whose  interieur  received  us. 

There  were  four  in  the  family,  one 
brother  and  three  sisters :  all  between 
thirty  and  forty  years  of  age ;  all  with 
nerves  and  red  hair ;  all  unselfishly  de- 
voted to  each  other,  making,  three  of 
them  at  least,  every  sacrifice  one  for 
another ;  but  all  manifesting  this  unusual 
affection  by  what  seemed  to  our  calmer 
though  perhaps  not  better  tempers  the 
fiercest  and  most  persistent  quarreling 
possible  to  human  nature.  Often  and 
often,  as  we  have  sat  at  meat  with  them, 
has  some  trifling  discussion  arisen,  a 
cloud  no  bigger  than  a  man's  hand  in 
its  first  threatening,  but  swelling  almost 
instantly  to  such  a  tempest  of  tempers 
and  tornado  of  words  that  first  one  has 
flown  away  from  the  table  in  a  rage, 
then  another,  another,  and  another,  till, 
in  the  lull  which  followed  the  banging  of 
doors  and  the  shouting  of  recriminations 
through  keyholes,  we  two  Americans 
have  sat  smiling  alone,  sole  possessors 
of  the  table.  Ten,  perhaps  five,  minutes 
later  the  flushed  and  disheveled  bellig- 
erents would  return  one  by  one  to  their 
places,  and  the  repast  would  finish  amid 
a  most  beatific  atmosphere  of  family 
affection.  It  was  a  usual  occurrence, 


A  Bourgeois  Family.  535 

on  my  return  from  an  absence  of  a  few  serene  even  if  duller  monotony  of  our 
days,  to  find  the  key  of  my  room  miss-  days,  I  believe.  The  dry,  feverish  skins 
ing.  Inquiry  would  invariably  reveal  the  and  drawn  faces  of  the  sisters,  each  pre- 
fact  that  during  a  volcanic  eruption  one  maturely  aged,  showed  the  physical  ef- 
of  the  sisters  had  flown  to  my  room  and  fects  of  this  uncomfortable  vivacity  of 
locked  herself  in  from  the  others.  As  temper  and  utter  want  of  self-control 
soon  as  the  elemental  chaos  had  subsid-  which  are  such  marked  characteristics, 
ed,  and  the  locked-in  sister  had  emerged  not  only  of  our  particular  family,  but  of 
from  her  retreat,  one  of  the  others  the  whole  French  race.  The  French  are 
would  possess  herself  of  my  key  and  a  demonstrative  people,  whose  life  is 
hide  it,  that  she  might  another  time  largely  emotional,  and  who  regard  moral 
have  easier  access  to  her  sister's  ear,  and  discipline  and  self-control  chiefly  as  an 
not  be  again  forced  to  scream  sisterly  English  folly.  French  children  rarely 
vituperations  through  a  keyhole.  That  learn  the  moral  weight  arid  significance 
keys  were  scarce  in  our  house  is  easy  to  of  self-control,  arid  when  it  is  taught  at 
believe  !  all  it  is  merely  as  a  matter  of  social  con- 
Once  we  sat  in  the  little  salon  quietly  venience  and  convention,  —  one  of  exte- 
entertaining  a  friend.  Suddenly  we  rior  politeness  and  not  of  spiritual  cul- 
heard  the  family  vials  uncorked  in  an  ture  and  harmony.  Conscience  is  not 
adjacent  room,  and  the  family  wrath  hiss  developed  among  them,  —  conscience  is 
and  fume  after  the  customary  fashion,  not  a  personal  possession  in  the  Roman 
Suddenly  the  salon  door  was  violently  Catholic  Church,  —  and  to  be  agreeable 
thrown  open,  and  a  distracted  figure  is  greater  in  France  than  to  be  good. 
rushed  through  the  room  and  out  at  an-  Thus  the  French  are  fussily  polite  away 
other  door.  This  was  Mademoiselle  Ma-  from  their  interieurs,  while  in  them  they 
rie,  from  whom  Mademoiselle  Juliette  live  in  an  incessant  restlessness  of  emo- 
had  taken  refuge  in  a  locked  room,  and  tions,  good  and  bad.  Emotional  expau- 
upon  whom  Marie  stole  a  march  by  siveness  and  freedom  are  sometimes 
descending  upon  her  unprotected  rear  good  to  see,  but  the  self-restraint  of  our 
through  the  unguarded  salon  door.  more  conscientiously  introspective  north- 
One  only  of  such  quarrels  as  these  ern  temperament  is  safer  and  surer  to 
would,  I  am  convinced,  leave  gall  enough  live  and  die  with.  There  may  be  fewer 
in  our  less  effusive  and  more  vindictive  kisses  and  cooler  embraces  with  us,  but 
natures  to  spoil  the  beauty  of  affection  likewise  fewer  stinging  words  and  breezy 
forever.  But  with  our  deep  resentment  recriminations. 

for  insulting  words,  we  know  better  than  Our  first  impression  (and  our  last)  of 
to  use  them  ;  with  a  capacity  for  undy-  the  house  we  were  to  enter  was  of  a 
ing  anger  in  ourselves,  we  refrain  from  blank  and  staring  white  modern  wall, 
arousing  it  in  others ;  and  realizing  that  entirely  devoid  of  architectural  decora- 
dissension  is  a  most  serious  thing,  we  tion,  standing  by  itself  in  an  uninter- 
avoid  it  with  the  awe  and  trembling  we  esting  street,  —  one  of  the  new  streets 
yield  to  all  tragic  powers.  Did  we  con-  upon  which  the  inhabitants  prided  them- 
aider  all  this  as  but  the  temporary  at-  selves  as  proof  that  their  town  was  not 
mospheric  disturbance  —  electrical  and  falling  into  decay.  There  was  not  one 
painful  while  it  lasts,  but  swiftly  pass-  inch  of  garden  space  about  it,  and  the 
ing  -  -  that  our  French  friends  do,  doubt-  narrow  front  door  opened  directly  from 
less  our  lives  would  witness  the  same  the  street  into  a  long,  dark  entry,  from 
interminable  succession  of  scorching  ty-  which  ascended  long,  dark  stairs.  A 
phoons  and  balmy  calms,  which  would  grocer's  shop  and  an  etude  d'huissier 
hardly  be  an  advantage  over  the  more  occupied  the  ground  floor,  while  the  real 


536 


A  Bourgeois  Family. 


[October, 


dwelling  began  only  at  the  top  of  the 
staircase.  Such,  as  is  well  known,  is 
the  habit  of  France,  and  the  most  ele- 
gant of  town  and  city  appartements  are 
often  over  shops  and  offices.  French  ap- 
partements usually  extend  over  but  one 
floor,  and  a  flight  of  stairs  within  an 
appartement  is  almost  unknown.  I  re- 
member how  astonished  we  were,  after 
years  of  Continental  life,  at  the  extreme 
neighborly  familiarity  which  seemed  to 
exist  in  London  houses. 

*'  Why,  maman,"  said  Charlie,  "  they 
are  all  over  each  other's  appartements, 
exactly  as  if  chez  eux !  One  sees  the 
same  faces  at  the  windows,  upstairs, 
downstairs,  and  in  my  lady's  chamber  ! ' 
It  was  only  with  an  effort  that  maman 
herself  remembered  that  English  fam- 
ilies, like  American,  usually  live  not 
upon  one  floor,  but  all  over  the  house. 

Our  house,  however,  was  owned  by 
its  occupants,  and  entirely  occupied  by 
them.  It  was  large,  light,  and  airy,  with 
wide  French  windows,  light  -  papered 
walls,  and  earthen-tiled  floors.  It  was 
somewhat  raggedly  furnished,  —  that  is, 
ragged  in  effect,  not  in  fact ;  for  un- 
mendedness  was  an  abomination  in  the 
eyes  of  the  thrifty  sisters.  Everything 
was  whole,  but  most  things  were  thread- 
bare. There  were  a  few  heirlooms,  such 
as  carved  bedsteads,  handsome  plate,  and 
massive  bureaux.  The  salon  curtains 
were  chatelaine  grandmamma's  cashmere 
shawls  ;  the  table  cover  was  a  patchwork 
of  several  generations  of  silk  and  vel- 
vet gowns ;  the  bit  of  square  tapis  was 
cheap  and  worn  ;  there  was  no  sofa  ;  the 
chairs  were  rickety,  modern,  and  mean. 
The  bed-rooms  were  cheerful  and  the 
beds  luxurious,  but  the  toilet  conven- 
iences were  scarcely  less  primitive  than 
those  of  a  prairie  farm-house,  and  the 
carpets  patched  and  darned.  The  small 
dining-room,  except  for  a  magnificent 
buffet,  was  of  Spartan  simplicity,  as  was 
the  boudoir,  where  the  sewing-machine 
stood. 

There  were  twelve  dozen  dozens  of 


sheets  in  the  overflowing  presses,  and 
as  many  pillow-cases.  Of  tablecloths 
and  towels  there  seemed  to  be  no  end, 
and  I  could  hardly  find  a  place  to  hang 
up  a  garment  because  of  the  insolent 
ubiquity  of  packed  piles  of  napkins. 
This  wealth  of  napery  had  not  been  a 
parti  pris,  but  was  the  accumulation  of 
various  heritages.  One  grand-uncle,  dy- 
ing at  ninety-two,  had  left  seven  hundred 
sheets  to  be  divided  among  his  heirs  ! 
In  our  family  was  a  special  shelf  set 
aside  for  linen  "  in  use,"  and  when  a 
guest  came  who  passed  perhaps  two 
nights,  perhaps  only  one,  in  a  year  in 
our  house,  the  bed  linen  which  he  had 
used  during  the  last  visit,  ticketed  with 
his  name  and  the  date  of  that  event,  was 
brought  down  from  its  shelf  in  the  gar- 
ret !  Napery  in  bourgeois  families  is 
a  property,  like  houses  and  land.  Its 
owner  never  expects  to  wear  his  stock 
out,  but  to  reckon  it  always  a  part  of 
his  wealth  and  important  assets  of  his 
estate  at  death. 

The  old  fashioned,  coarse,  and  clumsy 
under-linen  of  the  sisters  was  in  scarcely 
less  profusion.  Some  of  it  had  descended 
from  the  chatelaine  grandmother,  some 
was  woven  by  the  piscatorial  ancestress. 
This  stock  was  held  in  common,  as  was 
every  other  right  and  possession  of  the 
establishment.  Only  the  solitary  brother 
has  a  right  to  say  "  ma  chemise  ;  "  those 
garments  in  feminine  form  being  not  in- 
dividual possessions,  but  common  prop- 
erty, always  spoken  of  as  nuns  in  con- 
vents refer  to  theirs,  not  as  "  ma  che- 
mise" but  "  une  de  nos  chemises" 

One  of  the  sisters,  Juliette,  had  been 
eighteen  months  a  governess  in  Eng- 
land. With  the  sharp  but  excessively 
limited  powers  of  observation  common 
to  all  the  family,  she  fancied  herself 
familiar  with  every  in  and  out  of  the 
Anglo-Saxon  character,  every  peculiar- 
ity of  national,  social,  and  domestic  life. 
Juliette  frequently  declared  that  this 
vie  de  communaute  would  be  impossible 
to  the  Anglo-Saxon  temperament,  —  to 


1884.] 


A  Bourgeois  Family. 


537 


anything  other  than  French  devouement. 
This  is  undoubtedly  true ;  but,  consider- 
ing the  tumult  and  turmoil  of  speech 
and  spirit  that  a  bit  of  ragged  trimming 
or  a  ruptured  place  in  "  une  de  nos  che- 
mises "  created  in  that  communaute,  the 
thunderings  of  doors,  the  banshee-like 
whistlings  at  keyholes,  the  red  eyes,  and 
the  electrical  upstarting  of  passionate 
hair,  it  is  to  be  questioned  if  devouement 
has  every  advantage  over  selfishness. 

All  the  domestic  labor  of  the  family, 
except  the  washing,  done  every  four 
months  away  from  the  house,  was  accom- 
plished by  two  of  the  sisters  (the  young- 
est being  an  invalid  and  a  spoiled  child) 
with  the  aid  of  afemine  de  menage  a  few 
hours  each  day.  Bonnets  and  dresses, 
coats  and  trousers,  thick  petticoats  and 
clumsy  stockings,  everything  worn  in 
the  communante  as  well  as  eaten  by  it, 
except  the  bread,  were  manipulated  by 
those  apt  and  busy  fingers.  Somebody 
once  asked  Gambetta  what  was  the  se- 
cret of  the  extraordinary  wealth  of  the 
French  nation,  by  means  of  which  the 
heavy  Prussian  indemnity  was  so  quick- 
ly paid. 

"  The  thrift  and  industry  of  French 
women,"  was  the  reply. 

This  thrift  and  industry  were  exem- 
plified in  our  family  to  an  almost  deplor- 
able extent.  Economy  was  the  watch- 
word ;  to  save,  the  fundamental  and  py- 
ramidal principle  of  every  effort.  It 
was  an  uniutellectual,  narrow  system, 
involving  a  wearing-out  of  human  brains 
and  strength  in  a  ceaseless  struggle  to 
stretch  a  pound  of  meat  to  the  utmost 
limit  of  its  nourishing  tenuity,  to  extort 
its  last  fibre  of  wearing  capacity  from  a 
yard  of  cloth.  Body  and  soul  were  bent 
to  the  ignoble  business  of  mere  living, 
and  it  was  pitiable  to  know  what  artis- 
tic inclinations  and  ideal  aspirations 
were  crushed  beneath  this  Juggernaut  of 
economy.  It  was  the  more  pitiable  as 
the  whole  family  was  generous  by  na- 
ture, hospitable  to  a  fault,  magnificent 
in  pour  boii-es,  willing  to  dine  off  a  crust 


in  order  to  give  a  roll  to  a  beggar,  and 
anxious  to  divide  a  last  sou  with  a 
friend.  As  milliners,  teachers,  house- 
keepers in  other  families,  these  poor 
women  could  have  lived  fuller  and  hap- 
pier lives,  and  it  was  only  the  narrow 
though  sharp  worldly  prescience  of  the 
fisherman's  son  that  bound  them  to  this 
martyrdom  of  their  higher  natures. 
Struggling  with  poverty  all  his  life,  he 
died  believing  poverty  the  very  black- 
est of  earth's  evils.  He  had  outgrown, 
or  rather  overgrown,  all  his  own  aspi- 
rations, and  forgot  that  such  might  be 
more  tenacious  of  life  in  others.  His 
marriage  had  proved  unhappy,  and  he 
wished  his  daughters  never  to  marry  ;  he 
had  worked  at  a  profession  all  his  life, 
and  finished  his  heavy  course  at  last  with 
a  deserted  school  upon  his  hands  and  not 
a  penny  more  of  money  than  the  cha- 
telain's  daughter  had  brought  him.  He 
made  his  will,  therefore,  tying  up  the 
children's  heritage  in  such  manner  that 
it  could  not  be  divided:  binding  his 
daughters  to  celibacy  because  without 
dots  ;  forbidding  them  independent  ca- 
reers because  without  educations ;  and 
forcing  the  grinding  toil,  the  mortify- 
ing privations,  the  inevitable  intellect- 
ual narrowing,  of  the  communaute  upon 
them  by  refusing  them  the  right  to  es- 
cape from  it.  The  poor  man  never  re- 
alized that  he  was  thereby  entailing 
the  curse  of  his  own  contracted  nature 
and  defrauded  experience  upon  children 
larger  than  himself,  or  he  would  have 
turned  remorsefully  in  his  grave  to  hear 
the  unvarying  response  to  every  wild 
longing  to  escape  to  more  congenial  and 
better  paid  labor :  "  N'en  parle  pas ! 
Thy  services  belong  to  the  communaute." 
One  of  the  fiercest  quarrels  I  ever 
witnessed  took  place  one  evening  as 
we  sat  by  the  dining-room  fire.  The 
youngest  and  least  amiable  of  the  sis- 
ters stooped  and  picked  from  the  ashes 
a  half  -  consumed  piece  of  paper.  She 
instantly  recognized  the  handwriting  as 
that  of  a  lady  in  Paris  with  whom  Juli- 


538 


A  Bourgeois  Family. 


[October, 


ette  was  intimately  acquainted,  but  who 
was  only  slightly  known  to  the  rest. 
The  bit  of  paper  bore  Juliette's  name, 
and  no  sooner  did  Marie  behold  it  than 
she  burst  into  fury,  and  the  usual  result 
of  agitated  doors,  keyholes,  eyes,  voices, 
and  tempers  followed,  in  which  all  but 
ourselves  took  part,  —  just  because  Ju- 
liette had  dared  to  receive  a  letter  un- 
known to  the  rest  of  the  communaute ! 

In  truth  she  received  many  ;  for  let- 
ter-writing was  poor  Juliette's  sole  liter- 
ary distraction,  and  her  scribblings  were 
familiar  to  her  absent  friends.  But  the 
amount  of  intriguing,  the  undignified 
bustlings  and  shufflings  of  half  truths, 
the  real  falsehoods  forced  upon  her, 
that  she  might  enjoy  her  innocent  pleas- 
ure, and  take  time  and  postage  for  it 
from  the  communaute,  the  plottings  with 
the  postman,  the  connivings  with  the 
grocer's  wife  downstairs,  were  Machia- 
vellian, and  not  calculated  to  recommend 
the  community  system  to  a  dignified 
mind.  Intrigue  was  thoroughly  the 
rule  of  the  establishment,  each  one's 
sole  defense  against  the  rest.  The  in- 
trigues were  innocent  enough  in  inten- 
tion, but  the  habit  was  a  second  nature 
with  them  all ;  and  we  always  felt  that 
we  were  turned  loose  among  pitfalls  and 
snares  when  with  them,  never  knowing 
when  incautious  words  of  ours  would 
betray  some  one's  "  little  game "  to 
some  one  else.  That  communaute  sys- 
tem was  in  fact  the  most  absolute  of 
despotisms,  totally  wanting  in  reverence 
for  individual  rights,  coarsely  trampling 
down  every  instinct  of  personal  dignity 
and  delicacy  beneath  the  brutal  hoof  of 
community  rights.  I  firmly  believe  that 
Juliette  spoke  the  truth,  and  that  only 
the  French  nature  could  support  it; 
not  alone  because  of  the  French  devoue- 
ment  but  because  the  French  character 
is  more  supple,  plotting,  and  conscience- 
less. Conscience  is  not  its  affair :  it  is 
the  affair  of  the  priests. 

The  intelligences  of  our  family  were 
bright   and  keen,  although  so  low  and 


so  circumscribed  of  horizon.  "  Papa  " 
(pronounced  "  pap  pa  "),  albeit  so  long 
ago  translated,  was  still  their  oracle,  and 
"  Papa  le  disait '  the  cap  sheaf  and 
key  stone  of  all  argument.  To  them 
"  papa's  "  school  was  an  all-comprehend- 
ing microcosm  of  the  universe,  and  not 
all  the  evidence  of  history,  the  testimony 
of  the  ages,  the  experience  of  nations 
and  races,  weighed  anything  against  the 
triumphantly  crushing  "Papa  remar- 
quait  toujours  a  la  pension" 

Did  we  declare  that  the  history  of 
civilization  proves  that  the  strongest  in- 
tellectual and  moral  forces  are  gener- 
ated at  that  equalizing  point  between 
luxury  and  privation  which  we  call  the 
"  middle  classes,"  the  confutation  of  our 
ignorance  did  not  tarry  to  overwhelm 
us.  "  Vous  vous  trompez,  madame! 
Papa  remarquait  toujours  a  la  pension 
that  the  sons  of  poor  fishermen  and  cob- 
blers were  better  and  brighter  boys  than 
the  sons  of  rich  grocers.  Is  n't  it  so, 
Emile  ?  " 

And  the  communante,  thus  appealed 
to,  would  confirm  with  acclamation  this 
annihilation  of  one  of  those  "  aristocrat- 
ic" fallacies  with  which,  according  to  our 
family,  Americans  were  so  generally 
deceived.  In  all  our  discussions  the 
family  argued  for  the  virtues  and  the 
rights  of  the  very  humblest  classes  of 
society,  and  the  aristocratic  prejudice 
which  they  combated  was  merely  our 
intellectual  conviction  of  the  superior 
moral  and  intellectual  vigor  of  the  class 
of  society  that  to  us  was  moyenne,  but 
which  to  them  seemed  haute. 

In  spite  of  its  want  of  real  self-re- 
spect, —  such  want  as  enabled  them  to 
wage  their  warfare  before  any  chance 
observer,  —  our  communaute  had  a  pet- 
ty sort  of  susceptibility  continually  sur- 
prising us. 

"  Such  proud,  parvenu,  upstart  ca- 
naille as  is  Madame  Bush,"  said  Marie, 
coming  in  from  market  hot  and  angry. 
"  She  speaks  French  like  a  poissarde, 
and  looks  like  &femme  de  chambre.  She 


1884.]                                  A  Bourgeois  Family.  539 

passed  me  in  the  market  without  bow-  and  power  of  close  analysis  was  contin- 

ing."  ually    thus    displayed,    evoking    regret 

*'  Such  a  distingue  dame  is  Madame  from  one  foreign  member  of  that  famille 

Bush.     She    speaks  French  with    such  bourgeoise  that  fate  had  not  given  them 

distinction,  and   is   a   perfect  dame  du  a  larger  field  and  more  dignified  oppor- 

grand  monde.     She  bowed   to  me  this  tunity. 

morning ! "  would  be  the  next  day's  "  The  cure  of  Saint  Leonards  is  so 
testimony  from  Marie.  Jealous  as  they  often  chez  Madame  Doval  as  to  make  a 
were  of  their  bourgeois  rights,  shocked  perfect  scandal,"  would  be  one  item  of 
beyond  measure  to  be  detected  by  out-  the  peurile  gossip  brought  to  every  meal, 
siders  wearing  the  blue  working  aprons  "  The  Protestant  minister  drinks  his 
which  they  seldom  quitted  in-doors,  they  wine  pure  and  by  the  goblet  full,"  was 
seemed  never  to  take  note  of  the  fact  another ;  whereupon  follows  such  minute 
that  their  lower  class  sympathies  and  and  fluent  dissection  of  cures'  and  minis- 
proletarian  theories  were  not  a  result  ters'  characters  as  would  be  a  lesson  to 
of  personal  observation  and  judicial  re-  Balzac  or  Henry  James.  The  femme 
flection,  but  of  the  simple  material  fact  de  menage  was  never  reproved  for  loiter- 
that  a  fisherman  was  their  grandfather,  ing  long  at  the  fountain,  although  she 
a  fisherman's  son  their  father.  And  yet  was  paid  by  the  hour,  for  there  she  drew 
family  feeling  was  even  stronger  than  gossip  as  well  as  water.  When  a  change 
bourgeois  susceptibility.  Once  walking  of  these  femmes  took  place,  she  was 
with  Juliette  we  met  an  elderly  washer-  chosen  from  among  all  applicants  who 
woman  returning  from  a  day's  work  at  worked  in  "  such  and  such  interieurs," 
the  fountain,  accompanied  by  a  cowed-  where  the  family  histories  were  liveliest, 
looking,  shambling  old  husband  in  peas-  and  monsieur  was  jealous  of  madame, 
ant  costume,  who  carried  the  basket  of  or  vice  versa.  I  seldom  dared  ask  who 
wet  linen  upon  his  back.  To  my  aston-  might  be  this  man  or  that  woman,  lest  I 
ishment,  Juliette  greeted  the  old  peasant  should  bring  down  upon  myself  the  his- 
cordially,  kissed  him  upon  both  cheeks,  tory  of  their  lives  from  the  cradle,  the 
and  called  him  uncle.  When  we  had  chroniques  scandaleuses  of  their  ances- 
left  them,  she  explained  that  he  was  her  tors,  with  really  clever  analyses  of  every 
father's  only  living  brother.  probable  and  improbable  cause  and  mo- 

"  And  he  never  comes  to  your  house  ?"  tive  that  has  made  them  what  they  are. 

I  asked.  Once,  in  wandering  for  hours  through 

"  Never ;  his  old  washerwoman  wife  one  of   the  old  burial   grounds,  I  was 

will  not  allow  him.     She  mocks  at  us  told  such  startling  tales  of  the  dead  who 

because  our  mother  was  born  in  a  char  slept  below,  the  gossip  and  scandal  of 

teau."  lives  that  ended  almost  before  that  of 

None   of    our   family   were   readers,  their  present  reconteuse  was  begun,  that 

As  I  have  known  two  of  them  to  con-  I   felt    thoroughly   shamefaced    among 

sunie  all  the  available  portions  of  seven  those  silent  sleepers,  and  heartily  glad 

days  to  recreate  a  gown,  that  recreation  to  escape  from  their  voiceless  reproach, 

composed  when  finished  of  one  hundred  In  the  matter  of  social  etiquette  we 

and  sixty-two  different  bits  of  stuff,  it  is  found  our  family  also  noisily  effusive  as 

easy  to  know  that  they  had  no  time  for  they  found  us  roide  and  cold.     An  un- 

reading.     But  their  active  intelligences  easy  atmosphere  of  fuss  was  about  every 

craved  occupation,  and  that  occupation  act,  it  seemed  as  if  about  every  thought, 

they  found  in  analyzing  the  characters  of  the  menage,  a  fussiness  almost  as  irri- 

of  their  acquaintances.     A  great  deal  of  tating  to  us  as  the  stealthy  action  of  a 

really  keen  observation,  subtile  thought,  blister.     When  the  sisters  and  Le'ontine 


540 


A  Bourgeois  Family. 


[October, 


were  together  in  the  kitchen,  the  "  gab- 
ble "  of  insistent  assertion  and  equally 
insistent  contradiction,  of  voluble  argu- 
ment, protest,  and  denial,  reminded  us 
of  the  gabble  of  a  startled  hencoop.  It 
was  the  etiquette  at  table,  when  a  guest 
declined  to  partake  again  of  a  dish,  to 
insist  beyond  measure  with  spoon  or 
fork  furnished  with  a  portion  of  the  de- 
bated viand  poised  in  direction  of  the 
guest's  plate.  If  still  the  guest  insisted 
to  decline,  —  and  that  seemed  part  of 
the  etiquette,  —  his  plate  was  forcibly 
seized  upon  by  the  nearest  of  the  hosts. 
Then  the  guest  would  instantly  grab  the 
opposite  edge,  and  a  friendly  tussle  of 
words  and  forces  would  follow,  ending 
sometimes  one  way  and  sometimes  an- 
other as  the  guest's  indisposition  for 
"  more ':'  was  real  or  assumed.  Some- 
times, as  may  be  imagined,  when  several 
guests  and  several  hosts  were  engaged 
in  this  tourney  of  politeness,  the  scene 
was  more  animated  than  conducive  to 
tranquillity  of  spirit. 

"  Why  do  you  do  it  ? '  I  asked  one 
day,  after  a  dinner  at  which  a  bottle  of 
wine  had  been  overturned,  the  stopper 
of  a  vinegar  cruet  broken,  and  a  plateful 
of  crevettes  scattered  into  our  laps. 

"  Because  it  would  be  impolite  not 
to,"  answered  Martha  impressively. 

The  sisters  were  all  impressive  on 
social  forms.  They  thought  our  educa- 
tion —  or  want  of  it  —  required  impres- 
sive treatment. 

"  It  is  not  so  chez  vous  autres" 
spoke  up  Leontine,  the  femme  de  me- 
nage. "  I  was  once  well  cheated  for  not 
knowing  it.  Once  I  took  some  clothes 
home  to  an  English  lady  one  very  hot 
day.  I  was  dying  with  thirst,  and  longed 
to  arrive,  knowing  that  madame  would 
offer  me  a  glass  of  wine.  She  did  ;  I 
said  '  Merci]  expecting,  of  course,  to  be 
urged.  To  my  astonishment  she  put 
up  the  bottle  at  once,  and  I  have  never 
said  *  Merci '  when  I  meant  '  S'il  vous 
plait '  to  an  Anglaise  since." 

This   same  persistent  insistence  was 


conspicuous  all  through  the  conduct  of 
our  family,  and  is  really  a  marked  pe- 
culiarity of  the  Norman  character.  One 
of  our  American  artist  friends  assured 
me  that  his  landlady  almost  insisted 
upon  painting  his  pictures.  Upon  one 
occasion  Juliette  insisted  so  persistently 
upon  some  change  in  the  sleeves  of  my 
new  gown  that  she  fairly  took  it  off  my 
back,  carried  it  away,  and  made  the 
change,  thus  forcing  me  to  an  expense 
of  ten  francs  to  my  dressmaker  for  re- 
storing it  to  its  original  condition. 

L'insistance  Normande  is  perfectly 
well  recognized  by  Normans  themselves 
as  a  characteristic  of  their  race. 

"  Voila,)  Mademoiselle  P."  I  heard  a 
fishwoman  in  the  market  say  to  her 
daughter  as  Juliette  and  I  drew  near ; 
"  put  up  thy  mackerel  five  sous  ;  she 
will  insist  upon  -having  them  five  sous 
below  their  price." 

"And  I  will  insist  upon  her  paying 
six  more,"  answered  the  younger  pois- 
sonniere.  "  Am  I  riot  as  much  Nor- 
mande as  she  ? ' 

Our  bachelor  communist,  Monsieur 
Emile,  demonstrated  his  insistence  in  an 
original  way.  Like  all  the  others  of 
the  family,  he  was  in  many  things  un- 
selfish to  a  marvel,  devoted  to  his  sisters, 
and  troubled  about  nothing  more  than 
to  see  them  overworked.  He  frequent- 
ly assisted  them  in  domestic  services 
little  in  keeping  with  his  six  feet  of 
stature  and  voice  like  a  windy  trombone, 
—  clearing  tables,  and  even,  at  a  domes- 
tic crisis,  washing  dishes  as  he  had  been 
taught  to  do  as  a  boy.  With  all  the  ex- 
treme order  of  the  sisters  in  their  toi- 
lettes, strict  order,  but  no  daintiness,  no 
elegance,  no  suspicion  of  coquetry,  only 
a  peasant-like  simplicity,  their  house- 
keeping was  a  supremely  shambling 
and  disheveled  affair.  When  Monsieur 
Emile  did  not  clear  the  table,  it  not  un- 
seldom  stood  uncleared  from  one  repast 
to  another,  and  dishes  were  sometimes 
neglected  for  days.  The  stately  buffet 
was  forever  cluttered  with  empty  bottles 


1884.] 


A  Bourgeois  Family. 


541 


and  decaying  bouquets,  untidy  castors 
and  half-emptied  jam  pots. 

This  peculiarity  of  refined  personal 
neatness  and  domestic  disarray  is  by 
no  means  unfrequeut  in  France ;  hence 
Frenchwomen  have  a  better  reputation 
for  neatness  than  they  entirely  deserve. 
Often  on  market  days  a  succession  of 
rustic  visitors  would  defile  through  the 
house.  To  every  one  was  hospitably 
offered  a  cup  of  tea,  or  a  glass  of  wine 
or  liqueur.  Not  unfrequently  I  have 
seen  this  whole  procession  of  callers 
served,  one  after  another,  all  day  long, 
at  a  disordered,  ill-complexioned  table 
not  vet  cleared  since  the  last  meal ;  and 

•*  * 

I  believe  it  was  the  habit  of  the  house 
not  to  clear  the  dinner-table  till  the 
hour  for  morning  coffee. 

Emile  took  it  into  his  head  to  spare 
his  sisters  the  care  of  his  room,  and  used 
to  lock  his  chamber  door  behind  him 
every  morning  when  he  left  the  house. 
Whether  he  ever  made  his  bed  or  not 
they  could  not  find  out ;  he  always  in- 
sisted he  did.  The  sounds  of  Normande 
insistance  that  I  heard  at  his  door  morn- 
ing and  night  as  the  sisters  insisted 
upon  entering,  and  he  insisted  they 
should  not,  would  have  been  amusing, 
had  I  not  known  their  inevitable  issue 
of  door-banging,  keyhole  whistling,  red 
eyes,  and  uplifted  hair.  One  day  the 
sisters  got  a  key  from  the  locksmith,  en- 
tered the  room,  and  put  it  in  order. 

The  storm  that  followed  M.  Emile's 
return  beggars  all  human  powers  of  de- 
scription. My  hair  almost  turned  white 
as  I  heard  its  shrill  and  thunderous  up- 
roar from  my  own  room. 

Charlie  and  I  dined  alone  that  day, 
while  the  family,  swollen  eyed  and  gasp- 
ing, lay  scattered  about  in  the  different 
bed-rooms. 

That  very  night  M.  Simile  fastened  a 
spring  lock  upon  his  door  which  could  be 
opened  only  by  the  peculiar  key  in  his 
pocket. 

It  is  two  years  since  that  night,  but 
no  human  eye  save  M.  Emile's  has  pen- 


etrated the  mystery  of  that  ever-locked 
chamber ! 

"  Un  caractere  de  chien  !  "  agreed  the 
sobbing  sisters  of  their  brother  that 
night. 

"  Espece  d'imbeciles  J  "  I  heard  him 
call  them. 

But  next  day  the  market  was  ran- 
sacked for  a  certain  choice  fish,  an  extra 
dessert  graced  the  dinner.  When  I 
asked  the  reason  of  a  mysterious  parcel 
by  M.  Emile's  plate,  — 

"  It  is  the  fete  of  our  brother !  "  an- 
swered the  beaming  trio. 

Our  family  showed  two  seemingly 
antagonistic  characteristics,  each  to  a 
marked  degree.  It  would  seem  as  if 
two  strains  of  widely  differing  natures, 
chateau  and  fishing  smack,  met  in 
them,  not  to  mingle,  but  to  flow  side  by 
side.  Their  hospitality,  although,  as  is 
usual  in  France,  confined  to  their  own 
relatives,  was  free  and  flowing,  while 
their  acquisitiveness  was  even  miserly. 
Not  the  meanest  scrap  of  anything  was 
ever  thrown  away,  and  the  whole  house 
was  submerged  beneath  worthless  trash : 
seedy  artificial  flowers,  ragged  and 
frowsy  ribbons,  old  pasteboard  boxes, 
dilapidated  remnants  of  school-books, 
even  broken  crockery,  in  such  smother- 
•  ing  confusion  as  would  drive  a  tidy 
housekeeper  mad,  and  that  reminded  us 
continually  of  the  overreaching  grasp 
and  greed  of  the  Norman  peasantry. 
On  the  other  hand,  with  opportunity 
their  hospitality  would  have  been  seign- 
eurial.  Guests  were  not  infrequent  at 
their  table,  and  then  the  best  was  not 
too  good  for  them.  Exquisite  wines, 
put  down  in  the  cellar  at  the  date  of 
"  papa's  "  marriage,  a  celebrated  vintage 
year,  would  appear ;  the  cost  of  God 
only  knows  how  many  a  pitiful  sacri- 
fice and  struggle  would  be  put  into  the 
banquet;  the  table  would  be  dressed 
with  flowers  and  massive  plate,  and  the 
struggle  between  host  and  guest  become 
animated.  That  this  was  not  mere  os- 
tentation was  proved  by  the  truth  that 


542 


Southern  Colleges  and  Schools. 


[October, 


the  family  was  perfectly  unostentatious 
in  every  other  habit,  and  that  its  hospi- 
tality was  free  to  all  alike,  "  papa's " 
humble  kindred  as  well  as  "  maman's  " 
bourgeois  relatives.  To  be  sure,  the 
plate  was  not  brought  out  to  greet  the 
presence  of  Pere  Patiot  at  the  table, 
nor  the  flowers,  but  the  wine  was,  and 
the  best  fish,  flesh,  and  fowl  of  the  mar- 
ket. Pere  Patiot  was  but  an  obscure 
peasant,  who  apologized  in  curious  patois 
for  sitting  down  with  us  with  his  hat  on, 
saying  that  night  and  day  for  seventy 
years  he  had  never  been  with  uncovered 
head,  and  would  die  if  he  should  take 
his  hat  off.  But  he  came  only  twice  a 
year,  was  simple,  kindly,  and  good,  and 
was  an  early  friend  of  "  papa's,"  which 
was  claim  enough  to  all  honor. 

Scarcely  a  child,  rich  or  poor,  ever 


came  to  the  house  and  went  away  with- 
out a  handful  of  fruit  or  sweet  English 
biscuits,  and  the  mendicant  habitues  of 
our  stairs  were  of  varying  countenances. 
And  yet  the  fruit  of  our  pudding  was 
the  squeezed  skins  of  the  currants  used 
for  jam  :  and  when  we  drove  one  day  to 

T in  two  donkey  carts,  and  dined 

upon  the  contents  of  our  own  hamper 
upon  weather-beaten  tables  in  the  au- 
berge  orchard,  the  furious  discussion 
with  the  patrone  over  a  difference  of  a 
franc  for  donkeys'  feed  was  hardly  to 
be  endured.  And  when  one  of  the  com- 

munaute  went  to  pass  a  day  at  L , 

the  others  coolly  discussed  before  our 
very  faces  how  far  her  unconsumed  por- 
tion of  the  day's  food  would  go  to- 
ward paying  the  amount  of  her  railway 
fare. 

Margaret  Bertha  Wright. 


SOUTHERN  COLLEGES  AND  SCHOOLS. 


THERE  is  a  great  awakening  in  the 
South  with  regard  to  public  schools  ;  but 
in  the  higher  education  our  policy,  or 
rather  tendency,  has  always  been  wrong. 
We  have  too  many  so-called  colleges 
and  universities,  and  too  few  prepara- 
tory schools.  There  has  been  no  great 
advance,  if  any,  in  college  work  in  the 
South  since  the  war,  and  in  preparation 
for  college  there  has  been  a  positive  de- 
cline in  most  of  the  States.  I  am  led 
to  this  view  partly  by  my  own  expe- 
rience ;  for  in  six  years  of  college  work 
in  the  South  I  have  found  few  men 
whom  I  considered  fully  prepared,  both 
in  quantity  and  quality  of  work,  for  a 
good  Freshman  class.  Besides,  I  have 
consulted  by  letter  leading  educators  in 
most  of  the  Southern  States :  of  twenty 
professors,  ten,  whose  experience  covers 
both  periods,  say  that  preparation  be- 
fore 1860  was  better  than  it  has  been 


since ;  six,  who  began  to  teach  after 
the  war,  make  no  comparison,  but  de- 
plore in  the  strongest  terms  the  present 
low  state  of  preparation  ;  four  think  we 
have  improved  somewhat  in  this  respect. 
For  other  proof  of  the  decline  in  prepar- 
atory work,  it  would  only  be  necessary 
to  remind  Southern  educators  of  the  fact 
that  most  of  our  ante-bellum  academies, 
or  preparatory  schools,  —  schools  which, 
upon  the  whole,  did  better  work  than 
our  Southern  colleges  did,  —  no  longer 
exist.  This  fact  is  almost  universally 
admitted  by  my  correspondents.  In 
Louisiana,  out  of  twenty-four,  or  more, 
academies  fostered  by  the  State  before 
the  war,  not  one  survives.1  Louisiana 
is  by  no  means  alone  in  this  respect. 

What,  then,  are  the  causes  of  this  de- 
cline in  secondary  education  ?    The  war 

1  Printed  address  of  E.  H.  Farrar,  Esq.,  of  New 
Orleans,  1880. 


1884.] 


Southern  Colleges  and  Schools. 


543 


had  its  effect.     Many  fine  old  academies 
went   down  in  the  general  ruin.     But 
too  much  stress  must  not  be  laid  upon 
this  ;  for  why  was  the  mortality  so  much 
greater  among  the  schools  than  among 
the    colleges  ?      Besides,    most   of   the 
academies    in    Louisiana,    referred    to 
above,  had  ceased  to  exist  before  the 
war.      Again,   business   has    taken    the 
place  of  otium  cum  dignitate  ;  the  result 
has   been    eagerness,  impatience,  haste 
to  get  into  active  employment.     Young 
men  will  not  take  the  time  to  get  ready 
for   college,  nor   stay  in  college   when 
they  get   there.      Naturally  there   has 
been  a  reflex  action  on  the  part  of  the 
colleges,  which  have  adapted  their  re- 
quirements to  the  new  conditions.     As 
to  the  effect  of  the  public  schools  on 
college  work,  an  eminent  Georgia  pro- 
fessor writes   me,  "  The  bastard  '  com- 
mon-school system'  has  broken  up  the 
large   neighborhood    schools    that   used 
to  exist  in  Georgia,  and  the  fragments 
are   generally  in    the   hands   of  young 
women  and   others,  who  are  incompe- 
tent to  prepare  young  men  for  college." 
In  the   same    strain  writes  a  professor 
from    Virginia :    "Our    public   schools 
have  as  yet  done  nothing  towards  mak- 
ing themselves  preparatory  schools  to 
the  colleges.     They  have,  however,  suc- 
ceeded  in   totally  destroying   the  '  old 
field  schools,'  that  used  to  do  that  work 
before  the  war."     There  is  at  present 
serious  trouble  just  here.     We  look  for- 
ward to  a  better  day,  but  the  transition 
stage  is  very  disheartening.     A  leading 
member  of  the  school  board  in  Nash- 
ville said  recently,  "  It  is  a  serious  mat- 
ter to  know  how  to  get  a  boy  fitted  for 
college.      The  public  high  school  does 
not  do  it,  and  yet  no  private  preparato- 
ry school  can  exist  beside  it."     There 
are  in  Tennessee  only  four  public  high 
schools,  but  in  none  of  these  is  Greek 
taught,  and  in  only  one  sufficient  Latin 
for  the  Freshman  class  of  a  good  col- 
lege ;   other  branches   are  little   ahead 
of  the  Latin.     There  is  usually  in  the 


South  a  gulf  of  one  or  two  years  be- 
tween the  public  high  school  and  the 
college.  It  would  seem  easy  enough  to 
put  on  extra  classes  at  the  top,  and 
charge  extra  fees  for  the  instruction, 
but  it  has  not  been  done.  It  will  be 
done,  no  doubt,  as  soon  as  the  colleges 
make  their  terms  of  admission  such  as 
to  require  it.  When  we  shall  begin  to 
approach  the  Massachusetts  idea,  where 
"  in  every  town  containing  four  thou- 
sand inhabitants  and  over  a  high  school 
is  required  to  be  kept,  in  which  the  pu- 
pils are  all  offered  the  advantages  of  a 
preparation  for  any  of  our  colleges," 
and  where  the  high  schools  are  so  pop- 
ular that  "  about  eighty  towns  are  now 
maintaining  such  schools,  though  not 
required  to  do  so  by  law,"  and  where 
the  whole  number  of  these  public  high 
schools  is  22 6,1  certainly  we  in  the  South 
shall  have  no  fault  to  find  with  the  pub- 
lic schools.  This  state  of  affairs  in  Mas- 
sachusetts is  but  the  legitimate  result 
of  the  policy  inaugurated  in  1647  by 
the  law  of  the  colony,  which  required 
"  that  every  town  of  one  hundred  fami- 
lies should  maintain  a  school,  the  teacher 
of  which  should  be  able  to  instruct 
youth  so  far  as  they  may  be  fitted  for 
the  university." 

But  the  greatest  cause  of  the  decline 
of  preparatory  schools  is,  I  believe, 
none  of  these.  The  great  fault  is  with 
the  colleges  themselves.  Preparation 
for  college  regulates  itself  by  the  law  of 
supply  and  demand.  All  the  colleges 
publish  requirements  for  admission ;  very 
few  enforce  them.  Since  the  boy  is  not 
required  to  prepare  for  college,  he  comes 
to  college  without  preparation.  What 
little  there  was  in  the  way  of  college  en- 
dowments in  the  South  was  swept  away 
by  the  war ;  the  colleges  must  live,  how- 
ever, and  no  resource  was  left  but  to 
live  on  tuition  fees,  —  what  no  good  col- 
lege could  live  on.  Hence  arose  an  un- 
seemly competition  for  numbers ;  and 

i  Private  letter  from  the  Secretary  of  the  Massa- 
chusetts Board  of  Education. 


544 


Southern  Colleges  and  Schools. 


[October, 


this  has  gone  on,  —  as  was  natural,  since 
there  are  among  us  at  least  three  times 
as  many  colleges  as  the  country  can 
legitimately  support,  —  until  the  col- 
leges and  universities  have  entered  into 
competition  with  the  very  preparatory 
schools,  and  left  them  nothing  to  do. 
"  The  university,"  writes  a  professor  in 
one  of  the  oldest  colleges  in  Virginia, 
"  takes  students  whom  we  ought  to  have ; 
we  take  boys  who  should  be  in  our  pre- 
paratory school ;  and  it,  again,  takes  in- 
fants (so  to  say)  who  ought  to  be  taught 
at  home." 

The  greatest  evil  in  Southern  educa- 
tion, it  seems  to  me,  is  the  fact  that  we 
have  so  many  colleges  and  universities. 
One  would  suppose  that  in  America  the 
mere  number  of  colleges  would  no  long- 
er impose  upon  any  one,  but  such  state- 
ments as  the  following  occur  in  a  recent 
defense  of  Southern  ante-bellum  edu- 
cation :  "  In  1860  the  New  England 
States  had  twenty -one  colleges  with  3738 
students,  and  the  single  State  of  Georgia 
had  thirty-two  colleges  with  3302  stu- 
dents." "  This  is  a  startling  showing," 
the  writer  adds.  Indeed  it  is.  The 
irresistible  conclusion  seems  to  be  that 
the  State  of  Georgia  was  then  better 
educated  than  all  New  England.  The 
same  writer  compares  the  eight  colleges 
in  Massachusetts  with  the  twenty-three 
in  Virginia,  and  the  two  colleges  in  New 
Hampshire  with  the  fourteen  in  South 
Carolina.  He  seems  to  proceed  on  the 
assumption  that  a  college  is  a  college. 
.The  paragraph  that  went  the  round  of 
[the  newspapers  a  few  years  ago,  to  the 
effect  that  there  were  two  universities 
in  England,  four  in  France,  ten  in  Prus- 
sia, and  thirty-seven  in  the  State  of 
Ohio,  seriously  taken,  would  prove  Ohio 
to  be  the  most  highly  educated  land  the 
world  ever  saw.  A  professor  in  a  small 
Southwestern  college  once  gravely  in- 
formed me  that  the  course  in  Latin  in 
his  college  was  higher  than  that  in  the 
University  of  Virginia,  and  proved  it 
by  his  catalogue.  Emerson,  or  Carlyle 


(I  forget  which),  writes  to  the  other, 
"  Nothing  can  lie  worse  than  figures  ex- 
cept facts."  Suppose  we  were  to  work 
out  the  problem  of  the  relative  superi- 
ority of  New  England  and  the  South, 
in  point  of  culture,  in  this  w:iy  :  in  the 
six  New  England  States  there  are  only 
seventeen  male  colleges  ;  in  six  South- 

O  7 

ern  States,  namely,  Georgia,  Kentucky, 
North  Carolina,  South  Carolina,  Tennes- 
see, and  Virginia,  there  are  sixty-seven 
male  colleges,  —  just  four  to  one.  Is 
that  the  ratio  of  culture  of  the  two  sec- 
tions ?  What  better  reductio  ad  absur- 
dum  could  one  wish?  How  many  of 
our  colleges  would  Harvard  alone  out- 
weigh in  any  just  estimate  of  higher  ed- 
ucation !  Any  one  who  will  study  the 
question  carefully  will  be  very  likely  to 
come  to  the  conclusion  that  in  the 
United  States  culture  is  generally  in 
the  inverse  ratio  to  the  number  of  col- 
leges. Where  you  find  the  largest  num- 
ber of  colleges  you  will  be  apt  to  find 
the  fewest  fitting-schools  and  the  lowest 
state  of  what  we  call  the  higher  educa- 
tion. In  fact,  great  density  of  ignorance 
round  about  is  necessary  to  the  welfare 
of  a  certain  kind  of  college. 

It  will,  no  doubt,  be  generally  admit- 
ted that  New  England,  and  especially 
Massachusetts,  approximates  more  near- 
ly the  proper  state  of  the  higher  educa- 
tion than  any  other  section  of  the  United 
States ;  and  on  that  assumption  some 
comparisons  are  made,  with  no  purpose, 
however,  of  depreciating  the  South,  but 
simply  to  ascertain  just  how  we  stand 
in  educational  matters.1 

In  1880  Tennessee  had  twenty-one 
male  colleges  and  universities,  and  six- 
teen female  colleges  and  seminaries,  ten 
of  which  latter  confer  college  degrees  ; 
but  there  were  only  two  distinct  prepar- 
atory schools,  —  though  at  least  nine- 
teen colleges  had  preparatory  depart- 
ments, —  sixty-three  secondary  schools, 

1  The  authorit)'  for  statistics,  where  not  other- 
wise given,  is  the  report  of  the  United  States  Com- 
missioner of  Education  for  1880  and  1881. 


1884.]                         Southern  Colleges  and  Schools.  545 

and  four  public  high  schools.  It  would  land  forty-six  ;  in  the  six  Middle  At- 
be  safe  to  assume  that  not  more  than  one  lantic  States  forty-six  ;  in  the  Southern 
third  of  the  sixty-three  secondary  schools  States  six  ;  in  the  remaining  (Western 
could  fit  a  boy  for  a  good  college.  In  and  Pacific)  States  twenty-seven.  "  For- 
Massachusetts,  in  1880,  there  were  seven  ty-four  per  cent,  of  the  property,  eighty- 
male  colleges  and  universities,  and  two  four  per  cent,  of  the  productive  funds, 
female ;  but  there  were  twenty-three  and  sixty-three  per  cent,  of  the  income 
preparatory  schools,  a  large  number  of  from  productive  funds  represented  in 
which  would  anywhere  in  the  South  or  the  list  of  preparatory  schools  are  from 
West  be  called  colleges,  and  215  public  New  England."  2 

high  schools  (now  226),  with  494  teach-  Money  will  not  of  itself  make  a  col- 

ers  and    ^,758  pupils,   besides   forty-  lege  or  university,  but  it  is  equally  true 

six  other  schools  for  secondary  instruc-  that  college   and   university  cannot  be 

tion.  made  without  it.     For  universities,  in- 

The  income  of  sixteen  New  England  deed,  as  President  Gilman  is  reported 
colleges  in  1881  was  $1,024,563,1  and  to  have  said,  "  it  is  no  longer  a  question 
they  had  720,187  volumes  in  their  libra-  of  tens,  or  even  of  hundreds,  of  thou- 
ries  ;  all  the  one  hundred  and  twenty-  sands  of  dollars  ;  it  is  a  question  of  mil- 
three  Southern  colleges  and  universities  lions ; >!  and  for  a  good  college  at  the 
had  together  an  income  of  $1,089,187  present  day  it  is  hardly  a  question  of 
and  668,667  volumes.  Of  the  one  hun-  less  than  hundreds  of  thousands  of  dol- 
dred  and  twenty-three  Southern  colleges  lars.  We  cripple  our  college  work  all 
and  universities,  sixty-nine  had  each  over  the  country,  and  especially  in  the 
property  in  grounds,  buildings,  etc.,  val-  South  and  West,  by  spreading  our  re- 
ued  at  not  more  than  $50,000 ;  of  the  sources  too  much.  The  money  that 
sixty-nine,  there  were  thirty-five  with  would  run  a  reasonable  number  of  col- 
not  more  than  $25,000,  and  fourteen  leges  well  serves  merely  to  protect  the 
with  not  more  than  $10,000.  Of  the  feeble  existence  of  a  great  many.  The 
sixty-nine,  only  five  report  productive  policy  of  diffusion  rather  than  concen- 
funds  valued  at  $50,000 ;  five  more  re-  tration  of  resources  is  in  education  nee- 
port  $25,000 ;  the  remainder  report  less,  essarily  fatal  to  high  and  thorough  stand- 
or  none,  —  mostly  none.  In  New  Eng-  ards.  When  I  think  of  our  educational 
land,  in  1881,  not  a  college  reported  policy,  the  anecdote  about  Franklin 
property  valued  at  less  than  $100,000,  Pierce  always  occurs  to  me.  After  he 
and  only  two  productive  funds  below  had  been  nominated  for  the  presidency, 
150,000.  The  forty- three  New  Eng-  an  itinerant  lecturer  asked  an  innkeeper 
land  preparatory  schools  reported  in  among  Pierce's  native  hills,  "  What  sort 

81   nearly   twice   as   much  property  of  a  man  is  General  Pierce  ?'    "Waal," 

and  productive  funds  as  the  sixty-nine  he  replied,  "up  here  where  everybody 

weakest  Southern  colleges,  and  indeed  knows  Frank  Pierce,  and  where  Frank 

four  of  these  preparatory  schools  had  as  Pierce  knows  everybody,  he  's  a  pretty 

much  property  and  as  much  productive  considerable   fellow,   I   tell    you.     But 

funds  as   the   sixty-nine  Southern  col-  come  to  spread  him  out  over  this  whole 

country,  I  'm  afraid  he  '11  be   dreadful 

Of  the  one  hundred  and  twenty-five  thin   in    some   places."      The   "tertium 

regular  preparatory  schools  in  the  United  comparationis"  as  the  commentators  on 

States  in  1880,  there  were  in  New  Eng-  Homer  call  it,  is  the  dreadful  thinness 

Manifestly  an  error,   for  Harvard's    annual  2  Report  of  the  Commissioner  of  Education, 

'ise  account,  a  year  or  two  ago,  was  said  to  1880. 
-',390,  and  Yale's  over  $350,000. 

VOL.  LIV.  —  NO.  324.  35 


546 


Southern  Colleges  and  Schools. 


[October, 


in  some  places,  and  some  examples  may 
now  be  in  order. 

A  few  years  ago,  in  a  certain  back- 
woods section,  there  were  in  the  same 
class  in  a  large  country  school  two  boys  : 
one  the  sou  of  the  principal :  the  other 
a  man  whom  I  afterwards  knew  at  Har- 
vard, and  from  whom  I  had  the  story. 
The  principal  determined,  as  he  had 
more  than  one  hundred  pupils,  to  char- 
ter his  school  as  a  college.  He  did  so, 
and  in  due  time  his  son  was  made  pro- 
fessor. The  other  boy  went  to  Illinois, 
studied  a  while  in  a  university  there, 
and  then  went  to  Phillips  Exeter  Acad- 
emy to  get  ready  for  Harvard.  When 
I  knew  him  he  was  in  the  senior  class 
at  Harvard ;  his  former  classmate  had 
been  for  some  time  a  professor  in  the 
new  college.  About  that  time  a  flaming 
puff  in  a  local  newspaper  challenged 
the  United  States,  England,  or  Germany 
to  show  a  more  learned  faculty  or  bet- 
ter advantages  than  this  college  offered. 
I  find  its  whole  property  reported  in 
1880  at  $4000.  There  is  a  chartered 
institution  in  Tennessee  where  a  few 
years  ago  one  man  was  running  the 
.presidency  and  all  the  professorships, 
;and  when  he  resigned  a  local  news- 
paper claimed  that  he  was  one  of  the 
ablest  educators  in  the  land.  Certainly 
he  had  need  to  be,  if  man  ever  had.  A 
Vanderbilt  professor  received  recently  a 
letter  from  a  man  who  said  that  a  fund 
•of  $10,000  had  been  raised  in  his  town, 
:and  that  it  was  proposed  to  start  a  col- 
lege. One  of  the  founders  of  the  Cul- 
leoka  Academy,  the  best  preparatory 
school  in  Tennessee,  says  that  when  the 
school  was  first  established  people  urged 
them  to  charter  it  as  a  college ;  and  the 
pressure  was  so  strong  that,  though  their 
sole  desire  was  to  found  a  good  fitting- 
school,  they  might  have  been  forced  to 
yield,  had  not  Vanderbilt  University 
been  just  then  opened.  The  president 
•of  a  university  in  Texas  told  me  that 
he  would  have  preferred  to  call  his  in- 
stitution a  college,  but  that  there  the 


name  of  college  was  so  common  and  in 
such  ill  repute,  that  the  character  of  the 
institution  would  have  been  totally  mis- 
understood. This  agrees  pretty  well 
with  a  certain  Texas  girl's  idea  of  a  col- 
lege. A  modest  graduate  of  a  Georgia 
college,  whom  she  persisted  in  calling 
"  professor "  and  his  school  "  the  col- 
lege," begged  her  not  to  put  him  to  the 
blush.  "  Well,"  said  she,  "  it  was  a  col- 
lege before  it  burned  down,  for  it  was 
three  stories  high"  And  this  is  about 
on  a  par  with  the  report  from  a  certain 
Western  State,  where,  it  is  said,  they 
have  three  universities  and  the  logs  cut 
for  the  fourth. 

A  certain  Y.  M.  C.  A.  secretary  once 
entertained  the  students  of  a  Northern 
college  with  an  account  of  his  travels. 
He  visited,  one  day,  in  a  Southwestern 
State,  a  college,  or  university,  the  pres- 
ident of  which  was  a  D.  D.,  and  LL.  D. 
He  had  been  invited  to  dine  with  the 
president,  and  was  puzzled  to  know 
where  the  dining  would  take  place,  as 
he  saw  no  house  near  by.  At  noon  the 
president  produced  a  tin  bucket,  in  which 
he  was  accustomed  to  carry  his  dinner 
to  college,  took  off  his  coat  and  spread 
it  on  the  floor,  the  dinner  on  that,  and 
then  cordially  invited  the  secretary  to 
"  pitch  in."  Almost  Spartan  simplicity ! 
True,  Socrates  gave  a  first-rate  univer- 
sity education  with,  if  possible,  even  less 
outfit ;  but  without  a  Socrates  it  is  per- 
haps impossible  to  get  on  with  so  little. 
This  is  a  realization  of  President  Gau- 
field's  ideal  Ohio  college,  without,  how- 
ever, the  great  essential,  —  Mark  Hop- 
kins at  one  end  of  the  bench. 

The  height  and  the  depth  of  absurdity 
in  college-making  have  perhaps  been 
reached  in  the  case  indicated  by  the  fol- 
lowing letter,  received  last  year  at  one 
of  our  larger  institutions  :  — 

MY  DEAR  SIR,  —  We  have  a  fine 
College  Building  neare  complesion  in 

,  &  will  be   ready  for 

buisness  1st  Sept  1883. 


1884.] 


Southern    Colleges  and  Schools. 


547 


I  write  you  to  in  forme  the  board  of 
directors  of  Some  Good  man  that  would 
take  hold  of  our  College  as  Principle. 
We  want  a  wide  awake  man,  a  thiror 
graduate  &  a  man  of  Repetation.  Will 
you  be  so  kind  as  to  give  us  a  name  &c. 
I  am  sir  yours  &c. 

I  am  told  that  there  is  now  living  in 
Tennessee  a  man  who  is  the  founder  of 
seven  colleges,  and  I  doubt  not,  when 
he  dies,  his  friends  will  record  this  fact 
on  his  tombstone  as  the  proudest  memo- 
rial of  him.  Indeed,  it  does  seem  that 
such  a  benefactor  should  be  named  in 
history  along  with  Thomas  Jefferson ; 
for  surely  the  founding  of  seven  colleges 
ought  to  be  considered  an  offset  to  the 
establishing  of  one  university  and  the 
drawing  up  of  one  Declaration  of  Inde- 
pendence. But,  seriously,  I  am  afraid 
that  there  are  at  least  twelve  men  in 
Tennessee,  natives  or  aliens,  who,  if  ap- 
pointed to  devise  some  suitable  way  of 
rewarding  such  zeal  for  education,  would 
propose  to  hang  the  founder. 

The  writer  is  not  alone  in  the  views 
here  expressed.  Professor  Blackwell, 
of  Randolph-Macon  College,  Virginia, 
writes,  "  If  you  publish  the  facts  about 
our  system,  or  non-system,  I  think  you 
will  do  the  cause  of  education  great 
good.  But  our  people  do  not  want 
facts ;  they  want  flattery.  Our  Super- 
intendent of  Education  was  boasting, 
some  years  ago,  that  there  were  propor- 
tionately more  Virginians  pursuing  the 
higher  education  than  any  other  nation- 
ality, not  excluding  Prussians.  This 
nonsense  was  repeated  all  over  our  State, 
and  even  in  the  United  States  Senate. 
As  long  as  our  people  think  that  a  Vir- 
ginia college  is  as  good  as  the  Univer- 
sity of  Berlin,  why  should  they  be  con- 
cerned about  their  educational  system?" 
By  the  side  of  that  statement  may  be 
put  the  following.  Though  there  are 
five  universities  in  Louisiana,  the  able 
man  who  has  been  called  to  the  presi- 
dency of  the  munificently  endowed  Tu- 


lane  University  said  recently  in  his  print- 
ed report,  "  There  is  not  a  single  youth 
pursuing  within  the  borders  of  the  State 
what  can  justly  be  called  a  university 
course.  They  have  no  opportunity  to 
do  so."  Other  remarks,  quite  as  radical, 
indicating  dissatisfaction  with  the  pres- 
ent state  of  the  higher  education  in  the 
South,  could  be  easily  selected  from  my 
correspondence. 

It  is  not  meant  to  be  implied,  how- 
ever, that  the  South  errs  more  than  some 
other  parts  of  the  country  with  regard 
to  diffusion  of  resources  in  the  higher 

o 

education.  For  instance,  in  Ohio,  in 
1881,  the  combined  income  reported  by 
thirty-six  colleges  and  universities  was 
$302,436,  and  the  whole  number  of  vol- 
umes in  college  libraries  was  321,147. 
Harvard  University  alone  reported  that 
year  $357,431  and  214,000  volumes. 
There  were  in  Ohio  seventeen  colleges 
and  universities  with  property  valued  at 
not  more  than  $50,000  each ;  nine  of 
these,  indeed,  having  not  more  than 
$25,000,  and  three  not  over  $10,000. 
Again,  eleven  report  no  productive 
funds  ;  twenty-six  have  not  more  than 
$10,000  income,  of  which  number  eigh- 
teen have  not  over  $5000  income.  The 
report  of  the  Commissioner  of  Educa- 
tion reveals  the  same  state  of  affairs  in 
Illinois  with  twenty-eight  colleges  and 
universities,  Iowa  with  eighteen,  Indi- 
ana with  fifteen ;  and  so  it  is  in  other 
States. 

In  connection  with  this  some  compar- 
ison of  the  universities  of  the  different 
sections  of  the  country  may  not  be  un- 
interesting. Of  362  higher  institutions 
reporting  to  the  Commissioner  of  Edu- 
cation in  1881,  116  are  called  universi- 
ties. Of  these,  forty-three  belong  to  the 
South,  six  to  New  England,  twelve  to 
New  York  and  Pennsylvania,  and  all 
the  rest  to  the  West.  Of  the  116  uni- 
versities, thirty-seven  have  property  val- 
ued at  not  more  than  $50,000  ;  of  these, 
fourteen  belong  to  the  South  (seven  to 
the  negroes),  all  the  rest  to  the  West 


548 


Southern   Colleges  and  Schools. 


[October, 


Of  the  116,  again,  fifty-eight  report  en- 
dowments valued  at  not  more  than  $50,- 
000 ;  or,  to  be  more  exact,  seven  have 
$50,000,  four  $25,000,  fifteen  $10,000 
or  less,  —  mostly  less,  —  and  thirty-two 
report  none.  Of  the  fifty-eight,  twenty- 
five  belong  to  the  South  (ten  to  the  ne- 
groes *),  one  to  New  York,  and  all  the 
rest  to  the  West.  There  is  sometimes 
a  certain  kind  of  consolation  in  find- 
ing others  seemingly  as  bad  off  as  our- 
selves, and  so  we  might  be  pardoned  for 
sympathizing  with  Kansas  in  the  fact 
that  she  has  five  universities,  —  one  with 
an  endowment  of  $6000,  another  with 
$2000,  and  three  without  any  ;  that  one 
of  these  universities  had  in  1880  two 
professors  and  eighteen  students,  an- 
other three  professors  and  twelve  stu- 
dents. 

With  our  own  vast  outfit,  numerical- 
ly, in  the  way  of  universities,  it  is  inter- 
esting to  look  at  the  kingdom  of  Prus- 
sia. In  Prussia  there  were  in  1876  (the 
latest  statistics  to  which  I  have  access) 
only  nine  universities  ;  but  there  were 
233  Gymuasien  and  eighty-three  Real- 
schulen  of  the  first  rank  (whose  pupils 
are  now  admitted  to  the  universities),  in 
all  316  schools  preparatory  to  nine  uni- 
versities. In  1880  the  city  of  Berlin 
had  fourteen  Gymnasien  with  7247  pu- 
pils, nineteen  Vorschulen  preparatory  to 
the  Gymnasien  with  3787  pupils,  seven 
Realschulen  with  394*6  pupils,  and  one 
university. 

All  these  facts  and  figures  go  to  prove, 
if  they  prove  anything,  the  truth  of  a 
remark  of  the  Commissioner  of  Educa- 
tion : 2  "  When  the  resources  necessary 
to  meet  the  demands  of  modern  educa- 
tion are  considered,  it  seems  that  the 
concentration  of  means  upon  a  few  in- 
stitutions for  superior  instruction,  and 
the  establishment  of  a  sufficient  num- 
ber of  vigorous  preparatories,  both  pub- 
lic and  corporate,  secure  to  a  State  the 

1  It  is  interesting,  in  connection  with  universi- 
ties, to  note  the  fact  that  of  seventeen  higher  in- 
stitutions for  the  colored  race  in  1881,  thirteen 
were  universities. 


best  conditions  for  liberal  education." 
One  of  the  great  evils  of  the  land  is 
the  vast  number  of  so-called  higher  in- 
stitutions of  learning.  "  We  may  well 
exclaim,"  says  Professor  Rowland,  of 
Johns  Hopkins,3  "  that  ours  is  a  great 
country,  having  more  than  the  whole 
world  beside.  The  fact  is  sufficient. 
The  whole  earth  would  hardly  support 
such  a  number  of  first-class  institutions. 
The  curse  of  mediocrity  must  be  upon 
them,  to  swarm  in  such  numbers."  "  It 
may  be  urged,"  he  adds,  "  that  all  these 
institutions  are  doing  good  work  in  ed- 
ucation, and  that  many  young  men  are 
thus  taught  who  could  not  afford  to  go 
to  a  true  college  or  university.  But  I 
do  not  object  to  the  education,  though 
I  have  no  doubt  an  investigation  would 
disclose  equal  absurdities  here.  .  .  .  But 
I  do  object  to  lowering  the  ideals  of  the 
youth  of  the  country.  Let  them  know 
that  they  are  attending  a  school,  and  not 
a  university  ;  and  let  them  know  that 
above  them  comes  the  college,  and  above 
that  the  university.  ...  In  other  words, 
let  them  be  taught  the  truth." 

There  is  a  very  large  number  of  so- 
called  higher  institutions  which  give 
neither  preparation  for  college  nor  col- 
lege training.  By  their  low  entrance 
standards  they  prevent  a  boy  from  get- 
ting a  thorough  preparation  elsewhere, 
and,  once  entered,  he  is  neither  able  to 
take,  nor  they  to  give,  real  college  in- 
struction. It  is  hard  to  look  upon  this 
otherwise  than  as  a  crime  against  the 
youth  of  the  country. 

Closely  and  perhaps  inseparably  con- 
nected with  the  evil  of  inadequate  prep- 
aration for  college  is,  I  think,  the  very 
general  adoption  throughout  the  South 
of  the  so-called  school  system,  which  is 
an  arrangement  of  studies  in  indepen- 
dent departments  or  schools,  and  per- 
mits unrestricted  election  throughout  the. 
whole  course.  At  least  thirty-five  South- 

2  Report  for  1880,  page  cxxxi. 
*  Science,  August  24,  1883. 


1884]  Southern  Colleges  and  Schools.  549 

ern  colleges  and  universities  have  adopt-  a  student,  who  had  taken  French  and 
ed  this  system,  following  the  example  Spanish  as  the  two  modern  languages  for 
of  the  University  of  Virginia.  All  that  his  degree,  found,  after  he  had  gotten  his 
will  be  said  here  applies  to  colleges  and  certificates  of  proficiency,  that  student 
universities  that  do  only  college  work,  public  opinion  regarded  no  other  modern 
No  one  whom  I  have  consulted  doubts  language  as  an  equivalent  for  German 
that  for  real  university  work,  with  such  for  the  A.  M.  degree,  and  he  therefore 
students  as,  for  instance,  Johns  Hop-  took  German  in  addition.  What  en- 
kins  has,  a  free  choice  of  studies  is  the  lightened  student  public  opinion  does 
proper  plan.  I  shall  give  now  the  ar-  in  the  University  of  Virginia,  direction 
guments  in  favor  of  the  school-system,  and  oversight  of  the  faculty  must  do  in 
compressing  them  into  as  brief  space  as  smaller  institutions,  where  students  are 
possible : *  —  younger.  Besides,  the  irregular  element 

Its  general  adoption  by  the  Southern  under  a  curriculum  is  as  troublesome  as 
colleges  and  universities  was  to  suit  the  any  residuum  that  cannot  be  properly 
time  and  means  of  students,  and  it  has  influenced  under  the  school-system.  This 
opened  the  higher  education  to  those  latter,  by  the  independence  of  the  differ- 
who  have  no  classical  training,  who  were  ent  departments,  removes  the  tempta- 
formerly  excluded  by  the  curriculum,  tion  to  pass  a  student  who  is  deficient  in 
Besides,  it  is  well  adapted  to  the  some-  one  department  into  the  next  higher 
what  irregular  preparation  of  Southern  class  because  he  is  good  in  other  depart- 
students.  Owing  to  the  multiplication  ments.  This  compensating  system  is, 
and  enlarged  extent  of  the  subjects  it  is  claimed,  the  bane  of  the  curriculum, 
which  might  be  taught  in  college,  there  and  is  perhaps  inseparable  from  it.  In- 
must  be  some  choice,  if  we  want  a  thor-  asmuch  as  there  are,  with  the  elective 
ough  knowledge  of  a  few  things  rather  plan,  no  classes  holding  together  for  long 
than  a  smattering  of  many,  and  if  bent  periods,  there  can  be  no  development  of 
of  mind  and  purpose  in  life  are  to  be  that  class  spirit  which  leads  to  combi- 
considered.  Students  can  be  more  cor-  nation  against  the  faculty  on  the  one 
rectly  classified  under  the  school-system ;  hand,  and  to  hazing,  cane-rushes,  and  the 
for  as  few  students  come  to  college  uni-  like  on  the  other,  —  a  feature  the  most 
formly  well  prepared  in  all  studies,  to  troublesome  to  deal  with  in  the  govern- 
place  one  either  according  to  his  most  ment  of  the  older  colleges  of  the  North, 
advanced  or  least  advanced  studies  would  The  curriculum,  furthermore,  tends  to 
be  equally  hurtful.  With  this  system  he  obliterate  the  individuality  of  professors, 
can  be  placed  in  each  study  just  where  while  the  school  system  emphasizes  the 
he  belongs.  Besides,  a  bright  boy  will  work  of  the  individual,  lays  full  respon- 
be  stimulated  by  the  prospect  of  rapid  sibility  upon  him,  opens  the  way  to  just 
advancement.  Public  opinion  at  the  reward  for  faithful  work  done,  without 
University  of  Virginia  holds  students  to  subjecting  him  to  disparagement  on  ac- 
a  certain  order  of  studies,  which  does  count  of  the  negligence  or  unfitness  of 
not  differ  materially  from  a  good  curric-  others.  It  has,  by  reason  of  these  influ- 
ulum,  and  thus  the  evil  which  might  ences,  introduced  into  Southern  college 
arise  from  the  selection  of  light  and  easy  work  a  greater  degree  of  thoroughness, 
courses  is  avoided.  How  strong  is  this  a  higher  development  in  special  direc- 
student  public  opinion  at  the  University  tions,  than  was  ever  known  in  our  col- 
of  Virginia  is  shown  by  the  fact  that  leges  before. 

1  The  views  here  given  are  in  substance  those  Nicolassen,  of  South- Western  Presbyterian  Urn- 
offered,   in   private   letters,   by  Professors  R.  E.  versity,  Tennessee ;  and  N.  T.  Lupton,  Vanderbilt 
Blackwell,  of  Randolph-Macon  College,  Virginia;  University,  Tennessee. 
R.  W.  Jones,  of  University  of  Mississippi ;  G.  F. 


550 


Southern  Colleges  and  Schools. 


[October, 


Against  the  school-system,  as  I  look 
at  it,  the  case  may  be  stated  about  as 
follows : 1  — 

Whatever  the  original  intention,  the 
result  of  the  adoption  of  the  school-sys- 
tem has  been,  in  most  colleges,  to  low- 
er standards  by  abolishing  requirements 
for  admission.  In  fact,  it  is  not  easy  to 
prepare  boys  for  the  school-system.  So 
long  as  the  college  adheres  to  a  definite 
course,  the  lower  schools  know  what 
they  have  to  do.  But  when,  in  place  of 
this,  comes  a  plan  with  unrestricted  elec- 
tion, they  know  not  how  to  prepare  for 
the  various  courses  that  may  be  chosen ; 
and,  if  they  knew,  the  work  is  too  va- 
rious and  general  to  be  done  by  them. 
Then  there  is  the  question  of  choice  of 
studies.  To  arrange  a  judicious  course, 
at  the  present  day,  would  put  to  the  se- 
verest test  the  best  teacher's  skill,  and 
be  too  hard  a  problem  for  our  best  pre- 
pared Freshmen.  How  absurd  it  is, 
then,  to  expect  men  who  are  as  wretch- 
edly prepared  as  the  vast  majority  who 
enter  our  Southern  colleges  to  choose 
what  is  best !  I  am  quite  willing  to  be- 
lieve that  public  opinion  at  the  Univer- 
sity of  Virginia  will  hold  men  who  look 
forward  to  taking  degrees  to  a  strong 
course,  but  I  do  not  see  how  it  could 
greatly  affect  that  element  which  cor- 
responds to  "  irregulars  "  under  a  curric- 
ulum, and  which  is,  and  must  always  be, 
larger  with  the  school-system  than  with 
the  other.  The  faculty  of  a  college,  by 
their  utmost  effort  in  directing  choice 
of  studies,  can  only  partially  control  the 
matter,  since  so  many  of  our  students 
come  to  college  expecting  to  stay  not 
more  than  a  year  or  two,  and  after- 
wards make  up  their  minds  to  take  a 
full  course,  only  to  find  that  they  have 
wasted  much  time  by  rather  aimless  work 


at  the  beginning.  President  Johnston 
says  that  he  knew  at  Washington  College 
a  new  student  from  the  West  who  wished 
to  elect  as  his  course  "  the  violin  and 
mathematics,"  or,  more  plainly  stated, 
"  the  fiddle  and  fractions."  When  Pres- 
ident Johnston  went  to  Baton  Rouge  he 
"found  thirty-eight  students  in  twenty- 
eight  classes.  One  boy  had  for  studies 
arithmetic  and  civil  government  only, 
—  a  course  which  might  be  the  correct 
one,  if  he  was  predestined  to  be  the 
auditor  of  the  State."  A  student  once 
came  all  the  way  from  Texas  to  attend 
the  gymnasium  at  Vanderbilt  Universi- 
ty, and  though  he  chose  certain  studies 
he  made  no  pretense  of  doing  anything 
in  them.  He  became  the  best  gym- 
nast at  the  university,  but  this  was  not 
considered  sufficient  cause  for  allowing 
him  to  continue  his  connection  after  the 
first  year.  The  greatest  evil  I  have 
observed,  however,  is  not  that  men  try 
to  shirk  hard  courses,  but  that  they 
attempt  top  many  hours,  or  the  higher 
work  before  they  are  ready  for  it.  I 
have  seen  most  of  the  time  of  a  faculty 
occupied  at  weekly  meetings  for  two 
months  with  petitions  to  be  allowed  to 
drop  certain  studies.  In  a  class  of  nine 
I  found  recently  two  students  who  had 
such  a  combination  as  sub-college  Greek 
and  Hamilton's  Metaphysics.  This  sys- 
tem gives  professors  a  dangerous  oppor- 
tunity to  magnify  their  own  departments 
by  requiring  too  much  of  a  student's  time, 
so  that  he  must  either  neglect  some  other 
work  or  sink  under  the  burden.  While, 
in  an  institution  like  the  University  of 
Virginia,  the  school  system  may  act  as 
an  incentive  to  the  individual  profes- 
sors, the  very  independence  of  the  dif- 
ferent schools  may  work  badly  ;  for  un- 
der the  school-system  the  president  can 


l  The  following,  in  addition  to  the  writer,  are      South  Carolina  ;  Professor  T.  W.  Jordan,  Emory 


more  or  less  responsible  for  the  views  here  given, 
namely:  Dr.  A.  A.  Lipscomb,  Ex-Chancellor  of 
University  of  Georgia;  President  William  Pres- 
ton Johnston,  Tulane  University,  New  Orleans; 
Professor  R.  Means  Davis,  South  Carolina  Col- 
lege ;  Professor  F.  C.  Woodward,  Wofford  College, 


and  Henry  College,  Virginia;  Professor  E.  Alex- 
ander, University  of  Tennessee;  Professors  W.  M. 
Baskervill  and  W.  F.  Tillett,  Vanderbilt  Univer- 
sity ;  Professor  B.  F.  Meek,  University  of  Ala- 
bama ;  President  D.  R.  Hendrix,  Central  College, 
Missouri. 


1884.] 


Southern  Colleges  and  Schools. 


551 


hardly  be  more  than  chairman  of  the 
faculty,  and  if  trustees  elect  an  incom- 
petent man  there  seems  to  me  to  be  no 
check  upon  him,  and  he  may  do,  in  a 
college,  endless  harm  by  his  methods,  or 
lack  of  any  method. 

An  evil  of  the  curriculum,  in  the 
South  at  least,  is  that  often  excellence 
in  one  department  is  allowed  to  compen- 
sate for  deficiency  in  another,  and  a  ma- 
jority of  the  faculty  vote  a  man  into  the 
next  class  over  the  protest  of  one  or  two. 
But  this  is  not  a  necessary  feature  of  the 
curriculum,  for  I  have  seen  it  worked 
entirely  free  from  this  evil ;  each  officer 
being  allowed  to  "  condition  "  students 
as  they  required,  and  a  certain  number 
of  conditions  cutting  off  a  man.  Such 
heterogeneous  elements  as  the  school- 
system  brings  together,  in  our  practical 
application  of  it,  prevent  anything  like 
thorough  drill  or  systematic  progressive 
work  in  the  class-room.  It  is  my  ex- 
perience, and  I  think  it  is  general,  that 
in  most  classes  will  be  found  men  dif- 
fering in  training  all  the  way  from  one 
to  four  years.  How  much  this  adds  to 
the  labor  of  teaching  may  be  easily  im- 
agined. I  reckon  honestly,  from  ac- 
tual trial  both  in  New  England  and 
Southern  colleges,  that  the  teacher  must 
expend  at  least  twice  as  much  vital  en- 
ergy on  our  mixed  lower  classes,  as  on 
the  better  arranged  classes  there. 

At  its  best  estate  it  is,  I  fear,  as  Pres- 
ident Johnston  says,  "  collegiate  work 
performed  with  university  methods  by 
students  untrained,  and  therefore  unfit, 
for  this  kind  and  degree  of  education  ; " 
and  in  the  light  of  this  statement  it  is 
fair  to  charge  the  system  with  a  tenden- 
cy to  obscure  the  sharp  distinction  which 
should  be  drawn  between  university  and 
college  work.  "  It  is  just  as  demoraliz- 
ing for  a  college  to  invade  the  domain 
of  true  university  work  as  for  a  prepar- 
atory school  to  attempt  to  be  a  college." 
And  as  there  is  as  little  limit  or  check 
upon  granting  college  or  university  char- 
ters in  the  South  as  there  seems  to  be  to 


granting  medical  school  charters  in  Mas- 
sachusetts, it  is  easy  to  see,  when  once 
old  traditions  are  broken  up,  what  con- 
fusion may  be  wrought  by  ignorant  trus- 
tees and  incompetent  faculties.  The 
school-system  has  aggravated  the  end- 
less tinkering  on  college  courses  in  the 
South,  and  pretty  much  every  institu- 
tion has  a  course  more  or  less  peculiar 
to  itself. 

Under  the  school-system,  the  college, 
or  university,  does  not  get  the  hold  on 
its  students  that  the  curriculum  college 
has.  Class  feeling  may  be  troublesome 
in  some  of  its  phases,  but  the  esprit  de 
corps,  the  fellow-feeling  that  grows  up 
among  those  who  march  for  several 
years  toward  a  common  goal,  make  stu- 
dents love  the  college  all  the  more,  help 
to  hold  them  there,  and  then,  more  than 
anything  else,  perhaps,  bind  them  as 
alumni  to  the  Alma  Mater.  Of  course 
no  worse  evil  can  befall  a  college  than 
that  its  students  should  be  perpetually 
changing.  That  the  school-system  seems 
to  have  some  inherent  weakness  at  this 
vital  point  I  propose  to  show  by  the  fol- 
lowing comparison  of  colleges.  In  no 
case  will  graduating  students  be  count- 
ed. Of  the  226  academic  students  at 
Vauderbilt  University  in  1881-2,  111, 
or  about  half,  did  not  return,  though  five 
of  these  entered  purely  professional  de- 
partments of  the  university.  In  1882-3, 
out  of  201  academic  students  the  loss 
was  93,  or  nearly  half,  though  here, 
again,  five  entered  professional  depart- 
ments. The  great  majority  of  these  left 
during  or  at  the  end  of  the  first  year. 
It  may  be  claimed  that  Vanderbilt  is  a 
young  institution,  and  has  not  yet  got- 
ten the  hold  upon  its  students  that  such 
institutions  as  the  University  of  Virginia 
have.  Certainly,  if  any  institution  in 
the  country  may  claim  the  allegiance  of 
its  students,  that  one  is  the  University 
of  Virginia.  In  1878-9,  of  226  aca- 
demic and  medical  students  combined, 
126,  or  more  than  half,  dropped  out, 
though  six  or  seven  of  these  seem  to 


552 


Southern   Colleges  and  Schools. 


[October, 


have  entered  upon  purely  professional 
studies.  Of  the  126,  67  had  been  at  the 
university  only  one  session,  37  two  ses- 
sions, 11  three  sessions,  4  four  sessions, 
1  five  sessions.  In  1879-80,  out  of  217 
academic  and  medical  students,  the  loss 
was  107,  or  about  half,  including  seven 
or  eight  who  returned  for  professional 
study.  Of  the  107,  there  had  remained 
at  the  university  one  session.  51 ;  two 
sessions,  37  ;  three  sessions,  12  ;  four 
sessions,  2 ;  five  sessions,  3.  After  all 
due  allowance  made  for  rigid  exami- 
nations at  these  two  institutions,  there 
would  still  seem  to  be  a  weakness  in 
the  system  on  the  point  under  consid- 
eration. 

Of  the  smaller  colleges,  Wofford  Col- 
lege, South  Carolina,  adopted  the  school, 
system  in  1880.  In  1880-1,  out  of  128 
students  the  loss  was  51  ;  in  1881—2,  58 
out  of  131.  Davidson  College,  North 
Carolina  —  not  one  hundred  miles  from 
Wofford  —  has  a  curriculum  with  paral- 
lel A.  B.  and  B.  S.  courses.  In  1880-1, 
out  of  90  students,  only  16  failed  to  re- 
turn. Emory  College,  Georgia,  has  the 
old  curriculum.  In  1879-80,  the  loss 
was  41  out  of  137 ;  in  1880-1,  53  out 
of  161. 

It  is  fairest,  of  course,  to  compare 
Southern  colleges  only  with  Southern, 
for  poverty  has  much  to  do  with  loss  of 
students  in  that  section ;  but  a  compar- 
ison with  some  Northern  colleges  may 
not  be  un instructive.  Out  of  174  stu- 
dents at  Williams  College  in  1880-1, 
the  loss  was  only  24.  From  personal 
knowledge,  I  should  say  that  there  were 
as  many  poor  students  at  Williams,  work- 
ing their  way  through  college,  as  at  the 
University  of  Virginia  or  at  Vander- 
bilt.  There  is  a  great  difference  in  this 
respect,  however :  students  in  the  New 
England  colleges  allow  poverty  to  in- 
terfere with  their  education  far  less  than 
Southern  students  do.  At  Yale  College, 
in  1880-1,  there  were  482  academic  stu- 
dents, of  whom  only  51  failed  to  return 
next  year.  Of  the  51,  25  were  Fresh- 


men, 14  Sophomores,  12  Juniors.  The 
New  England  colleges  sift  their  students 
at  entrance  ;  in  the  practical  application 
of  the  school-system,  the  sifting  process 
begins  with  the  first,  or  rather  with  the 
first  final,  examination.  To  illustrate  : 
Williams  College  rejected,  in  1882,  just 
one  third  of  the  applicants ;  and  that 
means  that  it  started  with  just  one  third 
less  baggage  than  a  college  in  the  South, 
under  the  school-system,  would  have 
been  burdened  with. 

The  history  of  the  school-system,  as 
I  have  seen  it  worked,  may,  without 
much  injustice,  be  epitomized  about  as 
follows  :  A  large  mass  of  mostly  crude 
and  perfectly  heterogeneous  material  is 
taken  in,  and  straightway  the  eliminat- 
ing process  begins.  Many  drop  out  dur- 
ing the  year ;  many  do  not  attempt  the 
examinations  ;  still  more,  trying,  fail ; 
and  most  of  those  who  drop  out,  or  fail, 
never  return.  Of  40  students  in  Ger- 
man in  Vanderbilt  University,  in  1882—3, 
only  12  passed  the  examinations ;  in 
French,  out  of  33,  only  1 2 ;  of  the  re- 
mainder, in  both  studies,  about  half 
dropped  out  during  the  year,  and  the 
others  failed  in  the  examinations.  Of 
the  students  in  German  only  12,  in 
French  only  8,  returned.  In  chemistry, 
the  same  year,  59  were  matriculated ; 
only  19  passed  the  examinations.  Some 
years  ago  there  were  in  the  Senior  Greek 
class,  at  the  University  of  Virginia,  75 
men  ;  of  the  75,  only  15  thought  it  worth 
while  to  attempt  the  examination  ;  of 
the  15,  only  5  got  through.  What  does 
that  mean  ?  I  am  perfectly  willing  to 
admit  that  the  examinations  of  the  Uni- 
versity of  Virginia  are  the  most  terrible 
ordeals  on  this  continent ;  but  it  is  quite 
certain  that  if  the  seventy-five  men  had 
had  any  sort  of  preparation  for  a  Senior 
Greek  class,  —  in  other  words,  if  they 
had  been  in  their  proper  places,  —  the 
proportion  that  passed  this  examination 
must  have  been  greater  than  one  in  fif- 
teen. 

It  may  be  proper  to  say,  by  way  of 


1884.] 


Southern  Colleges  and  Schools. 


553 


side  remark,  that  it  is  refreshing  to  note 
the  tone  of  respect  in  which  all  my  cor- 
respondents refer  to  the  University  of 
Virginia.  It  is  a  tacit  acknowledgment 
of  her  preeminent  position  in  Southern 
education.  The  whole  South  owes  her 
a  debt  of  gratitude.  She  first,  perhaps, 
introduced  among  us  the  element  of  real 
thoroughness  in  college  work.  When 
the  war  was  over  and  our  colleges  were 
beginning  to  revive  ;  at  a  time  when  we 
could  not,  under  the  smart  of  recent 
events,  look  to  Harvard  and  Yale  and 
Princeton  for  models  in  our  rebuilding, 
then  it  was  that  the  University  of  Vir- 
ginia held  aloft,  as  ever,  her  high  stand- 
ard of  graduation,  though  it  cost  her 
professors  money  to  do  so,  and  she  be- 
came the  one  model  for  all  our  institu- 
tions that  aspired  to  do  high  and  good 
work.  Witness  her  influence  in  the 
fact  that  at  least  thirty-five  Southern 
colleges  and  'universities,  mistaking  the 
true  source  of  her  excellence,  have 
adopted  her  school-system.  With  such 
professors  as  the  University  of  Virginia 
has  always  commanded  —  and  there, 
of  course,  has  been  the  source  of  her 
strength  —  her  work  would  have  been 
of  a  high  character  under  any  system. 
But  what  might  she  not  have  done  for 
Southern,  for  the  national,  higher  edu- 
cation if,  while  selling  her  degrees  and 
certificates  so  dearly,  she  had  been  as 
strict  as  Harvard  in  admitting  students ! 
But  I  must  think,  to  use  the  language 
of  one  of  my  correspondents,  that  "  the 
effort  to  imitate  the  University  of  Vir- 
ginia has  done  no  end  of  harm  to  South- 
ern colleges."  l  Again,  this  system  em- 
phasizes examinations  too  much  and 
teaching  too  little.  The  best  teacher 

o 

is  not  the  man  who  can  "  pitch " 2  the 
most  men,  but  the  one  who  can  get  the 
most  men  through  fairly.  The  system 
requires  more  men  and  more  means  than 
most,  perhaps  any,  of  our  Southern  in- 

1  It  is  not  my  purpose  to  criticise  the  University 
of  Virginia.  Her  work  has  been  of  so  high  and 
thorough  a  character  that  I  should  hesitate  to  say 
anything  against  it.  The  attempt  on  the  part  of 


stitutions  can  command,  even  if  it  be 
the  best  system  in  itself.  It  becomes 
impracticable,  by  the  cost  of  the  machin- 
ery, to  run  it. 

It  may  not  be  out  of  place  to  give 
now  the  opinions  of  a  few  of  the  best 
known  Southern  educators  with  regard 
to  the  school-system.  President  Carlisle, 
of  Wofford  College,  South  Carolina, 
writes  me,  "  We  made  the  mortifying 
discovery  that  six  men  could  not  attend 
to  one  hundred  and  twenty  boys  with- 
out help  from  two  students  as  '  sub- 
tutors.'  That  fact  alone  proves  to  me 
that  we  have  not  yet  reached  the  wisest 
scheme  for  us.  We  are  attempting  too 
much."  Professor  Joynes,  of  the  South 
Carolina  College,  till  recently  an  ardent 
advocate  of  the  school-system,  says  now 
that  it  is  "  a  failure  all  round."  Presi- 
dent William  Preston  Johnston,  of  Tu- 
lane  University,  writes  me,  "  While  I 
approve  of  the  l  elective  system '  for 
real  universities,  I  regard  its  application 
to  colleges  and  schools  as  a  misfortune." 
This  opinion  is,  like  the  last,  of  espe- 
cial value  from  the  fact  that  this  able 
educator  published,  in  1869,  an  article 
strongly  defending  the  school-system 
even  in  an  institution  of  college  grade. 
Chancellor  Garland,  of  Vanderbilt  Uni- 
versity, who  bears  the  same  relation  to 
Southern  that  Mark  Hopkins  does  to 
New  England  education,  having  been 
professor  or  president  in  leading  South- 
ern institutions  of  learning  since  1830, 
says  of  the  school-system,  as  compared 
with  the  curriculum,  "  It  is  suscepti- 
ble of  producing  higher  scholarship,  if 
rightly  applied,  but  most  commonly  its 
results  are  marked  by  less  training  of 
the  mind  and  less  thoroughness  of  at- 
tainment." Dr.  A.  A.  Lipscomb,  late 
chancellor  of  the  University  of  Geor- 
gia, writes,  "The  old  system  trained 
and  disciplined  young  men  better.  The 
old  B.  A.  curriculum  has  never  been 
so  many  weaker  institutions  to  imitate  the  Uni- 
versity of  Virginia  is  what  I  am  principally  con- 
cerned with  here. 

2  Southern  college  term  for  English  "  pluck." 


554 


Southern  Colleges  and  Schools. 


[October, 


equaled  for  compactness  and  concentra-     lege,   Missouri,   and   Wofford    College, 
tion.     We  have  gained  in  quantity  and     South  Carolina,  will  this  year  go  back 

the 


to  the  curriculum  course  or  courses. 
Emory  and  Henry  College,  Virginia, 
will  hereafter  give  only  the  A.  B.  di- 
ploma. 

after  Sophomore  year  ;  to  refuse  to  ma-  Intimately  connected  with  the  school 
triculate  students  under  a  given  age  and  system,  and  no  doubt  sprung  from  it,  so 
without  specific  requirements  ;  and  to  far  as  this  country  is  concerned,  is  an- 


lost  in  quality."  President  Hendrix,  of 
Central  College,  Missouri,  proposes  "  to 
return  this  year  to  the  four-years  cur- 
riculum, with  certain  elective  studies 


have  the  preparatory  department  whol- 
ly distinct."  The  following  opinion  is 
from  a  man  who  is  by  common  consent 
without  a  peer  in  his  specialty  in  the 
South,  but  unfortunately  I  have  not  the 
liberty  to  use  his  name.  To  mention 
even  that  specialty  would  be  to  make 
known  the  man.  He  was  himself  edu- 
cated under  the  school-system.  "  The 
elective  course  was  proper  enough  in  the 
University  of  Virginia,  but  one  institu- 
tion of  the  sort  would  probably  have 
been  sufficient  for  the  entire  South.  The 
new  state  of  affairs  (after  the  war)  in- 
duced other  institutions  to  imitate  the 
University  of  Virginia.  Even  this  might 
have  been  without  injury,  if  they  had 
adopted  elective  curricula,  and  required 
students  to  select  one  or  another  of  these. 
I  am  not  in  favor  of  requiring  Greek, 
for  instance,  of  all  students ;  but  I  am 
in  favor  of  requiring  fixed  courses  to  be 
pursued  in  a  fixed  order.  I  should  cer- 


other  evil  that  obtains  largely  in  South' 
ern  college  work,  —  I  mean  long  exam- 
inations. When  Vanderbilt  University 
was  first  opened,  the  time  for  exami- 
nations was  not  limited ;  but  after  one 
professor  had  been  kept  up  by  classes 
two  days  in  succession  from  nine  in  the 
morning  till  midnight,  he  moved  that  a 
limit  of  six  hours  be  fixed.  The  time 
has  since  been  reduced  to  five  hours.  This 
is  simply  an  instance  of  the  extreme  to 
which  examinations  have  been  carried ; 
in  many  colleges  they  are  still  unlimit- 
ed as  to  time.  Professor*  Blackwell,  to 
whom  I  am  so  much  indebted  for  views 
in  favor  of  the  school-system,  expresses 
himself  on  the  question  of  long  examina- 
tions substantially  as  follows  :  There  is 
something  wrong  about  our  present  sys- 
tem of  examination.  There  are  teachers 


who  give  the  whole  book.  "  Discuss  sub- 
ordinate sentences,"  is  merely  a  sample 
question.  A  student  could  prepare  for 
tainly  like,  in  a  college,  a  good  old-fash-  that  kind  of  examination  and  write  all 
ioned  four-year  curriculum,1  but  branch-  day  without  making  a  mistake,  and  yet 
ing  in  about  three  directions ;  and  then  might  be  unable  to  answer  a  few  well- 
chosen  questions,  which  would  really 
test  his  knowledge.  Such  broad  ques- 
tions allow  only  the  most  meagre  treat- 


genuine  university  work." 

It  is  a  noteworthy  fact  that  all  my 
correspondents  who  propose  anything 
constructive  agree  upon  two  or  more 
curricula,  as  circumstances  may  allow, 
and  would  limit  the  choice  of  studies  in 


ment,  because  of  the  vast  extent  of  the 
ground  to  be  gone  over,  and  one  who 
knows  anything  of  the  subject  can  write 


ignorance. 


college  to  curricula,  with  perhaps  some     a  large  number  of  pages  without  show- 
elective   studies   after    the    Sophomore 
year.     Vanderbilt  University  made  last 
year  the  two  first  years  of  the  under- 
graduate  course    required  for  all  who 


ing  either  knowledge  or 
Twenty-five  lines  of  Livy  will  test  a 
man's  mastery  of  Livy  as  well  as  one 
hundred,  if  the  examiner  is  already  ac- 


propose  to  take  a  degree,  with  only  a  quainted  with  that  man's  general  schol- 

choice  between  curricula.     Central  Col-  arship.     One  result  of  stressing  the  ex- 

i  He  says  elsewhere  that  he  would  call  the  animation  is  that   the^  student  gets  fiur- 

classes  Freshman,  Sophomore,  Junior,  and  Senior.  ried.      The  fact  that  it  counts   SO   much 


1884.]                          Southern  Colleges  and  Schools.  555 

frightens  him.     In  a  monthly  examina-  ous  ailment,  believed  to  be  the  result  of 

tfou,  on  one  occasion,  forty-seven  lines  overwork  in  college.     I  am  firmly  con- 

from  Heyne's  Reisebilder  were  assigned  vinced  that,  below  the   university,  ex- 

a  class  for  translation  ;  and,  though  the  animations  should  be  limited  to  four  or 

students  wrote  on  their  knees,  without  five  hours  at  the  outside, — better  three  ; 

support  for  book  or  paper,  all  finished  in  and  that  they  should  count  in  a  student's 

one  hour,  and  some  in  less  time.     Had  standing  not  more  than  one  third,  recita- 

it  been  a  regular  semi-annual  examina-  tions  counting  two  thirds.     The  custom 

tion  they  would  have  taken  two  hours  and  law  at  Yale,  Harvard,  and  Williams 

or  more.     In  the  same  college  an  exam-  is  three  hours. 

ination  paper  on  trigonometry,  on  which  I  believe  that  these  excessively  long 
three  and  a  half  hours  were  allowed  at  examinations  belong,  if  anywhere,  with 
the  Naval  Academy,  was  given  to  a  class,  the  school-system,  in  the  real  university. 
—  or  rather  only  three  fourths  of  it  was  One  of  the  worst  features  in  a  system 
given.  The  students  took  from  six  to  which  allows  such  long  examinations  is 
nine  hours  to  write  it.  In  the  one  case  the  tendency  to  merge  the  teacher  -in 
one  third  of  the  year's  work  was  in-  the  examiner,  than  which  nothing  can 
volved ;  in  the  other  the  whole.  Then,  be  more  fatal  to  college  work.  Such 
too,  the  effect  on  the  health  of  the  stu-  instruction  is  apt  to  result  in  the  pro- 
dents  is  very  bad.  The  best  students  in  fessor's  knowing  as  little  of  his  pupils 
the  colleges,  where  such  examinations  as  the  Latin  professor  at  the  University 
obtain,  look,  at  examination  time,  almost  of  Edinburgh,  who  always  confounded 
like  walking  ghosts.  In  proof  of  this  Thomas  Carlyle  with  a  certain  other 
last  remark  of  Professor  Blackwell's,  I  dull  Mr.  Carlyle,  for  which  Thomas 
may  state  that  I  have  seen  a  young  man  never  quite  forgave  him.  In  college 
examined  for  five  days  in  succession,  work  the  teacher  is  infinitely  above  the 
six  hours  a  day.  It  was  not  long  be-  examiner.  As  President  Johnston  says, 
fore  he  could  neither  eat  nor  sleep  ;  he  in  college  we  want  "  a  teacher,  and 
could  not  even  think  clearly.  At  the  above  all  things  a  teacher."  "  There  is 
end  of  the  time  he  was  almost  wild,  and  no  substitute  for  a  live  man  in  teach- 
had  barely  passed  on  his  examinations,  ing ; "'  he  makes  his  pupils  men  as  well 
though  he  was  a  hard  student,  and  was  as  scholars,  and  inspires  them  to  scholar- 
conceded  to  be  one  of  the  brightest  men  ship  largely  by  his  own  enthusiasm  for 
in  the  institution.  If  that  can  happen  learning,  and  through  their  love  and  re- 
in a  daily  six-hour  examination,  what  spect  for  him. 

must  happen  in  those  that  last  twice  or  This  mania  for  long  examinations, 
three  times  six.  I  know  the  case  of  a  beginning  in  the  higher  institutions,  has 
young  man  in  another  college,  who,  af-  worked  downward  until  it  has  invaded 
ter  sitting  in  the  examination  room  from  even  the  primary  schools.  In  the  pub- 
eight  in  the  forenoon  till  seven  in  the  lie  schools  of  Nashville  the  examinations 
evening,  came  the  next  day  to  another  are  held  in  writing  from  the  time  the 
examination,  in  which  a  medal  was  at  children  learn  how  to  write,  and  they 
stake,  and  in  which  he  himself  was  ac-  have  two  examinations  a  day,  together 
knowledged  to  have  all  the  chances  in  equal  to  five  or  six  hours.  The  children 
his  favor,  and  said,  "  Professor,  I  cannot  of  one  of  my  colleagues  in  Vanderbilt 
stand  the  examination.  I  am  utterly  have  written  examinations,  in  one  of 
prostrated.  Even  if  my  diploma  de-  the  private  primary  schools  in  Nash- 
pends  on  it,  I  cannot  stand  it."  In  one  ville,  covering  five  or  six  consecutive 
town  last  year  I  heard,  at  one  time,  of  hours.  They  are  eleven  and  thirteen 
six  cases  of  brain  fever,  or  other  seri-  years  old  respectively.  Think  of  a  child 


556 


Southern  Colleges  and  Schools. 


[October, 


of  eleven  years  writing  five  hours  in 
succession !  It  is  physical  torture  !  It 
is  cruelty  to  animals  ! 

The  assignment  of  a  considerable 
amount  of  parallel  reading,  especially  in 
the  classics,  may  be  mentioned  as  an- 
other evil  that  obtains  in  Southern  col- 
lege work.  This  too  is  probably  the  off- 
spring of  the  school-system,  and  belongs, 
with  it,  in  the  university.  It  is  difficult 
to  see  the  sense  of  assigning  to  a  student, 
who  has  already  as  much  as  he  can  bear  in 
his  regular  class-work,  from  fifty  to  five 
hundred  or  two  thousand  pages  extra,  to 
be  read  privately.  It  is  simply  putting 
a  premium  on  translations.  A  profes- 
sor of  recognized  scholarship  and  expe- 
rience writes  to  me,  "  I  do  not  publish 
any  parallel  reading,  for  I  am  deter- 
mined to  stop  lying  in  print.  I  cannot 
understand  how  some  of  our  teachers 
can  get  so  much  Latin  and  Greek  read. 
I  worked  on  the  parallel  reading  at  the 
University  of  Virginia  honestly  for  a 
while.  I  very  soon,  from  sheer  neces- 
sity, took  to  the  translations."  Of  course 
parallel  reading  is  in  itself  highly  bene- 
ficial, and  all  first-class  students  must 
read  a  great  deal  privately  if  they  would 
become  scholars.  But  in  college  it 
should  not  be  assigned  as  a  task.  A 
good  teacher  may  be  trusted  to  inspire 
in  a  bright  pupil  so  much  enthusiasm 
that  he  will  do  the  work  simply  on 
advice.  The  trouble  is  that  an  extra 
task,  which  is  easy  for  the  brightest 
man  in  a  class,  becomes  an  insupporta- 
ble burden  for  the  weaker  men.  There 
is  great  danger,  too,  that  professors,  es- 
pecially young  men,  vying  one  with  an- 
other in  making  high  and  hard  courses, 
may  grind  the  student  as  between  the 
upper  and  nether  millstones.  Against 
this  it  has  been  urged,  that  "  a  teacher 
who  acts  as  if  his  were  the  only  depart- 
ment is  a  one-sided  man.  The  right 
way  to  give  parallel  reading  is  to  assign 
only  so  much  as  the  average  student  can 
read,  and  then  see  that  the  class  reads 
it."  Yet  the  professor  who  wrote  those 


lines  says,  that  when  he  began  to  teach, 
he  required  two  thousand  pages  as  par- 
allel reading  in  German  of  one  class  in 
one  year.  Of  course  he  soon  learned 
better.  But  it  happens  that  all  the  pro- 
fessors of  my  acquaintance  who  have 
used  the  method  gave  immense  quanti- 
ties at  first,  and  only  very  gradually 
learned  reason.  Most  of  these  have 
virtually  discarded  the  custom  of  as- 
signing parallel  reading  as  a  task.  But 
while  they  were  learning  moderation, 
what  was  becoming  of  the  poor  boys  ? 

We  have  also  in  the  South,  of  course, 
the  same  trouble  that  exists  all  over  the 
country,  namely,  the  overtaxing  of  stu- 
dents by  requiring  too  many  studies  for 
graduation.  It  is  an  evil  that  thinking 
men  see  to  exist  even  in  the  public 
school  courses.  Chancellor  Garland 
says,  "  The  vicious  feature  in  our  col- 
leges is  overtaxing  the  pupil  with  rou- 
tine work,  and  affording  no  opportunity 
for  general  culture  by  reading  useful 
books.  Our  students  have  too  many 
subjects  to  study.  They  have  time  only 
to  learn  lessons  ;  none  to  master  subjects 
and  principles.  It  is  a  cramming  pro- 
cess." It  is  a  constant  subject  of  re- 
mark among  Southern  professors  how 
little  students  read.  The  students  are 
aware  of  this,  but  claim,  with  much  jus- 
tice, that  they  have  no  time  for  reading. 
I  was  astonished,  when  professor  in 
Williams  College,  to  see  how  many  daily 
papers  were  taken  by  the  students.  Still 
more  surprised  and  delighted  was  I  to 
hear  a  Sophomore  say,  that  he  and  a 
classmate  were  accustomed  to  meet 
once  or  twice  a  week  to  read  aloud  and 
discuss  Emerson,  and  that  they  had  just 
finished  all  his  works.  That  man  stood 
near  the  head  of  his  class.  I  remember 
with  what  a  feeling  of  pride  another 
student  showed  me  his  treasures,  the 
British  and  American  poets,  and  how  I 
marveled  at  his  knowledge  of  them.  He 
was  only  one  of  many.  Students  cross- 
ing the  campus  of  the  South  Carolina 
College  late  at  night  used  to  see  George 


1884.] 


The  Solitary  Bee. 


557 


McDuffie's  light  burning,  and  hear  his 
sonorous  voice  as  he  read  aloud  some 
English  masterpiece.  I  am  afraid  we 
do  not  allow  our  students  time  for  that 
now.  In  Harvard  and  Yale,  with  the 
exhaustive  preparation  they  can  and  do 
require  for  admission,  the  elective  stud- 
ies, in  the  higher  classes  particularly, 
seem  to  solve  the  problem  in  great  meas- 
ure. But  with  us,  where  wretched 
preparation  is  the  rule,  election  is  never 
safe  before  the  third  or  fourth  year,  if 
then.  It  seems  to  me  the  only  plan  is 
for  the  better  colleges  in  the  South  to 
have  and  rigidly  enforce  certain  fixed 
requirements  for  admission ;  then  to 
have  two  or  more  parallel  courses,  as 
circumstances  allow,  with  fewer  studies 
in  each  course,  and  more  time  given 
to  each;  and  finally,  in  the  third  and 
fourth  years,  if  possible,  some  elective 
studies. 

After  this  jeremiad  there  is  space  only 
for  the  mention  of  a  few  of  the  hope- 
ful signs  in  Southern  educational  work. 
I  take  hope  from  the  fact  that  the  South 
is  more  generally  aroused  on  the  sub- 
ject of  education  than  ever  before,  that 
primary  education  is  more  generally  dif- 
fused. The  effect  will  be  seen  in  time. 
Young  men  who  aspire  to  professorships 
are  beginning  to  fit  themselves  for  the 
higher  work  in  a  manner  not  known  be- 
fore. The  unwritten  law  of  good  North- 
ern colleges  that  a  young  man  must 
have  first-class  university  training,  at 
home  or  abroad,  if  he  hopes  to  rise,  is 


being  established  among  us,  too.  Eleven 
graduates  of  recent  years  of  a  college  in 
South  Carolina,  which  has  really  not 
more  than  one  hundred  names  on  its 
rolls,  are  now  pursuing,  or  propose  to 
pursue,  a  university  course  either  in  this 
country  or  abroad.  With  two  or  three 
exceptions,  these  young  men  are  seek- 
ing not  professional  training,  but  simply 
higher  culture.  Best  of  all,  two  thirds 
of  them  are  making  the  money  necessa- 
ry for  the  course  they  propose.  There 
was  an  increase  in  the  incomes  reported 
by  Southern  colleges  from  1880  to  1881 
of  $109,330.  The  idea  that  colleges 
must  be  endowed  is  gaining  ground. 
There  is  a  growing  conviction  that  fit- 
ting-schools of  a  high  order  are  as  nec- 
essary as  colleges.  We  do  not  yet,  how- 
ever, appreciate  the  truth  that  prepara- 
tory schools,  in  order  to  good  work  and 
permanence,  must  be  endowed.  Two 
facts  have  given  me  more  encourage- 
ment than  anything  else.  Culleoka, 
recognized  as  the  best  fitting-school  in 
Tennessee,  is  every  year  crowded  with 
students  from  all  parts  of  the  South, 
and  sometimes  rejects  in  one  year  ap- 
plicants enough  to  fill  another  school. 
The  other  fact  is  the  founding  and  en- 
dowing, a  few  years  ago,  of  the  Holy 
Communion  Institute,  a  good  academy, 
in  Charleston,  South  Carolina.  We 
have  probably  touched  the  lowest  point, 
and  those  of  us  who  are  young  will  see 
better  things  in  the  "  New  South  "  than 
our  fathers  ever  saw. 

Charles  Forster  Smith. 


THE   SOLITARY  BEE. 


A  VERY  slight  and  fugacious  hint 
from  nature  is  enough  to  excite  expec- 
tation in  one  who  cultivates  her  friend- 
ship and  favor.  Fancy  starts  up,  and 
follows  the  foot-marks  along  the  earth 
)r  the  wing-prints  in  air,  —  unless  in- 


deed it  be  a  very  dull  and  jaded  fancy. 
Not  long  ago,  as  I  was  reading  in  the 
open  air,  I  became  conscious  that  some 
musical  insect  was  busy  in  a  rosebush 
near  by.  On  looking  up,  I  saw  a  bee 
just  hovering  in  departure,  a  portion  of 


558 


The  Solitary  Bee. 


[October, 


green  leaf  folded  in  its  embrace.  In  an 
instant  the  creature  was  gone,  with  a 
mellow  touch  of  the  "  flying  harp."  At 
that  moment  the  whole  visible  world 
seemed  to  pertain  to  the  ingenious  bee : 
I  had  been  singularly  favored  that  I 
had  seen  the  insect  at  all,  and  a  glimpse 
of  the  queen  of  fays  and  her  "  little 
team  of  atomies  "  could  scarcely  have 
surprised  or  pleased  me  more.  How- 
ever, I  began  to  regret  that  I  had  not 
seen  the  leaf  -  cutter  plying  her  keen- 
edged  scissors,  and  to  wish  that  I  might 
find  where  she  went  with  her  plunder. 
I  examined  the  leaves  of  the  rosebush, 
and  was  surprised  to  notice  how  many 
of  them  had  been  subjected  to  the  scis- 
sors. The  snipping  had  been  done  in 
two  patterns,  —  deep,  nearly  circular 
scallops,  and  oblong  segments  with  the 
corners  rounded.  The  edges  were  left 
quite  smooth,  from  which  it  was  evident 
that  the  operant  was  no  crude  prentice 
hand. 

After  this  chance  introduction  to  the 
leaf-cutter  (who  I  found  bore  the  bur- 
densome name  Megachile),  I  watched  the 
ways  of  my  distinguished  new  acquaint- 
ance, and  made  sundry  attempts  to  trace 
her  from  the  rosebush  to  the  laboratory 
in  which  she  worked  up  the  raw  material 
of  the  leaves  :  this,  I  fancied,  would  be 
either  an  excavation  in  old  wood  or  a 
burrow  underground  ;  it  proved,  in  the 
case  of  my  acquaintance,  to  be  neither 
of  these. 

My  quest  met  with  no  success,  until, 
one  day  in  the  vegetable  garden,  I  ob- 
served a  thick-set,  dusky  bee,  with  nar- 
row yellow  bands,  entering  the  hollow 
of  an  onion  top,  two  or  three  inches  of 
which  had  been  cut  off.  No  wonder  my 
curiosity  ran  high :  could  this  be  the 
residence  of  the  aristocratic  leaf-cut- 
ter ?  Could  it  be,  that  one  whom  I  had 
mentally  associated  with  Titania  herself 
should  have  no  finer  perception  of  ele- 
gant congruity  than  to  set  up  house- 
keeping within  walls  of  garlic,  bringing 
thereto  rose-leaf  appointments  ?  If  so, 


I  thought  it  would  be  no  slander  to  re- 
port the  hymenopterous  tribe  as  deficient 
in  the  sense  of  smell.  I  waited  for  the 
bee  to  come  out,  which  she  presently 
did,  and  then  peeped  into  the  onion  top, 
where  I  discovered  a  cell  in  process  of 
construction.  As  there  were  other  cut 
or  broken  tops,  I  examined  those  also, 
and  found  several  that  were  similarly 
occupied.  Some  stalks  contained  one, 
others  two  cylindrical  cells  about  an  inch 
long,  the  sides  formed  by  overlapping 
oblong  bits  of  rose-leaves,  while  the  top 
and  bottom  were  closed  with  circular 
pieces,  the  whole  structure  held  together 
as  though  it  had  been  pressed  in  a  mould. 
The  inner  layers  were  united  by  means  of 
a  substance  that  acted  as  cement.  After- 
ward, when  I  compared  the  pieces  of 
which  these  cells  were  composed  with 
the  notches  in  the  rose-leaves,  it  seemed 
not  impossible  that,  with  time  and  pa- 
tience, the  cut-out  portions  might  be 
fitted  in  their  original  places.  In  some 
cases,  as  I  split  the  onion  stalk,  the  bee 
was  still  at  work  storing  bee-bread  for 
the  support  of  her  offspring,  and  could 
not  be  induced  to  leave  until  all  but  the 
inner  walls  of  her  laboratory  had  been 
torn  away.  Some  cells  were  already 
closed,  and  within  was  the  large  waxen- 
looking  larva,  feeding  on  the  provision 
laid  up  by  its  solicitous  parent,  its  appe- 
tite unimpaired  by  the  garlicky  charac- 
ter of  the  flavoring. 

I  have  yet  to  learn  that  a  community 
of  leaf-cutters  (in  an  onion  bed,  too  !)  is 
a  matter  of  ordinary  occurrence ;  cer- 
tainly, it  will  cause  me  some  surprise 
if  the  novelty  should  be  repeated  anoth- 
er season.  To  speak  of  a  community 
of  solitary  bees  would  be  to  speak  in 
paradox,  and  it  should  be  added  that 
these  insects,  though  occupying  the  same 
neighborhood,  apparently  exchanged  no 
social  civilities.  I  remember  to  have 
questioned  one  of  these  independents 
very  closely  on  the  subject,  —  to  have, 
questioned  and  to  have  been  answered 
in  some  such  way  as  the  following :  — 


1884.] 


Palmer's  Odyssey. 


559 


"  Lone  leaf -cutter  in  thy  cell, 
Where  the  green  leaves  of  the  rose 
Thee,  as  in  a  bud,  enclose, 
Solitary,  do  thou  tell 
Why  thou  choosest  thus  to  dwell, 
Helping  build  no  amber  comb, 
Sharing  no  rich  harvest-home !  " 


Hummed  the  recluse  at  her  task  : 
44  Though  an  idle  thing  thou  ask, 
I  will  freely  answer  thee, 
If  thou,  first,  wilt  clearly  show 
Something  I  have  wished  to  know,  — 
How  the  hivdd  honey-bee 
Can  forego  sweet  privacy ! 

Edith  M.  Thomas. 


PALMER'S  ODYSSEY. 

WHILE  Mr.  W.  J.  Stillman  is  cruis-  traveler  encounter ;  sometimes  convers- 
ing among  the  isles  of  Greece  to  detect  ing  with  gods  or  sailing  with  goddesses, 
the  actual  route  of  Ulysses  or  Odysseus,  and  happening  in  as  a  stranger  guest 
an  American  professor  has  published  a  upon  the  restored  domesticity  of  Mene- 
book  *  which  leaves  us  no  excuse  for  not  laus  and  Helen.  That  traditional  beauty 
exploring  the  original  narrative  of  that  of  all  the  world,  divine  among  women, 
hero's  adventures.  Bearing  on  alternate  8ta  yvvcuKwi/,  did  not  indeed  make  him 
pages  a  sumptuous  reprint  of  Homer's  immortal  with  a  kiss,  as  Marlowe's 
Odyssey  and  a  charming  translation,  the  Faustus  demanded ;  but  she  was  for  him 
volume  offers  at  once  a  treat  to  the  eyes  the  stately  and  gracious  hostess  :  she 
and  an  invitation  into  the  still  air  of  de-  bade  her  maids  lay  beautiful  purple  rugs 
lightful  studies.  It  surely  should  have  for  his  couch ;  and  she  poured  into  his 
appeared  earlier  in  the  season,  for  it  is  wine  a  drug,  known  to  iier  only,  that 
emphatically  a  summer  book,  deserving  quenched  pain  and  strife,  and  brought 
indeed  to  head  one  of  those  lists  enti-  forgetfulness  of  every  ill.  "  He  who 
tied  For  Summer  Travel  with  which  all  should  taste  it,  when  mixed  in  the  bowl, 
enterprising  publishers  delight  to  greet  would  not  that  day  let  tears  fall  down 
what  has  this  year  scarcely  been  the  his  cheeks,  although  his  mother  and 
warmer  season.  The  much- wandering  father  died,  although  before  his  door  a 
Odysseus  is  in  reality  the  very  chief  and  brother  or  dear  son  were  cut  off  by  the 
type  of  all  itinerants  ;  nobody  ever  sword  and  his  own  eyes  beheld."  What 
went  so  far  within  a  small  space  ;  he  was  hostess  of  these  days,  whether  at  New- 
like  Thoreau,  who  "  had  traveled  a  great  port,  or  the  Isle  of  Wight,  or  Trouville, 
deal  in  Concord."  Nobody  else  ever  has  such  a  beverage  to  offer  ? 
extracted  so  much  voyaging  out  of  a  This  is  the  book  which  we  have,  one 
limited  sheet  of  water,  nobody  else  ever  might  almost  say,  for  the  first  time  in 
stayed  so  long  from  home  in  order  to  do  English,  at  the  hands  of  Mr.  Palmer.' 
this,  nor  did  any  one  else  ever  put  his  Not  that  it  has  not  been  more  than 
wife  and  son  to  so  much  trouble  to  find  twenty  times  rendered  into  our  language, 
him.  What  are  the  trivial  wanderings  but  it  was  reserved  for  Mr.  Palmer  to  hit 
of  Father  JEneas  to  the  two  days'  swim  upon  a  mode  of  translation  so  admirable 
of  Homer's  hero ;  what  was  Dido  for  that  he  succeeds  in  preserving,  in  Ho- 
an  enchantress,  beside  Kalypso  ?  What  mer,  for  the  first  time,  certain  peculiar 
eminent  society,  famous  in  the  romantic  qualities  that  others  have  missed.  All 
records  of  all  time,  did  this  experienced  previous  versions  have  been  made  either 


1  The  Odyssey  of  Homer.    Books  I.-XII.     The      Philosophy    in    Harvard    University. 
Text,  and  an  English  Version  in  Rhythmic  Prose.      Houghton,  Mifflin  &  Co.    1884. 
By  GEORGE  HERBERT   PALMER,  Professor   of 


Boston : 


560 


Palmer's  Odyssey. 


[October, 


in  verse,  or  in  that  other  form  of  lan- 
guage which  Moliere's  hero  had  spoken 
all  his  life  without  being  aware  of  it. 
It  was  reserved  for  the  present  transla- 
tor to  hit  upon  a  sort  of  rhythmic  prose, 
constructed  in  loose  iambics,  which  are 
sufficiently  veiled  to  be  unobtrusive,  yet 
distinct  enough  to  be  effective  ;  thus  giv- 
ing us,  just  as  Homer  supplies  it,  nar- 
rative and  poetry  in  one.  This  mode  of 
rendering  was  first  tested  in  public  read- 
ings at  Harvard  College,  and  most  suc- 
cessfully ;  the  exercises  took  place  in 
the  evening  and  were  wholly  voluntary, 
yet  the  attendance  was  large  and  the 
enthusiasm  great.  The  general  testi- 
mony was,  both  among  the  undergradu- 
ates and  on  the  part  of  the  general  pub- 
lic, that  they  felt  for  the  first  time  the 
real  charm  of  Homer,  when  Mr.  Palmer, 
seemingly  in  the  most  off-hand  and  col- 
loquial manner,  gave  this  fresh  version 
of  the  immortal  song. 

Whether  the  result  thus  achieved  has 
gained  or  lost  by  the  printing  may  be 
seriously  questioned.  Mr.  Palmer  him- 
self says,  in  his  ample  and  admirable 
preface,  "  I  cannot  expect  that  methods 
originally  fitted  to  the  ear  will  be  equally 
well-suited  to  the  eye  "  (page  xiii.).  It 
is  possible,  as  he  further  suggests,  that 
many  who  enjoyed  the  reading  may 
have  failed  to  recognize  the  covert 
rhythm,  although  they  felt  its  influence. 
The  careful  scholarship  of  the  book  is 
best  tested  by  the  eye,  no  doubt;  but 
the  eye  is  more  critical  than  the  ear  as 
to  this  new  experiment  in  prose  metres. 
Take,  for  instance,  the  two  lines  describ- 
ing the  grief  of  Penelope. 


Tocrua  /u.iv  op/xaiVoucrai'  errrjAiiSe  yjjSvjuos  v 
€v6e  6'  ayoucXipdeura,  Xvdev  Se  oi  ai//ea  rravra. 

(IV.  793-4.) 

Mr.  Palmer  renders  this,  the  marks  of 
supposed  quantity  being  our  own  :  "  T6 
her  In  such  anxiety  sweet  slumber  came 
and  lying  back  she  slept  and  every  joint 
relaxed."  Here  the  alternate  short  and 
long  syllables  evidently  require  a  little 
forcing  from  the  voice,  but  with  that  aid 


the  hearer  would  not  criticise,  though 
the  reader  might.  Again,  the  close  fol- 
lowing of  the  Greek  arrangement  of 
words,  as  attempted  by  Mr.  Palmer, 
leads  to  a  frequent  inversion,  which  was 
charming  when  given  as  colloquial,  but 
seems  sometimes  constrained  in  print. 
Once  more,  the  demand  of  the  rhythm 
leads  occasionally  to  the  insertion  of  un- 
due particles  in  English,  or  to  a  slight 
stretching  of  the  Greek  particles;  and 
this  is  more  readily  recognized  by  eye 
than  by  ear.  Sometimes  Mr.  Palmer 
vibrates  too  visibly  between  a  statelier 
and  a  more  familiar  vocabulary,  accord- 
ing to  the  same  rhythmic  necessities. 
We  can  perfectly  understand,  therefore, 
in  view  of  all  these  considerations  that 
some  of  the  more  technical  Grecians 
at  Harvard  College  should  have  ques- 
tioned these  performances,  as  they  would 
perhaps  have  questioned  Homer's  own, 
had  they  heard  them ;  yet,  after  all,  their 
loss  is  the  world's  gain ;  the  rhythmic 
version  gives  a  sense  of  wholly  new 
enjoyment,  and  the  result  is,  that 'Mr. 
Palmer  has,  to  our  thinking,  come  near- 
er the  soul  and  spirit  of  the  Odyssey 
than  any  translator  before  him.  Wheth- 
er his  method  would  apply  as  well  to 
the  sterner  strain  of  the  Iliad  may  well 
be  doubted  ;  but  he  must  be  judged  by 
what  he  attempts. 

The  story  of  Odysseus  takes  us  back 
in  many  respects  to  the  childhood  of  the 
world  ;  but  instead  of  finding  there  only 
grossness  and  rudeness,  we  see  rather  a 
dignified  propriety  of  moral  standard,  a 
fine  courtesy  of  manners,  and  a  respect- 
ful and  even  refined  treatment  of  wo- 
men. Nothing  can  be  more  marked 
in  this  respect  than  the  picture  of  the 
domestic  attitude  of  Helen,  as  already 
mentioned  ;  she  moves  among  her  house- 
hold still  a  queen,  and  the  recognized 
equal  of  her  husband  within  the  domain 
of  home.  The  same  is  the  case  with 
the  princess  Nausikaa,  the  white-armed, 
NavcriKaa  AevKwAevov,  who,  although  she 
goes  with  her  maidens  to  the  riverside 


1884.] 


Palmer's  Odyssey. 


561 


to  wash  clothes,  yet  rides  in  her  father's 
best  carriage,  and  plays  ball,  possibly 
lawn-tennis,  when  the  work  is  done. 
The,  book  is  full  of  delicate  touches 
of  home  life  and  high-bred  courtesy, 
joined,  it  must  be  owned,  with  very  hard 
hitting  when  the  fight  comes  on.  Ho- 
mer is  in  truth  as  simple  and  straight- 
forward in  his  blood-letting  as  in  his 
love-making  or  his  hospitality  ;  and  the 
tortures  inflicted  by  the  red  Indians  are 
hardly  worse  than  the  manner  in  which 
Ulysses  and  his  son  Telemachus  handle 
the  offending  suitors  and  erring  maidens 
when  the  wanderer  comes  back  to  his 
own.  Mr.  Palmer's  version  discreetly 
stops  short  before  this  carnival  of  venge- 
ance, for  he  gives  us  only  the  first  twelve 
books. 

There  is  nothing  finer,  either  in  the 
original  or  in  the  translation,  than  when, 
at  the  beginning  of  the  eleventh  book, 
Odysseus  visits  the  realm  of  the  dead. 
Hardly  less  powerful  than  Dante's  vis- 
ion, it  is  less  grim;  and  it  makes  Vir- 
gil's similar  adventures  seem  remote  and 
merely  literary.     "  Then  gathered  there 
spirits  from  out  of  Erebos  of  those  now 
dead  and  gone,  —  brides,  and    unwed- 
ded  youths,  and  worn  old  men,  delicate 
maids  with  hearts  but  new  to  sorrow, 
and  many  pierced  with  brazen  spears, 
men  slain  in  fight,  wearing  their  blood- 
stained armor.     In  crowds  around  the 
pit  they  flocked  from  every  side,  with 
awful  wail."     (XL  36-40.)     Then  fol- 
lows a  vision  of  fair  women  like  Tenny- 
son's ;   and  at  last  comes  the  king  of 
men.    "  When  then  chaste  Persephone 
had  scattered  here  and  there  those  spir- 
its of   tender  women,  there   came   the 
spirit  of  Agamemnon,  son  of  Atreus,  sor- 
rowing.    Around   thronged   other  spir- 
its of  such  as  by  his  side  had  died  at 
the  house  of  Aigisthos,  and  there  had 
met  their  doom.     He  knew  me  as  soon 
as  he  had  tasted  the  dark  blood ;   and 
then   he  wailed  aloud   and  let  the  big 
tears  fall,  and  stretched  his  hands  forth 
eagerly  to   grasp   me.     But   no,  there 
VOL.  LIV. — NO.  324.  36 


was  no  strength  or  vigor  left,  such  as 
was  once  within  his  supple  limbs.  I 
wept  to  see,  and  pitied  him  from  my 
heart."  (XI.  386-95.)  This  is  one  of 
the  few  passages  in  the  Odyssey  where 
Homer  gives  us  a  softened,  or,  as  we 
might  say,  a  modern  strain  ;  and  we  may 
indeed  feel  that  the  whole  twelve  books 
here  translated  do  not  together  equal  in 
depth  of  tenderness  the  two  untranslated 
Greek  hexameters  in  which  Mr.  Palmer 
inscribes  the  work  to  the  memory  of  his 
own  wife.  After  all,  something  has  been 
gained  since  the  days  of  the  glory  that 
was  Greece. 

It  is  hardly  to  be  expected  that  a 
rhythmical  translation,  even  in  prose, 
should  be  as  literal  as  one  free  from  all 
such  effort ;  yet  after  the  comparison  of 
many  pages  with  the  original,  we  should 
say  that,  even  in  the  precision  of  single 
phrases,  Palmer  surpasses  the  transla- 
tion of  Butcher  and  Lang,  his  only  real 
competitors.  When,  for  instance,  in  the 
opening  lines  he  renders  ercupwv  by  "  his 
men,"  it  is  more  literal  as  well  as  more 
vigorous  than  the  phrase  "  his  com- 
pany," twice  used  by  Butcher  and  Lang. 
For  the  Greek  word  is  plural,  not  a 
mere  noun  of  multitude,  and  it  is  close- 
ly followed  by  a  plural  pronoun  refer- 
ring to  the  same  party ;  and  though  it 
might  be  claimed  that  it  carries  a  mean- 
ing of  comradeship  which  is  better  rep- 
resented by  the  word  "company,"  yet 
the  constant  use  in  army  and  navy  of 
"  his  men  "  or  "  my  men,"  in  the  sense 
of  subordinate  companions,  renders  that 
word  equally  applicable  as  well  as  more 
terse.  Again,  in  the  early  lines,  the 
Homeric  phrase  vv/jufrr)  Trorn'  (I.  14)  is 
rather  inadequately  rendered  by  "  lady- 
nymph,"  in  Butcher  and  Lang,  while 
the  statelier  phrase  "potent  nymph'1 
of  Palmer  is  more  satisfying.  In  the 
same  line  Kalypso  is  also  called  Sta 
0eao)i/,  and  this  the  English  translators 
render  lightly  as  "  fair  goddess,"  while 
Palmer's  "  heavenly  goddess  "  is  surely 
better.  This  suggests  a  rather  amusing 


562 


The  Life  of  Bayard  Taylor. 


[October, 


discrepancy  between  the  two  versions, 
in  a  later  passage.  Where  Odysseus 
describes,  with  his  usual  grave  dignity, 
an  intrigue  between  the  god  Neptune 
and  the  mortal  maiden  Tyro,  the  Eng- 
lish translators  describe  her  as  "  lady  ' 
when  the  god  is  wooing  her,  but  make 
him  address  her  curtly  as  "  Woman  ! ' 
when  he  leaves  her ;  while  Palmer  pre- 
cisely reverses  this  arrangement,  mak- 
ing her  a  "  woman  "  when  she  is  sought, 
but  "  Lady !  "  when  the  successful  lover 
makes  his  parting  address.  The  Ho- 
meric word  is  in  both  cases  the  same,  yv- 
valKa  (XI.  244),  yvvai  (XI.  248) ;  and  it 
involves  the  delicate  question  whether 
a  woman  is  entitled  to  more  or  to  less 
courtesy  after  she  is  won.  Mr.  James  or 
Mr.  R.  G.  White  might  easily  devise  an 
"  international  episode  "  from  this  prob- 
ably accidental  divergence  of  the  Eng- 
lish and  American  translators.  These 
authorities  might  also  charge  it  as  an  un- 
due cis-Atlantic  familiarity,  when  Nau- 
sikaa  appeals  to  her  kingly  father  as 
"  Papa  dear ; "  but  when  we  consider 
that  the  original  phrase  is  ILaTnra  <f>t\' 
(VI.  57),  the  equivalent  English  is  un- 
mistakable ;  and  when  we  observe  that 
the  young  princess  was  standing  very 


near  her  father,  /xaA.'  ayxL  <rracra,  and 
possibly,  though  Homer  does  not  men- 
tion it,  had  her  hand  on  his  shoulder,  — 
we  should  no  more  wish  to  miss  this 
touch  of  familiarity  than  the  fact  that 
she  asked  for  "  the  high  wagon  with 
good  wheels  "  (ui/^A^v  €VKVK\OV)  to  trans- 
port herself  and  her  attendants. 

We  do  not  propose,  however,  to  dis- 
cuss the  comparative  details  of  trans- 
lation, where  both  competitors  are  so 
excellent.  Mr.  Palmer's  Odyssey  must 
stand  or  fall  by  the  success  of  his 
rhythmic  experiment,  and  the  more 
poetic  flavor  that  he  has  tried  —  suc- 
cessfully, as  we  think  —  to  secure.  If 
this  success  is  less  than  when  tested 
by  the  ear  only,  it  is  still  very  great, 
and  we  hear  with  much  regret  that  the 
work  is  not  to  be  completed.  He  has 
attained  what  Newman  vainly  attempt- 
ed by  his  ballad-metre  version  of  the 
Iliad ;  he  has  restored  to  us  Homer  the 
bard  ;  and  his  strains  are  as  fascinating 
as  if  "sung  but  by  some  blind  crowd- 
er,"  —  the  phrase  used  by  Sir  Philip 
Sidney  in  speaking  of  Chevy  Chase, 
—  or  as  if  we  sat  listening  to  the  harp 
beside  some  cottage  door  in  Scio's  rocky 
isle. 


THE   LIFE  OF   BAYARD   TAYLOR. 


HERE  is  a  book1  which  has  the  charm 
of  autobiography,  and  a  fascination  of 
its  own  besides,  to  which  the  most  ingenu- 
ous confessions  of  a  life  can  hardly  offer 
a  parallel.  When  a  man  tells  his  own 
story,  we  never  can  be  sure  that  he  tells 
it  quite  right,  and  we  can  almost  always 
be  sure  that  he  does  not  reveal  the 
whole  of  his  heart.  However  frank 
and  truthful  he  may  be,  however  little 
he  may  dread  unsympathetic  scrutiny, 

1  Life  and  Letters  of  Bayard  Taylor.    Edited 
by  MARIE   HANSEN-TAYLOR   and   HORACE   E. 


there  is  a  great  deal  of  his  character 
which  he  does  not  himself  know.  Bay- 
ard Taylor  was  one  of  the  most  open- 
hearted,  sincere,  and  straightforward  of 
men ;  he  was  as  clear  as  a  mountain 
brook ;  the  lines  of  his  character  were 
beautifully  simple  and  distinct,  —  but 
the  last  man  in  the  world  to  describe  him 
as  he  was  would  have  been  Bayard  Tay- 
lor. It  is  fortunate  for  us  that  the  de- 
lightful records  of  his  inner  life,  pre- 

SCUDDER.    In  two  volumes.   Boston :  Houghton, 

Mifflin  &  Co.    1884. 


1884.] 


The  Life  of  Bayard  Taylor. 


563 


served  in  his  journals  and  letters,  have 
been  completed  and  illustrated  by  the 
companion  who  knew  him  best,  who 
loved  him  best,  and  who  appreciated 
most  justly  his  rare  union  of  masculine 
boldness  and  exuberance  with  feminine 
sensibility  and  reserve.  The  work  has 
been  done  not  only  with  affection,  but 
with  judgment  and  good  taste.  The  re- 
sult is  a  finished  and  accurate  picture 
of  a  most  attractive  subject. 

The  hero  of  John  Godfrey's  For- 
tunes is  made  to  say,  "  I  belong  to  that 
small  class  of  men  whose  natures  are 
not  developed  by  a  steady,  gradual  pro- 
cess of  growth,  but  advance  by  sudden 
and  seemingly  arbitrary  bounds,  divided 
by  intervals  during  which  their  faculties 
remain  almost  stationary  ; '  and  this 
has  been  interpreted  as  Taylor's  judg- 
ment of  himself.  His  mind  did  expand 
quickly  under  the  influence  of  external 
associations,  but  it  seems  to  us  that 
there  never  was  a  time  when  his  powers 
were  not  enlarging  faster  than  his  op- 
portunities. His  early  circumstances 
were  singularly  unfavorable,  not  only  to 
the  growth  of  the  poetical  spirit,  but  to 
any  form  of  literary  activity.  The  com- 
munity in  which  his  home  was  placed, 
and  toward  which  the  warm  impulses 
of  his  heart  were  always  directed,  was 
a  little  society  of  Quaker  farmers,  who 
clung  to  their  narrow  beliefs  and  preju- 
dices with  a  bigotry  nearly  akin  to 
tyrannical  fanaticism,  and  looked  upon 
verses  as  vanity  and  the  aspiration  for 
a  larger  life  than  theirs  as  a  sin.  The 
rigorous  restrictions  of  village  opinion 
would  not  have  troubled  Bayard  much 
if  his  affections  had  not  been  so  strong ; 
he  broke  through  them  when  he  forsook 
the  farm,  when  he  made  his  first  adven- 
turous journey  abroad,  when  he  entered 
the  trade  of  authorship,  when  he  left 
Pennsylvania  for  a  more  stirring  career 
in  New  York  ;  but  the  effort  always 
cost  him  pain.  It  was  not  opportunity 
tempting  him,  but  a  sturdy  intellectual 
growth  bursting  the  trammels  of  circum- 


stance. The  book  by  which  he  first 
made  a  name,  Views  Afoot,  was  prob- 
ably of  all  his  writings  the  one  he  val- 
ued least ;  but  it  has  a  special  interest 
to  us  as  a  remarkable  example  of  the 
"  self-dependence >:  which  he  set  him- 
self to  cultivate  as  a  precious  element 
of  character.  It  is  curious  to  note  that 
no  special  literary  influence  controlled 
his  early  powers.  He  speaks  in  one  of 
his  boyish  letters  of  "  Bryant,  Longfel- 
low, Whittier,  and  Lowell  (all  Ameri- 
cans, you  know)  "  with  an  equal  fervor ; 
and  at  the  age  of  seventeen  he  made  a 
rapturous  excursion  into  the  pages  of 
Tennyson  ;  but  none  of  these  poets  can 
be  said  to  have  formed  him.  After- 
ward he  became  a  delighted  student  of 
Shelley ;  but  by  this  time  his  develop- 
ment had  taken  its  own  course.  The 
literary  society  into  which  he  was  first 
thrown  was  pleasant  to  an  ardent  and 
cheerful  young  man,  yet  it  could  hardly 
be  called  stimulating.  Rufus  W.  Gris- 
wold  was  the  great  critic  of  that  coterie ; 
N.  P.  Willis,  Charles  Fenno  Hoffman, 
"Major  Jack  Downing,"  Mrs.  E.  F. 
Ellet,  were  among  the  favorite  authors ; 
The  Home  Journal,  Godey's  Lady's 
Book,  and  Graham's  Magazine  were 
dread  arbiters  of  opinion.  "  What  a 
constellation !"  exclaims  Taylor,  after 
penning  a  catalogue  of  the  company  at 
a  literary  assembly  to  which  he  has 
been  invited,  soon  after  his  arrival  in 
New  York.  Griswold,  Willis,  and  Hoff- 
man were  good  friends  to  him,  and  he 
never  forgot  them  ;  but  he  soon  soared 
beyond  them.  Longfellow  gave  him 
immediate  sympathy  and  recognition. 
Lowell,  Irving,  and  Bryant  admitted 
him  to  their  friendship ;  and  he  formed 
an  intimate  and  congenial  companion- 
ship, broken  only  by  death,  with  two 
poets  of  nearly  his  own  age,  who  be- 
longed to  a  stronger  race  than  the  dilet- 
tante school  then  verging  toward  its  de- 
cline, —  we  mean  K.  H.  Stoddard  and 
George  H.  Boker.  To  these  a  little 
later  was  added  Edmund  C.  Stedman, 


564 


The  Life  of  Bayard  Taylor. 


[October, 


whose  fine  spirit  was  much  like  Bay- 
ard's own. 

The  truth  is,  Taylor  was  born  a  poet, 
and  the  faculty  was  too  strong  in  him  to 
be  repressed  or  wasted.  In  his  early 
letters,  long  before  there  is  any  attempt 
at  literary  form,  or  any  mark  of  the  influ- 
ence of  particular  books,  the  indications 
of  original  poetical  feeling  are  unmis- 
takable. He  looked  on  the  flowers  and 
the  trees,  the  mountains,  the  storm,  the 
painted  sky,  the  swelling  buds,  the  blue 
midsummer  haze,  with  the  poet's  eye, 
and,  as  the  biography  well  says,  "  with 
a  latent  passion  for  the  exuberance  of  a 
warmer  clime.  There  was  an  Oriental- 
ism in  nature  which  he  early  discovered, 
even  before  he  was  brought  into  famil- 
iar knowledge  of  the  actual  East.  Thus 
he  used  to  greet  the  first  dandelion  of 
the  year  with  delight ;  it  was  to  him  a 
symbol  of  the  ascendency  of  the  sun ; 
and  in  the  early  fall  he  welcomed  the 
pale  pink  flower  of  the  centaury  plant, 
and  its  spicy  odor,  with  its  faint  sug- 
gestion of  the  East." 

It  happened  that  while  these  poetic 
impressions  were  in  their  first  force,  a 
romance  entered  into  his  life  which  is 
told  here  with  idyllic  grace.  Mary  Ag- 
new,  the  beautiful  Quaker  girl  whom 
he  loved  with  inexpressible  tenderness 
and  devotion  almost  from  boyhood,  and 
married  on  her  deathbed,  just  as  he  was 
beginning  to  win  the  success  which  he 
had  valued  chiefly  for  her  sake,  had  a 
happy  influence  on  his  genius.  "  She 
was  not  so  much  the  inspiration  of 
special  poems  addressed  to  her,"  says 
the  biography,  "  as  she  was  the  guiding 
star  to  Bayard  Taylor's  passion  and 
thought.  It  was  no  mere  poetic  com- 
monplace which  made  his  early  verses 
insensibly  turn  to  her,  however  their 
movement  may  have  been  first  directed ; 
and  the  plans  which  he  laid  for  the 
course  of  his  life  all  had  immediate  ref- 
erence to  Mary.  The  ambition  which 
he.  possessed  in  no  slight  degree  to 
make  himself  a  name  and  place  in  lit- 


erature was  kindled  by  the  thought  of 
sharing  his  reputation  with  her,  and  the 
tumultuous  discharge  of  his  hopes  and 
fears  through  the  pages  of  his  diary 
is  witness  to  the  ardor  with  which  he 
mingles  the  happiness  of  the  home  for 
which  he  labored  with  the  aspiration  for 
enduring  expression  of  his  poetic  gen- 
ius." She  seems  to  have  been  in  every 
way  worthy  of  the  pure  and  fervent  love 
which  she  inspired,  —  a  gentle  and  spir- 
itual being,  absorbed  in  Bayard,  and 
touching  with  exact  sympathy  whatever 
was  noblest  in  his  nature.  Her  letters 
are  full  of  a  simplicity,  refinement,  and 
wholesomeness  of  sentiment  which  give 
elegance  to  their  unpremeditated  style  ; 
and  the  quaint  Quaker  phraseology 
(which  Bayard  also  used  in  writing  to 
her)  adds  to  the  effect  a  certain  old-fash- 
ioned composure  and  serenity.  Clear, 
calm,  candid,  glowing,  freighted  with 
hope,  trust,  and  patience,  and  mingling 
the  whispers  of  love  with  the  sugges- 
tions of  the  muse,  the  correspondence  is 
itself  a  poem.  After  reading  it,  no  one 
will  be  surprised  that  Taylor's  early 
writings  were  distinguished  by  a  sincer- 
ity and  dignity  of  feeling  which  are  the 
usual  fruits  of  maturer  years.  Nor 
shall  we  wonder  that  amid  the  distrac- 
tions to  which  his  mind  was  soon  ex- 
posed—  the  drudgery  of  a  country  news- 
paper office,  and  the  still  more  disturb- 
ing labors  of  New  York  journalism  — 
he  was  able  to  preserve  the  poetic  fac- 
ulty unimpaired.  "  To-night,"  he  writes 
to  a  friend,  "  I  have  thanked  God  for 
one  thing,  and  shall  do  so  all  nights 
henceforth,  —  the  knowledge  that  I  have 
not  smothered  the  poetic  feeling,  not 
even  weakened  a  spiritual  nerve,  by  this 
life  of  toil,  this  perpetual  struggle  with 
the  Little  and  the  Earthly.  It  is  purer 
and  brighter,  and  I  know  that  I  can 
keep  it  so.  Is  it  not  a  divine  joy  ?  ' 

The  post  to  which  Horace  Greeley 
appointed  him  on  The  Tribune,  in  1848, 
united  employments  which  a  leading 
metropolitan  journal  would  now  divide 


1884.] 


The  Life  of  Bayard  Taylor. 


565 


among  four  or  five  industrious  men. 
For  the  salary,  which  seemed  munifi- 
cent then,  of  twelve  dollars  a  week,  Tay- 
lor was  sub-editor,  foreign  editor,  leader 
writer,  critic,  man-of-all-work,  and  re- 
porter. He  throws  down  the  pen  with 
which  he  has  been  reviewing  a  new  book 
or  discussing  the  latest  European  com- 
plication, and  rushes  to  Astor  Place  to 
describe  the  Macready  riots,  or  to  the 
wreck  on  Fire  Island  where  Margaret 
Fuller  has  been  drowned,  or  to  some  dis- 
tant political  gathering  where  a  speech 
is  to  be  taken  for  his  paper.  But  with 
these  multifarious  employments  he  found 
opportunity  for  intellectual  refreshment. 
"  I  reached  Boston  on  Sunday  morning," 
he  writes  to  Mary  Agnew,  "  galloped 
out  to  Cambridge,  and  spent  the  evening 
with  Lowell ;  went  on  Monday  to  the 
pine  woods  of  Abington  to  report  Web- 
ster's speech,  and  dispatched  it  to  The 
Tribune  ;  got  up  early  on  Tuesday  and 
galloped  to  Brookline  to  see  Colonel 
Perkins ;  then  off  in  the  cars  to  Ames- 
bury,  and  rambled  over  the  Merrimac 
hills  with  Whittier ;  then  Wednesday 
morning  to  Lynn,  where  I  stopped  a 
while  at  Helen  Irving' s ;  back  in  the  af- 
ternoon to  Cambridge,  where  I  smoked 
a  cigar  with  Lowell,  and  then  stayed  all 
night  at  Longfellow's  ;  Thursday  morn- 
ing to  Boston,  where  I  visited  some 
twenty  places  and  people,  and  came 
away  in  the  afternoon  to  Fall  River ; 
took  the  steamboat,  saw  Newport  under 
a  flood  of  crystal  moonlight,  walked  the 
deck,  looking  over  the  glittering  Sound, 
wishing  for  thee ;  at  sunrise  looked  into 
the  whirlpools  of  Hell  Gate ;  and  now  I 
am  back  at  my  post,  full  of  health,  spir- 
its, strength,  happiness,  and  poetic  in- 
spiration. I  am  now  ready  for  another 
six-months'  siege,  and  my  heart  is 
filled  with  kindly  recollections  of  kind 
friends."  He  led  in  fact  a  double  life, 
not  only  at  this  time,  but  until  the  end  of 
his  career.  He  consecrated  his  happiest 
hours  to  love,  friendship,  and  poetry ; 
he  gave  a  no  less  earnest  and  hearty  de- 


votion to  prosaic  duty,  which,  irksome 
as  it  certainly  was  to  him,  he  accepted 
cheerfully  as  the  servant  of  his  sweeter 
aspirations.  Hence  it  was  that  during 
his  long  and  intimate  connection  with 
The  Tribune  he  proved  one  of  the  most 
valuable  and  versatile  of  contributors, 
ready  for  any  service,  however  exacting 
or  unfamiliar,  and  accomplishing  every 
task  with  a  thoroughness,  promptness, 
elegance,  and  fine  workmanlike  finish 
which  left  only  one  comment  possible 
among  his  associates,  —  that  "  nobody 
could  have  done  that  job  like  Bayard." 
His  ambition  was  sustained  by  the 
thought  of  earning  a  home  for  Mary, 
and  leisure  for  his  muse.  Later,  when 
time  had  healed  the  wound  of  Mary's 
loss,  new  and  still  happier  ties  gave  him 
fresh  incentives  to  exertion.  But  apart 
from  these  extraneous  influences,  Taylor 
was  kept  at  a  high  level  of  effort  by  a 
sensitive  conscience.  He  had  a  keen 
sense  of  the  dignity  of  the  literary  call- 
ing ;  slovenly  writing  seemed  to  him 
profanation  ;  to  be  ignorant  of  his  sub- 
ject was  in  his  eyes  to  be  insincere.  The 
routine  work  of  daily  journalism,  the 
letters  of  travel  (first  written  for  his 
paper),  the  essays,  criticisms,  magazine 
articles,  miscellaneous  labors  for  the 
publishers,  and  finally  the  lectures,  were 
all  part  of  his  duty  as  a  man  of  letters ; 
and  however  the  world  regarded  them, 
he  at  least  must  treat  them  with  the  re- 
spect due  to  his  profession. 

The  persistence  of  his  poetic  facility 
in  the  midst  of  police  reports  and  polit- 
ical speeches  is  less  remarkable  when 
we  bear  in  mind  the  fervid,  proud,  and 
truthful  spirit  in  which  he  performed 
his  "  struggle  with  the  Little  and  the 
Earthly."  Labor  which  is  inspired  by 
love  and  ambition,  and  dignified  by 
sincerity  and  self-respect,  cannot  but 
strengthen  the  soul  and  the  imagination. 
It  was  in  the  midst  of  his  most  prosaic 
duties  at  The  Tribune  office  that  Taylor 
wrote  his  fine  Ode  to  Shelley,  and 
penned  the  stirring  Californian  Ballads, 


566 


The  Life  of  Bayard  Taylor. 


[October, 


which  indicate  something  like  poetical 
clairvoyance,  for  they  were  made  before 
he  had  seen  the  romantic  and  sturdy  life 
they  describe,  and  even  before  the  dis- 
covery of  gold  had  fixed  public  atten- 
tion upon  the  Pacific  coast.  Hardly  had 
the  Ballads  been  published  in  a  volume 
when  the  gold  discovery  followed.  The 
travels  which  made  such  a  conspicuous 
part  of  the  achievement  of  his  life  were 
to  a  great  extent,  as  we  have  already 
said,  the  fruit  of  his  employment  as  a 
journalist,  and  the  public  has  always 
held  them  distinct  from  his  work  as  a 
poet ;  and  yet,  unaffected  and  direct  as 
his  books  of  travel  are  in  expression,  it 
is  the  latent  poetical  spirit  in  them,  the 
clear  vision,  the  sympathetic  temper, 
the  ingenuous  and  open  mind,  the  pure 
and  refined  taste,  which  give  them  a 
lasting  value.  Except  in  two  or  three 
cases,  moreover,  it  was  an  irresistible 
desire  to  place  himself  in  communication 
with  a  larger  intellectual  life,  and  in 
closer  association  with  poetic  scenes  and 
memories,  that  inspired  his  journeys ; 
and  all  of  them  therefore  had  an  im- 
portant share  in  his  poetical  develop- 
ment. His  early  life  was  so  simple  and 
gentle,  and  his  verse  was  so  faithful  an 
expression  of  his  feeling,  that  he  sang 
at  first  in  a  strain  of  almost  artless  di- 
rectness. A  healthy,  vigorous,  and  cou- 
rageous lad,  stirred  by  high  aspirations, 
buoyed  by  a  hopeful  and  confident  dis- 
position, and  blest  with  a  true  love, 
what  had  he  to  do  with  the  vague  yearn- 
ings and  complex  emotions  of  passion- 
ate poetry  ?  When  sorrow  came  to  him, 
it  was  not  in  his  nature  to  show  it  to  the 
world.  But  with  knowledge  of  life  and 
affairs  to  which  he  was  introduced  by 
his  employment  in  journalism,  with  the 
literary  associations  to  which  his  posi- 
tion in  New  York  admitted  him,  and  the 
exceptional  experience  of  his  travels,  he 
was  always  gaining  depth,  and  subtlety 
of  thought  as  well  as  fluency  and  rich- 
ness of  diction.  There  was  a  marked 
growth  in  his  poetry,  and  he  was  fully 


conscious  of  it;  but  his  work  always 
showed  a  balance  and  directness  which 
indicated  a  thoroughly  healthy  organ- 
ization. 

He  refers  more  than  once  in  his  cor- 
respondence to  a  change  in  his  intel- 
lectual condition  ;  during  his  European 
tour  of  1856  and  1857  especially,  a  pe- 
riod in  which  he  wrote  a  great  deal  of 
good  prose  but  very  little  poetry,  he 
spoke  of  undergoing  "  a  mental  and 
moral  fermentation,"  which  he  believed 
would  bring  "  wine  instead  of  vinegar, 
new  vitality,  fresh  force,  and  a  spark- 
ling effervescence  of  cheerfulness  and 
courage."  But  it  was  somewhat  later 
than  this  when  he  reached  his  full  men- 
tal stature.  The  gain  in  solidity  of  pur- 
pose, breadth  of  vision,  and  calm  mas- 
tery of  thought  was  distinctly  marked 
after  the  year  1862,  when  he  began  a 
brief  but  valuable  service  to  his  coun- 
try as  diplomatic  representative  in  Rus- 
sia at  a  critical  epoch.  Whether  it  was 
partly  the  patriotic  exaltation  of  war 
time,  rousing  whatever  was  best  and 
strongest  in  Taylor,  as  it  did  in  the  case 
of  so  many  other  men,  or  only  the  nat- 
ural expansion  of  his  mind,  stimulat- 
ed by  experience  and  study,  we  shall 
not  pause  to  inquire ;  but  certainly  the 
era  which  flamed  with  heroism  marked 
a  stage  in  the  career  of  this  poet  and 
scholar.  The  change  was  much  greater 
and  much  quicker  than  any  of  the  ear- 
lier intellectual  transitions  of  which  we 
find  repeated  record  in  the  biography. 
It  seemed  as  if,  in  suddenly  reaching 
his  maturity  of  power,  he  gained  a 
higher  sense  of  the  dignity  of  his  call- 
ing, —  though  that  was  always  high,  — 
a  deeper  and  more  complete  poetic  ab- 
sorption, and  a  serener  satisfaction  in 
the  expression  of  his  best  thought,  with- 
out reference  to  public  appreciation. 
To  this  last  period  of  his  life  belong 
all  his  loftiest  effort  and  most  perfectly 
artistic  achievement.  "I  am  only  just 
now  beginning  to  do  genuine  work,"  he 
wrote  while  he  was  busy  with  his  trans- 


1884.]  The  Life  of  Bayard  Taylor.  567 

lation  of  Faust ;  "  the  past  has  been  but  est  pride  in  doing  thoroughly  whatever 
an  apprenticeship,  my  Lehrjahre ;  and  literary  work  he  undertook ;  and  con- 
now  comes  (so  God  will)  the  Meister-  sidering  the  mass  and  quality  of  his 
schaft.  But  if  not,  no  difference  !  My  prose,  it  is  not  surprising  that  a  careless 
life  is  at  least  filled  and  brightened."  "I  public  sometimes  gave  less  prominence 
have  had  enough  of  mere  temporary  pop-  to  his  poetry  than  it  deserved.  Yet  it 
ularity,"  he  wrote  again,  "and  am  tired  was  in  verse  that  he  not  only  reached 
of  it ;  but  I  have  now  begun  to  do  the  his  highest  and  most  permanent  achieve- 
things  that  shall  be  permanent  in  liter-  ment,  but  satisfied  a  lifelong  passion, 
ature,  and  have  not  only  the  strength  to  The  poetical  gift  was  dearer  to  him  than 
undertake  and  carry  them  out,  but  they  anything  else  in  the  world,  except  fam- 
have  also  become  necessary  to  me,  a  ily  and  friends,  and  is  properly  made 
source  of  happiness  as  well  as  a  means  the  leading  note  of  his  biography.  He 
of  success."  "  I  know  that  I  am  doing  did  not  care  for  praise  of  his  prose ;  but 
better  things  now  than  ever  before,"  he  it  delighted  him  to  be  recognized  as  one 
confessed  to  the  painter  McEntee  ;  "  I  of  the  immortal  choir.  "  As  for  popu- 
know  also  that  my  market  value  is  not  lar  favor,"  he  wrote  to  George  H.  Boker, 
half  what  it  was  five  years  ago ;  yet  I  de-  "good  God!  what  is  there  so  humiliating 
voutly  believe  that  I  shall  outlive  many  as  to  be  praised  for  the  exhibition  of 
of  the  apparently  brilliant  successes  poverty  and  privation,  for  parading  those 
which  are  now  blazing  around  us.  Noth-  very  struggles  which  I  would  gladly 
ing  endures  but  genuine  work :  of  that  have  hidden  forever,  when  that  which  I 
you  may  be  sure.  Now,  my  dear  McEn-  feel  and  know  to  be  true  to  my  art  is 
tee,  I  propose  that  we  shall  hold  together  passed  by  unnoticed.  For  I  am  not  in- 
to patience,  bind  each  other's  wounds,  sensible  that  nine  tenths  of  my  literary 
support  each  other's  stumbling  faith,  and  success  (in  a  publishing  view)  springs 
keep  on  doing  our  best.  The  joy  and  from  those  very  Views  Afoot  which  I 
the  reward  is  in  the  work  itself,  after  now  blush  to  read.  I  am  known  to  the 
all."  There  is  something  almost  ma-  public,  not  as  a  poet,  the  only  title  I 
jestic  in  the  tone  of  one  of  his  letters  covet,  but  as  one  who  succeeded  in  see- 
to  Stedman  in  1874:  "Mere  grace  of  ing  Europe  with  little  money;  and  the 
phrase,  surface  brilliancy,  simulated  fire,  chief  merits  accorded  to  me  are  not  pas- 
cannot  endure  :  we  must  build  of  hewn  sion  or  imagination,  but  strong  legs  and 
blocks  from  the  everlasting  quarries,  economical  habits.  Now  this  is  truly 
and  then  the  fools  who  say,  '  Oh,  there  humiliating.  It  acts  as  a  sting  or  spur, 
is  no  color  in  that ! '  will  die  long  before  which  touches  my  pride  *  in  the  raw  ' 
our  work  shall  dream  of  decay.  .  .  .  whenever  some  true  recognition  sets  me 
The  success  of  your  volume  of  poems  is  exulting."  He  was  very  happy  in  the 
an  excellent  sign,  and  delights  me  to  the  reputation  which  poetry  earned  for  him 
very  heart.  Your  success  means  mine,  abroad.  "  Dresden  is  the  literary  city 
and  that  of  all  honest  poets.  You  may  of  Germany,"  he  wrote  to  his  mother 
depend  upon  me :  I  will  never  flinch ;  from  Berlin  in  1856,  "  and  I  met  with 
my  will  is  like  adamant  to  endure  until  all  the  authors  living  there.  I  was  de- 
the  end.  I  have  large  designs  yet,  and  lighted  to  find  that  they  all  knew  me. 
more  real  poetry  in  me  than  has  hither-  When  I  called  on  the  poet,  Julius  Ham- 
to  come  out  of  me.  I  see  my  way  clear,  mer,  he  was  at  his  desk,  translating  my 
recognize  both  capacities  and  limita-  poem  of  Steyermark.  Gutzkpw  the 
tions  as  never  before,  and  bate  no  jot  of  dramatist,  Auerbach  the  novelist,  Dr. 
heart  or  hope."  Andree  the  geographer,  and  others 
Taylor,  as  we  have  seen,  took  an  hon-  whose  names  are  known  all  over  Europe, 


568 


The  Life  of  Bayard  Taylor. 


[October, 


welcomed  me  as  a  friend  and  brother 
author.  We  had  a  grand  dinner  togeth- 
er the  dav  before  I  left.  The  Dresden 

V 

papers  spoke  of  me  as  a  distinguished 
guest,  and  published  translations  of  my 
poems.  In  fact,  I  think  I  am  almost  as 
well  known  in  Germany  as  in  the  United 
States." 

There  is  something  characteristically 
candid  in  that  confession,  whose  ingenu- 
ousness sets  it  on  the  pleasant  border- 
line between  native  modesty  and  an  in- 
nocent love  of  approbation.  In  the 
same  spirit  is  his  account  of  an  inter- 
view with  Tennyson,  which  we  find  in 
a  letter  to  Boker :  "  I  spent  two  days 
with  him  in  June,  and  you  take  my 
word  for  it,  he  is  a  noble  fellow,  every 
inch  of  him.  He  is  as  tall  as  I  am, 
with  a  head  which  Read  capitally  calls 
that  of  a  dilapidated  Jove^  long  black 
hair,  splendid  dark  eyes,  and  a  full  mus- 
tache and  beard.  The  portraits  don't 
look  a  bit  like  him  ;  they  are  handsomer, 
perhaps,  but  have  n't  half  the  splendid 
character  of  his  face.  We  smoked  many 
a  pipe  together,  and  talked  of  poetry, 
religion,  politics,  and  geology.  I  thought 
he  seemed  gratified  with  his  American 
fame ;  he  certainly  did  not  say  an  un- 
kind word  about  us.  He  had  read  my 
Oriental  poems,  and  liked  them.  He 
spoke  particularly  of  their  richness  of 
imagery  and  conscientious  finish.  1  need 
not  tell  you  that  his  verdict  is  a  valu- 
able one  to  me.  Our  intercourse  was 
most  cordial  and  unrestrained,  and  he 
asked  me,  at  parting,  to  be  sure  and 
visit  him  every  time  I  came  to  Eng- 
land." 

Lingering  over  such  charming  confi- 
dences, we  half  persuade  ourselves  that 
the  genial  poet,  robust  and  gentle,  whom 
everybody  loved,  is  still  with  us.  Noth- 
ing in  the  work  of  Mrs.  Taylor  and 
Mr.  Scudder  will  please  the  myriad 
friends  of  Bayard  more  than  the  art 
with  which,  by  well-chosen  citation,  by 
quick  illustrative  phrase,  by  sympathetic 
and  vivid  touch,  they  have  set  before 


us  his  winning  and  beautiful  personality. 
"  I  have  been  reading  Rousseau's  Con- 
fessions," the  poet  wrote,  "and  am  struck 
with  certain  similarities  which  my  nature 
bears  to  his.  He  was  a  man,  evident- 
ly, whose  very  life  consisted  in  loving. 
Love  was  the  breath  of  his  being ;  and 
the  older  I  grow,  the  more  I  find  that 
the  same  thing  is  true  with  regard  to 
myself.  I  have  felt  all  the  transports 
and  the  tendernesses  of  passion  which 
he  describes,  the  same  feminine  devo- 
tion to  the  beloved  object,  the  same  en- 
thrallment  of  the  imagination  and  the 
affections.  But  as  I  have  much  less 
genius  fehan  he,  so  I  have  more  worldly 
wisdom;  and  my  affections,  though  they 
tyrannize  over  me  completely,  rarely 
betray  themselves  to  the  observation  of 
others." 

"  So,  George,  you  have  found  out 
my  weakness,  have  you  ? '  he  writes 
to  Boker.  "  Well,  since  we  have  it  in 
common,  there  is  no  use  in  trying  to 
conceal  or  suppress  it.  I  confess  to  a 
most  profound  and  abiding  tenderness 
of  heart  toward  those  I  love,  whether 
man  or  woman."  He  reveled  in  the 
successes  of  his  friends.  He  was  never 
tired  of  praising  them.  His  attachments 
were  as  lasting  as  they  were  fervent. 
The  first  use  he  made  of  fortune,  when 
he  began  to  prosper,  was  to  share  it 
with  his  relatives  ;  when  his  income  fell 
off  —  like  that  of  other  literary  men  — 
at  the  outbreak  of  the  war,  he  sold  part 
of  his  interest  in  The  Tribune  to  give  a 
thousand  dollars  for  the  defense  of  the 
Union.  James  T.  Fields,  in  describing 
the  cordial  welcome  given  the  budding 
poet  by  Longfellow  and  others  in  Bos- 
ton, just  after  the  publication  of  Views 
Afoot,  says,  "  No  one  could  possibly 
look  upon  the  manly  young  fellow  at 
that  time  without  loving  him."  To  the 
end  of  his  life  he  had  the  same  faculty 
of  fascination.  He  went  to  Africa  in 
the  time  of  his  great  sorrow  after  the 
death  of  his  first  wife,  and  there,  as  he 
told  Boker,  he  gained  peace,  strength, 


1884.] 


The  Life  of  Bayard  Taylor. 


569 


and  patience  "  from  nature,  but  more 
from  man."  "  Such  kindness  of  heart 
as  everywhere  overflows  toward  me,  I 
know  not  why.  I  have  tried  to  fathom 
this  mystery,  but  cannot ;  I  find  no  par- 
ticular quality  in  myself,  no  peculiarity 
in  my  intercourse  with  others,  which  can 
account  for  it.  Why  rigid  Mussulmen 
should  pray  that  I  might  enter  the  Mos- 
lem paradise  ;  why  guides,  camel-drivers, 
sailors,  and  the  like  should  show  me 
such  fidelity  ;  why  beys  and  pashas,  to 
whom  I  had  no  word  of  recommenda- 
tion, should  pay  me  most  unusual  cour- 
tesies, is  quite  beyond  my  comprehen- 
sion." It  was  on  this  journey  that  he 
made  the  acquaintance  of  a  German 
traveler,  Mr.  August  Bufleb,  who  con- 
ceived for  him  at  once  an  ardent  and 
remarkable  attachment.  "  He  has  won 
my  love,"  wrote  this  gentleman,  "  by 
his  amiability,  his  excellent  heart,  his 
pure  spirit,  in  a  degree  of  which  I  did 
not  believe  myself  capable."  The  in- 
tercourse thus  begun  ripened  into  a  firm 
and  fruitful  friendship.  The  present 
Mrs.  Taylor  is  Mrs.  Bufleb's  niece. 
Thackeray,  as  anybody  might  have  fore- 
told, took  an  instant  liking  to  Taylor ; 
so  did  Irving  ;  so  did  Longfellow. 
"  From  the  first,"  said  Taylor  to  James 
T.  Fields,  just  before  his  last  departure 
for  Europe,  "  from  the  first,  Longfellow 
has  been  to  me  the  truest  and  most  af- 
fectionate friend  that  ever  man  had.  He 
is  the  dearest  soul  in  the  world,  arid  my 
love  for  him  is  unbounded."  When  he 
left  Commodore  Perry's  fleet,  after  the 
expedition  to  Japan  which  he  accom- 


panied in  1853,  the  sailors  of  the  flag- 
ship sent  a  deputation  to  the  captain 
and  asked  permission  to  man  the  rigging 
and  give  him  three  cheers.  "It  is  the 
most  grateful  compliment  I  ever  re- 
ceived," he  wrote  to  his  mother ;  "  for 
it  came  from  a  body  of  three  hundred 
men,  none  of  whom  knew  me  as  an  au- 
thor but  only  as  a  man,  and  it  was  all 
genuine  ;  there  is  no  humbug  in  a  sail- 
or's heart.  It  has  repaid  me,"  he  says 
of  the  same  season  of  wandering,  "  by 
inspiring  me  with  a  warm  sympathy 
with  all  kinds  and  classes  of  men,  and  I 
shall  have,  for  some  years  to  come, 
friends  in  the  desert  of  Nubia,  the  moun- 
tains of  Spain,  and  among  the  hardy 
seamen  of  our  navy,  who,  I  am  sure, 
will  remember  me  with  kindly  feeling." 
Dumb  animals  instinctively  loved  and 
trusted  him.  At  Khartoum  he  num- 
bered among  his  friends  a  chained  leop- 
ard whom  he  taught  to  climb  upon  his 
shoulders,  and  a  full-grown  lioness,  who 
used  to  lick  his  hand  as  he  sat  on  her 
back,  and  playfully  open  and  close  her 
jaws  around  his  leg.  "  The  birds  know 
me  already,"  he  wrote  Stoddard  from 
Cedarcroft,  "  and  I  have  learned  to  imi- 
tate the  partridge  and  the  rain-dove,  so 
that  I  can  lure  them  to  me."  Yet  we 
doubt  whether  anything  indicates  more 
surely  the  beautiful  and  lovable  disposi- 
tion of  the  man  than  the  fact,  that  with 
all  his  strong  convictions,  his  ardent  im- 
pulses, his  hatred  of  what  is  mean,  and 
his  sharp  insight,  there  is  not  in  this  en- 
tire collection  of  letters  a  censorious  nor 
an  ill-natured  word. 


570 


The   Contributors'   Club. 


[October, 


THE    CONTRIBUTORS'    CLUB. 


THE  name  of  Worth  is  a  familiar 
household  word  within  the  latitudes  of 
fashion  in  all  civilized  countries  ;  why 
then  do  we  hear  so  much  less  of  his 
neighbor  and  coadjutor,  Madame  Virot  ? 
For  many  years  the  two  have  worked 
in  unison,  the  masterpieces  of  the  for- 
mer being  incomplete  without  a  finish- 
ing touch  from  the  latter,  in  the  shape 
of  one  of  her  exquisite  articles  of  head- 
gear. In  Paris,  at  least,  she  is  no  less 
a  celebrity  than  he. 

Virot  began  her  career  as  an  assist- 
ant to  the  milliner  Laure,  who  was  long 
at  the  head  of  her  craft  in  Europe.  It 
was  while  in  this  position  that  she  at- 
tracted the  attention  of  her  future  hus- 
band, a  person  almost  as  deserving  of 
notice  as  herself.  Monsieur  Virot  was 
the  son  of  a  Parisian  locksmith,  but 
chose  sculpture  as  his  own  profession. 
He  and  Carrier-Belleuse  were  fellow- 
students,  and  afterward  worked  together 
upon  a  bust  of  the  Republic,  —  the  first 
order  that  Carrier  received  from  the 
French  government  of  1848,  and  which 
he  owed  to  the  influence  of  his  broth- 
er-in-law M.  Arago,  who  was  then  in 
the  ministry.  M.  Virot,  however,  gave 
up  the  pursuit  of  art  for  that  of  bric- 
abrac  in  its  widest  signification.  This 
took  place  some  years  after  his  mar- 
riage. The  fair  assistant  of  Madame 
Laure  accepted  him  on  the  condition 
that  she  should  be  allowed  to  continue 
her  occupation  of  bonnet-making.  She 
moved  into  a  small  lodging  in  one  of 
the  side-streets  of  Paris,  and  set  up 
business  for  herself.  The  story  runs 
that  her  fortune  was  made  by  the  Em- 
press Eugenie's  espying  a  bonnet  in 
Virot's  which  struck  her  unerring  eye 
for  "  a  good  bit  "'  of  finery,  and  which 
she  immediately  purchased.  At  all 
events,  the  milliner's  fame  grew  apace, 
owing  to  her  extraordinary  native  taste 


and  skill ;  she  exchanged  her  modest 
abode  for  an  expensive  one  in  the  Rue 
de  la  Paix,  the  headquarters  of  elegant 
extravagance,  close  to  Worth's  estab- 
lishment ;  and  there,  in  an  incredibly 
short  time,  she  became  a  millionaire. 

It  is  not  only  as  an  inventor  of  pic- 
turesque hats  and  killing  capotes  that 
Madame  Virot  is  known  in  Paris ;  her 
knowledge  of  all  that  pertains  to  the 
Renaissance  is  deep  and  varied,  and  her 
artistic  instinct  in  collecting  antiquities 
and  curiosities  has  long  been  recognized 
by  the  best  judges  of  those  subjects.  In 
this  pursuit  she  was  seconded,  or  rather 
trained,  by  her  husband,  who  when  he 
abandoned  sculpture  gave  himself  up 
entirely  to  his  vocation  of  a  collector. 
He  passed  his  life  in  the  shops  of  sec- 
ond-hand dealers,  and  among  old,  his- 
toric edifices  which  were  being  demol- 
ished, comparing  his  observations  with 
the  opinions  of  the  authorities  in  house- 
hold art.  His  object  was  to  offer  his 
wife  a  home  in  the  style  of  the  eigh- 
teenth century,  which  should  be  genu- 
ine, accurate,  and  artistic,  and  he  set 
himself  to  study  the  subject  in  detail. 
Meanwhile  he  was  picking  up,  as  luck 
happened  to  favor  him,  bronzes,  chim- 
ney-pieces, doors,  mirrors,  carved  wood- 
work, and  even  bits  of  furniture,  china, 
glass,  stuff,  and  ornaments  of  all  kinds 
belonging  to  that  epoch.  So  it  may  be 
said  that  the  house  was  made  for  its 
contents,  rather  than  that  the  contents 
were  made  for  the  house. 

When  M.  Virot  had  collected  suffi- 
cient material  to  furnish  his  hotel,  he 
confided  the  erection  of  it  to  M.  Charles 
Duval.  This  distinguished  architect 
found  great  difficulty  in  satisfying  his 
client ;  they  spent  months  in  visiting  to- 
gether the  finest  buildings  of  the  sev- 
enteenth and  eighteenth  centuries  :  the 
palaces  of  Versailles  and  the  Great  and 


1884.] 


The   Contributors'   Club. 


571 


Little  Trianons,  the  Hotel  Lambert,  — 
a  jewel  of  taste  in  design  and  decora- 
tion, now  the  property  of  Prince  Ladis- 
las  Czartoryski,  husband  of  the  Prin- 
cess Marguerite  d'Orleans,  —  in  short, 
all  the  fine  chateaux  and  mansions  of 
that  period  in  or  out  of  Paris  were 
laid  under  contribution  to  furnish  mod- 
els for  the  smallest  details,  even  to  cor- 
nices, window-sashes,  and  door-knobs. 
From  the  Palais  Royale  they  copied  the 
dormer-windows  and  the  beautiful  bal- 
ustrade that  surrounds  the  roof.  Among 
other  charming  relics  which  M.  Virot 
discovered  were  a  ceiling  painted  by 
Coypel,  representing  Apollo  and  the 
Muses,  and  he  employed  it  to  adorn 
a  boudoir  in  which  the  goddess  Pompa- 
dour herself  might  have  displayed  her 
graces.  Besides  this,  there  were  por- 
traits, cabinet  pictures,  and  painted  wall- 
panels  by  the  eighteenth  century  mas- 
ters, a  large  and  valuable  collection  of 
proof  engravings  from  Lawrence,  Bau- 
douin,  and  Moreau,  and  rare  clocks  and 
tapestries  of  the  same  date.  These  are 
some  of  the  treasures  which  M.  Virot 
gathered  together,  and  finally  placed  in 
a  small  hotel  which  he  built  at  the  cor- 
ner of  the  Boulevard  Malesherbes  and 
the  Boulevard  de  Courcelles,  probably 
the  most  correct  specimen  of  the  style 
of  Louis  XVI.  to  be  found  in  Paris. 
While  he  was  engaged  in  his  researches, 
in  which  the  fine  taste  of  his  wife  was 
his  surest  guide,  she  continued  to  fabri- 
cate those  wonderful  Gainsborough  hats 
with  long  plumes,  and  the  coquettish  lit- 
tle bonnets  so  dear  to  the  fair  sex,  which 
have  made  their  way  over  two  hemi- 
spheres, thus  the  united  artistic  intelli- 
gence, knowledge,  and  taste  of  the  pair 
erected  their  monument,  with  the  help 
of  American  dollars,  English  pounds 
sterling,  German  marks,  Russian  rou- 
bles, and  a  few  French  louis  (Tor. 

But  when  the  nest  was  finished,  the 
bird  disappeared  ;  M.  Virot  died,  and  his 
house  in  the  Boulevard  Malesherbes  was 
lately  sold  to  M.  Hottinguer  the  banker 


for  half  a  million  francs,  or  $100,000. 
The  collections  went  to  auction,  and  the 
proceeds  of  the  first  day's  sale  alone 
were  $30,000.  These  enormous  sums 
represent  the  experience  and  taste  of  a 
man  and  woman  who  began  life,  he  as 
a  locksmith,  she  as  a  milliner's  appren- 
tice. Such  results  can  hardly  be  found 
anywhere  in  the  world  except  in  Paris, 
where  the  native  artistic  feeling  of  the 
working-classes,  cultivated  by  the  en- 
couragement of  the  government,  pro- 
duces an  incontestable  superiority  in  the 
fineness  and  delicacy  of  their  handiwork. 
There  are  frequent  exhibitions  of  the 
Fine  Arts  applied  to  Industry,  collec- 
tions of  furniture,  wall-paper,  carpets, 
stuffs,  and  ornaments,  classified  and  ar- 
ranged with  a  sure  eye  to  effect  and 
strict  chronological  accuracy,  which  cre- 
ate an  art-atmosphere  for  the  Parisian 
"  ouvrier,"  refining  his  taste,  educating 
his  talent,  and  often  making  of  the  sim- 
ple artisan  a  real  artist. 

—  Who  ever  heard  Old  Age,  —  old 
age,  with  its  long  and  tender  memory 
—  speak  slightingly  of  the  sorrows  of 
childhood  ?  This  is  reserved  for  pre- 
occupied and  callous  Middle  Age  to 
do.  From  the  indifference  which  many 
grown  people  exhibit  toward  the  griefs 
of  the  very  young,  it  might  be  inferred 
that  their  own  childhood  had  become 
an  indistinct  vision,  or  at  least  that  it 
no  longer  possessed  aught  of  interest 
for  them.  The  little  troubles  of  chil- 
dren ?  But  all  trouble  is  relative,  and 
great  and  small,  in  this  respect,  are  mov- 
able terms.  Sorrow  itself  grows  old ; 
even  the  sacred  vehemence  of  grief  felt 
for  the  lately  dead  suffers  a  mellowing 
change  as  the  years  lapse.  How  do  we 
know  but  that  in  another  life  the  most 
considerable  tribulations  endured  in  this 
take  rank  with  the  "little  troubles  of 
children  "  ? 

If  grief  may  be  estimated  negatively, 
by  the  lack  within  itself  of  remedial  ex- 
pedients, then  a  child's  grief,  contrary 
to  the  belief  of  many,  fills  no  shallow 


572 


The    Contributors'    Club. 


[October, 


measure.  It  is  true  the  child  may  soon 
be  diverted  and  soothed,  but  his  trouble, 
while  it  lasts,  is  unmingled.  We  in  our 
dismal  day  are  able  to  command  what 
the  child  cannot,  the  consolations  of  phi- 
losophy ;  often,  also,  there  is  present  an 
exalting  consciousness  of  martyrdom,  or 
we  detect  in  the  situation  a  dramatic 
element  that  gives  a  certain  zest  to  our 
bitter  cup.  Consider  a  child's  view  of 
time  :  how  long  are  the  day  and  the 
night  in  his  measurement  of  them  ;  he 
has  not  yet  learned  that  the  old  scythe- 
man  takes  the  cockles  and  the  tares,  as 
well  as  the  corn,  in  his  swath.  I  very 
well  remember  my  first  dim  perception 
of  the  fact  that  time  is  on  the  side  of 
the  »griever.  It  was  at  the  close  of  a 
day  that  for  me  had  been  filled  with  dis- 
appointment and  heart-ache,  and  I  gave 
myself  to  drown  misery  in  tears  ;  all  at- 
tempts of  friends  to  soothe  my  distress 
were  fruitless  ;  only  one  thing  promised 
relief,  and  for  that  I  cried  with  foolish 
sobbing  iteration,  "  I  want  it  to  be  to- 
morrow ! '  until  I  dropped  asleep,  and 
so  took  the  cross-cut  to  my  desire.  Af- 
ter this,  none  of  my  childish  griefs  was 
quite  so  inconsolable,  for  in  some  vague 
way  I  reasoned  that  what  to-morrow 
would  cure  could  not  to-day  be  past  en- 
durance. In  the  mere  thought  of  to- 
morrow there  is  something  counteract- 
ive, something  that  steals  the  fire  from 
the  present's  feverish  feeling,  whether 
the  feeling  be  of  excessive  joy  or  ex- 
cessive sorrow.  Why  should  I  be  averse 
to  owning  that  I  have  always  drawn 
largely  from  this  exchequer  of  comfort  ? 
In  any  mob  of  chagrins  and  miseries, 
at  least,  I  shall  not  be  prevented  from 
counting  on  the  coolness  and  indiffer- 
ence that  come  with  the  morrow.  Cer- 
tain it  is  that 


1C 


The  sunrise  never  failed  us  yet." 
—  Following  the  example  of  Horace 
(Ode  xx.,  Book  II.),  a  bard  addresses 
his  Maecenas  :  — 

"  Oh,  not  on  spent  or  feeble  wing 
Up  through  the  liquid  air  I  spring, 


Leave  earth,  and  malice  blind, 
And  critics  far  behind. 

"  Superior  I,  —  then  do  not  fear 
Such  worth  shall  die,  Maecenas  dear; 
The  Styx's  dingy  flow 
I  shall  not  undergo. 

"  Now  bristling  quills  and  plumes  I  feel 
Upon  my  arms  and  shoulders  steal  ; 
Now,  now,  my  wings  I  loose, 
I  soar.  —  a  very  goose." 

•  •••••••• 

—  I  have  been  thinking  with  some 
wonder  and  disappointment,  growing  out 
of  a  visit  to  Wordsworth's  cottage  at 
Grasmere,  of  the  limitations  which  beset 
even  the  most  enthusiastic,  when  trying 
to  sustain  the  thrill  of  great  memories 
for  any  length  of  time.  When  I  entered 
Dove  Cottage  a  little  more  than  a  week 
ago,  and  saw  the  rooms  in  which  Words- 
worth, De  Quincey,  and  Hartley  Cole- 
ridge successively  lived,  and  which  with 
the  garden  adjoining  remain  substan- 
tially as  De  Quincey  describes  them  in 
his  Recollections,  I  was  overwhelmed 
with  feeling.  Below  is  the  little  parlor, 
about  sixteen  by  twelve  ;  "  very  prettily 
wainscoted  from  the  floor  to  the  ceiling 
with  dark  polished  oak,  slightly  embel- 
lished with  carving."  Above,  reached 
by  the  same  little  staircase  where  De 
Quincey  first  descried  Mary  and  Dorothy 
Wordsworth,  is  the  little  library-sitting- 
tea-room  ;  in  one  corner  the  place  where 
stood  Wordsworth's  couple  of  hundred 
ragged,  uncared-for  books,  the  beams 
overhead  only  seven  feet  from  the  floor, 
and  the  little  fire-grate  still  unchanged. 
Close  by  is  the  guest  room,  low,  small, 
cosey,  where  Southey  and  Lamb  and 
Coleridge  and  De  Quincey  have  slept; 
opposite  this  is  William  and  Mary 
Wordsworth's  room,  about  ten  by  twelve, 
and  near  by  is  the  tiny  box  where 
Dorothy  nursed  her  high  poetical  spirit. 
The  whole  cottage,  once,  as  you  remem- 
ber, a  village  inn  bearing  the  name  of 
the  Dove  and  Olive  Bough,  is  just  such 
a  nook  as  one  would  expect  to  find  de- 
voted to  "  plain  living  and  high  think- 
ing," Wordsworth's  own  phrase  coined 


1884.] 


The   Contributors'   Club. 


573 


in  that  little  parlor.  One  fine  touch 
remains  that  I  must  not  overlook.  In 
the  Wordsworths'  sleeping-room  is  a 
plain  deal  shelf  three  or  four  feet  from 
the  floor,  on  which  their  wash-basin  and 
pitcher  used  to  stand  ;  beneath,  another 
shelf  for  their  boots  and  shoes.  These 
are  so  rude  that  the  present  occupants 
of  the  cottage  have  desired  to  remove 
them  in  favor  of  a  "  smart  "  toilet  stand, 
a  wish  which  the  owner  has  with  good 
sense  steadily  refused.  Ten  guineas 
were  offered  a  few  days  ago  for  one  of 
those  boards,  but  were  declined. 

Just  outside  is  the  little  garden,  filled 
with  shrubs  which,  as  in  Wordsworth's 
time,  blossom  in  succession  from  spring 
to  autumn.  The  two  yew  trees  spoken  of 
by  De  Quincey  still  stand  near  the  gate, 
the  "  Rocky  Well "  mentioned  by  Words- 
worth is  unchanged,  and  many  of  the 
flowers  propagate  themselves  from  year 
to  year,  from  seed  originally  planted 
by  the  poet's  hand.  It  is  really  a  fasci- 
nating spot.  The  great  tourist  throngs 
troop  by,  because  the  street  side  of  Dove 
Cottage  is  squat,  unadorned,  and  even 
repulsive,  so  many  ordinary  buildings 
having  been  erected  of  late  years  which 
quite  extinguish  it.  But  take  the  trouble 
to  go  to  the  true  front,  which  is  in  fact 
on  the  back  side,  and  it  is  the  most  fas- 
cinating and  poetical  gem  of  a  cottage 
that  I  have  ever  seen.  And  it  is  to  be 
seen ;  for  unlike  Rydal  Mount,  it  is  not 
sealed  up  against  the  world,  but  is  quite 
freely  open  to  all  who  desire  to  see  the 
place  to  which  Wordsworth  brought  his 
wife,  and  where  he  wrote  what  Sara 
Coleridge  always  considered  his  finest 
poems.  Here  for  instance  were  com- 
posed his  incomparable 

"She  was  a  phantom  of  delight," 
his  lines  beginning 

"  My  heart  looks  up  when  I  behold 
A  rainbow  in  the  sky," 

and  ending  with 

O 

"  The  child  is  father  of  the  man," 
and 

"  I  could  wish  my  days  to  be, 
Bound  each  to  each  by  natural  piety." 


Here,  too,  was  written  what  all  agree  is 
his  greatest  poem,  The  Intimations  of 
Immortality. 

Now  when  I  first  saw  this  place,  as 
a  true  Words  worth  ian  I  was  filled  with 
a  holy  awe,  and  forthwith  was  not  con- 
tent (since  the  house  is  occasionally 
open  to  lodgers)  without  securing  rooms 
in  it  for  a  week.  In  this  I  have  been 
successful ;  and  for  this  week  all  the 
rooms  which  are  to  me  most  sacred 
are  quite  as  free  as  if  I  owned  them. 
But  the  wonder  is  that  I  do  not  find, 
with  all  the  delight  of  this  possession, 
with  all  the  charm  of  reading  and  re- 
reading Wordsworth  on  this  ground, 
that  I  am  capable  of  living  over  what 
came  to  me  at  the  first  glance.  And  I 
learn  the  lesson,  one  which  it  is  very 
good  to  learn,  and  very  useful  to  im- 
part, that  travelers  who  under  a  simi- 
lar high  and  venerating  regard,  wish  to 
tarry  and  it  may  be  to  possess  the  places 
where  they  cherish  this  emotion  would 
probably  be  disappointed  as  I  have  been. 
We  cannot  twice  live  over  what  we  feel 
when  for  the  first  time  a  great  and 
precious  memory  becomes  a  living  thing, 
—  at  least  I  cannot,  and  I  think  I  utter 
a  universal  experience. 

—  The  late  Professor  Lanier,  in  an 
essay  on  Moral  Purpos'e  in  Art,  remarks 
concerning  the  common  objection  to 
Daniel  Deronda  as  an  intolerable  prig, 
that  "  examination  of  what  is  precisely 
meant  reveals  that  he  is  a  person  whose 
goodness  is  so  downright,  uncompromis- 
ing, and  radical  that  it  makes  the  mass 
of  us  uncomfortable." 

It  seems  to  me  that  this  comes  near  to 
hitting  the  true  explanation  of  the  fact, 
while  yet  it  goes  a  little  wide  of  the 
centre.  I  should  hardly  say  of  Deronda 
that  it  is  his  goodness,  too  straightfor- 
ward to  be  overlooked,  too  downright  to 
be  denied,  that  makes  him  disagreeable 
to  more  easy-going  mortals;  I  should 
rather  say  that  his  character  in  its  whole 
conception  is  too  ideal  for  comprehen- 
sion by  the  average  man  and  woman. 


574 


The   Contributors'   Club. 


[October, 


What  is  Deronda's  attitude  toward  the 
other  personages  of  the  tale  ?  He  is 
not  found  assuming  the  office  of  Mentor 
to  any  one  ;  Gwendolen  Harleth,  touched 
by  some  silent  influence  of  his  presence, 
appeals  to  him,  throws  herself  upon  him ; 
he  does  not  seek  but  only  accepts  the 
responsibility  of  leading  and  upholding 
her  in  her  moral  struggle.  And  if  the 
case  were  the  reverse,  if  it  were  De- 
ronda  who  first  approached  Gwendolen 
with  counsel  and  direction  for  the  moral 
life,  this  alone  would  not  put  him  be- 
yond the  pale  of  the  general  reader's 
understanding  or  sympathy.  The  min- 
gled dislike  arid  contempt  which  such 
reader  feels  for  Deronda  is  all  on  ac- 
count of  that  absurd  scheme  of  his  for 
devoting  himself  to  the  redemption  of 
the  Jews.  It  may  or  may  not  be  that 
George  Eliot  had  the  condition  of  the 
Jewish  race  at  heart,  — it  does  not  mat- 
ter ;  neither  does  it  matter,  so  far  as  her 
artistic  purpose  is  concerned,  whether 
or  not  we  share  Deronda's  enthusiasm 
for  his  people,  and  approve  of  his  pro- 
jects for  their  elevation ;  it  is  enough 
that  we  recognize  the  pure  unselfishness 
of  his  devotion,  the  nobility  of  a  life 
dedicated  to  a  large  disinterested  aim. 
But  the  consecration  of  a  man's  being 
to  such  lofty  impersonal  end  inevitably 
removes  him  from  the  comprehension 
and  the  sympathy  of  the  majority  of  his 
fellows.  Witness  Mazzini,  compassion- 
ated, ridiculed,  despised,  by  men  unable 
to  appreciate  the  intellectual  greatness 
of  his  political  ideas,  or  the  moral  great- 
ness of  his  self-abnegating  life.  Pro- 
fessor Lanier  observes  that  the  "  direct 


moral  teaching  in  Adam  Bede  is  far 
more  prominent  than  in  Daniel  Deron- 
da, yet  persons  who  lauded  the  former 
found  the  latter  intolerable." 

This  is  always  the  case  ;  people  will 
bear  the  direct  enforcement  of  plain 
moral  duties,  but  not  the  setting  up  of 
a  standard  of  devotion  to  high,  ideal 
aims.  The  champion  who  comes  for- 
ward to  overthrow  some  social  wrong, 
which  the  moral  sense  of  the  people  ac- 
knowledges to  be  an  iniquity,  though 
their  indifference  has  allowed  it  to  stand, 
will  meet  with  approval,  even  applause, 
and  in  time,  if  he  persist,  with  support. 
But  let  a  man  or  a  set  of  men  attempt 
to  erect  a  purer  ideal  of  political  action 
than  at  present  is  followed,  to  introduce 
into  business  relations  and  social  inter- 
course a  higher  sense  of  honor  and  a 
truer  conception  of  the  ends  of  living, 
and  where  are  those  who  will  listen  or 
tolerate  for  a  moment  such  interference 
with  the  smooth  running  of  the  social 
wheels  on  the  broad  road  ?  The  ordi- 
nary man  feels  that  it  would  be  impos- 
sible for  him  to  live  such  a  life  of 
strenuous  devotion  to  pure  ideals  as  is 
proposed  to  him ;  the  best  way  for  him 
to  dispose  of  the  question,  and  set  him- 
self at  ease  again,  is  to  pronounce  such 
ideals  futile  abstractions,  such  a  mode 
of  life  impossible  for  human  beings.  We 
have  heard  of  the  unfortunate  who  ex- 
claimed, "I  said  the  world  was  mad, 
and  the  world  said  I  was  mad,  —  and 
alas !  the  world  outvoted  me."  The 
world  as  yet  outvotes  the  idealists  ;  but 
labor  on,  brother  ;  the  world  will  come 
round  one  day  to  your  side. 


1884] 


Books  of  the  Month. 


575 


BOOKS   OF   THE   MONTH. 


Fiction.  Lai,,  the  heroine  of  Dr.  W.  A.  Ham- 
mond's story  (Appleton),  is  short  for  Lalla  Rookh 
The  shortened  name  carries  to  the  ears  an  impres- 
sion which  the  book  confirms.  A  more  disagree- 
able book  to  one  who  loves  art  it  would  be  hard  to 
find.  The  veneer  of  philosophy  which  covers  the 
cheap  material  out  of  which  the  book  is  con- 
structed only  makes  the  novel  more  objectionable. 
Every  canon  of  good  taste  is  violated,  and  one 
has  not  even  a  piece  of  rough  humanity  to  fall 
back  upon.  The  book  is  a  piece  of  artistic  false- 
hood. —  The  Fainalls  of  Tipton,  by  Virginia  W. 
Johnson  (Scribners),  is  a  painfully  elabor^ed 
work,  with  insufficient  basis  of  story  and  charac- 
ter. It  is  a  pity  that  so  careful  a  writer  should 
not  see  that  her  detail  obstructs  the  story  instead 
of  carrying  it  on.  —  Among  the  Chosen  (Holt)  is 
an  indistinct  novel,  which  dimly  hints  at  a  com- 
munity, vaguely  outlines  a  few  shadowy  charac- 
ters, confusedly  suggests  excellent  sentiments, 
and  in  effect  is  written  as  if  the  author  were  try- 
ing to  conceal  the  story.  —  Rutherford,  by  Edgar 
Fawcett  (Funk  &  Wagnalls),  is  a  novel  in  which 
Mr.  Fawcett  manipulates  again  the  material  which 
he  has  so  frequently  used.  New  York  society,  as 
an  epitome  of  American  life,  young  women  who 
have  high  ideals,  but  are  conquered  by  love  as  by 
something  more  valiant  than  they,  young  men 
who  bring  back  more  European  mental  clothes  to 
America  than  the  custom  house  allows,  —  all  these 
are  made  to  do  service,  and  the  result  is  scarcely 
more  than  a  variation  upon  a  familiar  theme.  We 
think  we  met  this  story  years  ago  in  periodical 
form.  If  so,  it  merely  shows  how  long  Mr.  Faw- 
tett  has  been  doing  pretty  much  the  same  thing. 
-  Recent  numbers  of  Harper's  Franklin  Square 
Library  are  Lancelot  Ward,  M.  P.,  by  George 
Temple,  and  Matrimony,  by  W.  E.  Norris. 

Biography.  Elizabeth  Fry,  by  Mrs.  E.  R.  Pit- 
man, is  the  latest  issue  in  the  Famous  Women 
Series.  (Roberts.)  The  abundant  materials  for  a 
sketch  of  Mrs.  Fry  have  been  used  with  discrim- 
ination, and  the  result  is  an  agreeable  book, 
which  ought  to  stimulate  workers  to-day.  —  A  lit- 
tle nearer  home  is  a  brief  sketch  of  Richard  A. 
Dugdale,  under  the  title  The  Work  of  a  Social 
Teacher,  by  Edward  M.  Shepard.  (The  Society 
for  Political  Education,  New  York.)  Mr.  Dug- 
dale  made  his  name  widely  known  by  his  terrible 
work  The  Jukes,  but  his  modesty  and  singleness 
of  purpose  needed  to  be  set  forth  by  some  one 
else,  and  this  little  sketch  gives  only  too  faint  a 
portraiture  of  a  notable  man.  — The  Great  Com- 
posers, by  Hezekiah  Butterworth  (Lothrop):  a 
small  volume,  designed  apparently  for  young 
readers,  containing  scrappy  accounts  of  Mozart, 
Liszt,  Beethoven,  Mendelssohn,  and  others,  so  ar- 
ranged as  to  give  a  somewhat  chronological  re- 
view of  the  progress  of  music.  We  wish  Mr. 
Butterworth  had  not  employed  a  sausage  machine 
for  many  of  his  paragraphs. 


Finance  and  B-usiness.  Comptroller  John  Jay 
Knox  has  prepared  a  serviceable  volume  on  United 
States  Notes,  a  History  of  the  Various  Issues  of 
Paper  Money  by  the  Government  of  the  United 
States,  with  an  appendix  containing  the  recent 
decision  of  the  Supreme  Court  of  the  United  States 
and  the  dissenting  opinion  upon  the  legal  tender 
question.  (Scribners.)  The  decision  upon  the  legal 
tender  question  has  put  an  ominous  weapon  into 
the  hands  of  Congress,  and  the  historical  statement 
of  the  question  is  of  great  value  to  all  students 
who  wish  to  be  forearmed.  —  Geology  and  Mineral 
Resources  of  the  James  River  Valley  in  Virginia, 
by  J.  L.  Campbell  (Putnams),  is  a  straightforward 
statement  of  the  material  advantages  of  an  inter- 
esting section,  and  it  would  be  well  if  immigrants 
could  always  have  at  their  command  so  well  studied 
a  survey  of  the  country  to  which  they  look  for  set- 
tlement and  fortune.  —  Excessive  Saving  a  Cause 
of  Commercial  Distress  ;  being  a  series  of  assaults 
upon  accepted  principles  of  political  economy,  by 
Uriel  H.  Crocker.  (W.  B.  Clarke  &  Carruth,"  Bos- 
ton.) The  frankness  with  which  the  author  in- 
forms the  reader  of  the  rejection  by  various  maga- 
zines and  journals  to  which  the  several  contents 
of  this  volume  were  once  offered  goes  far  to  in- 
spire confidence  in  his  sincerity  ;  nor  does  one  need 
to  read  far  to  know  that  the  author  is  thoroughly 
in  earnest  and  convinced  of  the  integrity  of  his 
position.  —  The  Labor- Value  Fallacy,  by  M.  L. 
Scudder,  Jr.  (Jansen,  McClurg  &  Co.):  a  vigor- 
ous attack  upon  Henry  George's  fundamental  po- 
sition. —  Property  in  Land  is  another  small  work, 
called  out  by  Mr.  George,  who,  if  not  witty  him- 
self, is  the  cause  of  wit  in  others.  It  consists  of 
a  wordy  duel  between  the  Duke  of  Argyll  and 
Henry  George.  The  Duke  heads  his  paper  The 
Prophet  of  San  Francisco ;  Mr.  George  heads  his, 
The  Reduction  to  Iniquity:  and  so  they  go  at 
it,  with  the  reader's  general  sympathy  on  Mr. 
George's  side.  —A  paper  on  Cable  Railway  Pro- 
pulsion, by  W.  W.  Hanscom,  has  been  published 
by  the  author  at  San  Francisco.  The  paper  has  a 
value  for  its  illustration  of  a  practical  experiment 
which  has  thus  far  found  its  most  successful  trial 
in  San  Francisco  and  Chicago. 

Hygiene  and  Physic.  What  is  to  be  Done,  a 
Handbook  for  the  Nursery,  with  useful  Hints  for 
Children  and  Adults,  by  R..B.  Dixon,  M.  D.  (Lee 
&  Shepard),  is  one  of  those  serviceable  little 
emergency  books  which  would  seem  to  make  life 
more  secure.  There  was  an  enthusiastic  man  once 
who  was  a  propagandist  for  a  little  squirt  gun 
which  would  put  out  any  fire  if  one  used  it  early 
enough,  and  he  maintained  that  steam  fire-engines 
would  be  rendered  unnecessary.  Doctors  will 
probably  lose  none  of  their  practice  by  reason  of 
these  little  books,  but  they  will  be  spared  the 
necessity  of  running  three  miles,  and  waking  up 
all  the  neighborhood,  when  a  kerosene  lamp  is 
knocked  off  the  shelf.  —  Tokology.  A  book  for 


576 


Books  of  the  Month. 


[October. 


every  woman.  By  Alice  B.  Stockham,  M.  D. 
*  (Sanitary  Publishing  Company,  Chicago.)  A 
plain-spoken  book,  with  the  customary  anathema 
of  the  corset.  It  is  singular  that  that  article 
should  not  long  ago  have  given  way  under  the 
severe  bombardment  of  words  to  which  it  has 
been  subjected.  It  will  probably  disappear  with 
that  offense  to  beauty,  the  stove-pipe  hat.  —  Notes 
on  the  Opium  Habit,  by  Asa  P.  Meylert,  M.  D. 
(Putnams.)  For  so  small  a  book  there  is  far  too 
much  sentiment  and  far  too  little  sense.  —  The 
Principles  of  Ventilation  and  Heating,  and  their 
Practical  Application,  by  John  S.  Billings  (The 
Sanitary  Engineer,  New  York).  Dr.  Billings  has 
collected  into  this  volume  a  series  of  papers  ad- 
dressed to  a  young  architect.  It  deals  with  prin- 
ciples, but  it  illustrates  them  by  a  great  variety 
of  examples  drawn  both  from  private  and  from 
public  buildings.  —  Number  One  and  How  to  Take 
Care  of  Him  is  the  captivating  title  of  a  series  of 
popular  talks  on  social  and  sanitary  science,  by 
Joseph  J.  Pope  (Funk  &  Wagnalls),  who  delivers 
the  now  well-known  sensible  views  on  food,  dress, 
play,  and  so  forth,  with  a  good  deal  of  vigor. 
Again  war  to  the  corset. 

Politics.  The  season  naturally  brings  plenty  of 
reading  matter  for  the  American  citizen,  and  it  is 
a  little  sign  of  the  times  that  political  literature 
takes  a  somewhat  historical  form.  Here,  for  in- 
stance, are  two  books  on  the  Democratic  party, 
The  History  of  Democracy  considered  as  a  Party 
Name  and  as  a  Political  Organization,  by  Jona- 
than Norcross  (Putnams),  and  The  Democratic 
Party,  its  Political  History  and  Influence,  by  J. 
Harris  Patton.  (Fords,  Howard  &  Hulbert.)  Mr. 
Norcross  is  an  old  Southern  Whig,  who  draws  a 
vehement  indictment  against  the  party  down  to 
the  time  of  the  rebellion.  He  aims  to  define  legiti- 
mate democracy,  and  then  to  demonstrate  that  the 
party  bearing  the  name  is  like  the  man  who  kept 
a  tavern,  but  kept  nothing  in  the  tavern  for  hun- 
gry travelers.  Mr.  Patton  writes  in  a  somewhat 
more  judicial  frame  of  mind,  but  with  substan- 
tially the  same  conclusion.  The  only  measure, 
he  finds,  which  was  inaugurated  by  Democratic 
statesmen,  and  has  remained  the  policy  of  the  na- 
tion, is  the  sub-treasury  system.  —  Cupples,  Up- 
ham  &  Co.  publish  in  pamphlet  form  The  Win- 
ning Argument  in  the  Legal  Tender  Case  of  1884, 
being  the  argument  by  Thomas  H.  Talbot  in  the 


case  of  Juillard  v.  Greenman.  —  The  Eastern 
Pioneer  of  Western  Civilization  and  the  Recog- 
nition her  Efforts  Receive,  is  the  title  of  a  pam- 
phlet by  C.  S.  Eby,  who  writes  from  Tokio,  Japan. 
Mr.  Eby  is  an  English  missionary  who  discusses 
the  relation  of  Japan  to  England,  and  modestly 
ventures  into  the  arena  of  international  politics. 
He  makes  a  respectful  but  cogent  protest  against 
the  present  attitude  of  England  toward  Japan. 
Perhaps  his  protest  gains  from  its  coolness  of  tone, 
but  those  interested  should  re-read  in  connection 
with  it  the  indignant  paper  entitled,  The  Martyr- 
dom of  an  Empire,  published  in  the  Atlantic  for 
May,  1881. 

Education  and  Text-Books.  Mr.  W.  J.  Rolfe 
has  edited  Tennyson's  The  Princess,  and  it  has 
been  brought  out  in  the  style,  so  familiar  to  stu- 
dents, of  the  same  editor's  Shakespeare,  Gray,  and 
Sc%t.  (Osgood.)  The  book  is  illustrated  with 
cuts  already  used  in  the  fine  edition  published  by 
the  same  house  last  Christmas,  and  one  discovers 
how  much  paper  has  to  do  with  the  excellence  of 
wood-cuts.  It  is  interesting  to  find  The  Princess 
thus  turned  into  a  school  classic  and  supplied 
with  notes.  Such  a  book  will  help  on  the  good 
cause  of  careful  study  of  English  literature  as  art. 
It  is  further  to  be  commended  as  the  outgrowth  of 
class-work,  and  as  giving  young  students  the  op- 
portunity of  using  a  variorum  edition.  —  A  Prac- 
tical Method  for  Learning  Spanish  in  accordance 
with  Ybarra's  System  of  Teaching  Modern  Lan- 
guages, by  General  Alejandro  Ybarra.  (Ginn, 
Heath  &  Co.)  The  book  is  also  quite  as  conven- 
ient for  Spaniards  who  wish  to  learn  English,  and 
in  either  case  it  is  the  English  of  colloquial  use 
which  is  taught.  —  In  the  Dime  Series  of  Ques- 
tion Books  (C.  W.  Bardeen,  Syracuse,  N.  Y.)  is 
one  on  Temperance,  relating  to  Stimulants  and 
Narcotics.  It  teaches  very  little,  it  assumes  a 
great  deal,  and  is  generally  of  no  use  except  in 
the  hands  of  a  teacher  who  knows  more  than  the 
book.  —  Outlines  of  Ps}rchology,  with  special  ref-. 
erence  to  the  theory  of  education,  by  James  Sully. 
(Appleton.)  The  author  contends  that  "mental 
science  is  capable  of  supplying  those  truths  which 
are  needed  for  an  intelligent  and  reflective  carry- 
ing out  of  educational  work,"  and  he  has  conse' 
quently  had  teachers  in  mind  when  writing  his 
treatise,  and  has  aimed  to  make  frequent  practical 
application  of  the  result  of  his  studies. 


THE 


ATLANTIC    MONTHLY: 

$iaga?ine  of  Literature,  Science,  art,  anD 

VOL.  LIV.  —  NO  VEMBER,  1884.  —  No.  CCCXXV. 


IN  WAR  TIME. 

XXI.  ment  of  purity  in  Alice,  which  seemed 

to  envelop  him  with  a  charmed  atmos- 

WENDELL  received  Alice  Westerley's  phere  as  his  love  for  her  deepened  in 
letter  with  delight  which  a  year  before  intensity.  It  was  more  by  his  ideal  of 
would  have  been  without  alloy.  He  her  conscience  than  his  own  standards 
loved  her  very  deeply,  and  in  the  pres-  that  he  tried  himself,  and  it  was  there- 
ence  of  a  passion  so  profound,  the  first  fore  not  enough  that  he  still  felt  secure 
and  the  only  one  of  his  life,  his  self-  against  exposure ;  for  there  was  for  him 
appreciation  faded  into  the  most  utter  an  ever  present  idea  that,  come  what 
humility,  and  he  wondered  that  he  had  might,  he  brought  to  her  a  life  which,  in 
ever  dared  to  hope  ;  while  at  times  her  eyes,  would  seem  hopelessly  defiled, 
there  arose  in  his  mind  an  overwhelm-  There  were  hours  in  these  days  of  wait- 
ing feeling  of  triumph  when  he  thought  ing  when  he  felt  inclined  to  go  away, 
of  what  those  who  had  criticised  him  and  to  write  to  her  that  he  was  a  man 
so  freely  would  say  when  this  became  unworthy  of  her  love  and  trust.  But 
known.  To  be  justified  before  men  so-  then  the  impossibility  of  inflicting  on 
cially  and  in  all  other  ways  by  the  pref-  himself  this  anguish  rose  with  her  smil- 
erence  of  such  a  woman  was  sufficient  ing  face  before  him,  and  by  an  easy 
return  for  anything  the  world  of  lesser  effort  he  put  away  the  impulse.  That 
beings  might  have  said  or  done.  Ann  had  begun  to  guess  the  secret  of 

It  was  hard  to  have  any  drawback,  his  love  he  well  knew,  and  feeling  that 
hard  indeed ;  and  he  cursed  his  folly  as  he  ought  now  to  tell  her  he  would  sure- 
he  thought  of  being  no  longer  an  up-  ly  have  done  so  had  there  not  been  con- 
right  man,  clear  of  shame,  worthy  of  a  stantly  with  him  this  association  of  his 
pure  woman's  love.  It  cannot  be  said  love  with  the  sense  of  shame.  He  felt, 
that  this  sense  of  degradation  was  alto-  however,  that  he  must  clear  himself  of 
gether  the  growth  of  honest  hatred  of  the  risks  of  exposure,  and  then  he  could 
his  weakness  and  sin,  nor  yet  even  the  speak  with  less  alloy  of  discomfort  in 
healthy  reaction  from  single  acts  of  regard  to  whatever  of  terrible  the  near 
wrong  and  a  return  to  the  normal  des-  future  threatened.  He  would  wait, 
potism  of  moral  habits  which  were  good  His  distress  was  increased,  however, 
and  cleanly.  It  was  rather  the  fact  by  the  fact  that  four  days  after  Alice 
that  he  had  become  accustomed  to  test  left,  a  new  and  unpleasant  actor  came 
himself  and  his  ways,  and  even  his  lit-  suddenly  upon  the  stage.  Wendell  had 
tie  social  habits,  by  the  exquisite  refine-  heard  nothing  more  from  Henry  Gray, 

Copyright,  1884,  by  HOUGHTON,  MIFFLLN  &  Co. 


578 


In  War  Time. 


[November, 


but  as  he  was  daily  expecting  to  do  so 
he  had  been  worrying  himself  sick  in 
his  effort  to  replace  the  money  he  had 
taken.  At  one  time  he  would  have 
gone  to  Edward  for  aid,  but  already 
much  money  had  been  almost  forced 
upon  him  by  that  generous  friend ;  and 
the  doctor's  dislike  to  ask  anew  was 
made  greater  by  Edward's  present  con- 
dition, which  was  one  of  growing  weak- 
ness, with  rare  intervals  of  entire  free- 
dom from  pain.  Here  was  certainly  a 
still  possible  resource,  but  it  must  be  a 
last  one.  In  his  trouble  he  would  have 
turned  even  to  Mrs.  Morton,  but  he  was 
well  aware  that  he  was  out  of  favor  at 
present ;  and  he  had  not  forgotten  that 
Mrs.  Morton  had  once  or  twice,  out 
of  her  affluence  of  ready  advice,  given 
him  some  quite  friendly  counsel  as  to 
his  need  to  be  rather  more  economical. 
Where  else  to  go  he  knew  not,  and  all 
the  refinement  of  the  man's  emotional 
nature  protested  against  any  recourse 
to  the  purse  and  kindness  of  the  woman 
he  loved.  That  for  him  was  impossible. 
Meanwhile,  poor  Ann  worried  herself 
over  his  haggard  face  and  questioned 
him  in  vain.  Her  conclusion  was  that 
his  present  inclination  towards  Alice 
Westerley  had  not  been  pleasantly  re- 
turned, and  with  her  regrets  there  was 
mingled  in  Ann's  mind  some  trace  of 
another  feeling,  which  she  made  haste  to 
put  down  with  all  the  decision  of  her 
loving  nature.  Her  feeling  that  he  was 
troubled,  and  also  her  remembrance  of 
the  ridicule  he  had  cast  upon  her  grave 
theory  of  the  relation  of  Colonel  Mor- 
tori  to  the  rebel  Gray,  combined  now  to 
indispose  her  to  discuss  with  her  brother 
Hester's  engagement,  or  the  awful  diffi- 
culty which  she  conceived  of  as  forbid- 
ding it.  Once  or  twice  when  the  new 
alliance  had  been  referred  to  before  him, 
he  had  either  left  the  room,  or  in  some 
way  shown  a  displeasure  which  Ann 
could  not  comprehend,  and  which  at 
times  inclined  her  to  suspect  that  possi- 
bly he,  too,  disapproved  of  it. 


Wendell  was  on  his  way  home  from 
the  city,  after  a  vain  effort  to  sell  his 
stock  and  to  raise  money  in  impossible 
ways,  when  he  saw  a  gentleman  stand- 
ing on  the  steps  of  his  house.  The 
stranger  was  a  man  about  fifty-five,  and 
was  dressed  in  a  closely  buttoned  black 
morning  coat,  neat  check  pantaloons  and 
a  well-brushed  hat  that  was  Piccadilly 
all  over,  and  wore  a  rose  in  his  button- 
hole. The  figure  was  such  as  one  sees 
in  Bond  Street  by  hundreds  of  a  morn- 
ing, except  that  the  feet  were  small,  the 
boots  delicate  and  thin  as  a  girl's,  and 
that  their  owner  carried  a  large,  shining 
cane  with  a  huge  gold  head.  Wendell, 
who  noticed  faces  as  doctors  learn  to 
do,  observed  only  that  the  clean-shaven, 
sallow  features  were  rather  strong  and 
gaunt,  and  that  the  stranger  wore  his 
straight  dark  hair  so  long  as  to  excite 
attention.  The  incongruities  of  dress  of 
course  escaped  Wendell's  observation. 
The  moment  the  stranger  addressed  him 
the  doctor  knew  who  he  was. 

"  Pardon  me,"  said  the  gentleman, 
seeing  Wendell  take  out  his  pass-key, 
"  are  you  not  Dr.  Wendell  ? ' 

"  Yes,  I  am  Dr.  Wendell." 

"  My  name  is  Henry  Gray.  I  should 
apologize  because  I  have  not  written, 
but  now  I  am  here  in  person,  which 
saves  explanations.  Permit  me,  sir,  be- 
fore I  enter  your  house,  to  thank  you 
for  your  long  and  great  kindness  to  my 
young  relative." 

He  spoke  with  a  little  old-fashioned 
sense  of  saying  a  fine  thing,  and  there 
were  unexpected  inflections  in  his  speech. 
Also  his  final  r's  were  softened  into 
broad  a's,  but  the  voice  was  pleasant 
and  the  tones  were  refined. 

"  You  will  think  us  well  rewarded 
when  you  see  Hester.  Come  in.  You 
are  very  welcome." 

Henry  Gray  followed  his  host  into 
the  large,  low-ceiled  room,  and  sat  down 
while  Wendell  went  in  search  of  Ann 
and  Hester. 

Ann  was,  as  she  said,  awfully  flurried, 


1884.] 


In  War  Time. 


579 


and  to  Hester's  amusement  insisted  on 
her  changing  her  gown.  But  Ann  was 
a  wise  woman  in  her  way ;  she  knew 
the  value  of  first  impressions,  and  was 
not  without  a  just  pride  in  the  maiden 
to  whom  she  had  given  a  home.  As 
she  hastily  arranged  the  girl's  dress,  the 
thought  went  through  Ann's  mind  that 
if  she  proved  to  be  right  about  the  grave 
matter  recently  in  dispute,  here  assured- 
ly was  an  ally  who  would  see  things  as 
they  should  be  seen.  She  was  there- 
fore glad  to  welcome  the  new  arrival. 

Houses  and  rooms,  Mr.  Gray  took 
small  note  of.  He  had  lived  in  camps 
and  ranches,  and  slept  on  the  plains,  or 
housed  himself  in  the  tepe  of  the  In- 
dian ;  but  to  him  as  to  most  of  those 
who  have  dwelt  much  in  wild  border 
lands  there  had  come  a  habit  of  scan- 
ning faces  closely ;  for  in  such  semi-bar- 
barous existences  the  features  lose  the 
diplomatic  masks  of  guarded  social  life, 
and  to  look  sharply  at  a  stranger  is  a 
needed  safeguard  for  those  who  mean 
to  illustrate  the  survival  of  the  fittest. 
The  Cape  Cod  spinster,  in  her  simple 
serge  dress,  with  no  gay  colors  save 
those  in  her  clear  eyes  and  ruddy  cheeks, 
seemed  to  him  a  curious  personage.  He 
began  to  wonder  what  kind  of  a  lady 
she  must  have  made  of  his  young  kins- 
woman. Certainly  the  Carolina  gen- 
tleman, with  his  personal  belief  in  the 
Grays,  his  patriotism  limited  by  state 
boundaries,  and  his  after  years  of  turbu- 
lent border  life,  was  a  not  less  new  and 
amazing  type  to  Ann  Wendell,  who  was 
now  looking  with  a  double  interest  at 
one  who  might  be  Hester's  future  guar- 
dian. 

Ann  came  in,  with  her  usual  quick 
movement. 

'  I  am  glad  to  see  you.  —  very  glad," 
she  said  with  unusual  warmth ;  "  and 
Hester  will  be  down  in  a  minute." 

Mr.  Gray  took  Ann's  proffered  hand, 
and  bending  over  it  spoke  with  a  sort 
of  stately  courtesy,  the  secret  of  which 
is  almost  lost  to  the  present  generation. 


"I  have  mentioned  —  but  with  too 
much  brevity  —  to  your  brother  how 
greatly  I  feel  your  considerate  kindness 
to  my  cousin.  Allow  me  to  thank  you 
also.  We  have  been  fortunate,  Miss 
Wendell,  —  fortunate." 

"  It  has  pleased  God  in  his  goodness 
to  give  us  a  pleasant  duty,"  replied 
Ann,  "  and  I  trust  that  our  stewardship 
may  be  found  in  his  eyes  to  have  been 
wise." 

"By  all  means  —  yes  —  quite  so. 
Your  observations  appear  to  me  to  be 
grounded  on  justice,"  said  Gray  ;  "  I 
have  no  doubt  that  I  shall  find  my  fair 
relative  all  that  I  might  desire." 

"  I  trust  so,"  returned  Ann.  "  Hes- 
ter is  a  good  girl,  and  as  a  rule  accept- 
able to  her  elders,  and,  as  far  as  I  have 
been  able  to  teach  her,  a  good  house- 
wife. But  here  she  is,  to  speak  for  her- 
self ! " 

"  Upon  my  soul,"  exclaimed  her  cou- 
sin, going  forward  with  both  hands  ex- 
tended, "  a  Champney  from  head  to 
feet !  " 

Then  he  kissed  her  quite  formally 
on  the  forehead,  as  she  said,  — 

"  You  have  given  us  a  great  surprise, 
sir.  But  when  did  you  arrive  ?  I  think 
you  are  very,  very  kind  to  come  to  see 
me." 

"  Bless  me,  my  dear,"  he  returned, 
"  I  think  if  I  had  known  what  I  was  to 
see,  I  should  have  come  before  !  It  is 
astonishing  how  you  favor  the  Champ- 
neys.  You  don't  remember  Elinor 
Champney,  I  suppose  ?  ' 

"No,"  replied  Hester,  embarrassed 
by  his  undisguised  admiration,  "  I  can- 
not say  I  do.  Was  she  very  plain,  sir  ?  " 
she  added,  slyly. 

"  Plain !  A  woman,  my  dear,  men 
fought  about.  There  was  poor  Tom 
Manley  —  but,  dear  me,  that  was  ages 
ago  !  How  old  are  you,  Hester  ?  ' 

"  Almost  eighteen." 

"Well,  well,  what  awful  mile-stones 
you  children  are  ! " 

Then  Wendell  rose.    "  We  will  leave 


580 


In  War  Time. 


[November, 


you  to  your  cousin,  Hester,"  he  re- 
marked ;  "  you  must  have  a  world  of 
things  to  say,"  and  so  went  out  with 
Ann. 

"  And  you  and  I,  Hester,"  said  Mr. 
Gray,  "  are  all  that  are  left  of  the  good 
old  stock." 

"  And  have  I  really  no  relation  but 
you  ? "  returned  Hester,  with  an  odd 
sense  of  being  socially  shipwrecked. 

"  Not  one,  my  dear  child,  not  one ! 
The  last,  I  reckon,  was  Jack  Champney. 
You  know  he  was  your  fourth  cousin, 
once  removed,  —  no,  I  should  say  twice 
removed,  —  and  he  was  killed  by  those 
damned  Yankees.  Excuse  me,  but  the 
two  words  come  together  so  naturally ! 
Shot  at  Shiloh.  He  commanded  a  di- 
vision, and  I  have  heard  it  said  that  if 
he  had  not  been  killed  we  should  have 
exterminated  Grant's  army." 

"  Poor  fellow !  "  murmured  Hester, 
endeavoring  to  get  up  a  little  affection- 
ate grief  for  the  cousin  once,  twice,  but 
now  permanently,  removed. 

"  There  was  Archie  Gray,"  continued 
her  cousin,  reflectively.  "  I  forgot  him  ; 
but  most  generally  people  did  forget 
Archie.  He  moved  up  into  North  Caro- 
lina, and  set  all  his  slaves  free,  and  just 
went  down  in  the  world.  Was  n't  much 
above  a  cracker  at  last." 

Hester  somehow  felt  a  larger  interest 
in  this  degraded  scion  of  her  race. 

"  Cracker  ?  '    she  queried. 

"  Cracker,  my  dear,  is  a  sort  of  no- 
account  white  man ;  mostly  North  Caro- 
lina folk." 

"  Was  he  any  nearer  to  me,  Mr. 
Gray  ?  '"  she  asked. 

"  Cousin  Henry,"  he  replied,  "  or 
cousin  Harry,  if  you  please,  child.  Stick 
to  the  good  old  Carolina  way  of  stand- 
ing by  your  own  people.  But,  your 
pardon,  you  asked  "  — 

"  Yes,  I  asked  if  he  were  any  nearer 
relation  ;  and  is  he  dead,  too  ?  It  seems 
so  strange  to  me,  cousin,  to  be  just  all 
alone  in  the  world.  I  knew  I  must  be, 
but  to  be  told  so  brings  it  home  to  me." 


• 

"  There  is  one  man  your  devoted  ser- 
vant," returned  Gray,  with  a  courtier- 
like  tone  in  his  voice,  as  he  surveyed 
with  appreciative  eye  the  cleanly  cut 
nose  and  proudly  carried  head  above  the 
sloped  shoulders. 

Hester  felt  like  making  one  of  Mrs. 
Morton's  room-occupying  courtesies,  but 
she  only  said,  with  a  mental  note  for 
Arty's  amusement,  — 

"I  never  can  forget  your  kindness. 
How  could  I,  indeed  ?  "  And  then,  as  it 
seemed  right  to  partake  of  his  interest 
in  their  family,  she  added,  "  This  Alex- 
ander Gray,  you  were  saying"  — 

"  Archie,  my  dear,  —  Archibald  ;  a 
family  name.  Your  great  -  grandfather 
was  Archibald,  and  this  was  his  second 
son  Archibald's  third  son ;  all  the  rest 
dead,  you  know." 

"  And  he  is  dead,  too  ?  "  said  Hester, 
still  curious. 

"  Yes,  he  is  dead ; "  and  then  he  con- 
tinued with  some  reluctance,  "  A  poor 
devil.  Married  a  Yankee  school-mis- 
tress. When  the  war  broke  out  he  en- 
tered the  Union  army.  I  did  hear  he 
raised  a  nigger  regiment,  and  was  in  that 
business  at  Fort  Pillow." 

"  And  was  he  killed  ?  "  asked  Hester. 

"  Well,  he  hasn't  been  heard  of  since. 
I  understood  that  he  was  killed.  A  — 
a  —  I  beg  pardon,  a  good  riddance. 
Had  too  much  of  that  Compton  blood. 
You  know  those  Edisto  Comptons  ?  No- 
account  folks.  Don't  you  ever  marry 
a  Yankee,  cousin  Hester." 

Hester  colored.  "  You  forget,  cousin," 
she  said,  "  that  I  might  have  starved  if 
it  had  not  been  for  my  Yankee  friends. 
In  fact,  I  fear  you  will  think  me  only  a 
lukewarm  Southerner.  I  have  tried  to 
be  as  quiet  as  I  could  about  the  war. 
I  do  not  yet  understand  why  it  came, 
or  why,  as  they  say,  it  had  to  come ;  but 
it  has  cost  me  my  father,  and  given  me 
the  love  and  help  of  my  friends  here, 
and  yours  too,  and  —  and  —  every- 
thing, you  know,"  she  added,  discon- 
nectedly, remembering  with  a  full  heart 


1884.] 


In  War  Time. 


581 


that  her  misfortunes  had  not  been  with- 
out pleasant  palliatives. 

"  Yes,  yes,  I  understand,"  he  returned ; 
"  excellent  people,  I  should  say.  I  shall 
not  forget  them.  But  I  suppose  the 
name  went  for  something." 

"  My  dear  cousin ! ' '  exclaimed  Hes- 
ter, much  amused,  "  nobody  here  knows 
anything  about  us,  except  Mrs.  Mor- 
ton." 

"  Oh ! '  said  he,  "  I  don't  consider 
that  can  be  quite  correct.  We  were 
here  very  often  in  old  times.  However, 
time  makes  sad  changes.  And  Mr.  Mor- 
ton, —  is  he  at  home  ?  A  very  elegant 
gentleman,  my  dear ;  for  a  Northern 
man,  quite  remarkably  so." 

"  He  is  still  in  Europe,"  replied  Hes- 
ter. 

"  And  his  family  ?  I  must  do  myself 
the  honor  of  a  call." 

"  They  too  have  been  good  friends  of 
mine,"  said  Hester. 

"  Then  the  more  reason  for  me  to 
thank  them,"  returned  Mr.  Gray.  "  I  go 
to  Baltimore  to-morrow,  but  next  week 
I  shall  return  here,  and  then  I  must  go 
South.  A  sad  visit,  Hester.  But  it  is 
folly  to  lament,  and  you  must  try,  my 
dear,  to  look  forward  with  hope.  When 
next  this  country  has  a  foreign  war,  we 
shall  try  it  over,  and  I  hope  with  bet- 
ter fortune.  Just  now  the  foot  of  the 
North  is  on  us,  and  they  have  another 
Poland  to  govern:" 

This  was  all  rather  perplexing  to 
Hester,  who  had  divided  allegiances, 
and  with  whom  Arthur's  opinions  had 
considerable  force. 

"  It  is  sad  enough.  I  trust  we  shall 
have  no  more  wars.  Arthur  —  Mr.  Ar- 
thur Morton  says  that  this  way  of  man- 
ufacturing history  is  disagreeable." 

"Arthur?"  he  said,  suspiciously. 
"  Who  is  Arthur  ?  Oh,  Arthur  Morton, 
is  it  ?  I  think  I  saw  him  in  England. 
Quite  an  unpleasant  young  person.  Not 
so  well  bred  as  his  father.  Left  the 
table  because  I  said  Mr.  Adams  was  a 

-  a  —  Yankee ;  you  can  supply  the  ad- 


jective.    I  perceive  you  will  keep  me 
in  order !  ' 

This  was  rather  too  much  for  Hester. 
"  I  meant  to  write  to  you,  but  it  was 
not  quite  settled  ;  and  I  think  I  ought 
to  say  that  I  have  promised  to  marry 
Mr.  Arthur  Morton,  —  Captain  Morton 
he  is  now." 

Mr.  Gray  stood  up,  with  a  look  of 
amazement  on  his  face.  "  And  you  a 
woman  of  our  crushed  and  bleeding 
Carolina !  You  have  so  far  forgotten 
your  home,  and  your  blood,  and  your 
dead  father  ?  You,  the  last  of  the 
Grays !  Hester,  Hester !  And  a  Yankee 
officer,  too !  I  thought  we  were  low 
enough  before ! " 

The  girl  rose  also,  and  stood  grasp- 
ing a  chair-back.  The  quick  blood  of 
a  masterful  race  was  in  her  face,  and 
the  blue  iris,  dilating,  darkened  ar6und 
the  central  depth  it  bounded.  "  I  owe 
you  much,"  she  said  hastily,  — "  more 
than  I  can  ever  repay ;  but  you  would 
respect  me  little  if  I  were  to  let  you, 
or  any  one,  say  such  things  as  this  to 
me.  No  obligation  can  make  it  right 
for  me  to  hear  such  words  about  the  man 
I  love.  I  think  if  you  had  reflected  a 
moment  you  would  not  have  said  them, 

—  never ! ': 

Gray  cared  little  for  the  wrath  of 
men.  He  was  always,  as  he  said  calm- 
ly, "  personally  responsible,  sir."  But 
the  anger  of  a  woman  was,  as  it  is  to  all 
chivalrous  men,  difficult  to  deal  with  ; 
and  then  Hester  was  so  splendidly  hand- 
some in  her  wrath.  It  cooled  his  own 
rage  a  little ;  but  he  was  an  obstinate 
man,  used  to  having  his  way. 

"Oh,  child,"  he  said,  assuming  the 
quiet  tone  of  an  elder  person,  "you 
have  not  yet  seen  your  ruined  home ; 
you  have  not  yet  seen  where  Sherman's 
bandits  cut  down  your  old  oaks,  and 
made  targets  of  your  ancestors'  pic- 
tures !  Oh,  Hester,  our  desolated  South 

—  wait,  wait  till  you  see  it ! ' 
Somehow  this  business  of  her  ances- 
tors' portraits,  as  to  which  Gray  felt  a 


582 


In  War  Time. 


[November, 


fierce   resentment,  struck    Hester   as  a 
small  part  of  so  large  a  calamity  as  the 


war. 


"  I  may  have  lost  a  home,"  she  re- 
plied, "  but  I  have  also  found  one  ;  and 
war  —  war  is  all  wicked,  and  there  is 
no  good  in  it.  There  may  be  cause  for 
you,  a  man,  a  Southern  man,  to  feel  bit- 
terly ;  but  you  cannot  expect  that,  situ- 
ated as  I  have  been,  befriended  as  I  have 
been,  I  should  share  your  feelings." 

"  Then  you  should  be  ashamed  to 
confess  it  !  "  he  cried,  with  momentary 
anger,  yet  still  wondering  as  he  saw  how 
her  features  responded  to  the  thoughts 
she  uttered,  while  her  strong,  erect  form 
carried  unstirred  the  changing  passion 
of  her  face.  It  was  like  a  fair  young 
tree,  whose  leaves  tremble,  shaken  by 
the  wrath  of  stormy  winds,  while  the 
trunk  scarce  sways,  held  firmly  by  its 
anchoring  roots. 

"  Ashamed  !  '  she  repeated,  with  a 
smile  ;  "  and  you  talk  to  me  about  the 
pictures  of  my  dead  ancestors  !  I  dare 
say  I  shall  Tt>e  proud  enough  of  my  peo- 
ple when  I  come  to  know  more  about 
them  ;  but  there  is  something  nearer  to 
me  now,  and  you  have  dared  to  ask  me 
to  be  ashamed  of  that  !  '  Her  heart 
swelled  beneath  the  wild  unrest  of  her 
bosom  as  she  thought  of  Edward  and 
of  the  life  and  love  Arthur  had  laid  at 
the  feet  of  an  orphan  girl,  a  stranger  in 
a  strange  and  hostile  land.  Cry  she 
would  not. 

"  I  have  no  personal  objection  to  Mr. 
Morton,"  said  Gray,  a  little  embar- 
rassed. 

"  Nor  have  I,"  returned  Hester,  scorn- 
fully. 

"  But  how  you,"  he  said,  "  a  woman 
of  the  South,  can  bend  "  — 

"  Stop  !  "  she  exclaimed.  "  I  repeat 
what  I  said.  You  have  no  right  to  use 
your  relationship  and  my  obligations  to 
enable  you  to  insult  me.  And  I  will  not 
bear  it.  I  will  not  bear  it  from  you,  or 
from  any  one  !  ' 

"  Good  gracious  !  '  '  said  Gray,  sitting 


down  suddenly.  "  There  is  no  doubt  of 
what  your  breed  is  !  I  think  Mr.  Mor- 
ton will  have  his  hands  full." 

"  Very  likely ;  but  at  least  he  knows 
how  to  respect  brave  men  who  could 
risk  their  lives  for  their  beliefs." 

This  was  a  little  unpleasant  to  Gray, 
who  had  been  abroad  on  Confederate 
business  during  the  war,  and  who  had 
a  slight  sense  of  having  fallen  below  his 
own  standard,  because  he  had  not  fol- 
lowed his  flag  into  battle.  He  looked 
keenly  at  Hester,  and  became  convinced 
at  once  that  she  had  meant  no  personal 
slight,  which  was  true. 

"  Won't  you  sit  down  ?  '    he  asked. 

"  No.    I  prefer  to  stand,"  she  replied. 

"  But  you  will  oblige  me  by  sitting 
down."  She  seated  herself. 

"  Cousin  Hester,"  he  said,  "  I  have 
hurt  you.  But  you  must  not  forget  how 
natural  it  is  for  me  to  feel  as  I  do." 

"  Of  course,"  answered  Hester,  who 
was  easily  softened,  "  I  know  that ;  but 
there  are  things  dearer  than  home  or 
country,  and  if  I  have  spoken  too  strong- 
ly you  should  remember  that  I  am  here 
a  waif,  an  orphan,  a  dependent,  and  that 
—  that  —  oh,  it  is  not  just  like  any 
every-day  matter  ;  it  is  not  just  like  any 
girl's  love  affair.  I "  —  She  could  not 
go  on.  There  rose  up  within  her  con- 
sciousness a  sense  of  what  her  lover 
was  to  her :  how  considerate  he  had 
been,  how  tender ;  haw  in  this  warmth 
of  love  he  had  known  how  to  evolve 
and  ripen  all  that  was  best  in  her.  The 
thought  of  it  brought  the  color  to  her 
cheeks,  and  the  anger  went  out  of  her 
eyes,  over  which  the  lids  drooped  in 
tender  concealment.  It  was  a  moment 
when  more  than  ever  before  the  strength 
of  her  love  became  clear  to  her.  As 
white  light  turned  by  the  prism's  plane 
breaks  into  unimagined  color,  the  simple- 
ness  of  maidenhood  flashed  into  the  pas- 
sion and  hopes  and  multiple  emotionali- 
ties of  one  whom  Love  has  baptized  a 
woman. 

She  could  not  trust  herself  in  speech. 


1884.] 


In  War  Time. 


583 


Henry  Gray  observed  her  keenly.  He 
was  beginning  to  see  the  power  and  te- 
nacity of  Hester's  nature. 

"  And  do  you  really  love  this  young 
fellow  so  much  ? ' 

Hester  opened  her  wide  eyes  in  pure 
reproach  for  answer. 

"Yes,"  she  said,  after  a  moment. 
Just  then  a  laughing  face  appeared  in 
the  doorway. 

"Oh,  Arthur  —  Mr.  Morton!"  ex- 
claimed Hester,  hastily  setting  her  mor- 
al house  in  order.  "  My  cousin,  Mr. 
Henry  Gray  ;  Mr.  Arthur  Morton, 
cousin." 

The  two  men  shook  hands,  and  began 
to  talk  about  indifferent  matters,  care- 
fully avoiding  the  topics  which  were 
still  very  bitter  in  men's  mouths.  Ar- 
thur had  come  to  see  Hester,  and  after 
a  few  moments  of  this  strained  conver- 
sation felt  that  Mr.  Gray  ought  to  go  ; 
but  such  was  not  the  latter 's  intention, 
and  he  sat  calmly  chatting,  resolved 
to  have  yet  further  speech  alone  with 
Hester.  Then  he  tried  the  little  social 
stratagem  of  silence ;  but  this  failed,  with 
so  joyous  and  ready  a  tongue  as  Ar- 
thur's, till  at  last  Mr.  Gray  rose,  and 
saying  to  Hester,  "  I  will  see  you  next 
week ;  we  have  still  much  to  talk  about," 
bowed  over  her  hand,  said  a  cool  good- 
morning  to  Arthur,  and  left  the  room. 

Then  Hester  said,  "  I  have  told  him, 
Arty." 

"  Oh,  have  you  ?  What  a  plucky  little 
woman  !  Wait  a  moment.  I  ought  to 
say  something  to  him  myself ; "  and  leav- 
ing her  in  spite  of  her  protests,  as  she 
somewhat  dreaded  what  might  come  of 
the  interview,  he  overtook  Mr.  Gray. 

"  Let  me  show  you  the  way  to  the 
station." 

"  Oh,  thank  you,"  returned  Gray. 
"  Miss  Gray  has  told  you,"  said  Ar- 
thur, "  of  our  engagement.  I  owe  you 
an  appearance  of  need  for  apology,  as 
you  are  her  sole  relative ;  but  my  moth- 
er, who  does  not  disapprove,  is  unwill- 
ing that  we  should  be  publicly  engaged 


until  my  father  is  heard  from.  Of  course 
he  cannot  be  anything  but  pleased,  and 
I  had  meant  to  write  to  you  as  soon  as 
we  received  his  answer." 

Gray  failed  for  a  moment  to  reply. 
"  I  hope  I  make  myself  clear,"  added 
Arthur. 

"  Perfectly,"  said  Gray.  "  I  perceive, 
sir,  you  have  correct  ideas.  I  perceive 
it,  sir,  with  satisfaction." 

"And  I  may  presume,"  continued 
Arty,  who,  save  for  Hester's  position 
and  feelings,  was  blandly  indifferent  as 
to  what  Mr.  Gray  thought,  —  "I  may 
presume,"  and  he  put  on  his  finest  man- 
ner, "  that  I  have  your  approval  ?  " 

"  To  consider  the  matter  with  our 
Southern  frankness,"  returned  Gray,  "  I 
do  not  like  it.  I  do  not  desire  Hester 
to  marry  at  all  as  yet ;  and  you  will  par- 
don me  if  I  say  that  it  could  not  nat- 
urally be  agreeable  to  me  that  she 
should  marry  a  Northern  man,  or  an 
officer  of  your  army." 

Arthur's  inward  reply  was  other  than 
his  speech  ;  what  he  said  was,  "  I  dare 
say  not;"  and  then  he  added,  with  a 
keen  sense  of  the  fun  of  it,  "  My  father 
may  have  like  objections.  It  did  not 
occur  to  me  before." 

Gray  saw  well  enough  that  he  was 
being  mildly  chaffed.  He  did  not  rel- 
ish it,  and  was  unwise  enough  to  reply. 
"If  your  father's  son,  Mr.  Morton, 
is  as  set  in  his  ways  as  my  cousin's 
daughter,  the  form  of  asking  might  very 
well  be  dispensed  with." 

"  There  are  some  things,"  Arthur  an- 
swered, "  which  we  do  as  mere  ceremo- 
nies; but  on  my  honor,  if  I  had  sup- 
posed I  should  be  talked  to  after  this 
fashion,  neither  your  years  nor  Hester 
herself  would  have  made  me  go  even  so 
far  as  the  ceremony  of  asking." 

Halting  suddenly,  Gray  turned  on 
him.  "Mr.  Morton,  you  are  a  young 
man,  and  I  am  well  on  in  life.  We 
can't  quarrel  like  men,  and  when  that 
decent  course  is  impossible  there  is  no 
use  in  scolding  one  another.  A  word 


584 


In  War  Time. 


[November, 


more.  You  have  won,  and  we  have 
lost.  Make  some  allowance  for  sore 
bones,  sir  !  There  is  my  hand,  —  you 
shall  hear  no  more  of  this  matter  from 
me ;  and  by  George,  sir,  I  am  glad  you 
are  a  soldier.  I  said  something  foolish 
about  that,  I  believe,  but  I  did  n't  mean 


it." 

Arthur  shook  his  hand  warmly. 

"  I  dare  say  I  have  need  to  apologize 
myself,"  he  declared.  "  Thank  you. 
But  here  is  your  train.  Hester  will  be 
pleased,  I  am  sure." 

Mr.  Gray  took  off  his  hat,  while  Ar- 
thur touched  his  in  soldier  fashion,  and 
then,  seized  by  the  contagion  of  Gray's 
ceremoniousness,  made  a  salute  as  boun- 
tiful as  that  of  the  Southern  gentleman, 
and  went  his  way  back  to  Hester,  to 
condole  with  her  over  the  pictures  of 
her  ancestors. 

The  interview  was  probably  satisfac- 
tory, as  Arthur  was  able  to  tell  her  that 
his  mother  had  been  very  nice  to  him, 
and  hoped  it  would  all  be  well  when  the 
colonel  was  heard  from,  and  also  that 
Ned  had  sent  his  love.  It  was  now 
Thursday,  and  by  the  next  Thursday 
they  would  be  sure  to  hear,  because  his 
father  was  to  telegraph. 

Meanwhile  Ann  Wendell  was  greatly 
dissatisfied  with  herself.  The  effect  left 
upon  her  mind  by  the  dying  delirium  of 
Hester's  father  had  been  profound,  and 
Hester's  engagement  was  to  her  as  if  a 
ghost  had  risen  from  the  grave  to  chide 
her  failure  to  perform  a  manifest  duty, 
which  she  knew  she  had  put  aside,  await- 
ing the  hour  when  Hester  should  be  old 
enough  to  hear  so  terrible  a  tale.  It  is 
impossible  to  estimate  the  force  with 
which  such  grim  events  impress  them- 
selves on  people  of  simple  lives  and 
limited  range  of  experience.  They  are 
recalled  as  men  recall  their  first  sensa- 
tion of  the  terrors  of  an  earthquake.  It 
was  true  that  Dr.  Lagrange  and  Ezra 
had  smiled  at  it  all ;  but  they  were  both 
friends  of  the  Mortons,  and  Ann  knew 
but  too  well  Ezra's  tendency  to  put  aside 


unpleasant  ideas,  and  that  of  course  he 
would  dislike  to  offend  Mrs.  Westerley. 
All  this  seemed  clear ;  but  to  whom 
should  she  go  in  her  deep  and  serious 
distress  of  mind  ?  She  had  rashly  prom- 
ised not  to  speak  to  Hester,  —  not,  at 
least,  until  she  had  heard  what  Colonel 
Morton  would  say ;  and  if  he  too  were 
again  to  pronounce  what  seemed  to  her 
so  grave  as  but  the  dream  of  a  dying 
man,  what  then  ?  She  had  said  it  would 
satisfy  her  ;  but  would  it,  or  should  it  ? 
Was  not  Hester  the  only  competent 
judge  ?  Had  not  she  a  right  to  hear 
this  story  ?  In  vain  the  troubled  and 
straightforward  woman  tried  to  see  it  as 
Edward  saw  it.  Even  if  Hester's  fa- 
ther had  been,  through  pure  accident, 
shot  by  a  certain  man,  could  Hester 
rightfully  marry  that  man's  son  ?  In 
her  worry  Ann  became  singularly  per- 
plexed as  to  what  was  wrong  and  what 
right,  grieving  vainly  over  her  prom- 
ise of  secrecy,  until  suddenly  it  came 
to  her  that  this  promise  was  limited  to 
Hester.  There  was  Mr.  Gray,  of  whom 
already  she  had  thought  as  an  adviser,  — 
of  all  persons  the  one  on  whose  shoul- 
ders she  could  put  her  care,  and  rest 
content  that  it  was  where  it  should  be. 
He  should  promise  not  to  speak  of  it  to 
Hester  until  they  heard  from  Mr.  Mor- 
ton. The  more  she  thought  this  over 
the  clearer  it  seemed ;  for  now,  in  La- 
grange's  silence,  —  and  she  had  twice 
written  to  him,  —  it  appeared  to  be  her 
only  resource,  and  something  she  felt 
sure  she  must  do. 

Hester  had  told  her  that  Mr.  Gray 
would  call  the  next  Friday  afternoon,  on 
his  way  to  Newport,  where  he  had  land- 
ed property,  which  had  been  transferred 
to  a  Northern  friend  for  security  during 
the  war.  Meantime,  he  was  to  be  mov- 
ing about,  and  letters  were  uncertain ; 
so  that,  much  annoyed  at  the  delay,  Ann 
finally  resolved  to  await  the  chance  of 
a  personal  interview,  and,  having  settled 
this,  sought  to  put  the  whole  matter 
aside  for  the  time. 


1884.] 


In  War  Time. 


585 


XXII. 


Thursday  was  the  earliest  date  at 
which  Edward,  who  was  now  constantly 
in  bed,  could  look  for  a  reply  by  cable, 
and  he  was  becoming  anxious  despite 
his  own  convictions.  On  Thursday  af- 

V 

ternoon  he  sent  for  Dr.  Wendell.  The 
doctor  found  him  looking  badly,  and  sat 
by  his  bedside  a  long  while  ;  liking  to 
talk  with  him,  and  having  it  over  and 
over  again  on  his  lips  to  mention  that 
he  himself  was  in  debt,  and  needed  large 
help.  It  seemed  hard  to  do  just  then, 
and  he  decided  that  he  would  wait.  Mr. 
Gray  had  spoken  no  word,  and  given 
him  no  chance  to  say  anything  of  their 
business  matters,  and  so  he  had  yet  a 
little  time. 

"  Does  my  disease,"  asked  Edward, 
"  make  you  fear  any  sudden  result  ?  I 
mean,  am  I  within  the  risk  of  dying  sud- 
denly ?  I  have  long  meant  to  ask  you." 

"  No.  I  do  not  think  you  are.  The 
condition  you  are  now  in  is  common  in 
these  troubles,  and  will  pass  away.  You 
may  even  be  better  than  before." 

"  I  am  glad  of  that,  for  mother's  sake. 
How  strange  it  is  that  as  life  gets  less 
and  less  worth  having  we  should  cling 
to  it  the  more !  I  suppose  this  fierce 
clutch  at  what  little  is  left  of  existence 
is  really  a  feature  of  some  diseases  more 
than  of  others." 

"  Yes,  it  is  so,  I  think,"  said  Wendell. 

"  Well,  for  what  has  given  to  my  life 
of  late  such  sweetness  as  it  has,  I  have 
to  thank  you,  doctor.  You  see  even 
now  I  can  read."  His  bed  was  littered 
with  books  and  scientific  journals.  "  Do 
you  remember  giving  me  this  little  Mar- 
cus Aurelius  ?  See  how  I  have  marked 
I  sometimes  wonder  if  in  another 
world  I  shall  be  able  to  thank  that  grand 
heathen.  Between  pains,  this  morning, 
I  have  been  worrying  through  Heine's 
Philosophy  and  Religion.  It's  hard 
reading,  I  can  tell  you,  and  I  have  done 
nothing  but  look  in  the  dictionary  at 


every  second  line.  It  seems  to  me  that 
Heine  must  have  suffered  a  good  deal 
as  I  do,  and  that  has  given  me  a  more 
personal  interest  in  what  he  wrote.  But 
it  is  painful  to  see  how  his  opinions 
shifted.  Could  n't  you  take  it  home  and 
make  out  these  three  passages  I  have 
marked  ?  I  can't  clear  them  up." 

"  I  will  try.  I  think  I  see  your  diffi- 
culty," answered  Wendell,  who  read 
German  well.  "  But  I  must  go.  When 
will  you  hear  from  the  colonel  ?  " 

He  was  unaware  of  all  that  this  tele- 
gram was  to  answer,  as  they  had  agreed 
that  it  was  best  to  say  nothing  about 
the  matter,  and  Alice,  who  very  likely 
would  have  discussed  it  with  him,  was 
still  away. 

"  We  must  hear  to-morrow,"  replied 
Edward.  "  And  by  the  way,"  he  added, 
smiling,  for  he  had  for  some  time  back 
suspected  what  was  Alice's  relation  to 
Wendell,  —  "  by  the  way,  you  will  find 
our  friend  Mrs.  Westerley  here  to-mor- 
row afternoon.  Don't  fail  to  see  me, 
please." 

Then  Wendell  rose. 

"  One  moment,"  said  the  sick  man. 
"  I  have  several  times  meant  to  ask  you 
not  to  worry  about  our  little  debts,  and 
to  say  also  that  when  I  am  better  I 
would  like  to  talk  to  you  about  your 
money  matters.  I  have  a  notion,  from 
what  Miss  Ann  let  fall  last  week,  that 
perhaps  you  need  a  little  lift.  It  is  a 
mere  guess,  but  if  I  am  right  I  trust  that 
you  will  say  so." 

"  It  is  only  too  true,"  assented  Wen- 
dell, a  great  hope  leaping  up  within  him. 
"  I  have  been  very  unfortunate  in  sev- 
eral ways." 

"  That  is  enough  for  me  to  know. 
Let  us  talk  it  all  over  to-morrow  ;  but, 
by  the  way,  give  me  some  idea  of  what 
you  need  ;  how  much,  I  mean,  and  don't 
hesitate  about  it,  please." 

"  I  scarcely  dare  to  say  how  much. 
People  don't  pay  my  bills,  and  I  —  well, 
in  fact,  our  little  investments  have  all 
gone  wrong,  and  "  — 


586 


In  War  Time. 


[November, 


"  Oh,  but  how  much  will  set  you  fair- 
ly afoot,  my  dear  doctor  ?  " 

"If  I  could  borrow  five  thousand 
dollars  "  — 

"  If  you  could  ?  You  shall.  Why 
not  have  told  me  before  ?  Cannot  you 
see  that  it  is  a  great  happiness  to  feel 
that  I  can  help  one  who  has  so  amply 
helped  me  ?  I  shall  be  paying  a  debt, 
not  making  one.  No  mere  money  could 
pay  what  is  due  from  me  to  you  ;  just 
remember  that,  doctor,  when  we  come 
to  foot  up  our  relative  claims." 

"  I  do  not  know  how  to  thank  you. 
You  little  know  what  it  is  you  are  doing 
for  me.  It  is  an  inestimable  obligation. 
I  have  been  so  wretched  about  my  debts, 
—  and  —  altogether  "  — 

"  Well,  let  us  drop  it  now.  You  will 
hurt  me  if  you  make  so  much  of  it. 
What  is  money  after  all  ?  Now,  if  it 
could  buy  me  escape  from  pain  for  a 
month  —  or  hire  new  legs  "  — 

"  Even  if  all  you  say  be  true,  I  too 
have  been  helped  in  turn,  and  I  can 
never  forget  that  whatever  has  been  my 
fortune  as  a  doctor  in  this  place,  you 
and  yours  have  always  stood  by  me." 

"  And  with  reason,"  exclaimed  Ed- 
ward. "  We  all  of  us  owe  you  much, 
but  my  own  little  debts  to  you,  doctor, 
are  debts  of  the  spirit,  not  to  be  count- 
ed ;  as  Arty  says,  like  the  gold  in  the 
cloud  banks  of  sunset." 

"  I  don't  think  I  deserve  much  praise 
for  it,"  returned  Wendell,  smiling  ;  "  it 
was  certainly  for  the  most  part  uncon- 
scious benevolence,  if  that  can  be  called 
benevolence  at  all." 

"  I  rather  fancy,"  said  Ned,  who  was 
not  to  be  talked  out  of  his  sense  of  grat- 
itude, —  "I  rather  fancy  that  what  you 
call  '  unconscious  benevolence  '  is  mere- 
ly the  outcome  of  habits  of  doing  kind 
and  fitting  things.  I  can  see  that  it 
must  be  a  part  of  a  physician's  life  to 
think  of  how  he  can  teach  the  sick  —  I 
mean  the  crippled  sick  —  to  fill  up  the 
gaps  which  disease  has  made  in  their 
means  of  happiness." 


"  Yes  ;  it  may  be  so,"  remarked  Wen- 
dell thoughtfully.  He  felt  that  perhaps 
he  had  not  considered  enough  this  side 
of  his  duties,  except  when,  as  in  Ned's 
case,  the  patient  had  interested  him. 
He  was  impressed  now,  as  Edward 
talked  on,  with  the  manner  in  which  by 
degrees  the  man  of  action  had  become 
the  man  of  thought,  as  the  shadows  of 
pain  and  bodily  disability  had  gathered 
about  him ;  and  the  idea  passed  through 
Wendell's  mind  that  it  was  like  the 
thoughtfulness  which  comes  at  dusk  of 
day,  when  the  body  is  wearied,  and  the 
light  which  tempts  to  active  ways  is 
spent.  "  Yes,  it  may  be  so,"  he  repeat- 
ed. "  I  am  afraid  we  do  not  always 
keep  ourselves  enough  alive  to  the 
chances  of  such  helpfulness." 

"  That  may  very  well  be ;  but  the 
calls  made  upon  a  man  by  your  work 
are  so  various  that  I  can  well  imagine 
how  hard  it  must  be  to  give  them  all 
their  just  share  of  attention." 

"  You  are  right,"  returned  Wendell, 
all  of  whose  better  nature  was  getting 
food  for  reflection  out  of  the  young 
man's  sick-bed  meditations.  "A  doc- 
tor's life  has  in  it,  however,  a  good  deal 
to  harm  his  moral  growth,  and  needs 
watching.  It  is  difficult  not  to  become 
despotic  from  mere  habit  of  control,  and 
still  harder  to  be  tender  and  yet  de- 
cided, and  to  keep  good  tempered  amidst 
the  unreasonableness  of  patients  and 
their  friends." 

He  was  half  consciously  becoming 
morally  autobiographic. 

"  I  suppose,"  said  Edward,  "  a  doctor 
ought  to  be  all  of  a  man  with  the  best 
of  a  woman.  I  think  I  should  like  to 
be  a  physician.  The  human  nature  he 
sees  in  its  nakedness  must  be  interest- 
ing, and  a  man  who  walks  among  the 
tragedies  of  life  must  have  noble  chances 
to  help  and  guide  and  set  folks  right. 
You  know,  don't  you,  the  Eastern  prov- 
erb, t  Where  the  earthquake  has  been 
the  best  grain  grows  '  ?  ' 

"  No,  I   never  heard  it.     It 's  good, 


1884.] 


In  War  Time. 


587 


though,  is  n't  it  ?  But  you  have  cheat- 
ed me  into  overstaying  my  time,  and  I 
must  go." 

"  Well,  good-by.  I  think  I  feel  bet- 
ter for  our  chat.  Don't  forget  the  med- 
icine you  said  you  would  send,  —  I  hope 
it  will  quiet  my  unruly  heart ;  and  don't 
come  till  the  afternoon.  You  have  al- 
ways more  time  to  talk  then." 

Ann  Wendell's  nature  made  her  deal 
temperately  with  the  lesser  problems  of 
moral  life,  but  sense  of  wrong  or  in- 
justice, or  the  presence  of  a  distinctly 
neglected  duty,  disturbed  her  painfully. 
When  once  she  was  sure  of  what  ought 
to  be  done,  —  and  when  sure,  she  was 
as  a  rule  apt  to  be  very  sure,  —  she  be- 
came uneasy  until  she  had  seized  on  that 
duty,  and  justified  herself  by  shaking  it 
into  a  state  of  incapacity  to  excite  her 
further,  much  as  a  quiet  terrier  will 
suddenly  awaken  to  the  presence  of  a 
rat,  and  with  instinctive  abruptness  of 
energy  destroy  its  power  to  disturb  him. 
Such  outbreaks  of  activity  antagonistic 
to  the  habits  of  a  life  baffle  the  student 
of  human  nature  because  of  their  excep- 
tional rarity.  We  see  this  illustrated 
dangerously  in  animal  life  by  tjae  sud- 
den stroke  of  the  sluggish  serpent,  and 
as  concerns  man  in  the  occasional  rash- 
ness of  the  timid,  the  queer  lapses  of 
the  methodical,  or  the  strange  self-com- 
mittals of  the  naturally  cautious  and 
diplomatic. 

Ann  had  reached  such  a  crisis,  and 
nothing  but  competent  action  would  sat- 
isfy her.  She  would  certainly  have  her 
talk  with  Mr.  Gray,  and  at  once ;  but 
there  came  to  her  now  the  suspicion 
that  she  might  feel  easier,  and  better 
able  to  face  Mrs.  Morton's  anger,  if 
she  were  to  remind  that  lady  before- 
hand that  the  pledge  of  secrecy  applied 
only  to  Hester,  and  to  tell  her  that  she 
thought  it  an  urgent  duty  to  put  the  re- 
sponsibility of  an  ultimate  decision  upon 
Hester's  nearest  relative.  Ann  would 
have  been  wiser  had  she  spoken  rather 


than  written  ;  but  she  dreaded  the  pos- 
sibility of  being  talked  out  of  the  course 
she  had  laid  down  for  herself,  and  to 
leave  no  chance  of  a  reply  wrote  and 
dispatched  her  note  about  four  o'clock, 
and  sending  Hester  to  the  city  on  an 
errand,  told  her  that  she  herself  desired 
to  talk  to  Mr.  Gray  alone,  and  would 
detain  him  until  Hester's  return.  Then, 
feeling  that  she  had  thus  cleared  her 
path,  she  sat  down  and  awaited  Mr. 
Gray's  arrival,  which  she  counted  upon, 
as  he  had  telegraphed  Hester  in  the 
morning  that  he  would  be  with  her 
about  five  or  six  o'clock. 

Meanwhile,  Wendell  went  out,  telling 
his  sister  that  he  might  return  late.  He 
was  doing  some  work  for  a  doctor  near 
by,  who,  being  absent,  had  left  him  his 
carriage.  He  visited  a  patient  on  the 
way,  and  then  drove  rapidly  over  to 
the  Mortons',  full  of  hope  and  relief, 
and  thinking  as  he  went  along  of  Alice 
Westerley.  Edward's  words  had  raised 
him  into  one  of  the  moods  of  elation 
which  had  been  rare  or  absent  of  late, 
and  he  drove  through  the  lanes  making 
thankful  and  honest  resolutions  for  the 
happy  future  which  opened  before  him. 
In  his  pleasant  abstraction  he  passed 
Ann's  messenger,  a  little  lad  who  did 
their  errands,  and  presently,  leaving  his 
carriage  at  the  stable,  walked  up  to  the 
house.  On  the  porch  he  saw  Alice  Wes- 
terley alone. 

"  Sit  down  here  a  moment,"  she  said. 
"  Mrs.  Morton  is  with  Ned,  and  Arty 
is  writing  letters.  I  cannot  tell  how 
glad  I  am  to  see  you.  You  look  bet- 
ter." 

"  Oh,  do  I  ?  Gladness  is  a  good  phy- 
sician. Alice,  my  Alice,  you  will  not 
keep  me  longer  in  this  horrible  suspense  ? 
I  have  sometimes  thought,  this  past 
week,  that  you  could  not  care  for  me 
as  I  care  for  you.  Why  should  you  de- 
lay so  long,  and  why  should  I  still  have 
to  wait  until  it  pleases  Colonel  Morton 
to  write  a  telegram  ?  What  on  earth 
have  we  to  do  with  him  ? ' 


588 


In  War  Time. 


[November, 


"  Some  day,  soon,  I  will  tell  you 
why,"  she  replied.  "  I  have  been  un- 
happy about  Hester.  If  you  had  been 
with  me  I  should  have  had  to  tell  you, 
but  now  —  Do  you  know  what  that 
is  ?  "  and,  laughing,  she  held  up  a  tele- 
gram envelope. 

"  Oh,  Alice  !  "  he  exclaimed.  "  And 
is  it  all  right  about  Hester  ?  ' 

"  Yes,"  she  returned,  "  it  is  all  right. 
The  colonel  has  said  it  is  to  be  as  Helen 
wishes.  She  has  the  telegram.  But  you 
are  very  nice  to  think  first  of  Hester." 

"  And  now,  Alice  "  — 

"  Well  ?  "  she  said,  demurely. 

"  Your  hesitations  are  over." 

"  They  are  over  for  life." 

"  My  God !  "  he  whispered.  He  felt 
like  a  slave  who  has  found  a  jewel  in 
his  path,  and  trembled  with  the  sense  of 
a  possession  beyond  even  the  dreams  of 
love's  sweet  avarice.  She  realized  at 
once,  with  her  quick  sympathies,  the 
man's  intensity  of  happiness,  and  looked 
up  at  him  shyly,  with  watchful  joy. 

"  I  am  going  to  walk  home,"  she  said. 
"  Helen  thinks  I  have  gone ;  but  I  wait- 
ed for  you.  I  will  go  slowly,  so  that 
you  can  overtake  me  easily.  Don't  be 
long."  ^**Vtti*  1, 

He  looked  at  her,  and  then  glanced 
about  him.  She  turned  quickly  to  go, 
but  he  caught  her  as  she  moved,  and 
kissed  her  passionately. 

"  Oh,  Ezra ! "  she  cried,  in  alarm. 
"  How  could  you  ! ' 

"  I  could  not  help  it,"  he  answered. 
"  Ah,  now  I  know  you  are  mine  !  You 
will  pardon  me." 

"  If ?  —  if,"  she  said,  smiling  and  red, 
"  you  will  never,  never  do  it  again  ?  " 

"  Never,"  he  replied,  and  went  into 
the  house. 

While  this  little  matter  was  being 
thus  arranged  on  the  porch,  Mrs.  Mor- 
ton was  seated  by  her  son's  bedside. 
The  telegram  for  which  Edward  had 
eagerly  waited  had  come,  and  for  the 
second  time  he  was  reading  it  aloud, 
when  Arthur  suddenly  walked  into  his 


chamber.      "What's  that,    Ned?"    he 
asked.     "  The  answer  from  father  ?  ' 

Mrs.  Morton  had  meant  that  he 
should  know  only  the  general  tenor  of 
the  dispatch  until  Ann  had  been  seen, 
and  the  whole  matter  deprived  of  its 
mischievous  possibilities.  But  fate  had 
overruled  her,  and  her  son  had  heard 
enough  to  make  it  necessary  that  he 
should  hear  the  whole.  There  was  no 
help  for  it  now,  and  she  quickly  cast 
about  her  for  aid  as  she  gave  him  the 
paper. 

"  That 's  droll,"  said  Arthur,  reading 
it  aloud.  "  What  does  my  father  mean  ? 
He  says,  '  It  is  absurd.  Use  your  own 
judgment.  See  letter.'  What  does  he 
mean  by  '  absurd  '  and  all  that  ?  ': 

"It  refers,"  returned  Mrs.  Morton, 
"  to  another  question,  which  does  not  al- 
together concern  you.  The  latter  part 
does.  Are  you  not  satisfied,  my  son  ?  ' 
Edward  looked  up.  He  hated  indi- 
rectness, but  he  was  silent. 

"  Oh,  thank  you,  mother,"  said  Ar- 
thur, rising.  "  And  you  will  love  her, 
too,  mother,  and  you  will  feel  satisfied, 
won't  you  ? ' 

"  I  always  did  love  her,  but  "  — 
"  Oh,  don't  spoil  it,  mother,"  begged 
Ned. 

"  My  son's  wife  will  be  my  daughter," 
she  answered,  and  then  she  kissed  Ar- 
thur. "  I  will  go  over  to  see  Hester  to- 
night, and  now  I  must  send  this  to  Ann 
Wendell."  So  she  wrote  a  little  note 
of  caution  to  Ann,  and  gave  it,  with  the 
inclosed  telegram,  to  Arthur,  that  he 
might  send  his  happy  news  to  Hester 
Grav.  Then  Mrs.  Morton  rose  from 

V 

the  bedside. 

"  Don't  go  yet,  mother,"  said  Edward. 
"  I  want  to  say  something.  I  have 
learned  lately  that  my  friend,  Dr.  Wen- 
dell, is  in  debt.  I  don't  think  he  has 
succeeded  as  he  ought  to  have  done,  and 
the  little  money  he  and  his  sister  had 
seems  to  have  been  badly  invested,  and 
so  far  as  I  can  make  it  out  has  been 
lost." 


1884.] 


In  War  Time. 


589 


Mrs.  Morton  interrupted  him :  "  I 
never  did  think  he  had  any  sense  about 
business  matters,  and  I  am  equally  sure 
that  he  is  one  of  those  people  who  must 
buy  what  they  chance  to  want  at  the 
moment.  Your  uncle  Richard  was 
much  that  kind  of  person.  I  paid  his 
debts  twice.  Did  Dr.  Wendell  ask  you 
to  help  him  ?  ' 

"  No,  he  did  not.  I  have  lent  him  a 
little  money  from  time  to  time.  Per- 
haps we,  who  have  never  had  to  think 
about  money,  do  not  realize  the  tempta- 
tions of  people  like  Wendell,  who  have 
refined  wants  and  scanty  means.  I 
have  offered  to  aid  him  further,  but  to 
do  so  effectually  will,  I  fancy,  demand 
at  least  five  thousand  dollars.  I  could 
not  arrange  this,  lying  helpless  here  in 
bed,  and  that  is  why  I  want  to  trouble 
you.  In  a  week  or  two,  or  a  little  later, 
I  shall  have  all  I  want ;  but  I  spent  so 
much  on  the  Sanitary  and  the  soldiers' 
orphan  business  that  really  I  shall  lack 
at  least  a  thousand  of  what  he  will  need." 

"  But  don't  you  think,  my  son  "  — 

"  Think  !  Mother,"  he  said,  wearily, 
'  I  am  past  thinking.  I  can  only  feel. 
And  besides,  I  am  a  sick  man,  and  I  do 
not  want  to  wait  to  do  this  thing.  I  wish 
to  do  it  now,  at  once." 

Mrs.  Morton's  impulse  was  always 
to  act  in  accordance  with  Edward's 
wishes,  but  the  habit  of  advising  was 
also  strong. 

"  I  meant,"  she  observed,  "  to  ask  you 
to  think,  dear  Ned,  if  this  is  not  a  rather 
inconsiderate  use  of  a  large  sum  of 
money.  I  really  cannot  see  what  claim 
Dr.  Wendell  has  on  you,  and  I  do  cer- 
tainly think  there  is  a  strange  want  of 
propriety,  to  say  the  least,  in  using  his 
position  as  a  doctor  to  get  money  out  of 
a  man  so  much  his  junior." 

"  Please  not  to  say  that.  You  hurt 
me  when  you  talk  in  that  way  of  Wen- 
dell. You  forget,  mother,  that  it  was  I 
who  worried  out  of  him  the  secret  of 
his  debts,  and  that  it  was  I  who  offered 
him  help,  —  not  he  who  asked  it.  I 


don't   feel,   mother,   that  you  are  ever 
quite  just  to  the  doctor." 

"  I  have  tried  to  be  just,  Edward.  I 
never  have  thoroughly  liked  him,  but 
nothing  ever  goes  quite  straight,  and 
the  next  thing  will  be  that  Alice  Wester- 
ley  will  marry  him." 

"  I  wish  she  would,"  said  Edward, 
"  for  you  would  adopt  him,  then." 

"  How  much  have  you  lent  him,  Ed- 
ward ?  " 

"  About  six  or  eight  hundred  dollars. 
I  never  kept  any  account  of  it." 

"  I  suppose  not,  Ned ;  and  now  you 
want  to  lend  him  five  thousand  ?  " 

"  Yes,  mother ;  but  let  us  drop  this  as 
a  business  matter.  My  love  of  books 
and  botany  and  the  microscope,  and  in 
fact  all  that  has  made  life  endurable  of 
late,  has  been  as  it  were  a  gift  from  this 
man.  That  the  debt  is  uncommercial  is 
the  more  reason  why  you  and  I  should 
recognize  it." 

Had  it  been  any  one  but  Edward,  Mrs. 
Morton  would  have  smiled,  amused  at 
the  debit  and  credit  account  thus  set  be- 
fore her  ;  but  this  large-eyed,  pale,  and 
wasting  youth,  and  the  shrunken,  bony 
hand,  so  white  and  feeble,  now  resting 
in  hers,  held  her,  so  that  she  seemed  to 
become  a  part  of  the  sick  frame,  and  to 
feel  with  its  gentle  heart,  until  her  world- 
ly criticisms  faded,  with  some  realizing 
sense  of  the  slight  shame  he  felt  that 
she  should  hesitate. 

"  You  always  have  your  way  with  me, 
Ned,"  she  said  softly. 

"  And  you  like  it,"  he  replied,  smil- 
ing. "  But  kiss  me,  mother,  and  then  go 
away,  please.  I  am  in  a  good  deal  of 
pain,  and  I  shall  fight  it  better  alone." 

"  And  I  have  made  you  talk  so  much, 
darling." 

"  That  has  its  pleasant  side,  too,  moth- 
er. Ah,  there  is  a  good  deal  of  sweet- 
ness in  life  yet ! " 

"  If  only  I  could  give  you  more ! ' 

"  But  you  are  its  biggest  sugar-bowl, 
as  it  is,"  he  returned,  laughing,  that  he 
might  send  her  away  feeling,  as  he  knew 


590 


In  War  Time. 


[November, 


she  would,  that  if  after  all  he  was  able  to 
jest  with  her  he  could  not  be  so  very  ill. 

As  he  saw  her  leave  the  room,  and 
heard  her  through  the  half-open  door 
sit  down  at  her  writing-table,  he  set  his 
teeth,  and  with  clenched  hands  wrestled 
with  the  agony  of  gathering  pain. 

"  My  God ! "  he  muttered,  "  what  good 
can  there  be  in  pain  like  this  ?  One 
cannot  think  for  it !  If  pain  does  not 
make  a  man  think,  what  use  can  it  be  ? 
Ah,  that  is  a  let-up." 

Humor,  in  some  natures  apparently 
the  quickest  at  call  among  the  lighter 
sprites  who  inhabit  the  caverns  of  the 
mind,  which  no  illness  destroys,  and 
which  is  peculiarly  apt  to  rise  on  the 
sudden  subsidence  of  pain,  was  strong 
in  this  young  man. 

"  Ah,  if  I  only  had  hold  of  the  grand- 
father, or  whoever  he  was,  that  left  me 
this  little  legacy  of  his  laziness  or  his 
wickedness  !  Arty  says  '  every  one  is  in 
the  higher  sense  his  own  grandfather.' 
I  wish  I  was  mine.  I  'd  feel  more  re- 
sponsible. He  says  that 's  Emerson.  I 
don't  believe  it.  By  George,  I  must 
have  that  anodyne ! ' 

There  were  two  vials,  much  alike,  on 
the  little  table  by  his  bed  :  one  the  medi- 
cine sent  by  the  doctor  the  day  before. 
Still  resolute  not  to  let  his  mother  know 
of  his  increasing  anguish,  he  tried  to 
read  the  directions  on  the  labels,  but 
failing  to  see  them  distinctly,  uncorked 
one  of  the  bottles,  thinking  that  the 
familiar  odor  of  the  anodyne  to  which 
he  was  accustomed  might  suffice  to  guide 
him.  He  found,  however,  that  it  was 
not  what  he  sought.  As  he  set  it  down 
his  hand  shook  so  much  that  he  upset 
the  vial,  and  spilt  a  large  part  of  its 
contents  between  the  bed  and  the  table. 
He  recorked  it,  murmuring,  "  I  am  no 
better  than  a  child,"  and  with  a  moan 
of  pain  gave  up  the  task.  To  his  re- 
lief he  heard  Arthur  coming  upstairs, 
laughing  and  talking  with  Wendell,  — 
two  eager,  joyous  men.  They  lingered 
on  the  top  landing  for  what  seemed  to 


the  sufferer  an  age  ;  but  he  waited  with 
a  stern  patience  which  they  who  have 
seen  or  have  themselves  felt  the  grip  of 
such  suffering  can  alone  appreciate. 

At  last  they  came  in. 

"  How  are  you  to-day  ?  "  asked  Wen- 
dell gently. 

"In  torment,"  said  Edward,  under 
his  breath.  "  But  take  care,  or  mother 
may  hear." 

At  this  moment  Mrs.  Morton  entered 
the  room,  excited  and  angry. 

"  Let  me  speak  to  you  a  moment, 
doctor,"  she  exclaimed. 

"What  is  it?"  asked  Edward,  who 
had  rarely  seen  his  quiet  mother  so 
manifestly  disturbed. 

"  Matter  enough,"  she  said.  "  Ann 
Wendell  writes  me,  as  she  says,  from  a 
sense  of  duty,  to  remind  me  that  she  has 
never  pledged  herself  to  conceal  that 
ridiculous  story  from  any  one  but  Hes- 
ter, and  that  this  afternoon  she  means 
to  tell  it  all  to  Mr.  Henry  Gray." 

Wendell  and  Arthur  looked  amazed. 

"  What  is  it  ?  ' '  inquired  Wendell. 

"  Your  sister,"  replied  Mrs.  Morton, 
too  vexed  for  reflection,  "  has  got  a  craze 
about  that  stupid  nonsense  of  poor  Hes- 
ter's father  having  been  killed  by  my 
husband,  and  thinks  Hester  ought  to 
know  it." 

"  Ann !  "  cried  Wendell,  —  "  Ann  of 
all  people !  Why,  Mrs.  Morton,  she 
and  I  talked  this  over,  a  year  ago  at 
least.  I  never  dreamed  of  its  having 
any  practical  hold  on  her.  Is  n't  there 
some  mistake  ? ' 

"  No  ;  here  is  her  note.  It  is  an  old 
story  and  a  foolish  one,"  said  Mrs.  Mor- 
ton, "  but  it  will  make  mischief." 

"  Let  her  tell  it,"  said  Edward,  with 
his  usual  good  sense.  "  It  is  time  we 
had  done  with  it." 

"  And  that  was  the  meaning  of  the 
telegram,  was  it?"  observed  Arthur. 
"  I  heard  my  father  once  mention  it  in 
France  as  a  singular  incident.  But  great 
heavens,  to  tell  Hester !  and  to  tell  her 
now." 


1884.] 


In  War  Time. 


591 


"  And  just  as  this  telegram  has  come," 
exclaimed  Mrs.  Morton,  "  to  want  to 
talk  it  over  with  Mr.  Gray,  whom  we 
barely  know,  and  who  does  not  want 
Hester  to  marry !  What  inconceivable 
folly !  Just  think  how  he  may  see  fit  to 
put  it  to  Hester  ! ' 

"  They  both  ought  to  know  it  some 
time,"  said  Edward  ;  "  but  it  should  be 
told  quietly,  and  not  by  one  who  be- 
lieves it." 

"  But  it  is  simply  ludicrous,"  returned 
Wendell. 

"  Ludicrous  or  not,"  said  Edward, 
"we  must  stop  her,  and  at  once,  too. 
Mother,  order  the  doctor's  carriage. 
Drive  home  at  once,  doctor,  and  possibly 
you  may  be  in  time.  You  can  stop  her, 
can't  you  ?  Hurry,  mother." 

"  I  think  so,  —  I  hope  so,"  rejoined 
Wendell,  who  was  vexed  and  flurried, 
and  knew  better  than  they  what  Ann 
was  when  on  what  Mrs.  Westerley  called 
the  war-path  of  a  duty. 

Mrs.  Morton  had  gone  out  at  the  first 
mention  of  action. 

"  Great  heavens,  how  I  suffer !  "  said 
Edward.  "  Doctor,  give  me  the  anodyne 
before  you  go.  This  pain  will  kill  me 
some  day.  It  is  like  knives  in  my 
heart!" 

Wendell  was  terribly  annoyed  at  his 
sister's  folly,  and  in  hot  haste  to  repair 
it.  "  Is  this  the  bottle  I  sent  you  to- 
day ?  "  he  asked.  "  I  can't  see ;  your 
curtains  make  the  room  so  dark." 

"  Yes,  that  is  it,  I  believe,"  returned 
Edward,  groaning.  "  Look  for  your- 
self, I  really  don't  know,  and  for  God's 
sake  hurry ;  I  shall  die  of  pain.  But 
about  Ann,  your  sister,  —  that  is  more 
important.  I  forget  other  people  in  my 
misery.  Let  Arty  give  me  my  medi- 
cine. But  be  quick,  some  one.  Now 
do  go." 

Wendell  glanced  hastily  at  the  vials 
in  the  half  light  of  the  darkened  room, 
and  taking  up  the  one  which  was  yet 
full,  asked  Arthur  to  put  it  on  the  man- 
tel. 


"  There,  Arthur,"  said  Wendell,  "  is 
the  anodyne,  the  one  left  on  the  table. 
It  has  been  partly  used."  He  spoke 
low,  adding,  "  A  teaspoonful,  and  be 
quick.  I  shall  return  as  soon  as  possi- 
ble. He  is  very  ill." 

"  But  perhaps  you  had  better  wait." 

"  No,  I  must  go.  He  wants  me  to 
go.  There  is  not  a  moment  to  lose. 
The  medicine  will  ease  him.  Don't  de- 
lay ; "  and  speaking  as  he  moved  toward 
the  door,  he  went  away  annoyed  and  in 
angry  haste. 

Mrs.  Morton  came  into  the  room  as 
the  doctor  left  it,  and  while  Arthur  was 
pouring  out  the  medicine. 

"  Is  that  his  anodyne  ?  "  she  asked. 

"  Yes,  mother,  it  is  all  right.  Lift 
him,  please." 

Then  he  put  the  glass  to  his  brother's 
lips,  saying,  "  There,  dear  Ned,  that 
will  help  you." 

Edward  drank  it  hastily. 

"  Oh,  mother,  that  pain  —  that  pain  ! 
I  was  sure  it  would  kill  me.  Bring 
back  the  doctor ! '"  he  suddenly  called, 
in  a  sharply  pitched  voice.  "  Quick  ! " 
Arthur,  without  question,  gave  one 
glance,  and  fled  from  the  room.  Then 
Edward  looked  up  at  his  mother  with 
an  infinite  tenderness  in  his  eyes,  the 
thankfulness  of  a  departing  guest. 

"  What  is  it  ?  "  she  cried.  "  Oh,  what 
is  the  matter  ?  Speak,  Ned,  —  speak  to 
me!" 

But  there  was  no  answer.  His  face 
whitened ;  an  awful  semblance  of  a  smile 
went  over  it.  He  was  dead. 

For  an  instant  she  said  no  word,  but 
paused  motionless  by  his  side.  Then  a 
wild  terror  seized  her.  She  picked  up 
the  vial,  which  had  been  left  on  the  ta- 
ble by  the  bed,  and  staggered  to  the  win- 
dow. On  the  label  she  read,  "  Poison. 
Tincture  of  Aconite.  Dose  one  drop." 

"My  God!"  she  exclaimed.  "Oh, 
Ned,  my  son,  my  own  boy !  and  Arty. 
It  will  kill  him."' 

For  a  moment  she  stood  perfectly 
still,  gazing  at  the  label.  Her  faculties 


592 


In  War  Time. 


[November, 


seemed  to  gain  a  superhuman  acuteness. 
All  that  was  involved  in  this  discovery 
came  swiftly  before  her,  —  all  that  it 
meant  for  herself  and  for  others,  all  the 
vistas  of  interminable  misery  for  her  only 
remaining  child.  The  clear  conception 
of  what  had  happened  and  would  hap- 
pen was  followed  by  that  concentration 
of  mind  which  is  possible  only  when 
every  power  within  the  mental  sphere 
is  brought  to  a  focus  by  such  intensity 
of  will  as  some  one  of  the  despotic  in- 
stincts can  alone  call  forth.  Turning  to 
the  mantelpiece,  she  seized  the  bottle 
which  stood  where  Arthur  had  placed 
it.  With  the  vials  clinking  in  her  trem- 
bling hand,  she  moved  swiftly  to  the 
window,  looking,  as  she  went,  at  the 
label,  on  which  was  written,  "  Anodyne. 
Take  one  teaspoonful  as  directed."  She 
returned  quickly  to  execute  her  purpose 
of  placing  the  anodyne  on  the  table  at 
the  bedside.  The  dead,  gray  face  smote 
her  as  she  neared  it,  as  with  a  physical 
blow,  and,  tottering,  she  dropped  one  of 
the  vials.  She  stooped,  groping  about 
to  find  it ;  but  this  brief  delay  was  fatal, 
for  as  she  rose  again  with  the  bottle  in 
her  hand,  Alice  Westerley  and  Wendell 
hastily  entered.  At  the  terrible  spec- 
tacle before  them  Wendell,  always  im- 
pulsive and  emotional,  lost  the  self-con- 
trol which  the  doctor  commonly  learns 
to  keep  in  the  face  of  the  most  abrupt 
tragedies  ;  but  he  loved  Arthur  well, 
and  at  sight  of  the  dead  a  sudden  terror 
dazed  him,  as  with  a  quick  step  he  strode 
to  the  bedside. 

"My  God,  Mrs.  Morton,"  he  cried, 
"  he  is  dead !  Where  is  the  medicine 
he  took?" 

"  Here,"  said  Mrs.  Morton,  firmly, 
handing  him  the  anodyne.  "  I  took  it 
from  the  table." 

She  was  too  late.  Obeying  an  im- 
pulse, regretted  an  instant  later,  he  put 
to  his  lips  the  spoon  which  Arthur  had 
used,  and  as  suddenly  let  it  fall,  with  a 
shock  of  remembrance  at  his  own  re- 

* 

sponsibility  for  what  had  occurred. 


Alice  Westerley  saw  his  dismay.  She 
shut  the  door  which  was  near  her. 

"  Oh,  doctor,"  she  asked,  "  what  is  it  ? 
What  has  happened  ?  There  is  some- 
thing wrong  !  Did  he  take  the  wrong 
medicine,  Helen  ?  " 

"I  —  I  don't  know,"  returned  Wen- 
dell, who  had  recognized  the  taste  of  the 
deadly  poison,  and  was  trying  to  collect 
his  routed  faculties.  "  When  I  left  him 
he  was  in  great  pain,  but  I  did  not  think 
in  any  danger." 

At  this  moment,  Arthur,  who  had  de- 
layed to  call  a  servant  to  take  charge  of 
Wendell's  horse,  came  in  abruptly.  He 
was  painfully  excited. 

"  Is  he  very  ill  ?  Oh,  doctor,  what  is 
the  matter  ?  *  Then  he  saw  the  open- 
eyed,  blank  face  of  death.  "  But  he 
is  dead !  Impossible !  —  how  can  he  be 
dead  ?  "  Then,  coming  nearer,  he  looked 
at  Edward,  and  turning  on  Wendell 
seized  him  by  the  arm,  saying  with  the 
strange,  hoarse  utterance  of  an  awful 
dread,  "What  was  it?  What  did  it? 
Was  the  medicine  right?  I  gave  him 
what  he  always  takes  !  Did  I  make  a 
mistake  ? r 

Wendell  saw  his  own  peril. 

"  Hush,  Arty,"  he  said ;  "  here  is  the 
bottle.  Look,  it  is  all  right.  '  No  one 
is  to  blame." 

Arthur  seized  the  vial,  and  strode  to 
the  window  ;  then  he  sunk  into  a  chair, 
exclaiming,  "  Thank  God  for  that,  at 
least !  I  was  afraid,  mother,  —  I  was 
afraid  I  had  made  some  mistake.  Oh, 
my  brother  ! ): 

"  There  has  been  no  mistake,"  said 
Wendell.  "  Take  your  mother  away, 
my  boy." 

Helen  Morton,  stern  and  tearless,  put 
her  hand  on  Arthur's  shoulder.  "  Help 
me  to  my  room,"  she  murmured ;  "  I  am 
faint ; "  but  as  she  passed  Wendell  she 
gathered  force  enough  to  say,  "  Thank 
you,"  and  went  out  like  one  who,  on  the 
crumbling  verge  of  some  abyss,  has  by 
a  desperate  effort  won  a  firmer  ground, 
but  who  now,  when  the  effort  is  over, 


1884.] 


In  War  Time. 


593 


feels  all  the  accumulation  of  the  horror 
which,  while  in  action,  it  was  impossible 
to  realize.  Full  well  she  knew  that 
Alice  and  Wendell  understood  what  had 
happened,  but  Arthur,  at  least,  did  not, 
and  come  what  might  he  must  never 
know. 

Alice  and  Wendell  were  left  with  the 
dead. 

"  Wait  one  moment,"  she  whispered, 
and  went  to  the  door,  where  the  anx- 
ious servants  were  collecting.  "  Go 
down-stairs,"  she  said,  addressing  them, 
"  and  let  Mrs.  Morton's  maid  go  to 
her  at  once.  I  shall  want  some  of  you 
presently.  I  will  ring.  Mr.  Edward  is 
dead.  It  is  some  heart  trouble,  I  be- 
lieve. Don't  make  a  noise." 

Alice  was  quiet  and  collected.  She 
had,  as  she  thought;  seen  through  the 
matter  only  too  clearly,  and  knew  at 
once  that  Arthur  must  have  made  a  mis- 
take, and  that  for  the  present  a  great 
calamity  had  been  averted.  Closing  the 
door  she  turned  to  Wendell. 

"  Oh,  Ezra ! '  she  said,  in  a  sup- 
pressed voice,  "  how  terrible !  I  don't 
mean  for  Edward,  —  God  has  been  kind 
to  him,  —  but  Arthur  and  Helen  !  Oh, 
Ezra,  what  shall  we  do  ?  I  wish  I  had 
not  known  it  all.  It  is  such  a  dreadful 
thing  to  know;  and  how  can  it  be  hid- 
den ?  How  can  it  ?  ' 

"  If,"  he  replied,  "  no  one  ever  speaks 
of  it  to  Arthur,  he  will  certainly  not 
suspect  anything.  I  — - 1  had  to  set  his 
mind  at  rest." 

"  Yes,  yes,  I  know,"  she  returned ; 
"  but  what  a  sad  necessity  ! ' 

She  knew  that  he  had  not  told  Arthur 
the  truth,  but  not  for  a  moment  did  she 
blame  him,  nor  could  she  dream  how 
black  the  lie  for  self  -  protection  had 
really  been. 

By  this  time  Wendell  had  regained 
full  possession  of  his  mental  powers. 
Many  strange  and  dreadful  possibilities 
went  through  his  mind.  He  saw  that 
he  was  safe  if  he  played  out  the  role 
which  hard  circumstance  had  arranged 

VOL.  LIV. — NO.  325.  38 


for  him,  and  which  he  had  seemed  to 
accept  as  a  means  of  saving  Arthur. 
There  are  men  —  and  how  many  let  each 
of  us  say  —  who  would  have  frankly 
taken  on  themselves  the  blame  of  Ed- 
ward's death.  Had  Wendell  done  so, 
he  would  have  drawn  to  himself  for  life 
the  woman  at  his  side.  Even  now  she 
was  thinking  of  the  immense  courage 
which,  from  her  estimate,  it  must  have 
taken  to  shelter  another  with  a  false- 
hood. Unfortunately,  Wendell's  in- 
stincts of  self-defense  betrayed  him,  as 
they  are  apt  to  betray  a  too  emotional 
and  too  imaginative  nature ;  and  when, 
later,  he  came  to  think  it  all  over  more 
calmly,  he  felt  that  were  his  true  share 
known,  Alice  would  shrink  from  him  in 
horror.  But  men  of  half-feminine  tem- 
perament rarely  understand  the  grand- 
eur of  sacrifice  of  which  women  are  ca- 
pable. There  are  women  who  can  love 
men  they  do  not  respect ;  but  there  are 
others  who  cannot  love  unless  they  also 
respect,  and  to  them,  when  once  their 
love  is  given,  the  path  of  some  difficult 
duty  is  no  less  the  path  to  their  larger 
love  than  it  is,  as  the  poet  has  sung,  the 
path  to  glory. 

Alice  had  said  that  what  he  had  done 
was  a  sad  necessity. 

"I  think,"  he  returned,  "that  you 
had  better  advise  Mrs.  Morton  never  to 
mention,  nor  discuss  with  Arthur,  the 
subject  of  his  brother's  death." 

"  But  you,  —  you  will  have  to  say  of 
what  he  died;  and  isn't  there  some 
form  ?  It  is  you  I  am  thinking  of. 
Won't  you  have  to  give  a  certificate 
about  the  cause  of  his  death?  Is  not 
that  usual  ? >: 

Strange  to  say,  Wendell  was  more 
disturbed  by  this  necessity  of  disobey- 
ing the  habitual  moral  code  of  his  pro- 
fession than  by  the  mere  fact  of  the  lie 

itself. 

"  Yes,  I  must  do  it,"  he  rejoined,  — 
"  I  must  do  it ;  there  is  no  help  for  it. 
And  what  a  sacrifice  ! " 

"  It  does  seem  more  than  should  be 


594 


Francesco,  to  Paolo. 


[November, 


asked  of  any  one,"  she  returned  sadly. 
"  How  can  you  do  it  ?  ' 

"  I  shall  simply  say  that  it  was  death 
from  paralysis  of  the  heart,  which  is 
true.  Can  you  see  anything  else  I  can 
do  ?  " 

"  I  cannot,"  she  replied ;  "  but  I  should 
rather  do  it  myself  than  have  you  do  it. 
I  would  rather  lie  than  have  you  lie," 
and  she  began  to  feel  a  gathering  horror 
at  this  discussion  by  the  side  of  the  mute 
form  before  them.  "  Do  what  you  think 
right.  God  sees,  and  he  alone  can 
judge !"  She  would  have  submitted  to 
any  torture  to  win  for  him  some  es- 
cape from  what,  as  she  grew  calmer,  all 
her  nature  increasingly  abhorred,  and 
abhorred  in  vain.  "  Let  us  go.  I  can- 
not talk  any  longer,  and  —  and  —  won't 
you  close  his  eyes,  Ezra  ?  " 

Wendell  bent  over  the  dead  man, 
troubled  deeply  by  his  own  capacity  to 
evolve  ideas  which  shook  him  emotion- 
ally. 

"  Now,"  he  thought,  —  "  now,  per- 
haps he  knows  all.  And  how  well  he 
loved  me  ! "  Twice  he  touched  the  open 
lids,  and  twice  drew  back.  At  last 
he  closed  them  softly.  "  And  does  he 
blame  me  ?  '  he  murmured. 

Then  Alice  kissed  the  dead  face,  and 
went  out,  followed  by  Wendell.  A  few 
minutes  later  she  came  out  of  Mrs.  Mor- 
ton's room. 

"Mrs.  Morton  wants  to  see  you  to- 
morrow, early,"  she  said.  "  You  have 
had  a  sore  trial,"  and,  standing  on  the 


step  above  him,  she  kissed  him,  and 
went  up-stairs  again.  Wendell  stayed 
a  moment  looking  after  her,  and  then 
turning  to  meet  Arthur,  said  a  few 
words  of  commonplace  consolation,  such 
as  people  are  apt  to  say  on  these  occa- 
sions. 

"  You  are  very  kind,"  rejoined  the 
young  man.  "  You  are  always  very 
kind.  Since  I  have  had  a  quiet  moment 
I  remember  that  you  pointed  out  to  me 
the  vial,  so  that  of  course  there  could 
not  be  any  mistake." 

Wendell  hesitated  a  moment. 
"  I  really  don't  remember.  I  sup- 
pose I  did.  Yes,  of  course  I  did.  But 
why  should  you  be  troubled  about  the 
medicine.  It  was  his  heart  disease  that 
killed  him.  It  had  nothing  to  do  with 
his  medicine.  That  was  all  right." 

He  might  yet  have  to  say  that  he  had 
thus  spoken  to  insure  Arthur's  peace  of 
mind. 

"  It 's  a  great  relief,"  said  the  latter, 
— "  a  greater  than  any  one  can  imag- 
ine." 

"  Well,  never  speak  of  it  to  your 
mother,"  rejoined  Wendell.  "  It 's  all 
right.  No  one  was  to  blame.  Best 
never  to  discuss  it  with  your  mother,  or 
any  one.  It  is  God's  doing."  Then  he 
had  a  sudden  horror  of  what  he  had 
said.  "  I  mean,"  he  added,  "  it  could  n't 
have  been  helped."  The  young  fellow 
wrung  his  hand  and  turned  sadly  away, 
as  the  doctor  went  slowly  and  thought- 
fully down  the  staircase. 

S.  Weir  Mitchell. 


FRANCESCA  TO  PAOLO. 

I  KNOW  the  spring  makes  merry  far  and  wide, 
And  birds  are  building  nests  with  songful  cheer, 

In  yon  green  world,  lovely  and  love-denied : 
Lo !    this  is  hell ;    but  thou  art  with  me  here. 

Julie  K.    Wetherill. 


1884.] 


Mistral's  Nerto. 


595 


MISTRAL'S   NERTO. 


AFTER  a  silence  of  more  than  ten 
years,  broken  only  by  the  publication, 
under  the  title  of  Lis  Isclo  d'Or,  of  a 
collection  of  fugitive  poems,  the  author 
of  Mireio  and  Calendau  has  given  to 
the  world  another  narrative  or  nouvello 
in  modern  Provengal  verse.  Nerto  is 
a  romantic  tale  of  the  fourteenth  cen- 
tury, founded  on  a  tradition  concerning 
the  mode  of  escape  of  the  last  Pope 
from  Avignon,  and  comprising  seven 
cantos,  a  prologue,  and  an  epilogue.  It 
bears  the  somewhat  sinister  motto  of 
Lou  Diable  porto  peiro  (Le  Diable  porte 
la  pierre)  ;  and  the  poet,  after  telling  us 
in  the  first  lines  of  his  prologue  that 
the  days  are  past  when  he  cared  for 
scaling  the  mountain-peaks  of  song  with 
girded  loins,  bare  breast,  and  flowing 
hair,  proceeds  to  offer  a  grave  and  co- 
gent argument  in  favor  of  the  obstinate 
persistence  and  undiminished  power  of 
diabolic  agency  in  this  world.  He  de- 
plores the  tendency  of  science,  "  falsely 
so-called,"  dangerously  to  weaken  this 
conservative  and  salutary  belief,  and  ex- 
horts to  constant  vigilance  and  gallant 
warfare  against  the  more  than  ever  in- 
sidious wiles  of  the  Evil  One.  Though 
he  speaks  of  Satan  with  homely  and  al- 
most jocose  familiarity  by  the  odd-look- 
ing Provencal  abbreviation  of  his  name, 
Cifer,  he  contrives  to  convey  a  strong 
impression  of  his  earnestness ;  and  it  is 
rather  a  relief  to  be  assured,  in  the  con- 
cluding lines  of  the  prologue,  that  the 
poet  considers  the  powers  of  good 
stronger,  upon  the  whole,  than  those  of 
evil.  Shaking  off  his  temporary  gloom, 
and  resuming  his  wonted  bonhomie,  he 
exclaims,  — 

"Raio,  souleu!     Sian  erne"  Didu! 
Dono,  aparas,  vosti  faudidu." 

("  Shine,  sun  !  We  are  on  God's  side  ! 
Now,  ladies,  hold  your  aprons ! ")  The 
ladies  thus  apostrophized  are  apparently 


the  select  seven  to  whom  he  dedicates 
the  seven  cantos  of  Nerto  respectively, 
the  prologue  having  been  previously 
inscribed  to  Madame  Mistral. 

The  description  of  the  ruined  castle 
of  Renard,  with  which  the  first  canto 
opens,  has  a  certain  quiet  charm  :  — 

Twin  turrets  of  chateau  Renard, 
Like  horned  beast  descried  afar, 
Surmount  the  bill.     Its  crenelate  wall 
And  gateways  lie  in  ruin  all ; 
And  here,  on  sunny  days  of  spring, 
Comes  the  white  phlox  to  blossoming; 
The  tufted  thyme  and  pellitory 
Replace  high  dames,  renowned  in  story, 
While  lizards  course  the  fallen  stone 
And  list  the  pines'  melodious  moan. 
So,  now  ;  but  once,  in  high  disdain, 
Yon  tower-crowned  burg  surveyed  the  plain 
For  many  a  mile,  and  haughtily 
The  'scutcheon  with  its  poignards  three 
Sustained  the  sun's  o'ermastering  blaze. 
Return  we  to  the  papal  days." 

Pons,  the  lord  of  the  castle,  lay  upon 
his  deathbed.  With  a  few  strokes,  — 
for  M.  Mistral,  once  so  artlessly  and 
charmingly  diffuse,  has  become  some- 
thing of  an  impressionist,  and  aims  ob- 
viously at  a  suggestive  brevity,  —  a 
picture  is  given  of  the  haggard  old 
baron,  as  he  lies,  with  clasped  hands 
and  eyes  fixed  upon  the  cano'py  of  his 
couch,  in  a  dim  chamber  richly  tapes- 
tried with  Cordovan  leather,  through 
whose  mullioned  window  the  light  of 
early  morning  falls  upon  the  gracious 
figure  of  his  only  child,  the  fair-haired 
Nerto,  or  Myrtle,  who  watches  him 
from  the  ruelle.  Through  the  same 
opening  comes  the  pitiful  whinnying  of 
the  baron's  charger  in  his  stall;  while 
far  down  the  hill  we  catch  a  glimpse 
of  the  Jew  leech  Mordecai,  who  has  just 
pronounced  the  seigneur's  doom;  he  is 
descending,  upon  his  mule,  the  steep 
pathway  which  leads  to  the  chateau. 

The  baron  has  a  last  confession  to 
make,  but  there  is  no  question  of  send- 
ing for  a  priest  to  hear  it,  for  he  has 


596 


Mistral's  Nerto. 


[November,. 


long  since  placed  himself  beyond  the 
reach  of  ecclesiastical  succor.  Thirteen 
years  before,  after  a  long  revel  in  the 
castle  of  a  neighboring  baron,  he  had 
had  a  run  of  most  disastrous  luck  at 
play :  — 

I  staked  and  lost  my  falcon  good, 

My  olive  orchards  and  my  stud  ; 

I  lost  my  Florence  mantle  red, 

The  jewels  of  thy  mother  dead ; 

I  lost  my  river-islands  all, 

The  noble  'scutcheon  from  my  wall, 

Whereof  the  field  three  poignards  bore, 

Nay,  even  the  locks  from  off  my  door. 

The  cross  of  baptism  on  my  brow 

And  shame  alone  were  left  me  now ! 

Enraged  by  these  multiplied  misfor- 
tunes, and  turning  with  a  sort  of  fren- 
zied revolt  from  the  thought  of  a  life  of 
poverty  and  dependence,  he  took  his 
way  over  the  mountains,  at  midnight, 
to  Chateau  Renard.  Fierce  temptations 
assailed  him.  If  he  could  but  meet  a 
merchant  with  full  money-bags,  how 
easy  to  leap  upon  and  dispatch  him ! 
His  daughter  would  then  be  the  child 
of  a  murderer.  Ah,  bah  !  his  daugh- 
ter !  The  devil  himself  might  have  her 
for  gold. 

This  is  well  known  to  be  the  sort  of 
invitation  which  M.  Mistral's  respected 
friend  never  declines.  Scarcely  had  the 
impious  words  passed  the  lips  of  Baron 
Pons,  when  he  was  confronted  by  a 
truly  original  apparition. 

The  shadow  of  a  great  cloud  lay 
On  all  the  land.    With  sudden  ray, 
Forth  of  its  mirk  the  moon  leapt  clear, 
And  in  the  uncanny  atmosphere 
I  saw  revolve  a  mighty  wheel, 
Whose  air-hung  circle  did  conceal 
Belike  a  hundred  rods  of  soil ; 
And,  bracing,  bending  to  the  toil 
Which  made  the  monstrous  engine  turn, 
With  eyes  that  burned  as  torches  burn, 
With  arms  a  mighty  helm  that  plied, 
A  hideous  Being  I  descried. 

"  They  have  stript  thee  like  a  beggar,  eh  ?" 
The  monster  spake  with  accent  gay ; 

"  So  goes  the  luck !     But,  friend  of  mine, 
A  fellow  with  eyes  as  sharp  as  thine 
Need  never  die  of  money  lost." 

And  ever,  as  his  jibe  he  tossed, 

At  his  old  well-wheel  ground  and  ground 

The  jester  dire,  till,  with  a  bound, 


Forth  of  its  bowels,  —  Holy  Blue ! 
A  torrent  of  gold  rushed  into  view, 
Kising  and  roaring  under  the  moon, 
With  many  a  sequin  and  doubloon. 
It  leaped,  it  boiled,  the  yellow  flood 
Put  sudden  fever  in  my  blood. 

The  time-honored  pact  was  then  pro- 
posed by  the  Being  at  the  wheel :  "  All 
these  things  will  I  give  thee,  and,  in 
fact,  an  unfailing  supply  of  the  same, 
for  thy  daughter's  white  soul,  to  be  de- 
livered at  the  end  of  thirteen  years ; " 
and  the  father  agreed.  Neither  here 
nor  elsewhere  is  the  guilt  of  Baron  Pons 
enlarged  upon.  He  died  and  went  to 
hell,  we  are  told  parenthetically,  and 
that  is  all.  The  poet  paints  vividly  the 
maiden's  horror  and  despair,  and  then, 
by  way  of  contrast,  gives  a  touching 
picture  of  the  bright  innocence  of  her 
early  days. 

Alas,  poor  little  chatelaine  ! 

Sh*e  had  been  queen  of  all  the  plain. 

The  peasant-folk  were  never  done 

With  lauding  her  graces  every  one. 

Full  oft  she  set  her  dainty  feet 

Within  their  doors,  and  who  so  sweet  ? 
"  God's  peace  be  here.    What  news  to-day  ? 

And  how 's  the  spinning,  Dame  Babet  ?  " 
"  Has  nobody  hired  thee,  Mother  Jane  ? 

Mine  for  the  lessive  then,  't  is  plain  !  " 

And,  "  Nan,  was  it  thou  didst  make  this  bread  ? 

How  good  it  is,  how  light!  "  she  said. 
"  And  when  does  little  Marthe  commune  ? 

I  shall  have  her  for  my  handmaid  soon, 

If  all  goes  well."     So  up  and  down 

The  narrow  street  of  the  tiny  town, 

With  fingers  white  that  ever  played 

About  her  purse-strings,  Nerto  strayed. 

"  The  sire,"  they  said,  "  is  a  were-wolf  rude, 
Who  careth  only  for  blows  and  blood, 
But  the  little  lady  with  golden  hair, 
Her  like  there  liveth  not  anywhere." 

A  somnolent  old  aunt,  Donna  Sibylla, 
was  her  nominal  duenna,  but  interfered 
little  with  the  guidance  of  Nerto's  own 
sweet  will.  The  gay  and  good  old  times, 
the  heyday  of  Troubadour  minstrelsy, 
were  nearly  a  century  gone  by ;  never- 
theless, Nerto's  studies  were  chiefly  in 
the  Breviari  d'Amor,  the  famous  com- 
pendium of  Ermengaut  of  Beziers  :  — 

Ah.  merry  book,  that  shed  its  verse 
Like  autumn  fruit.    It  did  rehearse 
Bird  of  the  air,  fish  of  the  sea, 
Beast  of  the  field,  and  potency 


1884.] 


Mistral's  Nerto. 


597 


Whereby  are  many  wonders  done 

With  flowering  plant  and  precious  stone, 

Sapphire  to  wit,  and  diamond 

That  wins  the  sword  from  the  wielder's  hand ; 

Also  the  pathway  of  St.  James  l 

Along  the  sky,  and  the  Zodiac's  names ; 

The  fiery  star  with  tresses  long, 

Echo  the  nymph  and  the  siren-song ; 

The  eight  great  winds  that  rule  the  deep, 

The  points  of  doctrine  all  must  keep ; 

Grandmother  Eve,  and  the  spouse  she  had, 

And  angels  good,  and  angels  bad, 

And  Paradise  with  joy  replete, 

And  tortures  ten  of  the  nether  pit. 

And,  furthermore,  the  Tree  of  Love 

Was  in  that  book,  whose  precepts  move 

To  fine  allure  and  courtesy 

Whatever  maid  of  high  degree 

Is  wooed  for  love.    In  fair  designs 

All  gold  and  blue  illuminate  shines 

The  vellum  page  with  flowers  bedight, 

And  these  were  Nerto's  dear  delight, 

The  pictured  people  most  of  all. 

So  when  she  saw  a  damsel  tall, 

Blonde-haired,  blue-eyed,  red-lipped  and  thin, 

Carrying  a  spray  of  jessamine, 

With  tender  couplet  writ  below,  — 
'"  That  is  myself  ;  is  it  not  so, 

Dear  aunt  V  "  she  cried ;  — and  drowsily 

Donna  Sibylla  made  reply,  — 
*'  The  maiden  hid  is  the  maiden  sought; 

That,  my  sweet,  is  the  posy's  thought,"  — 

And  fell  away  to  her  doze  again. 

Into  the  calm  of  this  bright  morning 
time  the  father's  ghastly  avowal  de- 
scends like  a  thunderbolt,  quenching  in 
an  instant  all  its  joy.  "  Is  there  no  hope, 
then  ?  "  gasps  the  poor  child  ;  and  slow- 
ly and  with  difficulty  the  Baron  gives 
the  result  of  his  midnight  wrestlings 
with  the  terror  of  his  sin,  and  proposes 
a  somewhat  startling  plan. 

For  five  years  now  the  so-called  Anti- 
Pope  Benedict  XIII.  has  been  besieged 
in  his  rock-reared  palace  at  Avignon, 
and  no  man  experienced  in  warfare, 
like  Baron  Pons,  can  doubt  that  the  cas- 
tle must  soon  fall.  There  is  already 
a  Boniface  at  Rome,  acknowledged  by 
France,  England,  and  Germany,  but 
Provence  and  the  greater  part  of  Spain 
are  still  devotedly  loyal  to  Benedict ; 
and  if  the  latter  can  but  effect  his  es- 

1  The  Milky  Way. 

2  M.  Mistral  himself  told  me  that  there  is  a 
tradition  in  the  neighborhood  of  Avignon  that 
Pietro  di  Luna,  otherwise  Benedict  XIII.,  escaped 
from  his  palace  by  an  underground  passage  con- 


cape  from  the  foredoomed  fortress  on 
the  Durance,  they  will  rally  at  once  un- 
der his  sacred  banner.  "  I  ought  to 
have  been  with  him  inside  those  walls," 
groans  the  father ;  "  but  it  is  now  too 
late  for  that,  and  for  all  things  except 
this  one  chance  for  thee.  There  ex- 
ists," he  goes  on  to  explain,  "  a  subter- 
ranean passage,  more  than  a  league  in 
length,  from  the  Avignonese  Vatican 
to  the  vaults  of  Chateau  Renard.  It 
passes  under  the  bed  of  the  Durance, 
and  was  constructed,  with  a  view  to 
supreme  emergencies,  shortly  after  the 
palace  was  built,  by  Pope  Clement,  with 
the  advice  and  assistance  of  *  Madame 
Jeanne.'  Only  the  pope  of  the  period 
and  the  actual  lord  of  the  manor  of 
Renard  were  ever  to  know  the  secret  of 
this  passage,  to  whose  entrance  and  exit 
each  of  these  personages  possesses  a 
key  bearing  the  papal  arms." 2  It  seems 
more  than  probable  to  Baron  Pons,  how- 
ever, that  the  present  Benedict  has 
never  so  much  as  heard  of  this  mode  of 
escape.  At  all  events,  he  now  commits 
the  key  to  Nerto's  keeping,  and  com- 
mands her  to  make  her  way,  with  her 
little  greyhound  Diane  for  a  guide, 
through  this  passage  to  the  palace  at 
Avignon,  to  see  the  Holy  Father  and 
offer  to  conduct  him  to  a  place  of  safety. 
In  return  for  such  a  service,  Benedict, 
with  his  power  over  the  destinies  of 
souls,  will  surely,  Baron  Pons  opines, 
consent  to  remit  the  innocent  Nerto's 
share  in  her  father's  terrible  forfeit. 
His  own  he  proposes  to  take  like  a 
man. 

"  Go !  "  says  the  baron  imperiously, 
"  the  castle  may  surrender  at  any  mo- 
ment! Do  not  stay  lingering  for  my 
latest  breath !  "  and  the  maiden  obeys. 

Canto  II.,  entitled  The  Pope,  opens 
with  a  brilliant  picture  of  the  stir  and 
splendor  of  Avignon  during  the  half 

necting  with  Chateau  Renard,  and  that  this  was 
the  sole  foundation,  whether  in  history  or  legend, 
for  the  story  of  Nerto.  The  ex-pope  died  in  1424, 
in  a  monastery  in  Spain. 


598 


Mistral's  Nerto. 


[November, 


century  in  which  it  was  illustrated  by  the 
presence  of  the  pontiffs.  Royal  visitors 
flocked  thither  ;  merchants  of  all  nations 
brought  their  richest  wares  and  trafficked 
in  its  streets ;  scores  of  lesser  palaces, 
for  the  residence  of  lords  and  cardinals, 
rose  up  and  encircled  the  papal  towers  ; 
the  trumpet-tones  of  the  mistral  blew 
wide  o'er  all  the  world  the  benediction 
of  its  sovereign  priest.  But  the  wave 
of  glory  fell  as  rapidly  as  it  had  risen. 
Schism  rent  the  church,  and  the  hosts 
of  the  faithful  were  divided.  Two  white- 
haired  cardinals  alone,  out  of  all  the 
sacred  college,  remained  faithful  to  Ben- 
edict, and  the  palace,  long  besieged  by 
a  French  army  under  Marechal  Bouci- 
caut,  was  already  falling  into  ruin.  The 
olive-groves  of  its  wonderful  hanging 
gardens  had  been  felled  and  used  for 
fuel  during  the  last  hard  winter ;  and  the 
garrison,  commanded  by  a  nephew  of 
the  Pope,  the  valiant  Roderic  of  Luna, 
was  reduced  to  the  very  last  extremity, 
while  Benedict  still  stoutly  refused  to 
consult  his  personal  safety  and  compro- 
mise his  claim  to  the  papacy  by  a  sur- 
render. 

Emerging  from  her  underground  wan- 
derings, Nerto  appeared  amid  the  sol- 
diers like  a  spirit,  causing  for  a  moment 
a  sort  of  superstitious  panic.  But  Don 
Roderic,  full  details  of  whose  vie  ora- 
geuse  in  former  days  at  Avignon  are 
given  with  great  spirit,  was  not  to  be 
daunted  by  anything  in  female  form. 
When  this  lovely  bit  of  prey  dropped 
like  a  frightened  robin  into  his  hands 
("  Figuras  vous  dono,  Ventrigo" —  "Fi- 
gurez  vous,  Mesdames,  Vintrigue"  —  in- 
terpolates the  poet  archly),  Roderic  was 
fully  equal  to  the  occasion,  and  «our- 
teously  inquired  the  maiden's  wishes. 
And  when  Nerto  answered  simply  that 
she  had  come  to  see  the  Pope,  the  count 
gallantly  kissed  her  finger-tips,  and  of- 
fered her  his  arm  to  conduct  her  into 
Benedict's  presence.  Through  court 
after  court,  and  along  interminable  gal- 
leries, round  about  and  up  and  down, 


they  make  the  immense  circuit  of  the 
palace  :  — 

And  all  the  opulent  ruin  see 

Of  that  luxurious  dynasty. 

Heaps  upon  heaps,  aye,  mines  were  there 

Of  silver  and  gold,  in  sacred  ware  ; 

A  treasure  of  precious  stones  gave  light 

As  of  the  star-set  heaven  at  night ; 

Chalcedony  and  sardonyx 

And  carbuncle  their  splendors  mix 

With  emerald  and  lapis-lazuli ; 

And  then  —  what  wealth  of  tapestry  ! 

What  wonder  of  banners,  reft  afar 

From  impious  Moors,  in  the  Holy  War, 

By  Christian  knights  !     And  ere  the  end 

Is  won  of  the  devious  way  they  wend, 

The  tale  of  the  hapless  maid  is  told,  — 

How  the  Devil  hath  bought  her  soul  for  gold. 

Roderic  undertakes  to  reassure  her, 
He  knows,  he  says,  a  sovereign  anti- 
dote for  the  malice  of  the  Demon,  and 
its  name  is  Love.  "  But  what  is  love  ?  ' 
inquires  the  little  maid  confidingly  ;  "I 
know  the  old  songs  and  romances  are 
all  about  it,  but  what  is  it,  and  how  is 
it  won  ?  "  "I  will  explain,"  says  Rod- 
eric ;  and  he  proceeds  to  do  so,  at  some- 
what too  great  and  ardent  length  for 
entire  quotation.  In  the  full  tide  of 
his  impassioned  eloquence,  however,  he 
is  suddenly  arrested.  At  the  angle  of  a 
corridor,  they  come  upon  a  great  cruci- 
fix surmounted  by  a  sculptured  tiara. 
Nerto  pauses  reverently,  crosses  herself, 
and  turns  to  her  instructor  :  — 

"Fair  sir,"  she  said,  "thy  precepts  vary 
From  those  of  my  dear  breviary 
Of  love,  whereof  each  leaf  is  gold; 
For  therein  surely  we  are  told 
That  love  should  be  without  a  stain, 
Like  the  first  Eden  come  again." 

Even  while  she  spake,  their  feet  they  stayed,  — 
The  grand  seigneur  and  guileless  maid,  — 
At  the  state-stairway's  topmost  height. 
Untold  degrees  of  marble  white 
Unroll  beneath ;  a  portal  vast 
Confronts,  where  Roderic  taps  in  haste 
And  no  more  lingers,  but  to  say, 
"  A  kindlier  answer  some  fair  da}r, 
Most  noble  maid,  I  hope  to  win  ; 
Pass  on  !     His  Holiness  is  within." 

All  trembling,  Nerto  enters  thus 
The  huge  hall  surnamed  Marvelous,  — 
Avignon's  wonder.     High  o'erhead 
The  groined  arches  leap,  and  spread 
Their  giant  limbs  about  the  ceiling, 


1884.] 


Mistral's  Nerto. 


599 


Full  many  a  pictured  space  revealing, 
Where  all  the  glory  of  Heaven  shines 
In  Master  Memmi's  hues  and  lines. 
All  things  in  that  stupendous  hall 
Revealed  the  seat  majestical 
Of  him  who  moved  earth's  Pontiff  yet  ;  — 
The  cross  in  each  tall  window  set, 
The  leagues  of  hill  and  plain,  descried 
Their  openings  through,  on  every  side. 

•  ••*••*» 

The  thirteenth  Benedict  kneeling  there 

At  his  prie-dieu,  as  if  in  prayer, 

With  sorrowful  gaze  fixt  far  away, 

Saw  haply  the  departing  day 

A  rosy  veil  aerial  throw 

O'er  great  Ventour's  attire  of  snow. 

An  aged  man  of  stately  height, 

With  sweeping  beard,  in  garments  white, 

Heavily-browed  and  hollow-eyed, 

And  wasted,  like  the  Crucified :  — 

Before  his  open  vision  come 

The  impending  woes  of  Christendom. 

He  sees,  as  from  the  height  of  heaven, 

The  Church  by  schism  rent,  and  driven 

Rudderless  through  a  raging  deep  ; 

He  hears  the  saintly  souls  who  weep ; 

He  hears  the  laughter  of  the  world 

Over  the  cross  —  anathemas  hurled 

By  warring  councils ;  yet,  intent 

Ever  on  that  great  sacrament 

That  sealed  him  Pontiff,  in  his  thought 

He  swears  anew  to  bate  no  jot. 

The  spirit-like  Nerto  interrupts  his 
reverie  as  she  had  before  interrupted 
the  ribaldry  of  the  garrison,  and  hur- 
riedly, yet  with  all  reverence,  explains 
her  father's  plan  for  his  escape.  What 
might  have  been  his  answer  is  uncertain, 
for  the  interview  is  interrupted  by  a 
new  and  terrible  clamor  arising  from 
below,  and  Don  Roderic  rushes  into  the 
hall  to  announce  that  all  is  lost,  —  the 
Greek  fire  of  the  besiegers  has  taken 
effect,  the  palace  is  burning  from  base  to 
battlement,  and  the  foe  is  already  within 
the  walls.  Whereupon,  — 

Plunging  his  look  in  infinite  space 
The  stricken  Pontiff  kneels  and  prays ; 
Till  calm  once  more,  and  undismayed, 
4  The  will  of  God  be  done  !  "  he  said. 
And,  as  a  tree  uprears  its  form 
After  the  onset  of  the  storm, 
The  monarch  of  earth's  wilderness 
Did  all  his  majesty  redress, 
And  to  the  altar  turned,  where  lay 
The  sacred  species  hidden  away, 
And  these  withdrew,  and  laid  them,  holden 
Within  a  reliquary  golden, 
Right  reverently  upon  his  heart ; 
So  did  the  strange  procession  part, 


The  noble  Sire,  the  maiden  guide, 
The  greyhound  leaping  still  beside. 

Down  the  long  stair,  now  soiled  with  red, 
Between  the  dying  and  the  dead 
They  pass  ;  they  win  the  great  court-yard  ; 
And  once  again  the  veteran  guard 
Close  round  their  lord,  and  yet  once  more 
They  kneel  his  blessing  to  implore. 
Full  many  a  stifled  sob  and  wail, 
Unheard  amid  the  roaring  gale, 
Brake  from  the  prostrate  folk  distressed, 
While,  with  his  God  upon  his  breast, 
Benedict  came,  and  passed  from  sight, 
Ascending  to  the  rampart's  height. 
Then  from  the  palace-pinnacle 
There  pealed  the  note  of  a  silver  bell, 
And  the  great  city  her  breath  did  draw 
Quick,  and  the  gunners  paused  in  awe, 
Waiting  some  portent ;  for  they  know 
The  silver  bell  sends  never  so 
From  that  high  tower  its  single  tone, 
Save  when  a  Pope  ascends  the  throne, 
Or,  haply,  when  death  calls  for  him. 

So  now,  upon  the  parapet  dim, 
Benedict  rises  yet  once  more, 
White,  rigid,  mitred  as  of  yore, 
While  all  Avignon  kneels  below, 
And  even  the  army  of  Boucicaut 
Lowers  the  standard,  bows  the  head. 
Then  were  the  mighty  arms  outspread 
Above  the  world  and  all  who  grieve, 
Above  the  remnant  who  believe ; 
And,  urbe  et  orbi  still  addressing, 
The  Pontiff  raised  his  voice  in  blessing :  — 
"  Benedicat  vos,  Dominus, 
Pater,  filius,  et  spiritus  ! ' 
Even  as  the  airy  tones  expire, 
Awestruck  before  those  towers  on  fire 
The  kneeling  multitude  on  the  plain 
Answer  with  bursting  sobs  "  Amen! ' 

And  long  within  that  lurid  light, 
Against  the  furious  wind  upright, 
Upright  on  the  Cathedral  Rock 
Pietro  stood  the  tempest-shock ; 
Then,  turning  with  a  face  of  woe, 
Let  fall  one  last  long  look  below 
The  Babylonian  gates  to  scan, 
Of  his  Avignon  Vatican. 
So,  muffled  in  his  falling  cope, 
Vanished  Avignon's  latest  Pope, 
Seeking  the  vaults  that  know  not  day, 
With  little  Nerto's  taper-ray 
Alone  to  guide  him,  as  the  sun 
Sinks  in  the  west  when  day  is  done. 

We  have  quoted  at  some  length  from 
M.  Mistral's  second  canto,  because  it 
seems  to  us,  upon  the  whole,  the  finest  in 
the  poem  ;  the  most  original  both  in  sub- 
ject and  treatment.  Canto  III.,  —  The 
King,  —  though  abounding  in  life,  mo- 


600 


Mistral's  Nerto. 


[November, 


tion,  and  picturesque  detail,  is  more  con- 
ventional. The  scene  opens  at  Chateau 
Renard,  which  became  the  rallying-point 
for  Benedict's  supporters,  as  soon  as  the 
news  got  abroad  of  his  escape  thither. 
Louis  II.  was  there,  —  the  young  Count 
of  Provence,  and  king  of  Fourcalquier, 
Naples,  and  Jerusalem,  for  such  was  the 
style  assumed  in  the  charters  of  that 
day,  —  and  with  him  a  general  con- 
course of  all  the  greater  nobles  of  the 
South,  as  well  as  his  affianced  bride, 
the  wealthy  Spanish  Princess  Yolande 
(or  Vioulando,  in  the  language  of  Pro- 
vence), under  an  escort  of  Spanish  gran- 
dees. It  had  been  decided  that  Bene- 
dict himself  should  marry  the  royal 
pair  in  the  ancient  church  of  St.  Tro- 
phimus  at  Aries,  and  great  festivities 
were  toward.  The  poet,  as  may  be  im- 
agined, revels  in  describing  the  splendor 
of  the  wedding-cortege,  and  the  naif 
comments  of  the  country-folk  as  it 
passes  by :  — 

All  in  the  dewy  morning  made 
Their  start  the  joyous  cavalcade, 
Long  following  where  the  trumpets  blow 
The  melody  of  "  Belle  Margot." 
Aubado  sang  the  nightingales ; 
The  bursting  buds  in  grassy  dales 
Breathed  perfume ;  flag  and  streamer  fair 
Fluttered  along  the  early  air ; 
Shivered  the  silken  banners  through 
Their  lily-bordered  fields  of  blue, 
Or,  undulate  in  red  and  gold, 
The  hues  of  Aragon  unrolled, 
Sun-kindled,  with  the  breeze  at  play. 
Durant l  clomb  fast,  as  people  say, 
Untangling,  as  he  rose,  his  braid 
Of  fire-spun  tresses,  till  he  made 
Vanish  the  gleaming  dew-pearls,  worn 
By  fair-haired  dames  in  earlier  morn. 

On  either  side  of  the  Pope  ride  the 
bride  and  bridegroom  of  the  morrow,  — 
Louis  and  Yolande.  The  former,  full  of 
exultant  happiness,  sets  forth  a  fine  pro- 
gramme of  the  Italian  conquests  to  which 
he  means  to  turn  his  attention  as  soon 
as  his  marriage  is  consummated,  and  by 
virtue  of  which  he  expects  to  reinstate 
Benedict  in  Rome.  The  air  is  merry 

1  A  sobriquet  bestowed  by  the  Provencal  peas- 
ants upon  the  sun,  because  he  regulates  the  dura- 
tion of  the  day. 


with  the  tinkling  laughter  of  ladies  and 
the  gallant  choruses  of  their  cavaliers. 
They  hunt  larks  with  their  falcons,  they 
indulge  in  all  manner  of  brilliant  fool- 
ing; only  one  maiden,  and  she  not  the 
least  fair  among  them,  rides  quietly  and 
with  a  heavy  heart,  feeling  herself  cruel- 
ly separate  from  all  this  gladsome  world. 
As  soon  as  they  were  safe  in  Chateau 
Renard,  Nerto  had  sought  another  au- 
dience with  the  Pope,  told  him  the  sad 
remainder  of  her  history,  and  asked  him 
to  release  her  soul  in  return  for  the 
service  which  she  had  done  him.  But 
Benedict  had  answered  sadly  that  his 
jurisdiction  did  not  extend  beyond  Pur- 
gatory, and  that  he  could  assist  her  only 
by  his  prayers.  He  had  then  solemnly 
enjoined  upon  her  to  make  her  own  life 
one  of  expiation  in  the  Benedictine  con- 
vent of  Sainte  Cesaire  at  Aries,  which 
she  was  to  enter  as  soon  as  the  royal 
marriage  was  over,  and  where  he  could 
at  least  dispense  her  from  the  necessity 
of  a  novitiate,  so  that  she  might  take 
her  vows  without  delay.  The  state  and 
splendor  of  the  wedding  journey  were 
not  calculated  to  render  obedience  easier 
to  poor  Nerto ;  still,  no  thought  of  re- 
sistance would  ever  have  entered  her 
meek  and  child-like  soul,  had  the  same 
not  been  suggested  by  a  dangerous  coun- 
selor. Don  Roderic  had  made  the  first 
use  of  his  own  freedom  —  for  Boucicaut 
had  raised  the  siege  of  Avignon  as 
soon  as  he  heard  of  the  Pontiff's  escape 
—  to  rally  with  the  Provencal  nobles 
to  the  standard  of  his  uncle.  He  had 
overtaken  the  cavalcade  upon  the  march, 
presented  himself  at  Nerto's  side,  to  her 
great  amazement,  and  was  proceeding 
to  trouble  her  sorrowful  spirit  yet  far- 
ther, by  using  his  most  plausible  argu- 
ments to  dissuade  her  from  her  pious 
purpose :  — 

"  Thou  reasonest,  Nerto,  like  a  saint, 
But  surely  we  are  made  acquaint, 
By -what  these  nightingales  would  say, 
With  the  true  rapture  of  the  May ! 
'T  is  to  exult,  as  now  they  do, 
Free  on  the  air,  beneath  the  blue ! 


1884.] 


Mistral's  Nerto. 


601 


Ah,  unto  one  like  me,"  he  said, 
"  Shut  five  long  years  in  fortress  dread, 
And  heart-sick  with  the  din  of  war, 
How  good  to  be,  as  now  we  are, 
Alive,  abroad !     Look  everywhere :  — 
To  grazing  flocks,  how  light  the  care 
Of  guardian  swain,  who  none  the  less 
Capers  to  each  young  shepherdess ; 
The  ploughman  whistles  loud  and  sweet 
Along  the  furrow;  where  the  wheat 
Is  green,  their  toil  the  weeders  ply 
With  laughter,  jest,  and  piercing  cry ; 
In  narrow  ways,  the  muleteer 
Sets  ail  his  mule-bells  jingling  clear; 
In  flowery  meads  the  busy  mower, 
The  fisher  basking  on  the  shore, 
The  maiden  in  her  farmstead,  and 
The  huntsman  sweeping  o'er  the  land,  — 
All  come  and  go,  with  action  rife ; 
In  all  ferments  the  wine  of  life ! 
Ah,  do  but  listen  and  attend 
The  crepitation  without  end, 
The  gentle  buzz  and  murmur  borne 
From  whispering  reed  and  growing  corn, 
The  tinkle  of  the  waterfall 
Where  sport  the  little  fishes  all,  — 
Oh,  earth  's  aglow !  her  pulse  goes  fast ! 
Under  the  bark  the  sap  makes  haste 
To  mount ;  each  blossom  holds  apart 
A  drop  of  honey  in  its  heart; 
Seeds  germinate,  and  suckers  leap, 
And  opening  buds  their  beauty  steep 
In  the  great  sun-bath,  with  no  trace 
Of  death  in  all  their  jubilant  ways ! 
Nay,  even  they  whose  eyes  abide 
The  sun,  —  the  monarch  and  his  bride,  — 
Conduct,  meseems,  in  humor  gay, 
Love's  triumph  on  this  radiant  day ! 

"  Come  then,  we  too,  to  nature's  fete, 
We,  too,  whose  nostrils  titillate, 
Smit  by  the  blended  odors  keen 
Of  sloe,  and  thorn,  and  aubepine." 

And  so  on  to  more  impassioned  and 
specific  invitation,  until  the  agitated 
Nerto  ventures  timidly  to  interrupt  her 
bold  wooer. 

"  Nay,  rather,  Roderic,  let  us  be 

Like  skylarks  bold,  for  they,"  said  she, 
"  Fly  straight  to  heaven.     Yon  swallow's  wing 

Grazed  us  but  now,  and  'tis  a  thing 

Brings  always  luck ;  for  only  list ! 

The  words  he  sings  are,  Jesus  Christ !  " 

All  this  is  very  like  portions  of  Ca- 
lendau,  but  if  the  sensuous  rapture  of 
the  earlier  poem  is  never  quite  attained, 
Nerto  is  a  worthier  sister  of  Mireio, 
and  a  far  more  human  and  credible  cre- 
ation than  the  weird  enthusiast  Esterello. 
The  unequal  debate  of  the  now  acknowl- 


edged lovers  is  interrupted  by  the  arrival 
of  a  deputation  of  the  citizens  of  Aries, 
who  propose  to  open  their  city  gates  to 
the  King  and  the  Pope,  provided  the  for- 
mer will  agree  to  respect  those  ancient 
liberties  which  Aries  has  so  long  main- 
tained under  her  Lion-standard.  Louis 
makes  gracious  promises,  and  the  daz- 
zling procession  enters  the  town,  horses 
neighing,  banners  waving,  armor  flash- 
ing. The  celebration  of  the  royal  mar- 
riage is  to  be  suitably  followed  by  a 
great  show,  in  the  arena,  of  a  fight 
between  four  wild  bulls  from  the  Ca- 
marque  and  the  typical  beast  of  the 
Arlesian  republic,  —  the  live  lion,  al- 
ways maintained  in  the  city  at  the  pub- 
lic expense,  and  unchained  only  upon 
occasions  of  supreme  importance  and 
solemnity. 

The  Lion  accordingly  gives  its  name 
to  the  fourth  canto,  which  opens  in  the 
goodly  hostelry  of  Master  Bertrand 
Boisset,  the  veritable  author  of  a  Pro- 
vengal  chronicle,  covering  the  years  be- 
tween 1376  and  1404.  The  outside  of 
this  famous  tavern  is  dazzling  with 
quick-lime,  and  all  the  vessels  and  cook- 
ing implements  displayed  in  the  huge 
kitchen,  described  with  Dutch  fidelity, 
are  spick  and  span,  and  polished  till 
they  shine  like  mirrors.  Here  the  ver- 
satile Bertrand,  who  is  also  a  land  sur- 
veyor and  a  man  of  letters,  as  well  as 
a  publican,  —  and  has  been  chosen  to 
present  to  the  king,  after  the  games  in 
the  amphitheatre,  the  address  of  the 
senate  of  Aries,  —  entertains  a  large  au- 
dience of  his  humbler  townsfolk  with  a 
minute  description  of  the  splendors  of 
the  wedding  ceremony  which  he  has 
just  witnessed  at  St.  Trophimus.  He 
dwells  with  great  zest  on  the  personal 
charms  of  the  youthful  pair,  and  the 
gorgeous  costumes  of  knights,  ladies, 
and  ecclesiastics,  interrupting  his  own 
narrative  from  time  to  time  by  a  com- 
placent aside :  — 

"  Basto !  ero  quancaren  de  ben 
Lou  marcarai  au  cartaben." 


602 


Mistral's  Nerto. 


[November, 


("  In  fact  it  was  altogether  fine  !  I  shall 
set  it  down  in  my  note-book !  ") 

He   next   proceeds    to    describe    the 
wedding  gifts :  — 

"  And  then,  — what  I  had  nigh  forgot,  — 
Such  offerings  made !     I  'm  jesting  not,  — 
For  Aries  bestowed  upon  the  pair 
A  dozen  cups  of  silver-ware, 
Marseilles,  a  little  ship  of  gold, 
The  city  of  Apt  gave  sweets  untold, 
And  Aix,  a  chest  phenomenal, 
And  Tarascon,  a  copy  in  small 
Of  its  own  flag.     Fourcalquier 
Three  loaves  of  wax,  —  three  mounds,  I  say !  — 
And  Avignon,  a  fair  trousseau. 
Lastly,  the  crown  of  all  the  show, 
An  embassy  of  the  Three  Estates, 
Before  the  royal  bridegroom  waits, 
To  pour,  like  berries  in  the  lap, 
A  hundred  thousand  crowns,  mayhap, 
In  tinkling  coin!  —  Pass  me  the  claret! 
This  thirst,  —  I  can  no  longer  bear  it! " 

And,  thrusting  aside  somewhat  loftily 
the  admiring  gossips  who  besiege  his 
door,  Master  Bertrand  makes  his  way 
to  the  scene  of  his  public  and  ceremonial 
duties.  No  need  to  say  that  M.  Mistral 
gives  a  glowing  picture  of  the  circling 
spectators,  or  that  he  describes  with 
power  and  gusto  the  conflict  of  the 
beasts  in  the  amphitheatre.  One  by 
one  the  formidable  bulls  of  the  salt 
marshes  succumb  before  the  greater  fury 
of  the  unchained  lion,  but  not  without 
inflicting  grievous  wounds  upon  the  lat- 
ter. We  pass  to  the  catastrophe  of  the 
occasion.  Left  in  sole  possession  of 
the  arena,  but  dripping  with  gore,  and 
partially  disemboweled,  the  so-called 
"  king  "  of  Aries  pauses  for  one  breath- 
less instant,  and  then  — 

with  instinct  keen 
He  sniffs  a  rival  on  the  scene, 
Aye,  and  a  worthy.     With  one  spring 
He  turns  on  the  usurping  king. 
The  crowned  beside  the  newly  wed, 
Unguarded  in  that  instant  dread, 
Sat  moveless,  with  unquailing  eye 
Fixing  the  beast  defiantly, 
While  at  the  queen's  feet,  overpowered 
With  terror,  little  Nerto  cowered. 
Rapidly  upward,  four  by  four, 
The  amphitheatre  benches  o'er 
Clomb  the  fell  monster,  till  the  blast 
Of  his  hot  breath  upon  them  past, 
But  lo !  where  swirled  the  folk  bereft 
Of  sense,  Roderic  of  Luna  cleft 
His  way,  as  lightning  falls,  and  brake 


His  dagger  in  the  lion's  neck ! 

Drooped  the  dire  snout,  and  swam  the  brain 

Of  the  fierce  beast,  — who  tumbled  slain. 

Then  from  the  coronal  of  her  hair, 
Yolande  the  queen,  Yolande  the  fair, 
Gathered,  for  guerdon  of  the  brave, 
A  ruby,  and  to  Roderic  gave  ; 
And  Nerto,  as  her  senses  woke, 
Heard  the  wild  plaudits  of  the  folk,  — 

"  The  king  is  dead !    Long  live  the  king !  " 
Only  the  old  men,  sorrowing, 
Said  to  themselves,  "A  bitter  sign ! 
Farewell  to  Trophimus'  bark  divine ! 
The  Lion  dies,  the  Dolphin  lives, 
The  commonwealth  its  doom  receives!  " 
But  none  the  less  the  maids  and  boys 
Their  tambourines  beat  with  merry  noise, 
And  little  King  Louis  turned  the  while 
And  murmured  with  triumphant  smile 
Before  the  seneschal  George  de  Marie, 

"  Now  am  I  truly  King  of  Aries !  " 

This  agitating  scene  was,  of  course, 
little  calculated  to  calm  Nerto's  rebel- 
lious pulses  and  reconcile  her  to  the 
tremendous  sacrifice  of  the  morrow. 
Through  all  the  fevered  night  which  in- 
tervened between  the  royal  bridal  and 
her  own  solemn  espousals  to  Heaven, 
she  sees  only  the  figure  of  Roderic  in 
the  stately  guise  of  her  deliverer  from  a 
dreadful  death,  —  "  in  an  orange  doub- 
let, black-shod,  with  tall  plumes  upon  his 
helmet,  like  the  Archangel  Michael." 
One  moment  she  bids  him  in  her  heart 
an  impassioned  farewell ;  the  next,  he 
passes  before  her  like  a  vision  far  away, 
shining  in  the  splendor  of  his  high  deeds, 
but  with  a  dagger  always  in  his  heart, 
—  a  dagger  from  her  own  three-bladed 
escutcheon  of  Chateau  Renard. 

Spent  with  spiritual  conflict,  she  half 
consoles  herself  at  last  with  the  thought 
that  her  days  in  the  convent  may  at 
least  be  spent  in  prayer  for  Roderic ; 
and  so  the  night  passes,  and  the  fifth 
canto,  entitled  The  Nun,  opens  with 
dawn,  to  the  ringing  of  convent  bells. 

Very  onomatopoeically  they  are  made 
to  ring  in  the  verse  of  the  felebre,  with 
plaintive  musical  changes  on  balalan, 
balalin,  and  balalon,  which  it  would  be 
hopeless  to  attempt  reproducing  by  our 
sturdy  English  ding-dong.  Trembling 
like  a  leaf  before  the  gale,  Nerto  essays 


1884.] 


Mistral's  Nerto. 


603 


her  meditation  in  the  chapel,  while  the 
long-robed  sisters  come  and  go,  and  the 
cage  is  made  ready  for  the  hapless  bird : 

The  convent  corridors  along, 

Surged  hither  and  yon  a  pious  throng, 

For  Mother  Abbess  and  her  maids 

To-day  have  well-nigh  lost  their  heads, 

Because  the  Pontiff  and  the  King 

And  Queen,  with  all  their  following, 

Are  coming,  —  the  cross  before  them  borne,  — 

In  grand  procession  on  this  morn, 

To  see  assume  her  veil  and  vows 

That  daughter  of  a  noble  house, 

Fair  Nerto,  of  Chateau  Renard. 

Lo,  on  the  instant,  here  they  are. 
Wide  fly  the  ancient  convent  gates, 
And  the  glad  sunshine  penetrates 
Victoriously  both  parlor  and  grille, 
Following  the  courtly  people,  till 
Through  all  the  pallid  halls  it  flows. 
With  folded  palms,  in  double  rows, 
Kneel  the  still  nuns,  as  they  assemble, 
Eyes  meekly  bent,  and  hearts  a-tremble, 
To  hear  the  wailing  viol-strain, 
Voicing  at  once  the  parting  pain 
And  joy  of  the  God-given  maid. 
But  little  Nerto,  in  the  shade, 
Weeps  wildly  still,  while  Queen  Yolande 
And  Louis  the  King  her  sponsors  stand, 
While  one  by  one  the  candles  flare, 
While  two  by  two  the  nuns  repair, 
To  close  her  from  the  world  apart. 
Aye,  death  is  at  the  maiden's  heart, 
Who  listens  the  decree  to  hear 
Of  her  unending  penance  drear. 

That  decree  is  pronounced  by  Bene- 
dict in  person,  before  whom  the  stately 
abbess,  Dame  Barrale,  bows  until  her 
forehead  touches  the  ground.  Then 
follows  the  Aspersion.  Incense  rises, 
and  the  chanting  of  psalms  proceeds, 
while  the  soft  hands  of  Nerto's  holy  at- 
tendants remove  one  by  one  the  articles 
of  her  worldly  attire.  But  when  she 
feels  the  icy  touch  of  the  shears  upon 
her  neck,  she  cries  aloud,  praying  that 
her  beautiful  tresses  may  at  least  be 
hung  up  in  the  chapel  of  Sainte  Cesaire, 
as  an  offering  above  the  altar  of  her 
own  patroness,  the  Virgin  Mother. 

"  Oh  farewell,  springtime !  and  farewell, 

Fair  curls  of  gold  I  loved  too  well, 

And  in  my  sixteen  summers'  pride 

So  all  exultingly  untied 

And  combed  them  in  the  gold  of  morn 

And  bound  them  like  a  sheaf  of  corn  ! 

Ah,  if  I  kiss  my  curls,"  —  wept  she, 
"The  Blessed  Virgin  will  pardon  me  ! 


Curls  of  a  lamb  too  early  fleeced, 
No  more  by  sunshine  to  be  kissed, 
To  float  upon  the  breeze  no  more 
With  quivering  rings,  and  'broidered  o'er 
Their  silly  silk  with  mountain  flowers  ! 
'T  is  childish,  but  the  thought  o'erpowers 
And  breaks  my  heart !     Leave  me  alone 
To  weep  one  moment  !     Now,  't  is  done  ! 
Now,  tie  with  weights  the  fluttering  wing 
Of  the  Provencal  lark  !  and  sing, 
Sing,  happy  birds,  o'er  field  and  hill, 
Nor  ever  heed  her  silent  trill  ! 
My  merry  mates,  leave  not  for  me 
The  violet  and  the  strawberry 
Ungathered,  where  the  bright  Kdal 
Slips  o'er  its  pebbles  musical ! 
My  little  greyhound,  who  didst  come 
With  me  to  Aries,  —  an  early  doom 
Is  thine,  for  thou  mayhap  wilt  die 
Of  sorrow  and  pining,  long  ere  I, 
Smothered  in  cloister-glooms  and  wed 
To  the  sad  crucifix  instead, 
Attain  the  death  for  which  I  wait,  — 
Ah,  pity  my  distressful  fate  !  " 

If  this  piercing  lament  was  really  ar^ 
ticulate,  it  was  drowned  in  the  rolling 
bass  of  the  organ,  and  the  awesome  rite 
proceeded  to  its  close.  The  queen  kissed 
her  tenderly  and  presented  her  with 
an  exquisite  Livre  d'Heures,  with  gold 
fleur-de-lys  on  the  cover,  and  dainty  il- 
luminations from  the  master-hand  of 
Brother  Beranger  of  Mont-Majour,  and 
the  court  folk  went  their  way,  murmur- 
ing that  it  was  the  will  of  God,  no 
doubt,  but  that  it  was  really  a  pity  to 
see  so  young  and  beautiful  a  creature  in 
the  Benedictine  dress. 

Simultaneously,  however,  at  the  sign 
of  the  Sword,  —  the  hostelry  of  a  little 
village  on  the  plain  below  the  convent, 
—  the  "  diaUe  a  quatre  "  was  presiding 
over  the  revelries  of  sundry  red-capped 
and  knife-girt  Catalan  ruffians,  hired  by 
Roderic  of  Luna  to  be  ready  at  curfew 
for  whatever  service  he  might  choose  to 
impose  on  them.  The  hour  strikes,  the 
tavern-lights  are  extinguished,  and  the 
band,  armed  with  hatchets  and  scaling- 
ladders,  creep  noiselessly  under  the  walls 
of  Sainte-Cesaire,  which  form  on  one 
side  a  part  of  the  boundary  of  that 
most  ancient  cemetery  of  Aries,  —  the 
Aliscamp,  or  Elysii  Campi :  — 

Now  was  the  hour  when  the  nuns  break 

Their  slumber,  and  arise,  and  take 


604 


Mistral's  Nerto. 


[November, 


Into  the  shadowy  church  their  way, 
Where  by  the  lamps'  uncertain  ray, 
Each  one  within  her  dusky  stall, 
Thej'-  chant  the  midnight  office  all, 
And,  heav3r-eyed  with  slumber,  there 
Perform  their  allotted  task  of  prayer. — 
God  !     What  is  this  ?     With  sudden  shock 
The  doors  are  smit,  the  doors  are  broke  :  — 
'T  is  Roderic  !  that  warrior  bold 
Become  a  spoiler  of  the  fold ; 
And  "  'Ware  the  wolf !  "  his  accents  boom ; 

"  Who  calls  the  Devil  ?    He  is  come  !  " 
Close  on  his  heels,  his  band  accurst 
Into  the  sacred  shadow  burst, 
Red-beretted,  with  elf-locks  brown, 
And  mantles  o'er  their  shoulders  thrown. 
By  holy  Maximus,  I  swear 
The  sudden  trance  of  horror  there 
Was  as  if  earth  had  yawned,  and  shown 
The  dead  folk  in  their  sleep  of  stone  ! 
The  fascinate  nuns,  like  turtle-doves 
When  the  fierce  hawk  above  them  moves, 
Wait  ;  but  the  eye  of  Roderic 
Hath  fallen  on  her  he  came  to  seek  ; 
And  with  one  leap  he  gains  the  altar. 

<(0h  help  us  Thou,  good  Lord!  "  'gan  falter 
The4  Abbess  with  upraised  eyes  ;  —  but  he, 
Thrusting  her  off  disdainfully, 
Gathers  the  half  inanimate  child 
And  flies,  —  yet  flying  murmurs  mild 

"  'T  is  only  I !  "  —and,  at  the  door,  — 

"  Fear  nothing,  darling,  any  more  !  " 

If  you  had  seen  what  ensued  in  the 
church,  remarks  the  poet  dryly,  you 
would  know  why  the  devil  is  sometimes 
called  Catalan.  The  townspeople  were 
promptly  alarmed,  however,  and  hurried 
to  avenge  the  outrage,  so  that  before 
Roderic  had  cleared  the  Aliscamp  with 
his  prize,  he  heard  the  tumult  of  a 
general  fray  behind  him,  and  was  fain 
to  deposit  Nerto  under  the  tomb  of  Ro- 
land, —  for  the  hero  of  Roncevalles  is 
buried  there,  —  while  he  returned  to 
rally  and  bring  off  his  band.  And  then 
we  have  a  picture  of  that  immemorial 
home  of  the  dead,  which  is  one  of  the 
most  impressive  in  the  poem  :  — 

Far  below  Aries  in  those  old  days 

Spread  that  miraculous  burial-place,  — 

The  Aliscamp  of  history, 

With  legend  fraught,  and  mystery, 

All  full  of  tombs  and  chapels  thrust, 

And  hilly  with  heaps  of  human  dust. 

This  is  the  legend  ever  told  :  — 

When  good  St.  Trophimus  of  old 

The  ground  would  consecrate,  not  one 

Of  all  the  congregation 

Of  fathers  met,  so  meek  they  were, 


Dared  sprinkle  the  holy  water  there. 
Then,  ringed  about  with  cloud  and  flam  . 
Of  angels,  out  of  heaven  came 
Our  Lord  himself  to  bless  the  spot, 
And  left,  —  if  the  tale  erreth  not,  — 
The  impress  of  his  bended  knee 
Rock-graven.     Howso  this  may  be, 
Full  oft  a  swarm  of  angels  white 
Bends  hither,  on  a  tranquil  night, 
Singing  celestial  harmonies. 
Wherefore  the  spot  so  holy  is, 
No  man  would  slumber  otherwhere  ; 
But  hither  kings  and  priests  repair, 
And  here,  earth's  poor,  —  and  every  one 
Hath  here  his  deep-wrought  funeral-stone 
Or  pinch  of  dust  from  Palestine ; 
The  powers  of  hell  in  vain  combine 
'Gainst  happy  folk  in  slumber  found 
Under  the  cross,  in  that  old  ground. 
And  all  along  the  river  clear, 
With  silver  laid  upon  the  bier 
For  burial  fees,  men  launched  and  sped 
Upon  the  wave  their  kinsfolk  dead 
Who  longed  in  Aliscamp  to  lie; 
Then,  as  the  coffins  floated  by, 
Balancing  on  the  waters  bright, 
All  sailors  turned  them  at  the  sight, 
And  helped  the  little  skiffs  ashore, 
And  signed  the  cross  the  sleepers  o'er, 
And,  kneeling  under  the  willow-trees, 
Piously  prayed  for  their  souls'  peace. 

Roused  from  her  half-swoon  by  the 
din  of  ungodly  conflict  among  the  graves, 
Nerto  returned  to  a  terrified  conscious- 
ness of  what  had  befallen  her.  Stung 
by  shame  and  anguish,  she  then  con- 
trived to  slip  away  between  the  tombs 
and  chapels  and  make  her  escape  into 
the  open  country,  so  that  when  Roderic, 
having  beaten  off  his  assailants  with  no 
little  bloodshed,  returned  to  the  tomb  of 
Roland,  it  was  to  find  his  precious  prey 
no  longer  there. 

In  Canto  VI., —The  Angel,  — M. 
Mistral  recurs  to  the  style  of  the  legende 
pieuse,  in  which,  as  the  readers  of  Mirieo 
may  remember,  he  has  frequently  made 
experiments.  One  of  these,  —  the  tale 
of  the  sinless  shepherd  among  the  moun- 
tains, who  had  forgotten  even  his  pray- 
ers, he  had  been  so  long  in  the  desert, 
and  who  had  no  worse  crime  to  reveal 
to  the  holy  recluse  who  confessed  him 
at  the  last  than  that  of  having  once 
thrown  a  stone  at  a  bird,  —  was  pecul- 
iarly happy.  It  had  all  the  artlessness 
and  verity,  the  exquisite  form  and  per- 


1884.] 


Mistral's  Nerto. 


605 


fume,  of  one  of  the  Fioretti  of  St.  Fran- 
cis. We  have  a  suspicion  that  it  was 
a  favorite  with  the  author  himself,  and 
may  have  suggested  to  him  the  idea  of 
amplifying  a  similar  conception  into  the 
tale  of  the  solitary  with  whom  Nerto 
found  refuge.  If  so,  we  must  express 
our  preference  for  the  earlier  and  more 
na'if  story,  although  there  is  no  little 
heauty  of  detail  in  the  later  one. 

Nerto,  then,  flies  to  the  hills,  and, 
after  wandering  all  night,  is  led,  in 
the  early  morning,  by  the  tinkling  of  a 
small  bell,  to  a  tiny  church  and  hermit- 
age buried  among  deep  woods,  whence 
a  white-bearded  recluse  comes  forth  to 
greet  her.  To  this  holy  man  she  does 
not  hesitate  to  tell  her  whole  sorrowful 
story,  which  he  hears  with  unfeigned 
interest  and  sympathy.  He  gives  her 
food,  he  bids  her  rest,  and  after  that, 
they  sit  side  by  side  under  the  trees  for 
nearly  the  whole  of  the  long  summer 
morning,  and  have  much  edifying  and 
sweet  discourse  together.  The  hermit 
dwells  at  length  on  the  happiness  of  all 
God's  little  creatures  with  whom  he  had 
become  familiar  in  the  wild,  and  when 
poor  Nerto  passionately  calls  his  atten- 
tion to  the  difference  between  their  lots 
and  hers,  he  is  moved  to  so  keen  a  com- 
passion, that  he  confides  to  her  the  great 
and  solemn  secret  of  his  life  in  the  wil- 
derness, whereby  he  is  not  without  hope 
of  finding  a  remedy  even  for  her  pite- 
ous case :  — 

'These  white-stemmed   trees,   these    boughs  of 

thorn 

So  beauteously  above  us  borne, 
Are  holy  to  St.  Gabriel  ;  — 
A  dove-cote,  where  he  maketh  dwell 
Marvelous,  pure  visions  of  himself. 
The  chapel  upon  yon  rocky  shelf, 
Mid  lavender  set,  and  grasses  tall, 
The  title  bears,  majestical, 
Of  him  who  hailed  in  other  days 
Our  Blessed  Lady  full  of  grace. 
Look,  where  he  smiles  in  marble  o'er 
The  carven  lintel  of  the  door  ! 
Thereon  are  storied  all  his  deeds. 
Daniel  the  prophet  here  he  feeds, 
And  yonder  draggeth  by  the  hair 
The  prophet  Habakkuk.    How  they  glare 
Upon  the  saint,  those  lions  twain  ! 


Ah,  glorious  Gabriel,  not  in  vain 
Our  fathers,  in  the  time  gone  by, 
Set  thee  to  guard  eternally 
The  gates  of  that  great  mountain- world 
Which  gleams  above  us,  dew-impearled, 
While  in  St.  Michael's  tutelage 
Our  sires  of  the  departed  age 
Placed  all  the  lesser  hills  below. 
Their  gleaming  blades,  associate  so, 
An  arch  o'er  all  the  heavens  extend 
And  guard  the  land  from  end  to  end. 

% 

"  The  years  are  long,  my  poor,  dear  child, 
That  I  have  tarried  in  this  wild  ; 
And  sure  my  pillow  of  stone  is  rough  ; 
But,  never,  never  so  enough 
So  fast  doth  ripen  folly's  fruit 
When  one  lives  isolate  and  mute  ! 
I  bound  myself  to  Christ,  and  he 
Returned  the  slave  his  liberty. 
I  shut  me  in  the  leafy  shade, 
A  vow  to  holy  Gabriel  made, 
And  now,  for  fifty  summers  bright, 
I  am  the  archangel's  anchorite. 

"Who  gives  himself,  thrice  blessed  is  he, 
For  Heaven  restores  abundantly  ! 
Who  dips  in  heaven's  unsounded  tide 
Shall  ever  more  be  satisfied  ! 
Once  then,  at  Yule,  —  a  bitter  day, 
Weather  for  wolves,  as  people  say,  — 
No  food  had  I  ;  all  had  been  given,  — 
(If  this  be  pride,  forgive  me  Heaven 
For  saying  so  !)  —  I  had  made  dole, 
To  a  poor  beggar,  of  the  whole  ; 
When  lo,  toward  midday,  I  discerned 
A  red  rose-light  aloft  that  burned, 
A  light  like  the  reflection  cast 
From  some  great  fire  ;  I  rose  and  passed 
And  rang  my  angelus  bell,  and  clomb 
The  mountain-path,  in  hope  to  come 
Where  I  might  see  this  meteor  plain ; 
But  ere  the  summit  I  could  gain 
There  dawned  out  of  the  deepening  light 
A  most  serene,  resplendent  sight ;  — 
Himself,  —  the  Archangel  !    Human  speech 
His  gracious  aspect  may  not  reach ; 
His  smile  fell  on  the  heart  like  balm  ; 
And  in  a  voice  of  golden  calm, 

'  Who  prays,  must  also  eat,'  he  said  ; 

'  See,  I  have  brought  thee  angels'  bread  ! 
And  may  our  Lord,  and  may  his  power, 
Be  ever  with  thee  from  this  hour  !  '  — 
So  vanished  like  a  star  ;  but  aye 
At  noon,  since  then,  he  draweth  nigh 
Each  blessed  day,  and  leaveth  here 
A  basket  of  celestial  cheer. 
Oh  bread  of  God  !     Oh  favor  sweet  ! 
I  am  unfit,  unfit,  unfit !  " 

It  is,  however,  to  his  heavenly  visitant 
that  the  hermit  proposes  to  refer  Nerto's 
cruel  case,  and  both  are  full  of  hope 
that  Gabriel  may  devise  some  way  to 
save  her.  At  midday,  therefore,  leaving 


606 


Mistral's  Nerto. 


the  maid  in  earnest  prayer  below,  the 
hermit  makes  his  customary  ascent,  and 
awaits  his  daily  vision.  How  dazzling, 
yet  how  dreamy,  is  the  picture  of  the 
summer  noon !  — 

All  through  the  still,  unclouded  day 
The  midges  waltz  their  idle  way, 
The  thyme  and  rosemary  outpour, 
From  fairy  bells,  a  honied  store 
To  win  the  wanton  butterfly; 
And  the  slim  lizards  basking  lie 
Upon  the  pebbles,  drunk  with  heat, 
While  sunward  mounts  a  perfume  sweet 
And  sacred,  as  of  incense-smoke ; 
The  spells  of  the  mirage  evoke 
Afar  the  outlines  of  the  land, 
And  hill  and  plain  uplifted  stand; 
Yet  on  the  mountain's  outmost  spur 
The  cowled  saint  and  worshiper 
Stands  tranced,  and  sees  not  any  more 
The  things  of  earth  ;  but,  hovering  o'er, 
Breaks  on  his  wakeful  spirit's  ken 
A  shape  unseen  by  other  men  ;  — 
Two  long  white  wings  extended  clear 
In  the  translucent  atmosphere, 
Quivering  as  canvas  pinions  do 
Of  ships,  and  melting  in  the  blue. 

The  Angel  spake:    "  And  who  is  she, 
The  so  young  sister  whom  I  see 
In  prayer  below  ?  "     With  bended  head, 
"A  poor,  afflicted  maiden,"  said 
The  hermit,  "  who  my  promise  hath 
To  save  her  from  the  Demon's  wrath." 

As  when  o'er  water,  bright  as  glass 

The  shadow  of  a  swift  cloud  doth  pass, 

So  darkened  Gabriel's  aspect  clear. 
"Handful  of  dust  !  "  he  spoke  severe, 
"  Shut  alway  in  thy  desert  lone, 

How  knowest  that  thou  hast  held  thy  own 

Against  the  master  of  all  deceit  ? 

Barely  thou  savest  thyself  !    And  yet 

Thou  wilt  save  others  !    Feeble  reed  ! 

Ah,  pitiable  and  poor  indeed  !  "  — 

And  the  strong  spirit  starward  shook 

His  pinions,  and  the  earth  forsook. 

There  was  possibly  no  other  course 
for  the  anchorite,  after  receiving  this 
terrible  rebuff,  but  to  scurry  away  to 
poor  Nerto,  bewailing  his  mistake  and 
beseeching  her  to  depart  from  him  ;  still, 
there  is  an  effect  of  Idchete  about  such 
a  proceeding  which  lowers  him  hope- 
lessly in  the  reader's  estimation.  In 
response  to  Nerto's  piteous  inquiry, 
where  she  can  now  take  refuge,  he 
directs  her  to  the  village  of  Laurado  on 
the  plain  below,  where  he  advises  her  to 


[November, 


"  ask  hospitality,"  and,  on  the  strength 
of  what  she  may  receive,  to  make  her 
way  to  a  shrine  of  the  Madonna  hard 
by,  Nosto  Damo  di  Casten  (Our  Lady 
of  the  Castle),  and  present  her  petition 
there.  Then,  after  naming  a  long  list 
of  saints,  whose  invisible  company  he 
hopes  she  may  have  upon  her  travels, 
he  allows  her  to  depart. 

This  brings  us  to  the  seventh  and  last 
canto,  which  bears  the  ominous  title  of 
Lon  Diable.  It  opens  with  the  wrath 
of  Roderic,  who,  when  he  finds  that 
Nerto  has  escaped  him,  invokes  the 
Evil  One,  if  ever  he  (Roderic)  has  done 
him  good  service  in  bygone  days,  to  as- 
sist him  to  recapture  her,  and  give  her 
wholly  into  his  power.  Cifer  responds 
promptly  that  he  can  well  do  so,  for 
the  thirteen  years  of  Baron  Pens'  im- 
pious compact  are  exactly  expired,  and 
on  the  ensuing  night  the  child's  soul 
will  inevitably  fall  into  his  hand.  More- 
over, he  adds  that  she  is  now  aban- 
doned and  astray  in  the  neighborhood 
of  Laurado,  the  hamlet  to  which  the 
solitary  had  directed  her  ;  wherefore 
he  proposes  presently  to  produce  an 
enchanted  palace  in  that  region  (un 
castalet  tout  alesti  —  un  petit  chateau 
meuble),  with  distinct  apartments  for 
each  of  the  seven  deadly  sins,  whither 
Roderic,  having  found  Nerto,  shall  con- 
duct her,  and  the  rest,  under  the  Devil's 
immediate  auspices,  will  be  easily  ar- 
ranged. We  are  then  told  how  it  was 
that  Roderic,  a  man  of  generous  nature, 
and  the  son  of  an  honorable  and  pious 
line,  came  to  be  on  such  intimate  terms 
with  the  master  of  all  ill. 

In  the  Avignonese  Vatican  there  was, 
necessarily,  a  vast  collection  of  heretical 
literature,  and  Roderic  had  whiled  away 
the  tedious  months  of  the  siege  by  rum- 
maging amongst  it,  very  much  to  his 
soul's  detriment. 

There  was  forbidden  fruit  in  store  ! 
Mysterious  parchments,  occult  lore, 
The  vain  imaginings  of  that  pair 
The  Greater  and  Lesser  Albert.    There 
The  theses  doomed  of  heresy, 


1884.] 


Mistral's  Nerto, 


607 


Tomes  of  black-art  and  sorcery,  — 

Such  as  Agrippa's.     Books  that  tell 

The  rules  for  philter  and  for  spell, 

Talmud  and  Cabala,  and  the  Niere 

Of  witch-world,  and  its  Sabbath  dire, 

Philosopher's  stone,  and  Solomon's  key, 

And  Hermes  upon  alchemy. 

All  lying  systems,  man-devised, 

All  blasphemies  anathematized, 

The  arsenal  of  that  Ancient  One 

The  lord  of  evil,  lying  prone 

Before  the  victorious  crucifix. 

For  as  the  waters  of  earth  all  mix 

In  mother  ocean,  flows  again 

To  mother-church  all  lore  of  men. 

Unhallowed  studies  such  as  these  had 
gradually  corrupted  Roderic's  mind,  and 
left  him  small  power  of  resistance  to 
the  wiles  of  Cifer,  who  on  his  part  con- 
sidered a  pope's  nephew,  or  even  an 
anti-pope's,  worthy  an  extraordinary  ex- 
ercise of  his  power.  The  palace,  there- 
fore, which  he  reared  in  a  night,  to  be 
the  theatre  of  Nerto's  fall,  was  of  mar- 
velous if  bizarre  magnificence :  — 

Nigh  unto  Gabriel's  holy  wood 

The  sudden-conjured  castle  stood. 

A  green  peninsula  in  the  waste 

Around  Laurado  saw  amazed 

The  vision  of  its  fantastic  towers, 

Conceived  in  other  form  than  ours, 

Or  than  the  Goth's,  — but  likening  more 

The  heathen  Moor's,  — all  diapered  o'er 

With  tiles  of  gold,  and  tiles  of  jet, 

And  crimson  tiles,  in  order  set ; 

With  airy  arches,  linked  as  if 

By  drapery  of  the  clover-leaf, 

While  virevolte  and  arabesque  fair 

Ran  dazzling  riot  everywhere. 

Like  writhing  serpents  when  they  rear, 

The  slender,  twisted  shafts  appear  ; 

A  mazy  dance  of  devils  small 

Encircles  every  capital ; 

From  carven  angles,  dragon-wise 

The  gargoyles  leap,  —  and  minarets  rise 

O'srtopped  by  Islam's  crescent-sign 

Goring  with  horns  the  blue  divine. 

Moreover,  ever}'-  wall  displayed 

A  cunning  Moorish  frieze,  inlaid 

With  barbarous  characters  that  writ 

A  mystic  meaning  over  it. 

And  o'er  the  topmost  magic  tower, 

Rude-wrought  with  foliage  and  flower 

In  bronze  and  gold,  and  gleaming  down 

O'er  leagues  of  land,  there  hung  a  crown,  — 

Each  leaf,  a  mask  right  horrible,  — 

A  very  cauldron-lid  of  hell  ! 

Below  are  labyrinthine  glades, 

With  zigzag  paths  among  the  shades  ; 

But  whosoever  treads  the  same 

Is  lost.     He  hears  an  evil  name 


Whispered  about  the  boskage,  —  sees 
Funeral  plants  and  tortured  trees, 
And  flowers  unknown  whose  odor  dense 
Mounts  cloud-like,  dulling  all  the  sense. 

Inducted  into  the  possession  of  this 
ill-omened  pleasure-house,  Roderic  roams 
for  a  while  about  the  seven  great  halls, 
respectively  dedicated  to  the  indulgence 
of  Pride,  Envy,  Avarice,  Gluttony, 
Luxury,  Rage,  and  Sloth,  all  of  whose 
appurtenances  are  fully  and  vividly  de- 
scribed. He  had  half  hoped  to  find 
Nerto  within,  but  the  place  is  empty, 
and  a  feeling  of  languor  and  disgust 
creeps  over  him,  which  drives  him  forth 
again,  to  watch  outside  in  the  falling 
twilight  for  her  coming.  He  has  not 
long  to  wait :  — 

Flying  the  forest's  deepening  shade, 

Fear  at  her  heart,  the  little  maid 

Crept  by  the  border  of  the  fen. 

The  lily  of  Hades,  leaping  then 

Forth  of  the  ooze,  her  greenery  spread 

Silently  o'er  the  waters  dead, 

And  her  great  blossoms  did  unfold 

As  moonlight,  —  colorless  and  cold. 

Through  tangled  marrish  grasses  there 

Struggled  the  typhas  to  upbear 

Their  brimming  cups  ;  —  but  she,  the  child, 

Whither  to  turn,  in  such  a  wild  '? 

Suddenly,  all  ablaze  with  light, 

The  castle  breaks  upon  her  sight ; 

And,  as  the  mirror  lures  the  lark, 

Or  the  moth  seeks  the  candle-spark, 

Thither  she  flies.     From  windows  wide 

Pours  o'er  the  dark  a  luminous  tide 

Sparkling  with  wavelets  green  and  red  ; 

And,  from  the  roof-tree  overhead, 

Changing,  and  pulsing  bubble-wise, 

A  fire-dome  swells  into  the  skies." 

The  momentary  relief  and  rapture  of 
Nerto,  when  Roderic  comes  forth  from 
this  strange  house  to  welcome  her,  as- 
sures her  that  it  is  his  house  for  the 
time  being,  and  draws  her  in,  is  followed 
by  a  corresponding  revulsion  of  horror 
when  the  truth  dawns  upon  her,  and  she 
realizes  that  on  this  fatal  night,  of  all 
others,  she  has  been  lured  into  a  strong- 
hold of  her  infernal  foe.  Gathering 
courage  from  despair,  she  firmly  resists 
her  lover's  impassioned  solicitations,  and 
when  the  Enemy  himself  rises  between 
them,  triumphantly  claiming  her  father's 
forfeit,  she  exhorts  Roderic  to  give  him 


608 


Mistral's  Nerto. 


[November, 


battle  while  she  prays.  They  can  but 
die  together,  she  says,  and  it  may  be 
that  for  a  sinless  love  no  place  will  be 
found  in  hell.  Thus  inspired,  Roderic 
lifts  his  cross-hilted  sword,  and  a  terrific 
conflict  ensues,  closed  by  a  shock  of 
whirlwind  and  the  falling  of  a  thunder- 
bolt which  entirely  consumes  both  castle 
and  combatants,  leaving  only  what  may 
still  be  seen  there,  —  the  image  of  a 
praying  nun  in  stone. 

The  epilogue  of  the  poem  remains, 
in  which  we  are  invited  to  return  to  the 
cell  of  the  discomfited  anchorite.  It  is 
satisfactory  to  know  that  he  had  received 
no  angel-visits  since  the  day  when,  in 
selfish  panic  lest  he  should  lose  the  labor 
of  years  for  the  safety  of  his  own  soul, 
he  had  driven  poor  little  Nerto  from 
his  door.  The  fourth  morning  finds  him 
plunged  in  deepest  dejection,  as  well  as 
nearly  famished  through  the  failure  of 
his  angelic  supplies  ;  nevertheless  he 
makes  shift  to  climb  the  mountain  as 
usual,  and  there  the  accustomed  vision 
is  once  more  vouchsafed.  The  pros- 
trate reverence  of  the  hermit  is  indul- 
gently received  by  the  archangel,  who 
relates,  for  the  benefit  of  the  trembling 
saint,  the  blessed  denoument  of  Nerto's 
history.  In  brief,  the  faith  and  con- 
stancy of  the  nun,  combined  with  the 
desperate  valor  of  the  knight  in  that 
final  encounter,  had  sufficed  to  rout  the 
demon,  and  for  three  days  now  there 
had  been  feasts  and  rejoicing  in  Para- 
dise over  the  final  rescue  and  mystical 
union  of  the  lovers.  "  Glory  to  God  ! " 
sings  the  hermit  generously,  and  with 
the  promptitude  of  a  class-leader,  "  but 
now  tell  me  truly,  most  glorious  patron, 
why  did  you  repulse  me  so  cruelly  three 
days  ago  ?  '  and  the  archangel  is  abso- 
lutely obliged  to  explain  to  this  obtuse 
penitent  that  he  needed  a  lesson  in  hu- 
mility !  After  this,  and  very  graceful- 
ly, the  poet  closes  and  dedicates  his  ro- 
mance in  his  proper  person  — 

If  haply  some  day,  reader  bland, 

Thou  voyagest  through  St.  Gabriel's  land, 


Caring  for  aught  that  might  avail 
To  prove  the  truth  of  this  my  tale, 
There  in  the  levels  fair  with  corn 
Thou  shalt  behold  my  nun  forlorn, 
Bearing  upon  her  marble  brow 
Lucifer's  lightning  mark.     But  now, 
Mute  as  a  milestone.    All  these  years 
The  murmur  of  budding  life  she  hears  ; 
And  the  white  snails  for  coolness  hide 
Her  rigid  vesture-folds  inside, 
Mint-perfumed ;  while  about  her  feet 
The  shadow  turns,  the  seasons  fleet, 
And  everything  beneath  the  sun 
Changes,  except  the  lonely  nun. 
Mute,  said  I  ?    Nay,  the  whisper  goes 
That  here,  when  high  midsummer  glows, 
There  breathes,  at  noon,  a  dulcet  tone. 
Lay  then  thine  ear  against  the  stone, 
And,  if  thou  hearest  aught  at  all, 
'T  will  be  the  hymn  angelical. 

St.  Gabriel  hath,  not  far  away, 

An  ancient,  small  basilica  ; 

Sorrowful,  as  it  would  appear, 

Because  for  now  so  many  a  year 

No  Christian  footstep  thither  goes, 

But  there  the  guardian  olive  grows, 

And,  in  the  archivolt  of  the  door, 

St.  Gabriel,  —  kneeling  as  of  yore,  — 

Says  Ave  to  Our  Lady,  while 

The  snaky  author  of  all  guile, 

Twining  around  the  knowledge-tree, 

Lures  from  their  primal  innocency 

Adam  and  Eve.    A  silent  place : 

The  careless  hind  upon  his  ways 

Mayhap  salutes  the  Queen  Divine, 

But  sets  no  candle  at  her  shrine. 

Only  the  blessed  plants  of  God, 

Among  the  courtyard  stones  untrod, 

In  fissures  of  the  massy  wall, 

Between  the  roof-tiles,  over  all, 

Take  root  and  beauteously  bloom, 

And  in  the  heat  their  wild  perfume 

Rises  like  altar-incense.     There 

God's  tiny  living  creatures  fare  ; 

Flutter  the  chickens  of  St.  John  ; 

Butterflies  light  and  waver  on  ; 

Among  the  grass-blades,  mute  and  lean 

The  mantis  kneels  ;  the  rifts  between 

Of  the  high  roof-ridge,  hides  the  bee 

His  honey-hoard  right  busily  ; 

Neath  gauzy  wings,  the  livelong  day 

The  innocent  cicalas  play 

One  only  silver  tune ;  —  and  these 

Are  as  the  parish  families 

Who  throng  the  door,  and  tread  the  choir 

Evermore  gilt  by  sunshine.    Higher 

In  window-niches,  with  the  wind 

For  organ-bass,  the  sparrows  find 

Their  place,  and  emulously  swell 

The  laudo  of  that  good  Gabriel 

Who  saves  them  from  the  hawk.    And  I, 

Maillano's  minstrel,  passing  by 

Thy  widowed  church  this  very  day, 

Did  enter  in,  and  softly  lay,  — 

0  Gabriel  of  Tarascon  !  — 


1884.] 


Mistral's  Nerto. 


609 


Upon  thy  altar  this  my  song  : 
A  simple  tale,  new  come  to  light, 
And  only  with  thy  glory  bright. 

It  is  perhaps  fortunate  that  the  ex- 
igencies of  the  new  Prove^al  poetry 
do  not  demand  an  argument  as  the  in- 
dispensable adjunct  of  a  narrative  poem  ; 
for  it  might  be  a  little  difficult  clearly 
to  define  the  moral  position  and  bear- 
ing upon  the  action  of  the  tale  of  Bene- 
dict, or  Cifer,  or  the  hermit,  or  even 
the  angelic  patron  himself.  That  a  love 
with  so  very  large  and  frank  an  ad- 
mixture of  earth  as  that  of  Roderic  and 
Nerto  should  be  a  more  powerful  anti- 
dote to  the  venom  of  original  evil  than 
word  of  pope,  or  prayer  of  saint,  or 
even  the  intervention  of  one  of  the 
highest  officers  of  the  celestial  hierar- 
chy, cannot  surely  be  the  lesson  which  a 
believer  of  M.  Mistral's  earnestly  pro- 
fessed orthodoxy  intended  to  convey. 
Yet  this  appears  to  be  the  gist  of  the 
poem,  and  we  know  —  on  the  authority 
of  its  altogether  serious  and  sententious 
prologue  —  that  it  lay  very  much  upon 
his  heart,  whether  primarily  or  as  an 
after-thought,  to  render  the  story  of 
Nerto  instructive  as  well  as  entertain- 
ing. Can  it  be  that  the  prologue  is  by 
way  of  an  apology  ? 

But  why  tease  a  poet,  even  a  pro- 
fessedly pious  one,  for  a  specific  moral  ? 
Nerto  has  no  pretension  to  rank  with  a 
great  Satanic  epic  like  Paradise  Lost, 
nor  with  a  great  Satanic  allegory  like 
Faust.  It  even  suffers  a  little,  we  think, 
by  comparison  with  a  natural,  straight- 
forward story  of  superstition  and  sor- 
row, like  Jasmin's  Franc,onette.  But  the 
old  sweetnesss  ir  here,  a  good  deal  of 
the  old  richness  in  rusticity,  the  old  mo- 
bility and  variety,  almost,  occasionally, 
the  old  elan.  If  the  idea  more  than  once 
recurs  that  the  note  of  naivete  has  been 
pressed  until  the  string  has  become  a 
little  worn  and  the  vibrations  thin,  there 
are  still  many  passages  in  every  canto 
of  Nerto  whose  inspiration  is  drawn 
from  none  of  the  literatures  with  which 

VOL.  LIV.  —  NO.  325.  39 


the  reading  world  is  familiar,  if  from 
any  literature  at  all.  The  poem  has 
been  warmly  received  in  Paris.  The 
critic  who  first  likened  it  to  an  illumi- 
nated missal  had  perhaps  unconsciously 
in  mind  one  of  that  new  variety  which 
M.  Renan  proposes  to  compile ;  yet  the 
poem  does  resemble  an  illumination  — 
and  one  of  the  best  days  of  that  art  — 
in  the  soft  brightness  of  its  coloring,  the 
beauty  of  its  bird  and  flower  decoration, 
and  the  childish  yet  graphic  drawing  of 
its  figures,  no  less  than  in  the  artless 
and  abrupt  succession  of  its  incidents, 
and  in  a  certain  lack  of  perspective  and 
of  atmosphere. 

To  the  form  of  the  verse,  —  though 
managed/  it  is  needless  to  say,  by  M. 
Mistral  with  the  ease  of  a  master  in 
rhyme,  —  we  have  not  been  able  fully 
to  reconcile  ourselves.  The  short  step 
of  what,  in  the  absence  of  a  more  pre- 
cise term,  we  must  call  the  iambic 
tetrameter,  that  octosyllabic  measure 
adopted  by  Chaucer  from  the  old  ro- 
mances of  chivalry  and  formed  by  him, 
illustrated  by  Milton,  abused  by  Butler, 
revived  by  Byron  and  re-polished  by 
William  Morris,  is,  in  spite  of  old  Pro- 
vengal  precedent,  far  better  suited  to 
the  manly  genius  of  our  own  language 
than  to  the  slipshod  grace  of  the  modern 
Provencal.  We  miss  the  long  undulat- 
ing lines  and  affluent  double  and  triple 
endings  of  the  verse  of  Mireio  and  Ca- 
lendau.  The  double  ending,  as  employed 
in  Nerto,  seems  even  to  entangle  and 
impede  the  forward  movement  of  the 
phrase,  as  the  gait  may  be  impeded  by 
a  too  full  drapery ;  and  it  is  a  sore  trial 
to  the  translator,  who,  in  essaying  to 
turn  the  thought  into  a  language  so 
much  poorer  than  the  original  in  femi- 
nine rhymes  and  fluent  polysyllables,  is 
almost  compelled,  in  some  instances,  to 
fill  out  the  verse  by  a  multiplication  of 
epithets. 

The  wealth  of  the  poet's  vocabulary, 
as  displayed  both  in  the  Provensal  nar- 
rative and  in  his  own  parallel  French 


610  The  Embryo  of  a  Commonwealth.  [November, 

version,  remains  a  wonder  and  a  despair,  and  curious  French  words.  They  say 
French  men  of  letters  are  the  foremost  that  he  baffles  their  best  philologists  at 
to  admire  M.  Mistral's  inexhaustible  times,  and  taxes  the  resources  of  M.  Lit- 
store  and  ingenious  employment  of  rare  tre  himself. 

Harriet  Waters  Preston. 


THE   EMBRYO    OF   A   COMMONWEALTH. 


THAT  the  governments  and  laws  of 
nations,  to  be  permanent,  must  result 
from  long  years  of  steady  growth  is 
among  the  most  impressive  of  the  les- 
sons of  history.  Ready-made  constitu- 
tions, revolutionary  empires  and  repub- 
lics alike,  perish  as  suddenly  as  they 
arise.  They  cannot  withstand  the  strain 
of  faction  or  the  shock  of  war.  Noth- 
ing reaches  great  age  that  rushes  quick- 
ly to  maturity. 

To  this  general  law,  however,  there 
is  apparently  an  exception.  The  Amer- 
ican people  are  not  unusually  credit- 
ed with  having  suddenly  invented  the 
written  constitution.  And  certainly  the 
rapid  conception  and  adoption  of  this 
idea  in  the  last  century,  and  the  stabil- 
ity which  the  governments  then  founded 
have  since  shown,  may  well  seem  an 
anomaly  in  history.  Yet  such  can  hard- 
ly be  the  fact,  for  Americans  are  sub- 
ject to  the  same  general  laws  that  regu- 
late the  rest  of  mankind  ;  and  accord- 
ingly, in  point  of  fact,  it  will  appear  on 
investigation  that  they  have  worked  out 
their  destiny  slowly  and  painfully,  as 
others  have  before  them;  and  that,  far 
from  cutting  the  knot  of  their  difficulties 
by  a  stroke  of  inventive  genius,  they 
earned  their  success  by  clinging  tena- 
ciously to  what  they  had.  Their  polit- 
ical genius  did  not  lie  in  sudden  inspira- 
tion, but  in  the  conservative  and  at  the 
same  time  flexible  habit  of  mind  which 
enabled  them  to  adapt  the  institutions 
they  had  known  and  tested  as  colonists 
to  their  new  position  as  an  independent 
people.  The  germ  of  the  written  con- 


stitution is  very  ancient,  and  appears  to 
have  existed  at  the  dawn  of  English 
history ;  and  the  process  by  which  this 
germ  has  developed,  with  the  lapse  of 
ages,  into  the  organic  law  of  the  Amer- 
ican republics  is  a  most  curious  and  in- 
teresting example  of  the  growth  of  po- 
litical and  legal  conceptions. 

The  Middle  Ages  were  times  of  vio- 
lence. Speaking  generally,  oppression 
was  the  accepted  condition  of  society, 
and  no  man  not  noble  had  the  right  in 
theory  or  the  power  in  practice  to  do 
anything  he  might  want  to  do,  without 
the  consent  of  his  feudal  superior.  When 
such  a  state  of  things  exists,  the  only 
hope  for  the  weak  is  to  combine ;  and  so 
it  has  resulted  that  pretty  much  all  the 
early  triumphs  of  freedom  have  been 
won  by  combinations  of  commons  against 
some  noble,  or  by  combinations  of  nobles 
against  a  king. 

For  the  peasantry,  indeed,  such  com- 
bination has  always  been  difficult ;  but 
it  was  easy  for  the  burghers  of  the  towns 
who  were  harassed  by  the  neighboring 
barons,  and  from  the  outset  they  seem 
instinctively  to  have  united  for  their 
common  defense,  and  thus  was  born  the 
mediaeval  guild. 

Generally  there  are  but  two  ways  in 
which  men  can  get  from  others  anything 
of  value.  They  can  fight  for  it,  or  they 
can  buy  it.  Apparently  the  ancient 
townsmen  were  not  commonly  strong 
enough  to  take  what  they  wanted  by 
force,  though,  to  do  them  justice,  they 
not  infrequently  tried  the  experiment, 
so  they  usually  resorted  to  purchase ; 


1884.] 


The  Embryo  of  a  Commonwealth. 


611 


they  agreed  with  their  lord  upon  a  price 
which  they  were  to  pay  for  a  privilege, 
and  in  return  for  their  money  received 
a  grant,  which,  because  it  was  written, 
was  called  a  charter. 

The  following  charter  of  the  Mer- 
chants' Guild  of  Leicester  is  very  early, 
and,  of  course,  in  very  simple  form.  Yet 
it  is  interesting,  for  it  shows  that  the 
corporation  of  Leicester  existed  at  the 
Conquest,  and  must  have  held  property 
in  succession,  made  contracts,  and  been 
liable  to  suit,  through  two  reigns.  It 
presupposes  that  there  could  be  no 
doubt  as  to  the  customs  of  the  town, 
which  are  therefore  not  enumerated. 

"  Robert,  Earl  of  Mellent,  to  Ralph, 
and  all  his  barons,  French  and  English,  of 
all  his  land  in  England,  greeting.  Know 
ye,  that  I  have  granted  to  my  merchants 
of  Leicester  their  Guild  Merchant,  with 
all  customs  which  they  held  in  the  time 
of  King  William,  of  King  William  his 
son,  and  now  hold  in  the  time  of  Henry 
the  King.  Witness 

"  R.  THE  SON  OF  ALCITIL." 

Such  was  the  ancient  charter.  The 
corporate  existence  was  recognized,  and 
that  was  all.  But,  necessarily,  the  early 
like  the  modern  corporation  must  have 
had  succession,  the  power  to  sue  and  be 
sued,  to  make  contracts,  and  to  hold 
property.  These  functions  were  always 
exercised  as  a  matter  of  course.  It  was 
not  till  after  several  centuries  that  law- 
yers learned,  by  observing  these  cus- 
tomary companies,  what  powers  were 
necessary  for  every  such  association. 
Gradually,  as  time  elapsed,  the  charter 
grew  more  elaborate;  until  at  last  it 
came  to  pass  that  the  existence  of  no 
new  corporation  was  recognized  unless 
it  received  from  the  king  a  written  grant 
of  every  power  it  was  to  exercise.  Thus 
it  has  always  been  with  the  common  law. 
A  custom  grows  up  from  the  needs  of 
the  people,  this  custom  is  recognized  by 
the  courts,  then  the  custom  is  forgotten 
and  the  rigid  rule  of  law  remains,  which 
in  its  turn  is  modified  by  legislation. 


Still,  many  prescriptive  corporations 
exist  in  England,  the  most  remarkable 
among  them  being  the  city  of  London, 
which,  though  it  has  received  innumer- 
able charters  from  different  kings,  has 
never  been  regularly  incorporated  by 
any  single  grant. 

A  word  or  two  is  necessary  about  the 
Merchants'  Guild  which  was  granted  by 
the  Earl  of  Mellent  to  his  merchants  of 
Leicester.  It  was  an  association  of  the 
townsmen  to  promote  their  common 
welfare.  All  traders  were  called  mer- 
chants in  those  days ;  and  traders  were 
almost  necessarily  land  owners,  to  the 
extent  at  least  of  their  own  dwellings. 
Thus,  at  first,  the  guild  seems  to  have 
practically  included  all  the  townsmen, 
and  the  guild  hall  became  the  place 
where  town  business  was  transacted ; 
thus,  gradually,  the  guild  corporation 
became  the  town  corporation,  and  the 
recognized  government  of  the  borough. 
The  town  hall  of  London,  for  example, 
is  still  called  Guild  Hall.  The  guild 
was  originally  a  popular  institution ;  but 
in  the  course  of  centuries  its  character 
changed.  Membership  became  a  valu- 
able privilege,  and  grew  to  depend  on 
birth,  purchase,  marriage,  or  election  ;  so 
that  at  last  the  corrupt  condition  of  these 
corporations,  possessing  as  they  did  the 
right  of  returning  members  to  parlia- 
ment, actually  threatened  a  revolution 
in  England,  and  culminated  in  the  agita- 
tion which  led  to  the  Reform  Bill. 

As  it  was  with  the  merchant  guild,  so 
it  was  with  the  craft  guild.  Each  trade 
banded  together  for  its  own  protection, 
—  the  weavers,  the  grocers,  the  mercers, 
the  goldsmiths,  the  tailors,  and  so  on 
through  the  whole  list ;  and  they  too, 
from  being  popular  associations  formed 
to  protect  the  weak  against  the  strong, 
became  by  degrees  an  aristocracy  as  op- 
pressive as  that  which  they  were  origi- 
nally meant  to  resist. 

It  is  beside  the  object  of  this  article, 
however,  to  go  into  the  history  of  me- 
diaeval guilds  and  boroughs,  interesting 


612 


The  Embryo  of  a  Commonwealth. 


[November, 


as  the  subject  is.  What  we  are  con- 
cerned with  is  the  trading  company, 
which  was  an  offshoot  of  the  guilds,  and 
intended  to  give  protection  to  English- 
men trading  abroad.  Obviously,  some 
such  association  was  necessary ;  for  if 
property  was  insecure  within  the  realm, 
it  was  far  more  so  without.  Indeed,  the 
position  of  English  merchants  of  the 
fourteenth  century  domiciled  on  the  con- 
tinent was  not  unlike,  so  far  as  safety 
goes,  that  of  those  Europeans  who  now 
garrison  the  so-called  factories  upon  the 
coast  of  Africa. 

It  is  impossible  to  learn  when  such 
companies  were  first  established.  At 
the  Conquest,  the  Hanse  merchants  had 
a  house  in  London,  which  afterward  be- 
came famous  as  the  Steel- Yard.  These 
Germans  lived  a  singular  life,  a  mixture 
of  that  spent  by  the  trader,  the  soldier, 
and  the  monk.  Their  warehouse  was  a 
fortress  constantly  exposed  to  attack  by 
the  ferocious  mob,  and  occasionally  taken 
and  sacked.  Shut  up  within,  they  were 
subject  to  a  discipline  of  more  than  mili- 
tary rigor.  Not  only  were  they  forbidden 
to  marry,  but  they  were  never  allowed 
to  pass  a  single  night  without  the  gates, 
nor  was  any  woman,  even  a  servant, 
permitted  within  the  walls.  For  many 
years  they  appear  to  have  pretty  much 
monopolized  the  carrying  trade ;  in  later 
days  they  became  a  recognized  guild  of 
London,  had  their  hall,  and  took  part  in 
the  city  shows  ;  it  was  not  till  the  end 
of  the  thirteenth  century  that  English- 
men seem  to  have  had  the  enterprise  to 
attempt  foreign  commerce  themselves. 

About  1296,  certain  London  mercers 
are  said  to  have  obtained  a  grant  of 
privileges,  from  the  Duke  of  Brabant, 
and  to  have  established  a  wool  exporting 
house  at  Antwerp.  Obviously,  the  per- 
mission of  the  Flemish  government  was 
necessary  to  enable  them  to  trade  in  that 
capital,  but  it  seems  hardly  possible  even 
at  the  outset  that  they  could  have  main- 
tained themselves  without  some  kind  of 
recognition  from  the  authorities  at  home. 


Although  domiciled  abroad,  they  were 
English  merchants,  and  they  must  have 
relied  principally  upon  the  protection  of 
England  and  English  law.  No  very 
early  documents  remain  by  which  this 
fact  can  be  proved,  but  the  elaborate 
charter  granted  in  1463  by  Edward  IV. 
shows  that  the  company  had  been  rec- 
ognized as  a  corporation  for  many  years 
previously.  In  it  the  king  coniirms  the 
existing  governor  in  his  office,  and  also 
the  laws  and  regulations  then  in  force. 
He  gives  the  governor  and  company 
jurisdiction  over  all  merchants  and  mari- 
ners trading  to  those  parts,  and  empow- 
ers them  to  regulate  the  trade  and  ex- 
ercise control  over  the  traders.  In  fact, 
the  same  revolution  had  taken  place 
here  as  in  the  guild.  The  company  had 
been  organized,  for  mutual  protection,, 
by  all  the  Englishmen  who  sailed  to 
Flanders  with  merchandise,  and  every 
man  who  chose  to  join  was  welcomed  as 
a  member,  since  numbers  added  to  their 
strength.  Once  established  and  strong 
enough  to  feel  secure,  the  popular  broth- 
erhood, which  had  now  taken  the  name 
of  Merchant  Adventurers,  became  a  mo- 
nopoly, claiming  exclusive  privileges, 
restricting  its  own  numbers,  and  ruth- 
lessly oppressing  outsiders.  How  intol- 
erable their  rule  became  is  shown  by  a 
curious  petition  which  was  presented  to 
Parliament  in  1497.  It  was  a  protest 
against  the  exactions  of  these  Merchant 
Adventurers,  and  alleged  that  the  com- 
pany made  all  outsiders  trading  to  Hol- 
land and  Flanders  pay  a  fine  of  £40  (a 
large  sum  of  money  in  those  days), 
whereas  by  their  first  charter,  which 
the  petitioners  stated  was  granted  in 
1406,  any  one  might  join  the  fraternity 
by  paying  one  old  noble  or  about  6s.  8d. 
Whereupon  Parliament  seems  to  have 
made  a  compromise,  as  usual,  and  en- 
acted that  in  future  no  trader  should 
have  to  pay  more  than  10  marks,  or  £6 
13s.  4d. 

During  the  Middle  Ages  all  society 
tended  strongly  toward  aristocracy  and 


1884.] 


The  Embryo  of  a  Commonwealth. 


613 


monopoly,  and  trading  companies  shared 
in  the  general  movement.  The  world 
moved  slowly.  We  can  hardly  realize 
how  little  change  a  century  wrought  in 
public  institutions,  or  in  habits  of  life, 
five  hundred  years  ago.  Supposing  the 
Merchant  Adventurers  to  have  been  or- 
ganized about  1300,  no  other  company 
comes  into  notice  till  near  1400,  during 
which  time  also  no  trace  remains  of  the 
progress  of  the  Adventurers  themselves. 
The  sixteenth  century,  however,  was  at 
hand.  With  it  came  the  great  awaken- 
ing when  Europe  broke  into  new  life, 
and  the  world  was  shaken  with  a  new 
energy.  Trade  shared  in  the  impulse, 
and  fresh  enterprises  were  started  on 
every  side. 

In  1554,  Philip  and  Mary  incorpo- 
rated the  Russia  Company  in  regular 
modern  form,  with  all  the  technical 
legal  verbiage.  In  1581,  the  Turkey 
Company -was  organized.  In  1599,  that 
greatest  of  all  trading  enterprises,  the 
East  India  Company,  received  its  char- 
ter ;  and,  to  come  directly  to  what  con- 
cerns us,  in  1628,  or  the  fourth  year  of 
King  Charles  I.,  the  Governor  and  Com- 
pany of  Massachusetts  Bay  in  New  Eng- 
land came  into  existence.1 

The  company  of  Massachusetts  Bay 
was  organized  in  the  form  of  a  trading 
corporation,  just  as  the  Merchant  Ad- 
venturers, the  Turkey,  or  the  East  In- 
dia Company  had  been  organized.  This 
as  a  legal  proposition  does  not  seem  to 
be  open  to  dispute.2  At  the  same  time, 
nothing  can  be  more  certain  than  that 
the  enthusiasts  who  settled  at  Boston 
came  to  America  with  no  idea  of  gain. 
They  came  here,  on  the  contrary,  aban- 
doning all  worldly  advantages,  to  found 
a  religious  republic,  in  a  land  so  far 
from  England  that  they  thought  them- 
selves unlikely  to  be  disturbed.  Never- 
theless, the  form  in  which  the  British 
government  gave  its  sanction  to  their 

1  Massachusetts  is  chosen  because  for  my  pur- 
pose some  one  colony  must  be  taken  as  an  ex- 
ample, and  Massachusetts  happens  to  be  the  most 
convenient. 


emigration  was  as  an  association  of  Eng- 
lishmen going  to  a  foreign  country  for 
the  purpose  of  trade,  and  taking  with 
them  the  authority  necessary  to  enforce 
order  among  themselves,  just  as  the 
Merchant  Adventurers  had  done  centu- 
ries before  in  Flanders,  and  as  the  East 
India  Company  was  then  doing  in  Hin- 
dostan. 

Nobody  can  doubt  this  fact  who  will 
make  a  very  slight  examination  of  the 
old  charters,  which  vary  from  one  an- 
other only  in  details,  and  are  evidently 
drawn  up  upon  the  same  model.  How 
the  lawyers  of  that  day  viewed  the 
question  is  also  quite  clear.  It  was  the 
duty  of  the  law  officers  of  the  crown 
to  draw  up  a  short  memorandum  of  the 
substance  of  any  document  needing  the 
king's  signature,  so  that  he  might  know 
what  was  before  him.  This  memoran- 
dum was  called  the  king's  docket,  and 
was  attached  to  the  instrument.  The 
material  portion  of  the  king's  docket 
of  the  Massachusetts  charter  is  as  fol- 
lows :  — 

"  Incorporating  them  also  by  the 
name  of  the  Governor  and  Company  of 
Massachusetts  Bay  in  New  England  in 
America,  with  such  other  clauses  for  ye 
electing  of  Governors  and  Officers  here 
in  England  for  ye  said  Company,  and 
powers  to  make  laws  and  ordinances  for 
settling  ye  government  and  magistracy 
for  ye  plantation  there,  and  with  such 
exemptions  from  Customs  and  Imposi- 
tions and  some  [such  ?]  other  privileges 
as  were  originally  granted  to  the  Coun- 
cell  aforesaid  and  are  usually  allowed  to 
CaporaCons  in  England." 

The  docket  is  signed  by  the  solicitor 
general,  Sir  Richard  Sheldon.  His 
opinion  is  therefore  clear  enough.  He 
advised  the  king  that  the  charter  sub- 
mitted to  him  was  one  in  ordinary  form, 
incorporating  a  company  in  England 
who  proposed  to  establish  plantations  or 

2  See  a  very  able  paper  by  Mr.  Charles  Deane, 
published  in  Proceedings  of  Mass.  Hist.  Soc.. 
Dec.,  1869,  p.  173,  in  which  the  point  is  demon- 
strated. 


614 


The  Embryo  of  a  Commonwealth. 


[November, 


trading  posts  in  America  for  commerce, 
just  as  other  merchants  were  then  es- 
tablishing them  in  India,  or  like  those 
afterward  built  by  the  Hudson  Bay  Com- 
pany. 

It  was  because  their  position  was 
legally  false  that  the  colonists  fell  into 
most  of  their  political  difficulties  with 
the  authorities  at  home.  As  already 
pointed  out,  their  object  was  to  establish 
a  religious  republic  in  America.  The 
king,  however,  had  sanctioned  nothing  of 
the  kind,  and  it  is  at  once  interesting  and 
instructive  to  contrast  the  machinery 
with  which  they  had  provided  them- 
selves with  that  which  they  were  actual- 
ly compelled  to  use. 

The  machinery  of  the  charter  is  sim- 
ple, and  comes  to  little  more  than  this : 
The  general  court  of  the  company, 
which  was  composed  of  the  freemen, 
or,  in  modern  language,  stockholders, 
was  to  meet  once  a  quarter ;  and  this 
general  court  was  empowered  to  choose 
the  governor  and  assistants  (president 
and  directors),  and  pass  such  laws  as 
were  necessary  for  the  prosecution  of 
the  objects  of  the  corporation,  that  is, 
for  the  regulation  of  their  business  and 
the  maintenance  of  order  at  their  facto- 
ries in  America,  as  the  Merchant  Ad- 
venturers had  been  doing  for  centu- 
ries. 

This  was  the  extent  of  what  they 
were  legally  empowered  to  do.  What 
they  actually  did  do,  and  indeed  what 
circumstances  forced  them  to  do,  was 
something  quite  different  and  altogether 
more  comprehensive  ;  and  by  exceeding 
their  legal  powers  they  worked  a  for- 
feiture of  their  charter  at  the  outset. 

Blackstone  says  (vol.  i.  p.  485)  :  "  A 
corporation  may  be  dissolved  by  forfeit- 
ure of  its  charter,  through  negligence  or 
abuse  of  its  franchises  ;  in  which  case 
the  law  judges  that  the  body  politic  has 
broken  the  condition  upon  which  it  was 
incorporated,  and  thereupon  the  incor- 
poration is  void." 

Almost   at   once   the   colonists  com- 


mitted a  flagrant  breach  of  law.  They 
found  that  it  was  impossible  to  keep 
up  even  a  form  of  government  in  Eng- 
land, and  boldly  decided  to  take  their 
charter  to  America.  The  object,  of 
course,  was  to  get  rid  of  the  supervision 
of  the  government  and  of  the  courts. 
But  such  an  act  was  evidently  contra- 
ry to  the  whole  theory  and  spirit  of 
the  law,  which  was  to  keep  the  imagi- 
nary being  within  the  jurisdiction  which 
gave  it  life  and  whose  power  supported 
and  at  the  same  time  controlled  it. 
Although  in  one  sense  even  then  the 
American  wilderness  may  have  been 
held  to  have  formed  a  part  of  the  Brit- 
ish empire,  it  certainly  was  not  such  a 
portion  of  the  realm  of  England  as  to 
be  within  the  regular  jurisdiction  of  the 
courts,  or  to  have  any  analogy  to  an 
English  county. 

Though  neither  English  judges  nor 
lawyers  ever  seem  to  have  had  any  seri- 
ous doubt  that  the  removal  of  the  charter 
to  New  England  worked  its  forfeiture, 
yet  that  act  was  one  of  the  smallest 
of  the  usurpations  of  which  the  com- 
pany had  been  guilty ;  indeed,  it  is  hard- 
ly going  too  far  to  say  that  it  had  paid 
no  attention  to  the  law  whatever.  The 
general  court  ought  i o  have  been  a  meet- 
ing of  the  free-men,  or,  as  we  say,  of 
stockholders  ;  they  turned  it  into  a  rep- 
resentative assembly,  whose  only  point 
of  resemblance  to  the  thing  they  were 
authorized  to  maintain  was  in  the  name, 
which  has  thus  descended  to  the  Massa- 
chusetts legislature.  They  went  on  to 
incorporate  towns  and  counties.  They 
invented  a  strange  criminal  code  found- 
ed on  the  law  of  Moses,  not  then  recog- 
nized in  Great  Britain,  in  which  they 
made  a  number  of  odd  offenses  capital. 
They  even  coined  money.  And  for 
none  of  these  things  was  there  a  shadow 
of  legal  sanction.  Thus  when  the  scire 
facias  came  on  for  hearing  in  1 684,  the 
chancellor  had  no  hesitation  in  annulling 
the  charter,  and  his  law  was  unquestion- 
ably good,  though  the  motive  that  actu- 


1884.]  The  Embryo  of  a  Commonwealth.  615 

ated  him  may  have  been  political.1    Yet  ancient  forms  survive   their   usefulness 

singularly  enough,  while  at  every  turn  and  their  meaning.     The  venerable  for- 

the  colonists  found  themselves  forced  by  mula  of  incorporation  was  scrupulously 

events  to  disregard  the  terms  of   their  followed  with  its  endless  and  then  abso- 

charter  and  to  act  in  defiance  of  its  evi-  lutely  unmeaning  verbiage,  but  though 

dent  meaning,  they  held  it  in  almost  su-  the  old  shell  was  left  the  spirit  within 

perstitious  reverence,  so  much   so  that  was   modern.     The   provincial    charter 

they  clung  to  the  parchment  on  which  bridges   the   gulf   between    the  Middle 

it  was  written,  after  it  had  become  void  Ages  and  our  own  times.     The  great 

by  a  judicial  decree,  as  though  the  pos-  change  had  come ;  the  new  instrument, 

session  of  the  scrap  of  paper  was  a  mat-  though  still  in  form  a  charter  of  incor- 

ter  of  grave  importance,  when  the  vital  poration,  was  in  fact  a  written  constitu- 

principle  was  dead.     But  so  much  did  tion  of  government,  such  as  now  exists 

they  prize  it  that  they  never  would  part  in  the  United  States.    It  was  less  elabo- 

with  it ;  and  it  hangs  to  this  day  in  the  rate  than  those  drawn  subsequently,  it  is 

State  House  in  Boston.  true,  but  the  pervading  principle  is  iden- 

By  the  revolution  of  1688,  England  tical. 

liberalized  its  government.  Certainly  The  executive  was  the  governor,  who 
William  III.  was  not  inclined  to  inter-  was  appointed  by  the  crown,  though  his 
fere  unnecessarily  with  his  subjects,  yet  pay  was  fixed  by  the  legislature.  The 
he  was  no  more  disposed  than  a  Stuart  legislature  was  a  regular  representative 
to  restore  the  old  state  of  things.  Nor  body,  with  powers  almost  identical  with 
would  such  a  policy  have  been  states-  those  since  granted  by  the  people  to 
manlike.  The  time  had  come  to  end  the  general  court  of  Massachusetts.  Its 
the  old  pretense  of  a  trading  company,  members  were  elected  by  the  towns, 
and  deal  with  existing  facts.  A  large  The  appointment  of  judges  was  provided 
colony  had  grown  up  in  Massachusetts,  for,  who  were  to  preside  over  courts  to 
whose  institutions  ought  long  before  to  be  established  by  the  legislature.  Pro- 
have  been  recognized  and  regulated  by  vision  was  also  made  for  a  militia  and 
law.  Besides,  unless  Great  Britain  was  a  police. 

prepared  practically  to  abandon  all  con-         In  short,  the  figment  of  a  trading  com- 

trol  over  this  part  of  her  empire,  some-  pany  had  vanished,  and  in  its  place  Eng- 

thing  had  to  be  done  to  sustain  her  au-  land  gave  to  its  colony  a  written  instru- 

thority.     Some  supervision  had  become  ment  of  government   to   serve   for  the 

necessary  over  legislation,  and  appeals  fundamental  law  of  a  democratic  repub- 

from  the  courts  had  to  be  entertained,  lie.     It  was  a  first  attempt,  and  therefore 

It  was  necessary  that  England  should  somewhat  crude.     The  balancing  of  the 

be   represented  by  an  officer  powerful  three   departments   against   each   other 

enough  to  be  respected,  who  could  reg-  was  not  understood,  and  perhaps  was 

ulate  in  some  degree  the  action  of  a  peo-  not  necessary  where  the  executive  drew 

pie  whose  most  marked  characteristic  its  power  from  another  source  than  the 
was  not  docility.  people ;  yet  it  was  well  adapted  to  its 

Accordingly,  in  1691  the  king  grant-     purpose.     It  was  deeply  venerated 
ed   the    second   or    provincial    charter,     the  people,  who,  at  the  Revolution,  seem 
which  remained  in  force  till  the  Eevo-     never  to  have  thought  it  possible  to  get 
lution.     It  is  in  some  respects  a  very     on  without  it,  or  at  least  something  like 
remarkable  example  of  how  tenaciously     it  to  take  its  place.     They  thought,  how- 

i  The  original  writ  of  quo  warranto  brought  by  390,  note.  See  the  able  paper  by  Mr.  Deane  on 
Sir  John  Banks  in  1635  was  abandoned,  and  final  the  Charter,  Memo.  History  of  Bost  >n,  vol.  i.  p. 
process  was  by  scire  facias.  Palfrey,  vol.  iii.  p.  329.  Also  Story  on  Constitution,  Book  I.  §  66. 


616 


The  Embryo  of  a  Commonwealth. 


[November, 


ever,  it  might  be  improved,  and  they 
therefore  held  a  convention  to  redraft 
it.  They  cut  out  the  antiquated  form 
of  incorporation  ;  they  separated  as  com- 
pletely as  they  could  the  executive,  leg- 
islative and  judicial  departments ;  they 
omitted  portions  that  displeased  them, 
and  added  a  bill  of  rights,  of  which  they 
had  felt  the  need.  Then,  as  they  no 
longer  owed  allegiance  to  the  king,  who 
had  formerly  been  the  grantor,  they 
granted  to  themselves  by  a  popular  vote 
their  new  charter,  which  they  named  a 
constitution. 

An  extract  taken  almost  at  random 
will  show  how  closely  the  convention 
followed  their  model,  even  to  adopting 
the  exact  words  where  it  was  possible 
to  do  so. 

POWERS  OF  THE  GENERAL  COURT. 

CHARTER. 

And  we  do  further,  for  us,  our  heirs  and  suc- 
cessors, give  and  grant  to  the  said  Governor,  and 
the  Great  and  General  Court  or  Assembly  of  our 
said  province  or  territory,  for  the  time  being,  full 
power  and  authority  from  time  to  time  to  make, 
ordain  and  establish  all  manner  of  wholesome  and 
reasonable  orders,  laws,  statutes  and  ordinances, 
directions  and  instructions,  either  with  penalties  or 
without  (so  the  same  be  not  repugnant  or  contra- 
ry to  the  laws  of  this  our  realm  of  England),  as 
they  shall  judge  to  be  for  the  welfare  of  our  said 
province  or  territory,  and  for  the  government  and 
ordering  thereof,  and  of  the  people  inhabiting,  or 
who  shall  inhabit  the  same  ;  and  for  the  necessary 
support  and  defense  of  the  government  thereof. 

CONSTITUTION. 

And  further,  full  power  and  authority  are  here- 
by given  and  granted  to  the  said  General  Court, 
from  time  to  time  to  make,  ordain,  and  establish 
all  manner  of  wholesome  and  reasonable  orders, 
laws,  statutes  and  ordinances,  directions  and  in- 
structions, either  with  penalties  or  without  (so  as 
the  same  be  not  repugnant  or  contrary  to  this  con- 
stitution), as  they  shall  judge  to  be  for  the  good 
and  welfare  of  this  Commonwealth,  and  for  the 
government  and  ordering  thereof,  and  of  the  cit- 
izens of  the  same,  and  for  the  necessary  support 
and  defense  of  the  government  thereof. 

The  necessary  changes  were  in  truth 
very  slight,  so  slight  that  Rhode  Island 
and  Connecticut  thought  their  colonial 
charters  good  enough,  and  kept  them  in 
force  for  many  years  after  the  establish- 
ment of  the  federal  government ;  and  no 


one  needs  to  be  told  that  as  the  consti- 
tution of  Massachusetts  was  the  first  to 
be  adopted,  so  it  served  more  or  less  as 
a  model  for  those  that  came  afterward, 
including  that  of  the  Union.  Such  is 
the  history  of  the  written  constitution, 
from  its  germ  in  the  ancient  charters 
of  the  mediaeval  guilds,  through  the  era 
of  the  trading  company  and  the  phase 
of  colonial  charters,  down  to  its  latest 
development  as  it  now  exists,  —  the 
fundamental  law  of  the  American  re- 
publics. 

It  is  worth  while  to  pause  for  a  mo- 
ment to  realize  the  startling  differ- 
ence in  the  destinies  of  those  two  great 
enterprises,  begun  so  nearly  together, 
the  East  India  Company  and  the  Com- 
pany of  Massachusetts  Bay.  The  spirit 
in  which  they  were  organized  differed 
widely,  it  is  true,  for  the  one  was  real- 
ly what  it  pretended  to  be,  a  venture 
by  English  merchants  in  the  East ; 
while  the  other  was  an  emigration  of 
fanatics,  who,  far  from  seeking  their 
fortunes  in  the  West,  were  abandoning 
all  worldly  wealth  in  the  hope  of  find- 
ing a  spot  in  the  wilderness  where  they 
would  be  able  to  carry  out  undisturbed 
their  own  peculiar  notions  of  theocratic 
government. 

Still,  though  the  motives  that  actu- 
ated these  two  bodies  of  men  were  wide 
asunder  as  the  poles,  their  legal  position 
was  identical.  They  were  both  corpo- 
rations before  the  law,  and  if  they  both 
founded  empires,  some  similar  develop- 
ment of  constitutional  principles  might 
not  unreasonably  be  anticipated  in  the 
two  states.  Nothing  of  the  kind  has  hap- 
pened. Planted  on  different  continents, 
under  different  climates  and  in  different 
soils,  they  have  borne  strangely  differ- 
ent fruit.  The  one  in  Asia,  ruling  a  sub- 
ject and  inferior  people,  soon  became  a 
pure  military  despotism,  so  far  as  its  sub- 
jects were  concerned;  and  when  at  last 
it  perished  under  the  weight  of  its  own 
conquests,  it  left  to  England  a  vast  em- 
pire whose  only  constitution  or  law  is 


1884.] 


The  Embryo  of  a  Commonwealth. 


617 


the  will  of  the  master  race.  The  Mas- 
sachusetts company,  on  the  contrary, 
starving  on  the  sterile  and  bleak  New 
England  coast,  and  composed  of  men 
of  stern  and  courageous  nature,  was  des- 
tined to  foster  the  purest  democracy  the 
world  has  ever  seen,  and  at  last  to  pro- 
vide, by  its  traditions  and  its  laws,  the 
foundation  upon  which  the  American 
Union  rests. 

There  still  remains  to  be  told  a  most 
interesting  portion  of  the  history  of  the 
development  of  those  constitutional  prin- 
ciples which  are  peculiar  to  the  United 
States,  —  the  process  by  which  the  courts 
acquired  the  jurisdiction  they  have  al- 
ways exercised  of  acting  as  interpreters 
of  the  organic  law,  and  of  holding  void 
statutes  passed  by  the  legislative  de- 
partment of  the  government  that,  in  the 
opinion  of  the  judges,  conflicted  with  its 
meaning. 

It  is  evident  that  from  the  earliest 
time  there  must  have  been  some  one  to 
pass  upon  the  abuse  of  corporate  priv- 
ileges. Towns  or  guilds  could  never 
have  been  allowed  to  use  their  powers 
in  any  way  they  chose  without  restraint, 
and  the  way  in  which  society  could  most 
readily  protect  itself  was  by  taking  away 
the  franchise  it  had  granted.  Thus,  for 
example,  the  Plantagenets  were  con- 
stantly, upon  one  pretext  or  another,  re- 
voking or  suspending  the  franchises  of 
London,  often,  no  doubt,  with  justice, 
but  sometimes  for  the  purpose  of  resell- 
ing them.  And  as  it  gradually  became 
clear  that  charters,  to  be  worth  the  hav- 
ing, must  be  beyond  the  power  of  the 
grantor,  it  came  to  be  established  as  law 
that  the  king  could  not  rescind  his  own 
grant.  So  by  degrees  the  judges  as- 
sumed the  entire  jurisdiction  over  these 
questions,  and  if  for  any  reason  the 
government  wished  to  annul  a  charter, 
the  attorney-general  began  proceedings 
in  the  courts.  But  judicial  regulation 
could  not  stop  here,  as  a  moment's  re- 
flection must  show.  A  man  may  be 
made  responsible  in  his  own  person,  all 


his  contracts  may  be  held  binding  on 
him,  and  yet  society  may  protect  itself 
by  punishing  him  if  he  breaks  the  law, 
although  in  point  of  fact  there  are  many 
contracts  that  no  man  is  allowed  to  make. 
Corporations  stand  on  a  different  foot- 
ing. Citizens  are  permitted  to  associ- 
ate together  and  act  like  one  being  for 
certain  purposes  clearly  stated  in  their 
charter.  If  instead  of  using  their  privi- 
leges for  these  purposes  they  undertake 
something  entirely  different,  it  is  clear 
that  they  act  beyond  the  law,  in  defiance 
of  the  power  that  gave  them  life,  and 
that  the  act  is  void.  Otherwise  corpo- 
rations might  do  anything  that  seemed 
likely,  in  the  opinion  of  the  members,  to 
promise  profitable  results.  The  propo- 
sition seems  clear  enough,  but  it  opens 
a  vast  field  for  controversy ;  for  there 
are  no  questions  on  which  men  are  more 
apt  to  disagree  than  whether  a  given 
act  is  fairly  within  the  scope  of  a  grant. 
And  from  the  earliest  times  controver- 
sies of  this  kind  have  arisen.  There 
is  a  curious  case  reported  in  the  Liber 
Custumarum,  vol.  i.  pp.  416-424. 

In  1321,  the  London  weavers  were 
alleged  to  have  passed  certain  by-laws 
intended  to  raise  the  price  of  cloth,  and 
therefore  injure  the  public,  by  limiting 
the  number  of  working  days,  the  length 
of  the  working  day,  and  the  number 
of  apprentices  that  the  members  of  the 
guild  might  take  at  once.  They  were 
accordingly  indicted  for  abuse  of  their 
privileges,  and  a  jury  having  been  impan- 
eled, a  trial  was  had.  The  jury  found 
the  truth  of  a  number  of  the  charges, 
but  the  upshot  of  the  process  does  not 
appear,  as  the  roll  breaks  off  in  the  mid- 
dle of  the  record. 

With  English  companies  established 
in  distant  and  oftentimes  barbarous  coun- 
tries, the  danger  to  be  apprehended 
from  usurpations  of  power  was  neces- 
sarily much  more  serious  than  with  those 
at  home  ;  because  from  the  nature  of 
things  they  were  obliged  to  deal  with 
more  serious  questions.  Not  only  did 


618 


The  Embryo  of  a  Commonwealth. 


[November, 


their  officers  have  to  administer  both 
civil  and  criminal  justice  within  their 
own  territory,  but  they  might  be  obliged 
to  make  war  or  negotiate  treaties.  So 
from  the  very  beginning,  although  it 
would  seem  plain  that  corporate  laws 
passed  contrary  to  the  intent  of  the 
charter  must  be  worthless,  and  that  any 
law  contrary  to  the  law  of  England 
must  be  contrary  to  the  charter,  it  ap- 
pears to  have  been  customary  to  guard 
especially  against  improper  legislation. 

For  example,  Edward  IV.  granted  a 
charter  to  the  Merchant  Adventurers  in 
1463,  authorizing  the  governor  and  mer- 
chants to  meet  and  elect  twelve  justices 
who  were  to  hold  courts ;  he  then  con- 
firms the  existing  laws  which  the  gov- 
ernor had  approved,  but  expressly  for- 
bids the  passing  of  any  laws  contrary  to 
the  intent  of  the  charter,  providing  that 
such  legislation  should  be  null.  In  like 
manner  the  East  India  Company  might 
make  all  reasonable  laws,  constitutions, 
etc.,  agreeable  to  the  laws  of  England. 
And  the  general  court  of  the  Governor 
and  Company  of  Massachusetts  Bay 
could  make  all  manner  of  reasonable 
and  wholesome  laws,  statutes,  etc.,  not 
contrary  to  the  laws  of  England. 

No  explanation  is  necessary,  there- 
fore, to  show  that,  whenever  a  case  arose 
which  turned  upon  some  law  or  regula- 
tion of  one  of  these  companies,  it  was 
open  to  the  parties  to  the  litigation  to 
set  up  that  the  act  in  question  violated 
the  charter  and  was  void ;  and,  of  course, 
the  judges  had  to  rule  one  way  or  the 
other.  The  same  provision  was  inserted 
in  the  charter  of  William  III.  to  Massa- 
chusetts, and  it  would  be  reasonable  to 
presume  without  investigation  that  cases 
must  have  arisen  before  the  Revolution 
which  involved  the  constitutionality  of 
colonial  legislation.  In  point  of  fact, 
several  important  cases  did  arise  at  quite 
an  early  date.  The  most  striking  of 
these  was  Winthrop  v.  Lechemere,  which 
was  in  Connecticut,  it  is  true,  but  that 
is  immaterial,  as  the  legal  situation  of 


the  two  colonies  was  in  this  particular 
identical.  Waite  Winthrop  died  in  1716, 
leaving  two  children,  John  and  Ann, 
wife  of  Thomas  Lechemere.  John  took 
out  administration  and  divided  the  per- 
sonal property,  but  took  to  himself  the 
entire  real  estate,  as  the  heir  of  his  fa- 
ther, instead  of  allowing  a  division  as 
the  colonial  statute  required.  In  1724, 
Lechemere,  in  right  of  his  wife,  applied 
to  the  probate  court  of  Connecticut  for 
administration  of  the  whole  estate  of 
the  deceased,  both  real  and  personal. 
After  much  litigation,  and  an  appeal 
to  the  Assembly  in  1725,  the  Superior 
Court  held  that  real  estate  should  be 
inventoried  and  distributed  like  personal 
property,  in  conformity  with  the  statute. 
Thereupon  Winthrop  appealed  to  the 
Privy  Council  in  England ;  where,  after 
argument,  this  decision  was  reversed, 
and  the  statute  of  distribution  was  held 
void  as  contrary  to  the  charter  and  to 
English  law. 

The  Connecticut  legislation  was  copied 
from  a  similar  law  of  Massachusetts, 
and  had  been  in  force  since  1699.  The 
success  of  Winthrop  in  this  appeal  prob- 
ably induced  a  similar  attempt  in  Mas- 
sachusetts, for  in  1737  the  same  point 
was  raised  in  Phillips  v.  Savage,  but  the 
colony  managed  to  manipulate  the  coun- 
cil in  such  a  manner  as  to  obtain  a  fa- 
vorable decision.  The  decision  in  Win- 
throp v.  Lechemere  remained  unshaken 
for  seventeen  years,  during  which  time 
the  greatest  confusion  and  uncertainty 
prevailed  in  Connecticut  in  regard  to 
the  settlement  of  estates,  until  at  last, 
in  1742,  the  colonial  government  suc- 
ceeded in  obtaining  a  reversal  in  Clark 
v.  Tousey,  after  a  continuous  struggle 
throughout  the  entire  interval.1 

At  the  outbreak  of  the  Revolution,  the 
supervision  of  the  English  courts  was 
removed,  but  the  people  having  either 
retained  their  old  charters,  or  granted 

1  Conn.  Col.  Records,  vol.  vii.  p.  191,  note. 
Proceedings  of  Mass.  Hist,  Soc.,  1860,  1862,  pp. 
64-80,  165-171. 


1884.]                         The  Embryo  of  a  Commonwealth.  619 

themselves  new  ones  in  the  shape  of  which  was  the  view  taken  of  their  duty 
constitutions,  the  same  questions  must  by  the  judges  in  the  various  States ; 
have  arisen  after  the  independence  of  though  it  is  sometimes  spoken  of  as  if 
the  colonies  was  established  as  while  it  were  a  discovery,  or  at  least  an  orig- 
they  formed  part  of  the  British  empire,  inal  theory,  of  Chief  Justice  Marshall, 
the  only  difference  being  that  the  court  No  error  could  be  more  profound  than 
of  final  resort  was  the  highest  court  of  to  suppose  it  originated  with  him.  The 
each  State,  and  not  the  Privy  Council,  doctrine  was  laid  down  at  the  New  York 
to  which  an  appeal  no  longer  lay.  A  circuit  only  three  years  after  the  fed- 
good  example  occurred  in  Rhode  Island  eral  government  was  established,  and  it 
in  1786,  three  years  before  the  adop-  was  supported  by  at  least  one  eminent 
tion  of  the  national  constitution,  Rhode  justice  in  an  elaborate  opinion  given  in 
Island  at  that  time  still  carrying  on  its  a  great  cause  which  was  argued  shortly 
government  under  its  colonial  charter,  afterward  before  the  full  bench.  Thus, 
The  case  was  this  :  One  Trevett  having  when  at  length  the  question  came  up 
bought  meat  of  Wheeden  offered  in  pay-  for  actual  decision  in  1803,  in  Marbury 
ment  a  legal-tender  bill  of  the  State,  v.  Madison,  the  chief  justice  seems  to 
By  statute  any  person  declining  to  re-  have  considered  his  opinion  rather  as  a 
ceive  these  bills  in  payment  of  debts  solemn  declaration  of  what  was  already 
was  liable  criminally  upon  summary  trial  received  as  law  than  as  advancing  any- 
without  a  jury.  Upon  argument,  the  thing  new.2 

judges  held  the  act  unconstitutional,  as  It  is  true  that  the  court  has  not  es- 

contrary  to  the  charter.1  tablished  its  jurisdiction  without  oppo- 

Thus,  when  the  constitution  of  the  sition.  Its  claim  to  entertain  appeals 
United  States  was  adopted,  the  whole  from  state  courts  in  matters  touching 
theory  of  the  province  of  the  judiciary  the  federal  constitution,  and  to  be  the 
as  interpreters  of  that  instrument  was  final  tribunal  for  passing  upon  the  con- 
almost  as  well  understood,  if  not  alto-  stitutionality  of  congressional  legislation, 
gether  so  firmly  established,  as  it  is  now.  has  not  been  conceded  without  a  bitter 
Nowhere  is  the  doctrine  more  clearly  struggle,  even  if  the  latter  branch  of 
stated  than  by  Hamilton  in  number  78  the  controversy  can  yet  be  said  to  be 
of  the  Federalist.  ended.  But  the  actual  relation  of  the 

"  A  constitution  is,  in  fact,  and  must  judiciary  to  the  legislature  in  the  United 
be  regarded  by  the  judges  as  a  funda-  States  is  too  large  a  subject  to  be  treated 
mental  law.  It  therefore  belongs  to  within  the  limits  of  this  article.  My 
them  to  ascertain  its  meaning,  as  well  purpose  is  accomplished  if  I  have  sue- 
as  the  meaning  of  any  particular  act  ceeded  in  showing  that  the  governments 
proceeding  from  the  legislative  body,  and  institutions  of  the  American  people 
If  there  should  happen  to  be  irreconcila-  are  not  the  ephemeral  growth  of  a  mo- 
ble  variance  between  the  two,  that  which  ment  of  revolution,  but  that  they  are 
has  the  superior  obligation  .  .  .  ought  the  offspring  of  a  history  and  tradition 
to  be  preferred."  as  ancient  as  those  which  have  moulded 

From   its   organization  the  Supreme  the  common  law,  and  upon  which  rests 

Court  has    sustained  Hamilton's    view,  the  fabric  of  the  British  empire. 

Brooks  Adams. 

i  Trevett  t>.  Wheeden,   2  Chandler's  Criminal  2  See  Haybur'n's  Case,  2  Dal.  409.    Opinion  of 

Trials,  270.    See  also  Bayard  v.  Singleton,  1  Mar-  Iredell  J.  in  Chisholm  «.  Georgia,  2 

tin,  48.  Opinion  of  Marshall  C.  J.  in  Marbury  v.  Madison, 

1  Cranch,  137. 


620  In  the  Haunts  of  the  Mocking-Bird.  [November, 


IN  THE   HAUNTS   OF  THE   MOCKING-BIRD. 

THE  mocking-bird  has  been  called  the  of  a  running  stream  or  the  sough  of  a 
American  nightingale,  with  a  view,  no  spring  breeze.  I  often  find  myself  re- 
doubt, to  inflicting  a  compliment  involv-  luctantly  shaking  off  something  like  a 
ing  the  operation,  known  to  us  all,  of  recollection  of  having  somewhere,  in 
damning  with  faint  praise.  The  night-  some  dim  old  grove,  heard  the  voice 
ingale  presumably  is  not  the  sufferer  by  that  Keats  imprisoned  in  his  matchless 
the  comparison,  since  she  holds  imme-  ode.  There  is  a  sort  of  aerial  perspec- 
morial  title  to  preeminence  amongst  sing-  tive  in  the  mere  name  of  the  nightin- 
ing  birds.  The  story  of  Philomela,  how-  gale  ;  it  is  like  some  of  those  classical 
ever,  as  first  told,  was  not  an  especially  allusions  which  bring  into  a  modern 
pleasing  one,  and  the  poets  made  no  great  essay  suggestions  with  an  infinite  dis- 
use of  it.  Nowhere  in  Greek  or  Roman  tance  in  them.  So  thoroughly  has  this 
literature,  so  far  as  I  know,  is  there  been  felt  that  it  may  safely  be  said  that 
any  genuine  lyric  apostrophe  to  the  the  nightingale  has  been  more  frequent- 
nightingale  comparable  to  Sappho's  frag-  ly  mentioned  by  our  American  writers, 
ment  To  the  Rose ;  still,  the  bird  has  a  good,  bad,  and  indifferent,  than  any  one 
prestige  gathered  from  centuries  of  po-  of  our  native  birds.  No  doubt  it  ought 
etry  and  upheld  by  the  master  romancers  to  provoke  a  smile,  this  gushing  about  a 
of  the  world.  To  compare  the  song  of  music  one  has  never  heard ;  but,  like  the 
any  other  bird  with  that  of  the  night-  music  of  the  spheres  and  the  roar  of  the 
ingale  is  like  instituting  a  comparison  ocean,  the  nightingale's  voice  is  common 
between  some  poet  of  to-day  and  Shake-  property,  and  we  all  take  it  as  a  sort  of 
speare,  so  far  as  any  sympathy  with  the  hereditary  music,  descending  to  us  by 
would-be  rival  is  concerned.  The  world  immemorial  custom.  Its  notes  are  echo- 
has  long  ago  made  up  its  mind,  and  when  ing  within  us,  and  we  feel  their  authen- 
the  world  once  does  that  there  is  an  end,  ticity,  though  in  fact  We  know  as  little 
a  cul  de  sac,  a  stopping-place,  of  all  ar-  about  the  bird  as  chemists  do  about 
gument  of  the  question.  Indeed,  it  is  Geber.  How  shall  we  doubt  that  the 
a  very  romantic  distance  that  separates  bird  whose  song  inspired  Keats  to  write 
the  bird  from  most  of  us.  Chaucer's  that  masterpiece  of  English  poetry  is 
groves  and  Shakespeare's  woods  shake  indeed  a  wonderful  musician  ?  Shake- 
out  from  their  leaves  a  fragrance  that  speare  and  rare  Ben  Jonson  and  Burns 
reaches  us  along  with  a  song  which  is  and  Scott  and  Shelley  and  Byron  heard 
half  the  bird's  and  half  the  poet's.  We  this  same  song  ;  it  was  just  as  clear  and 
connect  the  nightingale's  music  with  sweet  as  it  is  now  when  Chaucer  was 
a  dream  of  chivalry,  troubadours,  and  telling  his  rhymed  tales,  when  Robin 
mediaeval  castles.  It  is  as  dear  to  him  Hood  was  in  the  greenwood,  even  when 
who  has  heard  it  only  in  the  changes  the  Romans  made  their  first  invasion, 
rung  by  the  Persian,  French,  and  Eng-  In  a  general  way,  we  do  not  think  of 
lish  bards  as  it  is  to  him  whose  chamber  the  nightingale  having  a  nest  and  rear- 
window  opens  on  a  choice  haunt  of  the  ing  a  brood  and  dying.  It  is  simply  the 
bird  in  rural  England.  I  might  dare  to  incomparable  nightingale,  philomela,  ros- 
go  further  and  claim  that  I,  who  have  signol,  or  whatever  the  name  may  be,  — 
never  heard  a  nightingale  sing,  can  say  a  bird  that  has  been  singing  in  rose- 
with  truth  that  its  music  is,  in  a  cer-  gardens  and  orange-orchards  and  Eng- 
tain  way,  as  familiar  to  me  as  the  sound  lish  woods  night  after  night  for  thou- 


1884,]                      In  the  Haunts  of  the  Moeking-Bird.                        621 

sands  of  years  without  a  rival.  Its  song  songster's  home.  The  haw-tree,  several 
is  to  the  imagination  of  all  of  us  varieties  of  which  grow  in  the  glades  of 
"L'hymne  flottant  des  nuits  d'<5te,"  what  is  known  as  the  Cherokee  region, 
as  Lamartine  has  expressed  it.  So  it  is  a  favorite  nesting-place,  and  so  is  the 
can  easily  be  understood  how  hard  a  honey-locust  tree,  which  is  also  much 
struggle  our  American  mocking-bird  is  chosen  by  the  shrike  or  butcher-bird. 
going  to  have  before  it  reaches  a  place  There  is  so  strong  a  resemblance  in 
in  the  world's  esteem  beside  the  nightin-  colors  and  size  between  this  shrike  and 
gale.  Nor  is  it  my  purpose  to  do  any-  the  mocking-bird  that  one  is  often  mis- 
thing  with  a  special  view  to  aid  it  in  taken  for  the  other  by  careless  observ- 
the  struggle  ;  but  I  have  studied  our  ers,  hence  in  some  neighborhoods  I  have 
bird  in  all  its  haunts  and  in  all  seasons,  found  a  strong  prejudice  existing  against 
with  a  view  to  a  most  intimate  acquaint-  the  mocking-bird  on  account  of  the  fiend- 
ance  with  its  habits,  its  song,  and  its  ish  habits  of  the  shrike, 
character.  A  mountain  lad  once  led  me  over  a 

To  begin  with,  the  name  mocking-bird  considerable  mountain  and  down  into  a 
is  a  heavy  load  for  any  bird  to  bear,  wild  dell  to  show  me  a  nest  in  a  thorn 
Unmusical  as  it  is,  the  worst  feature  of  tree,  where  he  was  sure  I  should  find 
such  an  appellation  is  the  idea  of  flip-  every  evidence  that  a  mocking-bird  was 
pancy  and  ill-breeding  that  it  conveys,  a  soulless  monster,  murdering  little  pee- 
To  "  mock "  is  to  imitate  with  an  ill-  wee  fly-catchers  and  warblers,  and  im- 
natured  purpose,  to  jeer  at,  to  ridicule  ;  paling  them  on  thorns  out  of  sheer  wan- 
it  was  for  mocking  that  bad  children  tonness.  I  felt  sure  it  was  a  shrike,  but 
were  made  food  for  bears.  Such  a  name  the  boy  said  he  knew  better.  Did  n't 
carries  with  it  a  shadow  of  something  he  know  a  mocking-bird  when  he  saw  it  ? 
repellant,  and  no  poet  can  ever  rescue  He  had  heard  it  sing  and  u  mock  "  all 
it,  as  a  name,  from  its  meaning  and  its  the  birds  in  the  thickets  around,  and 
eight  harsh  consonants.  It  would  in-  had  also  seen  it  doing  its  brutal  work, 
deed  require  some  centuries  of  roman-  Boys  are  sometimes  very  close  and  re- 
tic  and  charming  associations  to  make  liable  in  their  observations,  and  this  one 
of  it  a  name  by  which  to  conjure,  as  in  was  an  inveterate  hunter,  and  so  stoutly 
the  case  of  the  nightingale.  The  bird,  asserted  his  knowledge  that  I  was  in- 
with  almost  any  other  name  than  mock-  duced  to  test  his  accuracy  by  going  with 
ing-bird,  would  fare  much  better  at  the  him  to  the  place  he  called  Mocking-Bird 
hands  of  artists  and  poets,  and  might  Hollow.  Of  course  the  nest  was  that 
hope,  if  birds  may  hope  at  all,  finally  to  of  a  shrike,  but  a  number  of  mocking- 
gain  the  meed  of  praise  it  so  richly  birds  were  breeding  in  the  immediate 
deserves.  vicinity,  hence  the  mistake. 

In  a  beautiful  little  valley  among  the  The  mocking-bird  does  not  appear  to 
mountains  of  North  Georgia  I  first  be-  be  a  strictly  migratory  bird,  its  range 
gan  to  study  the  mocking-bird  in  its  wild  being  much  narrower  than  that  of  the 
state.  It  was  not  a  very  common  bird  brown  thrush,  the  cat-bird,  and  the  wood- 
there,  just  rare  enough  to  keep  one  thrush.  I  have  never  been  able  to  find 
keenly  interested  in  its  habits.  I  had  it  a  regular  visitant  in  the  West  north 
great  trouble  in  finding  a  nest.  Many  of  Tennessee,  though  I  have  no  reason 
a  delightful  tramp  through  the  thorny  to  doubt  that  it  comes  at  times  much 
thickets  and  wild  orchards  of  plum-trees  farther,  even  into  the  Ohio  valley.  In 
ended  in  nothing,  before  my  eyes  discov-  the  mountain  valleys  it  is  extremely  wary 
ered  the  loose  sticks  and  matted  midribs  and  shy,  its  habits  approaching  very 
of  leaves  which  usually  make  up  the  close  to  those  attributed  to  the  nightin- 


622 


In  the  Haunts  of  the  Mocking-Bird. 


[November, 


gale  of  England.  It  chooses  lonely  and 
almost  inaccessible  nesting-places,  and 
will  not  sing  if  at  all  disturbed.  Often, 
while  I  have  been  lying  on  the  ground 
in  some  secluded  glade,  I  have  heard, 
far  in  the  night,  a  sudden  gush  of  mel- 
ody begun  by  one  bird  and  echoed  by 
another  and  another  all  around  me,  fill- 
ing the  balmy  air  of  spring  with  a  half- 
cheerful,  half-plaintive  medley.  This  is 
more  common  when  the  moon  shines, 
but  I  have  heard  it  when  the  night  was 
black. 

At  several  points  near  the  coast  of 
the  Carolinas  I  have  found  the  mocking- 
bird apparently  a  resident,  and  yet,  so 
far  South  as  Savannah,  Georgia,  it  seems 
to  shrink  from  the  occasional  midwinter 
rigors.  In  the  hills  near  the  Alabama 
River,  not  far  from  Montgomery,  it  is 
certainly  resident,  but  I  found  it  a  much 
shyer  bird  there  than  in  the  thickets 
along  the  bayous  of  Louisiana.  Early 
in  the  winter  of  1883  I  made  a  most 
careful  search  for  the  mocking-bird  in 
Pensacola,  Florida,  and  its  environs,  but 
found  none.  I  was  told  that  the  bird 
would  appear  about  the  last  of  February. 
At  Marianna,  Florida,  and  along  the 
line  of  the  road  thence  to  the  Apalachi- 
cola  River,  I  saw  it  frequently  in  mid- 
winter. On  the  gulf  coast,  down  as  far 
as  Punta  Rassa,  and  across  the  penin- 
sula to  the  Indian  River  country,  in  the 
orange,  lemon,  and  citron  groves,  in  the 
bay  thickets,  and  even  in  the  sandy  pine 
woods,  I  noted  it  quite  frequently.  In 
this  semi-tropical  country  it  is  not  so 
shy  and  so  chary  of  its  song  as  it  is  far- 
ther north.  Near  the  mouth  of  the  St. 
Mark's  River,  as  I  lay  under  a  small 
tree,  a  mocking-bird  came  and  lit  on 
the  top  of  a  neighboring  bush,  and  sang 
for  me  its  rarest  and  most  wonderful 
combination,  called  by  the  negroes  the 
"  dropping  song."  Whoever  has  closely 
observed  the  bird  has  noted  its  "  mount- 
ing song,"  a  very  frequent  performance, 
wherein  the  songster  begins  on  the  low- 
est branch  of  a  tree  and  appears  liter- 


ally to  mount  on  its  music,  from  bough 
to  bough,  until  the  highest  spray  of  the 
top   is   reached,  where   it   will   sit   for 
many  minutes  flinging  upon  the  air  an 
ecstatic  stream  of  almost  infinitely  varied 
vocalization.     But   he  who    has    never 
heard  the  "  dropping  song  "  has  not  dis- 
covered the  last  possibility  of  the  mock- 
ing-bird's  voice.     I  have   never   found 
any  note  of  this  extremely  interesting 
habit  of  the  bird  by  any  ornithologist,  a 
habit  which  is,  I  suspect,  occasional,  and 
connected  with  the  most  tender  part  of 
the  mating  season.     It  is,  in  a  measure, 
the  reverse  of  the  "  mounting  song,"  be- 
ginning where  the  latter  leaves  off.     I 
have  heard  it  but  four  times,  when  I  was 
sure  of  it,  during  all  my  rambles  and  pa- 
tient observations  in  the  chosen  haunts 
of  the  bird  ;  once  in  North  Georgia,  twice 
in  the  immediate  vicinity  of  Tallahassee, 
Florida,  and  once  near  the  St.  Mark's 
River,  as  above  mentioned.     I  have  at 
several  other  times  heard  the  song,  as 
I  thought,  but  not  being  able  to  see  the 
bird,  or  clearly  distinguish  the  peculiar 
notes,  I  cannot  register  these  as  certain- 
ly correct.    My  attention  was  first  called 
to  this   interesting  performance   by  an 
aged  negro  man,  who,  being  with  me  on 
an  egg-hunting  expedition,  cried  out  one 
morning,  as  a  burst  of  strangely  rhap- 
sodic  music   rang  from  a  haw  thicket 
near  our   extemporized   camp,   "  Lis'n, 
mars,   lis'n,  dar,  he  's    a-droppin',  he  's 
a-droppin',    sho  's   yo'  bo'n  !  "     I  could 
not  see  the  bird,  and  before  I  could  get 
my  attention  rightly  fixed  upon  the  song 
it  had  ended. 

Something  of  the  rare  aroma,  so  to 
speak,  of  the  curiously  modulated  trills 
and  quavers  lingered  in  iny  memory, 
however,  along  with  Uncle  Jo's  graphic 
description  of  the  bird's  actions.  After 
that  I  was  on  the  lookout  for  an  oppor- 
tunity to  verify  the  negro's  statements. 
I  have  not  exactly  kept  the  date  of  my 
first  actual  observation,  but  it  was  late 
in  April,  or  very  early  in  May  ;  for  the 
crab-apple  trees,  growing  wild  in  the 


1884.]                     In  the  Haunts  of  the  Mocking-Bird.                          623 

Georgian  hills,  were  in  full  bloom,  and  powers  of  expression.  It  is  said  that 
spring  had  come  to  stay.  I  had  been  the  grandest  bursts  of  oratory  are  those 
out  since  the  first  sparkle  of  daylight,  which  contain  a  strong  trace  of  a  re- 
The  sun  was  rising,  and  I  had  been  serve  of  power.  This  may  be  true ;  but 
standing  quite  still  for  some  minutes,  is  not  the  best  song  that  wherein  the 
watching  a  mocking-bird  that  was  sing-  voice  sweeps,  with  the  last  expression 
ing  in  a  snatchy,  broken  way,  as  it  flut-  of  ecstasy,  from  wave  to  wave  of  music 
tered  about  in  a  thick-topped  crab-apple  until  with  a  supreme  effort  it  wreaks  its 
tree  thirty  yards  distant  from  me.  Sud-  fullest  power,  thus  ending  in  a  victory 
denly  the  bird,  a  fine  specimen,  leaped  over  the  final  obstacle,  as  if  with  its  ut- 
Hke  a  flash  to  the  highest  spray  of  the  most  reach  ?  Be  this  as  it  may,  who- 
tree  and  began  to  flutter  in*  a  trem-  ever  may  be  fortunate  enough  to  hear 
bling,  peculiar  way,  with  its  wings  half-  the  mocking-bird's  "  dropping  song," 
spread  and  its  feathers  puffed  out.  Al-  and  at  the  same  time  see  the  bird's  ac- 
most  immediately  there  came  a  strange,  tion,  will  at  once  have  the  idea  of  genius, 
gurgling  series  of  notes,  liquid  and  sweet,  pure  and  simple,  suggested  to  him. 
that  seemed  to  express  utter  rapture.  The  high,  beautiful  country  around 
Then  the  bird  dropped,  with  a  backward  Tallahassee,  in  Middle  Florida,  is  the 
motion,  from  the  spray,  and  began  to  paradise  of  mocking-birds.  I  am  sur- 
fall  slowly  and  somewhat  spirally  down  prised  to  find  this  region  so  little  visited, 
through  the  bloom-covered  boughs.  Its  comparatively  speaking,  by  those  who 
progress  was  quite  like  that  of  a  bird  really  desire  to  know  all  that  is  beau- 
wounded  to  death  by  a  shot,  clinging  tiful  and  interesting  in  our  country, 
here  and  there  to  a  twig,  quivering,  and  Perhaps  it  is  because  the  places  most 
weakly  striking  with  its  wings  as  it  fell,  frequented  by  the  mocking-bird  have  not 
but  all  the  time  it  was  pouring  forth  the  been  sought  by  those  deeply  interested 
most  exquisite  gushes  and  trills  of  song,  in  bird-habits  and  history,  that  so  little 
not  at  all  like  its  usual  medley  of  impro-  is  known  of  the  most  striking  traits  of 
vised  imitations,  but  strikingly,  almost  its  character.  Quite  certain  it  is  that 
startlingly,  individual  and  unique.  The  no  monograph  exists  which  gives  to  the 
bird  appeared  to  be  dying  of  an  ecstasy  general  reader  any  approximate  idea  of 
of  musical  inspiration.  The  lower  it  our  great  American  singer.  I  must  say 
fell  the  louder  and  more  rapturous  be-  just  here  that  the  mocking-bird's  song 
came  its  voice,  until  the  song  ended  on  in  captivity,  strong  and  sweet  as  it  is, 
the  ground  in  a  burst  of  incomparable  and  its  voice  from  the  cage,  liquid,  flex- 
vocal  power.  It  remained  for  a  short  ible,  and  pure,  are  not  in  the  least  corn- 
time,  after  its  song  was  ended,  crouch-  parable  to  what  they  are  in  the  open-air 
ing  where  it  had  fallen,  with  its  wings  freedom  of  a  Southern  grove.  If  you 
outspread,  and  quivering  and  panting  would  hear  these  at  their  best,  and  they 
as  if  utterly  exhausted  ;  then  it  leaped  are  truly  worth  going  a  long  journey  to 
boldly  into  the  air  and  flew  away  into  hear,  you  must  seek  some  secluded  grove 
an  adjacent  thicket.  Since  then,  as  I  in  Southern  Alabama,  Georgia,  or  Mid- 
have  said,  three  other  opportunities  have  die  Florida  about  the  last  of  March  or 
been  afforded  me  of  witnessing  this  curi-  the  first  of  April,  when  spring  is  in  its 
ously  pleasing  exhibition  of  bird-acting,  prime  and  the  gulf  breezes  are  flowing 
I  can  half  imagine  what  another  ode  over  all  that  semi-tropical  region. 
Keats  might  have  written  had  his  eyes  It  is  a  silly  notion,  without  any  foun- 
seen  and  his  ears  heard  that  strange,  dation  in  fact,  that  the  mocking-bird  in 
fascinating,  dramatically  rendered  song,  its  wild  state  is  a  mere  mimic,  without  a 
Or  it  might  better  have  suited  Shelley's  song  of  its  own.  The  truth  is  that  all 


624 


In  the  Haunts  of  the  Mocking-Bird. 


[November, 


birds  get  their  notes,  as  we  get  our  lan- 
guage, by  imitating  what  they  hear. 
Very  few  of  them,  however,  are  suffi- 
ciently gifted  mentally  and  vocally  to 
be  able  to  pass  the  limitation  of  imme- 
morial heredity,  or  to  feel  any  impulse 
toward  any  attainments  of  voice  be- 
yond what  they  catch  as  younglings 
from  their  parents.  Hence,  as  a  rule, 
the  young  bird  is  satisfied  with  the  pipes 
and  calls  caught  from  its  immediate  an- 
cestors. No  doubt  a  lack  of  finely  de- 
veloped vocal  organs  has  much  to  do 
with  this.  But  the  mocking-bird,  the 
brown  thrush,  and  the  cat-bird  are  nota- 
ble exceptions  to  the  rule.  Nature  has 
endowed  them  with  an  instinctive  im- 
pulse toward  a  cultivation  of  their  vocal 
powers,  as  well  as  with  voices  capable 
of  wonderful  achievements.  A  mock- 
ing-bird reared  in  captivity  becomes 
much  more  a  mere  mimic  than  the  wild 
bird,  and  yet,  so  strong  is  the  heredita- 
ry tendency,  the  caged  bird  will  perfect- 
ly sound  the  notes  of  a  grossbeak  or  a 
blue-jay  without  ever  having  heard  them. 
I  have  heard  a  mocking-bird,  reared  in  a 
cage  in  Indiana,  utter  with  singular  ac- 
curacy the  cry  of  the  Southern  wood- 
pecker (Picus  querulus),  a  bird  I  have 
never  seen  north  of  the  Cumberland 
Mountains.  Many  little  incidents  noted 
in  the  woods  and  in  the  orchards  haunt- 
ed by  the  mocking-bird  have  led  me  to 
conclude  that  a  genuine  sense  of  the  im- 
portance of  singing  well  inspires  some 
of  its  most  remarkable  efforts.  One 
morning  in  March,  1881, 1  looked  out  of 
a  window  in  the  old  City  Hotel  at  Tal- 
lahassee, and  witnessed  a  pitched  battle 
of  song  between  a  brown  thrush  and 
a  mocking-bird.  In  the  grounds  about 
the  Capitol  building  across  the  street 
stood  some  venerable  oak  trees  just  be- 
ginning to  leave  out.  The  birds  had 
each  chosen  a  perch  on  the  highest  prac- 
ticable point  of  a  tree.  They  were  not 
more  than  fifty  feet  apart,  and  with  swell- 
ing throats  were  evidently  vying  fiercely 
with  each  other.  This  gave  me  the  best 


possible  opportunity  of  comparing  their 
styles  and  methods  of  expression.  To 
my  ear  the  brown  thrush  in  the  wild 
state  is  a  sweeter  singer  than  any  caged 
mocking-bird  ;  but  when  both  are  free, 
the  latter  is  infinitely  superior  at  every 
point.  There  is  a  wide  variety  of  pure 
flute  notes  expressed  by  the  wild  mock- 
ing-bird. These  notes  become  vitiated 
in  captivity  and  their  tone  degraded  to 
the  level  of  mere  mellow  piping.  In 
the  hedges  of  Cherokee  rose  that  grew 
along  the  old  Augustine  road  east  of 
Tallahassee,  mocking-birds  were  so  nu- 
merous that  their  songs,  mingling  to- 
gether, made  a  strange  din  which  could 
be  heard  a  long  way  on  a  still  morning. 

I  have  already  spoken  of  the  injus- 
tice done  the  mocking-bird  by  the  name 
given  it,  but  at  this  point  I  may  say  that 
other  American  song  birds  of  a  superior 
order  have  suffered  even  more  from  this 
cause.  Cat-bird  and  thrasher,  —  what 
names  to  be  embalmed  in  poetry  and  ro- 
mance !  It  required  all  the  genius  of 
Emerson  successfully  to  use  a  titmouse 
as  the  subject  for  a  poem.  If  Bryant's 
Lines  to  a  Waterfowl  had  been  ad- 
dressed to  a  duck  or  a  snake-bird,  one 
would  scarcely  be  content  to  accept  the 
poem  as  perfect.  A  name  certainly  has 
an  intrinsic  value. 

Mr.  Cable  in  his  powerful  novel,  Dr. 
Sevier,  speaks  of  the  mocking-bird's 
morning  note  as  unmusical.  At  certain 
seasons  of  the  year  the  bird's  voice  is 
not  especially  pleasing,  but  this  is  not  in 
song-time.  Early  morning  and  the  twi- 
light of  evening  in  the  spring  call  forth 
its  most  charming  powers.  Its  night 
song  is  sweet  and  peculiarly  effective, 
but  except  on  rare  occasions  in  the  nest- 
ing season,  when  the  moon  is  very  brill- 
iant the  nocturnal  notes  are  pitched  in 
a  minor  key  and  the  voice  is  less  flex- 
ible and  brilliant,  as  if  the  bird  were 
singing  in  its  sleep. 

In  Florida  and  in  the  valley  of  the 
Alabama,  I  observed  the  mocking-bird 
assuming  a  familiarity  with  man  very 


1884.]                   In  the  Haunts  of  the  Mocking-Bird.  625 

closely  approaching  voluntary  domesti-  than  half  its  size.  It  is,  however,  a  fa- 
cation.  A  pair  had  their  nest  in  a  small  mous  scold  and  blusterer,  accomplishing 
vine-covered  peach  tree  close  to  the  a  good  deal  by  fierce  threats  and  savage 
window  of  a  room  for  some  weeks  occu-  demonstrations.  I  do  not  believe  the 
pied  by  me.  They  seemed  not  in  the  story  about  it  killing  snakes.  It  would 
least  disturbed  when  I  boldly  watched  be  a  very  small  and  weak  reptile  that 
them,  though  occasionally  the  male  bird  such  a  bird  could  kill,  being  so  poorly 
was  inclined  to  scold  if  I  raised  the  armed  for  warlike  exploits, 
window.  Every  morning,  just  at  the  On  a  pedestrian  tour  through  the 
peep  of  dawn,  the  singing  began,  arid  loveliest  and  loneliest  part  of  Middle 
was  kept  np  at  intervals  all  day.  The  Florida,  I  was  struck  with  the  strong 
house  was  a  mere  cabin  with  unchinked  contrast  between  the  negroes  and  the 
cracks.  All  out-door  sounds  came  in  white  people  as  to  the  extent  and  accu- 
freely.  The  Suwanee  River,  made  fa-  racy  of  their  ornithological  knowledge, 
mous  by  the  Old  Folks  at  Home,  rippled  a  contrast  almost  as  marked  as  that  of 
near,  and  the  heavy  perfume  of  magno-  color.  I  could  get  no  information  from 
lia  flowers  filled  the  air.  My  vigorous  the  whites.  They  had  never  paid  any 
exercise  in  the  woods  and  fields  by  day,  attention  to  mocking-birds.  The  subject 
which  was  sometimes  continued  far  into  appeared  to  them  too  slight  and  trivial 
the  night,  made  me  sleep  soundly,  but  to  be  worth  any  study.  But  the  negroes 
very  often  I  was  aroused  sufficiently  to  were  sometimes  enthusiastic,  always 
be  aware  of  a  nocturne,  all  the  sweeter  interested  and  interesting.  Somehow 
to  my  half-dreaming  sense  on  account  of  there  has  always  seemed  to  me  a  fine 
its  plaintive  and  desultory  rendering,  touch  of  power  in  the  way  a  cabin,  a 
In  the  neighborhood  of  Thomasville,  few  banana  stalks,  a  plum  tree  or  two, 
Georgia,  a  mocking-bird's  nest,  built  in  and  a  straggling  bower  of  grape-vines 
a  pear  tree,  was  close  to  a  kitchen  door,  get  themselves  together  for  the  use  of 
where  servants  were  all  day  passing  in  indolent  negroes  and  luxury -loving 
and  out  within  ten  or  twelve  feet  of  the  mocking-birds.  I  have  fancied  it,  or  else 
sitting  bird.  The  brood  was  hatched,  there  is  a  marked  preference  shown  by 
and  the  young  taken  by  a  negro  and  the  songster  for  the  cots  of  the  freed- 
sold  to  a  New  York  tourist  for  twenty  men,  and  there  can  be  no  doubting  that 
dollars.  The  birds  tore  up  their  nest  a  warm  feeling  for  the  bird  is  nursed  by 
as  soon  as  it  was  robbed,  and  appeared  the  ordinary  negro. 
greatly  excited  for  a  few  days  ;  but  one  As  I  have  suggested,  the  nature  of 
morning  the  singing  began  again,  and  the  mocking-bird  is  that  of  a  resident 
soon  after  a  new  nest  was  built  a  little  more  than  that  of  a  migratory  bird,  and 
higher  up  in  the  same  tree.  It  has  been  I  am  inclined  to  name  its  true  habitat 
told  of  the  mocking-birds  that,  in  Loui-  semi-tropical.  Even  so  far  South  as 
siana  and  other  Southern  regions,  when  Macon,  Ga.,  and  in  the  region  of  Mont- 
such  of  them  as  have  taken  a  summer  gomery,  Ala.,  the  chilly  days  of  midwin- 
jaunt  to  New  England  or  Pennsylvania  ter  are  sufficient  to  drive  the  birds  to 
return  to  the  magnolia  and  orange  heavy  cover.  In  fact,  a  large  majority 
groves  in  late  autumn,  they  are  attacked  of  the  species  of  Mimus  (Mimus  poly- 
by  their  resident  brethren.  My  obser-  glottus  being  the  scientific  name  of  the 
vation  has  not  tended  to  verify  this,  mocking-bird)  are  to  be  found  in  South 
Nor  can  I  bear  testimony  to  the  bravery  America  and  in  the  tropical  islands  of 
and  fighting  qualities  of  the  mocking-  the  Atlantic.  The  plantation  negroes 
bird.  The  blue-bird  whips  it,  driving  it  used  to  have  a  saying  which  might  serve 
hither  and  yon  at  will,  though  not  more  the  turn  of  Mr.  Harris  or  Mr.  Macon  : 
VOL.  LIV.  —  NO.  325.  40 


626 


In  the  Haunts  of  the  Mocking-Bird. 


[November, 


"  Takes  a  red-hot  sun  fo'  ter  bri'l  de 
mockin'-bird's  tongue,  but  er  mighty 
small  fros'  er  gwine  ter  freeze  'im  froat 
up  solid."  Mr.  Fred.  A.  Ober,  in  his 
report  of  explorations  made  in  the  Okee- 
chobee  region,  does  not  mention  seeing 
the  mocking-bird,  but  it  is  there,  never- 
theless, or  was  in  1867.  I  remember 
seeing  a  fine  fellow  flying  about  in  some 
small  bushes,  near  the  remains  of  a  de- 
serted cabin,  on  the  northeastern  shore 
of  the  lake.  I  saw  some  paroquets  at 
the  same  place. 

On  what  is  known  as  the  Dauphine 
Way,  running  west  from  Dauphine 
Street  in  Mobile,  mocking-birds  used  to 
be  numerous,  nesting  in  the  groves  on 
either  side  and  filling  the  air  with  their 
songs.  Whoever  has  walked  out  on  this 
lovely  road  will  remember  a  low,  old- 
fashioned  brick  house,  no  doubt  a  plan- 
tation residence  one  day,  with  a  row  of 
queer  little  dormer  windows  on  the  roof 
in  front,  and  graduated  parapets  to  hide 
the  gables,  a  long  lean-to  veranda  and  a 
row  of  chimneys,  a  dark,  heavy-looking 
building  near  the  south  side  of  the  Way. 
In  a  small  tree  just  east  of  this  house 
used  to  sing  a  mocking-bird  whose  voice 
was  as  much  above  the  average  of  his 

O 

kind  as  Patti's  voice  is  above  the  aver- 
age woman's  voice.  If  one  could  get  a 
caged  bird  to  sing  as  that  one  did,  he 
might  profitably  advertise  it  for  con- 
certs. A  friend  and  I  sat  down  across 
the  Way  from  the  house,  and,  while  the 
gulf  breeze  poured  over  us  and  the  bird 
music  filled  our  ears,  got  a  sketch  of 
the  charmingly  picturesque  old  place ; 
but  somehow  we  could  not  put  in  the 
song  of  the  wonderful  mocking-bird. 

Bird-fanciers  and  bird-buyers  may 
profit  by  what  I  now  whisper  to  them, 
to  wit:  the  best -voiced  mocking-birds, 
without  a  doubt,  are  those  bred  in  Mid- 
die  Florida  and  Southern  Alabama.  I 
have  no  theory  in  connection  with  this 
statement  of  a  fact ;  but  if  I  were  going 
to  risk  the  reputation  of  our  country  on 
the  singing  of  a  mocking-bird  against  a 


European  nightingale,  I  should  choose 
my  champion  from  the  hill-country  in 
the  neighborhood  of  Tallahassee,  or  from 
the  environs  of  Mobile. 

No  doubt  proper  food  has  much  to  do 
with  the  development  of  the  bird  in  all 
its  parts,  and  it  may  be  that  the  dry, 
fertile,  chocolate-tinted  hills  that  swell 
up  along  the  gulf  coast  produce  just  the 
berries,  insects,  and  other  tid-bits  needed 
for  the  mocking-bird's  fullest  growth. 
Then,  perhaps,  the  climate  best  suits 
the  bird's  nature.  Be  this  as  it  may,  I 
have  found  no  birds  elsewhere  to  com- 
pare with  those  in  that  belt  of  coun- 
try about  thirty  miles  wide,  stretching 
from  Live  Oak  in  Florida,  by  way  of 
Tallahassee,  to  some  miles  west  of  Mo- 
bile. Nor  is  there  anywhere  a  more  in- 
teresting country  to  him  who  delights 
in  pleasant  wildwood  rambles,  unusual 
scenery,  and  a  wonderful  variety  of  birds 
and  flowers  in  their  season.  Most  of 
our  descriptive  ornithologists  have  taken 
great  pains  to  assure  their  readers  that 
the  American  mocking-bird  is  very 
plain,  if  not  positively  unattractive  in 
its  plumage.  But  to  my  eye  the  grace- 
ful little  fellow,  especially  when  flying, 
is  an  object  of  real  beauty.  There  is 
a  silver-white  flash  to  his  wings,  along 
with  a  shimmer  of  gray,  and  a  dusky, 
shadowy  twinkle,  so  to  speak,  about  his 
head  and  shoulders,  as  you  see  him  flut- 
tering through  the  top  of  an  orange 
tree  or  climbing,  in  his  peculiar  zigzag 
way,  the  gnarled  boughs  of  a  fig  bush. 
His  throat  and  breast  are  the  perfection 
of  symmetry,  and  his  eyes  are  clear  pale 
gold,  bright  and  alert.  The  eggs  of  the 
mocking-bird  are  delicate  and  shapely, 
having  a  body  color  of  pale,  ashy  green 
tinged  with  blue  and  blotched  with 
brown.  The  eggs  of  the  shrike  closely 
resemble  those  of  the  mocking-bird,  so 
that  the  amateur  naturalist  is  often  de- 
ceived. The  nests  of  the  two  birds  are  also 
very  much  alike  in  shape  and  materials, 
and  the  places  in  which  they  are  usual- 
ly found  are  exactly  similar,  a  lonely 


1884.] 


Crude  Science  in  Aryan  Cults. 


627 


thorny  tree  being  preferred,  if  in  the 
wildvvood,  and  a  pear  tree  or  a  plum  tree 
if  in  an  orchard. 

I  ain  quite  sure  that  every  one  who  has 
studied,  or  who  hereafter  may  study,  the 
mocking-bird  in  its  proper  haunts  will 
agree  with  me  that  its  voice  is  something 
far  more  marvelous  than  has  ever  been 


dreamed  of  by  those  who  have  heard  it 
only  from  the  cage,  and  especially  will 
the  lover  of  high  dramatic  art  and  con- 
summate individuality  of  manner  and 
vocalization  be  charmed  with  the  bird's 
exquisite  "  dropping  song,"  if  once  he  has 
the  good  fortune  to  witness  its  delivery 
and  hear  its  rhythmic  gushes  of  rapture. 

Maurice  Thompson. 


CRUDE   SCIENCE  IN  ARYAN   CULTS. 


IN  the  Hebrew  Genesis  the  creation 
of  the  world  is  the  result  of  a  divine  de- 
cree. God  spake,  and  it  was  done.  His 
simple  fiat  called  all  things  into  exist- 
ence, and  is  regarded  as  a  sufficient  ex- 
planation of  them.  This  attitude  of 
mind  towards  questions  of  cosmogony  is 
peculiarly  Semitic. 

Wholly  different  is  the  spirit  in  which 
the  Aryan  has  always  approached  such 
problems.  A  solution  of  them  depend- 
ing upon  the  intervention  of  a  deus  ex 
machina  would  not  be  accepted  by  him 
as  any  solution  at  all.  In  the  very  be- 
ginnings of  his  intellectual  development, 
so  far  as  they  have  left  any  traces  of 
themselves,  he  shows  a  marked  tendency 
to  examine  into  the  origin  and  essence 

O 

of  things,  and  to  discover  their  real 
causal  principle.  This  characteristic  is 
especially  remarkable  in  the  Indo- Aryan 
mind.  Not  only  in  the  later  philosoph- 
ical and  theological  treatises,  but  even 
in  the  earliest  monument  of  Indian  lit- 
erature and  the  oldest  record  of  Aryan 
thought,  the  Rig- Veda,  there  is  much 
speculation  of  this  sort,  often  curiously 
and  subtilely  interwoven  with  abstruse 
and  enigmatic  symbolisms,  and  occasion- 
ally lighted  up  by  flashes  of  genuine 
poetic  feeling ;  and  it  is  truly  wonder- 
ful with  what  boldness  the  sacred  singer 
attacks  the  toughest  themes,  and  to 
what  depth  he  sometimes  succeeds  in 
probing  mysteries  which  no  mind  has 


ever  yet  completely  fathomed.  In  the 
midst  of  his  hymn,  he  suddenly  starts  off 
in  childish  chase  of  some  gaseous  will-o'- 
the-wisp,  and  stops  only  when  he  finds 
himself  up  to  the  neck  in  metaphysical 
quagmire.  Unanswerable  questions  of 
ontology  and  cosmogony  seem  to  have 
had  a  strange  fascination  for  the  Vedic 
seer,  who  is  constantly  merging  the  poet 
into  the  philosopher,  breaking  off  de- 
scriptions of  phenomena  to  search  after 
noumena,  fluttering  about  in  hopeless 
queries  and  quandaries,  and  vainly  beat- 
ing the  wings  of  his  imagination  against 
the  invisible,  but  impassable,  barriers 
which  separate  the  knowable  from  the 
unknowable. 

"Who  beheld  the  first-born?  Who 
saw  the  bodiless  bring  forth  the  em- 
bodied ?  Where,  indeed,  are  the  life, 
the  blood,  and  the  soul  of  the  earth  ? ' 
"  Who  in  the  form  of  the  unborn 
propped  up  these  six  regions  of  the 
firmament  ?  '  "  What  was  the  fulcrum, 
what  the  lever,  what  the  means  by  which 
the  all-seeing  all-maker  established  the 
earth  and  stretched  out  the  sky  ? ' 
"  What  was  the  wood,  and  what  the 
tree,  from  which  they  formed  the  heav- 
ens and  the  earth,  that  they  stand  to- 
gether undecaying  and  ever-enduring 
whilst  many  days  and  dawns  have  passed 
away  ? ' 

Such  are  a  few  specimens  of  the  puz- 
zling  questions  with  which   the  Vedic 


628 


Crude  Science  in  Aryan   Cults. 


[November, 


seers  were  forever  vexing  their  inquisi- 
tive souls. 

There  is  one  hymn  (x.  129)  which  is 
especially  noteworthy  as  the  production 
of  a  thinker  who  approaches  the  sub- 
lime and  mysterious  subject  wholly  free 
from  mythological  bias  or  theological 
preconceptions  ;  and  although  he  does 
not  formulate  his  ideas  with  precision, 
nor  unfold  them  in  orderly  sequence, 
but  rather  throws  them  out  as  hints  and 
quasi-hypotheses,  the  process  of  his  rea- 
soning is  logical,  and  the  attitude  of  his 
mind  strictly  scientific.  He  goes  back 
to  a  time,  if  time  it  may  be  called,  when 
there  was  neither  entity  nor  non-entity, 
and  seeks  to  discover  how  existence 
sprang  from  this  absolute  void,  this  un- 
thinkable negation  of  nothingness. 

"  1 .  Non-being  was  not,  nor  was  there 
being  then ;  nor  was  there  space  nor 
sky  beyond.  What  enclosed  it  ?  Where 
was  it,  and  of  what  the  receptacle  ? 
Was  it  water,  the  yawning  gap  ? 

"  2.  Death  was  not,  nor  deathlessness 
then ;  nor  of  night  and  day  was  there 
distinction.  Breathless  breathed  by  self- 
sustaining  power  that  monad  (tad  ekarti)  ; 
beside  it  there  was  nought  else  what- 
ever. 

"  3.  Darkness  was  ;  by  darkness 
shrouded  in  the  beginning,  a  formless 
sea,  was  this  all.  The  potency  which 
was  wrapped  in  emptiness,  that  monad, 
was  developed  by  the  power  of  heat. 

"  4.  First  hovered  over  it  desire,  the 
primal  germ  of  mind  ;  the  bond  of  be- 
ing in  non-being  the  seers  discovered  by 
searching  thoughtfully  in  their  hearts. 

"  5.  Athwart  was  stretched  a  ray. 
Was  it  from  beneath  or  from  above  ? 
There  were  impregnations  and  mighty 
forces  ;  peculiar  receptiveness  from  be- 
low, vigorous  energy  from  above. 

"  6.  Who,  indeed,  knows,  who  can 
declare  whence  it  sprang,  whence  came 
this  evolution?  The  gods  were  pro- 
duced later  through  this  evolution.  Who 
knows,  then,  whence  it  derived  its  being  ? 

"  7.  Whence    this    evolution    arose, 


whether  self-originated  or  not,  he  who 
is  the  overseer  in  the  highest  heaven 

O 

knows  perchance,  or  even  he  knows 
not." 

After  raising  the  query  whether  the 
genesis  of  creation  may  not  be  sought 
in  water,  the  yawning  gap  (gahanam 
gabhiram  corresponding  etymologically 
and  cosmologically  to  the  ginnunga  gap 
of  the  Edda),  the  Vedic  singer  pushes 
his  inquiries  still  farther  into  the  arcana 
of  primeval  chaos.  The  use  of  the  word 
ambhas  instead  of  ap  implies  that  this 
original  element  is  regarded  as  the  es- 
sence, rather  than  the  substance,  of  wa- 
ter. The  poet  then  affirms  the  unity  of 
this  primogenial  principle,  whatever  it 
may  have  been,  strips  it  of  all  quali- 
ties, attributes,  and  conditions,  and  lifts 
it  into  the  highest  realm  of  the  abstract 
and  the  absolute  by  declaring  that  it 
breathed  breathless,  that  is,  without  the 
agency  of  air,  by  its  own  inherent,  self- 
sustaining  energy.  This  principle  is 
not  a  personality  or  being  of  any  kind, 
but  is  spoken  of  as  tad  ekam,  that  unit 
or  monad ;  in  other  words,  that  element- 
ary, indivisible,  unextended,  immaterial, 
and  indestructible  point  of  force,  which 
plays  such  an  important  part  in  the  phi- 
losophy of  Leibnitz  as  the  determining 
cause  of  all  phenomena.  In  this  re- 
spect it  resembles  the  ultimate  atom  of 
Leukippos  and  the  apxn  >  that  is,  the  un- 
conditioned and  undeveloped  materia 
prima  or  pure  potency  postulated  by 
Anaximander. 

The  primum  mobile  or  first  impulse 
to  movement  is  said  here  to  be  power 
of  heat,  one  of  the  most  subtile  and  im- 
palpable of  forces  and  the  universal 
source  and  symbol  of  life.  But  this 
heat  is  not  only  a  vital,  but  also  an  in- 
telligent, force ;  it  combines  the  fire  of 
Herakleitos  with  the  VOT)S  of  Anaxago- 
ras ;  it  sets  the  inert  and  inane  vortex 
in  motion,  and  puts  the  chaotic  elements 
in  cosmic  order ;  it  is  heat  in  the  con- 
scious form  of  desire  or  love,  the  first 
germ  of  intellectual  activity,  the  same 


1884.] 


Crude  Science  in  Aryan  Cults. 


629 


power  that  has  been  discovered  by  sages 
expanding  and  pulsating  in  their  own 
hearts  towards  the  great  ends  of  gener- 
ation and  creation.  The  bond  which 
bridges  the  vast  and  mysterious  chasm 
between  non-existence  and  existence  is 
described  as  a  ray  shooting  across  the 
abyss  ;  an  idea  which  reappears  in  the 
cosmogony  of  the  Manichseans,  who  as- 
sert that  the  first  impulse  to  creation 
was  given  by  a  ray  falling  from  the  re- 
gion of  light  into  the  region  of  dark- 
ness. How  this  effusion  of  fecundating 
force  was  produced,  whence  this  vigor- 
ous emanation  came,  the  poet  confesses 
himself  unable  to  tell,  and  is  finally  con- 
tent to  escape  the  difficulty  by  the  rhet- 
orician's trick  of  taking  refuge  in  tropes 
and  metaphors,  thus  imparting  to  his 
ignorance  a  semblance  of  knowledge  by 
clothing  it  in  familiar  phallic  imagery. 
The  gods,  he  says,  are  incompetent  to 
furnish  a  solution,  since  they,  as  mere 
personifications  of  natural  phenomena, 
are  later  results  and  outgrowths  of  this 
development,  and  it  would  be  absurd  to 
appeal  to  them  for  an  explanation  of 
processes  of  which  they  themselves  are 
the  products.  Possibly  the  chief  super- 
visor of  the  universe,  who  sits  on  high 
and  sees  it  go,  may  know  how  it  started 
on  its  course ;  equally  possible  is  it, 
however,  that  he,  too,  is  only  a  compar- 
atively recent  superintendent  and  cu- 
rator of  preexistent  materials  and  forces 
and  knows  nothing  of  their  origin ;  sub- 
lime as  his  functions  are,  they  may  be 
purely  administrative  and  not  creative. 

From  the  very  earliest  period  of 
Brahmanical  speculation  this  hymn  has 
exercised  the  exegetical  ingenuity  of  In- 
dian scholiasts,  and  furnished  occasion 
for  all  kinds  of  fanciful  exposition  and 
transcendental  twaddle,  each  sect  en- 
deavoring to  twist  the  sacred  texts  into 
props  for  its  peculiar  creed.  A  careful 
analysis  will  show  that  it  contains  the 
prolific  germs  of  nearly  every  important 
phase  of  Greek  cosmogony  from  Thales 
to  Plotinus.  It  even  hints  at  the  theory 


of  spontaneous  generation,  and,  in  its  re- 
peated references  to  evolution,  empha- 
sizes the  popular  catchword  of  modern 
science.  Like  all  ancient  cosmogonies. 

O  ' 

it  really  explains  nothing.  It  is  inter- 
esting only  as  indicating  a  scientific  ten- 
dency of  the  Aryan  mind,  a  spirit  of 
investigation  and  speculation  concerning 
the  phenomena  of  the  universe  which 
has  put  forth  many  crude  and  fantastic 
theories,  but  has  not  been  without  wor- 
thy witnesses  of  itself  in  every  age,  and 
has  worked  out,  in  our  own  day,  the 
great  systems  of  thought  associated  with 
the  names  of  Charles  Darwin  and  Her- 
bert Spencer. 

The  same  scientific  tendency  that  is 
perceptible  in  Indo-Aryan  cosmogonies 
pervades  also  Indo-Aryan  theogonies 
and  theories  of  worship.  In  our  own 
day,  the  progress  of  knowledge  has  left 
the  sorcerer  in  a  very  low  estate,  but  in 
primitive  society  he  was  the  only  man 
of  science,  the  "  upward-striving  man," 
as  Grimm  calls  him.  The  wizard,  as 
the  word  implies,  was  originally  the 
wise  man  par  excellence.  Milton,  in  his 
ode  On  the  Morning  of  Christ's  Nativ- 
ity, speaks  of  the  wise  men  from  the 
East  who  came  to  worship  at  the  man- 
ger in  Bethlehem  as  "  the  star-led  wiz- 
ards." Magic  is  based  upon  the  scien- 
tific assumption  that  the  laws  of  the 
universe  are  fixed  and  regular  in  their 
operation,  and  that,  by  discovering  them, 
the  forces  of  nature  can  be  controlled 
and  made  to  subserve  human  interests. 
In  the  presence  of  powers  which  are 
variable  in  their  character  and  arbitrary 
in  their  actions,  man  can  only  prostrate 
himself  in  abject  adoration  and  beg  for 
mercy.  All  that  he  can  do  is  to  propi- 
tiate them  by  supplication  and  by  sacri- 
fice. But  the  magician,  instead  of  bow- 
ing down  to  the  gods  in  servile  fear  and 
craving  their  compassion,  or  bribing 
them  with  gifts,  commands  them,  and, 
by  virtue  of  his  occult  science  and  pow- 
ers of  enchantment,  forces  them  to  do 
his  will. 


630 


Crude  Science  in  Aryan   Cults. 


[November, 


This  is  the  fundamental  characteristic 
of  Brahmanism  as  a  cult.  It  is  no  wor- 
ship at  all,  in  the  sense  of  mere  rever- 
ence and  homage  paid  to  supernatural 
beings,  but  a  vast  and  complicated  sys- 
tem of  applied  magic.  So  far  as  iso- 
lated prescriptions  are  concerned,  the 
Brahmanical  and  Levitical  rituals  pre- 
sent some  striking  points  of  resemblance, 
especially  in  the  manner  of  performing 
animal  sacrifices.  But  the  underlying 
principle  and  informing  spirit  are  wholly 
different.  Levitical  precepts  are  positive 
injunctions  originating  in  the  simple  will 
of  Jehovah.  No  attempt  is  ever  made 
to  discover  a  reason  for  them  in  the  na- 
ture of  things.  Thou  shalt  do  this  and 
thou  shalt  not  do  that,  for  "  thus  saith 
the  Lord ; '  and  that 's  the  end  of  it. 
The  expositor  of  the  Brahmanical  rit- 
ual, on  the  contrary,  endeavors  every- 
where to  trace  the  ceremony  to  some 
principle  in  nature,  to  connect  it  some- 
how with  the  laws  of  the  universe,  and 
thus  impart  to  it  a  permanency  and  so- 
lidity which  could  not  be  predicated  of 
an  arbitrary  decree,  however  lofty  the 
source  from  which  it  might  emanate. 
What  he  is  constantly  seeking  is  a  firm 
footing  for  his  rite,  a  knowledge  which 
he  can  stand  upon  with  the  assurance 
that  it  cannot  be  shaken  and  will  not 
slip  from  under  his  feet.  He  is  not  sat- 
isfied with  any  form  of  words  or  any 
ceremonial  until  he  can  say  of  it  prati- 
tishthati  ya  evam  veda:  he  who  knows 
this  stands  fast.  His  assumptions  may 
be  absurd,  his  inferences  illogical,  his 
symbolisms  far-fetched  and  flimsy,  and 
his  speculations  sheer  twaddle ;  never- 
theless he  reasons  and  philosophizes, 
observes  and  draws  general  conclusions 
from  supposed  facts. 

The  whole  structure  of  Brahmanical 
ritualism  is  built  upon  a  system  of  cor- 
respondences, a  mystical  relation  of 
types  to  antitypes,  often  expressed  in 
the  form  of  numerical  proportion.  Here, 
too,  as  in  other  fields  of  investigation, 
etymology  plays  an  important,  though 


precarious  part ;  and  many  a  sacrificial 
rite  or  sacred  observance,  when  traced 
to  its  origin,  is  found  to  spring  from 
the  forked  root  of  a  poor  pun.  In  the 
Aitareya  Brahmanam  (II.  1,  4),  the 
Word  is  said  to  have  made  all  things. 
Thus  in  the  earliest  speculative  theol- 
ogy of  India,  the  Gnostic  theory  of  the 
Logos  is  anticipated  and  its  creative 
power  asserted  in  language  identical 
with  that  used  in  the  Gospel  according 
to  St.  John.  The  mysterious,  telephonic 
character  of  speech  as  the  swift  and  in- 
visible vehicle  of  thought,  conveying  its 
freightage  of  intelligence  instantaneous- 
ly from  person  to  person  and  from  place 
to  place,  excited  the  naive  wonder  of  the 
old  Indo-Aryan,  and  at  a  very  early  pe- 
riod led  to  its  deification  as  the  goddess 
Vach.  A  peculiar  potency  was  ascribed 
to  it,  especially  when  woven  into  rhyth- 
mic form.  The  fascination  which  met- 
rical expression,  even  as  a  mere  jingle 
and  jargon,  still  retains  for  the  youth  of 
individuals  was  yet  more  strongly  felt 
in  the  youth  of  the  race.  The  simple 
song  was  repeated  as  a  spell  and  the 
rude  chant  mumbled  as  a  charm. 

The  vague  and  crude  notion  of  a  mys- 
tic virtue  inherent  in  such  collocations 
of  words  grew  in  strength  and  consist- 
ency with  the  lapse  of  time,  and  finally 
assumed  the  authoritative  character  of  a 
divine  revelation  and  sacred  tradition, 
and  became  fully  developed  and  system- 
atized in  the  ritual  hand-books  known 
as  Brahmanas.  In  these  treatises  such 
metre  is  endowed  with  a  particular  prop- 
erty and  assigned  its  own  place  ;  the  ob- 
jects for  the  attainment  of  which  it 
may  be  used  are  also  minutely  specified. 
The  incantatory  quality  or  essence  of  a 
verse,  its  so-called  rasa,  may  depend 
upon  its  radical  signification  or  its  rhyth- 
mical structure,  whichever  happens  to 
furnish  the  easiest  point  of  connection 
and  the  most  suggestive  symbolism. 
Thus  a  person  who  wishes  an  increase 
of  live  stock  and  wealth  in  cattle  must 
have  a  formula  in  the  Jagati  metre  re- 


1884.]                           Crude  Science  in  Aryan   Cults.  631 

peated  at  the  sacrifice,  because  Jagat  chariot-wheel.  Diseases  were  treated 
means  moving ;  but  if  children  are  de-  on  a  like  principle.  The  wizard  of  the 
sired,  he  must  employ  a  Dvipad  or  verse  Atharva-Veda  healed  the  sick  and  re- 
of  two  feet,  which  is  supposed  to  be  po-  stored  the  decrepit  to  health  and  vigor 
tent  for  the  procreation  of  bipeds.  Di-  by  putting  them  into  hollow  trees  or 
meters,  trimeters,  quadrimeters  and  pen-  pushing  them  through  holes  in  rocks,  as 
tameters  correspond  with  double,  triple,  signs  of  their  new  birth  and  bodily  re- 
quadruple,  and  quintuple  forms  of  life,  generation  ;  and  cured  jaundice  in  men 
and  become  the  efficient  cause  of  their  and  yellows  in  cattle  by  the  crude  ho- 
production.  Perhaps  in  this  whimsical  mceopathy  of  yellow  herbs  and  yellow 
theory  there  may  be  a  dim  perception  birds.  A  survival  of  this  superstition 
or  faint  presentiment  of  the  fact  that  all  is  the  buff  pigedh  which  the  European, 
nature  is  bound  together  by  continu-  peasant  keeps  in  his  house  to  "  take  on  " 
ous  and  indissoluble  links  of  affinity ;  a  fevers  and  distempers  that  might  other- 
truth,  the  establishment  of  which  is  one  wise  assail  his  family, 
of  the  latest  and  most  brilliant  achieve-  Occasionally  the  Brahmanical  exe- 
ments  of  modern  science.  There  is  gete,  in  the  midst  of  his  descriptions  of 
nothing  that  the  priest  cannot  accom-  the  ritual,  runs  off  into  little  episodes  of 
plish  by  a  proper  manipulation  of  the  scientific  explanation ;  and  it  is  inter- 
metres,  whether  for  good  or  for  evil ;  by  esting  to  note  how  close  he  sometimes 
purposely  jumbling  them  he  can  even  comes  to  the  discovery  of  a  great  truth, 
work  confusion  in  nature  and  beget  Thus,  in  the  Aitareya  Brahmanam 
monstrosities.  It  is  necessary,  however,  (III.  44),  it  is  said  that  the  hotar  in 
that  all  parts  of  the  magical  machinery  repeating  the  s'dstra  should  be  guided 
should  be  accurately  adjusted  and  kept  in  the  modulation  of  his  voice  by  the 
in  perfect  order.  A  false  accent  or  course  of  the  sun  and  the  intensity  of 
the  mispronunciation  of  a  single  letter  the  solar  heat  from  sunrise  to  sunset, 
breaks  the  connection,  so  to  speak,  ancl  As  a  matter  of  fact,  he  then  continues, 
vitiates  the  whole  ceremonial,  just  as  the  sun  never  rises  and  never  sets,  but 
the  slightest  mathematical  error  invali-  maintains  a  fixed  place  in  the  heavens, 
dates  all  the  computations  of  the  astron-  and  produces  the  phenomena  of  day 
omer.  In  this  system  of  worship  re-  and  night  by  turning  on  its  axis.  In  no 
duced  to  an  exact  science,  grammar  was  case  does  it  go  down  (na  kaddchana 
cultivated  as  a  means  of  grace,  and  pho-  nimrochati),  but  simply  turns  round 
netics  and  prosody  were  prized  as  pass-  (viparyasyate).  When  this  revolution 
ports  'to  eternal  bliss.  The  beginnings  of  the  sun  presents  the  dark  side  to  us, 
of  geometry  in  India,  also,  were  its  ap-  we  have  night ;  the  light  side,  however, 
plications  to  mensuration  in  the  con-  illuminates  other  regions  and  makes  day 
struction  of  altars.  Here,  too,  we  have  in  an  opposite  direction.  It  must  be 
the  same  rude  symbolism  founded  upon  confessed  that  this  theory,  in  clearness 
external  resemblances  and  specious  anal-  and  simplicity  and  suggestiveness,  is  far 
ogies  :  he  who  would  attain  heaven  must  superior  to  that  which  Christian  theolo- 
offer  sacrifice  upon  an  altar  in  the  form  gians  upheld  and  contended  for  during 
of  a  falcon  with  outspread  wings,  "  for  so  many  centuries  and  with  such  ex- 
the  falcon  is  the  swiftest  and  strongest  treme  bitterness.  The  consideration  of 
of  birds,  and  thus  the  sacrificer  mounts  chief  importance,  in  this  case,  is  not  the 
upward,  falcon -like,  to  the  celestial  correctness  of  the  hypothesis,  but  the 
world."  For  other  purposes,  the  altar  free  spirit  of  investigation  and  the  read- 
must  be  built  in  the  shape  of  a  heron,  iness  to  accept  its  results  which  charao- 
a  hawk,  a  tortoise,  a  chariot-pole,  or  a  terize  the  Brahman's  speculations. 


632 


Crude  Science  in  Aryan  Cults. 


[November, 


The  grounds  upon  which  the  Chris- 
tian apologist  is  wont  to  rest  his  belief 
in  the  Bible  as  a  divine  revelation  are 
chiefly  moral  and  historical,  and  some- 
times metaphysical.  The  Brahmanical 
defender  of  the  faith  also  urges  the 
same  considerations  in  proof  of  the  su- 
pernatural character  of  the  Veda,  which 
is  to  him  self-radiant  like  the  sun,  and 
evinces  its  divine  origin  in  its  wonderful 
adaptation  to  all  classes  and  conditions 
of  men,  being  the  refuge  alike  of  the 
ignorant  and  of  the  learned  (idam  sara- 
nam  ajnandm  idam  eva  vijdnatdm). 
But  he  does  not  stop  here.  In  his  effort 
to  be  scientific  he  carries  the  discussion 
into  the  province  of  acoustics,  and  en- 
deavors to  prove  the  eternity  of  the 
Veda  by  showing  that  sound,  the  me- 
dium of  Vedic  revelation,  is  eternal. 
And  thus  a  question  of  hermeneutics  is 
made  to  hinge  ultimately  on  a  point  in 
physics. 

The  error  of  mistaking  illustration 
for  argument,  especially  if  the  former 
is  drawn  from  any  fact  in  nature,  is  very 
common  with  Brahmanical  theologians. 
Thus  the  Vadakalais  assert  that  man 
comes  to  God  by  his  own  voluntary  act 
and  personal  exertion,  clinging  to  Him 
as  the  young  monkey  clings  to  its  moth- 
er ;  this  doctrine  is  called  markata-nyd- 
ya,  or  the  monkey-method  of  salvation. 
The  Tenkalais,  on  the  other  hand,  affirm 
that  man  in  coming  to  God  is  not  a  free 
agent  and  has  no  power  to  help  himself, 
but  is  carried  to  Him  as  the  kitten  is 
carried  by  its  mother :  this  doctrine  is 
called  mdrjdla-nydya  or  the  cat-method 
of  salvation.  These  systems  of  redemp- 
tion, which  might  be  characterized  re- 
spectively as  the  simian  and  the  feline, 
correspond  essentially  to  Arminianism 
and  Calvinism  in  Christian  theology.  In 
every  discussion  between  adherents  of 
the  two  sects,  it  is  curious  to  observe 
how  pertinaciously  each  disputant  re- 
verts to,  and  revolves  round,  his  own 
trope,  and  appeals  to  "great  creating 
nature "  in  confirmation  of  his  theory. 


"  Does  not  the  young  monkey,  when 
it  sees  danger,  seek  safety  by  clinging 
to  its  mother  ?  '  "  Certainly  it  does." 
"  Well  then."  "  Does  not  the  cat,  when 
her  kitten  is  in  peril,  seize  it  and  bear 
it  to  a  place  of  safety  ?  "  "  Certainly 
she  does."  "  Well  then."  Thus  each 
silences  the  other  with  an  apt  figure  of 
speech  and  is  convinced  that  his  doctrine 
must  be  true,  since  it  has  its  foundation 
in  the  laws  of  the  universe. 

A  still  more  striking  example  of 
quasi-scientific  tendencies  in  Aryan  re- 
ligions is  furnished  by  Indian  asceticism. 
Brahmanical  and  Buddhistic  ascetics 
differ  essentially  from  Christian  ascetics 
both  in  the  means  which  they  employ 
and  the  ends  which  they  desire  to  attain. 
The  yoga  of  Patanjali  has  hardly  more 
in  common  with  European  monasticism 
than  with  the  philosophy  of  Antisthenes. 
Greek  cynicism  was  really  an  Indian 
exotic  transplanted  to  Hellenic  soil, 
where,  owing  to  the  uncongenial  bright- 
ness of  earth  and  sky,  it  failed  to  attain 
its  normal  development  of  sturdy  and 
tranquil  austerity,  but  degenerated  into 
&  sickly  and  unseemly  shrub  bearing 
only  the  bitter  fruits  of  moroseness  and 
misanthropy.  There  is  something  fac- 
titious in  the  churlish  irritability  and 
snarling  cynanthropy  of  a  Diogenes,  in- 
dicating a  want  of  harmony  and  origi- 
nary  connection  between  the  asperity  of 
his  aims  and  the  allurements  of  his  en- 
vironment, and  presenting  a  significant 
contrast  to  the  cheerful  self-renunciation 
and  perfect  serenity  of  the  gymnoso- 
phist,  who  has  acquired  such  complete 
supremacy  over  carnal  appetites  and 
passions  and  the  seductions  of  the  senses, 
as  not  even  to  be  fretted  by  them  into 
censoriousness.  The  ascendency  of  the 
higher  faculties  has  led  to  the  extinc- 
tion of  the  lower  propensities,  so  that 
the  pain  of  the  physical  abstinence 
seems  absorbed  and  lost  sight  of  in  the 
genuineness  and  fullness  of  the  spirit- 
ual aspiration. 

In  like  manner,  the  asceticism  of  the 


1884.] 


Crude  Science  in  Aryan   Cults. 


633 


Christian  monk  is  but  an  indiscriminate 
and  illogical  self-torture  as  compared 
with  the  well-grounded  and  thoroughly 
systematized  austerities  of  the  yogi  and 
the  bhikshu.  The  fanatical  friar  scourges 

o 

himself,  wears  an  excoriating  shirt  of 
hair-cloth,  mingles  ashes  with  his  food, 
drinks  filthy  water,  and  does  a  variety  of 
painful  and  disgusting  things,  simply  be- 
cause they  are  painful  and  disgusting. 
Whatever  is  offensive  to  the  natural 
man  is  assumed  to  be  edifying  to  the 
spiritual  man.  This  is  the  sole  princi- 
ple which  governs  him  in  his  blind  pur- 
suit of  sanctity.  But  the  most  zealous 
and  fervent  fakir  never  torments  him- 
self on  account  of  any  virtue  supposed 
to  be  inherent  in  mere  physical  suffer- 
ing, nor  endures  privations  because  they 
are  unpleasant.  His  aim  is  not  so 
much  to  mortify  the  flesh  as  to  emanci- 
pate the  spirit ;  and  if  this  purpose  could 
be  attained  by  pampering  the  body,  he 
would  greatly  prefer  to  do  so.  In  his 
most  rigorous  austerities  he  proceeds  ac- 
cording to  a  regular  system  based  upon 
a  knowledge  of  human  physiology  and 
a  study  of  natural  history.  If  he  sits 
for  days  cross-legged,  holding  a  great 
toe  in  each  hand  and  gazing  intently  at 
the  tip  of  his  nose,  he  knows  why  he 
does  it  and  can  give  a  rational  account 
of  his  conduct. 

'  Though  this  be  madness,  vet  there  's  method  in 
it." 

Yoga  means  junction,  and  is  used 
in  philosophical  terminology  to  express 
union  with  the  Supreme  Spirit.  In  or- 
der to  effect  this  absorption  in  the  De- 
ity, man  must  free  himself  from  all  the 
carnal  ties  and  sensual  conditions  which 
constitute  what  is  commonly  called  life 
or  individual  existence.  It  is  not  neces- 
sary, and  would  be  tedious,  to  enumer- 
ate the  different  agencies  employed  for 
the  attainment  of  this  end.  Indeed, 
they  vary  with  varying  circumstances  ; 
all  tend,  however,  to  produce  complete 
concentration  of  the  mind  by  reducing 
to  a  minimum  every  bodily  want  and 


bodily  function.  Suffice  it  to  say  that 
the  greatest  importance  is  attached  to 
diet,  posture,  and  breathing,  as  means  of 
promoting  mental  abstraction  and  ac- 
complishing the  final  emancipation  of 
the  soul  from  the  bondage  and  limita- 
tions of  the  senses. 

The  yogi  believes  that  whatever  di- 
minishes   the  volume   of   carbonic  acid 
exhaled  from   the  lungs  contributes  to 
the  detachment   of   the    spirit  from  its 
thralldom  to  matter  and  its  release  from 
the    necessity    of    transmigration,    and 
helps  it   onward  towards  that   state  of 
ecstatic  isolation  and  perfect  beatitude 
known    as   kaivalya.     This   is   why  he 
practices    so    assiduously    the    seeming- 
ly absurd  religious  exercise  called  kum- 
bhaka,  which  consists  merely  in  holding 
the  breath  as    long   as    possible.     The 
normal  respirations    of   a  man  average 
about   twelve   a    minute,  during  which 
time  he  exhales  a  little  more  than  fifteen 
cubic   inches  of   carbonic   acid.     If   he 
can  hold  his  breath  for  ninety-five  sec- 
onds   the  volume  of   carbonic  acid  ex- 
haled is  reduced  to  less  than  one  cubic 
inch  a  minute.     Pure  air,  especially  if 
cool  and  dry,  increases  this  exhalation 
and  intensifies  the  desire  for  food,  and 
is  therefore  favorable  to  great  vigor  and 
activity  of  the  vital  energies.     A  warm, 
moist,  deoxygenated  atmosphere,  having 
about  the  temperature  of  ordinary  ani- 
mal heat,  diminishes  the  amount  of  car- 
bonic acid  emitted,  weakens  the  appe- 
tite, and  lowers  the  tone  of  the  whole 
system.     But  this  is  precisely  what  the 
yogi  wishes   to    accomplish.     From  his 
point  of  view  nothing  retards  growth  id 
grace  like  good  ventilation.  Accordingly 
he  takes  up  his  abode  in  a  guha  or  small 
cave,  closes  the  entrance  with  clay,  and 
there,  undisturbed  by  light,  or  sound,  or 
fresh  air,  gives  himself  up  to  contempla- 
tion of  the  absolute  and  thoughts  of  the 
unthinkable. 

A  child  has  warmer  blood  and  breathes 
more  rapidly  than  an  adult,  and  starves 
more  easily.  A  bird,  with  a  high  tern- 


634 


Crude  Science  in  Aryan   Cults. 


[November, 


perature,  quick  pulsations  of  the  heart, 
and  short,  panting  respirations,  will  die 
in  two  or  three  days  if  it  is  deprived 
of  food,  and  very  soon  suffocates  in  close 
air.  A  tortoise,  which  has  an  extreme- 
ly sluggish  circulation  of  the  blood  and 
breathes  only  three  times  a  minute,  can 
live  for  months  without  food,  and  be 
kept  for  hours  in  a  vessel  hermetically 
sealed  and  yet  produce  a  hardly  percep- 
tible deoxygenation  of  the  air  in  which 
it  is  confined.  A  toad  may  remain  a 
whole  day  in  the  exhausted  receiver  of 
an  air-pump  without  the  slightest  injury 
or  apparent  inconvenience  to  it.  It  is 
facts  like  these  which  the  yogi  observes 
and  applies  to  his  spiritual  discipline. 
He  studies  and  imitates  the  habits  of 
reptiles  and  hibernating  animals  in  order 
to  acquire  the  powers  which  they  pos- 
sess, and  even  lets  them  regulate  his 
diet.  The  turtle  and  the  water-lizard,  the 
Himalayan  marmot,  the  badger,  and  the 
bear  prescribe  his  food.  In  conformity 
to  their  tastes  he  eats  a  few  soft  and 
succulent  roots  and  fruits,  lettuce  and 
other  lactiferous  plants,  rice,  wheat, 
barley,  milk,  sugar,  honey  and  butter, 
and  scrupulously  abstains  from  salt  and 
every  kind  of  sour. 

Again,  the  yogi  avoids  all  contact 
with  metals.  It  is  well  known  that  hard- 
ware merchants,  particularly  in  cold 
weather,  need  a  greater  amount  of  sus- 
tenance than  dealers  in  woolen  goods 
and  other  non-conducting  substances. 
Metals,  as  the  best  conductors  of  heat, 
disturb  the  equilibrium  of  temperature 
between  the  body  and  the  surrounding 
air,  and  thus  excite  the  senses  and 
strengthen  the  consciousness  "of  individ- 
ual existence  which  the  yogi  seeks  to 
destroy.  Such  an  environment  would 
therefore  be  fatal  to  ascetic  contempla- 
tion and  that  complete  concentration  of 
thought  by  which  absorption  in  the  Su- 
preme Being  is  to  be  attained.  This 
lesson  is  also  learned  from  hibernating 
animals,  which  make  their  beds  of  non- 
conducting materials.  The  yogi  profits 


by  their  example  and  prepares  his  couch 
of  kusa  grass  and  wool. 

The  exhalation  of  carbonic  acid,  or, 
what  amounts    to  the    same  thino-    the 

&" 

consumption  of  oxygen,  is  supposed  to 
be  diminished  by  the  low  and  continuous 
muttering  of  certain  monosyllables,  the 
chief  of  which  is  om,  although  bam,  ham, 
lam,  yam,  and  several   other  words  are 
also  used.     Om,  however,  is  considered 
most  effective  for  hypnotic  purposes  and 
may  be  regarded,   in  this   province,  as 
an  example  of  the  survival  of  the  fittest, 
since  it  is  now  almost  exclusively  em- 
ployed. This  exercise  is  called  japa  and 
is  designed  to  produce  slower  and  deep- 
er breathing,  somnolence,  and  the  eman- 
cipation of  the  soul  from  the  dominion 
of   the  senses.     The  yogi  is  convinced 
that  the  longer  he  can  make  the  inter- 
val between  his  pulmonary  respirations, 
the  nearer  he  approaches  the   goal   of 
his  spiritual  aspirations.     Herein  lie  the 
significance  and  sacredness  of  the  mys- 
tical syllable  om. 

Tapas,  which  is  usually  translated 
penance,  expresses  in  reality  a  very  dif- 
ferent conception.  It  means  heat  ;  not 
as  some  writers  affirm,  because  heat  is 
one  of  the  principal  causes  of  pain,  but 
because  it  is  preeminently  a  purifying 
agent,  purging  all  things  and  burning  up 
the  dross.  Devotion,  in  the  Christian 
sense  of  the  term,  is  a  feeling  wholly 
foreign  to  the  heart  of  the  yogi.  He 
is  never  what  we  call  a  pious  man.  His 
austerities  are  not  intended  to  please 
or  propitiate  the  gods  ;  on  the  contrary, 
there  is  nothing  that  excites  so  great 
fear  in  celestial  minds  as  the  persistent 
tapas  of  the  Indian  saint.  It  was  Sa- 
tan who  tempted  St.  Anthony  with  vis- 
ions of  voluptuous  women  ;  but,  in  the 
old  Aryan  legend,  it  was  Indra  who 
sent  heavenly  nymphs  to  disturb  Visva- 
mitra  in  his  ascetic  practices  and  finally 
succeeded  in  seducing  him  through  the 
charms  of  the  beautiful  Menaka,  who 
became  the  mother  of  Sakuntala.  Even 
the  boy  Dhruva  so  frightened  the  gods 


1884.] 


Crude  Science  in  Aryan  Cults. 


635 


by  his  intense  fervor  that  they  besought 
Vishnu  to  put  a  stop  to  it.  But  Vish- 
nu declined  to  interfere,  and  the  youth- 
ful rishi,  by  the  force  of  his  austerities, 
ascended  to  the  skies,  where  he  shines 
forever  as  the  polar  star.  From  this 
feat  he  received  his  other  name,  Gra- 
hadhara,  "  the  pivot  of  the  planets." 

The  object  of  tapas  is  the  acquisition 
of  superhuman  power.  There  is  no  ele- 
ment of  humility  or  contrition  in  it ;  no 
effort  to  conciliate  or  crave  the  favor  of 
the  deities,  but  rather  to  compete  with 
them  for  supremacy.  "  Virtue,"  says 
Seneca,  "  is  man's  own  gift  to  himself, 
and  by  it  he  ceases  to  be  a  suppliant  and 
becomes  a  peer  of  the  gods."  Horace 
expresses  the  same  sentiment:  "Jupi- 
ter may  bestow  upon  me  life  and  riches, 
but  I  will  be  indebted  to  myself  for  a 
quiet  and  contented  mind."  Cicero  ad- 
mits it  to  be  the  duty  of  man  to  thank 
the  gods  for  vineyards  and  cornfields, 
for  health  and  strength,  and  all  physical 
benefits.  "  But  who,"  he  adds,  "  ever 
prayed  to  Jupiter  that  he  might  be 
good,  temperate,  and  just,  or  gave  tithes 
to  Hercules  to  be  made  wise  ? '  From 
time  immemorial  this  has  been  the  in- 
tellectual attitude  of  the  Aryan  towards 
the  gods.  The  Vedic  rishi  implores  In- 
dra  and  the  Maruts  for  wealth  in  cattle 
and  horses,  for  victory  in  battle,  and 
for  vigorous  sons ;  but  the  ascetic  rishi, 
who  despises  external  things  and  seeks 
spiritual  ascendency  through  the  subjec- 
tion and  extinction  of  the  senses,  puts 
his  trust  solely  in  himself,  and,  by  dint 
of  knowledge  (jndna)  and  the  discipline 
and  development  of  his  own  faculties, 
wins  success  in  defiance  of  the  deities. 

The  evolution  of  monotheism  among 
the  early  Aryans  furnishes  an  additional 
illustration  of  the  tendency  to  scientific 
method  in  the  growth  of  their  religious 
conceptions.  Among  Semitic  peoples, 
the  idea  of  one  god  has  been  uniformly 
reached  by  a  process  of  theocratic  cen- 
tralization, whereby  all  power  has  been 
gradually  concentrated  in  the  hands 


of  a  single  tribal  god,  who  has  out- 
stripped his  rivals  -and  seated  himself 
as  an  absolute  autocrat  upon  the  throne 
of  the  universe.  If  the  Semitic  gods 
were  originally  personifications  of  the 
forces  of  nature  and  particularly  of  solar 
phenomena,  this  side  of  their  character 
was  very  soon  obscured  by  the  strongly 
anthropomorphic  features  they  assumed 
and  the  strictly  political  functions  as- 
signed to  them.  Now  and  then,  they 
may  appear  clothed  in  cloud,  and  tem- 
pest, and  fire ;  but  for  the  most  part 
they  have  outgrown  and  discarded  these 
primitive  habiliments  and  put  on  the 
pomp  and  pageantry  of  human  sover- 
eigns. This  accounts  for  the  mytholog- 
ical poverty  of  the  Semitic  religions,  the 
extreme  difficulty  of  tracing  their  deities 
and  demi-gods  to  their  meteorological 
origin,  and  the  facility  with  which  they 
lend  themselves  to  the  support  of  Eu- 
hemeristic  theories. 

The  Aryan,  on  the  contrary,  arrived 
at  the  idea  of  one  god  by  observing  and 
generalizing  the  facts  of  the  physical 
world,  by  recognizing  the  interdepend- 
ence of  all  natural  phenomena,  and  re- 
ferring them  to  a  common  principle  or 
general  law,  postulated  either  as  a  per- 
sonal first  cause  or  as  an  immanent  and 
ever-operative  force.  The  mental  pro- 
cess by  which  he  came  to  this  conclu- 
sion was  precisely  the  same  as  that  by 
which  Newton  established  the  doctrine 
of  universal  gravitation.  Polytheism, 
with  its  populous  pantheon  of  rival  de- 
ities, was  superseded  and  set  aside  by 
the  monotheistic  conception,  just  as  the 
Ptolemaic  system,  with  its  cumbrous 
machinery  of  cycles  and  epicycles,  was 
superseded  and  set  aside  by  the  dis- 
coveries of  Kopernik  and  Kepler.  The 
first  suspicion  of  the  existence  of  a  sin- 
gle, subtile  force,  manifesting  itself  in 
all  the  operations  of  nature,  originated 
in  the  perception  of  the  ubiquity  and 
universality  of  heat,  the  vivifying  influ- 
ence of  which  was  perceived  in  all  the 
movements  and  transformations  of  the 


636 


Crude  Science  in  Aryan   Cults. 


[November, 


material  and  spiritual  world.  It  shone 
forth  in  the  sun,  the  dawn,  and  the 
lightning.  Its  effects  were  observable 
in  the  germination  arid  growth  of  vege- 
tation, in  the  varied  colors  of  earth  and 
sky,  in  the  refreshing  verdure  of  spring 
and  the  rich  hues  of  autumn.  Thus, 
this  element  came  to  be  regarded  as  the 
omnipresent  and  exhaustless  spirit  of 
life,  the  source  of  vital  energy  in  plants 
and  animals  and  men,  and  even  in  the 
gods  themselves.  It  was  the  great  crea- 
tive force  latent  in  chaos,  "  the  one  out 
of  which  the  all  was  evolved."  It  was 
ardor  (tapas)  in  the  soul  of  the  ascetic. 
It  excited  and  sustained  the  passions, 
melting  the  heart  with  love  and  kindling 
the  consuming  fierceness  of  wrath. 
Wherever  in  the  Veda  the  monotheistic 
idea  is  expressed,  it  centres  in  Agni,  the 
god  of  fire,  of  whom  the  other  gods  are 
only  subordinate  forms  or  special  func- 
tions. "  All  beings  are  his  branches  ; ' 
"  he  comprises  all  other  divinities  as  the 
felly  incloses  the  spokes  of  a  wheel ; " 
"  the  wise  poets  in  their  hymns  repre- 
sent under  different  forms  the  well- 
winged  god  who  is  one ; "  "  reverence 
to  that  Agni  who  is  in  the  waters,  and 
has  passed  into  plants  and  shrubs,  and 
who  formed  all  these  worlds."  It  would 
be  easy  to  multiply  passages  in  which 
the  omnipresence  and  supreme  sover- 
eignty of  the  god  of  fire  are  asserted. 
He  is  Varuna,  the  upholder  of  law  and 
the  punisher  of  sin ;  he  is  Indra,  the 
wielder  of  the  flashing  bolt ;  Mitra  the 
wonder-worker ;  the  far- striding  Vish- 
nu, and  the  radiant  Savitri;  he  is  Ru- 
dra,  the  wild  ruler  of  the  air,  and  the 
hosts  of  the  Maruts,  the  storm-gods  ; 
he  is  Bhaga,  the  giver  of  good  fortune ; 
Pushan,  the  protector  ;  and  the  Ribhus, 
the  cunning  craftsmen  and  artificers  in 
metals.  Visvakarman,  the  architect  of 
the  universe,  and  Brihaspati,  the  lord 
of  increase,  are  merely  appellations  of 
Agni.  The  Asvins,  the  divine  physi- 
cians, personify  the  therapeutic  or  sani- 
tary effects  of  warmth  and  light.  Among 


the  Vedic  deities,  there  is  scarcely  one 
that  does  not  represent  some  attribute 
or  office  of  this  vast  elemental  force,  so 
diverse  in  its  origin,  so  manifold  and 
mysterious  in  its  manifestations,  so  mar- 
velous in  its  operation,  so  universal  in 
its  diffusion,  and  so  powerful  in  its  ap- 
peals to  the  imagination.  Fire  is  pre- 
eminently the  bright  one,  the  deva,  and 
the  root  of  this  word  enters  into  the 
name  for  god  among  nearly  all  Aryan 
nations. 

Notwithstanding  the  sharp,  schismatic 
antagonism  of  religious  rites  and  tenets 
which  characterized  the  Indian  and  Ira- 
nian scions  of  the  Aryan  stock,  they 
agreed  in  paying  reverence  to  this  sa- 
cred element.  In  the  Avesta,  "  the 
blazing,  beneficent,  and  pervasive  fire  " 
is  praised  as  the  soul  of  nature,  the  su- 
preme cause  of  growth,  vigor,  and  splen- 
dor in  the  universe,  the  one  divine  prin- 
ciple revealing  itself  in  the  diversified 
phenomena  of  the  physical  world.  The 
vague  and  somewhat  fetichistic  concep- 
tion of  it  entertained  by  the  early  priests 
was  exalted  and  spiritualized  by  the 
great  Iranian  prophet,  and  formulated 
as  the  creator  of  all  life,  Ahuramazda, 
of  whom  fire  was  not  the  substance,  but 
the  purest  and  most  perfect  symbol. 

In  Indo- Aryan  theology,  Brahma  ex- 
presses the  highest  conception  of  ab- 
stract being ;  yet  this  invisible,  imma- 
terial, illimitable,  self-existent,  eternal, 
absolute,  and  incomprehensible  essence 
is  only  the  evolution  of  a  blade  of  grass. 
When  a  child  brought  a  handful  of  grass 
to  Walt  Whitman  and  asked  him  what 
it  was,  the  poet  confessed  that  he  could 
not  tell.  Had  he  been  better  versed 
in  Indian  lore,  he  might  have  replied : 
«  Dirty  little  boy,  it  is  Brahma."  And 
what  a  vast  field  for  his  fancy  to  fly  or 
to  flounder  in  would  this  discovery  have 
opened  to  him  in  the  development  of 
his  graminifolious  epic !  Brahma  is  de- 
rived from  brih,  to  grow,  and  signifies 
growth,  as  typified  by  the  commonest 
and  most  useful  of  herbs,  a  simple  leaf 


1884.] 


BirclibrooTc  Mill. 


637 


of  grass.  A  peculiar  power  is  attributed 
to  emblems  of  this  kind  by  many  savage 
tribes.  The  natives  of  the  Chatham 
Islands  exorcise  evil  spirits  with  a  bunch 
of  spear-grass  ;  the  Kingsmill  Islanders 
use  a  sprig  of  a  cocoa-nut  tree  for  the 
same  purpose  ;  and  the  Todas  practice  in- 
cantations with  a  twig  of  the  tude-bush. 
But  owing  to  the  intellectual  indolence 
of  such  low  tribes  and  the  feebleness  of 
this  faculty  of  generalization,  the  object 
never  assumed  the  character  of  a  type, 
but  remained  a  mere  fetich.  With  the 
more  highly  endowed  races,  however, 
this  phase  of  rude  rubbish-worship  soon 
passed  away  and  gave  place  to  a  refined 
system  of  magical  symbolism.  Thus 
Brahma  came  to  represent  the  hidden 
principle  and  universal  cause  of  growth. 
In  the  Vedic  age  it  meant,  not  prayer 
as  it  is  usually  translated,  but  that  oc- 
cult power  which  was  the  resultant  of 
the  combined  ritual  machinery  of  song 
and  sacrifice  and  ceremonial,  and  which 
the  priests  alone  claimed  to  be  able  to 
produce  and  to  direct  towards  desirable 
ends,  just  as  electricity  is  generated  by 
a  properly  constructed  battery  and  may 
be  applied  by  expert  operators  to  tele- 
graphic and  telephonic  purposes.  Brah- 
ma, in  this  sense,  was  recognized  as  the 
source  of  all  life  and  energy.  There 


was  no  physical,  moral,  or  spiritual  effect 
which  it  could  not  accomplish.  It  was 
the  one  great  force  in  the  universe, 
whether  for  creation,  or  preservation, 
or  destruction.  By  the  skillful  manip- 
ulation of  it  the  priest  could  cause 
drought  or  rain,  make  the  fields  barren 
or  fertile,  turn  the  scale  of  battle,  de- 
throne a  king,  or  even  dismay  and  strike 
down  a  god.  It  gave  its  name  to  the 
sacerdotal  caste  who  were  its  official 
guardians,  and  as  metaphysical  specu- 
lation increased  in  subtility  and  the  great 
schools  of  philosophy  arose,  Brahma 
was  finally  identified  with  the  Supreme 
Spirit  from  which  all  things  proceed  and 
to  which  all  things  return,  the  absolute, 
indivisible,  and  imperishable  essence,  into 
which  seers  and  sages  sought  to  merge 
their  individual  existence  by  means  of 
mental  abstraction  and  intense  concen- 
tration of  thought. 

In  the  history  of  this  single  word  we 
can  trace  the  intellectual  evolution  of 
the  Indo- Aryan  race  through  all  its 
stages  from  fetichism  to  pantheism.  It 
furnishes  also  a  striking  illustration  of 
the  scientific  spirit  and  the  tendency  to 
scientific  method  which  distinguish  the 
Aryan  mind,  even  in  its  relations  to  the 
supernatural  and  its  futile  attempts  to 
grasp  "  the  void  and  formless  infinite." 

E.  P.  Evans. 


BIRCH  BROOK   MILL. 
1750. 

A  NOTELESS  stream  the  Birchbrook  runs 

Beneath  its  leaning  trees : 
That  low,  soft  ripple  is  its  own, 

That  dull  roar  is  the  sea's. 

Of  human  signs  it  sees  alone 
The  distant  church-spire's  tip, 

And,  ghost-like,  on  a  blank  of  gray, 
The  white  sail  of  a  ship. 


638  BircJibrook  Mill.  [November, 

No  more  a  toiler  at  the  wheel, 

It  wanders  at  its  will ; 
Nor  dam  nor  pond  is  left  to  tell 

Where  once  was  Birchbrook  Mill. 

The  timbers  of  that  mill  have  fed 

Long  since  a  farmer's  fires  : 
His  doorsteps  are  the  stones  that  ground 

The  harvest  of  his  sires. 

Man  trespassed  here  ;  but  Nature  lost 

No  right  of  her  domain  ; 
She  waited,  and  she  brought  the  old 

Wild  beauty  back  again. 

By  day  the  sunlight  through  the  leaves 

Falls  on  its  moist,  green  sod, 
And  wakes  the  violet  bloom  of  spring 

And  autumn's  golden-rod. 

Its  birches  whisper  to  the  wind, 

The  swallow  dips  her  wings 
In  the  cool  spray,  and  on  its  banks 

The  gray  song-sparrow  sings. 

But  from  it,  when  the  dark  night  falls, 

The  school-girl  shrinks  with  dread ; 
The  farmer,  home-bound  from  his  fields, 

Goes  by  with  quickened  tread. 

They  dare  not  pause  to  hear  the  grind 

Of  shadowy  stone  on  stone, 
The  plashing  of  a  water-wheel 

Where  wheel  there  now  is  none. 

Has  not  a  woman's  cry  been  heard 

Above  the  clattering  mill  ? 
The  pawing  of  an  unseen  horse 

Who  waits  his  mistress  still  ? 

Yet  never  to  the  listener's  eye 

Has  sight  confirmed  the  sound ; 
A  wavering  birch  line  marks  alone 

The  vacant  pasture-ground. 

No  maiden's  arms  fling  up  to  Heaven 

The  agony  of  prayer  ; 
No  spectral  steed,  impatient,  shakes 

His  white  mane  on  the  air ! 


1884.] 


Malta.  639 

The  meaning  of  that  common  dread 

No  tongue  has  fitly  told, 
The  secret  of  the  dark  surmise 

The  brook  and  birches  hold. 

What  nameless  horror  of  the  past 

Broods  here  forever  more  ? 
What  ghost  his  unforgiven  sin 

Is  grinding  o'er  and  o'er  ? 

Does  then  immortal  memory  play 

The  actor's  tragic  part, 
Rehearsals  of  a  mortal  life 

And  unveiled  human  heart? 

God's  pity  spare  the  guilty  soul 

That  drama  of  its  ill, 
And  let  the  scenic  curtain  fall 

On  Birchbrook's  haunted  mill ! 

John   Greenleaf  Whittier. 


MALTA. 


IN  the  middle  of  the  sixteenth  cen- 
tury, the  Knights  of  the  Order  of  St. 
John,  who  for  nearly  five  hundred  years 
had  houses  successively  at  Jerusalem, 
Cyprus,  and  Rhodes,  and  had  developed 
from  pious  hospital  nurses  into  tough 
soldiers,  sought  a  new  and  more  impreg- 
nable position  in  the  Mediterranean. 
The  efforts  of  the  Grand  Master  and 
the  Pope  to  induce  the  sovereigns  of 
Europe  to  provide  them  a  suitable  posi- 
tion resulted  in  the  cession  to  the  Or- 
der, by  the  Emperor  Charles  V.,  of  the 
little  group  of  islands  of  which  Malta 
is  the  largest.  The  appearance  of  their 
new  territory,  of  which  they  took  posses- 
sion in  1530,  must  have  been,  especial- 
ly when  contrasted  with  their  beauti- 
ful home  at  Rhodes,  uninviting  enough. 
But  the  heads  of  the  Order  seem  to 
have  fully  understood  the  value  of  the 
harbors  and  of  the  geographical  situa- 
tion of  the  islands  as  a  base  of  opera- 
tions for  maritime  warfare ;  and  they 


speedily  began,  in  the  old  vigorous  fash- 
ion, the  work  of  fortification. 

There  are  probably  few  places  in  the 
world  better  adapted  for  the  purpose. 
On  the  eastern  side  of  the  island  two 
narrow  entrances  admit  to  safe  and 
commodious  harbors,  divided  and  com- 
manded by  an  elevated  tongue  of  land, 
then  called  Mount  Scebberas,  now  oc- 
cupied by  the  city  of  Valetta  and  its 
beautiful  suburb  Floriana.  The  larger 
harbor  is  to  the  south.  Its  northern 
shore  has  but  little  unevenness  for  more 
than  a  mile  and  a  half.  The  oppo- 
site side  is  indented  by  three  deep  bays, 
each  of  which  affords  a  good  and  secure 
anchorage.  Upon  the  central  promon- 
tory on  this  side  the  knights  placed  their 
town,  which  they  called  the  Bourg,  and 
their  principal  fort,  St.  Angelo.  In  the 
course  of  about  twenty-five  years  other 
works  were  constructed  :  so  that  when 
the  celebrated  La  Valette  became  Grand 
Master,  in  1557,  the  defenses  consisted 


640 


Malta. 


[November, 


of  St.  Angelo,  already  mentioned ;  Fort 
St.  Michael,  now  better  known  as  Sen- 
glea,  upon  a  rocky  promontory  paral- 
lel with  and  partly  commanding  that 
of  the  Bourg ;  and  Fort  St.  Elmo,  on 
the  point  of  Mount  Scebberas. 

La  Valette,  seems  to  have  been  a  per- 
fect incarnation  of  the  military  monas- 
tic idea,  the  beau  ideal  of  the  soldier 
monk.  Deeply  religious,  with  the  un- 
questioning, uncompromising  piety  of  his 
church;  simple  and  temperate  in  his 
habits,  though  not  ascetic  to  the  eufee- 
blement  of  splendid  physical  powers ; 
with  intellect  ample  enough  for  the 
work  of  a  commander  and  for  the  con- 
duct of  a  purely  military  government  ; 
intrepid  in  spirit,  regarding  his  own  or 
any  other  life  only  as  an  instrument  for 
the  performance  of  duty,  he  stands  out 
as  a  true  embodiment  of  a  chivalry 
which  was  rapidly  passing  away.  The 
Order  was  his  life  and  his  world.  He 
had  joined  it  as  a  youth  of  twenty,  had 
aided  in  the  defense  of  Rhodes,  and 
had  worked  his  way,  step  by  step,  to 
the  supreme  command.  From  the  day 
of  his  first  profession  to  that  of  his  at- 
taining the  highest  dignity,  he  never 
once  left  his  convent,  except  when  cruis- 
ing against  the  Infidel.  Such  was  the 
man  upon  whom  devolved  the  danger- 
ous honor  of  meeting  the  last  Moslem 
attempt  to  crush  the  warriors  of  the 
Cross  in  the  Mediterranean. 

Intelligence  of  the  assembling  of  a 
vast  armament  at  Constantinople  filled 
the  maritime  provinces  of  Southern  Eu- 
rope with  alarm ;  but  the  Grand  Mas- 
ter's spies  soon  convinced  him  that 
Malta  was  the  Sultan's  object,  and  that 
the  scenes  of  Jerusalem,  Acre,  and 
Rhodes  were  about  to  be  reenacted. 
La  Valette  was  equal  to  the  emergency. 
His  stirring  and  pathetic  appeal  to  the 
priories  aroused  the  old  crusading  fire. 
Lavish  supplies  of  money  were  sent  by 
those  who  could  not  come  in  person, 
and  the  best  and  bravest  of  the  knights 
flocked  to  Malta. 


On  the  morning  of  the  18th  of  May, 
1565,  the  Turkish  fleet  hove  in  sight : 
one  hundred  and  thirty  galleys,  be- 
sides smaller  craft  and  transports.  The 
army  consisted  of  thirty  thousand  men, 
five  thousand  of  whom  were  Janizaries. 
They  were  well  supplied  with  siege  ap- 
paratus, being  particularly  strong  in 
heavy  artillery.  Mustapha  commanded 
the  army  and  Piali  the  fleet,  both  vet- 
eran warriors.  The  defenders  num- 
bered about  nine  thousand,  five  hundred 
being  knights.  The  siege  continued  for 
something  less  than  four  months,  and 
the  fighting  was  characterized  on  both 
sides  by  an  unrelenting  desperation 
which  made  its  mark  even  upon  those 
pitiless  times.  Never  had  the  sensuous 
fanaticism  of  the  Crescent  and  the  de- 
voted courage  of  the  Cross  exhibited  in 
more  terrible  fashion  the  heroism  of 
which  both  were  productive.  Among  a 
crowd  of  incidents  of  battle,  so  numer- 
ous that  they  present  a  monotony  of 
deadly  strife,  one  seems  to  stand  out  in 
a  preeminence  of  tragic  interest. 

The  first  efforts  of  the  Turks  were 
directed  against  Fort  St.  Elmo,  upon 
Mount  Scebberas.  It  was  defended  by 
about  sixty  knights  and  two  hundred 
men-at-arms,  augmented  from  time  to 
time  by  supplies  from  the  main  fortifica- 
tions to  fifteen  hundred  men.  Its  re- 
duction cost  the  Turks  a  month's  pre- 
cious time  and  eight  thousand  of  their 
choicest  troops.  They  succeeded,  after 
a  time,  in  cutting  off  the  communication 
with  St.  Angelo,  and  battering  St.  Elmo 
with  their  powerful  artillery  until  it 
was  a  mere  heap  of  ruins.  Many  were 
the  desperate  assaults  that  were  repelled 
by  the  isolated  garrison  ;  but  each  at- 
tack rendered  the  defenders  weaker. 
At  last  the  night  came  which  was  evi- 
dently to  be  the  critical  one.  It  was 
clear  that  on  the  next  day  the  Turks 
must  carry  the  ruined  redoubt  by  sheer 
weight  of  numbers.  Surrender  was  not 
even  suggested.  Nothing  was  left  but 
to  die  like  crusaders. 


1884.] 


Malta. 


641 


They  assembled  in  the  little  chapel, 
where  they  confessed  one  another  and 
received  the  sacrament.  Weary  with 
ceaseless  vigil,  worn  out  by  constant  ef- 
fort, many  of  them  wounded,  the  band 
of  heroes  for  the  last  time  consecrated 
themselves,  their  swords,  and  their  lives 
to  their  holy  cause ;  and  then  each  man 
went  to  his  post  and  waited.  With  the 
first  blush  of  morning  the  Turks  rushed 
upon  them  ;  but  so  fierce  was  the  strug- 
gle of  utter  despair  that  even  then  they 
were  held  in  check  for  a  while.  But 
overwhelming  odds  bore  them  down ; 
quarter  was  neither  asked  nor  given. 
In  the  confusion,  a  few  of  the  Maltese 
men-at-arms  plunged  into  the  sea  and 
escaped  to  the  other  side.  With  these 
exceptions  they  were  all  killed. 

Mustapha's  reflections  upon  his  first 
success  seem  to  have  resembled  those  of 
Pyrrhus  on  his  victory  over  the  Roman 
legions.  When  the  Turkish  command- 
er entered  St.  Elmo,  and  looked  from 
its  ruined  bastions  across  the  harbor  at 
the  lofty  ramparts  of  St.  Angelo,  he  is 
said  to  have  exclaimed,  "  What  will  not 
the  parent  cost  us,  when  the  child  has 
been  gained  at  so  fearful  a  price  ! '; 

Whether  he  really  made  such  a  re- 
mark or  not,  its  thought  was  amply 
justified  by  the  event.  The  attack  and 
defense  continued  from  day  to  day  and 
from  week  to  week,  with  a  terribly  reck- 
less expenditure  of  life  on  the  part  of 
the  Turks.  At  last,  after  the  entire 
failure,  on  the  23d  of  August,  of  a  more 
than  usually  comprehensive  and  care- 
fully calculated  assault,  it  was  evident 
that  the  Turkish  soldiers  had  lost  heart, 
and  could  be  no  more  led  to  those 
corpse-encumbered  trenches  and  walls. 

Within  a  few  days  came  the  tidings 
that  a  heavy  force  was  on  the  way  to 
relieve  the  beleaguered  garrison.  This 
concluded  the  matter.  Although  there 
was  some  fighting  with  the  new  comers, 
the  siege  was  practically  at  an  end. 
The  Turks  got  on  board  their  galleys 
and  sailed  away.  Of  the  thirty  thou- 

VOL.  LIV.  —  NO.  325.  41 


sand  men  who  had  in  May  landed  at 
Malta,  scarcely  ten  thousand  found  their 
way  back  to  Constantinople.  The  losses 
of  the  Order  were  relatively  quite  as 
heavy.  The  Grand  Master,  when  the 
siege  was  raised,  could  not  number  six 
hundred  men  in  fighting  condition.  But 
the  exultation  of  success  and  the  pres- 
tige of  this  unparalleled  defense  were 
strong  points  in  their  favor.  The  name 
of  the  "  Bourg  "  was  changed  to  that 
of  "  Citta  Vittoriosa,"  in  honor  of  their 
triumph.  The  effect  of  the  great  de- 
liverance which  thus  crowned  the  valor 
and  devotion  of  the  Order  was  by  no 
means  confined  to  Malta.  The  security 
of  every  European  throne  and  the  peace 
of  every  European  nation  was  confirmed 
by  it.  Very  especially  were  the  great 
commercial  ports  of  the  Mediterranean 
relieved  of  the  constant  dread  of  the 
approach  of  the  Turkish  galleys. 

The  attack  on  Malta  was  coincident 
with  the  highest  point  of  the  Mussulman 
power.  When  Solyman  received  the 
news  of  the  collapse  of  his  grand  effort, 
and  the  shattered  remnant  of  the  once 
splendid  armament  were  again  assem- 
bled in  the  Golden  Horn,  he  indeed  re- 
solved to  renew  the  attempt,  and  pas- 
sionately swore  so  to  deal  with  Malta 
that  not  one  stone  should  be  left  upon 
another ;  but  Solyman  was  now  an  old 
man,  and  years  must  elapse  before  an 
adequate  force  could  again  be  brought 
together.  The  exhaustion  of  the  re- 
sources of  his  empire  was  greater  than 
he  was  perhaps  aware  of.  His  death, 
soon  after,  removed  the  greatest  danger 
which  had  threatened  Christendom  for 
many  years. 

But  La  Valette  and  the  knights  were 
not  men  to  leave  anything  to  chance. 
The  terrible  experiences  of  the  siege 
had  shown  them  that  the  weakness  of 
their  position  lay  in  the  location  of  their 
principal  fortifications.  The  loss  of  St. 
Elmo  had  given  their  enemy  the  advan- 
tage of  occupying  the  commanding  sit- 
uation of  Mount  Scebberas.  It  was 


642 


Malta. 


[November, 


therefore  determined  to  make  that  the 
chief  point  as  speedily  as  possible. 

The  elastic  power  with  which  they 
recovered  from  apparently  hopeless  ex- 
haustion and  set  to  work  upon  fresh 
enterprises  had  always  been  one  of 
their  most  brilliant  characteristics.  And 
never  did  this  admirable  quality  ap- 
pear in  stronger  relief  or  brighter  col- 
ors than  in  their  work  upon  the  new 
city  and  its  defenses.  Plans  were  made, 
lines  drawn,  and  workmen  brought  from 
well-nigh  every  town  in  Southern  Eu- 
rope ;  and  in  a  marvelously  short  time 
the  barren  expanse  of  yellow  rock  be- 
gan to  be  encircled  with  an  in  closure 
of  rampart  and  fosse  of  immense  solid- 
ity, depth,  and  strength,  and  within  the 
lines  churches,  palaces,  auberges,  and 
humbler  dwellings  seemed  to  grow  by 
magic.  The  original  plan  appears  to 
have  been  to  cut  the  entire  hill  down  to 
a  certain  point,  and  to  build  the  town 
upon  the  tableland  thus  secured.  But 
information  of  the  renewal  of  prepara- 
tions for  attack  which  were  making  at 
Constantinople  induced  them  to  give  up 
this  scheme  as  too  expensive  of  time, 
and  so  the  sloping  sides  were  left. 

To  this  circumstance  is  due  one  of 
the  most  curious  and  inconvenient  fea- 
tures of  Valetta.  The  streets  running 
lengthwise,  or  from  east  to  west,  are 
level;  but  most  of  the  cross  -  streets 
which  lead  to  the  harbors  on  both  sides 
are  stairways,  only  jpassable  on  foot ;» 
so  that  to  reach  the  marina  of  the  grand 
harbor,  or  the  landing  places  of  the 
Marsa  Musceit,  now  known  as  the  Quar- 
antine harbor,  a  horseman  or  vehicle 
must  make  a  detour  of  over  a  mile.  Of 
course  neither  La  Valette  nor  any  of 
his  generation  lived  to  see  the  comple- 
tion of  the  plans  for  the  city. 

A  wonderful  amount  of  work  was  ac- 
complished in  a  short  time ;  but  the 
town  has  gradually  grown  into  the  Va- 
letta of  our  knowledge. 

The  defense  of  the  island  against 
Solyman's  attack  may  be  said  to  be  the 


last  great  feat  of  arms  of  the  Order. 
They  fought  much  at  sea.  and  partici- 
pated in  almost  all  hostilities  against  tho 
Turks  for  years  afterwards ;  but  the 
progress  of  events  and  the  inevitable 
changes  that  accompanied  it  at  last  ef- 
fected that  which  Arab,  Saracen,  and 
Turk  had  for  five  hundred  years  attempt- 
ed in  vain.  The  subsequent  history  is 
an  exemplification  of  the  old  fable  of 
the  wind  and  the  sun.  As  long  as  the 
Moslem  was  a  powerful  foe,  worthy  of 
their  steel  and  demanding  the  ceaseless 
exercise  of  military  prowess,  the  knights 
exhibited  the  soldier  virtues  in  the  high- 
est degree  of  perfection.  With  the  grad- 
ual decline  of  their  enemy's  power  came 
the  decline  of  their  military  ardor. 

This  is  strikingly  evident  in  the  pic- 
tures which  adorn  the  walls  of  the  pal- 
aces. Not  only  do  we  see,  in  the  dress 
of  the  Grand  Masters  and  high  function- 
aries, the  chain  and  mail  superseded  by 
velvet  and  gold,  but  the  alteration  is 
clearly  perceptible  in  the  countenances 
and  expression  of  the  wearers.  A  still 
stronger  sign  of  this  decadence  of  spirit 
is  the  mariner  in  which  the  island  came 
into  the  hands  of  the  French.  Napole- 
on, who  was  as  able  and  calculating  in 
diplomatic  intrigue  as  he  was  prompt 
and  masterful  upon  the  field  of  battle, 
had  fully  informed  himself  of  the  condi- 
tion of  things  at  Malta.  He  knew  the 
disaffection  which  existed  amongst  the 
knights  towards  the  then  Grand  Master. 

o  * 

and  in  1797  French  gold  and  French 
promises  were  lavishly  employed  to  for- 
ward the  work  of  corruption.  Thus  it 
came  about  that  when,  in  1798,  he  an- 
chored off  the  mouth  of  the  harbor,  with 
that  armament  the  exploits  of  which 
form  so  large  a  part  of  the  history  of 
Europe,  the  great  fortress,  many  times 
stronger  than  the  one  from  which  the 
baffled  forces  of  the  Turk  had  retired, 
surrendered  without  even  firing  a  shot. 
Pensions  and  rewards  were  distributed 
among  the  traitors.  The  event  gives 
us  one  of  those  mocking  contrasts  of 


1884.] 


Malta. 


643 


which  history  is  so  full :    in   1565  the     mingling  of  the  two  lines  of  thought ; 


bleeding,  exhausted  defenders  of  St. 
Elmo,  receiving  the  last  sacrament  by 
night,  and  then  going  to  their  posts  to 
die  in  arms  in  the  morning ;  in  1798 
their  successors,  with  swords  undrawn, 
bargaining  away  their  grand  and  glori- 
ous heritage  for  so  much  apiece.  The 
French  seem  to  have  appreciated  the 
situation.  It  is  said  that  when  Napo- 
leon entered  the  gates  General  Caffarelli 
remarked  to  him,  glancing  at  the  mas- 
sive defenses,  "  It  is  fortunate  that  we 
have  some  one  to  admit  us,  for  we  should 
never  have  got  in  of  ourselves." 


the  grafting,  so  to  speak,  of  the  nine- 
teenth century  and  its  ideas  and  person- 
alities upon  these  grand  and  beautiful 
surroundings,  so  full  of  reminiscences  of 
mediaeval  heroism,  is  one  of  the  most 
fascinating  experiences  of  travel  in  this 
part  of  the  world.  To  people  possess- 
ing any  imagination  at  all,  a  visit  to 
Malta  is  quite  worth  while,  if  for  the 
mere  sake  of  this  novel  sensation.  But 
there  is  much  to  see  and  admire :  the 
Cathedral  of  St.  .John,  with  its  mosaic 
pavement,  said  to  he  the  most  perfect 
specimen  of  such  work  in  the  world  ; 


now  used  as  the  regimental  officers' 
quarters,  club-rooms,  etc. ;  the  Baracca, 
a  court  situated  upon  one  of  the  highest 
points  of  the  ramparts,  open  overhead. 


The  degenerate  knights  soon  found  the  palaces  of  the  Grand  Masters,  now 
that  they  had  a  conqueror  as  unscrupu-  occupied  by  the  governor  and  other 
lous  as  the  Turks.  All  the  treasure  was  officers  ;  the  auberges  of  the  languages, 
seized.  The  gold  and  silver  decorations 
of  churches,  palaces,  and  auberges,  the 
relics  of  five  centuries  of  heroism,  were 
swept  away  in  a  week.  But  the  corrup- 
tion which  gave  the  island  to  the  French  but  surrounded  by  noble  arches,  and 
was  ultimately  the  cause  of  their  losing  commanding  a  magnificent  view  of  the 
Had  it  been  fully  victualed  and  grand  harbor  and  the  opposite  towns 
stored,  its  final  disposition  might  have 
been  different.  As  it  was,  the  French 
garrison,  closely  blockaded,  were  com- 
pelled by  famine  to  capitulate,  and  in 
1800  the  British  obtained  possession. 
It  was  confirmed  to  them  by  the  treaty 


of  Paris  in  1814.  It  may  be  predicted 
with  some  certainty  that  it  will  remain 
in  English  hands  as  long  as  modern 
means  of  attack  and  defense  leave  it  its 
use  and  strength  as  a  strategic  point. 

Its  more  immediate  and  modern  inter- 
est is  of  a  different  character ;  redolent 
of  Captain  Marryat,  King  Teru,  and  Mr. 
Midshipman  Easy.  True,  the  remem- 
brance of  Napoleon,  Nelson,  Toulon, 
Aboukir,  Sir  Sydney  Smith,  Sir  Ralph 
Abercrombie,  and  a  crowd  of  other  gal- 
lant names  and  stirring  events,  is  full 
enough  of  fighting  and  chivalry,  but  of  a 
very  different  kind  of  chivalry.  In  the 
ancient  chronicles  the  element  of  humor 
and  fun,  which  is  so  prominent  and  so 


and  fortifications ;  the  vast  granaries, 
which  will  hold  provisions  for  seven 
years :  and  then,  outside  of  the  towns, 
the  exquisitely  -  kept  walled  gardens, 
oases  in  a  desert  *of  yellow  stone,  the 
earth  for  which  was  brought  over  from 
Sicily  in  boats  ;  the  "  casals,"  or  vil- 
lages, each  with  its  handsome  church. 

Some  of  these  features  deserve  more 
than  a  passing  mention  ;  the  Baracca, 
especially.  Either  in  the  early  morning, 
before  the  sun  has  had  time  to  convert 
the  entire  city  into  a  bake-shop,  or  about 
sunset,  it  forms  a  delightful  promenade. 
Let  us  imagine  ourselves  enjoying  it. 
At  its  western  extremity  we  look  over 
the  parapet  into  the  main  ditch,  cut 
sheer  down  into  the  rock  for  sixty  feet. 
Take  a  few  steps  to  its  southern  face, 
and  below  is  the  Grand  Harbor,  with 
the  Mediterranean  fleet,  perhaps  a  doz- 
en first-class  men-of-war,  at  their  moor- 
ings ;  beyond,  the  dock  and  victualing 


attractive  a  feature  in  the  later  war  nar-     yards,  forts    St.  Angelo   and    Senglea, 
ratives,  seems    entirely    wanting.     The     the   towns   of    Bourgo   and    Burmola ; 


644 


Malta. 


[November, 


further  to  the  left,  Righi  Bay  and  the 
Naval  Hospital,  occupying  the  beautiful 
site  which  it  is  said  Napoleon  intended 
for  his  palace.  Almost  immediately 
beneath  us  is  the  marina,  to  which  are 
moored  feluccas  and  speronari,  laden 
with  grain  and  fruit  from  Sicily,  and 
gayly  painted  native  boats,  somewhat 
of  the  gondola  character  and  build,  in 
abundance.  Their  owners  and  occu- 
pants are  buying,  selling,  bargaining, 
quarreling,  laughing,  and  gesticulating 
in  various  languages  and  dialects.  They 
are  handsome,  well-made  fellows,  pictur- 
esquely dressed,  and  conduct  their  busi- 
ness with  prodigious  vehemencs  and 
noise.  A  perfect  babel  of  tongues  comes 
up  to  our  ears  from  the  scene.  These 
people  are  good  humored,  but  fiery  tem- 
pered. Sometimes  a  knife  will  be  drawn 
and  a  tragedy  enacted,  but  not  often. 

Now  walk  to  the  other  end,  and  we 
look  over  forts  St.  Elmo  and  Ricasoli, 
and  through  the  narrow  entrance  out 
into  the  blue  Mediterranean.  Just  be- 
low this  end  of  the  Baracca  are  the  fa- 
mous "  nix  mangare  stairs."  The  leg- 
end of  the  origin  of  the  title  seems  to 
be  as  follows :  Like  all  Italian  and  semi- 
Italian  places,  Malta  has,  or  had,  its 
share  of  beggars.  The  portion  of  the 
marina  now  under  consideration  is  a 
much -frequented  landing  place,  from 
the  fact  that  it  leads  directly  to  one  of 
the  streets  of  stairs  affording  access  to 
the  centre  of  the  town.  It  was,  conse- 
quently, a  favorite  ground  for  young 
mendicants,  who,  looking  as  fat  and  jolly 
as  may  be,  would  appeal  to  the  sympa- 
thies of  the  people  landing  in  the  some- 
what polyglot  formula,  "  Nix  madre, 
nix  padre,  nix  mangare  for  six  weeks, 
give  me  a  copper,  seineur."  The  tradi- 
tion also  records  that  in  order  to  be  on 
hand  betimes  in  the  morning  they  would 
pass  the  night  with  great  comfort  by  in- 
serting their  heads  and  shoulders  into 
empty  flour  barrels,  which  stood  near 
the  head  of  the  stairs  ;  but  that  when 
the  British  took  possession  of  the  island 


this  pleasant  arrangement  was  interrupt- 
ed by  unsympathetic  midshipmen,  who 
would  send  the  barrels  and  their  sleepy 
occupants  bowling  down  the  stairs,  not 
to  stop  until  they  plunged  into  the  har- 
bor. As  barrels  and  beggars  could  swim 
with  equal  facility,  a  wetting  was  the 
only  result.  Truth  compels  the  admis- 
sion that  this  is  a  legend  of  bygone 
times,  as  the  beggars  are  now  far  less 
numerous,  and  the  barrels  have  disap- 
peared altogether. 

Sometimes  the  prospect  from  this  out- 
look is  very  different.  Occasionally  in 
the  winter,  the  gregala,  or  easterly  gale, 
blows  directly  into  the  harbor  with  great 
violence.  Although  the  narrowness  of 
the  entrance  to  some  extent  breaks  the 
force  of  the  sea,  and  the  government 
moorings  are  strong  enough  to  hold  the 
war  ships  secure,  wrecks  of  smaller  craft, 
accompanied  by  loss  of  life,  have  more 
than  once  occurred.  A  peculiarly  dis- 
tressing case  of  the  kind  happened  about 
forty  years  ago.  During  a  gregala  of 
unusual  severity,  a  Sicilian  brig  was  ob- 
served trying  to  make  the  harbor.  She 
was  watched  with  painful  interest  from 
the  battlements.  To  the  great  joy  of 
the  observers  she  succeeded  in  steering 
clear  of  the  rocks  on  either  side,  and 
was  driven  at  racing  speed  through  the 
narrow  entrance.  A  few  minutes  more 
would  carry  her  well  into  the  harbor, 
where  she  would  be  in  comparative  safe- 
ty. Just  at  this  juncture  it  is  supposed 
that  the  steering  gear  broke ;  at  any  rate, 
she  swerved  from  her  course,  was  caught 
broadside  on  by  a  tremendous  sea,  and 
in  two  minutes  was  smashed  to  pieces 
under  Fort  St.  Angelo.  The  soldiers 
let  themselves  down  with  ropes,  and 
risked  their  lives  in  trying  to  save  the 
unfortunate  crew,  but  without  success. 

A  very  noticeable  feature  of  Valetta 
is  the  richness  and  taste  displayed  in  the 
architectural  ornamentation  of  many  of 
the  buildings.  This  lavish  adornment 
is  accounted  for  by  the  fact  that  the  in- 
habitants, mostly  the  knights  and  those 


1884.] 


Malta. 


645 


associated  with  them,  had  no  other  em- 
ployment for  their  wealth.  This  pecul- 
iarity makes  Strada  Reale,  the  principal 
thoroughfare,  one  of  the  most  quaint 
and  beautiful  streets  in  the  world. 

The  winter  climate  of  Malta  is  very 
pleasant,  not  unlike  that  of  our  own 
Florida.  But  after  the  month  of  May 
there  is  a  very  different  state  of  things. 
When  the  latitude  and  the  vicinity  of 
the  parched  African  deserts  are  remem- 
bered, the  atmospheric  conditions  may 
be  imagined.  Between  May  and  Octo- 
ber the  sun  pours  down  with  almost 
tropical  intensity.  The  streets,  pave- 
ments, and  houses  are  made  of  the  yel- 
low stone  of  which  the  whole  island  is 
composed.  The  ground  becomes  so  hot 
as  to  be  painful  to  Northern  feet ;  the 
brilliant  yellow  of  the  houses  reflects 
the  burning  glow;  and  the  sirocco, laden 
with  a  fine,  impalpable,  but  distress- 
ing sand,  frequently  adds  its  contribu- 
tion to  the  general  exasperation.  It  is 
evident  that  these  conditions  prompted 
the  rather  profane  lines  of  Byron  :  — 

"  Adieu,  ye  joys  of  La  Valette, 
Adieu,  sirocco,  sun,  arid  sweat ; 
Adieu,  ye  cursed  streets  of  stairs, 
Sure  every  one  who  mounts  you  swears." 

Nothing  could  bear  stronger  testi- 
mony to  the  energy  and  purpose  of  the 
knights  than  the  fact  that  they  main- 
tained their  vigor  and  enterprise  in  spite 
of  such  a  terribly  depressing  climate. 
At  present  it  is  only  those  whose  official 
duties  compel  them  to  remain  who  brave 
the  summer  heats.  The  fleet  disperses 
to  its  various  stations  ;  the  yachts  sail 
away  in  search  of  coolness ;  the  invalids 
go  back  to  England,  and  of  a  summer 
afternoon  Valetta  is  as  deserted  and  si- 
lent as  a  fashionable  street  in  an  East- 
ern city  during  the  same  season.  But 
for  the  rest  of  the  year,  or  between  No- 
vember and  May,  there  are  few  places 
pleasauter  than  Malta.  The  most  insa- 
tiable appetite  for  gayety  will  for  once 
find  enough.  The  evenings  present  an 
unceasing  round  of  entertainment.  Balls 


at  the  palace,  in  the  club-rooms,  on  board 
the  ships,  and  at  the  regimental  quar- 
ters, private  parties,  and  the  opera  — 
where,  by  the  way,  several  have  made 
their  debut  who  afterwards  became  stars 
—  take  up  every  night,  from  Monday  to 
Saturday,  both  inclusive.  The  frequent 
effect  of  all  this  upon  the  duties  of 
Sunday  may  be  gathered  from  the  fol- 
lowing conversation,  overheard  en  route 
to  church  :  — 

"  Good  morning,  Colonel !  Beau- 
tiful day,  is  n't  it  ?  " 

"  Charming,  madam.  Are  the  young 
ladies  with  you  this  morning  ?  ' 

"  Well,  no.  You  see  they  were  out 
every  night  last  week,  and  I  thought 
they  had  better  rest  to-day." 

There  is  one  peculiarity  of  Malta  so- 
ciety which  is  a  little  inconvenient, — 
the  great  preponderance  of  men.  But 
even  this  has  its  advantages,  rendering 
it  a  perfect  paradise  for  "  wall-flowers." 
Ladies  who  have  been  decidedly  passees 
at  Chatham,  Portsmouth,  Plymouth,  and 
wherever  else  officers  do  congregate,  at 
Malta  can  renew,  if  not  their  youth,  at 
any  rate  that  consequence  of  it  which 
makes  them  eagerly  sought  as  partners 
in  the  dance.  When  the  introductions 
are  performed  and  the  centre  cleared ; 
when  the  floor  is  admirable,  and  the 
band  begins  a  waltz  with  that  perfection 
of  accentuation  and  time  which  long  ex- 
perience alone  can  give;  when  young 
ladies  are  scarce,  and  the  wearers  of 
epaulets  are  eagerly  scanning  their 
dance  cards,  what  difference  does  a  few 
years  one  way  or  the  other  make  ? 

But  amusement  is  not  confined  to  the 
evening.  In  the  afternoon  a  regimental 
band  plays  at  the  Pieta,  half  an  hour's 
drive  from  Valetta,  and  picnics  are  al- 
ways in  order.  These  are  of  two  kinds. 
One  is  managed  thus  :  Permission  is  ob- 
tained for  the  use  of  the  Verdalla,  one 
of  the  governor's  country  palaces,  about 
twelve  miles  from  Valetta.  To  this 
point  a  band  and  a  champagne  luncheon 
are  conveyed.  The  company  proceed 


646 


Malta. 


[November, 


thither  in  carriages  and  on  horseback  ; 
wander  about  the  valley  made  beautiful 
by  landscape  gardening,  and  known  as 
the  Boschetto  Garden  ;  lunch  ;  and  then 
dance  until  sunset.  The  short  twilight 
soon  fades,  and  they  ride  home  by  moon- 
light. 

The  other  kind  is  more  rural  and  un- 
sophisticated. There  is  a  wonderful  con- 
veyance, dear  to  the  memory  of  all  so- 
journers  at  Malta,  known  as  a  "go-cart." 
It  is  mounted  on  two  wheels,  and  gener- 
ally drawn  by  a  small,  vixenish-looking 
pony.  It  usually  carries  three.  Two 
ladies  recline  on  the  gayly  covered  mat- 
tress, with  their  heads  and  shoulders  to- 
wards the  driver,  who  sits  in  front,  but 
sideways,  so  that  he  can  handle  the 
"  ribbons "  and  talk  to  the  occupants, 
whose  heads,  it  will  be  seen,  are  close 
by  his  elbow.  A  dozen  or  so  of  these 
vehicles,  one  being  in  charge  of  a  native 
with  the  provisions,  a  few  outriders,  and 
perhaps  a  mamma  or  two  in  a  more  so- 
ber and  elderly  carriage  and  pair,  will 
furnish  the  materials  for  as  merry  an 
afternoon  as  one  is  likely  to  pass.  The 
roads  are  excellent,  if  somewhat  dusty  ; 
the  ponies  make  good  pace.  Perhaps 
they  go  to  St.  Paul's  Bay,  where  they 
will  hear  rather  astonishing  versions  of 
the  Apostle's  shipwreck,  and  will  be  able 
to  buy,  at  a  surprisingly  small  charge, 
relics  of  that  event ;  perhaps  to  Citta 
Vecchia,  or  some  other  point,  where 
there  is  a  fountain  of  cool  water  and 
a  delightful  grove  of  orange-trees :  but 
whatever  may  be  the  destination,  the 
event  and  its  memory  will  be  charming. 

Sometimes  a  more  adventurous  group 
of  pleasure-seekers  will  charter  a  boat 
and  go  round  to  the  neighboring  island 
of  Gozo.  The  sea-breeze  is  somewhat 
fresher,  the  surroundings  are  not  quite  so 
arid  and  stony,  and  the  soula,  or  native 
clover,  is  particularly  rich  and  beautiful 
upon  this  island.  Here  the  delights  of 
donkey-riding  can  be  had  for  a  small 
outlay.  Upon  a  detached  rock,  sepa- 
rated from  the  main-land  by  about  three 


hundred  feet,  grows  a  curious  red  fun- 
gus, to  obtain  which  one  is  hauled  over 
in  a  box  slung  on  ropes,  some  fifty  feet 
above  the  sea. 

The  sea,  after  all,  is  the  great  charm 
of  Malta,  and  especially  at  night.  There 
is  perhaps  nothing  which  satisfies  the 
combined  sense  of  beauty  and  rest  more 
completely  than  a  couple  of  moonlight 
hours  in  a  boat  in  the  harbor.  Archi- 
tecture is  improved  by  moonlight,  and 
the  rule  applies  with  peculiar  force  here. 
The  softening  of  all  the  harsher  fea- 
tures of  the  landscape,  the  extreme  clear- 
ness of  the  atmosphere,  the  deep  blue 
of  the  sea  and  sky,  the  coolness  after 
the  sultry  hours  of  the  day,  seem  to 
produce  the  very  essence  of  the  dolce 
far  niente.  The  native  Maltese  are 
well  aware  of  this,  and  itinerant  orches- 
tras —  most  of  the  people  are  musical 
—  will  come  alongside  the  ships,  just  as 
we  see  the  German  bands  in  our  streets. 
Some  of  these  improvised  bands  are  poor 
enough;  others  are  exceptionally  good. 

The  recollection  of  this  custom  brings 
an  old  story  to  mind.  The  English  were 
blockading  Toulon.  It  was  hard  service. 
Provisions  were  running  short.  The 
whole  fleet  was  storm-worn  and  bat- 
tered ;  but  some  of  the  ships  were  leaky 
and  strained  to  the  point  of  danger.  So 
a  squadron  of  the  worst  cases  was  de- 
tached, placed  under  the  command  of  a 
flag  officer  of  conspicuous  energy  and 
determination,  and  ordered  to  Malta 
with  all  possible  speed,  there  to  refit  and 
return  with  provisions  and  stores.  The 
admiral  dipped  his  colors  to  the  coui- 
mander-in-chief,  and  made  sail  for  Malta. 
Steam  navigation  was  unknown  in  those 
days.  All  went  well  until  he  was  with- 
in a  day's  sail  of  the  island,  when  a 
gregala  caught  him  in  the  teeth,  and 
blew  him  half-way  back  to  Toulon.  At 
length  the  wind  shifted,  and  once  more 
he  steered  for  Malta.  Again  he  was 

O 

baffled  by  the  wind  ;  but  finally  got  into 
the  harbor  about  the  time  he  should 
have  been  back  at  Toulon  with  the  bis- 


1884.] 


Malta. 


647 


cuit,  beef,  and  rum  for  the  fleet.  Brit- 
ish naval  commanders  are  not,  as  a  gen- 
eral rule,  distinguished  for  the  sweet- 
ness of  their  tempers  at  the  best  of 
times ;  and  it  will  be  readily  imagined 
that  this  officer  did  not  enter  Malta 
harbor  in  an  especially  Christian  frame 
of  mind.  But  he  went  at  his  work  like 
one  of  the  old  Grand  Masters.  No 
sooner  were  the  anchors  down  than  car- 
penters, riggers,  caulkers,  and  every 
description  of  artificer  that  could  be 
brought  to  bear  upon  the  repairs  were 
set  to  work.  In  the  midst  of  the  confu- 
sion and  racket  the  governor's  barge  was 
reported.  The  guard  was  turned  out, 
and  the  high  functionary  was  received 
with  all  appropriate  ceremonies.  But  the 
work  did  not  cease  for  a  moment.  When 
the  formalities  were  over  the  governor 
stepped  into  the  admiral's  cabin,  and 
there  were  a  few  minutes'  more  familiar 
conversation.  The  caulkers  were  mak- 
ing a  pandemonium  of  deafening  noise 
overhead ;  but  between  the  strokes  of 
their  mallets  could  be  heard  occasion- 
ally the  strains  of  an  itinerant  band  of 
music.  The  governor,  roaring  to  make 
himself  heard,  said,  — 

"  My  dear  admiral,  do  come  to  the 
palace  for  a  few  days'  rest." 

"  Rest,  sir ! ''  snarled  the  old  salt. 
"  I  've  got  too  much  to  do,  to  think  about 
rest," 

"  Well,  then,  just  get  into  my  barge, 
and  come  on  shore  for  an  hour  or  two, 
out  of  all  this  horrid  noise." 

"  Noise,  sir !  I  don't  hear  any  noise, 

except   those  d d  fiddlers  under  the 

stern." 

The  devotion  of  everybody  to  dan- 
cing is  worthy  of  the  occupants  of  the 
home  of  the  Knights  of  St.  John.  The 
last  ball  of  the  season  is  given  at  the 
palace  in  honor  of  Her  Majesty's  birth- 
day. It  is  kept  in  the  month  of  May. 
It  is  a  full-dress  affair :  the  uniform 
coats  are  buttoned  to  the  chin.  It  will 
be  the  last  waltz  ;  and  although  the 
atmosphere  reminds  one  of  the  Black 


Hole  of  Calcutta,  there  is  no  flinching. 
Next  week  the  fleet  will  be  gone,  and 
sirocco  and  silence  will  settle  down  upon 
the  city.  "  On  with  the  dance,"  though 
the  labor  is  severe. 

But  Malta  has  other  inhabitants  be- 
sides British  officials  and  their  families. 
The    native    population    deserve    more 
notice   than   is   usually  accorded  them. 
They  are  mostly  very  poor,  —  so  poor 
that  the  English  penny  is  divided  into 
twelfths,  called  "  grains,"  for  their  bene- 
fit ;  but  they  are  industrious,  hardy,  and 
frugal.  They  are  of  Arab  stock,  qualified 
in  the  harbor  towns  with  a  large  admix- 
ture of  Italian.     This  is  observable  in 
the  language.     In  Valetta  it  is  a  min- 
gling of  Italian  and  Arabic ;  but  in  the 
outlying  casals,   the   Arab  tongue  pre- 
dominates.    The  peasantry  of  the  coun- 
try are  home-loving  and  affectionate  in 
their  families ;  very  ignorant  and  very 
pious.  A  large  percentage  of  their  hard- 
earned   wages  is  given  to    the   church. 
One  of  the  things  that   most  strikes  a 
visitor   is  the  number  and  size   of  the 
churches  and  the  multiplicity  of  priests. 
An  interesting  and  remarkable  instance 
of  this  spirit  of  devotion  may  be  seen 
in  the  village  of  Musta.     Here  there  is 
a  large,  new,  and  beautiful  church.    Not 
many  years  ago  there  was  a  smaller  one 
upon  the  same  site.  The  problem  of  how 
to  rebuild  was  solved  thus  :  The  money 
that  could  be  collected  from  the  villagers 
was  altogether  insufficient  for  the  pur- 
pose ;  so  they  procured  their  plans,  the 
foundation  of  the  new  edifice  was  laid, 
and   the  lines  were  drawn  outside  the 
walls  of  the  old  one.     The  people  gave 
their  labor  as  they  could  afford  it,  and  in 
this   way,  little   by  little,  the   building 
rose.    To  stand  on  the  unfinished  dome, 
look  down  upon  the  church  beneath,  and 
hear    the    chanting    of   vespers   was   a 
unique  experience.     At  last  it  was  fin- 
ished, and  the  old  church  was  dismantled, 
pulled  down,  and  carried  out  piecemeal. 
The    Maltese    are    good    sailors    and 
boatmen.     Many  of  them  make  a  living 


648 


Malice. 


[November, 


by  serving  the  naval  officers'  messes  in 
the  capacity  of  "  bum  boatmen."  This 
is  an  arduous  business,  and  in  pursuing 
it  they  exhibit  many  excellent  qualities. 
Their  memory  is  wonderful.  They  can 
neither  read  nor  write,  but  they  will 
recollect  and  execute  accurately  a  mar- 
velous number  of  small  commissions. 
Then  they  are  good-tempered  and  oblig- 
ing. Of  liberty,  in  our  sense  of  the 
term,  they  have  not  much  idea.  Inher- 
iting a  long  pedigree  of  servitude,  ac- 
customed to  nothing  but  domination,  — 
military,  ecclesiastical,  and  atmospheric, 
—  they  seem  to  thrive  under  it.  They 
are  very  fond  of  and  have  a  deep  ven- 
eration for  religious  processions,  and 
keep  the  various  "  festas  "  and  fasts  of 
the  church  with  exemplary  devotion. 
One  outcome  of  their  piety  is  distress- 
ing to  strangers.  All  the  churches  have 
bells  which  are  not  swung  and  rung  in 
the  ordinary  manner,  but  either  beaten 
with  a  hammer  from  outside,  or  sounded 
by  a  rope  attached  to  the  clapper.  This 
bell  ringing,  or  rather  hammering,  is  an 
essential  part  of  the  Maltese  idea  of  wor- 
ship. None  can  be  carried  on  without 
it.  Matins,  vespers,  festas,  fasts,  wed- 
dings, funerals,  —  all  must  have  plenty 
of  bell.  As  there  is  no  attempt  at 
chimes,  or  musical  arrangement  of  any 
kind,  and  as,  especially  during  Lent, 
they  begin  very  early  in  the  morning, 
the  effect  may  be  imagined. 

There  used  to  be  a  personage  more 
or  less  familiar  to  residents  at  Malta, 
very  distinct  from  the  English  officials, 


from  the  seekers  after  pleasure  and  the 
seekers  after  health, — distinct,  too,  from 
the  native  population,  —  whom  it  is  to 
be  hoped  may  never  be  seen  there  again. 
When  Ferdinand  of  Naples  was  out- 
raging humanity  by  his  cruel  and  perfid- 
ious persecution  of  the  men  whom  he  had 
solemnly  sworn  to  protect  and  respect ; 
when  the  best  and  purest  spirits  in  his 
kingdom  were  chained  to  the  floor  in 
loathsome  dungeons,  for  the  crime  of  at- 
tempting to  secure  constitutional  liberty 
for  themselves  and  their  countrymen ; 
when  Italy  was  in  the  throes  of  revo- 
lution ;  when  Garibaldi  was  gathering 
about  him  the  fiery  youth  of  a  people 
driven  to  desperation,  Malta  was  often 
the  resting-place  of  the  Italian  refugee. 
Gallant  and  worthy  gentlemen,  who 
had  been  reared  in  wealth  and  refine- 
ment, were  giving  lessons  in  French  and 
Italian,  and  living  in  stifling  garrets  in 
Valetta  upon  the  pittance  they  could 
earn.  Happier  times  have  come.  We 
see  a  new  Italy,  flushed  with  all  the 
ideas  of  modern  progress,  and  buoyant 
with  hopes  of  a  yet  brighter  future.  The 
recent  mention  of  Malta  as  the  possible 
pontifical  residence  —  or  refuge  —  sug- 
gests an  impressive  turning  of  the  tables. 
That  it  should  be  chosen  as  the  seat 
of  that  great  spiritual  government  which 
is  accused,  with  such  fierceness  of  ve- 
hemence, of  making  common  cause  with 
all  that  is  tyrannical  and  oppressive 
would  afford  another  instance  of  the 
vicissitudes  of  the  history  with  which 
the  island  is  so  strikingly  associated. 

J.  M.  Hillyar. 


MALICE. 

WHAT  now  !     You  deem  that  Fiend  of  Malice  dead  ? 

Medusa  died,  but  still  her  severed  head, 

By  Perseus  borne  o'er  Libyan  dune  and   dell, 

Shed  blood-drops,  changed  to  scorpions  where  they  fell ! 

Paul  Hamilton  Hayne. 


1884.] 


Stephen  Dewhurst's  Autobiography. 


649 


STEPHEN   DEWHURST'S   AUTOBIOGRAPHY. 


[Among  the  papers  left  by  Mr.  Henry  James, 
Sr.,  was  one  entitled  "  Immortal  Life  :  illustrated 
in  a  brief  autobiographic  sketch  of  th*i  late  Stephen 
Dewhurst.  Edited,  with  an  introduction  by  Henr}' 
James."  Under  the  slight  disguise  of  a  fictitious 
autobiography,  Mr.  James  began  a  sketch  of  the 
growth  of  his  mind  upon  a  back-ground  of  per- 
sonal history.  The  paper  was  left  in  a  fragment- 
ary form,  and  is  here  published,  with  two  omissions 
and  with  the  exception  of  the  explanatory  intro- 
duction.] 


I. 


MY    EARLIEST    RECOLLECTIONS. 

I  WILL  not  attempt  to  state  the  year 
in  which  I  was  born,  because  it  is  not  a 
fact  embraced  in  my  own  knowledge, 
but  content  myself  with  saying  instead, 
that  the  earliest  event  of  my  biographic 
consciousness  is  that  of  my  having  been 
carried  out  into  the  streets  one  night,  in 
the  arms  of  my  negro  nurse,  to  witness 
a  grand  illumination  in  honor  of  the 
treaty  of  peace  then  just  signed  with 
Great  Britain.  From  this  circumstance 
I  infer,  of  course,  that  I  was  born  before 
the  year  1815,  but  it  gives  me  no  war- 
rant to  say  just  how  long  before.  The 
net  fact  is  that  my  historic  conscious- 
ness, or  my  earliest  self-recognition, 
dates  from  this  municipal  illumination 
in  honor  of  peace.  So  far,  however,  as 
my  share  in  that  spectacle  is  concerned, 
I  am  free  to  say  it  was  a  failure.  That 
is,  the  only  impression  left  by  the  illu- 
mination upon  my  imagination  was  the 
contrast  of  the  awful  dark  of  the  sky 
with  the  feeble  glitter  of  the  streets ;  as 
if  the  animus  of  the  display  had  been, 
not  to  eclipse  the  darkness,  but  to  make 
it  visible.  You,  of  course,  may  put 
what  interpretation  you  choose  upon  the 
incident,  but  it  seems  to  me  rather  em- 
blematic of  the  intellect,  that  its  earliest 

1  County  Cavan,  Ireland. 

2  Albany,  N.  Y. 

8  At  the  age  of  thirteen,   Mr.  James  had  his 
right  leg  so  severely  burned  while  playing  the 


sensible  foundations  should  thus  be  laid 
in  "  a  horror  of  great  darkness." 

My  father  was  a  successful  merchant, 
who  early  in  life  had  forsaken  his  native 
Somerset  County,1  with  its  watery  hori- 
zons, to  settle  in  Baltimore  ; 2  where  on 
the  strength  of  a  good  primary  educa- 
tion, in  which  I  was  glad  to  observe 
some  knowledge  of  Latin  had  mingled, 

^^  ^j  f 

he  got  employment  as  a  clerk  in  a  con- 
siderable mercantile  house,  and  by  his 
general  intelligence  and  business  sa- 
gacity erelong  laid  the  foundations  of  a 
prosperous  career.  When  I  was  very 
young  I  do  not  remember  to  have  had 
much  intellectual  contact  with  my  father 
save  at  family  prayers  and  at  meals,  for 
he  was  always  occupied  during  the  day 
with  business  ;  and  even  in  the  frank 
domestic  intercourse  of  the  evening, 
when  he  was  fond  of  hearing  his  chil 
dren  read  to  him,  and  would  frequently 
exercise  them  in  their  studies,  I  cannot 
recollect  that  he  ever  questioned  me 
about  my  out-of-door  occupations,  or 
about  my  companions,  or  showed  any 
extreme  solicitude  about  my  standing  in 
school.  He  was  certainly  a  very  easy 
parent,  and  I  might  have  been  left  to 
regard  him  perhaps  as  a  rather  indiffer- 
ent one,  if  it  had  not  been  for  a  severe 
illness  which  befell  me  from  a  gun-shot 
wound  in  my  arm,  and  which  confined 
me  for  a  long  time  to  the  house,  when 
his  tenderness  to  me  showed  itself  so 
assiduous  and  indeed  extreme  as  to  give 
me  an  exalted  sense  of  his  affection.8 
My  wound  had  been  very  severe,  being 
followed  by  a  morbid  process  in  the 
bone  which  ever  and  anon  called  for 
some  sharp  surgery ;  and  on  these  occa- 
sions I  remember  —  for  the  use  of  an- 
aesthetics was  still  wholly  undreamt  of 
then  not  usual  game  of  fire-ball  that  he  was  con- 
fined to  his  bed  for  two  years,  and  two  thigh  am- 
putations had  to  be  performed. 


650 


Stephen  Dewhurst's  Autobiography. 


[November, 


—  his  sympathy  with  my  sufferings  was 
so  excessive  that  my  mother  had  the 
greatest  possible  difficulty  in  imposing 
due  prudence  upon  his  expression  of  it. 
My  mother  was  a  good  wife  and 
mother,  nothing  else,  —  save,  to  be 
sure,  a  kindly  friend  and  neighbor.  The 
tradition  of  the  house,  indeed,  was  a 
very  charitable  one.  I  remember  that 
my  father  was  in  the  habit  of  having 
a  great  quantity  of  beef  and  pork  and 
potatoes  laid  by  in  the  beginning  of 
winter  for  the  needy  poor,  the  distribu- 
tion of  which  my  mother  regulated  ;  and 
no  sooner  was  the  original  stock  ex- 
hausted than  the  supply  was  renewed 
with  ungrudging  hand.  My  mother,  I 
repeat,  was  maternity  itself  in  form ; 
and  I  remember,  as  a  touching  evidence 
of  this,  that  I  have  frequently  seen  her 
during  my  protracted  illness,  when  I 
had  been  greatly  reduced  and  required 
the  most  watchful  nursing,  come  to  my 
bedside  fast  asleep,  with  her  candle  in 
her  hand,  and  go  through  the  forms  of 
covering  my  shoulders,  adjusting  my 
pillows,  and  so  forth,  just  as  carefully 
as  if  she  were  awake.  The  only  other 
thing  I  have  to  remark  about  her  is, 
that  she  was  the  most  democratic  per- 
son by  temperament  I  ever  knew.  Her 
father.1  who  spent  the  evening  of  his 
days  in  our  family,  was  a  farmer  of 
great  respectability  and  considerable 
substance.  He  had  borne  arms  in  the 
Revolutionary  War,  was  very  fond  of 
historic  reading,  had  a  tenacious  mem- 
ory, arid  used  to  exercise  it  upon  his 
grandchildren  at  times  to  their  sufficient 
ennui.  I  never  felt  any  affectionate 
leaning  to  him.  Two  of  his  brothers 
had  served  throughout  the  war  in  the 
army,  —  one  of  them,  Colonel  F.  B.,2 
having  been  a  distinguished  and  very 
efficient  officer  in  various  engagements, 
and  an  intimate  friend  of  Washington ; 
the  other,  Major  W.  B.,3  who,  if  my 
memory  serve  me,  was  an  aid  of  Gen- 

1  John  Barber,  of  (then)  Montgomery,  Orange 
Co.,  N.  Y.  (near  Newburgh). 


eral  Lafayette.  These  of  course  are 
never  ungratifying  facts  to  the  carnal 
mind ;  and  when  accordingly  we  chil- 
dren used  to  ask  our  mother  for  tales 
about  her  uncles,  she  gave  us  to  be  sure 
what  she  had  to  give  with  good-will,  but 
I  could  very  well  see  that  for  some  rea- 
son or  other  she  never  was  able  to  put 
herself  in  our  precise  point  of  view  in 
reference  to  them.  She  seemed  some 
way  ashamed,  as  well  as  I  could  gather, 
of  having  had  distinguished  relations. 
And  then  I  remember  I  used  to  feel 
surprised  to  see  how  much  satisfaction 
she  could  take  in  chatting  with  her  re- 
spectable sewing-women,  and  how  she 
gravitated  as  a  general  thing  into  rela- 
tions of  the  frankest  sympathy  with 
every  one  conventionally  beneath  her. 
I  should  say,  indeed,  looking  back,  that 
she  felt  a  tacit  quarrel  with  the  for- 
tunes of  her  life  in  that  they  had  sought 
to  make  her  a  flower  or  a  shrub,  when 
she  herself  would  so  willingly  have  re- 
mained mere  lowly  grass. 

But  I  must  say  one  word  of  my  moth- 
er's mother,  whose  memory  I  cherish 
much  more  than  that  of  my  grandfather. 
She  came  to  us  at  times  in  winter,  and 
as  long  as  she  lived  we  spent  a  month 
of  every  summer  with  her  in  the  coun- 
try, where  I  delighted  to  drive  the  emp- 
ty ox-cart  far  afield  to  bring  in  a  load 
of  fragrant  hay,  or  gather  apples  for  the 
cider-press,  refreshing  myself  the  while 
with  a  well  -  selected  apricot  or  two. 
She  was  of  a  grave,  thoughtful  aspect, 
but  she  had  a  most  vivacious  love  of 
children,  and  a  very  exceptional  gift  of 
interesting  them  in  conversation,  which 
greatly  endeared  her  society  to  me.  It 
was  not  till  I  had  grown  up,  and  she 
herself  was  among  the  blessed,  that  I 
discovered  she  had  undergone  a  great 
deal  of  mental  suffering,  and  dimly  as- 
sociated this  fact  somehow  with  the 
great  conscience  she  had  always  made 
of  us  children.  She  had  been  from 

2  Francis  Barber. 

3  William  Barber. 


1884.] 


Stephen  Dewhurst's  Autobiography. 


651 


youth  a  very  religious  person,  without  a 
shadow  of  skepticism  or  indifference  in 
her  mental  temperament ;  but  as  life 
matured  and  her  heart  became  mellowed 
under  its  discipline,  she  fell  to  doubting 
whether  the  dogmatic  traditions  in  which 
she  had  been  bred  effectively  represent- 
ed divine  truth.  And  the  conflict  grew 
so  active  erelong  between  this  quickened 
allegiance  of  her  heart  to  God  and  the 
merely  habitual  deference  her  intellect 
was  under  to  men's  opinions,  as  to  allow 
her  afterwards  no  fixed  rest  this  side  of 
the  grave.  In  her  most  depressed  con- 
dition, however,  she  maintained  an  equa- 
ble front  before  the  world,  fulfilled  all 
her  duties  to  her  family  and  her  neigh- 
borhood, and  yielded  at  last  to  death,  as 
I  afterwards  learned,  in  smiling  confi- 
dence of  a  speedy  resolution  of  all  her 
doubts.  I  never  failed  to  contrast  the 
soft  flexibility  and  sweetness  of  her  de- 
meanor with  the  stoicism  of  my  grand- 
father's character,  and  early  noted  the 

V 

signal  difference  between  the  rich  spon- 
taneous favor  we  children  enjoyed  at 
her  hands  and  the  purely  voluntary  or 
polite  attentions  we  received  from  him. 
Nor  could  I  doubt  when  in  after  years 
my  own  hour  of  tribulation  sounded, 
and  I  too  felt  my  first  immortal  longing 
"  to  bathe  myself  in  innocency,"  that 
this  dear  old  lady  had  found  in  the  ig- 
norance and  innocence  of  the  grandchil- 
dren whom  she  loved  to  hug  to  her 
bosom  a  truer  gospel  balm,  a  far  more 
soothing  and  satisfactory  echo  of  divine 
knowledge,  than  she  had  ever  caught 
from  the  logic  of  John  Calvin. 

I  have  nothing  to  say  of  my  brothers 
and  sisters,  who  were  seven  in  number, 
except  that  our  relations  proved  always 
cordially  affectionate;  so  much  so,  in- 
deed, that  I  cannot  now  recall  any  in- 
stance of  serious  envy  or  jealousy  be- 
tween us.  The  law  of  the  house,  within 
the  limits  of  religious  decency,  was  free- 
dom itself,  and  the  parental  will  or  wis- 
dom had  very  seldom  to  be  appealed  to 
to  settle  our  trivial  discords.  I  should 


think,  indeed,  that  our  domestic  inter- 
course had  been  on  the  whole  most  in- 
nocent as  well  as  happy,  were  it  not  for 
a  certain  lack  of  oxygen  which  is  indeed 
incidental  to  the  family  atmosphere,  and 
which  I  may  characterize  as  the  lack  of 
any  ideal  of  action  but  that  of  self-pres- 
ervation.    It  is  the  curse  of  the  worldly 
mind,  as  of  the  civic  or  political  state  of 
man  to  which  it  affords  a  material  basis ; 
it  is  the  curse  of  the  religious  mind,  as 
of   the  ecclesiastical  forms  to  which  it 
furnishes  a  spiritual   base,  —  that   they 
both  alike  constitute  their  own  ideal,  or 
practically  ignore   any  ulterior   Divine 
end.     I  say  it   is   their  curse,  because 
they  thus  conflict  with  the  principles  of 
universal  justice,  or  God's  providential 
order  in  the  earth,  which  rigidly  enjoins 
that  each  particular  thing  exist  for  all, 
and  that  all  things  in  general  exist  for 
each.     Our  family  at  all  events  perfect- 
ly illustrated  this  common  vice  of  con- 
tented  isolation.      Like    all    the    other 
families  of  the  land  it  gave  no  sign  of  a 
spontaneous  religious  culture,  or  of  affec- 
tions touched  to  the  dimensions  of  uni- 
versal man.     In  fact,  religious  truth  at 
that  day,  as  it  seems  to  me,  was  at  the 
very  lowest  ebb  of  formal  remorseless 
dogmatism  it  has  ever  reached,  and  of- 
fered nothing  whatever  to  conciliate  the 
enmity  of    unwilling   hearts.     When  I 
remember  the  clergy  who  used  to  fre- 
quent my  father's  house,  which  offered 
the  freest  hospitality  to  any  number  of 
the  cloth,  and  recall  the  tone  of  the  re- 
ligious world  generally  with  which  I  was 
familiar,  I  find  my  memory  is  charged 
with   absolutely  no  incident,  either  of 
manners  or  conversation,  which  would 
ever  lead  me   to  suppose    that  religion 
was  anything  more  in  its  votaries  than 
a  higher   prudence,  or  that   there   was 
anything  whatever  in  the  Divine  charac- 
ter as  revealed  in  the  gospel  of  Christ 
to  inflame  in  common  minds  an  enthusi- 
asm of  devotion,  or  beget  anything  like 
a  passionate  ardor  of  self-abasement. 
Thus  the  entire  strain  of  the  Ortho- 


652 


Stephen  DewhursCs  Autobiography. 


[November, 


dox  faith  of  the  period  was  at  fault,  aud 
restricted  the  motions  of  the  Divine  life 
in  us  to  the  working  out  at  most  of  a 
conventionally  virtuous   and   pious   re- 
pute.    It  was  eminently  respectable  to 
belong  to   the  church,  and  there  were 
few  insatiate  worldlings,  I  suspect,  who 
did  not  count  upon  giving  in  a  prudent 
adhesion  to  it  at  the  last.     We  children 
of   the   church   had   been    traditionally 
taught  to  contemplate  God  as  a  strictly 
supernatural    being,    bigger    personally 
than  all  the  world ;  and  not  only  there- 
fore out  of  all  sympathy  with  our  pig- 
my infirmities,  but  exceedingly  jealous 
of  the  hypocritical  homage  we  paid  to 
his    contemptuous    forbearance.      This 
dramatic  homage,  however,  being  of  an 
altogether  negative  complexion,  was  ex- 
ceedingly trying  to  us.    Notoriously  our 
Orthodox  Protestant  faith,  however  de- 
nominated, is  not  intellectually  a  cheer- 
ful one,  though  it  is  not  so  inwardly  de- 
moralizing, doubtless,  as   the   Catholic 
teaching ;    but   it  makes   absolutely  no 
ecclesiastical    provision    in    the   way  of 
spectacle  for  engaging  the  affections  of 
childhood.    The  innocent  carnal  delights 
of  children  are  ignored  by  the  church 
save   at  Christmas ;   and   as  Christmas 
comes  but  once  a  year,  we  poor  little 
ones  were  practically  shut  up  for  all  our 
spiritual   limbering,  or  training    in   the 
divine  life,  to  the  influence  of  our  ordi- 
nary paralytic    Sunday    routine.     That 
is,  we  were  taught  not  to  play,  not  to 
dance,  not  to  sing,  not   to  read  story- 
books, not  to  con  over  our  school  lessons 
for  Monday  even  ;  not  to  whistle,  not  to 
ride  the  pony,  nor  to  take  a  walk  in  the 
country,  nor  a  swim  in  the  river  ;  nor, 
in  short,  to  do  anything  which   nature 
specially    craved.     How   my  particular 
heels   ached    for  exercise,  and   all  my 
senses  pined  to  be  free,  it  is  not  worth 
while  to  recount ;  suffice  it  to  say  that, 
although  I  know  my  parents  were  not 
so  Sabbatarian  as  many,  I  cannot  flatter 
myself  that  our  household  sanctity  ever 
presented  a  pleasant  aspect  to  the  an- 


gels.    Nothing  is  so  hard  for  a  child  as 
not-to-do  ;  that  is,  to  keep  his  hands  and 
feet  and  tongue  in  enforced  inactivity. 
It  is  a  cruel  wrong  to  put  such  an  obli- 
gation   upon   him,  while   his    reflective 
faculties  are  still  undeveloped,  and  his 
senses  urge  him  to  unrestricted  action. 
I  am  persuaded,  for  my  part  at  all  events, 
that  the  number  of  things  I  was  conven- 
tionally bound  not-to-do  at  that  tender 
age  has   made  Sunday  to  my  imagina- 
tion ever  since  the  most  oppressive  or 
least  gracious  and  hallowed  day  of  the 
week  ;  and  I  should  not  wonder  if  the 
repression  it  riveted  upon  my  youthful 
freedom  had  had  much  to  do  with  the 
habitual  unamiableness  and  irritability  I 
discover  in  myself. 

My  boyish  Sundays,  however,  had 
one  slight  alleviation.  The  church  to 
which  I  was  born  occupied  one  extrem- 
ity of  a  block,  and  sided  upon  a  public 
street.  Our  family  pew  was  a  large, 
square  one,  and  embraced  in  part  a  win- 
dow which  gave  upon  the  street,  and 
whose  movable  blinds  with  their  cords 
and  tassels  gave  much  quiet  entertain- 
ment to  my  restless  fingers.  It  was  my 
delight  to  get  to  church  early,  in  order 
to  secure  a  certain  corner  of  the  pew 
which  commanded  the  sidewalk  on  both 
sides  of  the  street,  and  so  furnished  me 
many  pregnant  topics  of  speculation. 
Two  huge  chains,  indeed,  extended  across 
the  street  at  either  extremity  of  the 
church,  debarring  vehicles  from  passing. 
But  pedestrians  enjoyed  their  liberty 
unimpeded,  and  took  on  a  certain  halo 
to  my  imagination  from  the  independent 
air  with  which  they  used  it.  Sometimes 
a  person  would  saunter  past  in  modish 
costume,  puffing  a  cigar,  and  gayly 
switching  ever  and  anon  the  legs  of  his 
resonant,  well  -  starched  trousers;  and 
though  I  secretly  envied  him  his  power 
to  convert  the  sacred  day  into  a  festiv- 
ity, I  could  not  but  indulge  some  doubts 
as  to  where  that  comfortable  state  of 
mind  tended.  Most  of  my  dramatis 
personce  in  fact  wore  an  air  of  careless 


1884.]                       Stephen  Deivhurst's  Autobiography.  653 

ease   or  idleness,  as   if   they  had  risen 

from   a    good    night's    sleep    to    a    late  II. 
breakfast,  and  were  now  disposing  them- 
selves for  a  genuine  holiday  of  delights.  CONFLICT    BETWEEN   MY  MORAL   AND 
I  was  doubtless  not  untouched  inwardly  MY  SPIRITUAL  LIFE. 
by  the  gospel  flavor  and  relish  of  the  ....... 

spectacle,  but  of  course  it  presented  to  I  have  always,  in  looking  back,  been 

my  legal  or  carnal  apprehension  of  spir-  struck  with  the  fact,  and  used  at  first  to 

itual  things  a  far  more  perilous  method  be  somewhat  disconcerted  by  it,  that  my 

of  sanctifying  the  day,  than  that  offered  conscience,  even   in  my  earliest  years, 

by  men's  voluntary  denial  of  all  their  never  charged  itself  with  merely  literal 

spontaneous   instincts,  of   all    their  ass-  or  ritual  defilement ;  that  is  to  say,  with 

thetic  culture.  offenses  which  did  not  contain  an  ele- 

I  may  say,  however,  that  one  vision  ment  of  active  or  spiritual  malignity  to 

was  pretty  constant,  and  left  no  pharisaic  somebody  else.    For  example,  there  was 

pang    behind   it.     Opposite    the    sacred  a  shoemaker's  shop  in  our  neighborhood, 

edifice  stood  the  dwelling-house  and  of-  at  which  the  family  were  supplied  with 

fice   of   Mr.  O r,  a   justice    of   the  shoes.     The  business  was  conducted  by 

peace  ;  and  every  Sunday  morning,  just  two  brothers  who  had  recently  inherited 

as  the  sermon  was   getting  well  under  it  of  their  father,  and  who  were  them- 

way,    Mr.    O r's    housemaid    would  selves   uncommonly  bright,   intelligent, 

appear  upon  the  threshold  with  her  and  personable  young  men.  From  the 
crumb-cloth  in  hand,  and  proceed  very  circumstance  that  all  the  principal  f ami- 
leisurely  to  shake  it  over  the  side  of  the  lies  of  the  neighborhood  were  customers 
steps,  glancing  the  while,  as  well  as  I  of  the  shop,  the  boys  of  these  families 
CQuld  observe,  with  critical  appreciation  in  going  there  to  be  fitted,  or  to  give  or- 
at  the  well-dressed  people  who  passed  ders,  frequently  encountered  each  other, 
by.  She  would  do  her  work,  as  I  have  and  at  last  got  to  making  it  an  habitual 
said,  in  a  very  leisurely  way,  leaving  rendezvous.  There  were  two  apartments 
the  cloth,  for  example,  hanging  upon  belonging  to  the  shop,  —  one  small,  giv- 
the  balustrade  of  the  steps  while  she  ing  upon  the  street,  which  contained 
would  go  into  the  house,  and  then  re-  all  the  stock  of  the  concern,  and  where 
turn  again  and  again  to  shake  it,  as  if  customers  were  received ;  the  other,  in 
she  loved  the  task,  and  could  not  help  which  the  young  men  worked  at  their 
lingering  over  it.  Perhaps  her  mistress  trade  and  where  we  boys  were  wont  to 
might  have  estimated  the  performance  congregate,  much  larger,  in  the  rear, 
differently,  but  fortunately  she  was  in  and  descending  towards  a  garden.  I 
church  ;  and  I  at  all  events  was  unfeign-  was  in  the  habit  of  taking  with  me  a 
edly  obliged  to  the  shapely  maid  for  pocket  full  of  apples  or  other  fruit  from 
giving  my  senses  so  much  innocent  oc-  home,  on  my  visits  to  the  shop,  for 
cupation  when  their  need  was  sorest,  the  delectation  of  its  occupants,  several 
Her  pleasant  image  has  always  remained  of  the  other  lads  doing  the  same  ;  and 
a  fixture  of  my  memory  ;  and  if  I  shall  I  frequently  carried  them  books,  espe- 
ever  be  able  to  identify  her  in  the  popu-  cially  novels,  which  they  were  fond  of 
lous  world  to  which  we  are  hastening,  reading,  and  their  judgments  of  which 
be  assured  I  will  not  let  the  opportunity  seemed  to  me  very  intelligent.  The 
slip  of  telling  her  how  much  I  owe  her  truth  is,  that  we  chits  were  rather  proud 
for  the  fresh,  breezy,  natural  life  she  im-  to  crony  with  these  young  men,  who 
parted  to  those  otherwise  lifeless,  stag-  were  so  much  older  than  ourselves,  and 
nant,  most  unnatural  Sunday  mornings.  had  so  much  more  knowledge  of  the 


654                          Stephen  Dewhurst's  Autobiography.  [November, 

world ;  and  if  their  influence  over  us  there  seemed  to  be  no  reasonable  doubt 
had  been  really  educative,  almost  any  that  some  able  engineering  was  at  the 
beneficial  results  might  have  been  anti-  bottom  of  the  phenomenon.  Search 
cipated.  I  do  not  know  exactly  how  it  was  made,  and  the  engineers  discov- 
came  about,  but  one  step  probably  led  ered.  And  to  make  a  long  story  short, 
to  another,  until  at  last  we  found  our-  this  discovery  did  not  fail  of  course  to 
selves  providing  them  an  actual  feast,  propagate  a  salutary  rumor  of  itself, 
some  of  us  supplying  edibles  and  other  and  eke  a  tremor,  to  the  wonted  scene 
portables  from  our  own  larders  and  eel-  of  our  festivities,  begetting  on  the  part 
lars.  I  used,  I  recollect,  to  take  eggs  of  the  habitues  of  the  place  a  much 
in  any  number  from  the  ample,  un-  more  discreet  conduct  for  the  future, 
counted,  and  unguarded  stores  at  home,  But  this  is  not  by  any  means  the 
cakes,  fruits,  and  whatever  else  it  was  only  or  the  chief  immorality  that  distin- 
handy  to  carry ;  and  I  do  not  know  to  guished  my  boyish  days.  My  father, 
what  lengths  our  mutual  emulation  in  for  example,  habitually  kept  a  quantity 
these  hospitable  offices  might  not  have  of  loose  silver  in  a  drawer  of  his  dress- 
pushed  us,  when  it  was  brought  to  a  ing-table,  with  a  view,  I  suppose,  to  his 
sudden  stop.  Among  the  urchins  en-  own  and  my  mother's  convenience  in 
gaged  in  these  foraging  exploits  were  paying  house-bills.  It  more  than  cov- 
two  sous  of  the  governor  of  the  State,  ered  the  bottom  of  the  drawer,  and 
who  was  a  widower,  and  whose  house-  though  I  never  essayed  to  count  it,  I 
hold  affairs  were  consequently  not  so  should  judge  it  usually  amounted  to  a 
well  looked  after  as  they  might  have  sum  of  eight  or  ten  dollars,  perhaps 
been.  By  the  connivance  of  their  fa-  double  that  sum,  in  Spanish  sixpences, 
ther's  butler,  these  young  gentlemen  shillings,  and  quarters.  The  drawer  was 
were  in  the  habit  of  storing  certain  seldom  locked,  and  even  when  locked 
dainties  in  their  own  room  at  the  top  of  usually  had  the  key  remaining  in  the 
the  house,  whence  they  could  be  con-  lock,  so  that  it  offered  no  practical  ob- 
veniently  transported  to  the  shop  at  stacle  to  the  curiosity  of  servants  and 
their  leisure  without  attracting  observa-  children.  Our  servants,  I  suppose,  were 
tion.  But  the  governor  unfortunately  very  honest,  as  I  do  not  recollect  to 
saw  fit  to  re-marry  soon  after  our  drama  have  ever  heard  any  of  them  suspected 
opened,  and  his  new  wife  took  such  of  interfering  with  the  glittering  treas- 
good  order  in  the  house,  that  my  young  ure,  nor  indeed  do  I  know  that  they 
friends  were  forced  thereafter  to  accom-  were  at  all  aware  of  its  exposed  exist- 
plish  their  ends  by  profounder  strategy,  ence.  From  my  earliest  days  I  remem- 
And  so  it  happened  that  their  step-  ber  that  I  myself  cherished  the  greatest 
mother,  sitting  one  warm  summer  even-  practical  reverence  for  the  sacred  de- 
ing  at  her  open  but  uuilluminated  cham-  posit,  and  seldom  went  near  it  except 
ber-window  to  enjoy  the  breeze,  sud-  at  the  bidding  of  my  mother  occasional- 
denly  became  aware  of  a  dark  object  ly,  to  replenish  her  purse  against  the 
defining  itself  upon  the  void  between  her  frequent  domestic  demands  made  upon 
face  and  the  stars,  but  in  much  too  close  it,  or  the  exaction  of  my  own  weekly 
proximity  to  the  former  to  be  agreeable,  stipend.  My  youthful  imagination,  to 
and  naturally  put  forth  her  hand  to  de-  be  sure,  was  often  impressed  on  these 
termine  the  law  of  its  projection.  It  occasions  with  the  apparently  in  exhaust- 
proved  to  be  a  bottle  of  madeira,  whose  ible  resources  provided  by  this  small 
age  was  duly  authenticated  by  cobwebs  drawer  against  human  want,  but  my  ne- 
and  weather-stains ;  and  from  the  appa-  cessities  at  that  early  day  were  not  so 
ratus  of  stout  twine  connected  with  it  pronounced  as  to  suggest  any  thought 


1884.] 


Stephen  Dewhurst's  Autobiography. 


655 


of  actual  cupidity.  But  as  I  grew  in 
years,  and  approached  the  very  mun- 
dane age  of  seven  or  eight,  the  nascent 
pleasures  of  the  palate  began  to  alter- 
nate to  mv  consciousness  with  those  of 

tf 

my  muscular  activity,  —  such  as  mar- 
bles, kite-flying,  and  ball-playing  ;  and 
I  was  gradually  led  in  concert  with  my 
companions  to  frequent  a  very  tempting 
confectioner's  shop  in  my  neighborhood, 
kept  by  a  colored  woman,  with  whom 
my  credit  was  very  good,  and  to  whom, 
accordingly,  whenever  my  slender  store 
of  pocket  money  was  exhausted,  I  did 
not  hesitate  to  run  in  debt  to  the  amount 
of  five,  ten,  or  twenty  cents.  This  triv- 
ial debt,  growing  at  length  somewhat 
embarrassing  in  amount,  furnished  the 
beginning  of  my  moral,  self-conscious, 
or  distinctively  human  experience. 

It  did  this  all  simply  in  maki  g  me 
for  the  first  time  think,  with  an  immense 
though  still  timorous  sigh  of  relief,  of 
my  father's  magical  drawer.  Thus  my 
country's  proverbial  taste  for  confection- 
ery furnished  my  particular  introduction 
to  the  tree  of  knowledge  of  good  and  evil. 
This  tragical  tree,  which  man  is  forbid- 
den to  eat  of  under  pain  of  finding  his 
pleasant  paradisiacal  existence  shadowed 
by  death,  symbolizes  his  dawning  spir- 
itual life,  which  always  to  his  own  per- 
ception begins  in  literal  or  subjective 
darkness  and  evil.  For  what  after  all 
is  spiritual  life  in  sum  ?  It  is  the  heart- 
felt discovery  by  man  that  God  his  cre- 
ator is  alone  good,  and  that  he  himself, 
the  creature,  is  by  necessary  contrast 
evil.  But  this  life  in  man,  being  divine 
and  immortal,  is  bound  to  avouch  its 
proper  grandeur,  by  thoroughly  subju- 
gating evil  or  death  to  itself ;  that  is, 
absorbing  it  in  its  own  infinitude.  Hence 
it  is  that  man,  constitutionally  requiring 
the  most  intimate  handling  of  evil,  or 
the  intensest  spiritual  familiarity  with  it, 
actually  finds  himself  provisionally  iden- 
tified with  that  principle,  and  so  far  fur- 
thered consequently  on  his  way  to  im- 
mortal life. 


The  sentiment  of  relief  which  I  felt 
at  the  remembrance  of  this  well-stocked 
drawer  remained  a  sentiment  for  a  con- 
siderable time,  however,  before  it  precip- 
itated itself  in  actual  form.  I  enjoyed 
in  thought  the  possibility  of  relief  a  long 
time  before  I  dared  to  convert  it  into 
an  actuality.  The  temptation  to  do  this 
was  absolutely  my  first  experience  of 
spiritual  daybreak,  my  first  glimpse  of 
its  distinctively  moral  or  death-giving 
principle.  Until  then,  spiritual  exist- 
ence had  been  unknown  to  me  save  by 
the  hearing  of  the  ear.  That  is  to  say, 
it  was  mere  intellectual  gibberish  to  me. 
Our  experience  of  the  spiritual  world 
dates  in  truth  only  from  our  first  un- 
affected shiver  of  guilt.  Our  youthful 
innocence,  like  every  other  divine-nat- 
ural endowment  of  humanity,  dwells  in 
us  in  altogether  latent  or  unconscious 
form,  and  we  never  truly  recognize  it 
until  we  have  forever  forfeited  it  to  the 
exigencies  of  a  more  spiritual  and  liv- 
ing innocence.  It  is  sure,  for  example, 
never  to  come  to  direct  consciousness  in 
us  until  we  are  seriously  tempted  to  do 
some  conventionally  opprobrious  thing, 
and  have  incontinently  yielded  to  the 
temptation ;  after  that,  looking  back  at 
ourselves  to  see  what  change  has  befallen 
us,  we  become  aware  of  our  loss,  and 
immediately,  like  the  inapprehensive 
spiritual  noodles  we  are,  we  bend  all  our 
energies  to  recover  this  fugacious  inno- 
cence, and  become  henceforth  its  con- 
scious guardians  !  —  as  if  man  were  ever 
capable  by  consciousness  of  embracing 
anything  good  !  As  if  the  human  con- 
science were  ever  open  to  anything  else 
but  evil  in  some  of  its  myriad-fold  mod- 
ulations ! 

I  doubtless  relieved  myself  of  debt, 
then,  by  two  or  three  times  borrowing 
freely  from  my  father's  drawer,  without 
any  thought  of  ever  making  restitution. 
But  it  is  idle  to  pretend  that  my  action 
in  any  of  these  cases  was  spiritually 
criminal.  It  was  clandestine,  of  course, 
as  it  could  hardly  help  being  if  it  were 


656 


Stephen  Dewhurstfs  Autobiography. 


[November, 


destined  ever  to  take  place  at  all,  and 
was  indeed  every  way  reprehensible 
when  judged  from  the  established  fam- 
ily routine  or  order.  I  had  no  idea  at 
the  time,  of  course,  that  the  act  was  not 
sinful,  for  no  one  existed  within  my 
knowledge  capable  of  giving  me  that 
idea.  But  though  I  should  have  felt  ex- 
cessively ashamed  of  myself,  doubtless,  if 
my  parents  had  ever  discovered  or  even 
suspected  my  clandestine  operations,  yet 
when  my  religious  conscience  became 
quickened  and  I  had  learned  to  charge 
myself  with  sin  against  God,  I  practi- 
cally never  found  that  acts  of  this  sort 
very  heavily  burdened  my  penitential 
memory.  I  did  uot  fail,  I  presume,  to 
ventilate  them  occasionally  in  my  daily 
litany,  but  I  am  sure  they  never  any  of 
them  gave  me  a  sense  of  spiritual  defile- 
ment, nor  ever  cost  me  consequently  a 
pang  of  godly  sorrow.  The  reason  why 
they  did  not  spiritually  degrade  me  in 
my  own  esteem  was,  I  suppose,  that 
they  were  at  worst  offenses  committed 
against  my  parents  ;  and  no  child,  as  it 
seems  to  me,  with  the  heart  of  a  child, 
or  who  has  not  been  utterly  moralized 
out  of  his  natural  innocency  and  turned 
into  a  precocious  prig,  can  help  secretly 
feeling  a  property  in  his  parents  so  ab- 
solute or  unconditional  as  to  make  him 
a  priori  sure,  do  what  he  will,  of  pre- 
serving their  affection.  It  would  not  have 
seemed  so  in  ancient  days,  I  grant.  The 
parental  bond  was  then  predominantly 
paternal,  whereas  of  late  years  it  is  be- 
coming predominantly  maternal.  At  that 
period  it  was  very  nearly  altogether  au- 
thoritative and  even  tyrannous  with  re- 
spect to  the  child ;  while  in  our  own 
day  it  is  fast  growing  to  be  one  of  the 
utmost  relaxation,  indulgence,  and  even 
servility.  My  father  was  weakly,  nay 
painfully,  sensitive  to  his  children's 
claims  upon  his  sympathy  ;  and  I  my- 
self, when  I  became  a  father  in  my  turn, 
felt  that  I  could  freely  sacrifice  property 
and  life  to  save  ray  children  from  un- 
happiness.  In  fact,  the  family  senti- 


ment has  become  within  the  last  hun- 
dred years  so  refined  of  its  original  gross 
literality,  so  shorn  of  its  absolute  con- 
sequence, by  being  practically  consid- 
ered as  a  rudiment  to  the  larger  social 
sentiment,  that  no  intelligent  conscien- 
tious parent  now  thinks  of  himself  as 
primary  in  that  relation,  but  cheerfully 
subordinates  himself  to  the  welfare  of 
his  children.  What  sensible  parent  now 
thinks  it  a  good  thing  to  repress  the  nat- 
ural instincts  of  childhood,  and  not  rath- 
er diligently  to  utilize  them  as  so  many 
divinely  endowed  educational  forces  ? 
No  doubt  much  honest  misgiving  is  felt 
and  much  honest  alarm  expressed  as  to 
the  effect  of  these  new  ideas  upon  the 
future  of  our  existing  civilization.  But 
these  alarms  and  misgivings  beset  those 
only  who  are  intellectually  indifferent 
to  the  truth  of  man's  social  destiny.  For 
my  own  part,  I  delight  to  witness  this 
outward  demoralization  of  the  parental 
bond,  because  I  see  in  it  the  pregnant 
evidence  of  a  growing  spiritualization 
of  human  life,  or  an  expanding  social 
consciousness  among  men,  which  will 
erelong  exalt  them  out  of  the  mire  and 
slime  of  their  frivolous  and  obscene  pri- 
vate personality,  into  a  chaste  and  dig- 
nified natural  manhood.  This  social 
conscience  of  manhood  is  becoming  so 
pronounced  and  irresistible  that  almost 
no  one  who  deserves  the  name  of  parent 
but  feels  the  tie  that  binds  him  to  his 
child  outgrowing  its  old  moral  or  oblig- 
atory limitations,  and  putting  on  free, 
spiritual,  or  spontaneous  lineaments. 
Indeed,  the  multitude  of  devout  minds 
in  either  sex  is  perpetually  enlarging 
who  sincerely  feel  themselves  unfit  to 
bear,  to  rear,  and  above  all  to  educate 
and  discipline  children  without  the  en- 
lightened aid  and  furtherance  of  all 
mankind.  And  it  is  only  the  silliest, 
most  selfish  and  arrogant  of  men  that 
can  afford  to  make  light  of  this  very 
significant  fact. 

But  to  resume.     What  I  want  partic- 
ularly to  impress  upon  your  understand- 


1884.] 


Stephen  Dewhurst's  Autobiography. 


657 


ing  is  that  my  religious  conscience  in 
its  early  beginnings  practically  disowned 
a  moral  or  outward  genesis,  and  took  on 
a  free,  inward,  or  spiritual  evolution. 
Not  any  literal  thing  I  did,  so  much  as 
the  temper  of  mind  with  which  it  was 
done,  had  power  to  humble  me  before 
God  or  degrade  me  in  my  own  conceit. 
What  filled  my  breast  with  acute  contri- 
tion, amounting  at  times  to  anguish,  was 
never  any  technical  offense  which  I  had 
committed  against  established  decorum, 
but  always  some  wanton,  ungenerous 
word  or  deed  by  which  I  had  wounded 
the  vital  self-respect  of  another,  or  im- 
posed upon  him  gratuitous  personal  suf- 
fering. Things  of  this  sort  arrayed  me 
to  my  own  consciousness  in  flagrant  hos- 
tility to  God,  and  I  never  could  contem- 
plate them  without  feeling  the  deepest 
sense  of  sin.  I  sometimes  wantonly 
mocked  the  sister  who  was  nearest  me 
in  age,  and  now  and  then  violently  re- 
pelled the  overtures  of  a  younger  broth- 
er who  aspired  to  associate  himself  with 
me  in  my  sports  and  pastimes.  But 
when  I  remembered  these  things  upon 
my  bed,  the  terrors  of  hell  encompassed 
me,  and  1  was  fairly  heart-broken  with 
a  dread  of  being  estranged  from  God 
and  all  good  men.  Even  now  I  cannot 
recur  to  these  instances  of  youthful  de- 
pravity in  me  without  a  pungent  feel- 
ing of  self-abasement,  without  a  melt- 
ingly  tender  recognition  of  the  Divine 
magnanimity.  I  was  very  susceptible 
of  gratitude,  moreover,  and  this  fur- 
nished another  spur  to  my  religious  con- 
science. For  although  I  abounded  in 
youthful  cupidity  of  every  sort,  I  never 
got  the  satisfaction  of  my  wishes  with- 
out a  sensible  religious  thankfulness. 
Especially  rife  was  this  sentiment  when- 
ever I  had  had  a  marked  escape  from 
fatal  calamity.  For  I  was  an  ardent 
angler  and  gunner  from  my  earliest  re- 
membrance, and  in  my  eagerness  for 
sport  used  to  expose  myself  to  accidents 
so  grave  as  to  keep  my  parents  in  per- 
petual dread  of  my  being  brought  home 
VOL.  LIV. — NO.  325.  42 


some  day  disabled  or  dead.  I  distinctly 
remember  how  frequently  on  these  oc- 
casions, feeling  what  a  narrow  escape  I 
had  had  from  rock  or  river,  I  was  wont 
to  be  visited  by  the  most  remorseful 
sense  of  my  own  headlong  folly,  and 
the  most  adoring  grateful  sentiment  of 
the  Divine  long-suffering. 

To  sum  up  all  in  a  word  :  my  relig- 
ious conscience,  as  well  as  I  can  recall 
it,  was  from  infancy  an  intensely  living 
one,  acknowledging  no  ritual  bonds,  and 
admitting  only  quasi  spiritual,  that  is 
natural,  satisfactions.  There  was  of 
course  a  certain  established  order  in  the 
house  as  to  coming  and  going,  as  to 
sleeping  and  waking,  as  to  meal-times 
and  morning  prayers,  as  to  study  hours 
and  play  hours,  and  so  forth.  I  cer- 
tainly never  exhibited  any  willful  disre- 
spect for  this  order,  but  doubtless  I  felt 
no  absolute  respect  for  it,  and  even  vio- 
lated it  egregiously  whenever  my  occa- 
sions demanded.  But  at  the  same  time 
nothing  could  be  more  painful  to  me 
than  to  find  that  I  had  wounded  my 
father's  or  mother's  feelings,  or  dis- 
appointed any  specific  confidence  they 
had  reposed  in  me.  And  I  acutely  be- 
moaned my  evil  lot  whenever  I  came 
into  chance  personal  collision  with  my 
brothers  or  sisters.  In  short,  I  am  satis- 
fied that  if  there  had  been  the  least 
spiritual  Divine  leaven  discernible  with- 
in the  compass  of  the  family  bond ;  if 
there  had  been  the  least  recognizable 
subordination  in  it  to  any  objective  or 
public  and  universal  ends,  —  I  should 
have  been  very  sensitive  to  the  fact, 
and  responsive  to  the  influences  it  ex- 
erted. But  there  was  nothing  of  the 
sort.  Our  family  righteousness  had  as 
little  felt  relation  to  the  public  life  of 
the  world,  as  little  connection  with  the 
common  hopes  and  fears  of  mankind,  as 
the  number  and  form  of  the  rooms  we 
inhabited  ;  and  we  contentedly  lived  the 
same  life  of  stagnant  isolation  from  the 
race  which  the  great  mass  of  our  modern 
families  live,  its  surface  never  dimpled 


658 


Stephen  Dewhurst's  Autobiography. 


[November, 


by  anything  but  the  duties  and  courte- 
sies we  owed  to  our  private  friends  and 
acquaintances. 

The  truth  is  that  the  family  tie  —  the 
tie  of  reciprocal  ownership  which  binds 
together  parent  and  child,  brother  and 
sister  —  was  when  it  existed  in  its  in- 
tegrity a  purely  legal,  formal,  typical 
tie,  intended  merely  to  represent  or  sym- 
bolize to  men's  imagination  the  univer- 
sal family,  or  household  of  faith,  event- 
ually to  appear  upon  the  earth.  But  it 
never  had  the  least  suspicion  of  its  own 
spiritual  mission.  It  was  bound  in  fact, 
in  the  interest  of  self-preservation,  to  ig- 
nore this  its  vital  representative  func- 
tion, to  regard  itself  as  its  own  end,  and 
coerce  its  children  consequently  into  an 
allegiance  often  very  detrimental  to  their 
future  spiritual  manhood.  For  any  re- 
fining or  humanizing  influence,  accord- 
ingly, which  the  family  is  to  exert  upon 
its  members,  we  must  look  exclusively 
to  the  future  of  the  institution,  when  it 
will  be  glorified  for  the  first  time  into  a 
natural  or  universal  bond.  It  is  a  de- 
nial of  order  to  demand  of  the  subterra- 
nean germ  what  we  expect  of  the  full 
corn  in  the  ear.  If,  for  example,  the 
family  as  it  once  existed  had  ever  been 
conscious  of  its  strictly  representative 
virtue ;  if  it  had  for  a  moment  recog- 
nized that  spiritual  Divine  end  of  bless- 
ing to  universal  man  which  alone  in- 
wardly consecrated  it,  —  it  would  have 
incontinently  shriveled  up  in  its  own  es- 
teem, and  ceased  thereupon  to  propa- 
gate itself  ;  so  defeating  its  own  end. 
For  the  only  spiritual  Divine  end  which 
has  ever  sanctified  the  family  institution 
and  shaped  its  issues  is  the  evolution 
of  a  free  society  or  fellowship  among 
men  ;  inasmuch  as  the  family  is  literally 
the  seminary  of  the  race,  or  constitutes 
the  sole  Divine  seed  out  of  which  the 
social  consciousness  of  man  ultimately 
flowers.  Thus  the  only  true  Divine  life 
or  order  practicable  within  the  family 
precinct,  the  only  sentiment  truly  spirit- 
ual, appropriate  to  the  isolated  as  such, 


would  have  been  fatal  to  its  existence, 
as  it  would  have  taken  from  it  its  proper 
pride  of  life  ;  for  it  would  have  consisted 
in  each  of  its  members  freely  disowning 
all  the  rest  in  the  faith  of  a  strictly  uni- 
tary spiritual  paternity  or  being  to  all 
men,  and  a  strictly  universal  natural 
maternity  or  existence. 

We  seem  in  fact  only  now  becoming 
qualified  to  realize  the  spiritual  worth 
of  the  family  considered  as  a  representa- 
tive economy.  For  unquestionably  we 
do  as  a  people  constitutionally  reject  — 
in  the  symbols  of  priest  and  king  —  the 
only  two  hitherto  sacred  pillars  upon 
which  the  ark  of  man's  salvation  has 
rested,  or  which  have  based  his  public 
and  private  righteousness ;  and  it  is 
very  clear  that  we  could  not  have  re- 
jected the  symbol  unless  the  substance 
had  first  come  empowering  us  so  to  do. 
That  is  to  say,  we  as  a  people  are  with- 
out any  proper  political  and  religious 
life  or  consciousness  which  is  not  exclu- 
sively generated  by  the  social  spirit  in 
humanity,  or  the  truth  of  an  approach- 
ing marriage  between  the  public  and 
private,  the  universal  and  the  particular 
interests  of  the  race ;  so  that  our  future 
welfare,  spiritual  and  material,  stands 
frankly  committed  to  the  energies  of 
that  untried  spirit.  Happy  they  who, 
in  this  twilight  of  ever-deepening  spirit- 
ual unbelief  within  the  compass  of  the 
old  symbolic  Church,  and  hence  of  ever- 
widening  moral  earthquake,  confusion, 
and  desolation  within  the  compass  of 
the  old  symbolic  State,  intelligently  rec- 
ognize the  serene,  immaculate  divinity  of 
the  social  spirit,  feel  their  souls  stayed 
upon  the  sheer  impregnable  truth  of  hu- 
man society,  human  fellowship,  human 
equality,  on  earth  and  in  heaven !  For 
they  cannot  fail  to  discern  in  the  gath- 
ering "  clouds  of  heaven,"  or  the  thick- 
ening obscuration  which  to  so  many  de- 
spairing eyes  is  befalling  the  once  bright 
earth  of  human  hope,  the  radiant  char- 
iot-wheels of  the  long-looked-for  Son  of 
Man,  bringing  freedom,  peace,  and  unity 


1884.] 


Stephen  Dewhurst's  Autobiography. 


659 


to  all  the  realm  of  God's  dominion. 
But  these  persons  will  be  the  promptest 
to  perceive,  and  the  most  eager  to  con- 
fess, that  the  family  bond  with  us,  as  it 
has  always  been  restricted  to  rigidly  lit- 
eral dimensions,  and  never  been  allowed 
the  faintest  spiritual  significance,  so  it 
must  henceforth  depend  for  its  consider- 
ation wholly  and  solely  upon  the  meas- 
ure in  which  it  freely  lends  itself  to  re- 
produce and  embody  the  distinctively 
social  instincts  and  aspirations  of  the 
race. 

III. 

SAME    GENERAL    SUBJECT. 

Considering  the  state  of  things  I  have 
been  depicting  as  incident  to  my  boyish 
experience  of  the  family,  the  church, 
and  the  world,  you  will  hardly  be  sur- 
prised to  hear  me  express  my  conviction 
that  the  influences  —  domestic,  ecclesi- 
astical, and  secular  —  to  which  I  was 
subjected  exerted  a  most  unhappy  bear- 
ing upon  my  intellectual  development. 
Thev  could  not  fail  to  do  so  in  stimu- 

V 

lating  in  me,  as  they  did,  a  morbid  doc- 
trinal conscience. 

The  great  worth  of  one's  childhood 
to  his  future  manhood  consists  in  its 
being  a  storehouse  of  innocent  natural 
emotions  and  affections,  based  upon  ig- 
norance, which  offer  themselves  as  an 
admirable  Divine  mould  or  anchorage  to 
the  subsequent  development  of  his  spir- 
itual life  or  freedom.  Accordingly,  in 
so  far  as  you  inconsiderately  shorten 
this  period  of  infantile  innocence  and 
ignorance  in  the  child,  you  weaken  his 
chances  of  a  future  manly  character.  I 
am  sure  that  my  own  experience  proves 
this  truth.  I  am  sure  that  the  early  de- 
velopment of  my  moral  sense  was  every 
way  fatal  to  my  natural  innocence,  the 
innocence  essential  to  a  free  evolution 
of  one's  spiritual  character,  and  put  me 
in  an  attitude  of  incessant  exaction  — 
in  fact,  of  the  most  unhandsome  mendi- 


cancy and  higgling  —  towards  my  ere-? 
ative  source.  The  thought  of  God  in 
every  childish  mind  is  one  of  the  utmost 
awe  and  reverence,  arising  from  the  tra- 
dition or  rumor  of  his  incomparable  per- 
fection ;  and  the  only  legitimate  effect 
of  the  thought,  accordingly,  when  it  is 
left  unsophisticate,  is  to  lower  his  tone 
of  self-sufficiency,  and  implant  in  his 
bosom  the  germs  of  a  social  conscious- 
ness, —  that  is,  of  a  tender,  equal  re- 
gard for  other  people.  But  when  the 
child  has  been  assiduously  taught,  as  I 
was,  that  an  essential  conflict  of  inter- 
ests exists  between  man  and  his  Maker, 
then  his  natural  awe  of  the  Divine  name 
practically  comes  in  only  to  aggravate 
his  acquired  sense  of  danger  in  that  di- 
rection, and  thus  preternaturally  to  in- 
flame all  his  most  selfish  and  sinister 
cupidities.  Our  native  appreciation  of 
ourselves  or  what  belongs  to  us  is  suffi- 
ciently high  at  its  lowest  estate  ;  but 
you  have  only  to  dispute  or  put  in  peril 
any  recognized  interest  of  man,  and  you 
instantly  enhance  his  appreciation  of  it 
a  hundred-fold. 

Our  selfhood,  or  proprium,  is  all  we 
have  got  to  dike  out  the  inflowing  tides 
of  the  spiritual  world,  or  serve  as  a  bar- 
ricade against  the  otherwise  overwhelm- 
ing influence  of  heaven  and  hell.  My 
body  isolates  me  from  the  world,  or  sep- 
arates between  me  and  the  outward  or 
finite  ;  but  I  should  be  literally  stifled 
in  my  own  inward  genesis,  actually  suf- 
focated in  my  creative  substance,  were 
it  not  for  this  sentiment  of  selfhood,  — 
the  sentiment  of  a  life  within  so  much 
nearer  and  dearer  to  me  than  that  of  the 
world,  so  much  more  intimately  and  ex- 
quisitely my  own  than  the  life  of  the 
world  is,  as  spiritually  to  guarantee  me 
even  against  God  or  the  infinite.  The 

o 

world  gives  me  sensible  constitution  or 
existence,  and  if  consequently  you  put 
yourself  between  me  and  the  world,  you 
doubtless  inflict  a  sensible  but  not  nec- 
essarily ft  vital  injury  upon  me.  But 
my  selfhood,  or  proprium,  is  all  I  know 


660                          Stephen  Dewhurst's  Autobiography.  [November, 

of  spiritual  life  or  inward  immortal  be-  in  sleep,  lest  his  dread  hand  should  clip 
ing,  is  all  I  am  able  consciously  to  real-  my  thread  of  life  without  time  for  a 
ize  of  God  himself,  in  short ;  and  when-  parting  sob  of  penitence,  and  grovel  at 
ever,  therefore,  you  impinge  upon  that,  morning  dawn  with  an  abject  slavish 
—  as  when  you  assail  my  vital  self-re-  gratitude  that  the  sweet  sights  and 
spect,  when  you  expose  me  to  gratui-  sounds  of  nature  and  of  man  were  still 
tous  contumely  or  contempt,  when  you  around  me.  The  terror  was  all  but 
in  any  manner  suppress  or  coerce  my  overpowering ;  yet  not  quite  that,  be- 
personal  freedom  to  your  own  profit,  —  cause  it  called  out  a  juvenile  strategy  in 
you  put  yourself,  as  it  were,  between  me  me  which  gave  me,  as  it  were,  a  new  pro- 
ami  God,  at  all  events  between  me  and  prium,  or  at  all  events  enabled  me  bel  et 
all  I  thus  far  spiritually  or  livingly  bien  to  hold  my  own.  That  is  to  say, 
know  of  God  ;  you  darken  my  life's  sun  nature  itself  came  to  my  aid  when  all 
at  its  very  centre,  and  reduce  me  to  the  outward  resources  proved  treacherous, 
torpor  of  death.  You  fill  my  interiors  and  enabled  me  to  find  in  conventionally 
in  short  with  an  unspeakable  anguish,  illicit  relations  with  my  kind  a  gospel 
and  a  resentment  that  knows  no  bounds ;  succor  and  refreshment  which  my  lawful 
that  will  stickle  at  absolutely  nothing  ties  were  all  too  poor  to  allow. 
to  give  me  relief  from  your  intolerable  There  was  nothing  very  dreadful,  to 
invasion.  be  sure,  in  these  relations,  and  I  only 

bring  myself  to  allude  to  them  by  way 
of  illustrating  the  gradual  fading  out  or 

The  thought  of  God  as  a  power  for-  loss  of  stamina  which  the  isolated  fam- 
eign  to  my  nature,  and  with  interests  ily  tie  is  undergoing  in  this  country,  and 
therefore  hostile  to  my  own,  would  have  indeed  everywhere,  in  obedience  to  the 
wilted  my  manhood  in  its  cradle,  would  growing  access  of  the  social  sentiment, 
have  made  a  thoughtful,  anxious,  and  Man  is  destined  to  experience  the  broad- 
weary  little  slave  of  me  before  I  had  en-  est  conceivable  unity  with  his  kind,  —  a 
tered  upon  my  teens,  if  it  had  not  been  unity  regulated  by  the  principle  of  spon- 
for  nature's  indomitable  uprightness.  It  taneous  taste  or  attraction  exclusively, 
aroused  a  reflective  self  -  consciousness  —  and  it  is  only  our  puerile  civic  regime, 
in  me  when  I  ought  by  natural  right  with  its  divisions  of  rich  and  poor,  high 
to  have  been  wholly  immersed  in  my  and  low,  wise  and  ignorant,  free  and 
senses,  and  known  nothing  but  the  in-  bond,  which  keeps  him  from  freely  real- 
nocent  pleasures  and  salutary  pains  they  izing  this  destiny.  Or  rather  let  us  say 
impart.  I  doubt  whether  any  lad  had  that  it  is  the  debasing  influence  which 
ever  just  so  thorough  and  pervading  a  this  civic  regime  exerts  upon  the  heart 
belief  in  God's  existence,  as  an  outside  and  mind  of  men,  that  keeps  them  as 
and  contrarious  force  to  humanity,  as  I  yet  strangers  even  in  thought  to  their 
had.  The  conviction  of  his  supernatural  divine  destiny.  Now  the  isolated  fam- 
being  and  attributes  was  burnt  into  me  ily  bond  is  the  nucleus  or  citadel  of  this 
as  with  a  red-hot  iron,  and  I  am  sure  provisional  civic  economy  ;  and  practi- 
no  childish  sinews  were  ever  more  cally,  therefore,  the  interest  of  the  iso- 
strained  than  mine  were  in  wrestling  lated  family  is  the  chief  obstacle  still 
with  the  subtle  terror  of  his  name.  This  presented  to  the  full  evolution  of  human 
insane  terror  pervaded  my  consciousness  nature.  Accordingly,  even  in  infancy 
more  or  less.  It  turned  every  hour  of  the  family  subject  feels  an  instinct  of 
unallowed  pleasure  I  enjoyed  into  an  opposition  to  domestic  rule.  Even  as  a 
actual  boon  wrung  from  his  forbearance  ;  child  he  feels  the  family  bond  irksome, 
made  me  loath  at  night  to  lose  myself  and  finds  his  most  precious  enjoyments 


Stephen  Dewhurstfs  Autobiography.  661 

and  friendships  outside  the  home  pre-  Nevertheless,  I  was  never  so  happy 
cinct.  I  do  not  say  that  the  family  in  at  home  as  away  from  it.  And  even 
this  country  consciously  antagonizes  the  within  the  walls  of  home  my  happiest 
social  spirit  in  humanity,  or  is  at  all  moments  were  those  spent  in  the'  stable 
aware,  indeed,  of  that  deeper  instinct  of  talking  horse  talk  with  Asher  Foot,  the 
race-unity  which  is  beginning  to  assert  family  coachman ;  in  the  wood-house 
itself.  For  the  family  with  us  is  not  an  talking  pigeons,  chickens,  and  rabbits 
institution,  as  it  is  and  always  has  been  with  Francis  Piles,  the  out-door  servant ; 
in  Europe,  but  only  a  transmitted  preju-  in  the  kitchen  in  the  evenings  hearing 
dice,  having  no  public  prestige  in  any  Dinah  Foot,  the  cook,  and  Peter  Woods, 
case  but  what  it  derives  from  the  private  the  waiter,  discourse  of  rheumatism, 
worth  of  its  members.  Still  it  is  a  very  Methodism,  and  miracle  with  a  pictur- 
rancorous  and  deep-rooted  prejudice,  esque  good  faith,  superstition,  and  suav- 
and  speculatively  operates  every  sort  of  ity  that  made  the  parlor  converse  seem 
vexatious  hindrance  to  the  spread  of  insipid,  or,  finally,  in  the  bedrooms  teas- 
the  social  spirit.  The  "  rich  "  family  ing  the  good-natured  chambermaids  till 
looks  down  upon  the  "  poor  '  family,  their  rage  died  out  in  convulsions  of  im- 
the  cultivated  family  upon  the  unculti-  potent  laughter,  and  they  threatened  the 
vated  one,  the  consequence  being  that  next  time  they  caught  me  to  kiss  me 
this  old  convention  which  we  have  in-  till  my  cheeks  burnt  crimson.  These 
herited  from  our  European  ancestry  were  my  purest  household  delights,  be- 
still  profoundly  colors  our  practical  cause  they  were  free  or  imprescriptible ; 
ethics,  and  blights  every  effort  and  as-  that  is,  did  not  appeal  to  my  living  heart 
piration  towards  race-harmony.  through  the  medium  of  my  prudential 
I  have  no  desire,  either,  to  intimate  understanding.  But  sweet  as  these 
that  I  myself  suffered  from  any  partic-  "  stolen  waters  "  were,  they  were  not 
ularly  stringent  administration  of  the  near  so  refreshing  as  those  I  enjoyed 
family  bond.  My  intercourse  with  my  outside  the  house.  For  obviously  my 
parents  was  almost  wholly  destitute  of  relation  to  the  household  servants,  how- 
a  moral  or  voluntary  hue.  Whether  it  ever  democratic  my  youthful  tendencies 
was  that  the  children  of  the  family  were  might  be,  could  not  be  one  of  true  fel- 
exceptionally  void  in  their  personal  re-  lowship,  because  the  inequality  of  our 
lations  of  malignity  or  not,  I  do  not  positions  prevented  its  ever  being  per- 
know  ;  but  strive  as  I  may  I  cannot  re-  fectly  spontaneous, 
member  anything  but  a  most  infrequent  I  was  indebted  for  my  earliest  practi- 
exhibition  of  authority  towards  us  on  cal  initiation  into  a  freer  sentiment  to 
my  father's  part.  And  as  to  my  mother,  the  friendly  intimacy  I  chanced  to  coii- 
who  was  all  anxiety  and  painstaking  tract  with  my  neighbors,  the  shoemakers, 
over  our  material  interests,  she  made  whom  I  have  described  in  a  former 
her  own  personal  welfare  or  dignity  of  chapter.  Unfortunately,  these  plausible 
so  little  account  in  her  habitual  dealings  young  men  had  really  no  more  moral 
with  us,  as  to  constitute  herself  for  the  elevation  than  if  they  openly  cultivated 
most  part  a  law  only  to  our  affections,  some  form  of  dubious  industry  ;  and 
I  presume,  however,  that  our  childish  they  were  willing,  I  think,  to  take  ad- 
intercourse  with  one  another  was  un-  vantage  of  our  boyish  frankness  and 
usually  affectionate,  since  it  incessant-  generosity  to  an  extent  which,  on  the 
ly  gave  birth  to  relations  of  the  most  whole,  rendered  their  acquaintance  very 
frankly  humoristic  quality,  which  would  harmful  to  us.  I  cannot  in  the  least 
have  been  repugnant  to  any  tie  of  a  justify  them,  but,  on  the  contrary,  hand 
mere  dutiful  regard.  their  memory  over  to  the  unfaltering 


662 


The  Consuming  Fire. 


[November, 


Nemesis  which  waits  upon  wronged  in- 
nocence. But  at  the  same  time  I  must 
say  that  their  friendship  for  a  while 
most  beneficially  housed  my  expanding 
consciousness,  or  served  to  give  it  an 
outward  and  objective  direction.  They 
had,  to  begin  with,  such  an  immense 
force  of  animal  spirits  as  magnetized 
one  out  of  all  self-distrust  or  timidity, 
barely  to  be  with  them.  And  then  they 
were  so  utterly  void  of  all  religious  sen- 
sibility or  perturbation  that  my  mental 
sinews  relaxed  at  once  into  compara- 
tive ease  and  freedom,  so  that  the  force 
of  nature  within  me  then  felt,  I  may 
say,  its  first  authentication.  They  gave 
me,  for  example,  my  earliest  relish  of 
living  art  and  art  criticism.  There  was 
no  theatre  at  that  time  in  the  city,  but 
its  place  was  held  by  an  amateur  Thes- 
pian company,  whose  exhibitions  they 
assiduously  attended ;  and  the  delight 
they  manifested  in  the  drama,  and  the 
impassioned  criticism  they  indulged  in 


upon  its  acting,  made  me  long  for  the 
day  when  I,  too,  should  enter  upon  the 
romance  of  life.  They  were  also  great 
admirers  of  the  triumphs  of  eloquence, 
and  I  used  to  bring  collections  of 
speeches  from  our  own  library  to  read 
to  them  by  the  hour.  It  was  a  huge 
pleasure  to  be  able  to  compel  their  rapt 
attention  to  some  eloquent  defense  of 
liberty,  or  appeal  to  patriotism,  which  I 
had  become  familiar  with  in  my  school 
or  home  readings.  There  was  an  old 
workman  in  the  shop,  an  uncle  of  the 
principals,  who  sacrificed  occasionally  to 
Bacchus,  and  whose  eyes  used  to  drip 
very  freely  when  I  read  Robert  Emmet's 
famous  speech,  or  the  plea  of  the  pris- 
oner's counsel  at  the  trial  scene  in  the 
Heart  of  Midlothian.  He  even  went  so 
far  in  his  enthusiasm  as  to  predict  for 
the  reader  a  distinguished  career  at  the 
bar ;  but  apparently  prophecy  was  not 
my  friend's  strong  point.  [End  of  th  5 
manuscript.] 

Henry  James. 


THE   CONSUMING  FIRE. 

As  in  the  fiery  furnace  stood  the  three, 

Naught  burning  but  the  bonds  that  bound  them  fast, 

While  the  great  multitude  looked  on  aghast, 

And,  full  of  wonder,  stilled  their  cries,  to  see 

That  like  unto  the  Son  of  God  seemed  He 

Who  stood  among  them  till  their  trial  was  past  — 

So  may  I,  in  Thy  fiery  furnace  cast, — 

Thy  Holy  Spirit's  fire  consuming  me,  — 

Have  burned  away,  before  it  is  too  late, 

My  weary  burdens,  and  the  chains  of  sin, 

The  things  I  dare  not  bring  before  Thy  face, 

The  clinging,  hindering  sins  I  love  and  hate. 

Burn,  burn  them  all,  and  make  me  pure  within, 

And  my  poor  heart  fit  for  Thy  dwelling-place. 

R.  N.  Taylor. 


1884.] 


The  Last  Stand  of  the  Italian  Bourlons. 


663 


THE   LAST   STAND   OF   THE   ITALIAN  BOURBONS. 


THOSE  of  us  whose  memories  recall 
the  early  months  .of  1861,  which  ush- 
ered in  our  civil  war,  may  be  interested 
in  synchronizing  with  that  gloomy  pe- 
riod of  our  history  the  salient  events 
which  at  the  same  time  were  inexora- 
bly closing  the  career  of  Bourbon  roy- 
alty in  Italy. 

In  the  previous  November,  Victor  Em- 
manuel had  entered  Naples.  Garibaldi, 
refusing  all  honors,  titles,  wealth,  — 
half  in  patriotic  pride  and  half  in  bit- 
ter indignation  against  Cavour,  on  ac- 
count of  the  pressure  which  had  con- 
strained him  to  turn  over  his  conquest 
to  the  king  without  completing  his  pro- 
gramme by  an  assault  on  Rome,  —  had 
sailed  away  to  Caprera  in  a  fishing- 
smack.  Hero  and  very  child  that  he 
was  !  What  he  had  conquered  by  the 
unselfish  greatness  of  his  soul  he  would 
certainly  have  lost  through  the  simplici- 
ty of  which  certain  volunteer  aulic  coun- 
cilors —  Alexander  Dumas,  the  elder, 
for  instance  —  were  thronging  to  Naples 
to  take  advantage.  Cavour  saved  at 
once  the  dictator  and  his  work  by  tak- 
ing affairs  out  of  his  hands.  As  to  a 
march  on  Rome,  it  would  not  have  been 
a  simple  contest  with  Lamoriciere  and 
his  papal  zouaves,  but  an  assault  on  the 
flag  of  France,  which  would  have  in- 
volved Italy  in  a  French  war.  A  Gari- 
baldi could  gallantly  shut  his  eyes  to  all 
this,  for  he  scorned  diplomacy.  The 
Italian  statesman  appreciated  him  none 
the  less  while  he  breathed  more  freely 
when  the  hero  abdicated  and  withdrew 
in  wrath  to  his  island  home. 

The  week  subsequent  to  the  entrance 
into  Naples,  Francis  II.,  defeated  on 
the  Garigliano  and  at  Capua,  took  ref- 
uge, with  his  young  Bavarian  queen  and 
younger  brothers  and  sisters,  in  Gaeta, 
where  he  was  at  once  besieged  by  Gen- 
erals Cialdini  and  Menabrea.  On  this 


last  promontory  between  the  Neapolitan 
and  the  Papal  States  young  Bourbon 
royalty  stood  gallantly  at  bay.  The 
investment  could  be  maintained,  how- 
ever, only  on  the  land  side.  No  Ital- 
ian naval  force  was  permitted  to  coop- 
erate, for  a  few  French  vessels  rode 
at  anchor  in  the  harbor,  representing 
Napoleon's  persistent  interference  in 
Italian  affairs  ;  and,  though  themselves 
taking  no  active  part  in  the  defense,  the 
fleet  kept  open  the  communications  from 
without  by  which  Francis  received  such 
supplies  as  he  might  need,  as  well  as 
provided  an  ever-open  door  of  departure. 

The  young  king  showed  hitnself,  dur- 
ing this  siege,  in  no  respect  wanting  in 
soldierly  courage  ;  but,  apart  from  this, 
he  did  nothing  to  win  the  affections  of 
his  defenders,  the  regard  of  his  quasi 
allies,  or  the  respect  of  his  assailants. 
A  siege  carried  on  under  these  circum- 
stances could  be  very  little  more  than 
pro  forma  ;  and  the  attention  of  those 
who  watched  and  waited  in  Rome  was 
far  less  occupied  with  the  operations  of 
the  Italian  army  than  with  the  presence 
of  the  French  fleet  and  with  the  ebbs 
and  flows  of  French  politics. 

That  Napoleon  was  hopeful,  or  even 
desirous,  of  saving  the  falling  dynasty 
no  one  imagined,  —  probably  not  even 
Francis  himself.  That  the  French  em- 
peror was  anxious  only  to  retard  the 
progress  of  Italian  nationalization,  and 
to  retain  his  influence  in  Italian  politics, 
in  the  faint  hope  that  some  unexpected 
turn  of  fortune  would  put  it  within  his 
power  to  secure  the  throne  of  South 
Italy  for  his  cousin,  Lucien  Murat,  was 
plain  then  to  not  a  few,  and  is  now, 
of  course,  well  understood.  He  yielded 
this  aim  and  policy  only  as  he  saw  more 
and  more  clearly  its  utter  hopelessness, 
and  the  cost  to  him  of  the  attempt. 
Early  in  December,  it  was  said  that 


664 


The  Last  Stand  of  the  Italian  Bourbons.       [November, 


Napoleon  had  written  to  Francis ;  con- 
demning, indeed,  the  course  of  the  Ital- 
ian government,  but  advising  him  to 
make  no  further  resistance.  Yet  the 
French  vessels  continued  none  the  less 
to  occupy  the  bay  of  Gaeta.  The  Ital- 
ian admiral  could  take  no  part  in  the 
siege,  and  it  dragged  on  ;  or,  rather,  the 
issue  was  frankly  turned  over  to  diplo- 
macy. 

In  the  mean  time  the  fever  of  politi- 
cal excitement  was  increasing  in  Rome. 
The  vanguard  of  the  Piedmontese  had 
advanced,  in  September,  as  near  as  Ti- 
voli ;  and  this  was  enough  to  turn  the 
heads  of  the  populace.  About  the  21st 
of  November,  there  appeared,  moreover, 
a  French  pamphlet,  Le  Pape  et  I'Em- 
pereur,  actually  discussing  the  limits  of 
Napoleon's  duty  to  the  Pope  ;  and,  close 
upon  this,  it  was  rumored  that  the  Count 
of  Moray  had  come  to  Rome,  bearing 
an  ultimatum  for  his  Holiness,  and  an- 
nouncing the  approaching  withdrawal 
not  only  of  the  French  vessels  from 
Gaeta,  but  also  of  the  French  troops 
from  Rome.  Napoleon  was,  as  it  would 
seem,  once  more  upon  the  Liberal  tack. 

There  was  not  a  very  exalted  esti- 
mate current  that  winter,  certainly  not 
in  Rome,  of  the  motives  of  the  imperial 
policy,  whichever  way  it  might  veer. 
The  pro-papal  leanings  which  had  been 
evident  in  the  autumn  and  the  pres- 
ence of  the  French  vessels  in  the  bay 
to  Gaeta  were  quite  as  often  attributed 
of  the  influence  of  the  Princess  Met- 
ternich  as  to  any  settled  principles  of 
statesmanship  ;  and  it  was  now  whis- 
pered in  semi-diplomatic  circles,  on  the 
authority  of  a  monsignore,  "  who  knew 
the  facts,"  that,  to  secure  a  change  in 
the  councils  of  St.  Cloud,  Count  Cavour 
had  had  recourse  to  female  counter- 
diplomacy,  and,  taking  a  hint  from  the 
dealings  of  Louis  XIV.  with  Charles  II., 
had  sent  a  certain  fair  countess  from 
Turin  to  Paris,  in  the  hope  that  she 
might  supplant  the  princess  in  influence 
with  the  emperor. 


It  is  strange  —  or  at  least  it  seems, 
so  to  us  now  —  that  many  of  the  Amer- 
icans and  English  at  the  time  resident 
in  Rome  not  only  were  skeptical  of  the 
ultimate  success  of  the  Italian  revolu- 
tion, but  even  sympathized  with  the 
old  regftnes  which  were  then,  one  by 
one,  giving  way  before  it.  The  enthusi- 
astic new-comer  was  quietly  assured  by 
the  better  informed  old  resident  that  the 
apparently  rising  tide  would  soon  ebb 
again,  as  in  1849  ;  and  that  the  inevita- 
ble reaction  would  reestablish  more  firm- 
ly than  before  the  thrones  now  placed 
in  seeming  jeopardy. 

But  whether  Napoleon  was  or  was 
not  then  feeling  his  way  towards  a  rad- 
ically anti-papal  policy,  both  in  Rome 
and  in  France,  he  did,  at  all  events,  give 
Francis  notice  that  he  could  no  longer 
extend  to  him  even  a  negative  support. 
The  siege  of  Gaeta  was  suspended  from 
the  9th  to  the  llth  of  January;  the 
French  vessels  departed  ;  Admiral  Per- 
sano  at  once  invested  the  port  by  sea ; 
and  the  attack  was  now  pressed  in  ear- 
nest on  every  side. 

The  capitulation  of  Gaeta,  on  Feb- 
ruary loth,  relieved  the  long  suspense. 
The  ex-king  and  queen  of  the  Two  Sici- 
lies withdrew  by  sea  to  Rome.  Simul- 
taneously with  these  tidings  from  the 
south  came  news  of  the  vote  in  the 
Prussian  Chambers  that  it  was  neither 
the  interest  nor  the  policy  of  Prussia  to 
place  any  obstacle  in  the  way  of  Italian 
unity  ;  and  also  of  language  addressed 
by  Napoleon  to  the  Corps  Legislatif, 
which  implied  that  his  policy  at  Gaeta 
and  at  Rome  was  and  must  be  the  same. 

By  the  early  Italian  spring  of  1861, 
therefore,  it  seemed  certain  that  the 
revolution  which  had  rolled  downwards 
from  the  Alps  and  surged  upwards  from 
Sicily  was  now  at  last  about  to  close  in 
upon  Rome  itself.  To  meet  this  threat- 
ened catastrophe  by  counter-revolution, 
to  stem  the  tide  of  coming  perils,  all  the 
subtle  statesmanship  of  Antonelli,  rein- 
forced by  such  strength  as  could  be  con- 


1884.]                 The  Last  Stand  of  the  Italian  Bourbons.  665 

tributed  by  Bourbon  doggedoess  aud  by  ties  were  said  to  have  been  observed  on 

the  lingering  hopes  of  the  Lorraine  dy-  certain  state  occasions  ;  and  during  the 

nasty  of  Tuscany,  was  now  put  forth,  rest  of   the   winter   and  in    the  spring 

Rome  became  from  this  time,  in  the  Ian-  which  followed  they  were  not  infrequent- 

guage  of  a  French  writer,  "  a  hot-bed  of  ly  seen  driving  in  the  Villa  Borghese  or 

conspiracies,  of  attempts  at  restoration,  on  the  Pincio.     The  young  queen  ever 

and  of  organized  brigandage  in  South  won  upon  the  kindly  interest  and  sym- 

Italy."     There  was    thenceforward,  all  pathy  of  every  one  who  looked  upon  her 

this  spring,  ever  a  si  dece  on  the  Piazza  almost  girlish  figure,  her  fair  face  and 

di  Spagna  of  some  consultation  or  plot-  placid  brow,  and  who  thought  what  it 

ting  of  Antonelli  with  Francis,  General  must  be  to  be  the  wife  of  an  exiled  king 

Bosco,  and  representatives  of   the  dis-  of  Naples.     Francis  sat  silent,  gloomy, 

possessed  princes  of  Central  Italy.  saturnine ;  not  a  man  from  whom,  as  he 

A  considerable  number  of  the  dis-  grew  older,  his  late  kingdom  could  ap- 
banded  Neapolitan  troops  had  betaken  parently  have  had  much  to  hope  as  an 
themselves  to  the  valleys  and  villages  improvement  upon  his  father,  the  un- 
of  the  Abruzzi  Mountains,  and  thence  lamented  King  Bomba. 
kept  up  a  guerrilla  warfare,  with  fre-  But  had  all  the  ex-royalty  of  Italy 
quent  banditti  incursions  upon  the  peace  been  concentrated  bodily  in  Rome,  and 
of  the  nearer  provinces ;  sorely  harass-  had  the  Quirinal  been  a  very  Vesuvius 
ing  the  new  government  in  their  efforts  of  reactionary  energy  and  activities,  it 
to  bring  Piedmontese  order  out  of  Bour-  would  have  availed  nothing.  The  po- 
bon  chaos.  That  these  brigands  were  litical  genius  of  Cavour,  sustained  as  it 
supplied  with  money  by  Francis,  and  was  by  the  confidence  and  resolution  of 
that  they  were  encouraged,  and  even  on  the  Italian  people,  was  irresistible.  The 
occasion  protected,  by  the  Roman  au-  Italian  Parliament  met  on  the  18th  of 
thorities,  was  well  known.  In  vain  the  February,  and  accorded  to  Victor  Em- 
national  forces  attempted  to  protect  the  manuel  the  title  of  King  of  Italy.  On 
country  or  to  break  up  these  bands ;  the  20th  of  the  month  following,  the 
for  whenever  hard  pressed  they  took  cabinet  was  reconstituted  so  as  to  in- 
refuge  across  the  nearer  frontier  in  the  elude  representatives  from  the  whole 
"  neutral  territory  of  the  Holy  See,"  nation,  and  especially  from  the  southern 
whither  the  soldiers  of  Victor  Emman-  provinces.  In  April,  Cavour  spoke  the 
uel  could  not  follow  them  without  em-  famous  words,  "  Libera  Chiesa  in  Libero 
broiling  the  Italian  government  with  Stato,"  and  Rome  was  formally  declared 
Napoleon,  yet  whence,  if  they  were  to  be  the  capital  of  Italy, 
nominally  disarmed  and  interned,  they  In  Rome  itself  popular  patriotism 
invariably  "  escaped,"  armed,  into  the  was  now  seething.  Patient  it  had  ever 
Abruzzi  again,  as  soon  as  the  way  was  been,  and  all-enduring ;  but  occasionally, 
clear  to  them,  to  resume  operations  once  at  all  risks,  it  was  not  able  to  deny  itself 
more.  an  opportune  "  demonstration."  Even 

While  Antonelli  thus   threw  himself  so  early  as  December,  when   the  news 

into    the    intrigue    to    restore   Bourbon  came   that    Napoleon    had   forewarned 

rule  at  Naples,  Pius  IX.  welcomed  the  Francis  of  the  early  withdrawal  of  his 

late  royal  family  with  somewhat  osten-  vessels,  on  the  morning  of  Tuesday,  the 

tatious  hospitality.     The  Quirinal  Pal-  18th,  a  number  of  tri-colored  placards 

ace  was  placed  at  their  service  for  such  bearing  the   audacious   legends,  "  Viva 

time  as  they  might  need  a  residence  at  Vittorio     Emmanuele  !     Viva    1'annes- 

Rome.    The  shadow  of  a  court  gathered  sione  ! '    were  discovered,  by  the  horri- 

round  them  there.     Some  grim  festivi-  fied  police,  posted  in  different  parts  of 


666 


The  Last  Stand  of  the  Italian  Bourbons.       [November, 


the  city,  on  the  walls  of  houses  in  the 
Piazza  di  Spagua,  in  the  Corso,  and 
even  on  the  Propaganda.  They  were 
of  course  promptly  torn  down,  and  only 
those  early  abroad  had  the  opportunity 
of  seeing  one :  but  they  were  the  talk 
of  all  Rome  before  night,  and  how  they 
could  have  been  so  posted  in  such  places 
was  a  puzzle  which  no  one  could  solve. 
In  Liberal  circles,  however,  of  which 
many  Americans  enjoyed  a  sort  of  hon- 
orary membership,  the  mystery  was  soon 
explained.  Not  all  the  cardinals  kept 
their  own  carriages  ;  and  therefore  cer- 
tain livery  establishments  were,  it  seems, 
provided  with  the  proper  equipage  to 
supply  to  them,  —  a  large,  ponderous, 
old-fashioned  red  coach,  blazoned  on 
its  panels  with  a  cardinal's  hat,  and  by 
its  color  proclaiming  its  character  from 
afar.  Now,  some  daring  wits  had,  in 
the  name  of  one  of  these  princes  of  the 
church,  hired  such  a  carriage  on  this 
night ;  and  some  inside,  and  others,  dis- 
guised in  livery,  on  the  box  and  behind, 
drove  about  the  city  during  the  small 
hours  almost  with  impunity.  Those  in- 
side pasted  the  placards  and  handed  them 
out  through  the  windows  to  the  lack- 
eys behind.  The  driver  chose  suitable 
places,  and,  turning  the  carriage  so  as  to 
bring  the  back  near  the  walls,  —  a  very 
easy  thing  to  do  where  there  were  no 
sidewalks,  —  the  lackeys  could  quickly 
affix  the  placards  while  the  coach  drove 
on  without  stopping.  No  papal  police 
would  think  of  watching  a  cardinal's 
carriage ;  and  if  any  one  of  them  no- 
ticed it,  he  would  only  suppose  that 
there  was  some  pressing  business  going 
on  at  the  Vatican. 

The  police  afterwards,  however,  owed 
the  Liberals  a  bitter  grudge  for  thus 
outwitting  them  ;  and  when  Gaeta  fell 
they  were  on  the  keen  watch  for  patri- 
otic bursts.  The  Italians  were  indeed, 
as  one  of  the  Liberals  said  at  the  time, 
"  in  the  highest  glee  and  the  Neri  in 
most  dolorous  mood."  This  particular 
patriot  added  that  he  was  himself  "in- 


vited  to  eat  macaroni  in  three  places,  in 
honor  of  the  fall  of  Gaeta." 

"That  evening,"  to  quote  a  journal 
entry  for  the  loth,  "  there  was  quite 
a  touching  demonstration  on  the  Corso. 
About  dusk,  or  a  little  before,  it  was 
filled  with  the  best  dressed  people,  la- 
dies included,  walking.  No  noise,  no 
excitement ;  everybody  intensely  pleas- 
ant, greeting  everybody  else  with  a 
*  Buona  sera '  or  a  '  Bella  serata  ; '  say- 
ing nothing  else,  but  tacitly  sympathiz- 
ing with  each  other  in  the  general  happi- 
ness." It  would  seem  as  though  such 
a  demonstration  would  be  harmless 
enough,  even  in  the  eyes  of  the  papal 
police,  and  certainly  offer  no  ground  for 
repressive  procedure.  But  no :  "  soon 
a  company  of  dragoons  came  in  to  clear 
the  Corso,  when  the  people  quietly 
opened  everywhere  before  them,  and 
the  whole  assembly  melted  away  down 
the  side  streets."  Later  in  the  same 
evening,  a  homeward-bound  pedestrian, 
coming  up  the  Condotti,  was  suddenly 
startled  by  a  green  Bengal  light  succeed- 
ed by  a  white  light  blazing  out  high  up 
on  the  Spanish  Steps.  There  was  un- 
doubtedly also  to  have  been  a  red  light, 
to  make  up  the  national  tri-color;  but 
probably  the  match  failed  which  was  set 
to  ignite  it.  The  whole  neighborhood 
was  of  course  illuminated,  instantly  and 
brilliantly,  —  the  long  ascent  of  the 
steps,  the  piazza  below,  the  piazzetta  in 
front  of  the  church  above.  The  police 
were  promptly  on  the  spot,  but  no  one 
was  to  be  seen. 

Four  days  after  this,  however,  —  that 
is,  on  the  19th,  —  it  was  noted  in  the 
journal  just  quoted  that  "  some  fifty  per- 
sons had  just  been  exiled  by  the  gov- 
ernment :  some  say,  for  taking  part  in 
the  quiet  demonstration  upon  the  Corso, 
on  the  evening  of  the  14th  ;  and  some, 
for  eating  macaroni  that  night  in  honor 
of  the  fall  of  Gaeta."  The  government, 
not  being  obliged  to  give  any  reason, 
left  it  in  doubt  which  was  the  ground  of 
action ;  but  it  was  evident  that  if  its 


1884.] 


The  Last  Stand  of  the  Italian  Bourbons. 


667 


strict  and  eminently  paternal  regimen 
could  not  forestall  this  patriotic  wit  of 
the  Roman  Liberals,  they  would  at  least 
be  brought  afterwards  to  strict  account. 
Such  discipline  did  not,  at  all  events, 
do  much  to  conciliate  the  good-will  of 
the  Roman  people  towards  the  papal 
government. 

The  popular  enthusiasm  at  the  prog- 
ress of  a  revolution  which  was  to  bring 
back  to  Italy  a  golden  age  had  addition- 
al reason  in  the  great  distress  among  the 
lower  classes,  which  had  been  witnessed 
during  the  winter  and  spring.  This  dis- 
tress was  produced  largely  by  the  heavy 
taxes  and  by  the  monopolies  in  the  sale 
of  some  of  the  necessities  of  life,  by 
which  the  government  supplied  its  treas- 
ury, rewarded  ostentatious  political  de- 
votion, or,  as  was  popularly  believed,  sus- 
tained the  brigands,  through  whom  they 
hoped  to  set  up  Bourbon  rule  again  in 
Naples.  4<  The  suffering  from  starvation 
is  terrible,"  wrote  a  lady  :  "  the  men  who 
carry  bread  from  the  bakers  are  often 
stopped  in  the  streets  and  the  bread  for- 
cibly taken  from  them.  All  provisions 
are  dear  and  beyond  the  means  of  the 
poor :  but  I  hope  this  is  almost  over  now. 
The  Romans  are  wonderfully  patient  and 
enduring."  It  was  currently  reported, 
and,  whether  true  or  not,  believed  at 
the  time,  that  when  some  one  remon- 
strated with  Cardinal  Antonelli  for  giv- 
ing such  a  monopoly  to  his  brother,  on 
the  ground  that  the  people  had  scarcely 
bread  to  eat,  he  replied,  with  a  sarcas- 
tic laugh,  "  Let  them  eat  hay,  then  ;  or 
grass,  since  spring  is  coming." 

Not  always,  however,  could  this  char- 
acteristic Roman  patience  be  depended 
on ;  for  the  record  is  found  under  date 
of  February  llth,  but  two  days  before 
the  fall  of  Gaeta,  "  There  have  been 
two  flagrant  cases  of  robbery  committed 
lately  upon  Americans.  Young  Mr. 
C.  was,  on  Saturday  night,  attacked  in 
his  own  entry  by  two  men  armed  with 
knives,  and  robbed  of  all  he  had  about 
him,  —  watch,  gold  chain,  diamond  pin, 


and  purse.  Some  one  else,  last  night,  was 
attacked  in  Mr.  R.'s  entry,  in  the  same 
manner;  but  he  was  strong  enough  to 
defend  himself,  and  put  the  fellow  to 
flight."  But,  however  sternly  prompt 
to  punish  sympathy  with  the  national 
movement,  to  "  irregularities  "  of  this 
kind  the  police  paid  no  attention.  An 
American  seized  a  thief  who  had  just 
robbed  him,  in  the  midst  of  the  crowd 
on  the  Corso,  during  the  carnival,  — 
seized  him  with  the  stolen  purse  still 
in  his  hand;  and,  holding  him  by  the 
throat,  marched  him  up  to  a  policeman, 
and  delivered  him  then  and  there  into 
custody.  The  policeman  merely  re- 
stored the  purse,  and,  telling  the  thief 
that  he  was  a  fool  to  allow  himself  to 
be  caught  in  this  manner,  let  him  go  ! 

Small  wonder  that  the  Roman  peo- 
ple gave  little  welcome  and  scant  greet- 
ing to  the  young  ex-king  and  queen  of 
Naples,  with  whose  presence  in  Rome 
they  so  closely  associated  the  miseries 
of  that  weary  spring!  The  royal  pair 
occasionally  drove  through  streets  silent 
of  any  vivas  for  them ;  they  assisted  at 
some  function  of  the  church,  protected 
from  possible  insult  more  by  the  Swiss 
guard  of  the  Pope  than  by  any  popular 
sympathy  with  the  expiring  cause  of 
which  they  were  both  the  representa- 
tives and  the  victims. 

Another,  and  so  far  as  the  writer  is 
concerned  a  last  glance  at  this  hapless 
pair,  thus  passing  out  of  history,  is 
found  in  the  following  extract  from  a 
journal  description  of  the  ceremonies  at 
St.  Peter's  on  Thursday  of  Holy  Week 
of  the  same  year  :  — 

At  the  lavanda,  —  that  is,  the  formal 
pontifical  foot-washing,  —  "I  remained 
long  enough  to  see  first  the  pilgrims 
come  in,  and  then  the  royalties.  Of  the 
latter,  first  came  Queen  Christina  of 
Spain,  accompanied  by  her  son,"  —  she, 
by  the  way,  on  whom,  of  all  royal  wo- 
mankind, the  Pope  had  bestowed  the 
golden  rose!  .  .  .  Next  came  the  Ne- 
apolitan royal  family,  —  the  king  in 


668 


De  Senectute. 


[November, 


his  uniform,  and  the  queen,  of  course, 
in  black  and  a  veil.  He  had  a  very 
disagreeable  look  ;  something  malignant 
about  it.  He  looked  even  worse  than 
in  the  photographs  ;  for  in  these  his  fea- 
tures are  in  repose.  He  seemed  to  be 
near-sighted,  and  kept  contracting  his 
brow  most  loweringly  and  repulsively. 
With  the  queen  we  were  all  pleased. 
She  is  perhaps  not  beautiful,  but  very 
bright  and  interesting, — a  face  full  of 
spirit.  Near  Francis  were,  apparently, 
his  three  brothers,  every  one  of  whom 
was  better  looking  and  had  a  better 
expression  than  the  king.  His  four  or 
five  young  sisters  also  were,  all  but  one, 
pleasing-looking  girls.  General  Bosco, 


the  only  one  of  his  prominent  generals 
who  was  faithful  to  him  from  first  to 
last,  was  with  him  ;  his  stepmother,  also, 
I  believe." 

These  last  Bourbon  royalties  of  Italy 
remained  in  Rome  for  some  years,  vain- 
ly hoping  and  attempting  to  create  a 
favorable  occasion  for  stirring  up  a  re- 
action, or  at  least  a  conspiracy  of  one 
kind  or  another,  in  the  late  kingdom 
of  the  Two  Sicilies.  Certainly,  nothing 
that  the  Pope  or  Antonelli  could  do  to 
aid  them  in  these  laudable  efforts  was 
left  undone.  At  last,  one  by  one,  they 
left  Rome  for  Austria  or  for  Bavaria. 
Bourbon  rule  in  Italy  was  at  an  end 
forever.  Exeunt  omnes. 

William  Chauncy  Langdon. 


DE   SENECTUTE. 


•THE  new  translation  by  Dr.  Andrew 
Peabody,  of  Cambridge,  revived  an  old 
interest  in  the  De  Senectute,  and  being 
now  unfortunately  familiar  with  the  sub- 
ject I  felt  called  upon  to  bear  testimony 
as  follows. 

We  drift  toward  old  age  impercepti- 
bly. None  of  us  can  tell  the  exact  mo- 
ment when  our  sun  crosses  the  equator. 
Suddenly  we  notice  that  the  days  have 
grown  shorter.  Some  morning  we  rub 
our  eyes,  and  look !  there  it  is  behind 
us,  —  the  high  wall,  unscalable,  that  sep- 
arates us  from  youth.  We  are  on  the 
wrong  side.  We  may  cling  to  our  old 
dress,  amusements,  occupations,  friends, 
—  it  is  of  no  use.  We  are  outside  the 
pale.  The  youngsters  gaze  down  upon 
us  with  indifference,  tinged  with  con- 
tempt ;  keep  both,  my  lads,  for  your 
own  use.  I  hold  with  Steele  that  a 
healthy  old  fellow  in  easy  circumstances 
(who  despises  hair-dye,  let  me  add)  has 
the  happiest  condition  of  existence.  An 
essayist  who  wrote  eighteen  hundred 
years  before  Steele  has  made  Cato  say 


as  much  and  more :  "  If  I  were  offered 
the  chance  to  be  young  again,  —  Valde 
recusem,  —  I  would  emphatically  re- 
fuse." 

Thus  I  spoke  to  my  friend  Thomp- 
son, a  nobody  like  myself.  We  had 
been  young  together.  Our  parents  were 
respectable,  but  poor.  The  star  of  our 
nativity  was  of  the  ninth  magnitude,  — 
a  two  and  sixpenny  star.  Youth,  I  ad- 
mit, has  the  charm  to  console  for  the 
lack  of  money.  We  were  needy,  but 
we  did  not  mind  it  much.  Voltaire,  who 
was  rich,  said  sneeringly  to  Piron,  who 
was  very  poor,  "  Vous  n'etes  pas  riche, 
rnon  pauvre  Piron."  "  Non,"  said  Pi- 
ron, "  mais  je  m'en  .  .  . ;  c'est  comme 

•      •          1  5  /  j       •        )  5 

si  je  letais. 

Wealth  came  to  us  when  we  were 
elderly  and  inert,  as  it  did  to  Tityrus, 
in  the  first  Eclogue.  Thompson  growled 
that  the  struggle  of  his  life  had  been  to 
make  the  end  of  his  income  meet  the 
end  of  the  year.  The  pleasure  of  vic- 
tory was  now  taken  away  from  him ;  he 
was  reduced  to  opulence.  What  was 


1884.] 


De  Senectute. 


669 


he  to  do  for  occupation  ?  Tityrus  lay 
under  his  beech-tree  and  made  the  woods 
resound  with  the  name  of  Formosa  Am- 
aryllis. For  men  of  his  age  in  this  cli- 
mate the  grass  were  a  dangerous  couch ; 
and  Formosa  Amaryllis  in  the  nine- 
teenth century  is  not  satisfied  with  loud 
and  empty  compliments.  She  prefers 
to  see  her  name  on  parcels  from  the 
jeweler's  shop. 

I  went  on  with  my  discourse.  Senex, 
to  be  happy,  must  know  his  place ;  he 
will  not  try  to  be  as  good  as  new,  —  a 
senex  recoctus,  who  affects  youth  and  the 
manners  and  pleasures  of  young  men, 
lingering  about  the  banquet  like  a  dis- 
reputable servant  in  search  of  heel-taps. 
He  will  be  too  much  of  a  gentleman  to 
indulge  in  dissolute  stories,  foul  with 
wine  and  grease  like  a  dirty  tablecloth. 
He  will  have  too  much  sense  to  relate 
jokes  and  anecdotes  of  Egyptian  antiq- 
uity which,  like  the  letters  in  the  Flying 
Dutchman's  mail  bag,  were  meant  for 
men  dead  years  ago;  and  he  will  not 
be  pompous  and  garrulous,  abounding 
in  highly  colored,  not  to  say  imaginary, 
reminiscence^  of  the  wonderful  things 
done  by  himself  and  his  fellows  in  their 
young  days,  most  of  which  his  surviving 
friends  probably  wish  were  buried  out 
of  sight  and  forgotten.  He  should  never 
give  advice  unless  it  is  earnestly  asked 
for,  and  very  little  of  it  even  then.  Such 
a  man  will  improve  with  age,  like  good 
wine  and  Turkey  rugs,  softened,  mel- 
lowed, toned  down,  unaggressive. 

T.  Your  model  old  man  reminds  me 
of  the  typical  Irish  gentleman :  the 
most  perfect  specimen  of  the  gentleman, 
if  you  could  only  meet  one.  You  have 
heard  the  saying. 

/.  You  will  admit  that  the  condition 
of  the  ordinary  veteran  has  been  improv- 
ing since  tradition  begins.  It  must  have 

o  3 

been  a  dreary  moment  in  the  career  of 
the  noble  savage,  our  ancestor,  when  his 
wind  and  sight  began  to  fail  him,  and 
he  could  no  longer  hunt  for  his  share  of 
the  larder,  nor  hold  his  own  in  a  scrim- 


mage with  his  neighbors.  He  became 
a  burden  to  his  relatives  ;  there  was  no 
place  in  the  world  for  him,  and  he  was 
duly  put  out  of  it,  —  knocked  in  the  head 
by  the  heir  at  law  with  the  Kith  club 
kept  for  that  sacred  purpose  in  the  fam- 
ily cave,  and  gathered  to  his  children, 
roasted  or  baked  according  to  their 

o 

taste  or  conveniences  for  cooking.  Trol- 
lope's  fixed  period  was  the  universal  law. 
When  mankind  advanced  to  houses  and 
farming  and  became  reasonably  certain 
of  getting  their  daily  meals,  the  old  man 
was  kept  alive.  New  uses  were  found 
for  him.  Savages  are  conservative  and 
governed  by  precedent.  He  was  a 
chronicle  of  the  past.  He  sat  at  the 
gates  and  told  how  things  were  done  in 
the  times  of  the  fathers,  and  his  expe- 
rience seemed  wisdom.  Savages  are 
also  very  fond  of  listening  to  story-tell- 
ers ;  and  the  inclination  natural  to  age 
to  talk  about  himself  and  his  contempo- 
raries, made  him  an  object  of  delightful 
and  respectful  interest.  We  see  this 
stage  in  Nestor,  in  the  Iliad.  If  Nestor 
were  to  be  reproduced  in  this  generation 
he  would  seem  a  garrulous  old  bore. 
Cato's  position  was  much  better  than 
Nestor's,  but  not  nearly  so  good  as  that 
of  the  nineteenth-century  old  man.  Mod- 
ern science  and  modern  pursuits  make 
him  almost  as  good  as  new,  or  at  least 
keep  him  middle-aged.  He  has  specta- 
cles and  false  teeth,  umbrellas  and  India- 
rubber  goloshes,  fires  and  gaslight.  He 
can  drive  in  C  -  spring  carriages  and 
move  about  like  the  gods  without  the 
weariness  of  motion.  He  can  be  a  trader 
or  a  professional  man  as  long  as  he 
pleases.  For  the  weaker  brethren  there 
are  directorships  in  banks  and  insur- 
ance companies,  trusteeships  in  clubs  or 
hospitals  or  public  libraries,  and  so  on 
down  to  vestryman.  There  is  no  end 
to  this  kind  of  occupation  but  death  or 
dementia,  and  almost  any  old  fellow  can 
have  a  tolerabilis  senectus  in  this  way. 
There  is  little  excuse  for  the  worst  dis- 
ease of  age,  ennni,  —  tedium  senile.  Nor 


670 


De  Senectute. 


[November, 


do  years  bring  to  a  man  who  fills  places 
of  this  kind  the  loss  of  consideration 
that  Caius  Salinator  and  Spurius  Al- 
binus  —  homines  consulares,  ex-consuls 
—  so  bitterly  complained  of  to  Cato. 

T.  You  omit  the  newspaper,  a  re- 
source and  pastime  within  reach  of  the 
poorest.  The  newspaper  is  the  magic 
mirror  of  our  time.  We  see  the  whole 
world  in  it  twice  a  day,  and  news  "  doth 
the  spirit  move  like  rum  and  true  re- 
ligion." The  dullest  inhabitant  of  the 
earth  of  Indolence  loves  to  nod  over 
his  paper ;  and  with  what  he  gets  from 
it,  and  a  few  castaway  opinions  he 
picks  up  derelict,  can  make  quite  a  re- 
spectable figure. 

1.  I  shall  also  take  note  of  the  pleas- 
ure we  get  in  the  care  of  our  health. 
The  modern  invalid,  instead  of  being 
despised  and  destroyed  as  in  the  afore- 
time, derives  a  certain  dignity  and  im- 
portance from  his  infirmities.  He  rather 
boasts  of  my  cold  or  my  gout  as  if  it  were 
a  possession  to  be  proud  of,  and  keeps 
his  sign  up  of  "  Whines  and  Ails  "  like 
a  dram  shop.  If  he  can  afford  profes- 
sional services,  an  army  of  smiling  and 
gossiping  physicians  are  ready  to  visit 
him ;  if  his  means  are  limited,  there  are 
patent  medicines  of  all  kinds,  from  the 
mild  tonic  to  some  fierce  drug,  —  a  dop- 
pia  purgazione,  as  the  Italians  say. 
Hunyddi  before  breakfast,  hot  water 
before  dinner,  —  he  can  improve  each 
shining  hour.  He  will  also  meet  many 
friends  in  the  same  physical  and  mental 
condition  with  whom  he  can  have  a 
pleasant  interchange  of  ailments,  and 
discuss  what  to  eat  and  what  to  avoid ; 
carefully  connoting  dishes  with  their  at- 
tendant diseases. 

T.  I  have  in  my  library  Every  Wo- 
man her  own  Housekeeper,  published 
by  John  Perkins,  of  London,  in  1809. 
I  will  send  it  to  you  for  your  friends. 
In  the  table  of  contents  of  this  curious 
receipt  book,  the  penalty  of  indulgence 
is  placed  alliteratively  beside  each  kind 
of  food,  as  thus  :  Apples  and  Asthma  — 


Custards  and  Colic  —  Gravy  and  Gout 
—  Jelly  and  Jaundice  —  Pickles  and 
Piles  —  Appetite  and  Apoplexy  — 
Drams  and  Death. 

I.  We  are  not  as  active  and  strong 
as  we  once  were,  and  many  of  the  pleas- 
ures of  young  men  have  gone  from  us ; 
but,  as  Cato  says,  we  have  ceased  to  care 
about  these  things,  —  sed  ne  desideratio 
quidem.  Taking  one  thing  with  another, 
I  aver  that  a  man  is  as  well  off  in  our 
stage  of  life  as  in  the  earlier.  Healthy, 
wealthy,  and  wise  old  men  have  said  so. 

T.  I  doubt  that  they  really  believed 
it.  There  is  something  ridiculous  about 
old  men  even  in  each  other's  eyes.  "  Nil 
habet  senectus  durius  in  se  quam  quod 
homines  ridicules  facit."  I  have  changed 
the  line,  for.  it  is  truer  of  age  than  of 
poverty.  All  your  modern  improvements 
are  merely  alleviations,  —  anodynes  that 
dull  the  pain  of  the  stings  of  time.  The 
awful  fact  is  ever  present :  we  are  con- 
demned to  disease,  decay,  death,  and 
undergo  a  portion  of  our  sentence  every 
day.  Have  you  read  Edgar  Poe's 
story  of  the  prisoner  who  noticed  each 
morning  when  he  waked  that  there  was 
one  window  the  less  in  his  dungeon? 
So  with  me :  I  notice  the  loss  of  some 
faculty  or  taste  every  day. 

I.  Then  it  is  surely  wise  to  make  the 
most  of  what  is  left.  As  long  as  there 
is  a  window  in  your  prison,  let  the  sun 
shine  in.  The  man  who  tries  to  see  life 
without  its  illusions  hardly  sees  life  at 
all.  Any  one  can  analyze  life  into  the 
contemptible  and  the  miserable ;  but  it 
is  all  we  have  got.  Even  the  vulgar 
excitement  of  brass  bands  and  pink  fire 
is  better  sense  than  your  dreary  pessi- 
mism. You  are  rich :  sweet  are  the 
uses  of  prosperity.  If  you  were  a  pau- 
per, I  would  throw  up  your  case.  Pov- 
erty and  old  age  together  are  indeed  too 
heavy  a  load  for  man  to  bear.  You  are 
in  good  health  and  in  good  repute. 

Salus,  honor  et  argentum, 
Atque  bonum  appetitura 

make  a  comfortable  residuum. 


1884.] 


De  Senectute. 


671 


T.  Dregs  is  the  better  word,  —  dregs 
of  a  life  unfulfilled.  I  lament  the  hap- 
piness I  could  not  grasp.  Now  it  is  too 
late.  What  a  lying  proverb :  Better 
late  than  never !  Late  may  sometimes 
be  better  than  never,  but  very  seldom. 
There  is  a  saying  that  every  man  smells 
once  of  the  rose  that  blooms  in  the  gar- 
den of  Eden.  My  chance  to  sniff  at  it 
has  come  when  I  have  nearly  lost  the 
sense  of  smell.  Another  lying  French 
proverb  tells  us  "  Tout  vient  a  point  a 
qui  sait  attendre."  Only  the  ghost  of 
Tout  comes  if  one  has  to  wait  long. 
Hope  deferred,  like  dinner  delayed,  de- 
stroys the  appetite.  What  might  have 
been  gold  when  Polk  was  President  is 
paper  at  a  ruinous  discount  under  Ar- 
thur. When  Jacob  won  Rachel  after 
fourteen  years'  service  she  was  not  the 
same  Rachel,  nor  was  he  the  same  Ja- 
cob. I  asked  for  fresh  bread ;  I  got  it 
stale  arid  hard  as  a  stone. 

/.  There  was  a  Rachel,  then  !  Why 
were  you  not  as  pertinacious  as  Jacob  ? 

T.  I  had  read  Ovid's  "  Nubere  si  qua 
voles,  differ,"  long  before  I  saw  Punch's 
celebrated  advice.  I  thought  Look  be- 
fore you  leap  a  good  maxim,  and  I 
looked  too  long.  Matrimony  is  like  the 
ministry,  —  not  to  be  entered  into  with- 
out a  call.  I  never  felt  my  calling  sure, 
and  I  was  quite  sure  I  could  not  afford 
a  wife.  Poverty  makes  us  acquainted 
with  strange  bedfellows.  I  had  a  dread 
of  discomfort,  overcrowding,  little  tem- 
pers, the  noise  of  children ;  the  worry 
culminating  when  to  the  pinched  papa 
comes  the  first  shrill  cry  for  pocket 
money.  The  horse  leech  is  not  the  only 
parent  whose  daughters  cry,  "  Give, 
give."  Now  come  the  twaddlers,  who 
tell  me  I  ought  to  have  somebody  to  in- 
herit my  money.  I  do  not  see  that  it  is 
of  much  consequence  to  the  world  at 
large  whether  a  Smith  or  a  Jones  leaves 
offspring  or  not ;  nor  to  a  dead  man  who 
is  to  spend  his  money.  We  would  all 
take  it  with  us  if  we  could.  It  is  too 
late.  I  am  not  silly  enough  to  marry 


a  young  woman,  and  the  loves  of  my 
youth  are  faded,  when  they  are  not 
gone.  Some  have  become  matrons  in 
protuberant  health,  and  some  still  lan- 
guish on  the  native  thorn,  "  unclaimed 
blessings,"  as  Max  O'Rell  calls  them, 
prim,  perpendicular,  angular,  angels  no 
longer,  —  non  angli,  sed  anguli.  I  met 
some  of  them  lately  at  a  small  and  early 
tea.  They  said  it  seemed  like  old  times. 
To  me  it  seemed  like  a  resurrection 
party,  and  I,  a  social  metempsychosis, 
recollected  having  existed  in  some  pre- 
vious and  pleasanter  state  of  probation. 

To  return  to  Cato  :  — 

Much  of  his  contention  is  idle  stuff. 
He  sneers  at  the  inconsistency  of  man- 
kind. All  men,  he  says,  wish  for  old 
age,  and  complain  when  it  comes  to  them: 
omnes  optant  accusant  adepti.  What  all 
men  wish  for  is  long  life,  not  old  age.  A 
youth  lives  with  the  feelings  of  the  im- 
mortals ;  one  would  be  happy  forever  if 
one  could  stop  at  five  and  twenty.  And 
again,  nemo  est  tarn  senex,  nobody  is  so 
infernally  old  that  he  does  not  pray  to  live 
longer.  The  dread  of  death  is  instinct- 
ive in  man  and  in  all  animals,  and  to  us 
mere  consciousness  is  a  pleasure  we  do 
not  care  to  give  up.  And  what  an  un- 
common old  man  is  this  Cato  !  He  has 
none  of  the  pains  of  age,  nee  afflixit  se- 
nectus ;  and  none  of  its  weakness,  sed 
aliquid  pristini  roboris.  He  married 
his  second  wife  at  eighty.  He  was  a 
very  vain  man  ;  like  the  Priscus  Adams, 
he  thought  "  all  was  vanity  or  vexation 
of  spirit."  He  had  his  delight  in  talking 
about  himself,  and  his  fellow  citizens 
were  obliged  to  listen,  as  he  was  rich, 
powerful,  and  the  most  famous  man  of 
his  day  in  Rome.  He  boasts  of  his 
rank  and  influence  as  a  crown,  —  apex 
senectutis  est  auctoritas ;  he  compares 
himself  to  the  pilot  (gubernator),  who 
apparently  does  no  work,  but  who  steers 
the  ship.  How  does  all  this  apply  to 
you  or  to  me,  who  are  single,  old,  and 
feeble,  and  have  never  risen  even  to 
the  rank  of  corporal  in  the  grand  army 


672 


De  Senectute. 


[November, 


of  the  unknown  ?  Yet  this  exceptional 
veteran,  old  only  in  the  number  of  his 
years,  warns  us  that  we  must  not  give 
up  to  old  age,  but  fight  it.  Keep  mind 
and  memory  busy  to  avoid  senility. 
"  Pugnandum  contra  senectutem,  semper 
agens  aliquid."  There  is  something 
dreary  and  almost  humiliating  in  this 
daily  struggle  with  destiny. 

/.  But  he  mentions  other  ways  of 
mitigating  age  that  are  within  our  easy 
reach,  and  are  not  dreary.  He  lent 
money  at  high  rates,  and  he  loved  to  lay 
it  up.  Accumulation  —  literally,  the 
growth  of  the  pile  —  is  a  constant  pleas- 
ure. Age  does  not  weary  of  its  infinite 
variety.  Money,  at  our  time  of  life, 
gives  in  this  way  the  most  enjoyment. 
He  studied  Greek  in  his  declining  years, 
and  had  such  joy  in  the  language  that 
he  dreamed  in  Greek.  He  liked  books. 
We  have  half  a  dozen  languages  and 
literatures,  and  thousands  of  books  to 
choose  from.  Cato  enjoyed  a  joke,  and 
although  those  that  have  come  down  to 
us  as  his  are  not  good  he  probably  heard 
better  than  he  made.  Then  garden- 
ing and  farming  were  incredibilia  de- 
lecta.  *'  No  man  is  so  old  that  he  may 
not  hope  to  live  another  year  to  see 
his  flowers  bloom  and  his  fruits  ripen." 
Here  again  he  was  right.  Nature  does 
not  grow  old,  and  never  suggests  age  to 
us.  The  trees  and  the  grass  and  the 
birds  seem  the  same  year  after  year. 
As  we  advance  in  life  we  enjoy  nature 
more  and  more.  Paradise  was  and  will 
be  a  garden.  Cato  gave  dinners  fre- 
quently, propter  sermonis  delectationem, 
for  the  pleasure  of  conversation  as  well 
as  of  eating  and  drinking.  Old  peo- 
ple never  weary  of  their  dinner.  Even 
deaf  ears  seem  to  hear  the  sweet  jingle 
of  silver  and  glass. 

T.  I  find  dinner  parties  cheerful 
enough  in  a  way,  but  not  in  the  old 
way.  Time  changes  old  friends  and  ices 
warm  hearts.  Our  jolly  club  mottoes 
in  college,  "  Fide  et  amicitia,"  "  Dum 
vivimus  vivamus,"  have  an  empty  sound 


to  me  now.  I  find  keeping  myself  alive 
all  I  can  manage  ;  fides  means  little  or 
nothing,  and  the  amicitia  is  mostly  dead 
or  forgotten.  I  fear  that  the  survivals 
are  mostly  olla  amicitia,  pot  friendship, 
the  high  consideration  of  the  invited : 
so  many  of  our  brilliant  acquaintances 
are  like  the  stars  in  the  hymn, 

"Forever  singing,  as  they  shine, 
The  man  who  feeds  us  is  divine." 

Cato  had  another  remedy  for  age.  Cic- 
ero omits  to  mention  it,  but  Horace  has 
indiscreetly  preserved  it  for  us.  "  Srepe 
mero  caluisse  virtus  : '  He  frequently 
heated  his  great  qualities  with  wine.  I 
do  not  blame  him.  A  good  dose  of  this 
sparkling  liquid  rubs  off  the  rust  from 
the  old  man  ;  the  shadows  of  his  ap- 
proaching fate  vanish  ;  he  is  strong,  hap- 
py, hopeful,  young,  again.  For  an  hour 
or  two  it  is  the  elixir  of  life.  Ponce 
de  Leon  toiled  painfully  through  the 
swamps  of  Florida  in  search  of  the 
Fountain  of  Youth.  He  might  have 
found  it  in  Jamaica,  or  Antigua,  or  Santa 
Cruz,  or  even  in  New  England,  had  he 
lived  a  few  years  later. 

1.  The  Autocrat  of  the  Breakfast  Table 
says  that  drinking  is  the  only  resource 
when  a  man  has  survived  his  emotions 
a  Vegard  du  beau  sexe,  if  he  has  retired 
from  business,  and  has  no  scientific,  lit- 
erary, or  charitable  hobby  to  ride. 

T.  Cato's  principles  were  cynically 
loose.  You  remember  the  sententia  dia 
Catonis  in  Horace,  and  how  he  increased 
his  income  by  hiring  out  his  female 
slaves.  He  married  the  second  time  to 
keep  up  appearances.  Do  you  notice 
he  does  not  allude  to  the  gratification 
old  people  derive  from  their  grandchil- 
dren ?  Evidently  he  had  not  the  do- 
mestic virtues.  The  truth  is,  Cato  was 
a  coarse,  sensual,  hard,  and  disreputable 
old  man,  a  typical  Roman.  You  and  he, 
in  the  excellent  reasons  you  have  offered 
why  old  people  should  be  happy,  forget 
the  real  difficulty,  —  the  nearness  of  the 
end.  The  world  is  indeed  "full  of  pleas- 
ant people  and  of  curious  things,"  but 


1884.] 


Aivazofsky. 


673 


it  will  not  last.     Years  ago,  in  a  Mex-     and  the  Phaeacians,  with  your  cheery, 


ican  village,  I  heard  a  young  girl  sing, 

"  Que  bonito  es  el  man  do, 
Lastima  que  go  me  muera." 

There  is   our  trouble :   "  Every  second 

dies  a  man."     The  air  is  full  of  death. 

Charon   sees   souls  falling   into  Hades 

thick  and  fast,  noiseless  and  white,  like     As  the  fitful  firelight  dances  upon  the 

snowflakes.      One  cannot   help    feeling     parlor  wall,  the    shadows    take  on  the 

an  infinite  pity  and  sadness  when  one     shape  of  the  fair  faces  I  liked  to  look  at 


self-encouraging  talk,  get  your  "  calm 
contentedness  of  seventy  years  "  as  the 
beasts  do,  —  for  want  of  thought. 

The  gloomy  Thompson  leaves  me 
alone  with  his  u  fleeting  world  and  pite- 
ous." It  is  evening,  and  nearly  dark. 


thinks  of  the  thousands  of  kind,  harm- 
less, often  happy  beings  who  are  so  in- 
cessantly thrust  out  of  existence.  And  I 
lament  over  myself  especially.  I  shall 
soon  have  to  give  up  the  bonito  mundo. 
Finis  for  me  must  be  written  in  a  year 
or  two.  "  Wie  hasslich  bitter  ist  das 
Sterben ! "  Do  you  think  that  a  man 
who  knows  he  is  to  be  hanged  the  next 
morning  would  enjoy  his  dinner,  even  if 
Ude  or  Francatelli  came  back  to  cook  it  ? 
There  are  healthy,  happy,  careless  fel- 
lows, friends  of  the  gods,  like  the  Phse- 


years  ago.  They  seem  to  ask  me  with 
their  sad  Geisteraugen  why  I  still  sit 
waiting  here.  I  am  coming,  my  dar- 
lings, I  am  coming,  but  not  quite  yet. 
Why  should  I  ?  I  have  a  good  cook,  and 
a  housekeeper  who  is  willing  to  do  any- 
thing for  me.  The  wood  blazes  bright- 
ly on  a  clean-swept  hearth,  my  chairs 
are  easy,  my  books  and  bibelots  lie  about 
me  within  reach.  I  have  also  the  pleas- 
ure of  watching  the  doings  and  the  say- 
ings of  the  actors  who  are  making  the 


world  of  to-day.  It  is  true  that  I  have 
acians,  who  are  satisfied  with  the  hour  little  personal  relation  to  what  is  going 
when  they  are  comfortable,  and  put  on  beyond  the  amusement  of  the  hour, 
aside  thoughts  of  a  future ;  but  to  men  but  I  am  interested  and  amused,  like  a 

spectator  at  the  play  who  has  a  good 
front  seat.  A  selfish  existence,  perhaps, 
—  but  on  the  whole  I  am  glad  to  be  a 
Phaeacian.  No,  not  quite  yet.  Com- 

and  the  Judge's  stand.  That  is  another  fort,  if  it  does  not  replace  youth,  love, 
rub.  What  will  the  Judges  say  of  a  man  hope,  makes  life  endurable,  I  may  say 
like  me,  who  dies  and  leaves  no  sign  of  pleasant.  It  is  the  only  solid  standpoint 
his  existence  behind  him,  and  is  put  un-  in  this  world  of  phantoms.  There  are 
der  ground  as  an  empty  bottle  is  thrown  days  in  the  Indian  summer  as  fair  as 
into  the  dust  bin  ?  No !  You  and  Cato  any  in  the  spring. 

F.  Sheldon. 


of  my  temper  Cato's  talk  is  empty  and 
childish.  When  a  man  has  reached  the 
home  stretch,  in  the  course  of  life,  he 
cannot  help  seeing  the  end  of  the  race 


AIVAZOFSKY. 


IT  was  near  the  close  of  one  of  the 
short,  brilliant  afternoons  of  the  North- 
ern winter,  and  after  a  week  of  persist- 
ent picture-staring,  that  I  had  almost 
accomplished  the  whole  vast  round  of 
that  doubly  imperial  palace  of  art,  the 
Hermitage  of  St.  Petersburg.  The  pro- 

VOL.  LIV.  —  NO.  325.  43 


longed  strain  of  attention  had  brought 
my  faculties  wellmgh  to  that  stage  of 
deadness  to  impressions  familiar  to  all 
frequenters  of  art  galleries,  —  my  brain 
confused  with  a  shimmer  of  the  color 
and  traits  of  all  the  schools,  in  whose 
masterpieces  that  Northern  treasure- 


674 


Aivazofsky. 


[November, 


house  of  painting  is  so  marvelously  op- 
ulent. I  stood  before  the  door  of  a 
single  unexplored  room.  "  This  apart- 
ment," said  my  attendant  commission- 
aire, "  is  the  gallery  of  our  yet  unformed 
Russian  school,  and  contains  scarcely 
anything  worthy  of  attention." 

I  entered,  nevertheless,  the  small 
chamber  facing  the  splendid  plaza  of 
the  Winter  Palace,  and  discovered  a 
space  dim  with  an  air  of  neglect,  and 
evidently  unfrequented  even  by  native 
visitors.  It  was  obviously  the  corner 
of  the  vast  palace  unpenetrated  by  the 
pride  of  the  authorities.  The  walls  were 
mostly  unhung  with  pictures,  their  gap- 
ing blanks  decorated  at  best  by  about  a 
score  of  canvases,  —  for  the  most  part, 
indifferent  historical  pieces,  interpolated 
here  and  there  by  yet  more  indifferent 
portraits  of  Russian  sovereigns.  An 
elaborate  scene  or  two,  marked  with  the 
name  of  Bogoluboff  or  Lossenko  (the  re- 
puted founder  of  the  Russian  school,  in 
1757),  appeared  at  first  glance  to  exhaust 
the  merits  of  the  entire  collection.  It 
was  not  so,  however.  As  I  turned  to  the 
wall  from  which  I  had  entered,  where 
the  light  from  the  great  square  fell  in  a 
direct  generous  blaze,  and  again  to  the 
spaces  on  my  right  in  the  half  shadow, 
Russia's  genius  in  color  was  revealed ! 
It  was  the  hand  and  art  of  Ivan  Aiva- 
zofsky, —  the  name  then  first  seen  by 
me  as  I  glanced  at  the  catalogue  of  the 
Imperial  Collection  in  my  hand.  The 
numbers  on  four  canvases  of  the  largest 
size  corresponded  to  the  name  of  the 
painter  on  the  list  of  the  native  school. 
Two  were  marine  pieces,  inspired  by 
views  of  the  Black  Sea,  and  two  were 
studies  directly  from  the  artist's  brain, 
their  subjects  marked  respectively  The 
Deluge  and  The  Creation.  There  was 
in  these  pictures  a  quality  that  instantly 
summoned  back  to  my  fagged  faculties 
their  lapsed  energies  of  admiration. 

The  art  before  me  varied  in  its  tech- 
nical detail  from  none  of  the  conven- 
tional rules,  but  both  in  inspiration  and 


coloring   it  was   differentiated  from  all 
the  historic  and  Western  schools.    In  it 
were  force,  vividness,  intensity,  to  the 
highest  limit,  and  these  combined  with 
a  weird  sombreness   of  treatment   that 
recalled   Dore   and   even  Dante.     The 
marine  views,  in  their  sweep  and  freedom 
of  coloring,  suggested  the  flowing,  pow- 
erful brush  of  Turner,  while  the  daring 
imaginativeness   of  the   original  scenes 
was  akin  to  that  of  Ary  Scheffer  him- 
self.  But  what  separated  these  canvases 
from  all  comparisons,  withdrawing  them 
from  every  hint  of  the  schools  and  art 
of  the  West,  was  their  dominating  im- 
agination, which  was   neither  Western 
nor  European,  but  a  veiled  glow  born 
evidently  of  the  fire  of  the  Orient  and 
the  genius  of  its  struggling,  mysterious 
races.    The  observer  beheld,  as  if  stand- 
ing on  the  very  shore,  a  vision  of  sun- 
rise over   the  Euxine,  —  the  low-lying 
Cimmerian  darkness  cloven  with  a  rush 
of   purple    splendor   out   of   the    East, 
flooding  down  over  sullen  gray  waves, 
cut  like  life  and  breaking  into  foam  and 
spray  against  a  violet  coast ;  and  again, 
a  gleam  of  light  rayed  from  the  extrem- 
ity of  a  funnel   of   blackness   deep   as 
eternity,  —  the  sublime  and   audacious 
but  simple  conception  of  the  Creation ! 
Such   in    tone   and   power  were   these 
paintings.     Their    motive    was    melan- 
choly, —  the  motive,  indeed,  of  all  Rus- 
sian art. 

One  peculiarity  more,  however,  there 
appeared  in  the  work  of  Aivazofsky,  — 
and  I  know  not  whether  it  is  to  be  judged 
a  virtue  or  defect  of  his  art,  though  an  el- 
ement common  in  literature  :  in  study- 
ing his  scenes  the  mind  of  the  observer 
was  drawn  insistently  back  to  the  paint- 
er himself ;  recognizing  instinctively  in 
the  art  a  subtle  and  powerful  relation- 
ship to  the  personality  of  the  artist. 
Piqued  by  a  curiosity  so  awakened,  as 
well  as  by  a  singular  fascination  of  his 
work,  I  was  not  long  in  acquiring  what 
was  known  of  the  painter  in  St.  Peters- 
burg. 


1884.] 


Aivazofsky. 


675 


Aivazofsky  was  not  a  resident  of  the 
capital ;  he  was  an  unfamiliar  personal- 
ity even  in  Russia  ;  the  available  details 
of  his  life  were  then,  as  now,  meagre. 
He  was  born  in  the  Crimea,  at  Theo- 
dosia,  on  the  shore  of  the  Black  Sea,  in 
1817.  His  family  was  not  Russian,  but 
Armqpian,  descended  from  the  ancient 
family  of  Aivaz,  or  Haivaz,  which  prior 
to  its  settlement  in  the  Crimea  had  been 
established  for  more  than  two  hundred 
years  in  Galicia.  The  members  of  this 
family,  however,  with  the  tenacity  of 
their  Eastern  race,  had  retained  during 
the  long  exile  all  the  instincts  of  their 
Asian  origin. 

Like  his  elder  brother,  Gabriel,  who 
became  a  half  century  ago  one  of  the 
foremost  of  Russian  historians,  Aivazof- 
sky inherited  genius.  He  was  sent  as 
a  boy  to  be  educated  in  St.  Petersburg, 
where  his  precocious  artistic  talents  drew 
the  attention  of  the  Czar  Nicholas,  by 
whose  special  order  he  was  made,  at 
the  age  of  sixteen,  a  pensioner  of  the 
Imperial  Academy  of  Fine  Arts.  Grad- 
uating a  few  years  later,  he  traveled  in 
Italy,  and  returned  to  Russia ;  making, 
in  an  almost  incredibly  brief  time  after, 
a  "  tremendous  reputation,"  as  it  was 
called,  by  his  landscapes,  his  genre  pic- 
tures, and  his  sea  sketches  and  naval  bat- 
tles. He  easily  took  rank  as  the  first 
of  native  marine  painters,  was  elected 
professor  in  the  Imperial  Academy,  his 
alma  mater,  and  was  decorated  with  the 
order  of  St.  Anne  of  Russia. 

As  early  as  his  twenty -fifth  year 
Aivazofsky  had  become  known  also  out- 
side of  Russia.  Before  that  age,  in  fact, 
he  had  obtained  his  third  medal  from 
Continental  societies.  In  1848  he  was 
elected  to  honorary  membership  in  the 
Academy  of  Fine^Arts  in  Amsterdam, 
and  not  many  years  later  received  the 
decoration  of  the  Legion  of  Honor  at 
Paris. 

The  general  remoteness  of  his  themes 
and  the  high  imaginativeness  of  their 
treatment  have  been,  no  doubt,  the  con- 


spiring elements  which  have  kept  the 
fame  of  Aivazofsky  caviare  to  the  public. 
His  singular  merit,  however,  has  been 
for  more  than  a  quarter  of  a  century 
thoroughly  familiar  to  the  circle  of  his 
profession  in  Europe.  To  borrow  a 
phrase  used  of  a  kindred  profession,  he 
may  be  said  in  some  sense  to  wear  the 
enviable  reputation  of  being  a  painter 
for  painters.  Dowered  so  generously 
with  native  gifts  and  inspired  from  a 
novel  field  of  imagination,  he  has  cer- 
tainly achieved  much  with  which  to  in- 
struct his  Western  brethren  in  art.  The 
works  by  which  his  talent  is  best  known 
in  Europe  are  those  which  have  been 
sent  from  time  to  time  to  the  exhibitions 
of  the  French  Academy,  where  he  is 
peculiarly  distinguished.  Among  these 
are,  A  View  on  the  Southern  Shore  of 
the  Crimea,  A  Turkish  Cafe  at  Rhodes, 
The  Armenian  Monks  in  Venice,  Calm 
on  the  Mediterranean,  The  Island  of  Ca- 
pri, A  Pirate  Bark  attacked  by  a  Rus- 
sian Brig,  and  A  View  of  Venice. 

By  some  fatality  of  their  selection,  al- 
most none  of  these  pictures  which  have 
reached  Western  salons  exhibit  his  art 
at  its  best,  few  of  their  subjects  being 
those  instinctive  to  his  genius.  Of  the 
themes  of  his  brush  exposed  in  museums 
and  private  galleries  throughout  Russia, 
and  in  which  his  imagination  has  had 
freer  play,  the  following  are  represen- 
tative :  Sunset  on  the  Steppes,  Fields 
of  Wheat  in  Little  Russia,  Trebizond 
by  Moonlight,  A  Storm  at  the  Foot  of 
Mt.  Athos,  Tempest  on  the  Black  Sea, 
Winter  in  Great  Russia,  The  Steppes 
of  New  Russia,  and  various  naval  scenes 
from  Russian  history. 

During  my  stay  in  St.  Petersburg, 
I  returned  often  to  the  Hermitage,  to 
gather  fresh  impressions  of  the  painter's 
powerful  studies  in  the  Imperial  Collec- 
tion. I  left  the  capital,  however,  with 
my  curiosity  unsatisfied  about  Aivazof- 
sky. The  mystery  of  his  personality, 
persistently  suggested  by  his  art,  was 
unsolved.  Three  months  later  I  found 


6T6 


Aivazofsky. 


[November, 


myself  on  the  shore  of  the  Black  Sea, 
looking  from  the  frozen  harbor  of  Odes- 
sa towards  the  warm  lands  of  the  South. 
Among  my  companions  of  travel  over 
the  lower  steppes  were  two  Russian  ar- 
chitects in  the  imperial  service,  on  their 
way  to  the  Crimea,  arrested  here  in 
Odessa,  like  myself,  by  the  impassable 
Euxine.  With  the  delicate  courtesy  of 
the  noble  Russian  class,  they  came  one 
evening  to  propose  to  an  American  stran- 
ger the  pleasant  relief  of  a  visit  in  a  res- 
ident family,  whose  friends  they  were. 
In  half  an  hour  we  were  entering  the 
low  doorway  of  a  villa-like  structure  in 
a  secluded  street  of  the  city.  Our  greet- 
ing, extended  in  perfect  accent  in  what- 
ever tongue  we  chose,  whether  Russian, 
English,  German,  French,  or  Italian, 
was  from  a  household  of  beautiful  wo- 
men. The  oldest  of  their  number  was 
a  lady  advanced  in  age,  alert  in  facul- 
ties, with  a  noble  figure  and  face,  and 
carrying  her  nearly  eighty  years  with 
the  self-possession  and  ease  of  middle 
life.  The  next  in  years  was  our  host- 
ess, her  daughter,  a  woman  of  fifty, 
whose  pale  face,  dark  hair  and  eyes, 
and  exquisite  air  of  high  intelligence 
and  noble  breeding  gave  the  impres- 
sion of  a  most  rare  personality.  Three 
others  were  her  daughters,  who  in  fea- 
ture and  manner  copied  the  beauty  and 
refinement  of  their  mother. 

The  apartment  into  which  we  were 
welcomed  corresponded  to  the  grace  of 
our  entertainers.  Along  its  sides  were 
divans  in  the  Oriental  fashion  ;  dressed 
skins  and  soft  Asian  rugs  were  on  the 
polished  floor  ;  the  walls  were  ornament- 
ed with  objects  of  curious  interest,  re- 
lieved by  engravings  and  occasional  bits 
of  color.  There  was  nowhere  anything 
of  stiff  conventional  fineness,  but  over 
all  an  air  of  ease,  softness,  elegance,  and 
art.  We  had  entered  the  home  of  Ivan 
Aivazofsky  !  Wooed  by  imperial  favor 
and  the  flattery  of  aristocratic  society  in 
St.  Petersburg,  invited  by  his  renown 
toward  the  art  capitals  of  the  West,  the 


painter  had  refused  the  fascinations  of 
fame,  to  establish  his  modest  home  here, 
by  the  remote  verge  of  the  Black  Sea. 

During  my  enforced  sojourn  in  Odessa, 
Aivazofsky,  as  was  usual  with  him,  was 
absent  in  Armenia.  Many  renewals  of 
my  visit,  however,  in  his  charming  and 
hospitable  circle  discovered  the  massing 
key  to  the  painter's  personality  which  I 
had  sought.  Aivazofsky's  temperament 
is,  as  I  then  learned,  the  melancholy. 
He  is  not  in  love  with  the  world  nor 
with  reputation,  but  with  solitude,  with 
his  art,  and  more  than  all  with  nature 
in  the  regions  of  his  birth  and  child- 
hood. The  tone  and  motif  of  his  mind, 
like  those  of  the  genius  of  his  race,  are 
in  the  minor  key.  Moreover,  the  Asian 
strain  in  his  lineage  and  blood  has  bound 
him  with  its  link  of  fatal  passion  to  the 
East.  He  is  a  representative  artist  of 
Russia,  but  of  something  added.  The 
North  for  him  is  too  remote  and  cold ;  its 
skies  are  too  monotonous,  its  plains  too 
unrelieved  to  be  always  endured.  His 
genius  is  sombre,  but  he  is  yet  the  son 
of  the  South  and  of  sunny  lands,  shad- 
owed though  they  are  by  awful  moun- 
tains and  washed  by  dark  waters. 

Aivazofsky's  life  has  been  largely 
passed  around  the  borders  of  that  myste- 
rious sea  whose  waves  he  so  marvelous- 
ly  pictures.  The  mood  of  the  Black 
Sea  is  his  own.  He  is  enamored  of  this 
sea  as  of  another  self.  He  has  watched 
it  in  childhood,  and  appears  never  to 
tire  of  catching  on  his  canvases  its  scenes 
of  weird  and  splendid  loveliness,  infi- 
nitely varying  under  sun  and  storm,  un- 
der twilight  and  morning.  The  whole 
circle  of  lands  around  these  waters  is 
the  instinctive  home  of  his  imagination. 
Ararat,  the  Caucasus,  and  the  Euxine 
are  the  trinity  of  natural  elements  that 
draw  the  worship  of  his  genius ;  and  no 
trinity  of  nature  could  be  more  august. 

Moving  in  these  brilliant  and  quaintly 
classic  regions  and  over  this  remote  sea 
covered  with  the  twilight  of  fable,  Aiva- 
zofsky moodily  forgets  the  world,  and 


1884.] 


The  Song  of  Silenus. 


677 


seldom  returns  even  to  the  charmed  cir- 
cle in  the  quiet  street  in  Odessa.  Tir- 
ing of  the  too  vivid  contrasts  and  splen- 
dor of  these  scenes,  he  drops  at  intervals 
down  through  the  gates  of  the  Bospho- 
rus  and  Hellespont  into  the  mellower 
lights  of  the  ^Egean  and  the  Levant. 
He  pays  the  tribute  of  worshipful  art 
under  the  snow-crowned  altars  of  Samo- 
thrace,  and  halts  at  the  feet  of  cloudy 
Athos  to  gather  the  impressions  of  tem- 
pest. 

In  the  whole  range  of  geography 
there  is  no  realm  more  fascinating  with 
weird  and  changeful  scenes,  with  the 
solemn  grandeur  of  waters  and  moun- 
tains, with  august  solitudes  and  historic 
memories,  than  that  which  Aivazofsky 
has  elected  as  the  central  field  of  his 
art,  —  the  coasts  of  the  Black  Sea.  And 
in  this  romantic  realm,  endowed  with  a 
power  to  reproduce  its  sublimities,  he  is 


without  a  rival,  —  solitarily  plucking  its 
marvelous  fruits  of  poetry. 

In  the  broad  field  of  art,  Aivazofsky's 
place  is  in  that  modern  triad  of  Rus- 
sian genius,  —  voicing  in  color,  as  Tur- 
genieff  in  literature  and  Glinka  in  mel- 
ody, the  genius  of  an  emergent  people, 
whose  joy  is  in  the  minor  and  whose 
aspiration  is  a  sob.  But  to  the  imagina- 
tion of  Muscovy,  which  in  development 
is  that  of  a  ywcm'-barbarous,  youthful 
stock,  this  painter  adds  through  birth 
the  instinct  of  a  polished  and  ancient 
race,  —  the  race  of  Armenia.  His  con- 
ditions would  seem  the  ideal  ones  of  an 
artist.  To  students  of  the  West  he 
should  be  at  least  known,  and  a  mas- 
ter ;  since,  independently  of  his  individ- 
ual gifts,  the  novel  inspiration  of  the 
Sclave  which  he  represents  is  destined 
yet  to  play  its  powerful  role  in  the  edu- 
cation of  the  future. 

William  Jackson  Armstrong. 


THE   SONG   OF   SILENUS. 

Namque  canebat,  uti  magnum  per  inane  coacta 
Semina  terrarumque  animseque  marisque  fuissent, 
Et  liquidi  simul  ignis ;   ut  his  exordia  primis 
Omnia  et  ipse  tener  mundi  concreverit  orbis; 
Turn  durare  solum  et  discludere  Nerea  ponto 
Coeperit,  et  rerum  paulatim  sumere  formas ; 
lamque  novum  terrae  stupeant  lucescere  solera, 
Altius  atque  cadant  submotis  nubibus  imbres; 
Incipiant"  silvae  cum  primum  surgere,  cumque 
Kara  per  ignaros  errent  animalia  mentis . 

VIRGIL,  ECL.  VI.  31-40. 

I. 

WHAT  old  reveler,  what  monster,  riding  hither  on  an  ass, 

Bald,  and  fat,  and  red  of  visage  ?     Say,  you,  shall  we  let  him  pass  ? 

He  is  drunken,  he  is  swinging  by  the  handle  his  canteen,  — 
Hist !    it  is  the  god  Silenus  !     Quick  to  cover,  or  be  seen ! 

Wait  till  from  his  ass  he  tumbles  on  the  greensward,  and  erelong 
We  shall  have  him  at  our  mercy,  we  shall  win  from  him  a  song. 

For  he  is  not  half  the  dullard  that  he  seems,  with  his  queer  ways  ; 
We  it  is  that  are  the  dullards,  if  we  hear  and  do  not  praise. 


678  The  Song  of  Silenus.  [November, 

He  will  sing,  if  so  his  mood  is,  sweetly  as  a  great  god  can  ; 
If  he  chooses,  he  will  charm  you  with  the  seven  pipes  of  Pan. 

Twist  a  chain  of  flowers  and  follow,  softly  through  the  shadows  creep, 
Till  beside  some  rock  or  fountain  you  shall  find  him  sound  asleep. 

ii. 

So  we  gathered  long-stemmed  lilies,  bluebells  from  their  rocky  shelf, 
Roses  blooming  first  that  morning,  each  a  little  morn  itself ; 

And  the  flowers  the  name  still  bearing  which  Apollo's  favorite  bore, 
With  the  syllable  of  sorrow  marked  upon  them  evermore. 

• 

Then  a  potent  chain  we  twisted,  and,  to  please  him  unaware, 

Wrought  a  crown  of  tender  vine-leaves,  since  the  old  man's  head  was  bare. 

And  within  the  hour  we  held  him  in  the  charmed,  flowery  knot, 
While  we  shouted,  Ho  !  Silenus  !  till  he  owned  that  he  was  caught ; 

Till  the  reeds  that  by  the  river  once  in  voiceless  shadows  grew, 
And  are  now  a  power  on  earth,  he  lifted  to  his  lips  and  blew. 

Lqud  and  mirthful,  weird  and  solemn,  low  and  tender,  came  the  strain  ; 
Pausing  oft  he  changed  the  measure,  blew,  and  paused,  then  blew  again. 

And  amid  the  many  pauses,  as  if  from  the  leaves  he  twirled, 
He  retold  the  famous  story  of  the  making  of  the  world. 

Wind  and  tree  forgot  their  murmur,  and  the  nisy  brook  its  tongue, 
While  he  mingled  truth  and  legend  in  his  music,  for  he  sung: 

in. 

"  Mark  you  how  the  bright  Aurora  through  the  golden  gateway  steals, 
And  the  Night  as  swiftly  follows  on  her  silent-running  wheels  ? 

"  Mark  you  how  the  constellations  roll  through  heaven's  arch  by  night, 
All  the  noiseless  alternations  of  the  darkness  and  the  light  ? 

"  Have  you  marked  the  change  of  seasons,  and  the  tides  that  rise  and  fall, 
And  the  wind  that  ever  varies,  and  the  law  that  runs  through  all? 

"  How  one  thing  another  follows,  and  not  very  far  away ; 
After  waking  comes  the  slumber,  after  life  and  growth  decay? 

"  Know  that  through  the  framework  of  the  universe  a  soul, 
All-pervading,  all-foreseeing,  lives  and  regulates  the  whole. 

"  Know  that  as  in  aeons  perished  all  from  a  beginning  rose, 
So  in  aeons  uncreated  waits  for  all  a  final  close. 


1884.]  The  Song  of  Silenus.  679 

IV. 

"  Once  there  were  no  lands  nor  waters,  and  no  glorious  rolling  air, 
And  no  sunlight  breaking  earthward,  and  no  starlight  anywhere  : 

"  Only  nothingness,  an  ocean  that  extended  more  and  more, 
With  its  billows  that  were  silence  and  that  broke  upon  no  shore ; 

"  And  the  many-figured  atoms,  rough,  and  smooth,  and  round,  and  square, 
Falling  in  the  void  in  silence,  just  as  snow-flakes  in  the  air, 

"  Till  a  single  atom,  shaken  by  an  unknown  impulse,  swerves, 

Sends  its  thrill  through  all  the  others,  crossing  parallels  with  curves. 

« 

"  Round,  in  ever  narrowing  circles,  were  the  nebulous  masses  whirled ; 
Centred  in  the  inmost  spiral  lay  the  seed  that  is  the  world. 

r 

v. 

"  There  in  mist  it  lay  and  hardened  slowly  to  a  granite  core, 
Whereon  dropped  the  ceaseless  atoms  as  on  the  eternal  floor. 

"  Afterwards,  the  heaven,  pressing  with  its  mighty  hemisphere, 
Rose,  the  thinner  from  the  denser,  like  a  bubble,  crystal-clear; 

"  And  the  luminous  globular  wonders,  —  one  by  day,  the  rest  by  night, 
Floating  in  the  liquid  ether.     And  the  world  was  filled  with  light. 

"  Next,  the  mighty  flood  of  waters  outward  from  the  centre  rolled, 
Wrapped  the  earth,  o'er  all  its  surface,  in  a  blue  and  trembling  fold ; 

"  Till  the  hollows  were  created,  and  adown  the  mountain  steeps 
Fell  the  waves  to  roar  forever  in  their  dark  and  lonely  deeps. 

1 1  VI 

"  Fell  the  waves  and  rose  the  mountains,  and  the  windy  reach  of  shore, 
Wading  outward,  far  and  farther  beat  away  the  foam  and  roar. 

"  Streaming  clouds  began  to  gather,  'gan  the  scathing  fire-balls  fly, 
And  the  elemental  tempest  shook  the  great  frame  of  the  sky. 

"  Land  and  water  were  at  warfare,  earth  and  air  were  racked  with  pains ; 
Earth  was  furrowed  into  valleys,  pounded  here  and  there  to  plains. 

VII. 

''Then  the  land  was  filled  with  beauty,  all  its  undulating  sweep 
Silver-threaded  with  the  waters  flashing  backward  to  the  deep ; 

"  Belted  o'er  with  shining  forests  that  began  to  drink  the  breeze, 
Fanning  silence  into  music  with  their  millions  of  great  trees. 

"  Came  and  went  the  gorgeous  seasons,  sang  the  breezes,  sang  the  brook  ; 
Passed  the  grand  primeval  splendors,  with  no  human  eye  to  look! 


680  The  Song  of  Silenus.  [November, 

"  By  the  river-marge  the  ripples  fondled  with  the  tuneless  reeds  ; 
On  the  ground,  for  countless  ages,  trees  in  silence  dropped  their  seeds. 

"Inland  from  the  distant  ocean  rolled  the  murmur  of  his  lips, 
While  as  yet  he  recked  no  navies,  felt  the  burden  of  no  ships. 

"  Oh,  the  mighty  preparation  for  the  lord  that  was  to  be  ! 
Oh,  the  waiting  of  the  forest !  oh,  the  solemn,  solemn  sea ! 

• 

"  First,  the  noisy  waves  were  peopled,  and  a  race  of  monsters  seen, 

Dying-  in  their  generations,  and  an  aeon  passed  between. 

• 

"  To  the  air  came  flying  reptiles,  —  came  and  went,  and  left  their  bones, 
Which  to  those  who  read  the  ages  are  as  letters  in  the  stones. 

* 

"  To  the  hills  came  walking  creatures,  of  a  less  repulsive  mien ; 
But  they  died,  as  died  the  others,  and  an  aeon  passed  between. 

"  Thus  the  forms  of  being  followed  in  succession  slow,  each  race 
Somewhat  fairer  than  the  former  and  more  perfect  in  its  place. 

"Last  of  all  her  many  children  which  the  common  parent  bore, 
Man  appeared,  a  god  in  figure,  lord  of  all  her  boundless  store." 

IX. 

Mute  we  sat;  the  skilled  Silenus  filled  our  ears  with  heaven's  tide, 
As  he  sang  the  great  creation  and  a  thousand  things  beside, — 

Sang  the  interstellar  spaces  where  the  blest  immortals  dwell 
In  a  sacred  calm  together,  while  the  world  goes  ill  or  well ; 

Where  they  bask  in  pleasant  sunshine,  counting  not  the  days  or  years, 
And  the  sound  of  human  sorrow  never  finds  their  blessed  ears ; 

And  the  mystery  of  the  mountains,  and  the  wonder  of  the  sea, 

And  the  power  of  floods  and  earthquakes,  all  the  changes  that  would  be 

How  the  race  of  men  would  perish,  when  our  mother  Earth  no  more 
Can  sustain  the  teeming  millions  that  must  feed  upon  her  store  ; 

How  the  sun  would  slowly  darken  to  a  cinder  till  destroyed, 

And  with  all  his  burnt-out  planets  still  keep  falling  down  the  void; 

How  the  sky  would  fall  in  ruins,  and  the  earth  into  decay, 

With  the  dead  sun  dropping  downward  like  a  pebble  thrown  away ; 

And  at  last  how  every  atom  would  resume  its  separate  form, 
Through  the  gulfs  of  darkness  falling,  just  as  in  the  primal  storm. 


The  Lakes  of  Upper  Italy.  681 

x. 

So  he  sang  till  on  the  water  melted  evening's  golden  bar, 
Till  the  fire  died  on  the  hilltops,  sang  until  the  evening  star, 

Till  we  saw  the  silent  Archer  climb  his  zenith-winding  stair, 
And  across  the  northern  heavens  stream  the  dark  Egyptian's  hair. 

Then  he  paused  as  if  to  listen,  half  in  earnest,  half  in  fun,— 

But  he  grasped  his  empty  wine-bag,  and  the  old  man's  song  was  done. 

XI. 

Homeward  as  we  carried  in  our  hearts  a  new  delight, 

Much  we  mused  upon  the  story,  much  upon  the  seer,  that  night,  — 

How  the  ugliest  of  bodies  may  contain  the  keenest  soul, 
As  the  richest  wine  may  sparkle  in  a  very  common  bowl. 

And  the  wind  that  journeyed  with  us  shook  the  dewdrops  on  the  grass, 
While  we  heard  far  down  the  valley  some  one  shouting  for  his  ass. 

Samuel  V.  Cole. 


THE   LAKES   OF  UPPER   ITALY. 

III.  feminine  that  a  beautiful  woman  might 

be  jealous  of  it.     The  charm  does  not 

THE  fate  of  things  of  beauty  is  to  be-  lie  exclusively  in  the  scenery,  but  is  a 

come  hackneyed.     The  choicest  poetry  composite  result  of  climate,  atmosphere, 

and  music  are  repeated  until  everybody  cultivation,  and  also,  in  a  subtle,  unrec- 

is  tired  of  them ;  the  masterpieces  of  art  ognized  way,  of  the  works  of  art  which 

are  vulgarized  by  constant  reproduction,  are  scattered  along  its  shores.    The  lake 

and  even  the  beauties  of   Nature   lose  of  Como  is  no  mountain  nymph,  but  is 

their  freshness   by  being   overrun  and  like  Titian's  Venus  lying  naked  on   a 

overpraised.     The   lake   of   Como   has  magnificent  couch   with   pearls   braided 

come  to  be  a  mere  by-word  for  beauty ;  in  her  hair. 

it  can  hardly  be  mentioned  without  an  The  sheet  of  water  is  shaped  like  a 
apology,  yet  it  is  impossible  to  pass  by  long  fish  with  a  cloven  tail,  the  three 
the  Helen  of  Italian  waters  in  silence,  portions  being  of  about  equal  size,  the 
Many  mountains,  streams,  and  cascades  lower  ones  divided  by  a  broad  wedge  of 
have  an  individuality  of  their  own  ;  the  land,  the  base  of  which,  to  the  southward, 
presence  of  the  unseen  genius  loci  is  felt,  is  known  as  the  Brianza,  the  point  being 
often  unconsciously,  by  mankind.  One  the  promontory  of  Bellagio.  Each  has 
might  suppose  that  this  influence  would  its  characteristics  ;  the  two  lower  bays 
be  strongest  where  Nature's  haunts  are  or  branches  are  called  respectively  the 
still  inviolate,  among  solitary  peaks  and  lakes  of  Lecco  and  Como,  the  latter  giv- 
pathless  woods  ;  but  for  me,  at  least,  the  ing  its  name  and  fame  to  the  whole  ex- 
lake  of  Como  possesses  it  in  the  highest  panse.  There  are  none  of  the  grand 
degree,  —  a  personality  so  distinct  and  and  rugged  features  of  Lago  Maggiore 


682 


The  Lakes  of  Upper  Italy. 


[November, 


here  ;  the  prospect  is  soft  and  alluring, 
embellished  by  two  thousand  years  of 
cherishing  care.  The  ancients  were 
drawn  hither  from  distant  parts  of  Italy, 
and  from  the  days  of  Augustus  to  our 
own,  the  most  celebrated  statesmen  and 
men  of  letters  have  borne  witness,  in 
prose  and  verse,  to  that  witchery  which 
Ugo  Foscolo  declared  distracted  him 
from  his  work. 

The  town  of  Como,  at  the  foot  of  the 
lake,  is  on  the  line  of  the  St.  Gothard 
railway,  and  it  is  to  be  feared  that  this 
facility  of  access  will  rob  the  proud  little 
port  of  the  aristocratic  air  with  which 
she  has  borne  herself  through  many  cen- 
turies of  change.  The  city  is  regularly 
laid  out  on  the  only  flat  bit  of  ground 
of  any  extent  on  the  entire  circumfer- 
ence of  the  lake,  and  gains  distinction 
from  this  peculiarity  above  the  strag- 
gling, clambering  towns  of  the  neigh- 
borhood. A  fragment  of  wall,  and  a  mas- 
sive square  gate-tower,  pierced  by  three 
tiers  of  arched  openings  after  the  man- 
ner of  the  Coliseum,  are  relics  of  Fred- 
eric Barbarossa's  fortifications,  which 
withstood  many  assaults  and  sieges.  The 
churches  are  older  than  the  defenses ; 
the  original  cathedral,  now  the  colle- 
giate church  of  San  Abbondio,  dates,  as 
it  stands,  from  the  tenth  century,  be- 
ing founded  on  the  remains  of  one  still 
more  ancient.  It  is  a  remarkable  speci- 
men of  late  Lombard  architecture;  the 
first  sight  of  it  in  a  suburb  near  the 
railway  raises  the  traveller's  hopes  very 
high ;  it  has  two  towers  of  unusual  so- 
lidity for  that  style,  and  five  naves  of 
different  heights,  and  is  externally  an 
imposing  structure,  but  the  interior  is 
a  wreck  of  poverty-stricken  restoration. 
San  Fedele  is  reckoned  as  still  older 
than  San  Abbondio,  and  its  singularity 
is  even  more  marked.  The  building 
takes  one  by  surprise ;  a  beautiful  oc- 
tagonal apse  and  cupola  with  round- 
arched  galleries,  and  an  extraordinary 
side-door  with  a  triangular  arch,  thrust 
themselves  upon,  the  street  between  or- 


dinary houses  that  shut  off  the  rest  of 
the  church  in  a  most  provoking  way. 
Within  there  are  traces  of  the  original 
structure,  and  of  its  old,  semi-barba- 
rous sculptures,  discernible  amid  horrible 
modern  alterations,  but  it  is  a  piteous  in- 
stance of  pious  desecration.  Both  these 
churches  are  more  interesting  than  the 
cathedral,  which  is  nevertheless  a  beau- 
tiful black  and  white  marble  edifice  of 
the  fourteenth  and  fifteenth  centuries,  a 
happy  combination  of  Italian  Gothic  and 
early  Renaissance,  the  older  and  nobler 
style  predominating.  It  gains  by  prox- 
imity to  the  Broletto  or  town-hall,  a  fine 
municipal  palace  of  the  thirteenth  centu- 
ry; this  building  looks  rather  long  and 
low,  overtopped  as  it  is  by  a  tall  square 
tower ;  it  stands  upon  two  streets,  and 
presents  to  them  both  a  front  with  an 
upper  row  of  Gothic  windows  and  a  rich 
central  balcony,  and  a  lower  one  of  round 
arches  through  which  are  seen  short, 
stout,  octagonal  columns,  as  the  ground- 
floor  is  occupied  by  an  open  pillared 
hall,  serving  as  a  public  thoroughfare 
and  place  of  business.  The  Broletto 
forms  an  angle  with  one  side  of  the 
cathedral,  and  the  space  inclosed  be- 
tween these  noble  samples  of  ecclesias- 
tical and  secular  architecture  is  a  good 
post  of  observation  on  a  festa  in  sum- 
mer, as  the  peasants  come  out  of  the 
hot  sun  of  the  market-place  with  their 
fruit-carts  into  this  cool  corner,  and  the 
church-door  gives  glimpses  of  rich  tap- 
estries, glimmering  lamps,  and  groups 
of  worshipers. 

The  striped  effect  of  alternate  courses 
of  different  colored  marble  (the  Bro- 
letto has  red  introduced  occasionally  be- 
tween the  black  and  white)  is  apt  to 
strike  a  spectator  who  is  unused  to  it 
disagreeably.  In  the  cathedral  of  Como, 
however,  as  in  all  old  buildings  of  simi- 
lar materials  which  have  not  been  lately 
restored,  the  crudeness  of  the  contrast 
has  been  softened  by  time,  and  results 
are  obtained  which  are  impossible  where 
the  stone  is  of  but  one  tint.  As  in  most 


1884.] 


The  Lakes  of  Upper  Italy. 


683 


Italian  cathedrals  of  the  same  period, 
the  surfaces  are  not  broken  up  by  dec- 
oration, the  sculpture  being  confined  to 
the  pilasters,  door-ways  and  windows, 
which  are  elaborately  carved  without 
impairing  the  integrity  of  the  whole.  The 
restorations  of  the  interior  have  not  es- 
sentially interfered  with  the  original  in- 
tention, so  that  there  is  no  shock  or  re- 
vulsion on  entering  ;  within  and  without, 
the  church  is  in  keeping  with  the  town 
and  see  to  which  it  belongs  ;  it  is  stately, 
without  assuming  airs  of  sublimity,  and 
one  has  all  the  more  satisfaction  in  it 
because  of  this  measure  and  proportion. 
It  contains  startling  examples  of  the 
way  in  which  the  Renaissance  artists, 
even  of  the  earliest  and  best  days,  treat- 

•/      ' 

ed  sacred  subjects.  One  of  the  beautiful 
side-doors  is  surmounted  by  an  alto  rilie- 
vo,  if  I  remember  right,  of  St.  John  and 
the  Virgin  supporting  the  dead  Christ,  a 
group  touching  in  its  devout  simplicity 
and  pathos  ;  immediately  below  it  there 
is  a  fight  between  sea-deities  riding  ma- 
rine monsters  and  slinging  bundles  of 
fish  at  each  other,  in  the  freest  pagan 
enjoyment  of  irresponsibility.  The  door- 
posts of  the  opposite  portal  are  pilasters 
covered  with  bassi  rilievi  of  angels  bear- 
ing the  instruments  of  the  Passion,  while 
the  lintel,  towards  which  they  are  as- 
cending, represents  a  procession  of  putti 
or  wingless  Cupids  at  play,  and  driving 
little  chariots,  the  central  figure  being 
intended  for  the  Infant  Jesus,  with  the 
globe  in  one  hand  and  the  fingers  of  the 
other  upheld  in  benediction,  although 
there  is  nothing  but  these  symbols  to 
distinguish  him  from  the  other  children. 
On  a  pier  of  the  nave  there  are  tablets 
with  allegorical  figures  of  two  of  the 
Christian  virtues,  and  beneath  them,  set 
in  chaplets  of  fruits  and  flowers,  leering 
satyrs'  heads  which  would  throw  Mr. 
Ruskin  into  agony. 

The  wealth  and  importance  of  the 
bishopric  of  Como  in  past  times  is  at- 
tested by  the  opulence  of  its  treasure, 
which  I  saw  displayed  on  the  feast  of 


San  Abbondio,  the  patron  of  the  city 
and  region,  or  at  least  so  I  was  assured, 
although  the  day  was  the  31st  of  Au- 
gust, and  the  calendar  assigns  him  the 
2d  of  April.  On  the  high  altar  there 
were  four  silver  busts  of  bishops  of 
Como,  larger  than  life,  inlaid  with  gold 
and  jewels,  and  a  forest  of  gold  and  sil- 
ver candelabra.  Every  side-chapel  has 
its  array  of  candlesticks,  platters,  vases, 
and  lamps  of  the  precious  metals  ;  that 
of  San  Abbondio  boasted  a  splendid  tab- 
ernacle, a  church  in  miniature  of  carved 
wood  gilded  and  colored,  a  most  elab- 
orate performance,  with  innumerable 
compartments  and  figures,  baroque  in 
taste,  but  of  cunning  and  patient  work- 
manship, and  mellowed  to  a  fine  tone 
by  time  and  dust.  The  church  was 
adorned  also  with  very  large  and  hand- 
some bits  of  tapestry  representing  scenes 
from  the  Old  Testament  on  one  side  and 
from  the  New  on  the  reverse  ;  they  are 
fine  both  in  design  and  color,  and  were 
made  expressly  for  the  cathedral  in  the 
middle  of  the  sixteenth  century.  Owing 
to  these  trappings  it  was  not  a  good  occa- 
sion to  see  the  monuments  and  pictures, 
some  of  which  are  exceedingly  beauti- 
ful ;  they  are  of  the  Lombard  school, 
and  one  altar-piece  by  Luini,  a  Nativity, 
in  which  the  herald  angels  are  depicted 
as  little  celestial  waits  standing  in  a 
line  and  piping,  on  a  cloud  under  the 
stable-roof,  is  intimately  sweet  and  ten- 
der. 

There  are  so  many  enchanting  sites 
on  the  lake  that  from  Pliny  down  to  the 
Marchesa  Trotti  there  have  been  lucky 
mortals  who  could  not  be  satisfied  with 
one  habitation  here.  Among  these  di- 
lettanti of  Nature  was  Tolomeo  Gallio, 
born  in  the  sixteenth  century  at  Cernob- 
bio,  a  small  town,  now  the  first  steam- 
boat-station from  Como.  His  father 
was  neither  rich  nor  noble  ;  but  the  sons, 
by  their  own  ability  and  by  the  aid  of 
powerful  protection,  got  on  well  in  the 
world.  In  that  age  patronage  was  an 
active  force  in  the  social  system,  so 


684 


The  Lakes  of  Upper  Italy. 


[November, 


vital  indeed  that  without  it  no  man,  un- 
less born  in  a  position  to  be  a  patron 
himself,  could  make  his  way.  Tolomeo's 
first  influential  friend  was  the  historian 
Paolo  Giovio,  also  of  a  Comasque  family ; 
and  it  is  no  disgrace  to  have  had  a  lift 
in  life  from  such  a  hand.  The  young 
man  took  holy  orders,  and  was  made 
bishop,  archbishop,  and  cardinal,  before 
he  was  forty  years  old.  He  bore  his 
honors  well,  was  charitable,  munificent, 
a  patron  of  art  and  letters,  and  a  great 
benefactor  to  his  native  shores,  where 
he  built  churches,  colleges,  and  palaces. 
His  brothers  prospered  in  secular  ca- 
reers, and  their  descendants  intermarried 
with  the  princely  Milanese  houses  of 
Visconti,  Borromeo,  and  Trivulzio.  The 
family  of  Gallic  is  now  extinct,  I  be- 
lieve, but  the  name  of  the  cardinal  will 
live  on  Lake  Como  as  long  as  his  villas 
there  last.  One  is  at  the  head  of  the 
lake,  the  other  at  the  opposite  extremity 
close  to  Cernobbio,  within  half  an  hour's 
drive  or  row  from  Como.  This  has 
been  known  for  the  last  fifty  years  as 
the  Villa  d'  Este,  the  name  given  it  by 
Caroline,  wife  of  George  IV.  of  Eng- 
land, to  whom  it  once  belonged,  though 
it  is  actually  a  hotel  named  La  Regina 
d'  Inghilterra.  The  house  has  changed 
owners  several  times  and  has  been  great- 
ly altered  and  added  to  since  Caroline 
of  Brunswick's  occupancy.  Cardinal 
Gallio's  villa  is  swallowed  up  in  an  im- 
mense palatial  vulgarity  of  pillared  ves- 
tibules, salons,  and  galleries,  with  a  mag- 
nificent double  staircase  of  white  mar- 
ble ;  there  are  a  few  paneled  rooms  with 
the  emblems  of  Cupid  and  Bacchus  en- 
crusted in  gold  on  white  wood-work, 
charmingly  designed  and  executed  in  the 
style  of  the  last  century,  but  none  of  the 
original  apartments  can  be  identified. 
There  is  nothing  distinctively  Italian  in 
the  trim  grounds  immediately  about  the 
hotel,  which  stands  low,  close  to  the 
lake,  and  is  shaded  by  sycamore  trees 
worthy  of  an  old  English  seat.  But  be- 
yond the  inclosure,  and  connected  with 


it  by  a  stone  bridge  over  a  road,  there 
is  a  hillside  laid  out  in  true  rococo  taste 
with  grottoes,  temples,  artificial  cascades 
and  rock-work,  and  to  crown  all  a  mimic 
fortress  erected  by  a  Countess  Calderara, 
who  preceded  Caroline  as  proprietress, 
to  celebrate  the  return  of  her  husband, 
General  Pino,  from  the  siege  of  some 
Spanish  town,  of  which  this  was  intend- 
ed for  a  model. 

Poor  Caroline  of  Brunswick's  so- 
journ at  the  Villa  d  'Este  was  unfortu- 
nate for  her  ;  the  scandals  which  led  to 
her  repudiation  and  prevented  her  being 
crowned  queen  of  England  were  con- 
nected with  her  life  there,  but  she  is  still 
remembered  gratefully  in  the  neighbor- 
hood, and  as  she  fades  from  recollection 
as  a  living  woman  she  is  becoming  "  a 
legend,"  as  the  French  say.  She  opened 
a  carriage-road  from  Cernobbio  to  Mol- 
trasio,  the  next  village  of  importance, 
which  is  called  La  Strada  della  Regina, 
and  makes  a  beautiful  walk  or  drive ;  at 
some  places  it  skirts  the  lake,  at  others 
scales  the  cliff,  passing  for  six  miles  or 
more  continuously  by  private  gardens, 
till  it  reaches  the  waterfall  of  Moltrasio 
foaming  down  over  a  black  wall  of  slate 
rock  crested  with  verdure.  This  road  is 
the  boulevard  of  the  peasants  and  villa- 
gers ;  on  holiday  afternoons  it  is  closely 
dotted  with  groups  of  them  in  Sunday 
clothes,  strolling  along  chatting  in  their 
abrupt,  bitten-off  syllables.  The  dialect 
of  the  lake  region  is  very  odd,  and  every 
town  has  its  own  lingo.  A  foreigner 
who  speaks  good  Italian  will  have  no 
difficulty  in  making  himself  understood, 
but  may  be  unable  to  understand  in  re- 
turn. I  was  bewildered  by  answers  in 
which  the  town  of  Comazzo,  (properly 
pronounced  Comatso)  was  called  Comass, 
Moltrasio  Moltras,  dieciotto  (eighteen) 
dess-dot,  sei  meno  died  (ten  minutes  to 
six)  sez  men  dess,  and  the  high-sounding 
name  of  Belgiojoso,  Beljoose. 

The  lake  of  Como  is  well  provided 
with  waterfalls.  The  finest  and  most 
picturesque  of  them  is  at  Nesso  on  the 


1884.] 


The  Lakes  of  Upper  Italy. 


685 


eastern  shore,  opposite  Moltrasio  ;  it 
breaks  through  a  cleft  in  the  mountain 
overgrown  with  dense  greenery,  and 
plunges  between  the  houses  of  the  vil- 
lage, which  cling  to  the  moist,  mossy 
sides  of  the  gorge,  rushing  into  the  lake 
beneath  a  steep  bridge  with  a  peaked 
arch.  On  the  western  side,  still  further 
northward,  the  pretty  cascade  of  Camog- 
gia  skips  down  the  sunny  face  of  the 
rocks  under  the  scanty  shade  of  olive 
trees,  turning  a  small  mill-wheel  where 
it  reaches  the  lake.  Near  this  is  Coma- 
cina,  the  only  island  of  Lago  di  Como, 
divided  from  the  western  shores  by  a 
strait ;  a  few  acres  of  greensward,  vine- 
yards and  olive  orchards,  among  which 
lie  the  crumbling  remains  of  fortifications 
that  made  this  plot  of  earth  a  strong- 
hold from  the  fifth  to  the  twelfth  centu- 
ry. The  modern  author,  Cesare  Cantu, 
entitles  it,  magniloquently,  "  the  bul- 
wark of  Italian  liberty,"  as  the  inhabi- 
tants of  the  mainland  fled  there  for  ref- 
uge from  the  barbarous  hordes  which 
swept  over  the  country  during  the  de- 
cline of  the  Roman  empire,  and  held  out 
against  them  when  Rome  itself  fell. 
Comacina  gradually  acquired  the  right 
of  sanctuary,  and  various  important  fu- 
gitives sought  asylum  there  as  in  a 
church  ;  the  town  of  Como  at  last  grew 
impatient  or  jealous  of  the  pretensions 
of  the  isle,  and  in  the  year  1169  de- 
stroyed its  fortifications  and  banished  its 
population.  Some  of  them  settled  near 
by,  in  a  hamlet  still  called  Isola  in  mem- 
ory of  the  home  of  its  founders. 

Beyond  Comacina  the  western  hills 
throw  out  a  spur  which,  projecting  half 
across  the  lake,  interrupts  the  view,  but 
makes  a  beautiful  landmark  in  itself. 
It  is  the  Dosso  di  Lavedo  ;  the  steep 
sides  are  laid  out  in  gardens,  with  mon- 
strous aloe  plants  and  oleander  shrub- 
beries which  blush  from  afar,  and  on  the 
ridge,  or  back  (dosso),  there  is  a  classic 
portico  of  elegant  proportions,  conspic- 
uous for  miles.  This  commands  an  en- 
trancing prospect  down  the  Bay  of  Como 


on  one  hand,  and  on  the  other  over  the 
exquisite  basin  of  Tremezzina,  to  the 
promontory  of  Bellagio  and  the  widen- 
ing upper  lake.  Landward,  at  the  foot 
of  the  eminence,  lies  the  Villa  Balbiano, 
built  by  Paolo  Giovio  on  the  supposed 
site  of  Pliny's  villa,  called  Comedy,  and 
at  one  time  the  property  of  the  insatia- 
ble Cardinal  Gallic  ;  above  the  roofs  of 
San  Balbiano  and  Sala,  almost  contigu- 
ous villages,  rise  the  ruins  of  an  octag- 
onal baptistery  and  a  striking  Gothic 
tower,  an  uncommon  bit  of  architecture 
to  find  in  the  realm  of  Romanesque. 
Fragments  of  fine  old  churches  and  cas- 
tles abound  on  these  shores  and  hill- 
tops, but  they  impress  the  traveler  less 
than  such  remains  do  elsewhere  ;  they 
are  merged  in  the  present  living  beau- 
ty of  the  scenery. 

The  Tremezzina  is  pronounced,  by 
common  consent  of  Italians  and  guide- 
books, the  Eden  of  the  Lombard  lake 
district.  Here  the  mountains  of  the 
western  shore  stand  back  a  little,  leav- 
ing room  for  a  tract  of  leafy  knolls  and 
dells  sloping  to  a  small  crescent-shaped 
harbor,  of  which  the  Dosso  di  Lavedo 
and  a  narrow  point  of  land  tufted  with 
foliage  and  ending  in  a  single  cypress 
tree  form  the  piers.  The  chief  and  only 
town  of  this  territory,  which  is  no  larger 
than  an  average  New  England  farm,  is 
Tremezzo  ;  it  consists  of  one  short  street 
under  low,  straddling  arcades,  with  wide 
granite  or  marble  water-stairs  on  one 
side  and  on  the  other  steep,  narrow, 
crooked  flights  of  steps,  possibly  consid- 
ered by  the  inhabitants  as  streets,  lead- 
ing to  houses,  gardens,  and  vineyards 
on  higher  grades.  They  are  mere  slits 
between  walls  feathered  with  fern  and 
maiden-hair,  broken  at  irregular  inter- 
vals by  a  window  ledge  bright  with  car- 
nations and  geraniums  ;  but  every  one  of 
them  makes  a  picture :  in  one,  1  saw  at 
the  foot  of  the  stairs  a  gray-headed  bel- 
dame in  a  dull  red  gown,  helping  a  tod- 
dling, flaxen-haired  child  to  climb  the 
steps ;  further  up,  a  dark,  handsome 


686 


The  Lakes  of  Upper  Italy. 


[November, 


young  woman  wearing  a  flowered  neck- 
erchief sat  spinning  at  her  threshold  ; 
and  higher  yet,  a  tall,  slender,  muscular 
man  in  blue  cotton  shirt  and  trousers 
and  a  broad  straw  hat  was  descending 
with  a  load  of  newly  sawn  boards  on  his 
shoulder.  On  the  water-steps,  the  boat- 
men loll  in  suits  of  navy  blue  beside 
their  light  craft,  furnished  with  white 
or  striped  awnings  and  cushions.  The 
place  is  exquisitely  pretty,  and  the  view 
of  the  opposite  heights  is  fine,  the  prom- 
ontory of  Bellagio  standing  out  boldly 
towards  the  north,  ending  in  an  abrupt 
cliff  with  a  dark,  shaggy  sylvan  fleece. 
But  Bellagio  itself,  at  least  if  one  lodges 
at  the  Villa  Serbelloni,  is  to  me  by  far 
the  most  beautiful  and  delightful  situa- 
tion on  the  lake. 

The  Villa  Serbelloni  has  been  rented 
as  a  dependance  by  the  Hotel  Grande 
Bretagne,  and  is  reached  from  the  town 
of  Bellagio  by  long,  breathless  staircase 
streets,  such  as  I  have  just  described,  or 
by  the  numerous  sharp  zig-zags  of  a 
carriage-drive  from  the  hotel  garden  at 
the  water's  edge.  The  view  grows  love- 
lier at  every  turn  as  the  road  ascends, 
bordered  by  trees  and  tropical  plants, 
until  it  enters  the  magnificent  umbrage 
of  the  villa.  The  mansion  is  long,  ram- 
bling, and  barrack-like,  but  full  of  large, 
airy  apartments,  so  disposed  that  almost 
every  window  overlooks  one  of  the  bays, 
some  of  the  rooms  commanding  them 
both.  The  Serbelloni,  who  I  am  told 
are  now  extinct  in  the  male  line,  have 
been  known  on  Lake  Como  for  four 
hundred  years  ;  they  inherited  this  prop- 
erty from  another  old  and  noble  family, 
the  Sfondrati,  who  have  set  the  stamp 
of  antiquity  upon  it.  The  grounds  cov- 
er the  head  of  the  promontory,  and,  well 
as  I  know  them,  I  am  unable  to  guess 
at  their  extent,  they  are  so  steep  and 
thickly  wooded  and  laid  out  with  wind- 
ing paths  and  roads  ;  you  can  walk  in 
them  steadily  for  two  hours  without 
treading  in  your  own  footsteps.  But  I 
speak  unadvisedly,  as  not  many  people 


could   walk   there   without   pausing   at 
every  few  yards.    The  woods  open  now 
and  then  upon  lawns  ;   the  walks  pass 
from  the  shade  of  the  trees  to  wide  sun- 
ny ledges  bordered  by  branching  palms 
and  tall  yuccas  with  pagodas  of   milk- 
white  flowers,   or  by  hedges  of  olean- 
der heavily  laden  with  rosy  bloom,  and 
pomegranates  covered  with  fierce  little 
scarlet  cockades,  then  disappear  sudden- 
ly into  dark  rocky  tunnels  wreathed  in 
pendant  garlands,  through  which,  as  in 
a  camera  oscura,  are  seen  glimmering 
pictures  of  fairy  land ;    emerging  from 
these,  you  may  find  yourself  on  a  broad 
road,  or  on  the  edge  of  a  precipice  two 
hundred   feet   above    the   water.     The 
paths  tend  gradually  to  the  highest  point 
of  the  headland,  on  which  are  the  ivied 
fragments  of  a  mediaeval  castle  built  by 
the  Sfondrati.  Here  an  unexpected  view 
of    the   upper   lake    breaks   upon   one 
through  a  ruined  casemate,  and  not  far 
hence,  the  three  branches  may  be  seen 
at  once,  a  wonderful  vision.     You  can 
descend  by  different  paths  from  those 
which  brought  you  up,  with  other  grot- 
toes and  altogether  novel  outlooks,  but 
not  less  beautiful ;  or  strike  across  the 
intervening  woodland,  to  be  brought  to 
a  stand-still  by  a  jutting  crag,  or  a  miry 
glen,  or  a  too  rapid  slope  covered  with 
a  slippery,  resinous-scented  mast  from 
the  pines.     It  is  difficult  to  estimate  the 
distance  of  such  peregrinations. 

Although  some  of  the  views  are  more 
extensive,  none  is  more  satisfying  than 
one  which  is  within  a  few  steps  of  the 
house,  and  on  the  same  level  with  it. 
An  immense  oak  divides  into  two  trunks 
not  many  feet  from  the  ground,  and 
overhangs  the  terrace,  spreading  its 
boughs  like  curtains  over  the  outer  edge, 
which  is  railed  in  by  roses  and  jasmine, 
and  forming  a  screen  both  from  the  sun 
and  from  the  dazzling  reflection  of  the 
water  below.  In  this  impenetrable  shade 
there  are  seats  and  a  table,  and  a  per- 
petual breeze  rustles  the  oak-leaves. 
The  view  down  the  twin  bays  of  Como 


1884.] 


The  Lakes  of  Upper  Italy. 


687 


and  Lecco,  more  and  more  separated  by 
an  area  of  highlands  and  mountains  ris- 
ing and  broadening  as  it  recedes,  is  the 
most  perfectly  beautiful  composition  of 
nature  I  have  ever  beheld.     It  has  no 
elements  of  the  sublime,  but  above  the 
nearer  mountains  on  the  eastern  side  of 
Lake  Lecco,  several  silver-gray   peaks 
of  bare  rock  lift  themselves  against  the 
azure  sky,  —  the  summits  of  Monte  Gri- 
gna,  severely  harmonious  in  form  and 
tint  with  the  rest  of  the  landscape,  and 
asserting  a  force  that  preserves  it  from 
sinking  into  mere  voluptuousness.     The 
outlines  of  mountain  and  shore  follow 
each  other  in  what  George  Eliot  calls 
"  rhythmical  succession,"  and  the  colors 
are  more  marvelous  than  on  Lago  Mag- 
giore.     At  dawn  the  lake  is  like  a  mir- 
ror  which   has    been    evenly   breathed 
upon   and  then   touched  by  a  careless 
finger  here  and  there.     An  hour  later, 
just  before  sunrise,  it  is  a  vast  plate  of 
silver,  stretching  from  the  dark  green 
eastern  mountains  to  the  western  ones 
bathed  in  amber  radiance  ;  then  the  tiny 
fishing-boats  appear  by  the  score,  with 
two  little  sails   set,  looking  like  white 
moths  expanding  their  wings,  or  a  scat- 
tered fleet  of.  pea-blossoms.     Later   in 
the  morning,  the  color  of  the  water  is 
sapphire,  with  parti-colored  reflections, 
sometimes  violet,  sometimes  roseate,  for 
which  I  could  never  account ;  they  are 
not  cast  by  clouds,  as  I  have  seen  them 
when  there  was  not  a  flake  in  the  sky, 
nor  are  they  from   the    shore ;  I  have 
watched   them   apparently  rise    to    the 
surface,  spread,  deepen,  and  then  fade 
like  a  blush.     In  the  hot  hours  of  the 
mid-afternoon  the  water  and  the  land 
seem  melting  together  like  golden  ore, 
and  the  mountains   swim  and  float  in 
glory.     At  sunset  the    lines  grow  firm 
again  ;  the  western  peaks  and  ranges  are 
dark,  the  eastern  ones  repeat  the  hue  of 
the  heavens,  but  more  faintly,  like  an 
echo,  and  the  lake  is  a  second  sky  ;  after 
the  landscape  has  dislimned  itself  into 
calm,  sombre  masses,  the  ashen  heights 


of  Monte  Grigna  glow  with  a  delicious 
apricot-color,  growing  purer  until  they 
seem  as  if  they  were  sprinkled  with 
gold-dust.  The  sky,  though  no  longer 
bright,  is  still  limpid,  and  the  brief  twi- 
light is  so  clear  that  the  smallest  bush 
on  the  mountain's  edge  stands  out  dis- 
tinctly, yet  as  soft  as  if  cut  in  black  vel- 
vet. As  it  grows  dark,  the  moon  begins 
to  shed  a  pale  golden  track  the  whole 
length  of  Lake  Lecco,  which  scintillates 
where  the  ripples  break  against  the 
land.  Gradually  diaphanous  vapors  rise 
from  the  water  and  glide  out  of  the 
gorges,  spreading  and  uniting  until  the 
distant  mountains  vanish  and  the  nearer 
ones  are  veiled  in  a  transparent,  silvery 
gauze,  which  subdues  the  sheen  of  the 
moon  in  the  heavens  and  makes  her 
path  on  the  water  look  like  the  reflection 
of  the  Milky  Way.  The  scene  becomes 
more  dreamlike  each  moment,  as  if  one's 
own  eyes  were  closing ;  the  perfume  rises 
from  the  orange-blossoms,  the  oleafra- 
grans,  and  countless  other  intoxicating 
flower-cups,  and  the  only  sound  is  the 
cascade  of  Varenna  on  the  mainland, 
which  does  not  call  loud  enough  to  be 
heard  during  the  day. 

As  the  Villa  Serbelloni  is  cooler  and 
'quieter  than  any  of  the  hotels  in  the 
town,  I  joined  some  friends  there  on  my 
latest  and  longest  visit  to  the  lake  of 
Como.  The  season  had  not  fairly  be- 
gun. We  had  the  house  nearly  to  our- 
selves for  a  few  weeks,  although  in  the 
great  corridor  which  runs  along  the 
whole  front  there  was  a  large  placard, 
no  doubt  a  duplicate  of  others  in  more 
frequented  situations,  enumerating  the 
attractions  of  the  resort,  recommending 
it  to  Italians  for  its  beauty  and  its  ac- 
cessibility from  their  principal  cities,  to 
Germans  for  its  cookery  and  for  its  be- 
ing patronized  by  their  princely  families, 
and  to  English  people  on  account  of  the 
regularity  with  which  the  services  of  the 
Church  of  England  are  celebrated  there. 
As  long  as  I  stayed,  the  last  inducement 
was  a  deception.  Americans  like  the 


688 


The  Lakes  of  Upper  Italy. 


[November, 


boating  and  swimming  in  the  tepid  wa- 
ters at  first,  but  soon  find  it  hard  to  de- 
sert the  oak  tree  on  the  terrace ;  for,  if 
the  truth  must  be  told,  the  effect  of  the 
scenery  is  enervating,  and  disinclines 
one  even  for  active  enjoyment.  Collect- . 
ing  our  joint  stock  of  resolution,  how- 
ever, five  of  us  set  off  one  day  to  find 
the  Villa  Pliniana,  not  one  of  Pliny's 
country-seats  (though  according  to  some 
authorities,  in  the  neighborhood  of  the 
summer  abode  he  called  Tragedy),  but  a 
place  where  there  is  a  sinking  spring, 
which  he  has  described  minutely  in  a 
letter  that  has  come  down  to  posterity. 
The  locality  must  have  been  known  and 
visited  ever  since  his  times,  but  there 
was  no  house  there  until  the  latter  part 
of  the  sixteenth  century,  when  the  exist- 
ing one  was  built  by  a  Count  Anguisci- 
ola,  or  Anguissiola,  of  Piacenza.  This 
nobleman  took  part  in  a  conspiracy 
against  the  life  of  Pier  Luigi  Farnese, 
an  execrable  tyrant,  and  being  the  per- 
son who  dealt  the  death  blow,  he  was 
rewarded  by  the  Emperor  Charles  V., 
then  in  possession  of  Lombardy,  with 
the  governorship  of  Como.  Anguisciola, 
finding  that  he  was  in  constant  peril 
from  the  powerful  enemies  whom  he 
had  made  by  his  crime,  at  the  head  of 
whom  was  Pier  Luigi's  father,  the  Pope 
Paul  III.,  created  a  retreat  for  himself 
in  a  secluded  position  not  easy  of  ap- 
proach, and  keeping  aloof  from  public 
life  he  escaped  their  vengeance.  The 
chronicle  of  the  place  is  not  continu- 
ous ;  I  could  learn  nothing  more  about  it 
prior  to  this  century,  except  that  Napo- 
leon was  there  in  1797,  after  the  treaty 
of  Campo  Formio,  when  meditating  his 
first  and  unsuccessful  return  to  Paris. 
The  house  looks  as  if  it  had  a  history  ; 
it  stands  withdrawn  in  a  deep  bight  of 
the  lake,  a  plain,  rectilinear  facade  upon 
a  single  square  terrace  rising  directly 
from  the  water ;  it  has  nothing  to  distin- 
guish it  except  a  certain  symmetry,  the 
mark  of  the  cinque  cento,  and  an  air  of 
bygone  times,  of  melancholy  and  isola- 


tion. It  is  more  likely  to  be  remem- 
bered by  reason  of  its  last  owners  than 
of  any  former  ones.  The  shades  of  the 
Prince  and  Princess  Emilio  Belgiojoso 
still  linger  in  tradition  among  the  scenes 
of  their  romantic  exploits.  They  were 
both  rarely  endowed  by  nature  and  in 
temporalities  of  every  sort,  —  genius, 
beauty,  accomplishments,  old  blood,  high 
rank,  great  wealth ;  but  they  were  sev- 
eral centuries  behind  their  time  in  re- 
gard for  appearances.  The  prince,  after 
playing  the  lion  in  Paris  for  years, 
where  his  escapades  had  an  exotic  and 
melodramatic  flavor,  quitted  it  suddenly, 
under  circumstances  which  Alfred  de 
Musset  briefly  recounts  in  a  letter  writ- 
ten at  the  time.  Belgiojoso  was  dress- 
ing to  sing  at  a  private  charity  concert, 
for  his  voice  was  one  of  the  finest  in 
Europe,  when  a  great  lady  to  whom  he 
was  attached  burst  in  upon  him  with  no 
baggage  except  her  pocket-handkerchief, 
says  Musset,  and  besought  him  to  take 
her  at  once  out  of  reach  of  her  husband 
who  was  jealous  ;  the  prince  set  off  with 
her  immediately  for  La  Pliniana,  and 
the  audience  that  was  waiting  to  hear 
him  sing  waited  in  vain.  The  two  re- 
mained in  charmed  exile  for  ten  years, 
and  then  one  fine  day  the  lady  left  the 
prince  without  warning ;  a  few  months 
afterwards  he  died  of  love  and  a  broken 
heart.  Such  is  the  version  which  is 
given  by  some  of  his  surviving  friends 
of  the  final  episode  of  this  exaggerated 
existence.  The  princess,  his  wife,  was  a 
Trivulzio,  and  appears  like  a  modern  in- 
carnation of  her  family's  crest,  a  winged 
mermaid  or  siren  on  a  helmet.  Musset 
and  Heine,  both  unsuccessful  aspirants 
for  her  capricious  favor,  have  left  por- 
traits of  her  in  verse  as  Paris  knew  her 
in  her  young  time.  There  are  persons 
living  on  the  lake  who  remember  her  as 
she  rode  forth  in  1848,  in  a  general's 
uniform,  one  of  them  assured  me,  at  the 
head  of  the  troops  she  had  raised  for  the 
Italian  insurgents  to  join  their  patriotic 
outbreak.  Many  years  afterwards  she 


1884.] 


The  Lakes  of  Upper  Italy. 


689 


returned  to  the  Pliniana,  an  old  woman, 
bent  double  from  the  effects  of  a  stab 
in  the  back  dealt  her  by  a  courier  dur- 
ing her  journey  to  the  East,  to  spend 
her  nights  in  writing  historical  and  the- 
ological treatises,  smoking  a  Turkish 
pipe,  with  a  fire  burning  in  her  bedroom 
and  windows  wide  open,  summer  and 
winter. 

We  found  the  haunts  of  these  real 
though  improbable  personages  perfectly 
fitted  to  their  modes  of  life,  but  ill-adapt- 
ed to  any  manner  of  being  that  is  pro- 
saic, commonplace,  or  even  practical. 
Directly  opposite  Moltrasio  on  the  east- 
ern side  of  the  lake  is  the  small  town 
of  Torno,  at  which  the  steamboat  does 
not  touch,  passengers  being  landed  by  a 
barge.  Like  the  other  towns  that  have 
not  regular  quays  it  is  older,  poorer, 
quainter-looking  than  those  on  the  line 
of  travel.  There  are  no  fine  hotels  at 
Torno,  or  shops  and  cafes  under  striped 
awnings.  A  narrow  street  ending  in  a 
still  narrower  path,  the  pitiless  indige- 
nous footpath  of  sharp  stones,  leads  to 
the  Villa  Pliniana,  now  the  property  of 
the  Marchesa  Trotti,  the  Princess  Bel- 
giojoso's  daughter.  On  the  outskirts  of 
the  town  there  is  an  old  church,  Italian 
Gothic,  with  some  good  sculpture  and 
bassi  riiievi  round  the  principal  door  ; 
the  interior  is  impressive,  in  spite  of  its 
gaunt  bareness,  from  its  fine,  bold  lines. 
Opening  on  the  little  churchyard  there 
is  a  small  cloister  with  only  six  arches, 
each  framing  a  view  of  the  lake  ;  the 
wall  is  covered  with  tablets  to  the  dead, 
two  of  which  are  in  memory  of  young 
English  women.  One  was  Margaret, 
wife  of  Lawrence  Oliphant  of  Condie, 
Scotland,  aged  twenty-seven,  with  the 
arms,  crest,  and  motto  "  Altiora  peto." 
Both  she  and  her  countrywoman  died  in 
the  early  part  of  the  present  century ; 
it  is  affecting  to  find  their  memorials 
here,  and  one  speculates  as  to  where 
and  how  they  had  lived.  With  a  sense 
of  quiet,  induced  by  the  simple  English 
inscriptions  and  the  thought  of  lives 

VOL.  LIV.  —  NO.  325.  44 


that  ended  young  and  were  possibly  in- 
nocent and  happy,  we  returned  to  the 
track  of  those  other  feverish,  worn  out 
human  creatures.  The  path  passes  un- 
der a  series  of  arches  thrown  out  from 
the  church  wall  like  flying  buttresses, 
and  almost  immediately  enters  a  sylvan 
tract  of  trees  and  rocks,  smelling;  of 

7  O 

moss,  fresh  earth,  and  dead  leaves. 
Overhead,  the  branches  are  endlessly  in- 
terwoven ;  looking  through  them,  one 
sees  only  more  leaves  and  branches,  un- 
til the  eye  loses  itself  in  cool  green,  for 
the  hill  rises  higher  and  steeper,  clad  to 
the  top  in  forest ;  while  looking  down, 
far  down,  through  the  boughs  and  foli- 
age there  are  glimpses  of  motionless 
blue  water  like  a  floor  of  ribbed  agate. 
The  way  is  long,  and  practicable  only 
for  pedestrians  or  cloven-footed  quad- 
rupeds. After  half  an  hour's  good  walk 
from  the  town  we  reached  a  rift  in  the 
hillside,  spanned  by  the  single,  high  arch 
of  a  stone  foot-bridge,  through  which 
the  bright  skeins  of  a  mountain  brook 
drop  into  a  leafy  gorge.  The  grated 
entrance  of  the  villa  is  but  a  step  fur- 
ther. Within  the  gate  there  is  a  deep, 
green  shade  of  laurel  trees,  through 
which  the  path  descends  rapidly  to  the 
gardener's  house,  a  large  rose-colored 
cottage,  then  down  between  laurel  walls 
to  the  palazzetto  by  a  long  flight  of 
steps  fringed  with  ferns,  blue  and  pink 
hydrangeas  at  intervals  refreshing  the 
sight  with  their  cool  clusters.  The 
house  is  plain  and  unpretending  from 
this  side,  but  after  passing  through  a 
hall  and  corridor  we  found  ourselves  in 
a  central  courtyard,  the  adytum  of  the 
temple.  The  wings  of  the  house  form 
two  sides  of  a  quadrangle,  covered  with 
ivy,  trumpet-flowers,  and  climbing  white 
rose?;  the  third  is  a  wall  arched  over  a 
rocky  grotto  half  hidden  in  trailing  ver- 
dure, through  which  gushes  a  clear  tor- 
rent ;  the  upper  stories  of  the  wings  be- 
ing connected  by  a  balustraded  gallery 
along  the  top  of  the  wall,  at  each  end  of 
which  a  magnificent  cypress  stands  sen- 


690 


The  Lakes  of  Upper  Italy. 


[November, 


try,  the  light,  feathery  foliage  of  the 
overhanging  hillside  waving  between ; 
on  the  fourth  side  is  a  paved  and  pil- 
lared loggia  communicating  between  the 
lower  rooms  of  the  main  house,  and 
opening  in  three  pointed  arches  on  a 
view  of  the  deeply  recessed  bay,  a  small, 
pale,  variegated  town  with  a  tall  tower 
and  some  red  roofs  lodged  over  against 
us  between  the  cobalt-blue  water  and 
the  green  velvety  lap  of  the  mountain. 

The  loggia  is  furnished  with  a  divan, 
tables,  and  easy-chairs  ;  I  sat  down  and 
tried  to  sketch  the  courtyard,  but  here, 
as  it  always  happened  on  the  Lake  of 
Como,  the  charm  of  the  spot  held  my 
hand  in  thrall.  The  sunshine  beat  from 
the  cloudless  sky  on  the  dark  cypresses 
and  the  bright  green  vineyards,  the 
fountain  poured  and  plashed,  stirring  a 
strong,  cool  breeze,  the  Gothic  openings 
on  the  lake  showed  a  landscape  in  each 
compartment,  like  a  great  triptych.  If 
it  was  riot  the  most  beautiful  human 
dwelling-place  I  had  ever  seen,  it  was 
the  one  which  appealed  most  irresistibly 
to  the  imagination  ;  nature,  art,  antiqui- 
ty, history,  and  romance  combined  to 
lend  it  an  ideal  fascination. 

The  fountain  is  fed  by  Pliny's  sink- 
ing spring,  filling  and  emptying  three 
times  in  the  twenty-four  hours  under 
the  occult  influence,  as  it  is  now  sup- 
posed, of  the  wind,  which  blows  from 
opposite  directions  at  regular  intervals. 
It  has  been  observed  that  when  the 
wind  sets  strongly  from  any  quarter  for 
an  entire  day  the  phenomenon  is  not 
produced.  The  terrace  on  which  the 
house  stands  is  laid  out  as  a  garden,  but 
the  place  is  like  some  forest  sanctuary, 
for  a  second  and  larger  waterfall  tum- 
bling from  the  hilltop  into  the  lake,  and 
bridgeless,  completely  cuts  off  approach 
on  the  side  furthest  from  Torno. 

We  took  a  row-boat  from  the  town 
and  pulled  up  to  Bellagio  in  three  hours. 
The  evening  was  mild  and  windless,  the 
lake  perfectly  smooth,  and  as  the  sunset 
faded  from  the  sky  a  low-hung  moon 


shone  dimly  through  gathering  clouds. 
The  stillness  was  broken  only  by  the 
dip  of  our  oars,  and  by  the  convent  bells 
which  now  and  then  rang  out  from  dif- 
ferent heights,  or  the  lesser  tinkle  of 
little  bells  which  the  fishermen  fasten  to 
the  buoys  of  their  nets,  to  guide  them 
in  the  dark ;  their  small,  clear  tones 
have  a  strange  and  witching  sound  in 
the  twilight  loneliness.  By  and  by  the 
stars  came  out  in  the  sky,  and  lights 
twinkled  at  intervals  along  the  shore, 
leaving  the  mountains  in  darkness. 

Our  energy  being  restored  in  some 
degree  by  this  long  excursion,  the  next 
thing  was  to  see  the  country-seats  near 
Bellagio  on  both  sides  the  lake.  It 
would  be  more  easy  to  give  a  catalogue 
than  a  description  of  them,  as,  although 
each  has  its  beauties,  there  is  but  one 
set  of  adjectives  for  them  all,  and  one 
runs  the  risk  of  rhapsodizing.  The 
most  celebrated  is  the  Villa  Carlotta, 
close  to  Cadenabbia,  opposite  Bellagio, 
which  belongs  to  the  Duke  of  Saxe 
Meiningen.  The  grounds  are  in  better 
order  than  those  of  the  Villa  Serbelloni, 
though  not  to  compare  with  them  in  ex- 
tent or  variety ;  the  collection  of  conif- 
erous trees  is  very  rare  and  fine,  and  the 
magnolias  are  the  pride  of  the  place. 
But  on  the  whole  it  is  not  worth  a 
formal  visit  for  what  is  to  be  seen  out 
of  doors.  There  is  some  famous  mod- 
ern statuary  in  the  main  hall,  which  is ' 
large  and  lofty,  and  has  a  reddish-brown 
gambrel  ceiling  ornamented  with  rosettes 
of  white  stucco,  the  walls  being  pale 
blue,  the  wood- work  dark  brown  ;  the 
effect  is  agreeable,  and  sets  off  the  sculp- 
ture extremely  well.  Most  of  the  groups 
are  mediocre,  even  Canova's,  except  his 
Cupid  and  Psyche.  In  this  the  attitude 
of  Eros,  poised  yet  scarcely  pausing, 
the  life,  purity,  and  lovely  youthfuluess 
of  both  figures,  and  the  exquisite,  light 
touch  with  which  they  embrace,  as  if 
each  feared  to  brush  the  down  from  the 
other's  wings,  are  ineffably  charming 
and  graceful,  but  the  general  outline  is 


1884.] 


The  Lakes  of  Upper  Italy. 


691 


too  regular;  the  pinions  of  Eros  and 
the  elbows  of  the  pair  look  like  half- 
open  scissors,  from  a  short  distance. 
Thorwaldsen's  Triumph  of  Alexander, 
a  frieze  surrounding  the  room,  is  the 
finest  thing  in  it,  full  of  antique  spirit 
and  nobility,  "  ganz  grossartig,"  as  the 
inevitable  a3sthetic  German  lady  ex- 
plained to  her  party.  It  recalls  the  pro- 
cession on  the  column  of  Trajan,  even 
to  the  dignified  old  captive  following  an 
elephant,  with  bound  hands  and  bent 
head,  but  it  impressed  me,  nevertheless, 
as  an  inspiration. 

There  is  a  broad  walk  beside  the  lake, 
from  the  Villa  Carlotta  to  Cadenabbia, 
under  the  dense  shade  of  a  double  ave- 
nue of  great   sycamores,   which   frame 
a  long  gallery  of   pictures :   soft  green 
mountains,  punctuated  by  dark  cypresses 
and  indented  with  little  bays*  and  coves, 
bright    towns   sunning   themselves  arid 
throwing  their  doubles  on  the  blue  wa- 
ter.   I  am  conscious  of  alluding  to  these 
frames  and  settings  much  too  often ;  but 
they  occur  continually,  and  always  with 
new  combinations.     Turn  wherever  one 
will,  the  variety  is  endless,  and  removes 
the   odiousness  of   comparison  between 
the  villas,  each  of  which  has  its  peculiar 
beauty   and    physiognomy.     The    Villa 
Giulia,  once  the   property  of  the  king 
of  Belgium,  is  the  most  lordly  of  them  ; 
it  occupies  a  plateau  between  the  bays 
of  Como  and  Lecco,  which  is  reached 
from  the  former  by  a  wide  flight  of  a 
hundred   and   fifty   granite    steps,   bor- 
dered on  each  side  by  a  line  of  tower- 
ing cypresses  in  close  rank,  opening  a 
grand  perspective  from  the  top  of  the 
stairs.     On  my  first  visit  to  this  villa  in 
1871,  among  its  chief  ornaments  were 
the  camellia  shrubberies  ;  twelve  years 
afterwards  I  found  that  they  had  been 
almost  entirely  cleared  away  by  the  new 
owner,  an  Austrian  nobleman,  to  make 
room  for  a  regular  English  ribbon  gar- 
den, in  a  style  which  has  already  fallen 
out  of  favor  in  Great  Britain,  with  ini- 
tials and  ensigns  armorial  in  geraniums 


and  colored  leaves.  However,  as  the 
ground  is  level,  it  makes  a  fine,  free 
platform  for  a  glorious  view  of  Lake 
Lecco,  and  the  principal  walk  edged  by 
orange  and  lemon  trees  in  hu^e  terra 

o  o 

cotta  pots  of  Etruscan  shape  is  an  ad- 
mirable   decorative  arrangement.     The 
head  gardeners  of  these  great  places  are 
often  men  of  great  taste  in  their  own 
calling ;  the  dignified  person  who  holds 
the  post  at  the  Villa  Giulia  looked  with 
respectful  contempt  at  the  floral  devices 
on  the  lawn,  which  are  a  fancy  of  his  em- 
ployer, Count  B.    Like  many  Italians  of 
his  class,  his  manner  was  at  once  stately 
and   deferential,  but   on  our  asking   if 
Count  B.  were  at  home,  he  volunteered 
the  information  that  he  was  absent  per 
quistione  di  matrimonio,  adding  that  he 
had  eight  sons  to  marry.     My  compan- 
ions and  I  laughed  a  little  among  our- 
selves at  this  hard  bestead  parent ;  the 
consequence  of  which  was,  though  we 
spoke  English    together,  that  the  next 
time  we  came  the  gardener  told  us,  in 
gleeful  confidence,  that  it  was  Count  B. 
himself  who  was  trying  to  marry  again 
at   eighty  years   of   age.     The  way  in 
which  he  kept  his  balance  between  what 
was  due  to  his  padrone,  to  us,  and  to 
himself,    and    preserved    his   propriety 
while  making  these  gratuitous  communi- 
cations, was   inimitable.     I  opine   that 
the  Italians  are  great  gossips,  from  the 
frankness  with  which  my  neighbors  at 
table  d'hote  and  fellow  travelers  in  rail- 
way carriages  imparted  to  me  the  affairs 
of  their  acquaintance,  of  whom  natural- 
ly I  had  never  heard  ;  I  soon  knew  much 
more  about  them  than  of  people  at  home, 
next  door  to  whom  I  had  lived  for  twen- 
ty years.    Their  want  .of  reticence  in  re- 
gard to  love  affairs  seems  to  be  still  as 
great    as  when  a    Roman    servant  told 
Madame  de  Stael  that  she  could  not  see 
his  mistress  because  she  was  in    love; 
two  Italian  guide-books  allude  to  Prince 
Emilio   Belgiojoso's   "  amore   infelice  e 
tempestoso  "  as  if  it  were  an  historical 
event. 


692                                The  Lakes  of  Upper  Italy.                   [November, 

The  descent  from  the  Villa  Giulia  to  I  did  not  keep,  so  I  hereby  endeavor  to 
Lake  Lecco  is  by  a  winding  walk,  guard-  atone  for  my  breach  of  faith. 
ed  from  the  edge  of  the  bluff  by  a  bar-  All  the  places  which  we  saw  were 
rier  so  overgrown  with  roses  and  flow-  well  kept,  and  there  is  a  great  deal  of 
ering  creepers,  that  nobody  can  say  skill  in  the  disposition  of  the  trees  and 
whether  it  be  iron,  wood,  or  stone  ;  on  shrubbery,  the  confines  of  the  grounds 
the  other  hand,  there  is  a  myrtle  hedge  being  generally  completely  concealed  ; 
starred  with  tiny  white  blossoms.  The  it  is  difficult  to  detect  how  limited  they 
exit  is  by  a  short,  broad  flight  of  stone  are.  The  most  beautiful  instance  of  this 
steps,  overhung  by  the  pink  masses  of  is  the  Villa  Trotti,  the  property  of  the 
the  finest  oleanders  I  saw  in  Italy,  into  fortunate  lady  who  owns  La  Pliniana, 
a  miniature  haven  full  of  boats,  above  a  mere  strip  of  land  as  flat  as  a  billiard 
which,  on  two  sides,  stand  small  houses  table  along  the  lake,  with  hills  rising  ab- 
with  terraces  and  pergolas  ;  a  chain  that  ruptly  behind  it.  There  are  two  avenues, 
barred  our  egress  was  lowered,  and  we  one  of  sycamores,  the  other  of  lindens, 
pulled  back  to  Bellagio  round  the  head  fine  specimens  of  their  kinds,  meeting  at 
of  the  promontory,  passing  under  the  right  angles  and  bounding  the  place  on 
perpendicular  cliff  from  which  it  is  said  two  sides  ;  the  ferneries  and  flower  gar- 
that  a  wicked  Countess  di  Borgomanero  den  lie  near  the  house  ;  beyond  them 
threw  her  lovers  down  in  old  times,  one  spreads  a  wide,  smooth  lawn,  planted 
a  day.  I  do  not  know  why  all  the  guide-  with  consummate  art  in  groups  of  mag- 
books,  English,  German,  and  Italian,  nificent  firs,  pines,  and  hemlocks  of  the 
concur  in  stating  that  the  Villa  Giulia  rarest  species,  and  with  every  variety  of 
is  no  longer  open  to  strangers,  unless  palm  and  palmetto.  There  are  no  stat- 
it  be  closed  when  Count  B.  is  not  absent  ues,  terraces,  or  any  of  the  usual  acces- 
"  per  quistione  di  matrimonio."  All  the  sories  of  an  Italian  villa ;  a  fountain 
proprietors  on  the  lake  are  exceedingly  rises  from  a  simple  marble  basin  in  one 
kind  and  generous,  as  far  as  my  expe-  slender  jet,  a  mountain  brook  falls 
rience  goes,  in  allowing  their  beautiful  through  a  rockery,  and  then  by  a  torn 
homes  to  be  seen  even  when  they  are  and  stony  channel  down  to  the  lake ; 
living  at  them.  The  sole  exception  that  there  is  no  other  sort  of  tree  on  the 
we  found  was  the  rich  Duke  Melzi's  spaces  of  even  turf  except  the  many-sto- 
villa,  open  twice  a  week  on  specified  ried  evergreens  and  the  great  tropical 
days  ;  here,  after  paying  a  franc's  en-  fans  at  their  feet.  An  old,  gray  cam- 
trance  fee  apiece,  besides  the  invariable  panile  looks  over  their  pinnacles  from  a 
half-franc  to  the  gardener,  we  were  told  short  distance  ;  on  one  hand  there  are 
that  the  house,  which  contains  a  picture-  craggy  mountain  -  sides,  on  the  other, 
gallery,  and  some  statues  by  Canova  and  across  the  celestial -colored  lake,  the  rav- 
Marchesi,  mentioned  in  the  guide-books,  ishing  graces  of  the  Tremezzina.  The 
is  no  longer  shown.  I  promised  my  an-  mode  of  planting  is  unique,  a  perfect  tri- 
gry  comrades  that  I  would  denounce  umph  of  landscape  gardening,  and  gives 
this  greed  and  fraud  to  Murray,  Bae-  the  place  an  indescribable  charm  of  orig- 
deker,  and  Meyer,  —  a  promise  which  iiiality  and  poetry. 


1884.] 


Grass:  A  Rumination. 


693 


GRASS:  A   RUMINATION. 


THE  eye  and  the  ear  are  inveterate 
hobbyists.  This  peculiarity  in  his  per- 
ceptive faculties  the  observer  of  nature 
and  the  seasons  must  frequently  have 
occasion  to  remark  :  one  phase  of  grow- 
ing life,  one  set  of  objects  in  the  land- 
scape, shall  often  so  engage  his  atten- 
tion as  to  render  him  comparatively  dull 
to  other  impressions.  The  new  season 
comes,  clothing  with  wonder  the  whole 
woodland  ;  but,  for  some  unassignable 
reason,  the  observer  finds  nothing  so 
sanitary  and  pleasing  to  his  eye  as  wil- 
low green  ;  or,  among  all  the  surprises 
of  vernation,  he  has  regard  only  toward 
the  hickory's  richly  colored  buds,  which 
seem  to  promise  not  mere  leaves,  but  a 
blossom  of  royal  dyes  and  dimensions ; 
or,  from  among  the  various  delicacies 
of  vernal  bloom  in  field  arid  wood,  his 
eye  curiously  singles  out  and  visits  with 
favor  a  flower  with  no  more  pretensions 
to  beauty  than  the  little  pale  starve- 
ling, plantain-leaved  everlasting.  "  No 
doubt  the  blue  and  the  yellow  vio- 
lets are  abundant,  but  I  happen  to  have 
seen  only  the  white,  fragrant  kind,  this 
spring,"  remarked  one  who  looked  with 
a  loving  prejudice.  I  do  not  account 
for  these  prepossessions  and  partialities ; 
if  I  could  account  for  them,  I  should 
understand  why,  during  the  season  past, 
Nature's  great  commoner,  the  Grass, 
should  have  spoken  with  such  unusual 
eloquence,  convincing  me  that  never  be- 
fore had  I  seen  half  its  graces  and  vir- 
tues. Something,  then,  I  have  lately 
learned  regarding 

"  the  hour 
Of  splendor  in  the  grass  " 

(supposed  indeed  to  have  been  lost  with 
our  earlier  Intimations  of  Immortality), 
and  I  may  venture  to  corroborate  the 
Orphic  strain  which  bids  us  believe  that 

"  the  poor  grass  shall  plot  and  plan 
What  it  shall  do  when  it  is  man." 


Being  advised  of  this  plotting  and  plan- 
ning, it  seemed  possible  to  equal  such 
foresight  and  sagacity  by  entertaining 
some  speculations  as  to  what  poor  man 
shall  do  when  he  is  grass  (if  the  road  of 
this  metempsychosis  were  traversable  in 
both  directions).  That  which  all  our 
lives  we  have  under  our  feet  is  at  length 
set  above  our  heads,  —  the  softly  moving 
janitor,  that  follows  us  and  shuts  the 
gate  opened  for  our  mortal  passing ;  the 
light  touch  soon  removing  all  traces  of 
the  wound  received  by  earth,  when  our 
sleeping  chamber  was  delved.  In  fine, 
still  weather  you  may  lie  close  to  the 
low  gate,  and,  so  lying,  feel  peace  and 
comfort  gliding  in  upon  every  sense  ; 
but  do  not  venture,  in  any  form,  to  re- 
peat the  old  prayer,  "  Leeve  moder,  let 
me  in ! "  lest  the  grass  should  hear, 
and,  understanding  the  mother's  sign, 
gather  around,  and  quickly  close  over 
your  repining  humanity. 

Plainly,  the  grass  has  its  secrets ;  and 
a  certain  slyness  or  evasiveness  charac- 
terizes all  its  behavior.  It  trembles  at 
the  slightest  solicitation  of  the  breeze, 
yet  is  there  no  sound  arising  from  its 
agitation ;  herein  it  differs  from  the 
frank  loquacity  of  the  leaves  of  a  tree. 
The  stridulous  gossip  of  the  myriads 
that  shelter  among  its  blades  only  accen- 
tuates the  silence  of  the  grass.  What 
busy  traffic,  what  ecumenical  gatherings, 
what  cabals  of  the  insect  world,  it  could 
report !  Probably  no  pageant  in  fairy- 
land, could  we  obtain  a  pass  into  that 
jealous  Chinese  precinct,  would  be  so 
well  worth  our  admiration  as  would  the 
hourly  life  of  the  inhabitants  of  this 
small  plot  of  grass,  when  once  we  were 
inducted  into  its  mysteries.  The  spirit 
of  the  greensward  !  Of  what  were  tha 

o 

Greek  poets  thinking  when,  having  as- 
signed a  naiad  to  every  stream  and  a 
dryad  to  every  tree,  they  forgot  to  give 


694 


Grass :  A  Rumination. 


[November, 


the  grass  its  deity  ?  If  the  goddess  Ce- 
res ever  held  this  position,  she  has  since 
forfeited  it  by  her  partiality  towards  the 
grain-bearing  grasses,  she  having  be- 
stowed her  name  upon  these  ;  whence 
cereals  they  still  remain. 

The  grasses  carry  a  free  lance  in  all 
parts  of  the  globe.  In  temperate  cli- 
mates alone  are  found  those  by  nature 
fitted  to  unite  in  close,  caespitous  com- 
munities ;  weavers,  they,  of  the  rich, 
seamless  garment  which  Earth  loves  to 
have  spread  over  her  old  shoulders. 
When  turf  is  transplanted,  with  what 
aptness  of  brotherly  love  do  root  and 
blade  hasten  to  knit  themselves  togeth- 

O 

er,  as  though  with  the  grass  had  origi- 
nated the  maxim,  In  union  is  strength ! 
If  I  lived  in  the  builded  desert  called 
city,  I  would  give  myself  the  luxury 
of  an  oasis  ;  and  if  this  were  a  scant 
one  (perhaps  a  window-garden),  and  if 
limited  to  a  single  kind  of  vegetation, 
I  would  choose  a  strip  of  green  turf; 
sure,  so  long  as  this  flourished,  that  my 
connection  with  the  country  would  not 
be  wholly  lost.  If  the  city's  poor  and 
depraved  might  but  have  the  gospel  as 
preached  by  the  grass  ! 

A  family  of  the  utmost  benevolence 
is  that  of  the  Gramineaz.  Out  of  its 
nearly  four  thousand  known  species 
only  a  single  individual  (darnel)  sustains 
the  charge  of  being  unwholesome.  The 
grasses  are  a  royal  society  of  food-pur- 
veyors, extending  over  the  whole  earth, 
and  affording  such  plenitude  and  variety 
that  man  should  not  fare  meagrely,  even 
if  confined  for  his  sustenance  to  this  one 
group  of  plants.  Flour  from  the  cereal, 
sugar  from  the  cane,  —  strength  and 
sweetness ;  with  these  left,  what  should 
forbid  to  the  children  of  the  earth  their 
bread  and  treacle  ?  And  not  only  man, 
but  his  serviceable  dumb  allies,  the  most 
patient,  innocent,  and  intelligent  of  the 
brute  creation,  are  nourished  by  the 
bounty  of  the  grasses.  In  a  different 
sense  from  that  intended  by  the  He- 
brew prophet  might  it  be  affirmed  that 


"  all  flesh  is  grass,"  all  tissue  and  fibre 
remotely  spun  from  this  stout,  durable 
thread.  Some  poor  children  living  in  a 
village  suburb  were  asked  what  they 
had  done  at  times  when  there  had  been 
no  food  in  the  house.  "  Oh,  we  went 
out-doors  and  ate  grass,"  they  replied, 
making  no  marvel  of  the  case.  Neces- 
sity, with  a  grain  of  salt  (if  necessity 
could  afford  the  condiment),  might  per- 
haps manage  a  repast  off  the  tenderer 
portions  of  the  grass  stem.  A  pity  that 
Nebuchadnezzar  left  no  record  of  the 
impressions  gained  during  the  time  in 
which  he  "  did  eat  grass  as  oxen,  and 
his  body  was  wet  with  the  dew  of  heav- 
en." While  the  rest  of  the  Babylonians 
ate  grass  at  a  remove,  by  eating  the  ox 
that  ate  the  grass,  their  king  was  get- 
ting down  very  close  to  first  principles. 
If,  by  this  simple  gramineal  diet,  he  did 
not  acquire  a  curious  ruminating  knowl- 
edge which  let  him  into  the  feelings  and 
cogitations  of  the  gentle  grazing  beasts, 
his  neighbors,  then  the  lesson  of  wisdom 
and  humility  must  have  been  but  im- 
perfectly learned. 

Whatever  the  etymological  affinities 
of  grass,  cresco,  and  grow,  the  plant  it- 
self may  be  taken  as  the  readiest  and 
most  universal  type  under  which  to  rep- 
resent nature's  crescent,  unwearying  en- 
ergy. The  year  around,  it  cherishes 
good  hopes,  and  continues  to  speak 
them,  when  other  plant  life  is  wholly 
silent.  "  The  trees  look  like  winter, 
but  the  grass  is  like  the  spring."  It 
had  hardy  nurture  from  the  beginning, 
the  snow  havingfcradled  its  seed  ;  for  the 
farmer  thinks  no  time  more  acceptable 
for  sowing  than  early  in  the  spring,  af- 
ter a  light  snowfall.  Summer's  swarthy 
flame  and  that  kind  of  white  heat  which 
we  name  frost  may  cut  off  growth  above 
ground,  but  such  is  the  recuperative 
power  at  the  root  that  but  one  abundant 
rain  or  but  one  sunshine  holiday  is  need- 
ed to  start  again  the  star  y-pointing  spear 
of  the  grass.  There  is  no  better  econ- 
omist of  its  resources  than  the  grass. 


1884.] 


Grass :  A  Rumination. 


695 


Says  Thoreau,  in  Walden,  "  It  grows 
as  steadily  as  the  rill  oozes  out  of  the 
ground.  It  is  almost  identical  with  that ; 
for  in  the  growing  days  of  June,  when 
the  rills  are  dry,  the  grass  blades  are 
their  channels,  and  from  year  to  year 
the  herds  drink  at  this  perennial  green 
stream."  Although  it  is  so  dry  to  the 
touch,  the  veins  of  the  grass  are  not 
scanted.  A  drop  of  moisture  collects  at 
the  base  of  a  culm,  on  its  being  pressed 
between  thumb  and  finger  ;  and  children, 
for  sport,  pit  one  such  stem  against  an- 
other, to  see  which  will  carry  away  its 
own  and  the  other's  glistening  bead, — 
drops  of  the  life-blood  of  the  grass. 

But  here  I  have  a  good  calendar  to 
advise  me  whether  the  year  runs  high 
or  low ;  to  indicate  not  only  the  season, 
but  the  month  also.  It  is  March.  I 
should  not  mistake  the  time,  seeing  those 
piebald  locks  which  the  earth  wears: 
here  a  thread  or  tress  of  forward  green, 
there  a  shock  of  the  old  dead  gray  or 
brown.  It  is  April,  —  witnessed  by  the 
wild  mob-rule  conduct  of  the  grass,  its 
pushing  emulousness,  in  which,  for  no 
plain  reason,  one  blade  outstrips  by 
half  its  nearest  neighbor,  and  no  two 
blades  show  the  same  length.  It  is 
May  (the  Anglo-Saxon  Month  of  Three 
Milkings),  and  the  grass  moves  on,  a 
banded  strength,  the  inequalities  it  had 
in  April  having  disappeared.  Now,  who 
are  you,  so  light  and  expeditious,  that 
you  boast  you  '11  not  let  the  grass  grow 
under  your  feet  ?  Let  it !  Take  care, 
for  it  grows  between  your  steps,  silently 
mirthful,  triumphant  without  vaunting. 
On  a  summer  morning,  with  copious 
dew,  the  grass  has  its  exultation.  In- 
numerable caps  of  liquid  hyaline  I  see, 
poised  aloft  on  the  points  of  innumera- 
ble bayonets.  Some  sudden,  wild  en- 
thusiasm has  seized  these  bladed  myrmi- 
dons ;  what  this  may  be  I  have  to  fancy, 
(and  also  what  rallying  word  or  note  of 
huzza  would  best  match  with  spirited 
sound  a  sight  so  thrilling. 

June,  the  Month  of  Roses,  Meadow 


Month,  —  which  shall  it  be  ?  The  lat- 
ter, if  respect  be  had  to  numbers  ;  since 
what  are  all  the  roses  of  all  the  world 
as  compared  with  the  infinite  flowerage 
of  the  grasses,  which  this  month  ful- 
fills? Think  what  bloom  is  represented 
by  one  panicle  of  June  grass,  or  by  one 
stately  spire  of  timothy  or  herd's  grass, 
with  its  delicate  purple  anthers  flung 
out  each  way,  like  so  many  pennons 
from  the  windows  of  a  tower !  To  the 
flower  of  the  grass  was  given  a  recon- 
dite loveliness,  —  prize  only  of  the  faith- 
ful, refined,  and  loving  eye,  patient  to 
investigate.  Fair  Science  takes  her  lit- 
tle learners  out  into  the  open,  and  there 
teaches  them  by  a  parable  :  "  Consider 
the  lilies  of  the  field."  "  But,"  return 
the  little  learners,  "  we  can't  see  any  lil- 
ies." Then  says  smiling  Science,  "  They 
are  all  around  you ; "  and,  gathering 
a  stalk  of  blossoming  grass,  or,  yet  bet- 
ter, of  wheat,  she  proceeds  to  divulge 
in  its  obscure  and  curious  inflorescence 
vanishing  traces  of  an  ancient  lily-re- 
sembling type,  from  which  the  grasses 
have  descended.1  It  appears  that  while 
one  branch  of  a  great  botanical  family 
rose  to  vie  with  Solomon  (by  their 
bright  colors  winning  the  admiration 
and  friendly  offices  of  the  insect  world), 
another  branch  of  the  family  eschewed 
such  ambitions,  and  obtained  the  wind 
as  a  lover.  Science  dissects  the  unre- 
membering  flower,  and  shows  us  by 
what  crowding  together  of  its  parts  and 
gradual  suppressions  the  liliaceous  form 
has  been  lost  save  to  the  nice  eye  of  the 
specialist.  Had  not  the  grasses  prac- 
ticed humility,  or  had  they  not  stooped 
to  conquer,  it  might  have  come  to  pass 
that  man  had  asked  for  bread  and  been 
given  a  lily. 

In  much  the  same  way  as  he  forecasts 
the  profit  he  will  have  from  the  woolly 
flock  does  the  farmer  count  upon  the 
fleeces  grown  by  his  fields  (whose  shear- 

l  See  the  admirable  essay  The  Origin  of  Wheat, 
in  Mr.  Grant  Allen's  Flowers  and  Their  Pedi- 
grees. 


696 


The  Negro  Problem. 


[November, 


ing-time,  also,  is  in  June).  There  are 
hay-scales  in  his  mind,  and  such  calcu- 
lation in  his  eye,  that  he  can  foretell 
with  considerable  accuracy  and  very 
definite  cheer  what  will  be  the  yield  of 
this  or  that  "  piece,"  —  whether  a  ton, 
ton  and  a  half,  or  two  tons  to  the 
acre. 

Lovely  and  pleasant  all  its  life,  it  fol- 
lows that  the  grass  rejoices  in  a  fra- 
grant memory.  Whether  curing  for  hay 
iu  the  field,  or  already  gathered,  the 
"  goodliness  thereof "  goes  never  to 
waste.  I  think  sleeping  on  the  haymow 
will  yet  be  recommended  as  therapeutic 
for  any  that  may  be  "  sick  or  melan- 
cholious ;  "  the  breath  of  the  hay  being 
every  whit  as  efficacious  as  that  Chau- 
cerian tree  whose  leaves  were  "  so  very 
good  and.vertuous."  Needless  to  gath- 
er those  special  herbs  so  much  esteemed 
as  remedies,  when  the  barn  is  full  of 
more  excellent  simples  that  cure  with 
their  aroma. 

You  can  tell  the  time  of  year  by  an 


inspection  of  the  barns  ;  nor  is  it  al- 
ways necessary  to  see  the  interior.  As 
you  rode  swiftly  by  one  of  these  old 
harvest  storehouses,  you  saw  the  setting 
sun  shoot  arrows  of  gold  through  the 
building  from  side  to  side  between  the 
warped  boards.  That  was  an  evening 
in  spring;  now,  in  autumn,  the  garri- 
son is  quite  impervious  to  all  such  arch- 
ery, every  chink  and  cranny  being 
caulked  with  the  hay,  which  reaches 
even  to  the  high  beam  on  which  the 
swallows  had  their  nests. 

The  yield  of  the  summer  meadows 
has  not  all  been  stored  under  roof.  In 
the  midst  of  the  field  where  sunburnt 
Labor  conquered  with  scythe,  rake,  and 
fork  is  raised  a  monument  of  the  vic- 
tory. The  great  cone  of  the  haystack, 
rightly  viewed,  is  no  less  interesting 
than  are  the  pyramids  themselves.  If 
I  mistake  not,  clear -seeing  Morning 
"  opes  with  haste  her  lids,"  to  gaze  upon 
this  record  of  human  enterprise,  lifted 
from  the  home  plains. 

Edith  M.  Thomas. 


THE  NEGRO   PROBLEM. 


WHEN  the  civil  war  determined  by 
its  result  the  political  position  of  the 
black  people  in  the  Southern  States, 
there  was  a  general  belief  among  their 
friends  that  the  race  had  thereby  re- 
ceived a  complete  enfranchisement  as 
American  citizens  ;  that  they  were  made 
free  to  all  our  national  inheritances ; 
that  all  the  problems  of  their  future  in- 
volved only  questions  of  a  detached  na- 
ture, —  such  slight  matters  as  their  rights 
in  hotels  and  railways,  in  fields  of  labor, 

1  This  article  was  sent  in  advance  of  publication 
to  several  gentlemen  whose  position  and  experience 
especially  qualify  them  to  comment  upon  the  as- 
sertions made  and  the  suggestions  offered.  Among 
these  correspondents  were  General  S.C.  Armstrong, 
at  the  head  of  the  Normal  and  Agricultural  Insti- 
tute, Hampton,  Va. ;  Colonel  T.  W.  Higginson,  au- 
thor of  Army  Life  in  a  Black  .Regiment;  and  Hon. 


or  at  the  polling  booths.  But  those  who 
by  their  eagerness  to  bid  the  negro 
welcome  to  his  new  place  in  the  state 
did  so  much  credit  to  the  spirit  of  hope 
and  friendship  of  our  time  could  not  see 
the  gravity  of  this  problem.1  Never  be- 
fore in  the  history  of  peoples  had  so 
grave  an  experiment  been  tried  as  was 
then  set  about  with  a  joyous  confidence 
of  success.  Only  their  great  military 
triumph  could  have  given  to  our  hard- 
minded,  practical  people  such  rash  con- 

D.  H.  Chamberlain,  formerly  governor  of  South 
Carolina:  their  comments  appear  as  foot-notes. 
The  editor  regrets  that,  while  Southern  statesmen 
and  others  of  distinction  wrote  with  more  or  less 
freedom  upon  the  subject  of  the  article,  their  com- 
munications were  confidential,  and  he  is  obliged  to 
adopt  their  opinions  as  his  own,  when  adding  an 
occasional  note.  —  EDITOR  ATLANTIC  MONTHLY. 


1884.] 


The  Negro  Problem. 


697 


Science.  Here,  on  the  one  hand,  was  a 
people,  whose  written  history  shows  that 
the  way  to  the  self-government  on  which 
alone  a  state  can  be  founded  is  through 
slowly  and  toilfully  gained  lessons,  hand- 
ed from  father  to  son,  —  lessons  learned 
on  hard  tilled  and  often  hard  fought 
fields.  The  least  knowledge  of  the  way 
in  which  their  own  position  in  the  world 
had  been  won  would  have  made  it  -clear 
that  such  a  national  character  as  theirs 
could  be  formed  only  by  marvelous  toil 
of  generations  after  generations,  and  an 
almost  equally  marvelous  good  fortune 
that  brought  fruit  to  their  labor.  There, 
on  the  other  hand,  was  a  folk,  bred  first 
in  a  savagery  that  had  never  been  broken 
by  the  least  effort  towards  a  higher  state, 
and  then  in  a  slavery  that  tended  almost 
as  little  to  fit  them  for  a  place  in  the 
structure  of  a  self-controlling  society. 
Surely,  the  effort  to  blend  these  two  peo- 
ples by  a  proclamation  arid  a  constitu- 
tional amendment  will  sound  strangely 
in  the  time  to  come,  when  men  see  that 
they  are  what  their  fathers  have  made 
them,  and  that  resolutions  cannot  help 
this  rooted  nature  of  man. 

But  the  evident  novelty  of  this  un- 
dertaking and  the  natural  doubt  of  its 
success  do  not  dimmish  the  interest  which 
it  has  as  an  experiment  in  human  na- 
ture :  far  from  it,  for  this  trial  of  the 
African  as  an  American  citizen  is  the 
most  wonderful  social  endeavor  that  has 
ever  been  made  by  our  own  or  any 
other  race.  If  it  succeeds,  even  in  the 
faintest  approach  to  a  fair  measure  ;  if 
these  men,  bred  in  immemorial  savagery 
and  slavery,  can  blossom  out  into  self- 
upholding  citizens,  fit  to  stand  alone  in 
the  battle  with  the  world,  then  indeed 

2  The  planters  and  people  of  the  South  never 
feared  their  household  servants,  but  they  did  fear 
their  field  hands.  Insurrection  with  them  was  the 
standing  bugaboo,  the  mere  suspicion  of  which 
would  throw  a  whole  community  into  terror,  dur- 
ing which  the  masters  often  perpetrated  cruelties, 
honestly  supposing  them  preventives.  The  civil 
war  drew  into  the  Southern  army  first  only  such 
whites  as  could  be  spared,  yet  when  the  exigency 
drove  almost  every  available  man  into  the  army 


we  must  confess  that  human  nature  is  a 
thing  apart  from  the  laws  of  inheritance, 
—  that  man  is  more  of  a  miracle  in  the 
world  than  we  deemed  him  to  be. 

Although  this  experiment  of  mak- 
ing a  citizen  of  the  negro  grew  out  of 
a  civil  war,  and  necessarily  led  to  the 
awakening  of  much  hatred  among  the 
people  where  it  was  undertaken,  there 
is  no  reason  to  doubt  that  it  is  being 
very  fairly  tried,  and  that  if  ever  such 
changes  are  possible  they  will  be  here. 
There  was  no  deep  antagonism  between 
these  two  diverse  peoples,  such  as  would 
have  existed  if  either  had  been  the  con- 
queror of  the  other ;  on  the  contrary,  a 
century  or  two  of  close  relations  had 
served  to  develop  a  curious  bond  of  mu- 
tual likings  and  dependencies  between 
the  two  races.2  It  was  only  through  slav- 
ery that  it  could  have  been  possible  to 
make  the  trial  at  all. 

American  slavery,  though  it  had  the 
faults  inherent  in  any  system  of  subju- 
gation and  mastery  among  men,  was  in- 
finitely the  mildest  and  most  decent  sys- 
tem of  slavery  that  ever  existed.  When 
the  bonds  of  the  slave  were  broken, 
master  and  servant  stayed  beside  each 
other,  without  much  sign  of  fear  or  any 
very  wide  sundering  of  the  old  relations 
of  service  and  support.8  As  soon  as  the 
old  order  of  relations  was  at  an  end, 
the  two  races  settled  into  a  new  accord, 
not  differing  in  most  regards  from  the 
old.  External  force  during  the  period 
of  disturbance  prevented  this  natural 
social  order  from  asserting  itself  in  all 
the  South  ;  but  in  the  States  that  were 
not  "  reconstructed,"  as  in  Kentucky,  it 
might  have  been  possible  for  any  one 
who  had  known  the  conditions  of  1860 

there  was  no  insurrection.  On  the  contrary,  I  have 
yet  to  learn  of  a  single  instance  where  a  family 
servant  or  a  field  hand  abused  his  opportunity.  — 
ED. 

3  There  were  two  kinds  of  American  slavery 
before  the  war,  domestic  and  agricultural.  The 
former  was  probably  the  most  gentle  slavery  prac- 
ticed on  earth;  the  latter  was  the  reverse.  No 
punishment  was  more  dreaded  by  the  house-ser- 
vant than  to  be  sent  to  the  negro  quarters.  —  ED. 


698 


The  Negro  Problem. 


[November, 


to  live  in  1870  for  weeks,  in  sight  of 
the  contact  of  whites  and  blacks,  with- 
out seeing  anything  to  show  that  a  great 
revolution  had  been  effected.4 

The  important  relations  between  men 
are  not  matters  that  can  be  managed  by 
legislative  enactments,  so  the  black  soon 
found  his  way  back  to  the  plantations 
as  a  freeman,  and  hoed  the  rows  of  corn 
or  cotton  in  the  same  fields  with  as 
much  sweat  of  brow  and  far  more  care 
than  awaited  him  of  old.  In  place  of 
the  old  lash,  his  master  had  the  crueller 
whip  of  wages  and  account  books.  He 
could  not  be  sold,  but  he  could  be  turned 
off ;  his  family  could  not  be  severed  at 
the  auction  block,  but  they  were  more 
often  parted  by  the  death  that  came  from 
the  want  of  the  watchful  eye  of  a  fore- 
sightf ul  master,  or  by  poverty.  He  was 
no  longer  crushed,  but  he  was  left  with- 
out help  to  rise.5 

To  the  mass  of  those  born  in  slavery 
the  change  was  one  of  no  profit.  When 
the  excitement  of  the  change  was  over 
they  seemed  to  feel  like  children  lost  in 
a  wood,  needing  the  old  protection  of  the 
stronger  mastering  hand.  It  was  clear 
to  even  the  best  wishers  of  the  newly 
freed  slaves  that  the  generation  that 
first  saw  the  dawn  of  freedom  must  pass 
away  before  it  would  be  known  just 
how  the  race  would  meet  the  new  life. 

The  forecast  of  the  unprejudiced  ob- 
server was  exceedingly  unfavorable. 
Every  experiment  of  freeing  blacks  on 
this  continent  has  in  the  end  resulted 
in  even  worse  conditions  than  slavery 
brought  to  them.  The  trial  in  Hayti, 
where  freemen  of  the  third  generation 
from  slaves  possess  the  land  to  the  ex- 
clusion of  all  whites,  has  been  utterly 
disastrous  to  the  best  interests  of  the 

4  This  is  true  because  freedom  was  a  change  in 
relations  rather  than  in  the  practical  realities  of  life. 
The  destruction  of  the  buffalo  is  a  more  serious 
fact  to  the  Indian  than  emancipation  was  to  the 
negro.  In  the  altered  relations  of  the  whites  and 
negroes  there  was  little  visible  change,  because  in 
six  generations  the  two  races  had  become  adjusted 
to  each  other.  —  S.  C.  A. 


negro.  In  that  island,  one  of  the  most 
fertile  lands  of  the  world,  where  Afri- 
cans in  the  relatively  mild  slavery  of  res- 
ident proprietors  had  created  great  in- 
dustries in  sugar  and  coffee  culture,  the 
black  race  has  fallen  through  its  free- 
dom to  a  state  that  is  but  savagery 
with  a  little  veneer  of  European  cus- 
toms. There  is  now  in  Hayti  a  govern- 
ment that  is  but  a  succession  of  petty 
plundering  despotisms,  a  tillage  that 
cannot  make  headway  against  the  con- 
stant encroachments  of  the  tropical  for- 
ests, a  people  that  is  without  a  single 
trace  of  promise  except  that  of  extinc- 
tion through  the  diseases  of  sloth  and 
vice. 

In  Jamaica  the  history,  though  briefer, 
is  almost  equally  ominous.  The  emanci- 
pation of  the  negro  was  peaceable,  and 
was  not  attended,  as  in  Hayti,  by  the 
murder  or  expulsion  of  the  whites.  Yet 
that  garden  land  of  the  tropics,  that  land 
which  our  ancestors  hoped  to  see  the 
Britain  of  the  South,  has  been  settling 
down  toward  barbarism,  and  there  18 
nothing  left  but  the  grip  of  the  British 
rule  to  keep  it  from  falling  to  the  state 
of  the  sister  isle.  Nor  is  the  case  much 
better  where,  as  in  the  Spanish  and  Por- 
tuguese settlements,  the  negro  blood  has 
to  a  great  extent  blended  with  that  of 
the  whites.  There  the  white  blood  has 
served  for  a  little  leaven,  but  the  min- 
gling of  the  races  has  brought  with  it 
a  fatal  degradation  of  the  whole  popula- 
tion that  puts  those  peoples  almost  out 
of  the  sphere  of  hope. 

Such  are  the  facts  of  experience  in 
the  effort  to  bring  together  the  races  of 
Africa  and  of  Europe  on  American 
ground.  They  may  be  summed  up  in 
brief  words,  —  uniform  hopeless  failure, 

&  Does  not  this  rather  mean  that  after  two  hun- 
dred years  or  more  of  labor  drill  he  was  thrown 
on  himself?  And  was  he  not  better  ofiplus  this 
labor  drill  than  was  his  whilom  master  who  had 
succeeded  in  evading  it  V  Consider  the  increase 
of  wealth  in  the  South  ;  count  the  negro  paupers; 
ask  who  is  caring  for  the  majority  of  the  negro 
blind  and  infirm.  —  S.  C.  A. 


1884.]  The  Negro  Problem.  699 

a  sinking  towards  the  moral  conditions  ing  —  certainly  the  larger  part  of  those 

of  the  Congo  and  the  Guinea  coast.6     I  who  are  now  of  vigorous  body  —  have 

am  not  criticising  the   policy  that  en-  never  felt  the  influence  of  actual  bond- 

f i-anchised  the  blacks  when  their  free-  age ;  though  perhaps  the  greater  part 

dom  came.     I  am  not  deploring  the  free-  of  them  were  born  during  the  days  of 

iug  of  these  Africans  of  America  :  that  slavery,  they  were  but  children  when  the 

was  the   least  of  evils.     These  people  war  came,  and  never  were  sensible  of 

were  here  in  such  numbers  that  any  ef-  the  old  system. 

fort  for  their  deportation  was  futile.  It  The  economic  history  of  these  years 
was  their  presence  here  that  was  the  since  the  war,  though  still  too  brief  for 
evil,  and  for  this  none  of  the  men  of  our  any  very  sound  opinions,  seems  to  point 
century  are  responsible.  Whatever  the  to  the  conclusion  that  we  may  for  the 
dangers  they  might  give  rise  to,  they  present,  at  least,  escape  the  sloth  which 
would  be  less  if  the  Africans  were  free-  fell  upon  Jamaica  and  Hayti  with  the 
men  than  if  they  were  slaves.  The  bur-  overthrow  of  slavery.  The  South  has 
den  lies  on  the  souls  of  our  dull,  greedy  advanced  in  every  branch  of  material 
ancestors  of  the  seventeenth  and  eigh-  wealth,  though  without  much  immigra- 
teenth  centuries,  who  were  too  stupid  to  tion  to  swell  its  activities.  All  its  im- 
see  or  too  careless  to  consider  anything  portant  staples  except  rice,  especially 
but  immediate  gains.  There  can  be  no  those  which  are  the  result  of  negro  la- 
sort  of  doubt  that,  judged  by  the  light  of  bor,  have  increased  in  quantity  much  be- 
all  experience,  these  people  are  a  dan-  yond  the  measure  of  the  days  of  slavery, 
ger  to  America  greater  and  more  insuper-  Even  if  we  allow  that  the  increase  in 
able  than  any  of  those  that  menace  the  the  number  of  blacks  has  been  as  great 
other  great  civilized  states  of  the  world,  as  appears  from  the  comparison  of  the 
The  armies  of  the  Old  World,  the  inher-  census  of  1870  with  that  of  1880,  it  is 
itances  of  mediaevalism  in  its  govern-  clear  that  the  negro  laborer  is  doing  as 
ments,  the  chance  evils  of  Ireland  and  much  work  as  a  freeman  as  he  did  when 
Sicily,  are  all  light  burdens  when  com-  a  slave,  and  is  probably  doing  more.8 
pared  with  this  load  of  African  negro  That  he  is  doing  it  contentedly  is  clear 
blood  that  an  evil  past  has  imposed  upon  from  the  general  absence  of  disorder, 
us.  The  European  evils  are  indigenous ;  even  throughout  the  regions  where  the 
this  African  life  is  an  exotic,  and  on  blacks  are  the  most  numerous.  This  is 
that  account  infinitely  hard  to  grapple  as  far  as  it  goes  a  matter  of  great  en- 
with.7  couragement  and  hope.  It  should  not, 
The  twenty  years  that  have  passed  however,  blind  our  eyes  to  the  danger 
since  the  Emancipation  Proclamation  which  still  lies  before  us.  At  present 
gave  the  name  of  freedmen  to  this  folk  the  negro  population  still  feels  the  strong 
have  removed  the  freedmen  into  the  past  stimulus  of  the  greatest  inspiration  that 
and  put  their  children  in  their  place,  can  be  given  to  human  beings.  The 
More  than  half  the  blacks  who  are  liv-  very  novel  experience  of  a  passage  from 

6  The  cases  cited  are  hardly  parallel.     The  con-  rapid  than  that  of  the  white  race ;  but  that  the  ten- 
ditions  of  climate  and   surrounding  civilization  dency  stated  by  Professor  Shaler  exists  in  the  case 
were  very  different  in  Hayti,  Jamaica,  and  else-  of  the  negro  in  any  different  sense  from  what  is 
where.    American  slavery  was  a  great  educator  of  true  of  other  races,  even  our  own,  I  do  not  believe, 
its  chattels,  and  their  gain  by  emancipation  was  — D.  H.  C. 

the  loss  of  the  whites.    The  experience  of  our          8  This  statement  appears  to  me  to  refute  the  spe- 

Southern  States  has  no  analogue.  —  ED.  cial  conclusion  as  to  the  negro's  tendency  to  revert 

7  I  have  always  felt,  as  the  result  of  my  contact  to  his  ancestral  conditions.  The  race  is  industrious, 
with  and  observation  of  the  negro,  that  he  did  and  if  it  is,  it  seems  to  me  there  can  be  no  tendency 
suffer  from  the  want  of  support  afforded  by  ances-  to  reversion  to  lower  states,  but  rather  an  impetus 
tral  virtue  and  experience  in  the  ways  of  freedom.  toward  higher.  —  D.  H.  C. 

This  will  probably  make  his  progress  less  sure  and 


700 


The  Negro  Problem. 


[November, 


slavery  to  freedom  affected  this  sensi- 
tive people  as  by  an  electric  shock.  The 
ideas  of  advance  in  life,  of  education, 
of  property,  have  yet  something  of  the 
keenness  that  novelty  brings.  Let  us 
hope  that  they  will  wear  until  the  hab- 
its of  thrift  and  labor  are  firmly  bred 
in  them. 

The  real  dangers  that  this  African 
blood  brings  to  our  state  lie  deeper  than 
the  labor  problem ;  they  can  be  ap- 
preciated only  by  those  who  know  the 
negro  folk  by  long  and  large  experience, 
—  such  as  comes  to  none  who  have  not 
lived  among  them  in  youth,  and  after- 
wards had  a  chance  to  compare  them 
with  the  laboring  classes  of  our  own 
race  in  other  regions.  Those  who  study 
this  people  after  their  tests  of  human 
kind  are  all  made  up  and  fixed  by  habit 
easily  overlook  the  peculiarities  of  na- 
ture which  belong  to  the  negroes  as  a 
race.  They  are  confounded  by  the  es- 
sential manhood  of  the  colored  man ; 
they  are  charmed  by  his  admirable  and 
appealing  qualities,  and  so  make  haste 
to  assume  that  he  is  in  all  respects  like 
themselves.  But  if  they  have  the  pa- 
tience and  the  opportunity  to  search 
closely  into  the  nature  of  this  race  they 
will  perceive  that  the  inner  man  is  real- 
ly as  singular,  as  different  in  motives 
from  themselves,  as  his  outward  aspect 
indicates. 

The  important  characteristics  of  the 
negro  nature  are  not  those  that  mark 
themselves  in  any  of  the  features  which 
appear  in  casual  intercourse.  Human 
relations  are  so  stereotyped  that  we 
never  see  the  deeper  and  more  impor- 
tant qualities  of  any  men  through  such 
(means.  The  negro  nature,  charming  in 
many  respects,  is  most  favorably  seen  in 

9  True.    "  Intensely  human  "  was  General  Sax- 
ton's  brief  answer  to  along  list  of  inquiries. — 
T.  W.  H. 

10  I  lived  nearly  two  years  on  the  Sea  Islands, 
in  the  most  intimate  intercourse  with  the  very 
subdivision  of  the  negroes  described,  and  felt  a 
constant  sense  of  mental  kinship  with  them  at  the 
time.  —  T.  W.  H. 

11  My  attention  was  first  called  to  this  fact  by 


what  we  may  call  the  phenomena  of 
human  contact :  quick  sensibilities  and  a 
mind  that  takes  a  firm  hold  of  the  pres- 
ent is  characteristic  of  the  race.  Even 
if  we  watch  them  for  a  long  time  we 
find  that  the  essential  structure  of  their 
minds  is  very  like  our  own.9  I  believe 
that  one  feels  closer  akin  to  them  than 
to  the  Indians  of  this  country  or  to  the 
peasants  of  Southern  Italy.  The  funda- 
mental, or  at  least  the  most  important, 
differences  between  them  and  our  own 
race  are  in  the  proportions  of  the  hered- 
itary motives  and  the  balance  of  native 
impulses  within  their  minds. 

This  sense  of  close  kinship  felt  with 
the  negro  may  be  due  to  the  fact  that 
for  many  generations  his  mind  has  been 
externally  moulded  in  those  of  our  own 
race.  I  fancy  there  would  be  none  of  it 
with  native  Africans ;  indeed,  I  have 
found  little  trace  of  it  in  intercourse 
with  the  blacks  of  the  Sea  Islands,10  who 
represent  a  people  nearer  to  Africa 
by  several  generations,  and  deprived  of 
that  close  contact  with  the  whites  which 
would  give  their  minds  an  external 
resemblance  to  those  of  our  own  race. 

When  we  know  the  negro  well,  we 
recognize  that  he  differs  from  our  own 
race  in  the  following  respects  :  — 

The  passage  from  childhood  to  adult 
age  brings  in  the  negro  a  more  marked 
and  important  change  in  the  tone  of  the 
mind  than  it  does  in  the  white.  In 
youth  the  black  children  are  surprising- 
ly quick,  —  their  quickness  can  be  appre- 
ciated only  by  those  who  have  taught 
them ;  but  in  the  pure  blacks,  with  the 
maturing  of  the  body  the  animal  nature 
generally  settles  down  like  a  cloud  on 
that  promise.11  In  our  own  race  inher- 
itance has  brought  about  a  correlation 

my  late  master,  Louis  Agassiz.  He  had  excellent 
opportunities  of  observation  upon  this  point  during 
his  residence  in  Charleston  and  his  frequent  visits 
to  the  South.  Personal  observations  and  many 
questionings  of  persons  who  had  a  right  to  an 
opinion  have  served  only  to  corroborate  it.  —  N. 
S.  S. 

In   the   main,  I  find  Mr.  Shaler's    statements 
in  regard  to  negro  characteristics  and  distinctive 


1884.] 


The  Negro  Problem. 


701 


between  the  completion  of  development 
and  the  expansion  of  the  mental  powers ; 
so  that,  unless  one  of  our  youth  distinct- 
ly reverts  towards  some  old  savagery, 
the  imagination  and  the  reasoning  facul- 
ties receive  a  stimulus  from  the  change 
that  this  period  brings.  But,  with  rare 
exceptions,  the  reverse  is  the  case  with 
the  negro :  at  this  stage  of  life  he  be- 
comes less  intellectual  than  he  was  be- 
fore ;  the  passions  cloud  and  do  not  irra- 
diate the  mind.  The  inspirational  power 
of  the  sexual  impulses  is  the  greatest 
gain  our  race  has  made  out  of  all  its  past. 
We  can  hardly  hope  to  impose  this  fea- 
ture upon  a  people  ;  such  treasures  can- 
not be  given,  however  good  the  will  to 
give  them. 

Next  we  notice  that  the  negro  has  lit- 
tle power  of  associated  action,  —  that 
subordination  of  individual  impulse  to 
conjoint  action  which  is  the  basis  of  all 
modern  labor  of  a  high  grade.  I  have 
never  seen  among  them  anything  ap- 
proaching a  partnership  in  their  busi- 
ness affairs.  They  are  so  little  capable 
of  a  consensus  that  they  never  act  to- 
gether, even  in  a  mob,  except  for  some 
momentary  deed.12  This  ability  to.  coop- 
erate with  their  fellow  men  is  a  capacity 
which  is  probably  only  slowly  to  be  ac- 
quired by  any  people  ;  it  is  indeed  one 
of  the  richest  fruits  of  a  civilization.  In 
this  point  most  negroes  in  Africa  as  well 

features  admirable,  but  from  the  above  my  own 
and  my  associates'  experience  leads  me  to  differ. 
After  careful  study,  each  year  for  fifteen  years,  of 
three  hundred  negro  children  of  from  five  to  thir- 
teen years  of  age  in  our  primary  department,  and 
of  four  hundred  adults  of  from  fourteen  to  twenty- 
five  in  our  Normal  School,  our  deductions  are  not 
those  of  Mr.  Shaler.  We  have  not  found  a  lack 
or  a  "clouding"  of  brain  power  to  be  the  chief 
difficulty  of  the  maturing  negro,  though  we  admit, 
of  course,  a  decided  race  difference  in  intellectual 
development.  I  consider  that  where  on  an  average 
from  twelve  to  fifteen  out  of  every  hundred  boys 
of  our  own  race  are  able  to  receive  a  college  educa- 
tion, not  more  than  two  or  three  negroes  would  be 
similarly  capable.  As  to  the  differences  between 
mulattoes  and  pure  blacks,  we  find  the  former 
.  usually  quicker,  the  latter  simpler,  stronger,  with 
more  definite  characteristics ;  and  this  is  also  the 
case  among  our  Indians.  —  S.  C.  A. 


as  in  America  are  below  the  American 
Indian.  They  show  us  in  their  native 
lands  as  well  as  here  no  trace  of  large 
combining  ability ;  they  do  not  build  any 
semblance  of  empires.  Combining  power 
seems  to  have  been  particularly  low 
among  the  West  Coast  tribes  that  fur- 
nished the  most  of  our  American-Afri- 
can blood. 

Along  with  these  defects  goes  another, 
which  is  less  clearly  manifest  in  casual 
intercourse,  but  which  is  in  fact  a  more 
radical  want.  It  is  the  lack  of  a  power 
of  continuous  will.  Few  of  us  can  see 
how  much  we  owe  to  this  power,  the 
most  precious  of  our  inheritances.  It  is 
the  power  of  continuous  will,  of  will  that 
goes  beyond  the  impulse  of  passion  or 
excitement,  that  most  distinctly  separates 
the  mind  of  man  from  that  of  the  lower 
animals.  The  gradations  of  this  power 
mark  the  limits  between  savage  and  civ- 
ilized man.  In  the  negro  the  ability 
to  maintain  the  will  power  beyond  the 
stimulus  of  excitement  is  on  the  whole 
much  lower  than  in  the  lowest  whites. 
They  are  as  a  class  incapable  of  firm 
resolve.18 

At  first  sight  it  might  be  supposed 
that  slavery  has  weakened  this  capacity, 
but  it  seems  to  me  that  the  enforced 
consecutive  labor  which  it  gave  must 
have  accustomed  the  race  to  a  continuity 
of  effort  that  they  knew  nothing  of  in 

12  What  I  should  say  is  that  their  impulse  of 
organization  is  very  strong,  but  that  through  ig- 
norance they  cannot  keep  together,  like  whites.  — 
T.  W.  H. 

18  The  negro  is  certainly  lacking  in  the  capacity 
for  associated  action.  From  the  debating  society 
to  the  general  convention,  the  assembled  negro 
demonstrates  this.  But  the  individual  negro  has 
remarkable  resource.  I  am  tempted  to  say  that  in 
a  tight  place,  under  familiar  conditions,  I  should 
prefer  the  instinct  of  the  black  to  the  thought  of 
the  white  man.  After  all,  the  best  product  of  civ- 
ilization is  what  we  call  "common  sense;  "  and  as 
the  chief  want  of  the  negro  I  should  put  "level 
heads"  in  place  of  "continuous  will"  or  "firm 
resolve,"  in  which  we  do  not  find  them  lacking. 
Our  labor  system  at  Hampton  furnishes  a  severe 
ordeal,  and  while  many  fail,  many  also  endure  it 
successfully,  and  the  test  seems  a  fair  one.  —  S. 
C.  A. 


702 


The  Negro  Problem. 


[November, 


their  lower  state.  So  that  they  have 
gained  rather  than  lost  in  consecutive- 
ness,  through  slavery.  Lastly,  we  may 
notice  the  relatively  feeble  nature  of  all 
the  ties  that  bind  the  family  together 
among  these  African  people.  The  pe- 
culiar monogamic  instinct  which  in  our 
own  race  has  been  slowly,  century  by 
century,  developing  itself  in  the  old 
tangle  of  passions  has  yet  to  be  fixed  in 
this  people.  In  the  negro  this  motive, 
more  than  any  other  the  key  to  our  so- 
ciety, is  very  weak,  if  indeed  it  exists 
at  all  as  an  indigenous  impulse.14  It  is  a 
well-known  fact  that  we  may  find  among 
them  a  high  development  of  the  relig- 
ious impulse  with  a  very  low  morality. 
Along  with  this  and  closely  linked  with 
it  goes  the  love  of  children.  This  mo- 
tive is  fairly  strong  among  the  negroes ; 
it  gives  reason  to  hope  that  out  of  it  may 
come  a  better  sense  of  the  marital  rela- 
tion. 

Although  these  defects  may  not  at 
first  sight  seem  in  themselves  very  seri- 
ous differences  between  the  two  races, 
yet  they  are  really  the  most  vital  points 
that  part  the  men  who  make  states  from 
those  who  cannot  rise  above  savagery. 
The  modern  state  is  but  a  roof  built  to 
shelter  the  lesser  associations  of  men. 
Chief  of  these  is  the  family,  which  rests 
on  a  certain  order  of  alliance  of  the  sex- 
ual instincts  with  the  higher  and  more 
human  faculties.  Next  come  the  various 
degrees  of  human  cooperation  in  various 
forms  of  business  life ;  and  then  this 
power  of  will,  that  gives  the  continuity 
to  effort  which  is  the  key  to  all  profit- 
able labor  ;  and  last,  but  not  least,  the 
impulse  to  sexual  morality.  If  the  black 
is  weak  in  these  things,  he  is  in  so  far 
unfit  for  an  independent  place  in  a  civ- 
ilized state.  Without  them  the  frame- 
work of  a  state,  however  beautiful,  is  a 
mere  empty  shell  that  must  soon  fall 
to  pieces.  Like  all  other  mechanisms, 


the  state  has  only  the  strength  of  its 
weakest  part. 

It  is  my  belief  that  the  negro  as  a 
race  is  weak  in  the  above  mentioned 
qualities  of  mind.  Conspicuous  excep- 
tions may  be  found,  but  exceptio  probat. 
Here  and  there  cases  of  higher-minded 

o 

black  men  give  us  hope,  but  no  security. 
The  occurrence  of  Mil  tons  and  Shake- 
speares  makes  us  hope  that  to  those  ele- 
vations of  mind  all  men  may  in  time  at- 
tain, but  it  is  a  hope  that  is  very  near 
despair. 

Let  no  one  suppose  that  these  opin- 
ions are  born  of  a  dislike  for  the  black 
race  ;  on  the  contrary,  I  am  conscious  of 
a  great  liking  for  this  people.  They 
seem  to  me  full  of  charming  traits,  but 
unhappily  they  are  not  the  hard-mind- 
ed attributes  that  sustain  a  state.  The 
negro  has,  on  the  whole,  greater  social 
sensibilities  than  any  other  uneducated 
man.  He  is  singularly  ready  to  respond 
to  any  confidence  that  may  be  placed 
in  him.  He  acquires  the  motives  and 
actions  of  social  intercourse  with  notice- 
able readiness.  He  has  within  a  cer- 
tain range  a  quick  constructive  imagi- 
nation and  therefore  reads  character  re- 
markably well.  He  has  a  very  quick, 
instinctive  sympathy,  and  is  in  a  discon- 
tinuous way  affectionate.  When  he  neg- 
lects his  wife  or  his  children,  the  fault 
generally  arises  from  the  lack  of  consec- 
utive will,  and  not  from  want  of  feeling. 
His  emotions  are  easily  aroused  through 
the  stimulus  of  music  or  motion,  and  the 
tide  of  life  that  then  fills  him  is  free  and 
unrestrained.  The  religious  sense,  that 
capacity  for  a  sense  of  awe  before  the 
great  mystery  of  religion,  is  also  fairly 
his,  though  its  expression  is  often  crude 
and  its  feelings  are  readily  confounded 
with  the  lower  passions. 

I  have  now  set  forth  the  fear  that  must 
come  upon  any  one  who  will  see  what 
a  wonderful  thing  our  modern  Teutonic 


14  Is  it  not  too  soon  after  slavery  to  justify  this  after  escaping  from  slavery  have  gone  back  into 
statement  ?  Slavery  necessarily  discouraged  mo-  danger  to  bring  away  their  wives  indicates  an  in- 
nogamy ;  but  the  multitude  of  cases  in  which  slaves  digenous  impulse.  —  T.  W.  H. 


1884.]                                   The  Negro  Problem.                                       703 

society  is  ;  how  slowly  it  has  won  its  to  the  bottom  of  society  they  will  form 

treasures,  and  at  what  a  price  of  vigi-  a  proletariat  class,  separated  by  blood  as 

lance  and  toil  it  must  keep  them  ;  and  as  well  as  by  estate  from  the  superior 

therefore  how  dangerous  it  must  be  to  classes ;  thus  bringing  about  a  measure 

have  a  large  part  of  the  state  separated  of  the  evils   of  the  slavery  system,  — 

in  motives  from    the   people  who  have  evils  that  would  curse  both    the  races 

brought  it  into  existence.     I  cannot  ex-  that  were  brought  together  in  a  relation 

pect   to  find   many  to    share    this  fear  so  unfit  for  modern  society, 

with  me,  for  there    are  very  few  who  The  great  evil  of  slavery  was  not  to 

have  had  any  chance  to  see  the  problem  be  found  in  the  fact  that  a  certain  num- 

fairly.     But  to  those  who  do  feel  with  ber  of  people  were  compelled  to  labor 

me  that  the  African  question  is  a  very  for  their  masters  and  were    sometimes 

serious  matter,  I  should  like  to  propose  beaten.     It  lay  in  the  states  of  mind  of 

the  following  statement   of    the    prime  the  master  and  of  the  slave :  in  the  es- 

nature  of  the  dangers,  and   the  means  sential  evil  to  the  master  of  this  rela- 

whereby  they  may  be  minimized,  if  not  tion  of  absolute    personal   control  over 

avoided.  others  untempered   by  the  affection  of 

First,  I  hold  it  to  be  clear  that  the  in-  parent  for  child ;  and  to  the  slave  in  the 

herited  qualities  of  the  negroes  to  a  great  subjugation  of  the  will    that  destroyed 

degree  unfit  them  to  carry  the  burden  the  very  basis  of  all  spiritual  growth, 

of  our  own  civilization  ;  that  their  pres-  The  mere  smart  of  the  lash  was  relative- 

ent  Americanized  shape  is  due  in  large  ly  of  small  account :  if  every  slave  had 

part  to  the  strong  control  to  which  they  been  beaten   every  day  it  would  have 

have  been  subjected  since  the  enslave-  been  a  small  matter  compared  with  this 

ment  of  their  blood  ;  that  there  will  nat-  arrest  of  all  advancement  in  will  power 

urally  be  a  strong  tendency,  for  many  that  his  bonds  put  upon  him.   It  is  clear 

generations  to  come,  for  them  to  revert  that  the  best  interests  of  the  negro  re- 

to  their  ancestral  conditions.     If  their  quire  that  these  dangers  should  be  rec- 

present  comparative  elevation  had  been  ognized,  and  as  far  as  may  be  provided 

due  to  self-culture  in  a  state  of  freedom,  against  by  the  action  of  the  governmen- 

we  might  confide  in  it ;  but  as  it  is  the  tal  and  private  forces  of  the  state.     It 

result  of  an  external  compulsion  issuing  seems  to  me  that  the  following  course 

from   the  will  of  a  dominant  race,  we  of  action  may  serve  to  minimize  the  daii- 

cannot  trust  it.15     Next,  I  hold  it  to  be  gers  :  — 

almost  equally  clear  that  they  cannot  as  In  the  first  place,  the  gathering  of  the 

a  race,  for  many  generations,  be  brought  negroes  into  large  unmixed  settlements 

to  the  level  of  our  own  people.     There  should  be  avoided  in  every  way  possi- 

will  always  be  a  danger  that  by  falling  ble : lc  the  result  of  such  aggregations  is 

15  True,  unless  that  external  force  shall  be  in  keep  control  there  is  undoubtedly  danger.  —  S. 

some  shape  continued.     There  is  serious  danger  of  C.  A. 

a  proletariat  class,  especially  in  the  Gulf  States,  16  Where  these  aggregations  exist  in  the  South, 

where  an  Anglo- African  population  is  massed  to-  the  establishment  of  well-taught  schools  in  their 

gether,  but  the  outlook  is  not  hopeless.    Why  may  midst  is  immediate!}'  remedial.  We  can  cite  coun- 

not  these  people  continue  to  improve  in  the  future,  ties  in  Virginia,  peopled  mostly  by  blacks,  where 

as  they  have  improved  in  the  past  fifteen  years,  and  the  influence  of  a  single  teacher  has  practically 

from  the  same  causes,  namelv,  their  own  efforts,  changed  the  social  condition.     Our  graduates  who 

aided  by  the  directly  educative  forces,  by  com-  go  out  into  these  neighborhoods  show  us  results 

mercial  activity,  and  by  the  general  steady  ten-  which  are  most  encouraging;  not  only  is  there  an 

dency  towards  an  orderly  social  state  ?    It  cannot  increase  of  intelligence,  but  a  decrease  of  vice.  It 

be  too  strongly  urged  that  the  most  willing  outside  is  on  the  testimony  of  Southern  whites  that  we 

aid  is  the  wise  training  of  their  best  young  men  rely,  and  they  do  not  hesitate  to  tell  us  that  the 

and  women,  who,  as  teachers  and  examples,  min-  work  of  one  strong  man  or  woman  can  and  does 

gle  with  and  leaven  the  whole  lump.     So  long  as  change  the  standard  of  a  whole  community.  —  S. 

ignorant  leaders,  either  religious  or  political,  can  C.  A. 


704 


The  Negro  Problem. 


[November, 


the  immediate  degradation  of  this  people. 
Where  such  aggregations  exist,  we  see 
at  once  the  risk  of  the  return  of  this 
people  to  their  old  ancestral  conditions, 
and  it  is  from  a  study  of  these  negroes, 
who  are  limited  in  their  association  to 
their  own  people,  that  I  have  become 
so  fully  satisfied  that  they  tend  to  fall 
away  from  the  position  which  their  in- 
tercourse with  the  whites  has  given  them. 
Of  course  this  separation  of  the  negro 
from  his  kind  cannot  be  accomplished 
by  any  direct  legislation.  Such  action 
is  not  in  the  possibilities  of  the  situa- 
tion nor  in  the  system  of  our  govern- 
ment. But  where  there  are  such  ag- 
gregations, the  force  of  public  and  pri- 
vate action  should  be  brought  to  bear 
to  diminish  the  evils  that  they  entail, 
and  as  far  as  possible  to  break  up  the 
communities.  The  founding  of  public 
schools  in  such  communities,  with  teach- 
ers of  the  best  quality,  affords  the  sim- 
plest and  perhaps  the  only  method  by 
which  these  tendencies  can  be  combated. 
To  educate  a  people  is  to  scatter  them. 
There  are  now  many  devoted  teachers 
in  the  South  who  are  working  to  this 
end.  These  schools  should  give  more 
than  the  elements  of  a  literary  educa- 
tion, for  such  teaching  is  of  even  less 
value  to  the  black  youth  than  it  is  to 
the  children  of  our  race  :  the  schools 
should  give  the  foundations  of  a  tech- 
nical education,  in  order  that  the  life  of 
the  people  be  lifted  above  the  dull  rou- 
tine of  Southern  cotton-farming,  and 
that  the  probability  of  migration  may  be 
increased. 

When  there  is  a  chance  to  do  it,  the 
regions  where  the   negroes  have  gath- 

17  This  has  been  curiously  tested  in  Florida, 
and  with    results  which    contradict    this    view. 
About  1770  a  large  colony  of  Greeks,  Italians,  and 
Minorcans  was  brought  to  St.  Augustine.     Their 
descendants,  known  generally  as  Minorcans,  are 
far  inferior  mentally,  morally,  and  physically  to 
the  Florida  negroes.    I  have  seen  many  of  them. 
—  T.  W.  H. 

18  I  think  the  destiny  and  the  best  hold  of  the 
large  majority  of  blacks  is  to  become  cultivators 
of  small  farms,  and  their  progress  in  this  direc- 
tion is  rapid  and  hopeful.     In  the  breaking  up  of 


ered  in  dense  unmixed  communities 
should  be  interspersed  with  settlements 
of  whites.  Fortunately,  there  is  only  a 
small  part  of  the  South  where  the  ne- 
groes show  much  tendency  to  gather  by 
themselves.  These  are  mainly  in  the 
shore  regions  of  the  Atlantic  and  the 
Gulf  States,  where  the  climate  is  toler- 
able to  the  African,  but  difficult  for  those 
of  European  blood  to  endure.  Any  col- 
onies of  whites  in  these  districts  should 
be  drawn  from  Southern  Europe,  from 
peoples  accustomed  to  a  hot  climate  and 
miasmatic  conditions.17  Elsewhere  in  the 
South  the  negroes  show  a  commendable 
preference  for  association  with  their 
white  fellow  citizens.  There  is  no  trace 
of  a  tendency  to  seclusion.  In  the  cities 
they  are  gathered  into  a  quarter  which 
becomes  given  up  to  them ;  but  this  is 
owing  rather  to  their  poverty  and  to  the 
exclusiveness  of  the  whites  than  to  any 
desire  of  the  blacks  to  escape  from  con- 
tact with  the  superior  race ;  so  that  this 
people  is  still  in  very  favorable  condi- 
tions for  benefiting  by  social  intercourse 
with  the  whites. 

There  is  clearly  a  tendency  for  the 
negro  to  fall  into  the  position  of  an  ag- 
ricultural laborer,  or  a  household  ser- 
vant.18 Neither  of  these  positions  affords 
the  best  chance  for  development.  It  is 
very  much  to  be  desired  that  there 
should  be  a  better  chance  for  him  to  find 
his  way  into  the  mechanical  employ- 
ments. Negroes  make  good  blacksmiths 
and  joiners ;  they  can  be  used  to  advan- 
tage in  mill  work  of  all  kinds,  provided 
they  are  mingled  with  white  laborers,  to 
which  the  prejudice  of  race  now  offers  no 
material  barrier.19  The  immediate  need 

the  old  estates,  the  negro  and  his  almost  equally 
emancipated  brother,  the  poor  white,  get  their  full 
share.  Their  landed  wealth  to-day  is  surprising, 
and  they  are  moving  with  the  general  movement 
about  them.  —  S.  C.  A. 

19  In  my  judgment,  the  persons  who  most  influ- 
ence the  Southern  blacks  are  not  the  whites,  but 
the  colored  preachers,  —  a  class  whose  ignorance 
forms  a  very  great  obstacle,  and  who  particularly 
need  "academies,  high  schools,  and  colleges."  — 
T.  W.  H. 


1884.] 


The  Negro  Problem. 


705 


of  the  South  is  not  for  academies,  high 
schools,  or  colleges  which  shall  be  open 
to  the  negro,  —  he  is  yet  very  far  from 
being  in  a  shape  to  need  this  form  of 
education,  —  but  for  technical  schools 
which  will  give  a  thorough  training  in 
craft  work  of  varied  kinds.  Every  well- 
trained  craftsman  would  be  a  missionary 
in  his  field.  As  a  race  they  are  capable 
of  taking  pride  in  handiwork,  that  first 
condition  of  success  in  mechanical  labor. 
Such  occupations  tend  to  breed  fore- 
thought, independence,  and  will  power. 
There  is  no  better  work  for  a  benevolent 
society  than  to  take  up  this  task  of  im- 
proving the  technical  education  of  the 
negro  as  a  means  for  his  temporal  and 
especially  his  political  salvation.  Tech- 
nical schools  are  not  costly  to  start  com- 
pared with  good  literary  colleges.  Three 
or  four  teachers  can  do  valuable  work, 
in  an  establishment  that  need  not  be 
very  costly,  and  might  be  partly  self- 
sustaining.  At  present  there  are  de- 
plorably few  opportunities  for  negroes 
to  learn  craft  work  in  an  effective  way  ; 
a  few  schools  have  made  some  essay  to- 
wards it,  but  none  of  them  have  pro- 
posed it  as  their  main  object. 

The  federal  government  would  do 
well  to  found  a  number  of  technical 
schools,  in  the  Southern  States,  under 
state  control,  but  perhaps  with  federal 
supervision.  These  schools  need  not 
cost  over  twenty  thousand  dollars  per 
annum,  beyond  the  value  of  their  prod- 
ucts. They  should  train  young  men  for 
trade  work  alone,  requiring  for  admis- 
sion the  simplest  elements  of  an  educa- 
tion. The  expense  of  teaching  and  feed- 
ing the  students  might  be  borne  by  the 
government.  The  pupils  should  be 
trained  for  the  commoner  departments 
of  manual  labor.  I  would  suggest  the 
following  occupations  as  well  fitted  to 

20  The  most  manifest  solution  of  this  great  ne- 
gro problem  is  in  the  education  of  the  race.  The 
technical  education  on  which  Professor  Shaler 
lays  such  stress  is  a  part  of  it.  Some  negroes  have 
very  fair  mechanical  talents  and  take  to  the  work 
naturally.  They  vary,  like  other  people.  Educa- 

VOL.  LIV.  —  NO.  325.  45 


give  useful  employment  and  as  easily 
taught:  smithing, turning, furniture  mak- 
ing, carpentering,  wheelwright  work, 
management  of  steam  engines,  the  art 
of  the  potter. 

The  desired  results  might  be  attained 
by  a  method  of  apprentice  labor,  the 
government  paying  competent  masters 
for  the  instruction  of  youths  by  placing 
several  of  these  together  in  large  shops. 
The  price  of  their  indentures  need  not 
be  more  than  one  hundred  dollars  per 
annum.  Of  course  this  system  would 
require  supervision,  but  it  seems  clear 
that  the  cost  of  maintaining  ten  thou- 
sand such  apprentices  need  not  exceed 
about  a  million  dollars  per  annum.  While 
the  effect  of  such  education  in  lifting  the 
negro  would  be  immense,  it  would  in 
time  give  one  trained  mechanic  in  about 
each  fifty  a  good  practical  education. 

One  of  the  best  results  that  would  fol- 
low from  this  method  of  technical  in- 
struction would  be  the  wider  diffusion  of 
the  negro  over  the  country.  Under  the 
present  system  it  is  not  possible  to  scat- 
ter the  six  millions  of  negroes  in  the 
South  throughout  the  country,  though 
it  is  from  a  national  point  of  view  very 
important  that  it  should  be  done.  The 
risk  of  degeneration  in  the  communities 
where  they  are  now  gathered  together 
would  then  be  much  reduced.  If,  on 
the  closing  of  the  war,  we  had  begun  to 
educate  ten  thousand  negroes  each  year 
in  technical  work,  we  should  perhaps 
have  spent  somewhere  near  thirty  mill- 
ion dollars  on  the  work,  and  should  have 
brought  up  near  two  hundred  thousand 
black  men  to  occupations  that  would 
have  bettered  their  physical  and  moral 
conditions.20 

I  confess  a  dislike  to  seeing  this  work 
done  by  means  of  the  federal  govern- 
ment, for  there  are  many  risks  of  abuse 

tion  must  be  effected  by  environmert.  A  redistri- 
bution of  the  negro  population  must  precede  any 
high  development.  To  this  end  technical  training 
is  of  great  value,  since  it  loosens  the  negro's  bold 
on  a  particular  spot.  —  ED. 


706 


The  Negro  Problem. 


[November, 


attendant  on  it.  But  the  difficulty  is  a 
vast  one ;  it  is  indeed  a  form  of  war 
against  a  national  danger,  and  requires 
national  resources  for  effective  action  ; 
and  the  need  justifies  the  trespass  upon 
the  usual  principles  that  should  regu- 
late governmental  interference  with  the 
course  of  society.21 

Even  if  all  possible  means  be  taken 
to  keep  the  negro  in  the  course  of  prog- 
ress that  his  previous  conditions  have 
imposed  upon  him,  success  will  depend 
on  the  rate  of  increase  of  the  two  races 
in  the  Southern  States.  The  last  census 
shows  an  apparent  relative  increase  of 
the  blacks.  It  is  probable  that  this  cen- 
sus was  the  first  that  gave  a  true  ac- 
count of  the  numerical  relations  of  tho 
races  in  the  South;  that  the  desire  to 
avoid  taxation  during  the  slaveholding 
days  led  to  a  general  understating  of 
the  numbers  of  slaves  on  most  planta- 
tions. These  numbers  were  not  taken 
by  actual  count,  but  by  questioning  the 
owners.  The  census  of  1870  was  of 
the  most  viciously  imperfect  nature  in 
some  of  the  Southern  States,  its  result 
being  to  underestimate  the  population 
in  regions  where  the  negroes  were  most 
abundant.  The  very  high  death-rate 
among  the  negroes  in  all  the  large  cities 
where  statistics  are  obtained,  and  the 
evident  want  of  care  of  young  children 
in  negro  families  in  the  country  districts, 

21  I  find  myself  heartily  in  accord  with  Pro- 
fessor Shaler  in  his  practical  considerations.     Our 
duty  and  interest  must  lead  us  to  aid  the  negro, 
and  this  aid  will  best  come  in  the  way  of  some 
special  agencies  such  as  Professor  Shaler  suggests, 
though  I  cannot  favor  the  plan  of  putting  this 
work  or  burden  to  any  extent  on  the  federal  gov- 
ernment instead  of  the  States.     Such  a  course  is 
contrary  to  our  scheme  of  division  of  duties  and 
powers  between  the  State  and  the  nation,  and  will 
be  attended  by  results  likely  to  deprive  such  ef- 
forts of  much  of  their  usefulness.  —  D.  H.  C. 

22  There  seems  to  be  no  doubt  as  to  the  decrease 
in  the  mulatto  element,  although,  as  a  rule,  the 
young  blacks  prefer  the  lighter  shades;  they  do 
not  like  to  "  marry  back  into  Africa."     The  color 
feeling,  though  quiet,  is  deep  and  strong,  but  the 
white  man  as  a  factor  is  less  potent  than  formerly. 
To-day,  in   the  more   northerly  of  the  Southern 
States,  the  pure-blooded  negro   is  the  exception 
rather  than  the  rule. 


make  it  most  probable  that  the  increase 
of  adults  is  not  as  rapid  among  the  ne- 
groes as  among  the  whites. 

From  extended  observations  among 
these  people  in  almost  every  year  since 
the  war,  I  am  inclined  to  believe  that 
there  are  two  important  changes  going 
on  in  the  negro  population.  First,  we 
have  the  very  rapid  reduction  in  the  num- 
ber of  half-breed  mulattoes.22  It  is  now 
rare  indeed  to  see  a  child  under  fifteen 
years  that  the  practiced  eye  will  recog- 
nize as  from  a  white  father.  This  is  an 
immense  gain.  Once  stop  the  constant 
infusion  of  white  blood,  and  the  weakly, 
mixed  race  will  soon  disappear,  leaving 
the  pure  African  blood,  which  is  far  bet- 
ter material  for  the  uses  of  the  state 
than  any  admixture  of  black  and  white. 
The  half-breeds  are  more  inclined  to  vice 
and  much  shorter-lived  (I  never  saw  one 
more  than  fifty  years  old),  and  are  of 
weaker  mental  power,  than  the  pure 


race.28 

The  other  change  consists  in  a  rapid 
destruction  by  death,  from  want  of  care 
and  from  vice,  of  the  poorer  strains  of 
negro  blood.  Any  one  who  knows  the 
negroes  well  has  remarked  that  there 
was  a  much  greater  difference  among 
them  than  we  perceive  among  the  whites 
of  the  same  low  position  in  England  or 
elsewhere.  It  is  clear  from  the  history 
of  the  slave  trade  that  this  African  blood 

The  difference  in  the  originr.1  strains  of  negro 
blood  is  marked,  but,  personally,  I  have  not  been 
able  to  make  any  trustworthy  observations  in  re- 
gard to  the  superiority  of  one  over  another.  I 
have  often  noticed  the  varied  types  among  the 
eight  hundred  youth  who  are  taught  at  Hampton: 
there  are  black  skins  with  European  features, 
blonde  or  even  auburn  coloring  with  African 
noses  and  lips,  but  neither  color  nor  features  seem 
to  be  decisive.  Of  averages  one  can  speak  with 
some  certainty  as  to  probable  lines  of  develop- 
ment; of  individuals  it  is  not  safe  to  dogmatize. 

There  appears  to  be  no  "  dead  line  "  of  progress 
for  the  negro.  The  possibilities  of  some  among 
them  are  not  to  be  limited  to  the  level  of  the  ma- 
jority of  the  race,  and  it  is  too  soon  to  generalize 
as  to  distinctive  types.  —  S.  C.  A. 

23  The  pure  black  in  the  former  time  always 
had  a  larger  money  value  than  a  mulatto  of  tha 
same  age  and  general  appearance.  —  ED. 


1884.] 


The  Negro  Problem. 


707 


was  drawn  from  widely  different  tribes. 
Even  the  leveling  influence  of  slavery 
has  not  served  to  efface  these  aboriginal 
differences.  The  most  immediate  result 
of  the  struggles  which  this  race  is  now 
undergoing  is  the  preservation  of  those 
households  where  there  is  an  element  of 
better  blood  or  breeding,  which  secures 
the  family  from  the  diseases  incident  to 
thriftless  and  vicious  lives.  Thus  we 
have  some  compensation  for  the  evils 
that  lead  to  this  rapid  death-rate. 

Now  and  then,  in  studying  a  negro 
population,  we  find  some  man  or  woman, 
evidently  of  pure  African  blood,  whose 
face  and  form  have  a  nobility  denied  to 
the  greater  part  of  the  race.24  We  often 
find  the  character  of  these  individuals 
clear  and  strong,  apparently  affording 
the  basis  for  the  truest  citizenship. 
Every  such  American- African  is  a  bless- 
ing to  the  state,  and  a  source  of  hope  to 
all  who  see  the  dark  side  of  the  problem 
that  his  race  has  brought  to  this  conti- 
nent. It  is  to  be  hoped  that  all  such 
strains  of  blood  will  live,  and  their  in- 
heritors come  to  be  leaders  among  their 
people. 

I  believe  that  the  heavy  death-rate 
among  the  negroes  is  not  altogether  due 
to  vice  or  neglect.  This  is  really  a  trop- 
ical people ;  the  greater  part  of  the  South 
is  as  foreign  to  their  blood  as  the  equa- 
torial regions  to  our  own.  Their  decline 

o 

in  the  more  northerly  States  of  the 
South  could  be  predicted  by  experience, 

24  Very  marked  among  the  Florida  blacks,  men 
and  women.  —  T.  W.  H. 

25  While  they  indubitably  are  of  the  tropics, 
they  have  a  curious  natural  affiliation  for  the  high- 
er civilization  into  which  they  have  been  thrown, 
and  in  spite  of  ignorance,  disease,  and  intemper- 
ance they  multiply  where  the  red  man  melts  av/ay. 
They  cling  to  the  skirts  of  our  civilization  ;  there 
is  a  black  fringe  on  the  edge  of  most  towns  in  this 
country;  the  negroes  are  here  to  stay.    Before  the 
vigorous  pressure  of  immigration  it  is  possible  that 
they  may  yield   somewhat,   fall  back  here  and 
there,  but  nothing  more.  —  S.  C.  A. 

26  All  other  foreign  elements  assimilate,  and  in 
the  third  generation  are  full}'  Americanized.     The 
negro  is  the  closest  imitator  of  all :  but  in  spite  of 
the  oceans  of  white  blood  which  have  been  poured 
into  his  veins;  in  spite  of  the  obliteration  of  the 


for  in  no  part  of  the  world  has  a  black 
skin  been  indigenous  in  such  high  lat- 
itudes. There  is  little  doubt  that  the 
tide  of  immigration  which  is  rapidly  fill- 
ing the  open  lands  of  the  Northern  States 
must  soon  turn  to  flow  into  the  South. 
This  will  tend  further  to  break  up  the 
negro  population  of  that  region,  driv- 
ing its  weaker  members  to  the  wall.26 

Still,  though  these  influences  may 
serve  to  minimize  the  danger  arising 
from  the  presence  of  this  alien  blood, 
there  can  be  no  doubt  that  for  centu- 
ries to  come  the  task  of  weaving  these 
African  threads  of  life  into  our  society 
will  be  the  greatest  of  all  American 
problems.  Not  only  does  it  fix  our  at- 
tention by  its  difficulty  and  its  utter 
novelty  among  national  questions,  but 
it  moves  us  by  the  infinite  pathos  that 
lies  within  it.  The  insensate  greed  of 
our  ancestors  took  this  simple  folk  from 
their  dark  land  and  placed  them  in  our 
fields  and  by  our  firesides.  Here  they 
have  multiplied  to  millions,  and  have 
been  forced  without  training  into  the 
duties  of  a  citizenship  that  often  puzzles 
the  brains  of  those  who  were  trained  by 
their  ancestry  to  a  sense  of  its  obliga- 
tions. Our  race  has  placed  these  bur- 
dens upon  them,  and  we,  as  its  repre- 
sentatives, owe  a  duty  to  these  black- 
skinned  folk  a  thousand  times  heavier 
than  that  which  binds  us  to  the  volun- 
tary immigrants  to  our  land.26  If  they 
fall  and  perish  without  a  trial  of  every 

remembrance  of  his  fatherland,  its  language  and 
its  traditions ;  in  spite  of  the  closest  of  contact  with 
the  race  which  enslaved  him,  he  remains  substan- 
tially the  most  foreign  of  all  our  foreign  elements. 
The  lines  of  his  life  are  parallel  with,  and  not  con- 
vergent to,  our  own,  and  here  lies  the  danger. 

But  what  would  the  cotton  mills  of  Christendom 
do  without  him  ?  Who  would  fit  into  our  indus- 
trial and  household  life  as  he  does  ?  We  need  him, 
the  nation  needs  what  he  can  do;  but  his  training 
must  be  directed  by  ideas,  and  not  by  demagogues. 
The  work  of  the  old  taskmasters  is  still  telling 
tremendously,  and  the  old  "uncles"  sometimes 
shake  their  wise  gray  heads  over  the  rising  gener- 
ation. It  is  a  many-sided  education  that  they  need, 
and  the  result  of  anything  less  seems  to  justify  the 
reply  of  the  colored  school-girl,  who,  on  being  criti- 
cised for  careless  sweeping,  answered,  "You  can't 


708 


The  Negro  Problem. 


[November, 


means  that  can  lift  and  support  them, 
then  our  iniquitous  share  in  their  un- 
happy fate  will  be  as  great  as  that  of 
our  forefathers  who  brought  them  here. 
If  they  pass  away  by  natural  laws,  from 
inability  to  maintain  themselves  in  a 
strange  climate  or  utter  unfitness  to  un- 
derstand the  ever  -  growing  stress  of 
our  modern  life,  it  may  be  accepted  as 
the  work  of  nature  ;  perhaps,  by  some 
severe  philosophers,  as  a  beneficent  end 
of  the  most  wonderful  ethnic  experi- 
ment that  the  world  has  known.  But 
they  cannot  be  allowed  to  perish  with- 
out the  fullest  effort  in  their  behalf.  So 
much  we  owe  to  ourselves,  to  our  time, 
and  to  our  place  before  the  generations 
that  are  to  be. 

If  the  negro  is  thoughtfully  cared  for, 
if  his  training  in  civilization,  begun  in 
slavery,  is  continued  in  his  state  of  free- 
dom, we  may  hope  to  find  abundant  room 
for  him  in  our  society.  He  has  a  strong 
spring  of  life  within  him,  though  his  life 
flows  in  channels  foreign  to  our  own. 
Once  fix  in  him  the  motives  that  are 
necessary  for  citizenship  in  a  republic, 
and  we  may  gain  rather  than  lose  from 
his  presence  on  our  soil.  The  proper 
beginning  is  to  give  him  a  chance  to  re- 
ceive the  benefits  of  the  education  that 
comes  from  varied  and  skillful  industry. 

CONCLUDING   NOTE. 

I  have  read  with  great  interest  the 
notes  of  the  gentlemen  who  have  per- 
mitted their  criticisms  of  this  paper  to 
be  published  with  it,  as  well  as  many 
others  which,  to  my  regret,  do  not  ap- 
pear. The  second  note  by  the  editor 
needs  qualification.  It  is  true  that  there 
was  a  wide  difference  between  household 
slavery  and  that  of  the  large  Southern 
cotton,  rice,  and  sugar  plantations.  But 
by  far  the  larger  part  of  the  Southern 
slaves  were  held  on  places  essentially 

git  clean  corners  and  algebra  into  the  same  nig- 
ger." 

Technical  training  is  important,  wisely  directed 
mental  work  is  essential,  better  ideas  must  some- 
how be  put  into  better  men,  but  it  is  the  spirit  of 


like  the  Northern  farms,  in  a  bondage 
that  was  strongly  affected  by  their  near 
relation  to  the  master's  family.  The 
sixth  note  denies  the  parallel  between 
the  experiment  in  the  United  States  and 
in  the  West  Indies.  Undoubtedly  there 
is  a  diversity  in  the  conditions,  for  the 
results  differ ;  but  to  lay  this  diversity 
on  the  climate  "  fetish  "  is  to  get  out  of 
the  path  of  inquiry.  The  "  surrounding 
civilization  "  in  Jamaica  did  riot  differ 
essentially  from  that  of  South  Carolina. 

Note  seventeen,  concerning  the  Mi- 
norcan  settlement  of  Florida,  seems  to 
me  not  to  militate  against  the  opinion 
that  Southern  Europeans,  as  a  whole, 
will  make  the  best  colonists  for  the  Gulf 
States.  A  discussion  of  the  Minorcan 
settlements  would  probably  show  plen- 
ty of  reasons  for  the  decay  of  this  peo- 
dle,  if  they  have  decayed. 

I  cannot  agree  with  Colonel  Higgin- 
son  that  the  negro  preacher  has  the  in- 
fluence which  is  so  generally  attributed 
to  him  over  the  laymen  of  the  black 
race.  The  negro  as  by  an  instinct  and 
insensibly  strives  to  simulate  the  white. 
His  religious  advisers  naturally  have  a 
very  great  hold  upon  him,  and  their  ed- 
ucation is  of  importance;  but  the  two 
most  important  developing  agents  for 
this  race  in  their  present  general  state 
are  free  contacts  with  whites  in  the  or- 
dinary work  of  the  world  and  a  wide 
and  long-continued  technical  training ; 
of  course  not  excluding  the  elements  of 
what  is  ordinarily  called  education.  I 
do  not  deny  that  now  and  then  a  negro 
appears  who  justifies  the  highest  educa- 
tion, —  men  like  Joseph  Bannecker,  for 
instance. 

I  am  very  glad  to  find  that  in  most 
points  I  am  so  fortunate  as  to  be  of  one 
mind  with  General  Armstrong,  who  has 
done  more  than  any  one  else  to  help  the 
enfranchised  blacks  on  their  way  towards 

the  Sermon  on  the  Mount  that  must  permeate  it 
all.  Practical  Christian  education,  without  dogma 
and  without  cant,  is  the  great  need  of  the  negro,  as 
well  as  of  most  of  his  brethren,  of  whatever  shade 
or  type.  —  S.  C.  A. 


1884.] 


Knox  s    United  States  Notes. 


709 


a  true  citizenship.  I  regret  to  differ 
from  him  in  my  estimate  of  the  value  to 
the  negro  of  a  high  purely  literary  edu- 
cation. The  time  may  come  when  such 
a  training  will  bear  the  same  relation  to 
their  inheritances  that  it  does  to  those 
of  the  literate  class  of  our  own  race,  but 


as  a  rule  the  little  colored  girl  was 
right:  "You  can't  get  clean  corners  and 
algebra  into  the  same  nigger."  That 
combination  is  with  difficulty  effected  in 
our  own  blood.  The  world  demands  the 
clean  corners /  it  is  not  so  particular 
about  the  algebra. 

N.  S.  Shaler. 


KNOX'S   UNITED    STATES   NOTES. 


THE  work  of  Mr.  John  Jay  Knox, 
lately  comptroller  of  the  currency,  upon 
United  States  Notes  l  is  a  useful  mon- 
ograph. The  style  is  that  of  an  official 
report  rather  than  that  of  a  philosoph- 
ical study  of  the  subject,  and  the  reader 
must  trace  for  himself  the  connection 
between  the  several  events  recorded, 
and  supply  such  reflections  as  seem  to 
him  appropriate  upon  the  wisdom  or  the 
folly  of  Congress  in  the  gradual  devel- 
opment of  the  system  of  "  coining " 
paper  money.  But  Mr.  Knox  has  fur- 
nished all  the  facts  which  are  necessary 
for  a  full  understanding  of  the  subject, 
in  a  concise  and  readable  form  ;  and  as 
we  have  now  reached  a  point  in  consti- 
tutional interpretation,  if  not  in  legisla- 
tive practice,  where  there  is  no  further 
progress  to  be  made  in  the  direction 
we  have  been  going,  Mr.  Knox's  work 
may  be  accepted  as  the  full  history  of 
a  completed  incident  in  constitutional 
development. 

It  is  a  little  remarkable  that  two  de- 
liberate omissions  by  the  convention  of 
1787  should  have  been  followed  by  an 
assertion  in  each  case,  by  the  Supreme 
Court,  of  the  right  of  Congress  to  do 
what  the  Constitution,  by  its  ostenta- 
tious silence,  withheld  the  power  to  do ; 
that  in  each  case  the  financial  necessi- 
ties of  the  government  led  to  the  pas- 
sage of  the  acts,  —  certainly  not  author- 

1  United  States  Notes.  A  History  of  the  Va- 
rious Issues  of  Paper  Money  by  the  Government 


ized  by  the  plain  terms  of  the  Consti- 
tution, —  the  validity  of  which  was  so 
sustained  ;  and  that  the  two  judicial  de- 
cisions relating  to  these  laws  have  done 
more  in  the  past  and  are  capable  of  do- 
ing more  in  the  future  to  make  the 
United  States  government  sovereign  and 
supreme,  in  the  broadest  sense,  to  the 
fullest  extent,  and  in  all  its  relations, 
than  any  other  event  in  our  history, 
with  the  possible  exception  of  the  civil 
war.  The  first  of  the  two  acts  referred 
to  was,  of  course,  the  charter  of  the  sec- 
ond bank.  In  the  convention  of  1787 
it  was  proposed  that  Congress  should 
be  allowed  to  grant  incorporations,  and 
the  power  was  expressly  refused ;  that 
is  to  say,  being  urged  thereto,  the  con- 
vention deliberately  declined  to  con- 
fer the  privilege,  on  the  ground  that  the 
clause  would  empower  Congress  to  char- 
ter a  bank.  Yet  the  new  government 
was  hardly  organized  when  a  bank  was 
chartered ;  and,  the  exercise  of  the  pow- 
er having  been  called  in  question  a  quar- 
ter of  a  century  later,  it  was  affirmed 
by  Chief  Justice  Marshall  in  a  decision 
which  ultimately  overthrew  the  school 
of  "  strict  construction,"  and  made  the 
United  States  a  nation,  with  the  power 
to  preserve  and  protect  itself,  and  to 
enforce  its  own  authority  at  home  and 
abroad. 

The  authority  to  "  emit  bills  of  cred- 

of  the  United  States.    By  JOHN  JAY  KNOX.  New- 
York  :  Charles  Scribner's  Sons.    1884. 


710 


Knox's   United  States  Notes. 


[November, 


it"  was  withheld  from  Congress  in  a 
similar  way,  but  the  denial  was  more 
emphatic  than  it  was  in  the  case  of  cor- 
porations. The  men  who  framed  the 
Constitution  had  present  before  their 
eyes  the  evils  of  government  paper 
money.  They  were  substantially  unan- 
imous in  holding  that  the  States  ought 
not  to  be  permitted  to  issue  such  cur- 
rency ;  and  the  prohibition  upon  them 
in  this  regard  was  allowed  to  stand. 
Some  members,  however,  believed  that, 
great  as  the  evil  might  be,  the  possibil- 
ity of  its  becoming  a  necessary  expedi- 
ent required  that  the  power  to  emit  bills 
of  credit  should  be  allowed  to  the  gen- 
eral government.  After  a  long  and  care- 
ful discussion  of  the  subject  the  clause 
was  struck  out  of  the  draft  of  the  Consti- 
tution. Although  no  direct  prohibition 
of  an  issue  of  bills  of  credit  was  insert- 
ed, the  universal  belief  at  the  time  — 
based  on  the  theory  that  no  powers  were 
possessed  by  Congress  except  such  as  were 
conferred  in  express  terms  —  was  that 
the  prohibition  was  absolute.  Who  could 
have  supposed  that  the  first  issue  of 
treasury  notes,  under  the  act  of  June 
30,  1812,  was  to  be  the  first  step  on  a 
road  which  we  have  followed  to  a  point 
where  the  ultimate  goal  of  "  fiat  money  " 
is  in  sight?  These  notes  were  for  not  less 
than  $100  each,  they  were  reimbursable 
at  a  specified  time,  and  they  bore  inter- 
est. They  were  not  a  legal  tender,  and 
no  person  needed  to  become  the  posses- 
sor of  one  of  them,  save  by  his  own 
voluntary  act.  In  principle  the  notes 
differed  in  no  important  respect  from 
small  government  bonds  to  secure  a  short 
loan. 

One  by  one  the  differences  between 
such  notes  and  "  bills  of  credit,"  as  they 
were  known  in  revolutionary  and  pre- 
revolutionary  times,  disappeared.  Notes 
of  as  small  denomination  as  five  dollars 
were  issued  under  the  act  of  1815,  and 
these  were  available  as  circulating  notes 
in  the  pockets  of  the  people,  as  the  large 
notes  of  1812  had  not  been.  The  next 


step  was  taken  after  the  financial  imbe- 
cility of  Jackson  and  his  followers,  nota- 
bly illustrated  by  the  war  upon  the  Bank, 
which  brought  about  the  crisis  of  1837. 
The  payment  of  interest  on  notes  was 
no  longer  promised,  or,  as  there  was  a 
lingering  idea  that  non-interest  bearing 
notes  might  not  be  constitutional,  the 
fancied  obstacle  was  overcome  by  prom- 
ising interest  at  the  rate  of  one  mill 
per  annum  on  each  one  hundred  dollars. 
Then  at  the  beginning  of  the  civil  war 
notes  were  issued,  bearing  no  interest 
and  payable  at  no  definite  time ;  that  is, 
on  demand.  Finally  the  last  step  was 
taken,  and  promises  to  pay  which  could 
not  be  met,  or  which  might  legally  be 
met  by  other  promises  of  the  same  sort, 
were  issued  as  a  forced  loan,  and  made 
a  legal  tender  between  man  and  man. 
Upon  the  series  of  enactments  which 
gave  the  country  this  currency  for  a 
standard  of  value,  there  have  been  three 
decisions  by  the  Supreme  Court  of  the 
United  States  :  first,  that  Congress  could 
not  make  such  notes  a  legal  tender  in 
the  payment  of  debts  contracted  before 
their  issue  ;  second,  that,  in  time  of  war 
and  great  financial  necessity,  Congress 
might  make  such  notes  a  legal  tender  in 
the  payment  of  debts  contracted  either 
before  or  after  their  issue  ;  third,  that 
Congress  may,  at  any  time,  and  at  its 
own  discretion,  make  whatever  it  pleases 
a  legal  tender  in  the  payment  of  all  debts 
whatsoever. 

Mr.  Knox,  we  have  already  said,  has 
made  his  work  a  record  of  facts,  and 
not  a  philosophical  treatise  upon  the 
subject  of  government  paper  money. 
But  every  observer  of  governments 
knows  that  a  tendency  so  pronounced  as 
that  which  has  been  briefly  noted  is  not 
arrested  when  the  last  barrier  to  the 
free  exercise  of  a  right  is  removed. 
There  is  no  present  temptation  to  emit 
irredeemable  paper  money,  stamped 
"  This  is dollars,"  or  even  to  in- 
crease the  issue  of  promises  to  pay 
which  are  nominally  redeemable.  But 


1884.] 


Knoxs   United  States  Notes. 


711 


evidently,  should  the  fancied  necessity 
arise,  there  will  be  little  disposition  to 
choose  the  hard  but  safe  system  of 
finance,  when  there  is  open  to  Congress 
the  seductive  course  of  issuing  a  forced 
loan,  by  which,  however  much  the  cost 
of  a  war  may  be  increased  by  it,  the 
payment  of  that  cost  is  postponed  indefi- 
nitely. There  are  very  many  persons 
among  us  who  are  fully  convinced  not 
only  that  a  greatly  increased  issue  of 
paper  money  would  be  harmless,  but  that 
it  would  be  positively  beneficial  to  busi- 
ness. Those  who  know  better  are  not 
eager  to  offer  active  resistance  to  the 
advocates  of  "  soft  money,"  because  they 
are  sure  to  be  denounced  at  once  as  cap- 
italists, monopolists,  and  slaves  of  the 
banks.  Moreover,  the  American  people 
are  a  long-suffering  race,  who  reconcile 
themselves  to  things  as  they  are,  wheth- 
er to  the  impertinences  of  hotel  clerks, 
to  the  petty  extortions  of  the  newsboy 
who  pockets  five  cents  for  a  three-cent 
paper,  or  to  the  all-pervading  evil  of  bad 
money.  The  unpleasant  discovery  by 
the  Supreme  Court  of  the  fact  that  Con- 
gress has  unlimited  power  over  the  legal 
tender  has  excited  surprise,  but  it  has 
incited  no  one  to  energetic  action.  A 
few  newspapers  have  abused  the  court, 
as  though  that  would  mend  matters. 
Two  or  three  Senators  and  an  equal 
number  of  Representatives  have  intro- 
duced resolutions  to  amend  the  Consti- 
tution, but  not  one  of  them  has  ac- 
complished, or  even  tried  to  accomplish, 
anything.  Constitutional  change  is  pe- 
culiarly difficult  and  infrequent  in  this 
country,  and  this  particular  change  can 
never  be  effected  until  strong  leaders 
become  not  merely  champions  of  the 
cause,  but  persistent  agitators.  To  in- 
troduce a  resolution  and  to  let  the  mat- 
ter rest  there  is  about  as  effective  as 
aiming  a  pistol  at  the  moon,  and  then 
concluding,  out  of  consideration  for  the 
moon,  not  to  fire. 

This  being  the  case,  in  common  with 
all  the  rest  of  the  American  people  we 


give  up  the  fight  and  trust  to  luck  until 
the  required  leader  appears.  If  the 
country  can  avoid  a  war  for  a  quarter 
of  a  century,  and  if  it  shall  be  favored 
during  that  time  with  a  reasonable  de- 
gree of  commercial  prosperity,  the  dan- 
ger may  be  escaped.  In  that  time  the 
debt  will  be  nearly  or  wholly  paid.  The 
increase  of  wealth  will  be  very  great,  and 
the  credit  of  the  government  will  stand 
so  high  that  only  a  very  reckless  dema- 
gogue would  propose  to  meet  an  unusual 
demand  upon  the  treasury  by  forcing 
irredeemable  paper  money  into  circula- 
tion. In  short,  the  country  may  not 
adopt  the  silliest  and  most  short-sighted 
financial  policy  that  is  possible,  because 
it  may  not  be  under  the  necessity  of 
borrowing  any  money  at  all.  This  is  a 
slender  reliance,  it  must  be  confessed, 
but  it  is  the  only  one  we  have. 

There  is  one  chapter  of  Mr.  Knox's 
book  which  is  not  covered  by  the  title 
of  the  work.  It  is  devoted  to  a  full  ac- 
count of  the  distribution  of  the  surplus 
in  Jackson's  time.  The  author  finds  a 
reason  for  including  this  chapter  in  his 
work ;  but  most  readers  will  think  the 
connection  somewhat  strained,  and  will 
surmise  that  Mr.  Knox  wrote  il  having 
in  view  some  other  use  than  that  which 
he  has  made  of  it,  and  having  it  on  hand 
put  it  into  the  volume.  Although  it  is 
artistically  somewhat  misplaced,  yet  it  is 
well  worth  possessing  for  its  own  sake, 
for  it  is  the  fullest  and  best  account  yet 
printed  of  one  of  the  strangest  passages 
in  our  political  history.  Is  there  not, 
moreover,  a  suggestion  that  the  country 
may  make  constitutional  progress  —  if 
it  be  progress  —  in  this  respect,  as  well 
as  in  the  matter  of  the  issue  of  notes  ? 
No  one  could  have  dreamed,  when  the 
issue  of  large  interest -bearing  notes 
payable  at  a  definite  time  was  proposed 
in  1812,  that  the  power  would  ever  be 
discovered  in  the  Constitution  under 
which  irredeemable  legal  tender  notes, 
intended  to  circulate  as  money  and  to 
be  the  standard  of  value  even  for  gold 


712 


Knox's   United  States  Notes. 


[November, 


and  silver,  could  be  emitted.  Nor  was 
it  supposed,  when  the  idea  of  "  deposit- 
ing '  with  the  States  "  for  safe  keep- 
ing "  the  surplus,  unusable  revenues  of 
the  government  was  conceived,  that  any 
statesman  would  ever  advocate  the  policy 
of  maintaining  a  system  of  excessive  na- 
tional taxation  for  the  express  purpose 
of  obtaining  a  surplus  to  be  given  to  the 
States  for  the  relief  of  local  taxation. 
And  yet,  why  not  ?  The  principle  is 
fully  established.  The  money  "  de- 
posited "  in  1836  has  never  been  called 
for  by  the  national  government,  and 
cannot  be  called  for  until  Congress  has 
passed  an  act  directing  that  a  demand 
be  made  for  it.  To  all  intents  and  pur- 
poses, therefore,  it  is  a  gift  to  the  States. 
Manifestly,  if  the  government  may  dis- 
tribute its  surplus  among  the  States 
when  it  is  free  from  debt,  it  may  do  so 
when  it  has  a  debt  which  Congress  does 
not  regard  it  as  expedient  to  pay  too 
rapidly.  Nor  is  there  any  difference 
in  principle  between  devoting  to  such 
a  purpose  the  proceeds  of  taxes  which, 
originally  barely  adequate  to  meet  cur- 
rent expenditures,  have,  by  the  twofold 
process  of  enlarged  yield  and  diminished 
government  charges,  become  excessive, 
and  a  direct  imposition  of  taxes  in  order 
to  obtain  a  distributable  surplus. 

This  matter  bids  fair  soon  to  rise  to 
the  rank  of  a  political  issue.  The  Demo- 
cratic platform  this  year  specifically  con- 
demns the  policy  of  a  distribution  of  the 
surplus.  Doubtless  its  position  on  the 
question  has  been  deliberately  chosen  ; 
and  in  the  present  unformed  state  of 
public  opinion,  probably  three  fourths 
of  the  voters  of  the  country  would  say 
off-hand  that  the  position  is  the  right 
one.  But  who  can  say  what  those 
same  voters  will  think  when  it  is  art- 


fully put  before  them  that,  while  this 
policy  means  no  increase  of  national 
taxation,  it  does  involve  a  perceptible 
reduction  of  that  direct  'local  taxation 
which  is  discharged  by  going  to  the  city 
treasurer's  office  and  handing  to  that 
official  a  check  or  a  roll  of  greenbacks  ? 
Indeed,  it  might  be  asked  if  any  Senator 
of  either  party,  who  voted  for  the  Blair 
Education  bill  during  the  late  session  of 

O 

Congress,  can  make  a  distinction,  how- 
ever fine,  between  the  principle  of  that 
bill  and  that  of  a  frank  and  undisguised 
distribution  of  the  surplus. 

Here,  again,  we  run  for  luck.  It  may 
not  be  worth  the  while  of  any  dema- 
gogue to  base  an  appeal  to  the  people 
upon  this  subject  of  taxation.  If  not, 
the  States  and  the  nation  may  be  con- 
fined within  their  present  respective 
spheres  of  taxation  and  revenue.  But 
fancy  a  movement  springing  up  in  those 
States  where  taxes  are  most  unwilling- 
ly levied  and  most  unwillingly  paid  to 
demand  of  Congress  relief  by  the  meas- 
ure here  suggested.  We  need  not  trace 
the  process  by  which  it  would  gain 
strength,  and  perhaps  by  and  by  be- 
come irresistible.  Let  those  who  think 
this  to  be  impossible  reflect  upon  the 
history  of  the  internal  improvements 
controversy.  Once  it  was  deemed  un- 
constitutional to  appropriate  money  to 
repair  the  Cumberland  Road,  the  main 
and  the  only  post-road  over  which  the 
government  mail  could  be  sent  to  Ohio 
and  the  rest  of  the  Northwestern  Terri- 
tory. To-day  members  of  all  parties 
vote  to  appropriate  money  for  clearing 
snags  out  of  shallow  channels  in  a  river 
in  Oregon  or  Washington  Territory,  for 
the  sole  object  of  enabling  the  owners 
of  timber  tracts  on  the  upper  waters  to 
float  their  logs  to  market. 


1884.] 


The  Contributors'   Club. 


713 


THE    CONTRIBUTORS'    CLUB. 


ANY  New  Englander  whose  recol- 
lection goes  back  to  the  years  between 
1840  and  1850,  and  who  was  in  any  de- 
gree related  to  what  was  called  the 
Transcendental  or  Liberal  movement, 
will  have  his  memories  and  associations 
stirred  to  a  lively  degree  by  Mr.  Hig- 
ginson's  biography  of  Margaret  Fuller. 
The  book  presents,  as  nothing  has  hith- 
erto done,  a  picture  of  that  vanished 
epoch  and  its  actors,  with  their  hopes  at 
once  unreasonable  and  infinite,  their  the- 
ories benevolent  but  impossible,  their 
creeds  flattering  to  the  human  heart  but 
born  of  strange  hallucinations  instead  of 
any  real  knowledge  of  the  world  they 
lived  in.  My  individual  reminiscences  of 
those  days  would  be  faint  had  not  family 
tradition  kept  certain  figures  alive  in  my 
remembrance.  These  odd  and  fantastic 
personages,  who  came  and  went  at  our 
house,  belonged  to  a  sort  of  phantasma- 
goria beyond  my  sympathies,  but  influ- 
enced my  wonder  and  imagination  like 
other  unexpected  phenomena  I  encoun- 
tered. My  father  had  not  only  become 
a  Unitarian,  but  had  built  a  church  al- 
most at  his  own  expense,  and  was  an 
eager  propagandist.  Leading  Boston 
Unitarians  were  interested  in  the  strug- 
gling society,  and  not  only  many  of  the 
most  noted  preachers  of  the  day,  but  al- 
most any  enthusiast  with  a  newly  dis- 
covered Truth  to  impart,  came  to  X,  as 
I  will  call  our  little  village.  My  father 
exercised  unbounded  hospitality,  and  in- 
vited all  co-workers  and  all  co-thinkers 
to  visit  him,  and  the  result  was  that 
there  were  apt  to  be  two  or  three  bright- 
eyed  and  long-haired  zealots  at  our 
house  every  week.  My  father  was  a 
born  lover  of  ideas,  and  for  about  ten 
years  quite  gave  himself  up  to  the  study 
of  new  theories  ;  and  whoever  had  a 
novelty  was  welcome,  no  matter,  it  seems 
to  me  now,  how  near  its  frontier  line 


was  to  the  wildest  absurdity.  "It 's  hard 
work  to  tell  which  is  Old  Harry,  when 
everybody  's  got  boots  on,"  as  Mrs.  Poy- 
ser  said  pithily,  and  in  those  days  all 
ideas  were  equipped  and  were  on  the 
road. 

Most  of  our  visitors  were  vegetari- 
ans, and  some  of  them  confined  them- 
selves exclusively  to  one  variety  of  food. 

Mr. ate  rice,  and  hardly  anything 

else;  invariably  remarking  with  an  air 
of  exhilaration  when  he  helped  himself 
to  the  last  in  the  dish,  "  When  I  get  so 
I  cannot  eat  rice,  I  think  I  shall  die.'* 
He  throve  under  this  diet,  and  had  the 
loftiest  theories  concerning  the  ultimate 
possibilities  of  the  human  race  when 
they  should  be  brought  to  his  way  of 
thinking.  It  was,  however,  enough  for 
him  that  he  individually  had  satisfacto- 
rily reached  the  solution  of  the  human 
problem,  and  he  did  not  force  his  exam- 
ple upon  others.  He  rose  early,  and  as 
soon  as  he  left  his  room  took  a  tumbler, 
went  to  the  well,  and  proceeded  to  drink 
glass  after  glass  of  water  until  breakfast 
was  ready.  "  It  purifies,  it  restores,  it 
quickens  me,"  he  would  remark  blandly 
at  intervals  to  any  one  who  looked  on 
with  admiration  or  terror,  as  the  case 

might  be.      Mr.  W ,  on  the  other 

hand,  was  a  fiery  zealot  in  his  views, 
and  his  life  was  embittered  by  the  sight 
of  my  father's  family  growing  up  in  op- 
position to  his  own  theories.  "  Are  we 
beasts  of  prey  ?  "  he  would  demand,  "  that 
we  should  eat  cooked  meat  ?  "  (sic).  He 
stayed  in  our  house  for  some  weeks,  and 
mounted  his  hobby,  and  rode  it  to  such 
good  effect  that  a  sensible  diminution 
was  effected  in  the  amount  of  animal 
food  consumed  at  our  table,  and  an  in- 
crease in  the  way  of  baked  potatoes, 
milk,  etc.  Animal  food,  he  declared, 
destroyed  vigor,  by  burning  and  other- 
wise consuming  the  tissues ;  it  led  to 


714 


The   Contributors'   Club. 


[November, 


premature  old  age,  loss  of  hair,  teeth, 
etc.  It  induced  alcoholism ;  being  in 
itself  a  dangerous  stimulant,  it  made 
the  human  body  dependent  on  something 
that  would  excite.  It  caused  restless- 
ness. "  Do  you  wish  to  see  your  chil- 
dren nervous,  restless,  like  lions  or  ti- 
gers ?  "  he  would  ask.  Now  with  a  diet 
of  potatoes  and  milk,  the  crotcheter  de- 
clared, there  was  no  possibility  of  disease 
entering  the  frame,  arid  accordingly  any 
one  brought  up  on  that  diet  might,  so  to 
speak,  live  forever,  so  exactly  were  the 
elements  of  the  two  combined  calculat- 
ed to  restore  waste  and  revive  tissue, 
etc.  Another  favorite  idea  of  Mr. 

W 's  was  that  the  brain  needed  the 

direct  action  of  the  sun's  rays,  and  that, 
accordingly,  every  person  should  sit  for 
at  least  an  hour  each  day,  with  his  head 
uncovered,  in  the  sunshine.  That  he 
practiced  this  habit  I  well  remember ; 
for  I  can  recall  his  rigid,  upright  figure, 
in  a  kitchen  chair,  established  in  the 
middle  of  the  laundry-yard,  while  with 
the  utmost  good  humor  and  decision  he 
insisted  that  I  should  take  off  my  head 
gear  and  keep  him  company.  Another 
visitor,  not  a  preacher,  but  a  wild  vision- 
ary in  general,  came  to  our  house  period- 
ically, and  always  with  some  new  fancy 
lodged  in  his  brain.  He  was  a  man  of 
much  abstruse  scientific  knowledge,  and 
was  always  inventing  something  which 
never  succeeded ;  but  he  was  a  very  dirty 
man,  and  his  hands  were  at  once  our  won- 
der and  our  disgust.  On  one  occasion, 
when  he  made  his  appearance,  my  father 
rose  to  see  him,  extending  his  hand  in 
welcome ;  but  the  visitor  folded  both  his 
hands  behind  him,  and  said  resolutely, 
"  My  dear  sir,  you  must  excuse  me,  but 
I  cannot  shake  hands  with  you  ;  I  shake 
hands  with  no  one.  Too  much  of  what 
is  vital  and  spiritual  essence  is  lost  in 
this  idle  dalliance  which  the  world  calls 
'  friendly  greeting.' '  And  we  all  rejoiced 
that  his  vital  and  spiritual  essences  were 
too  precious  to  be  wasted,  for  we  did 
not  like  the  touch  of  his  hands.  One  vis- 


itor, who  broached  his  least  idea  with  a 
circumstance  as  if,  at  last,  something  of 
real  importance  were  to  be  proclaimed 
to  the  world,  delighted  us  children  by 
saying  upon  his  taking  breakfast  with 
us,  "  Breakfast  is  my  best  meal ;  it  is,  I 
may  say,  my  only  meal.  When  I  eat 
my  breakfast,  I  eat  for  the  day."  He 
seemed  to  do  so,  but  criticism  of  such 
an  Homeric  appetite  was  uncalled  for, 
when  he  had  told  us  he  ate  but  once  in 
the  twenty-four  hours.  He  had  expect- 
ed to  leave  in  the  morning,  but  the  day 
turned  out  rainy,  and  he  remained  to 
dinner.  Judge,  then,  of  our  amazement 
when,  being  helped  bountifully  for  the 
second  time,  he  remarked  in  a  lazy,  ab- 
sent-minded way,  "  This  is  my  best  meal; 
it  is,  I  may  say,  my  only  meal,"  etc. 
We  laughed  outright,  alas,  and  had  to 
be  sent  away  from  the  table.  Few  of 
these  thinkers  and  enthusiasts  had  any 
sense  of  humor.  My  father,  however, 
when  once  driving  one  of  them  up  the 
mountain,  turned  to  him  and  said,  "  Mr. 

,  if  I  take  you  up  to  the  top  I  shall 

insist  that  you  preach  me  a  sermon." 
"  I  will,"  was  the  reply,  "  and  my  text 
shall  be,  '  And  the  devil  taketh  him  up 
to  an  exceeding  high  mountain.' '  A 

constant  lady    visitor,    M G , 

who  spent  with  us  weeks  at  a  time,  was 
intensely  interested  in  anything  a  little 
off  color  in  the  way  of  religious  creeds. 
Theodore  Hook,  who  when  asked  if  he 
was  willing  to  accept  the  Thirty-Nine 
Articles  blandly  replied,  "  Oh,  certainly ; 
forty,  if  you  like,"  was  no  circumstance 

to  M G ,  who  would  accept  any 

theory  or  any  creed,  provided  it  conflict- 
ed with  the  orthodox  views  she  had  re- 
nounced. This  promiscuous  greed  for 
novelty  was,  however,  so  much  the  mark 
of  the  period  that  it  merely  made  her 
seem  eager  and  hopeful,  until,  a  few 
years  afterwards,  it  carried  her  into 
Bloomer  dress,  and  left  her  stranded  at 
high  tide  as  a  silly  woman  whose  good 
taste  could  not  be  trusted.  One  evening, 
at  our  house,  she  was  conversing  with 


1884.] 


The  Contributor^   Club. 


715 


a  well-known  lecturer  on  geology,  whom 
she  questioned  incessantly. 

"  How  long,  Mr. ,  do  you  suppose 

the  world  has  existed  ?  For  an  infinite 
time,  I  suppose."' 

"  Infinite  ?     Madam,  infinite  is  a  lon£ 

o 

word." 

"  But  your  discoveries  all  show  that 
the  accepted  chronology  is  worthless. 
Don't  you  suppose  it  has  existed  bill- 
ions and  billions,  even  trillions,  of 
years  ?  " 

"I  think  a  billion  will  do,  madam," 
said  the  geologist.  "  Suppose,  just  to 
be  fixed  and  definite,  we  say  the  world 
has  existed  a  billion  of  years." 

"But  why,"  said  M G , 

throwing  her  whole  soul  into  the  ques- 
tion,—  "  why  be  fixed,  why  be  definite  ? 
Why  dwarf  the  illimitable  grandeur  of 
scientific  revelation  for  the  sake  of  a 
feeble  consistency  with  the  accepted 
orthodox  scheme  of  things  ?  Sir,"  her 
eyes  flashing,  "  I  would  not,  if  I  were 
you,  consider  a  billion  of  years  any- 
thing." 

In  fact,  the  revolt  against  dogmatic 
creeds  allowed  new  beliefs  and  dogmas 
which  showed  a  wonderful  receptivity 
on  the  part  of  these  zealots.  When 
phrenology,  magnetism,  and  spiritual- 
ism, one  after  the  other,  were  embraced, 
one  saw  that  the  person  who  begins  by 
denying  everything  strikes  an  ultimate 
balance  by  believing  everything. 

—  In  the  Grand  Chorus  of  Birds  as 
translated  by  Mr.  Swinburne,  the  feath- 
ered folk,  addressing  the  earth-bound 
human  race,  boast,  — 

;'Thus  are  we  as  Ammon,  or  Delphi,  unto  you, 
Dodoria;  nay,  Phoebus  Apollo  ;" 

moreover,  flinging  this  twittered  gibe  :  — 

"  And  all  things  ye  lay  to  the  charge  of  a  bird 
that  belong  to  discerning  prediction." 

To  this  day,  perhaps,  the  birds  have  re- 
tained a  perception  of  the  curious  and 
mystified  regard  in  which  they  are  held 
by  us;  and  so  they  amuse  themselves 
now  and  then  by  setting  us  particularly 
difficult  problems  in  divination.  I  had 


not  been  instructed  in  the  rudiments  of 
this  science,  else  I  should  have  under- 
stood with  what  purpose  a  small  bird, 
one  day  last  winter,  flew  to  my  window, 
and  clinging  to  the  sash  for  a  full  mo- 
ment peered  into  the  room ;  by  its  quick, 
critical  glance  seeming  to  say,  "  So  this 
is  the  sort  of  winter-lodge  these  human 
beings  keep  1 '  I  was  loath  to  accept  so 
barren  an  interpretation  of  the  bird's  ac- 
tion as  that  its  object  in  flying  to  the 
window  was  merely  to  secure  some  cob- 
webbed  speck  that  promised  food.  Very 
lately,  also,  as  the  chimney-swifts  of  the 
neighborhood  were  holding  their  usual 
evening  muster,  two  of  these  birds  flew 
into  my  chamber,  hovered  for  a  brief 
space  uttering  the  short,  shrill  note  char- 
acteristic of  their  kind,  then  out  again, 
and  away  to  join  their  comrades  of  the 
airy  campus.  I  felt  that  my  chamber  had 
been  singularly  honored  by  these  birds. 
Perhaps  they  had  flown  in  to  deliver  an 
invitation,  bidding  my  thoughts  to  come 
out  and  aloft  into  good  company  ;  if  so, 
to  have  mistaken  their  kind  errantry 
would  have  been  of  a  piece  with  the 
dull  blunder  of  Rhrecus  when  he  missed 
the  wood-nymph's  message.  In  my  au- 
gury there  was  something  very  auspi- 
cious about  this  visit  from  the  chimney- 
swifts,  but  an  octogenarian  friend  to 
whom  I  related  the  incident  considered 
it  in  a  more  serious  light.  Had  a  bird 
come  to  her  window  —  much  more  had 
it  entered  the  room  —  she  should  have 
understood  that  a  "  warning  "  had  been 
sent  her.  "  Depend  upon  it "  (these 
were  her  words),  "it  means  something, 
—  just  what  I  can't  tell  now;  but  wait  a 
spell,  and  you  '11  see  !  "  That  this  cau- 
tious old  soul  has  been  able  to  keep  her 
faith  in  supernatural  monitions  of  this 
sort  is  probably  owing  to  her  discreet 
practice  of  waiting  a  "spell."  It  has 
been  observed  that  several  days  or  even 
weeks  may  elapse  before  she  finds  the 
sequel  which  fits  with  nice  precision  the 
conditions  of  the  portent.  Now,  as  the 
sequel  may  pertain  to  calamity  within 


716  The  Contributors'   Club.  [November, 

her  own  household  or  that  of  a  neigh-  cultus.  Yet  it  is  no  wonder  that  he 
bor  ;  to  nature's  mismanagement  of  rain,  is  charmed  with  the  recent  school  of 
frost  and  heat  forces;  or  even  to  disas-  French  poets.  How  delicate,  how  sub- 
ters  of  a  national  character,  something  tile,  how  opalescent,  with  all  manner 
is  sure  to  happen  to  justify  her  presage-  of  vanishing  gleams  of  beauty,  natural 
ment  of  mischief.  Allow  her  time  and  spiritual,  seems  this  poetry,  corn- 
enough,  and  she  will  give  you  a  wholly  pared  with  that  of  their  more  heavily 
satisfactory  interpretation  of  any  bird  moulded  neighbors !  The  sonnets  of 
that  may  visit  your  casement.  It  is  im-  Sully  Prudhoinme,  for  example,  —  it  is 
possible  that  you  will  not  admire  the  impossible  to  translate  them ;  tint  arid 
artless  ingenuity  of  her  post-fact  proph-  perfume  have  vanished  from  the  pressed 
ecies.  flower.  But  one  is  possessed  to  attempt 
—  A  literary  friend  of  mine,  who  is  it,  as  in  the  three  sonnets  offered  here:  — 
a  little  irritable  and  subject  to  attacks 
of  extreme  views,  has  made  a  rather  late 

discovery  of  the  fine  qualities  of  modern  je  passerai  Pete"  dans  1'herbe,  sur  le  dos, 

French  literature.      Accordingly,  in  or-  La  nuque  dans  les  mains,  les  paupieres  mi-closes, 

der  tO  be  well  off   with   the   old  love  be-  ?LanS  "t!er  ™  «>upir  k  1'haldne  des  roses 

.Ni  troubler  le  sommeil  leger  des  clairs  echos ; 
fore    being   on    with   the   new,  he  has 

taken    to    reviling    the   German.      How  Sans  peur  je  livrerai  mon  sang,  ma  chair,  mes  os, 

many  people,  he  wants  to  know,  have  Mon  6tJ^£u  cours  de  Pheure  et  des  m<*amor- 

gone  to  the  Study  of  German  because  of  Calme,  et  laissant  la  foule  innombrable  des  causes 

the   alluring  tradition   that  Carlyle   was  Dans  1'ordre  universel  assurer  mon  repos; 

to  "  find  what  he  wanted  there  "  ?    And 

Sous  le  pavilion  d'or  que  le  soleil  d^ploie, 

of  the  number  how  many  have  come  to  Mes  yeux  boiront  lather,  dont  1'immuable  joie 

make   the   reflection   that  if,   indeed,   he  Filtrera  dans  mon  ame  au  travers  de  mes  cils, 

found  it  he  must  have  taken  it  all  away  _A 

.  Et  jedirai,  songeant  aux  hommes :  "  Que  f ont-ils  r  " 

With  him  !     The  trouble  is,  perhaps,  that  Et  le  ressouvenir  des  amours  et  des  haines 

my  friend  went  to  the  Germans  for  im-  Me  bercera,  pareil  au  bruit  des  mers  lointaines. 

aginative  literature.     And  now  he  finds 

their    literature     essentially     unpoetic. 

Their  fiction,  he  says,  is   diffuse   and  te-  All  summer  let  me  lie  along  the  grass, 

dious.      In  his  worst  moments  he  insists  Hands  under  head,  and  lids  that  almost  close; 

Nor  mix  a  sigh  with  breathings  of  the  rose, 

that  their  poetry   is   dull.       At   first  at-  Nor  vex  light-sleeping  echo  with  "  Alas !" 

tractive,  the  monotonous  canter  or  jog- 

trot  of   its  metres  becomes  wearisome,  Fearless,  I  will  abandon  blood,  and  limb, 

.  111       t"\'  •  And  very  soul  to  the  all-changing  hours ; 

With  the  noisy  click  and  clank  of  their  In  calmness  letting  the  unnumbered  powers 

consonant-encumbered   rhymes.     More-  Of  nature  weave  my  rest  into  their  hymn. 

over,  it  is  always  Blumen  and  Blumen. 

.  .  Beneath  the  sunshine's  golden  tent  uplift 

and  never  any  particular  species  of  flow-  Mine  eyes  shall  watch  the  upper  blue  unfurled, 

er  ;  always  Duft  and  Li/ft,  Klagen  and  Till  its  deep  joy  into  my  heart  shall  sift 

Schlagen,  Herz  and  Schmerz.  and  never 

'  .  .  .  Through  lashes    linked  ;   and,   dreaming  on  the 

any  specmc  variety  of  sound,  or  color,  world 

or  feeling.     It  is  as  if  only  the  common-  Its  love  and  hate,  or  memories  far  of  these, 

est  aspects  of   nature  or  life  had  ever  Sha11  lul1  me  like  the  sound  of  distant  seas' 

been  apprehended,  and  these  few  meagre  ETHER 

"  properties  "  had  been  handed  on  from 

one  poet  to  another  as  perpetual  heir-  Quand  on  est  sur  la  terre  ^tendu  sans  bouger, 

,  FTII*      •  3      if  Le  ciel  parait  plus  haut,  sa  splendeur  plus  sereme; 

looms.  ^    I  his  is,  no  doubt,  the  exagger-  On  aime  h  voir>  au  gr<,  d,une  insensibie  haleine, 

ated  view  of  a  late  convert  to  another  Dans  Pair  sublime  f uir  un  nuae-e  leger; 


1884.] 


The   Contributors'   Club. 


Ill 


II  est  tout  ce  qu'on  veut:  la  neige  d'un  verger, 
Un  archange  qui  plane,  une  e"charpe  qui  traine, 
Ou  le  lait  bouillon nant  d'uue  coupe  trop  pleine; 
On  le  voit  different  sans  1'avoir  vu  changer. 

Puis  un  vague  lambeau  lentement  s'en  de"tache, 
S'efface,  puis  un  atitre,  et  Tazur  luit  sans  tache, 
Plus  vif,  comme  1'acier  qu'un  souffle  avait  terni. 

Tel  change  incessament  mon  etre  avec  raon  age; 
Je  ne  suis  qu'un  soupir  animant  un  nuage, 
Et  je  vais  disparaitre,  e*pars  dans  1'infini. 

THE  CLOUD. 

Couched  on  the  turf,  and  lying  mute  and  still, 
While  the  deep  heaven  lifts  higher  and  more  pure, 
I  love  to  watch,  as  if  some  hidden  lure 
It  followed,  one  light  cloud  above  the  hill. 

The  flitting  film  takes  many  an  aspect  strange: 
An  orchard's  snow;  a  far-off,  sunlit  sail; 
A  fleck  of  foam;  a  seraph's  floating  veil. 
We  see  it  altered,  never  see  it  change. 

Now  a  soft  shred  detaches,  fades  from  sight ; 

Another  comes,  melts,  and  the  blue  is  clear 

And  clearer,  as  when  breath  has  dimmed  the  steel. 

Such  is  my  changeful  spirit,  year  by  year : 
A  sigh,  the  soul  of  such  a  cloud,  as  light 
And  vanishing,  lost  in  the  infinite. 

DE  LOIN. 

Du  bonheur  qu'ils  revaient  toujours  pur  et  nou- 

veau 

Les  couples  exauc^s  ne  jotiissent  qu'une  heure. 
Moins  emu  leur  baiser  ne  sourit  ni  lie  pleure ; 
Le  nid  de  leur  tendresse  endevieut  le  tombeau. 

Puisque  1'oeil  assouvi  se  fatigue  du  beau, 
Que  la  levre  en  jurant  un  long  culte  se  leurre, 
Que    des   printemps    d' amour    le    lis  des    qu'on 

1'effleure, 
Ou.  vont  les  autres  lis  va  lambeau  par  lambeau, 

J'accepte  le  tourment  de  vivre  e'loigne'  d'elle. 
Mon  homage  muet,  mais  aussi  plus  fidele, 
D'aucune  lassitude  en  mon  coeur  n'est  puni; 

Posant  sur  sa  beaute*  mon  respect  comme  un  voile 
Je  1'aime  sans  de"sir,  comme  on  aime  une  e'toile, 
Avec  le  sentiment  qu'elle  est  a  1'infini. 

IN  SEPARATION. 

The  bliss  that  happy  lovers  dream  will  bloom 
Forever  new  shall  scarce  outlast  the  year : 
Their  calmer  kisses  wake  nor  smile  nor  tear; 
Love's  nesting-place  already  is  its  tomb. 

Since  sated  eyes  grow  weary  of  their  prey, 
And  constant  vows  their  own  best  hopes  betray, 
And  love's  June  lily,  marred  but  by  a  breath, 
Falls  where  the  other  lilies  lie  in  death, 


Therefore  the  doom  of  land  and  sea  that  bar 
My  life  from  hers  I  do  accept.     At  least 
No  passion  will  rise  jaded  from  the  feast, 

My  pure  respect  no  passing  fires  can  stain ; 
So  without  hope  I  love  her,  without  pain, 
Without  desire,  as  one  might  love  a  star. 

—  It  appears  that  the  admirers  of  Bal- 
zac are  not  few  in  America,  and  I  take 
it  for  granted  that  most  of  them  have 
read  Mr.  Edgar  Saltus's  charming  little 
book,  in  which  the  great  novelist  and 
coffee-drinker  is  so  cleverly  sketched. 
Cleverly  sketched,  I  say,  but  I  must 
hasten  to  add  that  Mr.  Saltus  gives  us 
something  better  than  mere  cleverness 
in  his  study.  True  enthusiasm  is  al- 
ways infectious,  and  it  is  also  a  prime 
ingredient  of  genius ;  moreover,  along 
with  this  enthusiasm,  when  our  recep- 
tivity has  been  well  fortified  by  a  gen- 
erous foretaste,  there  comes  a  faith  in 
the  genuineness  of  what  is  offered  us. 
There  is  a  zestful  Franco -American 
flavor  to  Mr.  Saltus's  style,  and  a  pecul- 
iar, albeit  at  times  rather  elusive,  fresh- 
ness in  his  suggestions.  Balzac  is  no 
babe  to  handle.  One  who  come"  upon 
him  for  the  first  time  recoils  from  his 
mere  bulk,  as  from  an  elephant ;  and 
the  longer  one  studies  him  the  huger 
he  appears.  Mr.  Saltus  is  sincere,  and 
well  aware  of  the  difficulties  in  his  task, 
but,  like  David  with  the  chosen  stone  in 
his  sling,  he  goes  to  the  venture  enthu- 
siastically and  confidently.  The  result 
is  something  well  worth  careful  reading. 
It  condenses,  to  a  degree,  the  chaotic 
profusion  of  the  great  Frenchman's  cre- 
ations, and  offers  us  something  like  a 
strong  impressionistic  sketch  of  a  genius 
at  once  the  greatest  in  some  respects, 
and  the  most  provokingly  unsatisfactory 
in  all  respects,  given  to  modern  times. 
Upon  reading  Mr.  Saltus's  book  I  asked 
myself  the  question,  What  would  a  Bal- 
zac do  in  America  ?  Where  would  he 
make  his  literary  lair  ?  How  would  he 
go  about  collecting  the  materials  for  hi3 
American  Comedie  Humaine  ?  How, 
in  some  dingy  Boston  or  New  York  loft, 


718 


The   Contributors'   Club. 


[November, 


with  his  old  wrap  around  him,  would 
he  so  brew  his  coffee  as  to  draw  from 
it  the  Contes  Drolatiques  of  neologistic 
Young  America  ?  What  street  would 
be  the  Rue  Lesdiguieres,  out  of  whose 
cobwebbed  garret  should  issue  the 
strange  stream  whose  current,  blended 

o 

of  all  the  constants,  the  variables,  arid 
the  increments  of  American  life,  would 
break  down  every  barrier,  and  flood  the 
whole  field  of  fiction  ?  We  have  long 
been  talking  about  the  great  American 
novel.  Balzac's  colossal  idea,  the  Co- 
medie  Humaine,  would  have  been,  could 
.he  have  reduced  it  to  shape,  the  great 
French  novel ;  but,  on  the  same  scale, 
what  would  the  American  comedie  be, 
and  what  man  has  the  nerve  to  under- 
take to  write  it  ?  Novelists  of  to-day 
think  they  are  treading  in  Balzac's 
tracks  when  they  spin  their  slender 
story  and  draw  it  through  a  hundred 
eyelets  of  analysis,  but  they  are  as  wide- 
ly erring  as  are  the  linnet-voiced  poets 
who  fancy  they  resemble  Shakespeare  ! 
A  novelist  of  Balzac's  breadth,  depth, 
strength,  and  fearlessness,  if  he  should 
suddenly  appear  in  America,  would  be 
at  once  a  joy  and  a  terror ;  for  he  would 
run  the  gamut  of  our  social,  religious, 
commercial,  and  political  sins  and  vir- 
tues, with  a  voice  whose  volume  would 
be  overwhelming,  and  whose  compass 
would  not  be  strained  by  the  furthest 
extremities  of  exertion. 

Theophile  Gautier,  in  his  brilliant 
preface  to  the  Fleurs  du  Mai  of  Charles 
Baudelaire,  gives  a  curiously  forcible 
suggestion  of  Balzac's  nerve  power. 
At  one  of  the  meetings  of  le  club  des 
haschichins  the  members  attempted  to 
prevail  on  Balzac  to  taste  the  dawamesk. 
Says  Gautier,  "  In  returning  the  spoon- 
ful of  dawamesk  (hasheesh)  offered  him, 
Balzac  said  that  the  experiment  was  not 
worth  while,  and  that  the  hasheesh,  he 
was  quite  sure,  would  have  no  effect  on 
his  brain.  It  was,  perhaps,  possible 
that  this  powerful  brain,  where  reason 
sat  enthroned,  fortified  by  study,  satura- 


ted with  the  subtile  aroma  of  Mocha, — 
a  brain  that  three  bottles  of  the  best 
wine  of  Vouvray  could  not  in  the  least 
becloud,  —  would  have  been  capable  ot 
resisting  the  fleeting  intoxication  of  In- 
dian hemp." 

We  know  with  how  many  grains  of 
salt  we  are  permitted  to  take  M.  Gau- 
tier's  praise  of  his  contemporaries  when 
he  gets    it  pitched  in  a  high  key,  but 
there  must  have  been  a  giantesque  per- 
sonality to  call  forth  all  that  has  been 
written  of  Balzac.     Born  at  Tours,  he 
drifted  into  Parisian   life  by  the  same 
channel  that  has  since  known  so  many 
provincial  waifs,  and  found  his  way  to 
novel-writing  by  the  hardest  and  mean- 
est turns.     His  methods  were  not  those 
of  M.  Alphonse  Daudet  and  the  present 
realistic  school  of   Parisian  fiction-wri- 
ters ;  yet,  notwithstanding  his  prolixity, 
his  coarse    sensuality,  and  his   singular 
liking  for  hideously  abandoned  people, 
one  cannot  help  regretting  that  some  of 
his  masterly  strength   and   virility  has 
not  descended  to  the  novelists  of  to-day. 
I    have    often    thought    that   a   careful 
study  of  Balzac,  not  to  imitate  him,  but 
to  profit  by  his  courage,  his  faithfulness, 
and  his  respect  for  details,  would  turn 
our  younger  novelists  into  a  more  de- 
sirable field  with  a  wider  horizon  before 
them.     Analysis    is  a  great   thing,  but 
there    is   a  very  appreciable   difference 
between   the    analysis    that   involves    a 
deep  and  broad  human  interest  and  that 
which  keeps  us  quibbling  over  what  I 
should  like  to  call  psychal  infinitesimals. 
It  may  be,  however,  that,  after  all,  too 
much  study  of  Balzac  has  led  certain  of 
our  American  analysts  into  the  extremes 
of  that  hair-splitting  dissection  of  mo- 
tives of  which  we  are  all  quite  tired, 
can  readily  see  how  this  might  be  the 
case.     A  thorough -going  admirer  easily 
becomes  an  imitator,  and  an  imitator,  as 
a  rule,  gathers  to  himself,  with  provok- 
ing care,  all  the  faults  and  but  few  of 

O  ' 

the  excellences  of  his  model.     Conced- 
ing the  fact  that  Balzac  is  the  model, 


1884.] 


Books  of  the  Month. 


719 


and  admitting  that  certain  American  of  the  mental  process  by  which  an  im- 
novelists  are  the  imitators,  why  should  pecunious  foreign  nobleman  screws  his 
we  wonder  that  we  are  called  upon  by  courage  up  to  the  point  of  proposing 
the  latter  to  hold  our  breath  while  they  marriage  to  a  "  vulgar  American  heir- 
cover  a  dozen  pages  with  a  description  ess,  you  know  ! ' 


BOOKS   OF   THE   MONTH. 


Literature.  A  very  pretty  edition  of  Walton's 
The  Complete  Angler  is  published  by  T.  Y.  Crow- 
ell.  It  is  noted  as  from  the  fourth  London  edi- 
tion, and  is  the  well-known  Major's  edition.  The 
page  and  type  are  good  ;  the  woodcuts  are  appar- 
ently reproductions  of  somewhat  worn  plates,  but 
they  are  printed  with  care,  and  in  its  neat  bind- 
ing the  book  is  very  acceptable.  — A  complete 
edition  of  George  Eliot's  poems  (Crowell)  is  ac- 
companied by  a  number  of  fair  full-page  pictures, 
and  preceded  by  an  essay  from  the  Contemporary 
Review  written  by  the  English  critic  who  signs 
himself  Matthew  Browne.  Besides  the  Spanish 
Gypsy,  The  Legend  of  Jubal,  Agatha,  Armgart, 
and  How  Lisa  Loved  the  King,  there  are  but  ten 
minor  poems.  The  binding  is  rather  tasteless.  — 
The  Home  in  Poetry,  compiled  by  Laura  C.  Hol- 
loway  (Funk  &  Wagnalls),  is  a  collection  of  do- 
mestic poems  of  greater  or  less  notoriety.  The 
English  and  American  muse  always  was  a  house- 
keeper. There  is  no  special  judgment  shown  in 
the  compilation.  Every  one  must  make  from  it 
his  own  selection.  —  Red-Letter  Poems  by  Eng- 
lish Men  and  Women  (Crowell)  is  another  selec- 
tion, ranging  from  Chaucer  to  the  Miss  Robinson 
who  alternates  names  and  initials.  The  attempt 
is  made  simply  to  register  the  verdict  already 
passed  by  multitudes  of  readers  and  many  com- 
pilers. It  seems  to  us  unwise,  however,  to  give 
selections  from  short  poems.  The  weakness  of  the 
editor's  taste  appears  when  it  is  exercised  on  con- 
temporary verse.  —  Selections  from  the  Poetical 
Works  of  A.  C.  Swinburne,  edited  by  R.  H.  Stod- 
dard  (Crowell),  consist  of  Atalanta  in  Calydon, 
Erechtheus,  Chastelard,  Bothwell,  Mary  Stuart, 
and  the  least  erotic  of  Poems  and  Ballads,  together 
with  a  score  of  sonnets.  The  selection  is  abundant 
enough  to  stand  as  a  complete  edition  of  Swin- 
burne, with  those  poems  omitted  which  the  judi- 
cious parent  would  skip  if  reading  aloud.  —  Stray 
Leaves  from  Strange  Literature  is  a  collection  of 
stories  chiefly  from  oriental  sources,  retold  by 
Lafcadio  Hearn.  (Osgood.  )Mr.  Hearn  has  selected 
those  subjects  which  trench  on  the  marvelous,  and 
is  himself  evidently  in  love  with  the  fantastic  and 
bizarre.  He  has  relied  upon  translators,  but  has 
touched  his  material  with  his  own  art.  —  Wit, 
Wisdom,  and  Philosophy  of  Jean  Paul  Richter, 
edited  by  Giles  P.  Hawley  (Funk  &  Wagnalls) 
is  prefaced  by  extracts  from  Carlyle's  essay  and 


Longfellow's  Hyperion.  The  editor  has  classified 
his  extracts,  and  Richter  stands  excerpting  so 
well  that  one  may  take  the  book  up  with  confi- 
dence. —  Hemy  James's  A  Little  Tour  in  France 
(Osgood  &  Co.)  is  a  volume  that  requires  no  in- 
troduction to  readers  of  this  magazine,  in  whose 
pages  the  contents  were  originally  printed  under 
the  title  of  En  Province.  These  delightful  sketches 
of  travel  are  of  a  kind  that  bears  reprinting. 
—  The  author  of  John  Halifax,  Gentleman  tells 
the  quaint,  domestic  tale  of  Miss  Tommy  ;  a  lit- 
tle overcharged,  possibly,  with  sentiment,  but 
with  so  substantial  a  foundation  of  fact  that  one 
submits  cheerfully  to  the  draft  on  one's  emotion. 
With  the  story  is  the  little  sketch  In  a  House- 
Boat,  which  makes  one  wish  to  read  over  again 
Rudder  Grange.  (Harpers.)  —  The  Adventures 
of  a  Widow,  by  Edgar  Fawcett  (Osgood),  is  a 
social  novel.  We  wonder  sometimes  if  it  is  be- 
cause people  are  becoming  used  to  the  style  that 
they  do  not  stare  when  they  come  across  such  a 
sentence  as  this:  "Mrs.  Poughkeepsie  rose.  It 
always  meant  something  when  this  lady  rose.  It 
meant  a  flutter  of  raiment,  a  deliberation  of  read- 
justment, a  kind  of  superb  massive  dislocation." 
Our  modern  novels  are  getting  to  be  too  heavily 
weighted  with  stuff  like  this.  —  The  House  on  the 
Marsh  (Appleton)  is  a  damp,  gruesome  sort  of 
story,  told  with  an  unwholesome  power. — An- 
nouchka,  a  tale  by  Turgenef,  is  translated  by 
Franklin  Abbott  from  the  French  of  the  au- 
thor's own  translation  (Cupples,  Upham  &  Co.). 
Mr.  Abbott's  version  strikes  us  as  very  good,  —  at 
least  it  is  good  English.  —  The  King's  Men,  a  tale 
of  to-morrow  (Scribners),  is  the  joint  production 
of  four  gentlemen,  who  cast  a  fictitious  horoscope 
for  Great  Britain.  —  The  Story  of  a  Country 
Town,  by  E.  W.  Howe  (Osgood),  is  a  novel,  re- 
printed from  its  first  form  in  a  Kansas  publica- 
tion, which  has  justly  attracted  attention.  It  is 
worth  while  to  put  up  with  the  author's  melo- 
drama and  his  ineffectual  close,  to  discover  the  de- 
licious cynicism  of  Lytle  Biggs  and  the  strong 
portrait  of  Rev.  John  Westlock.  —In  the  Trans- 
atlantic Series  (Putnams),  The  World  we  Live  In, 
by  Oswald  Crawfurd,  will  satisfy  those  who  like 
to  see  a  stage  villain  choked  in  a  spectacular  fash- 
ion at  the  end  of  a  melodramatic  story.  Mr. 
Crawfurd's  world  is  a  watering-place  sort  of  a 
world.  Nobody  in  it  does  anything  for  a  living. 


720 


Books  of  the  Month. 


[November. 


—  Ten  Years  a  Police  Court  Judge,  by  Judge 
Wiglittle,  of  a  country  circuit   (Funk  &  Wag- 
nails),  has  the  form  of  fiction,  but  professes  also  to 
record  the  experience  of  a  New  England  justice. 
The  book  has  much  to  interest  one,  but  it  reads  as 
if  too  close  contact  with  petty  crime  had  rendered 
Judge  Wiglittle  a  trifle  careless  about  his  own 
manners  in  literature.  —  '49,  the  Gold-Seeker  of 
the  Sierras,  b}7  Joaquin  Miller.     (Funk  &  Wag- 
nails.)    Mr.  Milter  succeeds  in  casting  such  an 
air  of  unreality  over  his  story  that  we  have  great 
doubts  whether  it  will  be  placed  in  the  archives 
at  Washington  as  a  veracious  chronicle  of  Cali- 
fornia.—  Recent  numbers   of  Harper's  Franklin 
Squai'e  Series  are  Curiosities  of  the  Search-Room, 
a  collection  of  serious  and  whimsical  wills,  which 
is  rather  material    for  fiction,    than  fiction,  and 
Smedley's  well-known  novel  of  Frank  Fairlegh. 

Current  Poetry.  Songs  and  Lyrics,  by  George 
Ambrose  Dennison  (Putnams),  is  an  agreeable  lit- 
tle volume  in  its  outward  form ;  the  verse  is  that 
of  a  man  who  has  an  admiration  for  poetry  ab- 
stractly considered,  and  deals  chiefly  with  the  ele- 
mental sources  of  inspiration,  —  the  sea,  the  night, 
the  pine-tree,  the  stars.  The  result  is  an  impression 
of  sincerity,  though  not  of  singular  power  or  in- 
sight. —  Verses,  by  Herbert  Wolcott  Bowen  (Cup- 
pies,  Upham  &  Co.),  have  the  merit  of  simplicity, 
but  it  is  simplicity  which  is  not  always  to  be  dis- 
tinguished from  commonplace.  —  Lays  from  Over 
Sea,  by  William  H.  Babcock  (W.  Stewart  &  Co., 
London),  is  principally  occupied  with  three  nar- 
rative poems  or  ballads  and  two  or  three  sonnets. 
There  is  a  certain  f  reedom  of  movement,  but  no  sin- 
gular art.  —  Alexander  the  Priest  is  a  libretto  for 
an  opera,  by  William  A.  Swank  (Randolph  &  Eng- 
lish, Richmond,  Va. )  —  Seven  Hundred  Album 
Verses,  compiled  by  J.  S.  Ogilvie  (J.  S.  Ogilvie 
&  Co.,  New  York),  is  for  the  benefit  of  people  who 
are  asked  to  write  in  albums.  "  Great  care,"  the 
author  says,  "has  been  taken  to  procure  as  many 
original  pieces  as  possible."  That  will  be  con- 
venient, for  the  persons  who  ask  one  to  write  in  al- 
bums always  prefer  original  pieces.  —  A  Califor- 
nia Pilgrimage,  by  one  of  the  Pilgrims  (S.  Carson 
&  Co.,  San  Francisco),  is  a  series  of  rhymed  lines 
which  turn  out  to  be  crippled  Alexandrines. 
They  cover  a  number  of  visits  to  various  missions, 
and  have  some  interest  as  descriptions,  but  one 
cannot  help  thinking  that  sturdy,  walking  prose 
would  have  answered  the  author's  purpose  better. 

—  The  Confessions  of  Hermes  and  Other  Poems 
(David  McKay,  Philadelphia)  bears  upon  its  title- 
page  the  name  of  Paul  Hermes  as  author.     There 
is  a  frankness  and  thoughtfulness  in  the  longest 
poem  —  which  is  in  the  nature  of  a  spiritual  auto- 
biography—  quite  sure  to  carry  to  its  conclusion 
any  reader  who  is  persuaded  into  beginning  it.    It 
will  not  be  found  a  complete  interpretation  of  the 
mystery  of   life,  —  Hermes  suggests  hermetical 
as  well  as  hermeneutics, — but  it  puts  well  some 
searching  questions.    Several  of  the  shorter  poems 
have  melody  in  them,  but  it  is  clear  that  the  poet 
has  not  escaped  from  the  mesh  of  speculation.    He 
does  not  yet  sing  outside  of  his  cage.  —  Katie,  by 


Henry  Timrod  (E.  J.  Hale  Son,  New  York),  is 
a  graceful  little  poem,  with  passable  illustrations. 
One  cannot  read  it  without  regret  that  a  poet  so 
simple  and  honest  as  Timrod  should  not  be  living 
to  share  in  the  literary  spirit  of  his  section,  and  to 
give  the  example  of  his  reserve  and  good  taste  to 
verse-writers  in  general. 

History  and  Politics.  Universal  History,  the 
Oldest  Historical  Group  of  Nations  and  the  Greeks, 
by  Leopold  von  Ranke;  edited  by  G.  W.  Pro- 
thero.  (Harpers.)  Mr.  Prothero  claims  for  the 
work  that  no  similar  attempt  has  been  made  to 
present  a  connected  view  of  universal  history  in 
the  English  language.  If  completed,  the  work  will 
occupy  six  or  seven  volumes  more,  the  author's 
intention  being  to  bring  the  subject  to  date.  "A 
collection  of  national  histories,"  says  Von  Ranke, 
"whether  on  a  larger  or  a  smaller  scale,  is  not 
what  we  mean  by  universal  history,  for  in  such 
a  work  the  general  connection  of  things  is  liable 
to  be  obscured.  To  recognize  this  connection,  to 
trace  the  sequence  of  those  great  events  which 
link  all  nations  together  and  control  their  desti- 
nies, is  the  task  which  the  science  of  universal 
history  undertakes." — Speeches,  Arguments,  and 
Miscellaneous  Papers  of  David  Dudley  Field,  ed- 
ited  by  A.  P.  Sprague.  (Appleton.)  The  contents 
extend  over  a  period  from  1839  to  1884,  and  em- 
braces chiefly  legal,  international,  and  political 
subjects.  —  The  Discovei'ies  of  America  to  the 
year  1525,  by  Arthur  James  Weise.  (Putnams.) 
Mr.  Weise  has  given  the  reader  who  knows  how 
to  use  his  book  much  convenient  material. 

Biography.  Life  and  Public  Services  of  Grover 
Cleveland,  by  Pendleton  King  (Putnams),  has  the 
merit  that  it  confines  itself  to  the  actual  public  life 
of  the  Democratic  candidate,  and  supplies  the 
reader  with  the  evidence,  drawn  from  Mr.  Cleve- 
land's own  words  and  acts,  for  a  confidence  in 
him.  The  writer  rarely  intrudes  his  own  opinions. 

Books  for  Young  People.  Little  Arthur's  His- 
tory of  England,  by  Lady  Callcott  (Crowell),  is,  we 
believe,  a  popular  book  in  England.  It  is  adapted 
to  young  noblemen  and  gentlemen,  but  the  writer, 
who  deals  chiefly  with  persons  in  her  history,  and 
very  little  with  laws  and  institutions,  tries  hard  to 
be  fair  in  her  treatment  of  those  whom  she  instinc- 
tively dislikes. — Captain  Phil,  a  Boy's  Experi- 
ence in  the  Western  Army  during  the  War  of  the 
Rebellion,  by  M.  M.  Thomas  (Holt)  ;  a  tale  in 
which  the  incidents  of  the  war  are  real,  the  author 
using  but  little  invention,  apparently.  The  style 
is  one  of  earnestness,  and  there  is  a  fervor  of  pa- 
triotism which  ought  to  take  boys  captive.  It  is 
adapted  to  the  country  north  of  Mason  and  Dix- 
on's  line.  —  The  Voyage  of  the  Vivian  to  the 
North  Pole  and  Beyond,  by  Thomas  W.  Knox 
(Harpers),  is  an  ingenious  narrative  based  upon 
the  voyages  of  Arctic  travelers,  and  carrying  a 
ship  into  the  problematical  open  Polar  Sea.  Mr. 
Knox  helps  himself  judiciously  to  the  works  of 
travelers,  and  while  he  has  not  much  freedom  of 
style  his  material  is  so  good  that  boys,  with  their 
cast-iron  digestive  powers,  will  have  no  difficulty 
in  bolting  the  book. 


THE 


ATLANTIC    MONTHLY: 


jftaga?ine  of  Literature,  Science,  art,  ant) 


VOL.  LIV.  —  DECEMBER,  1884.  —  No.  CCCXXVL 


IN  WAR  TIME. 


XXIII. 


SOON  there  fell  upon  the  house  the 
quiet  with  which  we  surround  those  who 
have  no  longer  the  power  to  hear,  and 
the  servants  went  and  came  with  the 
want  of  naturalness  which  death  inevi- 
tably brings  to  all  who  are  not  simply 
crushed  by  grief.  Arthur,  too  deeply 
hurt  to  be  of  any  use,  sent  for  Mr.  Wil- 
mington, and  had  a  curious  wonderment 

O  7 


which  she  was  wont  to  enliven  her  labor 
or  gratify  her  leisure.  Wendell  stood 
still  a  moment  at  the  door. 

"  Ah  !  Is  that  you,  Ezra  ?  "  she  said. 
"  How  late  you  are  !  You  are  getting 
very  unpunctual.  Your  tea  must  be 
stone  cold." 

Her  quiet  little  criticism  —  she  smiled 
as  she  spoke  —  exasperated  him. 

"  You,  at  least,  seem  very  comforta- 
ble !  "  he  exclaimed,  in  a  tone  so  hard 


because    the  old   man,  who   was  much  and   unnatural   that  his    sister  rose  in- 
attached   to   Edward^  did   not  seem  to  stantly,  facing  him.     Then,  even  in  the 
be  more  shocked  and  more  visibly  dis-  failing  light,  Ann  saw  that  in  his  face 
tressed.     Arthur  was  too  young  to  have  which  shocked  her. 
learned   that   age   rarely    retains   life's          "  What   has    happened  ?     Something 
primal  capacity  to  grieve,  and  that  for  it  has  gone  wrong.     What  is  it  ? ' 
a  young  life  cut  short  does  not  awaken         He  hesitated  a  moment  before  saying, 
the  same  sense  of  premature  wreck  as  "  You  won't  be  so  comfortable  when  I 
it  does  in  the  young  themselves.     Age  tell  you."    He  recalled  with  an  approach 


is  too  near  eternity  to  value  justly  hu- 
man hopes.  Yet  the  elder  man's  calm 
was  of  service  to  Arthur,  and  steadied 
him  ;  and  then,  too,  the  following  day 
Hester  came  over  with  Ann  Wendell  to 
see  him. 


to  fury  that  it  was  the  haste  caused  by 
Ann's  obstinate  folly  that  had  been  the 
true  cause  of  the  disaster  which  had 
befallen  him. 

"  Why  do  you  speak  so  to  me,  broth- 
er ?  "  she  said.  "  There  is  nothing  wrong 


Wendell  had  felt  that  it  was  wise  to     with  you,  is  there  ?  ' 


stay  as  long  as  possible  at  the  Mortons', 
so  that  it  was  near  dusk  before  he 
reached  home. 


"  No  ;  but  Edward  Morton  died  sud- 
denly, this  afternoon." 

"  How  dreadful,  Ezra  !     I  have  long 


Ann    was    comfortably    seated   in   a  believed  it  could  not   be   far  off;   but 

rocking-chair,  her  work  on  her  lap,  the  death  is  always  near,  and  always  far  off. 

shadows  of  evening  having  for  a  time  What  can  I  do  for  them  ?     Don't  you 

suspended  her  task.     She  was    singing  think  I  should  go  over  there  at  once  ?  ' 
one  of  the  old  Puritan  hymn  tunes  with          "  No  one  will  want  you,"  he  answered 


Copyright,  1884,  by  HOUGHTON,  MIFFLIN  &  Co. 


722 


In  War  Time. 


[December, 


abruptly.  "  Edward  was  in  great  pain 
when  I  got  there,  and  your  letter  did 
not  make  things  any  better." 

"  You  cannot  mean  that  what  I  did 
hurt  him !  How  could  it  do  that  ?  How 
could  I  have  hurt  any  one  I  loved  so 
well  ?  And  it  had  to  be  done,  —  it  had 
to  be  done." 

"  Yes,  and  so  have  all  stupid  follies, 
I  suppose." 

"  Ezra !  " 

"  Oh,  I  don't  mean  it  killed  him,  but 
it  did  make  him  worse.  How  could  it 
do  otherwise  ?  " 

"  Will  you  tell  me  how  the  boy  died, 
brother  ?  ':  She  spoke  quietly  and  softly. 

"  I  can't,"  he  said.  "I  —  Don't  ask 
me  any  more  about  it  yet.  I  was  never 
in  my  life  so  upset  by  anything." 

"  Very  well.  Don't  say  any  more 
now.  We  will  talk  of  it  another  time. 
But  why  did  Mrs.  Morton  trouble  the 
sick  lad  with  my  letter?  Surely  that 
was  needless." 

"  She  was  so  angry,  Ann,  that  I  think 
she  lost  her  head.  She  broke  out  about 
it  before  both  the  boys.  A  nice  busi- 
ness you  have  made  of  it !  I  call  it 
wicked." 

Ann's  eyes  filled ;  if  ever  tears  were 
bitter,  hers  were  bitter  then.  Her  inces- 
sant sacrifices  for  her  brother  had  been 
too  purely  instinctive  to  be  counted  by 
her  as  of  any  weight  in  their  mutual 
relations.  Secure  of  his  affection,  she 
asked  no  more  return  for  the  gentle  of- 
fices of  life  than  the  mother-bird  asks  of 
her  young  ;  but  that  any  one  she  loved 
should  think  she  would  deliberately  do 
a  wrong  action  disturbed  her  deeply. 

"  What  we  think  right,"  she  said,  "  is 
all  the  riorht  we  can  do.  The  issues  are 

o 

in  other  hands.  Please  not  to  say  I  am 
wicked,  Ezra ;  but  you  did  not  say  that, 
did  you,  —  not  that,  exactly  ?  ' 

"  I  do  not  know  what  I  said.  I  trust 
that  you  were  not  fool  enough  to  talk 
to  Mr.  Gray.  In  future  I  hope  you 
will  consult  me  about  things  which  con- 
cern me  more  than  any  one  else." 


"  I  will  do  as  you  say,  brother,  as  to 
anything  in  which  my  conscience  is  not 
concerned." 

"  Conscience  !  I  am  tired  of  hearing 
of  it.  Did  you  see  Mr.  Gray  ?  ' 

"  I  did  not.  He  failed  to  come,  as 
he  said  he  would.  He  was  delayed,  and 
has  sent  a  letter  for  you." 

Wendell  took  it  from  her.  "  When 
he  does  come,  Ann,  you  must  not  speak 
to  him  at  all  about  this  matter.  I  shall 
attend  to  it  myself." 

"  Oh,"  said  Ann,  shocked  into  un- 
usual subjugation,  "  if  you  will  do  so,  I 
shall  be  much  relieved,  Ezra.  You  are 
certainly  the  proper  person  ;  but  you  did 
not  appear  to  think  it  quite  so  important 
as  it  seemed  to  me." 

"  Very  well,"  he  returned,  "  we  shall 
see  ; "  but  he  made  no  such  pledge  as 
-Ann  desired. 

"  Has  Mr.  Morton  been  heard  from  ?  " 
she  asked.  "  Somehow  I  cannot  feel  at 
ease  about  it.  I  just  seem  to  be  putting 
aside  a  duty.  And  this  awful  death ! 
It  seems  to  bring  one's  duties  closer, 
Ezra." 


1884.] 


In  War  Time. 


723 


cannot  strike  and  not  hurt  our  own 
knuckles. 

"  I  am  perfectly  wretched,"  he  re- 
turned. "  This  death  has  been  too  much 
for  me.  You  must  forgive  me,  sister." 

"  Don't  ask  me  to  forgive  you,  brother. 
It  hurts  me  to  think  that  you  feel  I 
have  anything  to  forgive.  You  will  go 
and  lie  down,  won't  you  ?  I  will  not 
mention  that  business  any  more." 

"  Thank  you,"  he  said,  and  went  up- 
stairs. 

Once  in  his  room  he  threw  himself 
on  the  bed,  and  with  his  hands  clasped 
behind  his  head  lay  still  and  thought. 

He  was   annoved  that  he  could  not 

v 

steadily   control    his   own    logical    pro- 
cesses. He  tried  to  feel  clear  that  he  was 
not  entirely  to  blame  for  Edward's  death, 
and    then    essayed  with   some   ease   to 
persuade   himself  that  Arthur  was  the 
person    most    blamable,   and  yet   that 
even  if  he  himself  had  been  hasty  or 
careless  he  was  bound   to  protect  Ar- 
thur, and  that  to  speak  frankly  would 
never  so  entirely  clear  Arthur  as  to  be 
of  any  use.  Still,  no  sooner  had  he  seem- 
ingly  satisfied   himself    than    thoughts 
which    rose    unsummoned,   like* ghosts, 
startled  him,  and  filled   his  mind  with 
new  and  horrible  suggestions  of  future 
risks  and  dangers.     Vivid  and  terrible 
images  of   the   fatal   moment  of   haste 
came  before   him,  and  with   a  memory 
of  his  physical  recoil  he  saw  again  the 
dead,  and  his   own  hand  stretched  out 
to  close  the  open  eyes.    It  was  growing 
dark.     He  rose  and  lit  the  gas.     As  he 
crossed   the  room   he  remembered  the 
Middle-Age  belief  that  the  blood  would 
flow  anew  when  the  slayer  touched  the 
dead  slain.     There  was  a  grotesque  hor- 
ror in  the  idea  that  in  a  man  who  had 
been  poisoned   this  could  not  be.     He 
sat  down,  with  his  face  in  his  hands,  and 
gave  way  to  a  strange  sense  of  mental 
confusion,  a  valueless  jostling  of  incon- 
gruous thoughts  and  memories  and  fears, 
which   seemed  to  come  and  go  on  the 
stage  of  consciousness,  until  at  last  the 


giddiness  which  sometimes  follows  great 
emotional  tension  made  him  stagger  to 

OO 

the  bed,  on  which  he  fell  heavily. 

Then  happening   to    see  Mr.   Gray's 
letter,  which  had  dropped  on  the  floor, 
and  being  a  little  eased  by  the  supine 
position,    the    physical   distress   of    his 
vertigo  having  for  the  time  cleared  his 
head  of   its  thronging  and  uncontrolla- 
ble phantoms,  he  opened  the  envelope. 
It  contained  a  kind  note,  in  which  Mr. 
Gray  desired  the  doctor  to  tell  Hester 
that,  if  pleasant  for  her,  he  wished  her 
in  a  week  or  two  to  go  with  him  to  Bal- 
timore, and  further  south  if  the  state  of 
the  country  made  that  possible.    He  re- 
peated his  thanks  to  Miss  Wendell  and 
her  brother,  and  said  that  even  if  Hester 
wished  to  return  to  them  for  a  time,  he 
would  like  now  to  take  charge  of  the  sum 
placed  in  Wendell's  hands.     He  hoped, 
however,  that  Dr.  Wendell  would  not 
feel  unwilling  to  retain  a  thousand  dol- 
lars, as  he  had  before  asked  him  to  do, 
and  also  would  kindly  render  him  a  full 
account  of  the  extent  to  which  money 
had  been  expended  for  Hester's  board 
and  dress.     He  desired  that  the   nine 
thousand  dollars  might  be  remitted  to 
him  in  New  York  by  draft  as  soon  as 
convenient. 

This  added  blow  fell  with  but  little 
weight  on  Wendell.  Capacity  to  feel 
anxiety  has  its  limits  in  mysterious  fail- 
ures of  response  in  the  brain  cells,  and 
convulsive  explosions  of  emotional  tor- 
ment make  impossible  for  a  time  the 
normal  activities  which  an  intellect- 
ual conception  of  a  difficulty  or  trouble 
should  awaken.  He  had  a  certain  ob- 
scure sense  that  this  matter  had  been 
provided  for,  until  suddenly  he  remem- 
bered that  this  idea  was  due  to  Edward's 
promise  to  lend  hftn  money.  A  more 
commercially  minded  man  would  very 
.early  have  presented  to  himself  this 
as  one,  at  least,  of  the  embarrassments 
which  arose  out  of  this  calamity,  but 
Wendell  was  not  prone  to  think  even 
enough  of  money.  To  do  him  justice, 


724 


In  War  Time. 


[December, 


through  all  his  fears,  and  efforts  at  self- 
vindicatiou,  there  was  forever  coming 
and  going  a  remembrance  of  how  dear 
to  him  had  been  the  young  man  who 
was  dead,  how  noble  he  had  been,  how 
tender  and  true  a  friend.  Recalling 
Edward's  self-sacrificing  character,  he 
even  tried  to  find  in  this  an  excuse  for 
his  own  concealment,  not  for  the  mo- 
ment setting  before  himself  the  concep- 
tion that  in  hiding  the  truth  he  was  al- 
lowing an  innocent  person  to  bear  his 
guilt,  even  if  only  in  the  minds  of  Mrs. 
Morton  arid  Mrs.  Westerley. 

ki  And  really,"  he  said  to  himself,  "  a 
brother  should  have  been  the  most  care- 
ful ; "  and  he  thus  confused  himself  at 
moments  into  a  state  of  rest  of  mind. 
Many  people  are  helped  at  such  times 
by  their  incapacity  to  think  clearly,  and 
at  all  times  Wendell,  who  was  admirably 
veneered  with  intelligence,  was  incapa- 
ble of  attaining  in  any  of  his  logical 
processes  the  defmiteness  of  results  which 
is  reached  by  more  thoroughly  trained 
intellects. 

By  degrees,  this  matter  of  the  money 
he  was  unable  to  return  to  its  owner 
began  to  relate  itself  painfully  to  Alice 
Westerley.  Too  well  he  knew  what 
sentence  he  might  have  to  read  in  those 
eyes,  whose  light  would  be  to  him  as 
the  sheen  on  the  blade  of  the  angel  of 
judgment.  For  the  time  the  nearness 
of  this  peril  routed  all  other  terrors,  and 
he  sat  on  the  bedside  holding  the  letter 
and  thinking  the  vain  thoughts  of  a 
man  without  resource.  At  last  he  felt 
again  the  dizziness  which  is  so  apt,  upon 
concentration  of  mental  effort,  to  re- 
turn to  a  brain  recently  overstrained  by 
either  work  or  emotion.  Then  he  be- 
gan to  fear  lest  some  horrible  physical 
incapacity  should  cotne  upon  him,  and 
paralyze  his  activity.  Stuffing  the  let- 
ter into  his  pocket,  he  opened  the  door 
and  called,  "  Ann !  Bring  me  some 
whisky."  He  took  a  half  tumblerful, 
and  quieting  her  fears  said  that  he  would 
undress  and  go  to  bed.  Then  he  locked 


the  door,  and  still  confused  threw  him- 
self dressed  on  the  bed,  and  was  soon  in 
a  deep  sleep,  brought  on  by  the  unac- 
customed stimulus. 

The  next   morning  his  head   ached, 
and  he  went  back  to  bed,  asking  Ann  to 

'  o 

request  a  friendly  physician  near  by  to 
see  for  him  such  of  his  cases  as  needed 
care.  She  wrote  also  to  Mrs.  Morton 
that,  overcome  by  the  events  of  the  day 
before,  he  had  remained  at  home,  suffer- 
ing from  a  severe  headache. 

He  was  glad,  indeed,  when  Ann  her- 
self suggested  this  course  to  him,  and 
felt  it  an  inconceivable  relief  not  so  soon 
again  to  have  to  enact  his  part  before 
Mrs.  Morton,  and  possibly  Alice.  From 
the  former  there  came  kind  inquiries, 
and  later  in  the  day,  with  a  basket  of 
hothouse  grapes,  a  note  from  Alice  Wes- 
terley. It  was  simply  a  loving  little 
remembrance  in  words,  with  of  course 
no  allusion  to  the  scene  through  which 
they  had  so  lately  passed. 

Towards  evening  a  servant  came  over 
to  ask  Dr.  Wendell  for  the  usual  formal 
attestation  of  a  death.  We  have  said 
that  he  had  looked  forward  to  this  act 
with  dread.  He  remembered  too  well 
the  day  when  he  had  failed  to  meet  a 
professional  obligation  brought  on  him 
by  the  unlooked-for  chances  of  war.  It 
had  been  known  to  few,  and  not  to  Ann, 
but  he  had  bitterly  regretted  his  weak- 
ness, and  had  only  by  degrees  succeeded 
in  putting  it  aside  from  his  life  ;  and  now 
again  he  was  to  sin  against  the  moral 
code  of  his  profession.  The  need  was 
too  urgent  to  admit  of  long  reflection. 
He  wrote  with  haste  the  name  and  age, 
gave  as  the  cause  of  death  paralysis  of 
the  heart,  and  signed  his  name.  Af- 
ter putting  the  paper  in  an  envelope,  he 
took  it  out  and  looked  at  it  again,  won- 
dering whether  his  signature  had  in  it 
any  of  the  peculiar  feelings  with  which 
he  wrote  it. 

The  next  morning,  early,  he  received 
a  note  from  Mrs.  Morton,  asking  him  to 
call  as  soon  as  he  was  able,  and  contain- 


1884.] 


In  War  Time. 


725 


ing  other  matter  of  so  grave  a  nature 
that  he  hastened  to  write  a  reply,  at 
the  close  of  which  he  excused  his  pro- 
longed absence  on  the  plea  of  contin- 
ued suffering. 

The  constant  petty  need  for  self-com- 
mand which  becomes  part  of  the  social 
training  of  women  like  Mrs.  Morton  is 
apt  to  make  effectual  those  larger  efforts 
which  are  now  and  then  demanded  by 
some  grave  exigency.  But  supplement- 
ing this,  Mrs.  Morton  had  one  of  those 
natures  which  are  steadied  by  great 
emergencies,  and  sometimes  unduly  ex- 
cited by  small  ones.  In  the  presence  of 
her  dead  son,  she  broke  into  the  pas- 
sionate grief  of  sorely  wounded  moth- 
erhood ;  but  away  from  this  dreary  re- 
minder, she  shocked  or  surprised  all 
her  friends,  save  Alice,  by  a  calmness 
and  self-control  to  the  mystery  of  which 
they  had  no  clue.  Three  days  after  her 
son's  death  she  said  to  Alice  Westerley, 
"  I  have  been  unwilling  to  talk  to  you, 
or  to  any  one  ;  but  now  I  have  made  up 
my  mind,  and  I  want  to  say  some  things 
to  you,  and  then  I  desire  never  aga,in  to 
speak  of  them  or  hear  of  them." 

Alice  had  dreaded  this  talk,  but  on 
the  whole  was  not  sorry  to  have  it  over. 
She  too  had  something  which  she  felt 
must  be  said. 

"  I  think,"  she  answered,  "  you  are 
very  right,  Helen.  I  have  not  ceased 
to  feel  how  hard  it  is  for  you  that  a 
thing  as  sacred  and  sweet  as  the  ending 
of  this  dear  life  should  come  to  you 
surrounded  with  such  awful  bitterness 
of  suffering  and  such  unusual  trials.  Is 
there  anything  I  can  do  for  you  ?  " 

"  No,  there  is  nothing.  You  under- 
stand me ;  that  is  something  you  have 
done  for  me.  Beyond  it  there  is  noth- 
ing, —  nothing !  When  once  this  talk 
is  over,  we  will  let  its  remembrance  be 
as  a  thing  that  is  dead  and  buried  with 
my  boy  ;  but  now  there  are  things  I 
must  say,  —  I  cannot  live  alone  with 
them." 

"  And  what,  dear  Helen  ?  " 


"  Have  you  thought,  Alice,  that  Ar- 
thur, whose  carelessness  cost  mv  Ed- 

J 

ward's  life,  is  his  sole  heir?  That  he 
ignorantly  profits  by  it  ?  That  his  way 
to  an  easy,  happy  marriage  is  smoothed 
by  this  deed?" 

"  Oh,  Helen,  don't  talk  of  a  pure  ac- 
cident as  '  this  deed  ' !  It  sounds  too 
much  like  speaking  of  a  voluntary  act." 

"  I  spoke  as  a  malicious  world  might 
speak.  What  would  such  a  story  be- 
come with  the  comments  of  Mrs.  Grace 
or  a  half  dozen  others  we  can  name  ? 
What  would  happen  to  my  son  if  such 
a  whisper  reached  him  ?  He  would  say, 
'  I  cannot  touch  this  money  ; '  and  then 
this  feeling  would  be  called  remorse. 
Oh,  I  have  tasted  this  cup  in  all  its  bit- 
terness, Alice ! ' 

"  But  he  never  can  hear.  He  never 
will  hear,  unless  you  betray  yourself.  I 
trust  he  has  not  the  faintest  idea  of  his 
share  in  it,  poor  lad  ! ' 

"  Not  the  least,  Alice.  He  has  seen 
the  doctor's  certificate,  and  you  yourself 
heard  what  Dr.  Wendell  said  to  him. 
No ;  I  do  believe  he  has  not  the  very 
faintest  suspicion.  Indeed,  how  could 
he  ?  But  I  shudder  lest  something 
should  turn  up  to  make  him  inquire  fur- 
ther. Suppose  I  were  ill,  or  dying,  and 
were  to  let  slip  some  word  of  terror ; 
and  never,  never,  will  this  be  out  of  my 
mind !  Oh,  I  shudder  to  think  of  it ! 
Even  the  most  unlikely  possibilities  be- 
come probable  to  me,  and  it  seems  to 
me  that  there  is  no  precaution  I  can  take 
which  would  be  needless.  And  you,  — 
can  you  always  be  sure  of  yourself?  And 
there  is  Dr.  Wendell.  The  very  ease 
with  which  he  accepted  the  situation 
alarmed  me.  It  seemed  like  weakness." 

"  Indeed,  my  friend,"  returned  Alice, 
"  you  are  making  yourself  uneasy  with- 
out just  cause.  Like  you,  I  too  have 
thought  over  all  this  sad  affair.  To  tell 
you  the  truth,  I  think  we  were  all 
wrong:  you  and  I,  who  were  swept  away 
by  our  love,  and  Dr.  Wendell,  who  no- 
bly accepted  a  compromising  position  to 


726 


In  War  Time. 


[December, 


shelter  one  who  is  not  of  his  kindred. 
You  and  I  may  lie,  and  believe  that  he 
who  knows  all  things  and  the  secrets  of 
all  hearts  will  forgive  us  ;  but,  Helen, 
whether  you  —  whether  you  had  a  right 
to  permit  a  man  in  Dr.  Wendell's  place 
to  protect  your  son  at  the  cost  of  his 
own  honor  —  is  —  I  think  —  you  won't 
mind  what  I  say  ?  —  I  think  it  wrong." 

Mrs.  Morton  reflected  a  moment.  "  I 
did  not  ask  him  to  do  it,"  she  said. 

"  No,  but  you  accepted  the  sacrifice, 
and  you  thanked  him." 

"  And  could  I  have  been  human  and 
not  have  done  so  ?  Put  yourself  in  my 
place.  If  Arthur  had  been  your  son, 
what  would  you  have  done  ?  ' 

"  I  cannot  say,  Helen.  No  one  can 
put  herself  in  another's  place.  And 
yet  —  and  yet  I  cannot  think  you  were 
right ;  and,  dear,  to  blame  you  even  in 
thought  at  a  time  like  this  seems  to  me 
cruel." 

"  I  must  say,  Alice,  that  you  appear 
to  think  more  of  Dr.  Wendell  than  of 
me." 

"  I  think  of  you  both.  He  has  not 
in  this  matter  the  -stake  you  have,  and 
for  him  it  must  be  inconceivably  pain- 
ful. And  yet  I  confess  that  I  see  now 
no  escape.  It  might  have  been  better 
to  have  faced  the  truth  openly  at  first, 
and  taken  the  consequences,  —  better, 
dear,  even  for  Arthur." 

"You  cannot  expect  me,  at  least,  to 
think  so.  But  now,  Alice,  that  things 
have  gone  so  far,  what  course  except 
silence  is  left  us  and  him  ?  I  mean,  what 
in  your  judgment  ?  Mine  has  never  va- 
ried. I  shall  defend  my  boy  at  all  costs, 
—  at  any  one's  cost." 

"  I  see  no  other  course,"  Alice  sadly 
replied.  "  We  have  been  wrong,  and  — 
now  we  must  abide  by  it,"  and  silently 
she  thought  of  Wendell. 

"  Why,"  questioned  Mrs.  Morton,  — 
"  why  do  you  suppose  Dr.  Wendell  has 
not  been  here?  I  sent  for  him." 

"  But  you  told  me  that  Miss  Ann 
said  he  was  sick  " 


"  Yes,  and  he  has  written  me  him- 
self to  the  same  effect,  but  he  must  know 
how  intensely  desirous  I  am  to  see 
him.  She  says  it  is  a  headache.  A  head- 
ache !  " 

'•  Oh,  I  suppose  that  is  a  mere  ex- 
cuse. Cannot  you  imagine  that  a  man 
may  have  been  shaken  by  what  he  went 
through  ?  And  he  is  a  very  sensitive 
man,  Helen." 

"  I  know  all  that,  but  I  think  he 
should  have  come.  I  want  to  feel  more 
sure  about  him." 

"  And  you  distrust  him  after  what  he 
has  done  for  you  ?  ' 

-  "  I  —  I  distrust  every  one,  —  him, 
you,  myself,  Arthur,  every  one  !  I  must 
feel  more  certain,  or  it  will  kill  me  ! ' 

"''But  how  can  you  feel  more  cer- 
tain ?  " 

"  I  don't  know  —  yet,  but  I  must.  I 
do  not  like  this  delay  in  coming  here." 

"  It  seems  to  me  natural  enough." 

Mrs.  Morton  was  silent  for  a  mo- 
ment, and  then  said, — 

"  Did  I  tell  you  what  my  poor  Ed- 
ware^  said  to  me  about  Dr.  Wendell  be- 
ing a  good  deal  in  debt  ?  " 

"  No,  but  it  does  not  surprise  me. 
He  must  have  had  many  expenses  ;  and 
there  was  Hester." 

"  Edward  wished  to  put  him  at  ease, 
and  had  not  enough  money  on  hand,  so 
he  asked  me  to  lend  him  a  thousand  dol- 
lars for  a  few  days." 

"  And  did  you  ?  " 

"  I  said  I  would.  I  did  not  think 
Edward  was  right,  but  you  know,  dear, 
I  never  refused  that  boy  anything." 

"  And  why  do  you  speak  of  this 
now  ?  "  queried  Alice,  who  was  all  alive 
with  a  terrible  anticipation.  She  under- 
stood Helen  Morton  well,  and  knew 
that  she  was  at  times  determined  to 
carry  her  plans  at  any  cost,  and  that  in 
a  difficulty,  such  as  the  one  before  her, 
no  considerations  were  likely  to  arise 
except  how  to  meet  it. 

Her  friend's  manner  was  full  of  sus- 
picion for  Mrs.  Morton. 


1884.] 


In  War  Time. 


727 


"  I  thought,"  she  explained,  "  I  would 
fulfill  Edward's  wishes,  and  I  sent  Dr. 
Wendell  the  amount  Edward  mentioned 
as  desirable." 

"  Mow  much  ?  '    asked  Alice,  faintly. 

"  Five  thousand  dollars,  —  a  check, 
dear." 

"  You  sent  him  five  thousand  dol- 
lars !  " 

"  Yes.  It  would  have  been  my  boy's 
wish." 

"  My  God,  how  horrible  !  "  exclaimed 
Alice. 

"  Horrible  !  What  do  you  mean,  Al- 
ice ! "'  demanded  Mrs.  Morton,  sternly. 

"  I  mean,"  said  Alice,  "  that  you  did 
not  do  this  as  a  gift  from  our  dead  Ed- 
ward. You  gave  it  as  a  bribe  to  silence  ! 
That  is  why  you  gave  it.  Arid  how 
could  you  do  it  ?  A  man  does  a  wrong 
thing  from  noble  motives,  and  because 
you  never  liked  him  you  insult  him  with 
an  oifer  of  money,  and  this  when  you 
knew  him  to  be  in  difficulties !  And  the 
folly  of  it, --the  folly  of  it!"  Alice 
rose  and  walked  to  and  fro,  agitated 
and  angry. 

"  You  told  me  that  you  could  not  put 
yourself  in  my  place,"  said  Mrs.  Mor- 
ton, "  and  now  I  am  sure  of  it.  I  dare 
not  trust  any  one,  and  I  must  make  my- 
self certain." 

"  And  does  this  make  you  certain  ? 
It  makes  you  insecure,  if  that  were  pos- 
sible. Do  you  suppose  a  gentleman  — 
do  you  suppose  a  man  like  Wendell 
will  let  you  smirch  his  motives  with 
even  the  semblance  of  a  bribe  ?  "  She 
recalled  Wendell's  sad  and  refined  face, 
and  saw,  as  it  were,  the  scorn  of  his 
lips.  "  He  will  send  it  back  to  you," 
she  affirmed,  "  and  you  will  have  hurt  a 
fast  friend,  or  even  made  an  enemy.  I 
should  hate  you  were  I  he." 

Helen  looked  the  surprise  she  felt. 
"  Read  that,"  she  said. 

Alice  took  the  open  note  and  read- 
ing it,  life  grew  black  before  her.  Its 
sweetness  went  out  of  it,  and  belief  in 
man,  and  trust  in  God.  It  was  this  :  — 


"  Dear  Mrs.  Morton,  your  kind  note, 
with  its  iuclosure,  fulfilling  my  dear 
friend's  wishes  as  expressed  to  me,  has 
touched  me  deeply.  1  hasten  to  thank 
you,  and  to  say  how  great  a  relief  it  is 
to  me.  I  can  never  forget  the  terms  in 
which  you  speak  of  my  services  to  him, 
and  I  thank  you  again,  both  for  the  act 
and  the  words  which  accompany  it.  You 
do  not  speak  of  it  as  a  loan,  but  as  that 
I  must  of  course  consider  it.  I  shall,  I 
think,  be  able  to  see  you  to-morrow  or 
the  day  after.  I  must  ask,  as  I  am  sen- 
sitive about  such  matters,  that  vou  will 

9 

not  mention  this  to  Arthur  or  to  Mrs. 
Westerley." 

"  Not  mention  this  to  Mrs.  Wester- 
ley  ? ''  said  Alice,  standing  with  the 
note  in  her  hand. 

"  Of  course,"  returned  Mrs.  Morton, 
"  that  was  a  matter  for  my  discretion. 
You  had  to  know  it,  as  you  know  all 
the  rest  of  it." 

Alice  felt  that  she  must  get  out  into 
the  air.  The  paper  fell  on  the  floor  as 
she  spoke  in  broken  tones :  "  Oh,  he  said 
well  who  said  there  is  no  wrong  which 
has  not  a  child !  You  have  done  a  wicked 
thing.  Don't  talk  to  me  any  more  now. 
I  cannot  bear  it !  May  God  forgive  you, 
—  I  never  can  !  Let  me  go,  —  let  me 
go  !  Life  is  over,  —  life  is  dead." 

"  Alice,  —  Alice  !  "  exclaimed  Mrs. 
Morton,  alarmed.  "  I  could  not  have 
dreamed  of  this  !  Don't  go  ! ' 

"  I  must,  —  I  must !  Don't  stop  me  ! 
I  shall  die !  I  shall  fall  dead  if  I  stay 
here  !  Room,  room  !  "  she  cried,  wildly. 
"  Let  me  pass  !  Let  me  go  !  "  and  with 
a  face  that  scared  her  friend  she  left 
the  room,  and  presently  was  moving 
swiftly  across  the  lawn.  Walking  with 
a  fierce  energy  which  represented  in 
physical  action  the  agony  of  restrained 
emotion,  she  passed  through  the  lanes. 
It  was  the  close  of  June,  and  the  air 
was  warm  even  in  the  afternoon,  so  that 
in  her  own  house  the  long  windows  were 
open  to  the  floor.  Alice  was  glad  of  it, 
as  it  enabled  her  to  enter  unnoticed. 


728 


In  War  Time. 


[December, 


She  caught  at  the  nearest  chair,  sat 
down  at  once,  and  a  minute  later  was 
aware  of  Hester  at  her  side. 

"  Oh,"  said  the  girl,  "  I  am  glad  to 
have  found  you.  How  are  they  all  ?  ' 

But  hearing  no  answer,  she  came 
close  to  the  chair.  Alice  was  shaking, 
unable  to  speak.  Hester  turned  in  alarm 
to  call  for  help,  when  Alice  said  explo- 
sively, "  Don't  —  ring  ! '  Hester  was 
quick-witted,  and  her  life  in  a  doctor's 
house  had  not  left  her  quite  ignorant. 
She  knew  at  once  that  this  was  an  at- 
tack of  nervous  agitation,  and  that  Alice 
was  unwilling  to  have  it  seen.  She 
closed  the  door,  and  kneeling  without  a 
word  held  Alice's  hands  steadily  in  hers, 
while  the  elder  woman  set  herself  with 
great  effort  to  overcome  the  physical 
agitation  which  now  possessed  her.  She 
was  suffering  from  one  of  those  wild  in- 
surrections which  seem  to  be  the  nat- 
ural result  of  the  social  laws  which  so 
continually  crush  into  expressionless  si- 
lence the  normal  outbursts  of  our  pas- 
sions or  emotions.  By  and  by  Alice 
grew  more  quiet,  and  at  last  her  tremor 
ceased,  and  she  fell  back  with  a  sigh  of 
relief. 

"  You  are  better,"  said  Hester ;  "  but 
shall  I  not  run  home  and  ask  Dr.  Wen- 
dell to  come  ?  He  is  not  out,  you  know, 
to-day,  but  I  am  sure  he  would  come  at 
once  if  he  knew  you  were  ill." 

"  No,"  replied  Alice,  "  I  want  no 
one  ;  and  you  will  never  tell  any  one  of 
this.  I  have  had  a  great  shock,  Hester, 
and  it  has  nearly  killed  me." 

Hester  of  course  presumed  that  it  was 
Edward's  death  of  which  she  spoke.  "  I 
can  well  imagine  it,"  she  returned. 

"  No,  you  cannot,  child,  any  more 
than  you  can  imagine  death.  But  now  I 
want  to  be  alone  ;  so  please  go  home, 
and  let  this  be  as  between  us  two.  You 
behaved  quietly,  —  I  like  that ;  and  kiss 
me,  dear." 

Somewhat  reluctantly  Hester  went 
away  wondering,  leaving  Alice  Wester- 
ley  to  the  sad  company  of  her  own 


thoughts.  Like  Wendell,  the  woman  he 
loved  had  also  to  face  a  future.  As  her 
physical  control  returned,  she  began  to 
find  it  possible  to  think.  She  knew 
that  by  degrees  she  had  gathered  in- 
terest in  Wendell,  and  that  a  part  of 
it  arose  from  her  power  to  lift  him  out 
of  his  moods,  and  to  sympathize  with 
his  theoretical  ambitions.  He  had  said 
that  others  had  not  that  ability,  and  the 
attribution  of  exceptional  capacity  is  a 
subtle  flattery.  Then  he  was  gentle,  sad, 
and  with  all  his  intellect,  which  Alice 
rated  too  highly,  he  had  much  of  that 
strange  dependence  on  women  which 
some  much  larger  characters  have  ex- 
hibited. She  knew  that  she  had  had  full 
warning  as  to  where  the  path  she  trod 
would  lead,  but  each  step  was  pleasant, 
and  the  steps  unconsciously  multiplied, 
until  when  Colonel  Fox  spoke  return 
was  impossible.  Her  lover  had  now  done 
that  thing  which  more  than  justified 
Colonel  Fox  and  all  that  the  malicious- 
minded  had  whispered. 

A  great  writer  has  said  that  in  all  wo- 
men's love  there  is  a  maternal  element. 
It  rose  at  times  wildly  in  Alice's  breast, 
making  her  yearn  to  help  and  protect 
Wendell,  and  for  the  moment  utterly 
blinding  her  to  the  depth  of  infamy  to 
which  he  had  descended.  This,  indeed, 
was  to  her  most  strange.  How  could 
a  learned,  scholar-like  man,  of  gentle 
ways  and  refined  tastes,  suddenly  fall 
so  far!  She 'shuddered.  There  must 
have  been  events  in  his  life  of  which  she 
knew  not,  —  horrible  preparations  for 
this  final  degradation.  Then  also  there 
was  something  blundering  and  stupid 
about  it  all,  —  about  his  note,  and  his 
mode  of  acceptance,  and  his  reference 
to  Alice.  And  why  did  he  not  come 
to  her,  if  he  was  in  such  sore  straits? 
"  And  if  he  had,  —  oh,  if  he  had," 
she  exclaimed  aloud,  "  I  should  have 
married  him  ;  and  then  —  and  then  — 
some  day  I  should  have  come  to  know 
that  he  could  do  such  things  as  this  ! ' 

o 

And  here  it  struck  her  that  she  was 


1884.] 


In  War  Time. 


T29 


ingeniously  torturing  herself.  "  I  must 
decide,"  she  said. 

In  fact,  from  the  instant  that  she  read 
Wendell's  note  to  Mrs.  Morton  she  had 
made  up  her  mind  ;  nay,  all  the  habits 
and  sentiments  of  a  life  of  truth  and 
purity  and  honor  made  it  up  for  her. 
When  seeming  to  hesitate  she  was  only 
cheating  love's  sweet  patience  with  the 
semblance  of  indecision. 

How  the  next  twenty-four  hours  were 
passed  Alice  Westerley  could  hardly 
have  told  a  year  or  two  later.  Great 
moral  catastrophes,  like  physical  shocks, 
disturb  or  even  obliterate  in  some  minds 
the  memory  of  the  lesser  events  which 
follow  them.  It  may  be  added  that  she 
was  suffering  less  acutely.  For  the 
mind,  as  for  the  body,  the  tiger  claws  of 
calamity  bring  about  for  a  time  a  cer- 
tain amount  of  incapacity  to  feel  further 
anguish,  and  leave  us  crushed,  inert,  and 
hopeless. 

The  day  after  her  talk  with  Mrs. 
Morton,  Alice  sat  alone,  towards  even- 
ing, in  her  drawing-room.  Unsympa- 
thetic nature  mocked  her  mood  with  the 
sun  of  a  June  day,  and  with  full  eyes 
she  sat  watchir.g  a  pair  of  humming- 
birds as  they  darted  through  the  sway- 
ing roses  which  hung  about  the  window. 

At  this  moment  she  heard  a  step  on 
the  gravel  walk,  and  catching  a  glimpse 
of  Wendell  stepped  back  into  the  room 
as  he  rang  the  bell.  Then,  without  a 
moment's  hesitation,  she  went  to  the 
door  of  the  room  and  waited  until  the 
servant  appeared  in  the  hall,  when  she 
said,  — 

"  I  am  not  at  home  to  any  one,  — 
to  any  one." 

She  stood  with  one  hand  clutching  at 
her  heart,  holding  her  breath  for  the 
moment,  as  she  heard  a  voice  but  too 
well  known,  and  then  through  the  vines 
saw  Wendell  turn  and  go  slowly  down 
the  gravel  path.  She  could  see  his  side 
face,  its  pallor  and  the  fineness  of  its 
lines.  She  gave  way  for  the  moment. 
Overcome  by  her  emotions,  and  hardly 


knowing  what  she  meant  to  do,  she 
turned  to  a  window  which  opened  out 
on  to  the  porch  and  gave  access  to  the 
garden.  It  was  closed,  and  fastened  by 
a  catch.  The  physical  effort  needed  to 
move  it  steadied  her,  and  when  she  suc- 
ceeded in  lifting  the  sash  she  paused 
irresolute,  and  remained  standing  by 
the  window  while  Wendell  walked  slow- 
ly and  hesitatingly  away  from  her,  down 
the  little  avenue  of  maples  which  led  to 
the  gate. 

"  And  with  that  face  !  "  she  thought, 
as  she  moved  away,  "  I  don't  know  how 
it  can  be  !  "  For  the  moment  she  had 
a  wild  desire  to  see  Wendell,  and  to  tell 
him  that,  love  him  as  she  might,  mar- 
riage was  out  of  the  question  ;  but  she 
was  wise  enough  to  fear  her  own  weak- 
ness, and  to  know  that  to  say  to  his  face 
what  she  must  say  would  but  add  to  the 
sum  of  her  misery  an  incalculable  tor- 
ment. 

The  love  she  dreaded  to  torture  face 
to  face  was  as  strong  as  her  own,  and 
the  capacity  for  the  nurture  of  an  in- 
tense affection  was  large  in  Wendell, 
—  of  a  half-womanly  largeness,  —  and 
represented  a  life  of  absolute  purity. 

As  he  left  her  house  he  knew  that 
his  reception  had  been  unusual.  He  had 
seen  Mrs.  Morton,  who  had  been  kind 
and  thankful,  and  had  so  stated  her 
gratitude  as  to  make  him  feel  that  the 
money  he  had  taken  with  apparent  re- 
luctance was  in  a  measure  earned ;  but 
no  word  had  been  said  about  Mrs.  Wes- 
terley. Mrs.  Morton  did  not  know 
what  to  say,  or  in  fact  whether  she 
could  wisely  do  anything  but  keep  si- 
lent, and  for  the  time  her  own  grief  was 
paramount.  Then  Wendell  had  walked 
up  the  main  street,  and  been  much  ques- 
tioned as  to  Edward's  death  by  Mrs. 
Bullock  and  by  Miss  Sarah  Grace,  who 
was  developing  a  promising  faculty  for 
the  collection  of  facts  about  her  neigh- 
bors. It  had  put  the  man  in  an  ill  hu- 
mor, and  he  turned  into  the  lane,  con- 
trasting with  these  petty  natures  the 


730 


In  War  Time. 


[December, 


graciousness  of  his  mistress,  her  multiple 
interests  in  life  and  thought  and  pol- 
itics, even  her  sympathy  with  those  who 
followed  pursuits  that  were  incomprehen- 
sible to  her.  He  had  the  happy  poetical 
quality  of  dreaming  himself  out  of  situ- 
ations, of  ceasing  to  be  himself  for  a 

'  fj 

time  ;  and  he  walked  along  feeling  as  if 
now  he  were  true  and  were  moving  in 
the  sunshine  of  her  truth,  and  as  if  her 
kiss  had  had  the  force  of  a  benediction 
and  had  laid  the  demons  of  sin  which 
once  possessed  him. 

Then  he  was  sent  away  from  her 
door.  That  might  have  been  an  ac- 
cident, but  at  present  it  was  a  new 
wretchedness.  To  see  her  banished  all 
other  thoughts,  and  to-day  he  had  great 
need  of  her.  He  turned  back,  on  a  fresh 
impulse,  and  again  rang. 

"  1  must  see  Mrs.  Westerley,  if  she 
is  in  the  house,"  he  declared. 

"  She  is  not  at  home,  sir,"  repeated 
the  servant,  who  knew  his  business. 

"  Give  her  my  card,"  said  Wendell, 
peremptorily.  He  had  written  on  it 
"  Please  to  see  me." 

John  turned,  rather  dubious,  and  found 
his  way  through  back  premises  into  the 
drawing-room. 

Alice  shuddered.  Fate  had  been  too 
much  for  her.  Should  she  put  him  off, 
and  then  write  to  him  ?  But  she  hardly 
felt  up  to  so  stern  a  role  of  endurance. 
"  Show  Dr.  Wendell  in,"  she  said.  The 
servant  closed  the  door  behind  him, 
and  Wendell  advanced  with  outstretched 
hand. 

"  At  last,  Alice  !  "  he  cried.  "  How 
I  have  longed  for  you  !  I  have  been  so 
wretched." 

There  was  something  strange  in  her 
face,  but  he  did  not  see  it  for  a  moment. 
She  gave  him  her  hand,  and  he  drew 
her  towards  him.  She  had  not  spoken. 
Then  he  saw  how  grave  and  cold  her 
face  was,  and  that  her  eyes  were  red 
and  the  lids  swollen. 

"  You  cannot  kiss  me,"  she  said. 
"  Sit  down." 


"I  cannot  kiss  you!"  he  repeated, 
slowly,  and  sat  down  with  automatic 
obedience.  "  What  have  I  done  ?  "  he 
faltered. 

"Ask  yourself,"  she  rejoined,  proud- 
ly. "  I  am  not  your  conscience." 

"  1 !  "  he  said.  "  What  is  it  ?  What 
does  this  mean  ?  You  know  that  what 
I  did,  I  did  for  Arthur's  sake  !  Did  you 
disapprove  of  that  ?  Oh,  you  could  not ! 
You  must  have  understood  what  it  cost 
me!" 

"  It  was  not  that,"  she  said.  "  You 
know  me  too  well  to  suppose  that  I 
meant  that.  I  have  thought  it  over 
since,  and  I  feel  that  what  we  did  was 
wrong.  Mrs.  Morton  had  no  right  to 
ask  or  allow  it,  and  I  was  weak  to  yield 
to  her.  But  I  cannot  talk  of  it  any  more. 
The  thing  is  done,  and  there  is  now  no 
help  for  it.  But  why,  why,"  she  said, 
looking  down  as  she  spoke,  —  "  why  did 
you  accept  a  bribe  from  Mrs.  Morton  ? 
You  had  done  a  thing  I  might  call  false- 
ly noble,  arid  you  took  money  she  gave 
you  to  make  her  feel  surer  of  your  si» 
lence  !  The  two  acts  were  so  unlike. 
The  one  was  heroic  ;  the  other  —  I  — 
I  can't  understand  it ! )! 

She  had  meant  to  ask  no  explanation. 
Now  in  her  pity  she  had  done  so  ;  but 
it  was  love,  not  hope,  that  prompted 
her. 

He  sat  looking  at  her  downward  face, 
while  she  questioned  him  with  slow, 
distinct  utterance,  seeming  at  times  to 
search  for  the  right  word. 

"  If  you  think  it  was  wrong,"  he  said, 
"  it  must  have  been  wrong,  but  Edward 
had  promised  it,  and  I  am  perplexed 
with  debts,  and  I  had  to  have  help. 
You  cannot  conceive  what  misery  it  is  to 
owe  money.  I  shall  repay  it." 

"  Repay  ! "  she  cried.  "  What  you 
lost  to  get  this  help  you  can  never  get 
back!  Can  she  give  you  again  your 
honor  ?  Can  you  cease  to  be  an  accom- 
plice, —  a  paid  accomplice  ?  You  have 
made  it  look  like  a  crime.  It  does  seem 
to  me  strange  that  you  did  not  see  this. 


1884.] 


In  War  Time. 


731 


I  cannot  dare  to  face  the  thought  that, 
seeing  it,  you  did  as  you  have  done." 

He  was  silent.  The  darker  guilt  she 
did  not  guess  was  scourging  him  with 
intolerable  anguish,  as  he  saw  himself 
in  the  clear  light  of  her  judgment.  He 
dreaded  to  hear  his  sentence. 

"  What  can  I  do,"  he  asked,  "  to  jus- 
tify myself  ?  I  see  that  I  was  wrong. 
Help  ine  to  do  what  seems  right  to 

you." 

His  humility  appeared  to  her  disgust- 
ing. "  And  this,"  she  said  to  herself, 
"  this  was  the  man  I  loved ! " 

"  I  will  send  it  back,"  he  added. 

"  That  is  for  you  to  decide,"  she  re- 
turned, looking  at  him. 

"  And  you  won't  desert  me,  Alice  ?  " 

"  If  you  mean  by  this  that  you  can 
ever  again  be  to  me  what  you  have 
been,  you  strangely  misunderstand  me. 
I  could  not  niarry  a  man  I  do  not  re- 
spect." 

"  Then  it  is  all  over." 

"  Yes,  it  is  all  over,  —  all  but  the 
shame  and  the  bitterness  of  it.  And  I 
loved  you  !  —  oh,  I  loved  you  dearly  ; 
more  than  life,  more  than  mv  soul ! 

t  V 

God  help  me,  I  would  give  it  now, 
this  instant,  to  be  able  to  think  of  you 

as  I  once  thought ! ' 

• 

She  was  scared  when  she  looked  at 
him.  Down  his  face,  ghastly  and  white, 
great  drops  of  sweat  rolled,  and  his 
mouth  twitched  convulsively.  He  was 
crushed  by  an  agony  of  despair  that 
seemed  to  him  to  make  life  unendur- 
able. It  was  not  alone  the  lost  love 
that  hurt  him,  but  the  fact  that  this 
woman  regarded  him  with  contempt,  — 
she,  so  gentle  and  so  full  of  sweet  pity 
for  all  the  forms  of  human  trouble. 

"  And  there  is  no  hope  for  me  ?  "  he 
moaned,  hoarsely. 

"  If  I  said  there  was,  I  should  be 
false,"  she  returned.  "  I  meant  to  write 
to  you,  but  you  would  insist  on  seeing 
me,  and  I  have  said  more  than  I  wanted 
to  say.  No  doubt  I  have  hurt  you  sorely, 
but  you  are  not  the  only  one  hurt." 


"  And  I  must  be  to  you  of  all  men 
the  lowest." 

She  made  no  answer,  feeling  that  she 
was  at  the  end  of  her  powers  of  endur- 
ance. He  stood  up.  "  I  cannot  bear 
your  scorn.  I  can  bear  the  rest ;  that 
I  cannot  bear  !  " 

Her  silence  tortured  him  beyond  en- 
durance. All  else  in  life  became  little 
to  him,  —  his  name,  his  safety,  his  very 
existence. 

He  spoke,  and  with  a  singular  calm- 
ness :  "  You  are  right ;  but  I  am  now 
as  one  facing  death.  I  had  to  do  as  I 
did,  or  resign  all  hopes  of  you.  That  I 
could  not  do." 

"What?"  she  exclaimed. 

"I  —  made  the  mistake  that  cost 
Edward  his  life.  I  did  it.  I  was  in 
a  hurry,  as  you  know,  to  reach  Ann  in 
time,  and  in  my  haste  I  gave  Arthur 
the  wrong  vial.  It  was  I  who  killed 

o 

him.  It  was  to  be  either  Arthur  or  I ; 
and  if  I  had  said  it  was  I,  then  I  knew 
life  was  over  for  me.  It  was  because 
I  loved  you,  Alice." 

"  And  is  this  really  true  ?  "  she  cried. 
"  Oh,  it  cannot  possibly  be  true  !  You 
could  not  have  lied  thus,  and  looked  me 
in  the  face.  Take  it  back.  Please  to 
say  it  is  not  so.  And  the  money,  —  after 
that,  to  take  her  money  ! ' 

"  Wrong  or  right,"  he  said,  "  I  did  it 
for  you." 

''  For  me !  For  me  !  He  says  he  did 
it  for  me !  How  little  you  knew  me,  — 
how  less  than  little  !  If  you  had  spoken 
the  truth  I  should  have  clung  to  you  for 
life.  You  cannot  know  how  I  should 
have  loved  you.  Ah,  I  should  have 
loved  you  as  man  was  never  loved." 

"  And  now  is  it  over,  Alice  ?  * 

"  Yes,  it  is  over." 

"  Oh,  my  God  !  "  he  cried,  "  what 
have  I  done  ?  But  at  least  you  cannot 
scorn  me  now.  When  you  think  of  me 
you  will  say, '  He  had  the  courage  to  do 
one  right  thing.  He  was  not  utterly 

base.' " 

"  I  shall  pray  for  you,"  she  said  softly. 


732 


In  War  Time. 


[December, 


"  I  shall  try  never  to  think  of  you  ex- 
cept iu  my  prayers  ; ' '  and  the  tears 
rained  through  the  hands  with  which 
she  hid  her  face.  "  Go,"  she  urged ; 
"  please  to  go.  I  can  bear  no  more." 

"  I  will  go,"  he  returned ;  but  he  fell 
on  his  knees  beside  her,  and  seizing 
her  hand  kissed  it,  one  long,  lingering 
kiss.  Then  he  rose  and  slowly  left  the 
house. 

Several  days  had  gone  by  since  the 
burial  of  Edward,  when  Captain  Arthur 
Morton  took  his  way,  one  afternoon, 
across  the  fields  from  his  home  towards 
the  long  highway  of  Germantown.  He 
was  on  his  usual  visit  to  Hester,  but 
was  more  sad  than  common,  his  morning 
having  been  spent  in  the  legal  business 
which  necessarily  followed  his  brother's 
death.  Nothing  in  life  had  so  sobered 
him  as  this  loss.  He  went  along  through 
the  woods  of  June,  thinking  how  re- 
morselessly the  busy  waters  of  life  had 
closed  over  this  dear  one,  as  the  sea 
above  its  dead.  It  was  in  truth  no 
common  calamity.  Edward's  strong  in- 
dividuality intensified  the  sense  of  his 
loss  to  those  he  left ;  for  although  there 
are  many  people  in  the  world,  there  are 
but  few  persons,  and  Edward's  was  a 
distinctive  personality. 

As  the  young  soldier  approached  the 
house,  he  saw  Hester  in  the  garden  be- 
side it  tying  up  the  roses,  which  were 
now  putting  out  anew  their  summer 
buds.  She  had  dressed  herself  in  black, 
and  the  vase-like  curves  of  her  young 
form  came  out  sharply  in  the  dark  dress 
against  the  gray  stone  wall. 

Arthur  leapt  lightly  over  the  pale 
fence,  and  if  the  roses  were  of  a  sudden 
jealous  they  had  reason  therefor. 

The  two  young  folks  strolled  down 
the  little  garden,  chatting  as  they  went 
of  many  things :  of  the  great  war,  out  of 
which  he  had  come  with  little  scath ;  of 
the  happy  future  they  promised  them- 
selves, —  and  over  and  over  returned  to 
speak  of  the  power  to  love  which  their 


brother  and  friend  had  possessed,  of  the 
sweetness  that  came  out  of  his  strength, 
until,  looking  up,  each  saw  tears  in  the 
other's  eyes,  and  owned  their  mysteri- 
ous relief. 

"  And,  Arty,  no  one  loved  him  better 
than  Dr.  Wendell." 

fl  I  am  sure  of  that.  But  was  it  not 
very  strange  that  he  did  not  come  to  the 
funeral  ?  I  could  not  understand  it." 

"  He  was  in  bed  all  that  day,"  re- 
turned Hester.  "  I  never  saw  a  person 
so  altered.  I  think  he  must  have  been 
dreadfully  shocked  by  Edward's  death. 
I  heard  him  tell  Miss  Ann  once  that  he 
ought  not  to  have  been  a  doctor ;  and 
I  think  may  be  he  is  right,  for  Miss 
Ann  says  he  broods  for  days  when  any 
of  his  patients  die." 

"  And  Ned  did  love  him  well,"  said 
Arthur.  "  I  have  a  pleasant  surprise 
for  him,  and  I  want  you  to  come  into 
the  house  with  me  and  find  him.  It 
may  do  him  good,  poor  fellow." 

"  And  what  is  it,  Arty  ?  " 

"  That  you  cannot  know  until  I  tell 
Miss  Ann.  Come." 

"  I  think  he  needs  some  help.  He 
really  must  be  ill.  He  scarcely  speaks 
to  any  one.  Miss  Ann  went  out  early 
to-day,  and  came  back  to  tell  me  that 
she  has  arranged  with  Mrs.  Westerley 
that  I  am  to  go  to  her,  while  Miss  Ann 
takes  the  doctor  to  the  seashore  a  while." 

"  Mother  has  a  still  better  plan. 
She  has  written  to  ask  Mr.  Gray  to  let 
you  go  with  her  to  Europe  in  August ; 
and  then  in  September,  if  you  are  a 
good  girl,  I  may  follow  you ;  and  after- 
wards, in  a  year,  Hester,  —  mother  says 
you  must  have  a  year  abroad,  —  you 
will  consider  the  propriety  and  advan- 
tages of  a  residence  in  a  mountain  dis- 
trict ;  Alleghanies,  we  may  say." 

"  Perhaps,"  said  Hester,  smiling. 
"  How  kind  your  mother  is  ! ' 

"  Mother  is  never  half  anything,"  he 
returned.  "  She  fought  us  a  good  while, 
and  now  she  is  making  believe  that  she 
has  won  a  victory.  We  need  n't  contra- 


1884.] 


In  War  Time. 


733 


diet  her.    I  never  contradict  people  who 
agree  with  me." 

o 

"  I  shall  know  how  to  escape  contra- 
diction," cried  Hester,  laughing.  "  But 
there  is  Miss  Ann  at  the  window;"  and 
as  she  spoke  they  passed  through  the 
hall  into  the  sitting-room. 

"  Good  news,  Miss  Ann,"  cried  Ar- 
thur. "  I  wanted  to  be  first  to  tell  you 
that  my  dear  Ned  has  left  your  brother 
ten  thousand  dollars.'"  He  had  in  real- 
ity left  a  letter  asking  Arthur  to  give  it, 
as  he  had  only  a  life  estate  in  his  prop- 
erty, which  passed  to  Arthur. 

tk  It  was  like  him,"  she  returned ; 
"  and  I  may  say  to  you  that  it  will  be  a 
great  relief.  God  has  been  good  to  us, 
and  there  is  no  one  I  would  like  better 
to  think  of  as  helping  us  than  your 
brother.  But  here  is  Ezra.  Please 
don't  remark  his  appearance.  He  has 
been  very  wretched,  and  he  does  not 
like  to  have  it  mentioned." 

Arthur  was  struck  with  the  man's 
face.  It  was  haggard  and  flushed. 

"  Tell  him  about  it,"  continued  Ann  ; 
"  you  will  like  to,  I  am  sure." 

"What  is  it?  Tell  me  what?"  re- 
turned Wendell,  in  an  uninterested 
voice. 

"  Only  some  pleasant  news,"  Arthur 
responded.  "  I  came  over  to  say  that 
by  a  provision  of  Edward's  will  you  are 
to  have  ten  thousand  dollars.  And  we 
are  all  so  glad,  —  Hester,  and  I,  and  all 
of  us." 

"  He  has  left  me  ten  thousand  dol- 
lars ! " 

Arthur  was  troubled.  "  Yes  ;  is  n't 
it  nice  ?  We  all  owe  you  so  much  that 
I  should  like  to  have  given  it  myself; 
only  you  might  not  like  to  take  from 
the  living  what  you  can  take  from  the 
dead.  But  it  is  as  if  dear  Ned  were 
thanking  you  for  us  all.  That  is  why 
we  like  it." 

Wendell  looked  up  at  the  speaker 
with  a  face  written  all  over  with  the 
toneless,  infirm  lines  of  weariness.  Then 
he  said,  in  a  monotonous  voice,  as  if  he 


did   not  feel    the  meaning   of   his  own 
words,  — 

"  The  dead  thankful !  the  dead  thank- 
ful!  'I  can't  take  it,  —  that 's  all.  I 
can't  take  it.  Let  me  lie  down." 

Arthur  looked  his  amazement.  "  Doc- 
tor, doctor,"  he  said,  "  you  are  ill.  It 
has  been  too  much  for  you.  Why  do 
you  talk  so  ?  " 

"  No,  I  am  not  sick  ;  I  am  dead.  But 
hell  is  alive.  Go  away,  all  of  you.  I 
want  to  be  alone." 

"Yes,"  said  Ann,  "go  away,  chil- 
dren. Leave  him  to  me.  He  will  be 
all  right  in  a  few  days.  This  last  week 
has  been  too  much  for  him."  She  knew 
he  had  taken  a  good  deal  of  opium,  and, 
thinking  his  strangeness  of  conduct  due 
to  this,  dreaded  lest  he  should  further 
betray  himself. 

%i 

Somewhat  reluctantly  they  left  her. 
Then  Wendell  spoke  :  "  We  must  get 
away,  Ann.  We  must  go  somewhere. 
And  don't  mind  what  I  say.  Tell  Ar- 
thur I  don't  mean  anything.  Tell  him 
I  took  some  morphia  this  morning ;  and 
don't  look  at  me  that  way,  Ann." 

"  Yes,  brother,"  she  replied  uneasily  ; 
"  yes,  you  want  a  change.  Don't  worry, 
dear.  I  will  arrange  it." 

It  was  all  one  horrible  mystery  to 
her,  —  this  last  week  ;  but  she  got  her 
brother  to  bed,  and  went  on  at  once 
completing  her  arrangements  for  leav- 
ing town  for  a  week  or  two,  hoping  that 
with  change  of  air  he  would  become  as 
he  had  been. 

Within  a  day  or  two  they  left  abrupt- 
ly, without  leave-taking  ;  and  the  house 
was  closed,  and  Hester  went  to  Alice 
Westerley's. 

Alice  found  it  impossible  to  talk  of 
what  Wendell  had  told  her.  Some  day 
she  must  do  it.  Just  now  she  could  not 
make  up  her  mind  to  blacken  further 
the  character  of  the  man  she  had  loved ; 
but  being  a  just  woman,  she  wrote  to 
Helen  Morton :  — 

"  I  have  done  you  a  wrong,  and  while 
I  have  in  no  respect  changed  my  views 


734 


In  War  Time. 


[December, 


as  to  what  should  have  been  our  course, 
I  want  to  ask  your  pardon.  I  have  kept 
away  on  the  plea  of  ill  health.  If  you 
can  forget  what  I  said  in  haste,  Twill 
coine  over  to-morrow  and  see  you,  but 
let  us  say  nothing  of  the  past." 

Helen  Morton  was  too  much  softened 
by  the  sorrow  of  the  week  to  give  any 
but  a  kindly  answer,  and  they  were 
friends  again,  but  always  with  a  sense 
of  some  vague  barrier  between  them. 
We  may  be  eager  enough  to  let  the 
dead  past  bury  its  dead  passions,  but  at 
times  their  ghosts  move  sadly  in  the 
dreary  graveyard  of  memory.  Some  day 
the  good  priest  Time  shall  lay  them. 

Late  in  August  Mrs.  Morton,  Hester 
and  Alice  went  abroad  ;  and  meanwhile 
there  came  no  news  of  Wendell.  In 
September,  Ann  returned.  There  was 
a  sudden  sale  of  their  furniture,  and  she 
went  as  she  had  come,  still  ruddy-cheeked 
and  quiet,  and  betraying  no  sign  of  any 
suffering  these  months  may  have  laid 
upon  her. 

:          xxiv. 

A  year  or  more  had  gone  by  since 
the  actors  in  this  story  passed,  one  by 
one,  from  the  quiet  village  which  now 
makes  a  part  of  the  great  city.  There 
was  a  dinner,  one  of  those  debtor-and- 
creditor  feasts  which  wise  men  dread, 
at  which  was  assembled  a  somewhat  in- 
congruous collection  of  guests. 

Mr.  Wilmington  found,  to  his  horror, 
that  he  was  assigned  to  Mrs.  Grace,  and 
was  not  sorry  to  see,  as  he  sat  down,  that 
the  seat  on  his  left  was  occupied  by  Miss 
Clemson,  who  came  in  to  dinner  on  the 
arm  of  Dr.  Jones,  a  more  than  middle- 
aged  man,  much  known  as  reliable ;  a 
comfortable  physician,  too  well  satisfied 
with  his  art,  "  and  so  sympathetic,  my 
dear." 

Mrs.  Grace  spoke  to  him  across  her 
neighbors  as  soon  as  the  soup  was  re- 
moved. "  Whatever  has  become  of  Dr. 
Wendell  ?  "  she  asked. 


"  I  do  not  know,"  he  returned.  "  He 
was  always  a  rolling  stone,  I  am  told. 
And  he  was  a  rolling  stone  in  his  opin- 
ions, too.  Never  could  hold  fast  to 
anything." 

"  He  was  very  strong  on  gout,"  said 
Wilmington  ;  "  had  some  ideas  about  it 
I  never  heard  before." 

"  I  dare  say,"  rejoined  Dr.  Jones. 

"  The  doctors  are  like  dentists,"  mur- 
mured Miss  Clemson  to  Wilmington. 
"  How  they  hate  one  another  ;  and  after 
all  people  get  well.  It  is  merely  a 
question  of  statistics." 

"  May  be  Dr.  Lagrange  knows,"  said 
Mrs.  Grace,  who  pursued  a  personal 
fact  as  a  naturalist  does  a  butterfly.  La- 
grange  was  within  ear-shot  across  the 
table.  "  We  were  talking  of  Dr.  Wen- 
dell," she  added.  "  Do  you  know  where 
he  has  gone  ?  I  always  did  think  he 
went  away  quite  mysteriously." 

"  He  is  in  the  West,  I  believe,"  re- 
plied Lagrange ;  "but  why  he  left  I  do 
not  know." 

"  There  was  always  something  queer 
about  him,"  affirmed  Mrs.  Grace.  "  I 
should  think  a  doctor  that  didn't  be- 
lieve in  liver,  or  malaria,  or  even  in  neu- 
ralgia, would  n't  come  to  much  good." 

"  That  is  conclusive,"  said  Miss  Clem- 
son. "  I  always  liked  him." 

"  And  did  n't  you  think  he  would 
marry  Mrs.  Westerley  ?  "  returned  Mrs. 
Grace.  "  I  think  he  will  yet." 

"  It  is  hardly  a  subject  for  thought," 
said  Miss  Clemson  severely ;  "  but  it 
may  interest  you  to  know  that  Alice 
Westerley  is  still  abroad,  and  has  so  far 
married  no  one." 

"  I  did  think  there  was  a  chance  for 
Colonel  Fox." 

"  Might  do  worse,"  growled  Wilming- 
ton. 

"  A  year  is  surely  long  enough  to 
mourn  a  lost  lover,"  returned  Miss 
Clemson ;  and  then  she  whispered  an 
aside  to  Wilmington :  "  Alas,  poor  Sarah  ! 
You  should  avail  yourself  of  the  oppor- 
tunity." 


1884.] 


In  War  Time. 


735 


"  I  am  not  old  enough  to  manage  so 
much  real  estate,"  said  Wilmington,  fe- 
rociously. "  But  do  you  know,"  he  add- 
ed, aloud,  "  that  we  expect  Arty  and  his 
wife  next  week  ?  ' 

"  Oh,  that  is  too  bad  ! ':  exclaimed 
Mrs.  Grace.  "  I  never  heard  it." 

She  began  to  feel  that  the  world  of 
facts  was  evading  her  pursuit  in  some 
maliciously  mysterious  way. 

"  You  seem  skeptical,"  said  Miss 
Clemson  ;  "  we  shall  have  you  dubious 
as  to  the  census  next,  Mrs.  Grace." 

"  Well,  I  have  my  opinions,"  re- 
turned that  lady.  "  And  as  to  Dr. 
Wendell,  you  can  say  what  you  like ;  I 
never  approved  of  him,  and  I  am  not 
surprised  at  the  result." 

"  You  should  have  been  a  doctor 
yourself,"  remarked  Lagrange,  who  said 
vicious  things  with  a  bewildering  tran- 
quillity of  manner ;  "  you  are  such  a 
good  observer  thrown  away." 

Mrs.  Grace  had  her  doubts  as  to  this 
compliment. 

"  And,"  added  Miss  Clemson,  "  it 
would  be  so  nice  to  be  able  to  ask  peo- 
ple their  ages." 

"  But  they  would  n't  ever  tell  you  the 
truth,"  rejoined  Mrs.  Grace,  thought- 
fully. 

"  It  is  the  absence  of  truth  that  makes 
social  life  possible,"  said  Miss  Clem- 
son. 

u  And  women  agreeable  ! "  cried  Wil- 
mington. "  What  a  horrible  sherry  ! ' 

"  Poor  thing  ! '    cried  Miss  Clemson. 

O 

"  Let  us  talk  wine  a  little." 

"  It  is  better  than  gossip,"  said  Wil- 
mington, sharply. 

"  I  agree  with  you  ;  but  gossip  is  so- 
cially valuable,  because  it  requires  no  in- 
telligence. Even  the  weather  is  lost  to 
us  now,  since  we  have  the  signal  ser- 
vice. All  the  pleasures  of  doubt  are 
being  taken  away  from  us.  I  like  it 
myself,  and  if  I  live  long  enough  life 
will  become  sufficiently  definite  to  be 
agreeable." 

"  Goodness  ! "  exclaimed  Wilmington, 


"  I  wish  you  would  say  all  that  over 
again  to  Mrs.  Grace." 

"  Thank  you,  I  never  talk  to  her  if  I 
can  help  it.  It  makes  me  feel  as  if  I 
were  looking  at  life  through  a  bad  win- 
dow glass.  Alice  Westerley  was  right 
about  her  when  she  said  the  real  chif- 
fonniere  would  be  nicer  society.  Mrs. 
Grace  does  like  the  pursuit  of  ragged 
facts." 

"  Oh,  our  dear  Mrs.  Westerley  !  I 
wish  she  would  come  home  and  abuse 
me  a  little.  Seriously  speaking,  I  had 
myself  some  idea  that  she  might  marry 
Dr.  Wendell.  I  liked  the  man,  on  the 
whole,  a  good  deal  better  than  I  like 
most  Yankees." 

"  I  do  not  share  your  prejudices," 
returned  Miss  Clemson.  "  He  was  charm- 
ingly intelligent.  What  has  become  of 
him  ?  " 

"  Well,  you  know  his  health  broke 
down,  and  I  believe  Fox  found  him 
quite  ill  and  penniless  at  Long  Branch, 
where  his  sister  had  taken  him.  I  un- 
derstand that  Fox  carried  them  off  to 
the  West,  and  has  given  him  a  fresh 
start." 

"  It  was  like  Mr.  Fox,"  said  Miss 
Clemson.  "  I  shall  write  Alice  Wester- 
ley all  about  it  this  very  evening.  She 
will  be  so  interested." 

Wilmington  smiled. 

u  What  is  amusing  you  ?  r<  she  asked. 

"  Oh,  I  was  thinking,"  he  replied. 

Some  two  months  after  this  dinner, 
which  has  let  us  into  a  knowledge  of 
the  fates  of  some  of  our  friends,  Mrs. 
Morton  received  from  Ann  Wendell  this 
letter  :  — 

DEAR  MRS.  MORTON,  —  I  have  been 
able  to  persuade  my  brother  that  it  were 
well  in  the  eyes  of  God  that  he  permit 
me  to  write  to  you,  and  say  that  the 
death  of  your  son  Edward  was  owing  to 
negligence  on  the  part  of  my  brother, 
who  was  in  haste,  for  some  en  use  un- 
known to  me,  and  so  gave  the  wrong 
vial  to  Arthur,  and  did  not  sufficiently 


736 


Over  the  Andes. 


[December, 


examine  as  he  should  have  done.  For 
reasons  which  I  do  not  understand,  my 
brother  allowed  the  blame  to  rest  ou 
Arthur,  and  seemed  to  be  willing  to  as- 
sist in  concealing  the  truth.  Now,  at  last, 
having  come  to  look  at  it  more  wisely, 
he  is  desirous  that  I  should  tell  you  the 
truth  ;  and  hence  you  will  see  why  he 
could  not  take  the  money  which  would 
not  have  come  to  him  except  for  the 
death  he  caused. 

Perhaps,    now   that  some    time   has 


gone,  you  will  try  to  forgive  this  great 
wickedness,  knowing  that  my  brother  is 
much  broken  in  health  and  spirit. 

When  Alice  Westerley  saw  this  note, 
a  good  while  after  it  was  written,  she 
had  a  great  longing  to  be  able  to  say 
some  tender  words  to  the  true,  simple, 
honest  woman,  who  had  poured  out  the 
waters  of  her  loving  life  where  the  bar- 
ren soil  seemed  to  give  back  no  least 


return. 


S.  Weir  Mitchell 


OVER   THE   ANDES. 


IT  was  with  regret  that  I  broke  up 
my  residence  in  Santiago,  and  prepared 
for  a  trip  across  the  Andes  to  Buenos 
Ayres.  I  was  sorry  to  say  good-by  to 
the  many  hospitable  and  kindly  friends 
whose  attentions  had  made  my  stay 
among  them  so  pleasant,  and  yet  I  was 
on  the  whole  quite  content  at  depart- 
ing, since  I  was  at  last  to  scale  that 
immense  snow-crowned  mountain  range 
that  formed  a  permanent  background  to 
every  view,  and  with  whose  stately  and 
sublime  grandeur  one  could  never  be- 
come too  familiar. 

After  leaving  Santiago,  I  passed  a  few 
days  upon  the  hacienda  of  Don  Jose 
J.  Carbajal,  with  his  estimable  family, 
which  now  includes  his  sister,  the  widow 
of  Arturo  Prat,  the  hero  of  Iquique ; 
and  at  length,  feeling  eager  to  set  out 
upon  my  proposed  trip,  I  bade  them 
adieu,  and  rode  over  to  Santa  Rosa  de 
los  Andes,  where  the  road  begins.  Here 
I  hastily  procured  provisions,  a  guide, 
mules,  etc. ;  and  being  already  provided 
with  an  American  saddle,  blankets,  and 
revolver,  I  felt  fully  equipped  for  my 
journey. 

At  6.05  A.  M.  I  left  the  Hotel  del 
Comercio  with  Pascual  Martinez,  the 
guide,  and  passed  leisurely  through  the 


dusty  streets  in  the  cool  morning.  On 
leaving  Santa  Rosa,  we  struck  the  Rio 
Aconcagua  almost  immediately,  and  fol- 
lowed it  through  its  sinuous  course  un- 
til ten  o'clock,  when  we  reached  the 
Resguardo,1  where  the  Rio  Colorado 
joins  the  river  which  gives  its  name  to 
the  province.  The  Rio  Aconcagua  is 
the  redder  of  the  two.  I  had  brought 
letters  to  the  Resguardo  from  friends  in 
Santiago,  and  I  stayed  and  breakfasted 
with  him.  At  11.30  I  took  my  leave, 
thanking  him  for  his  attention,  and, 
mounting  my  macho,  rode  off  across  the 
river  and  up  the  spiral  path  which  leads 
easily  into  the  Cordillera.  Many  of 
the  tourists  who  cross  the  mountains  by 
this  pass  come  as  far  as  the  Resguardo 
in  coaches ;  but  soon  after  leaving  this 
point  the  road  becomes  impassable  for 
carriages. 

I  very  soon  found,  to  my  regret,  that 
the  guide  who  accompanied  me  was  as 
stupid  as  he  was  trustworthy,  and  that, 
although  he  had  traveled  the  road  for 

O 

over  twenty-five  years,  he  could  never 
give  any  explanation  of  the  curious  and 
often  striking  names  of  the  different  lo- 

1  The  Resguardo  is  the  custom  house  of  the  Cor- 
dillera. The  same  name  is  given  to  the  officer  in 
charge. 


1884.] 


Over  the  Andes. 


737 


calities  that  we  passed.  I  suspected  this 
soon  after  leaving  Santa  Rosa,  but  on 
arriving  at  the  Salto  del  Soldado  l  (the 
Soldier's  Leap),  which  we  passed  at 
two  o'clock,  I  found  that  even  this  name 
had  never  excited  his  curiosity  to  learu 
its  origin. 

In  great  disgust,  and  comprehending 
fully  the  little  benefit  I  was  to  get  from 
the  fellow  any  further  than  to  conduct 
my  luggage,  I  left  the  path  and  wan- 
dered off  through  the  dry  thorn-bushes 

i 

to  get  a  nearer  view  of  this  famous  ra- 
vine. Imagine  two  valleys,  separated 
at  this  very  point  by  a  constriction 
whose  two  parts  run  out  like  immense 
buttresses,  as  if  to  meet  each  other ; 
the  level  of  the  valley  on  the  left  hand 
being  about  a  hundred  feet  above  that 
of  the  other.  The  upper  valley  had 
evidently  been  shut  off  from  the  lower 
one,  at  some  remote  period,  by  an  enor- 
mous bowlder,  which  completely  filled 
the  little  pass  between  the  hills  crowding 
down  on  the  two  sides.  This  rock,  ly- 
ing thus  directly  in  the  channel  of  the 
river,  is  split  into  halves,  and  its  two 
fragments  are  pushed  apart  laterally, 
leaving  the  great  fissure  twenty  yards 
wide,  over  which  a  Spanish  soldier  of 
the  time  of  the  Revolution  is  said  to 
have  jumped,  thus  escaping  from  his 
pursuers  and  following  up  his  flight  in 
safety  among  the  mountains.  Through 
this  vertical  fissure  now  foams  the  Rio 
Aconcagua  in  its  rocky  bed. 

All  day  I  regretted  the  exuberant 
stupidity  of  the  guide  ;  but  nothing  could 
be  done  now,  and  I  must  hunt  up  the 
notable  objects  on  the  way  by  myself. 

From  this  point  the  hoary  summits 
rise  abruptly  in  rocky  grandeur  from 
one  side  of  the  road,  while  on  the  other, 
at  an  immense  but  varying  depth,  roars 
the  whitening  river.  In  many  places 
and  for  long  distances  the  road  is  simply 
a  spiral  path  cut  in  the  side  of  the  moun- 
tains. Here  and  there  a  thin  silvery 

1  Height  1172.40  metres  (3845.50  feet)  above  the 
sea. 

VOL.  LIV.  —  NO.  326.  47 


thread  seems  to  waver  down  the  rocky 
slope:  it  is  a  rivulet  cascade  rushing 
from  the  region  of  snow  to  join  its  cold, 
clear  stream  to  the  turbid  river  in  the 
ravine.  Fantastic  forms  of  uncouth  mon- 
sters come  suddenly  into  view  above 
me  or  at  the  side  of  the  track  :  they  are 
simple  bowlders  and  rock  masses  rolled 
down  long  since  from  the  barren  heights 
overhead.  The  side  of  every  hill  is  a 
landslide,  formed  by  the  alternate  action 
of  the  sun  and  the  snow  from  the  detri- 
tus of  the  immense  rock  mountains. 
These  land  avalanches,  now  smooth  and 
stationary,  are  being  gradually  covered 
with  hardy  vegetation,  which  in  the  dis- 
tance yields  to  the  eye  a  pleasant  pros- 
pect, but  which  becomes  thin  and  mea- 
gre on  a  near  approach,  shearing  the 
brown  and  gray  hillside  of  its  green 
glory.  [j  j,  w 

Riding  on,  on,  at  a  gentle  trot,  the 
heat  of  the  sun  is  soon  passed,  and  turn- 
ing round  the  side  of  the  mountain  one 
dips  into  the  grateful  cool  shade  of  the 
twilight,  while  the  mountain  summits, 
rising  on  every  side,  still  retain  their 
bright  glow,  "  et  sol  crescentes  decedens 
duplicat  umbras" 

At  four  o'clock  I  passed,  without  stop- 
ping, an  adobe  building  on  the  other  side 
of  the  river,  bearing  the  inscription, 
"  Posada  i  talaje.  1350  metros."  This 
posada,  the  Guardia  Vieja,  is  at  the 
point  of  junction  of  the  Rios  Aconcagua 
and  Blanco,  being  situated  on  the  rocky 
bluff  between  the  converging  streams. 
It  is  accessible  by  a  narrow  willow 
bridge  spanning  the  Rio  Aconcagua. 

A  long  road  still  separates  me  from 
the  Juncal,  which  is  the  limit  of  this 
day's  journey,  and  I  push  on  without 
pausing  to  take  a  sup  of  water  from 
the  numerous  icy  streams  which  cross 
the  path,  or  even  slackening  rein  unless 
some  abrupt  ascent  or  sudden  fall  in  the 
road  renders  it  necessary. 

Pascual  seems  to  have  considerable 
trouble  with  the  pack-mule,  and  he  has 
already  degenerated  from  a  guide  to  a 


738 


Over  the  Andes. 


[December, 


muleteer.  I  have  ridden  alone  all  day, 
with  my  revolver  in  my  pocket  and 
smoking  an  occasional  pipe. 

It  was  already  dark  when  I  passed 
Ojos  de  Agua,  but  I  pressed  on  another 
two  miles  to  the  Juncal.  The  light  had 
already  faded  from  the  mountain  tops, 
and  the  valley  was  submerged  in  dark- 
ness. The  profound  quiet  of  the  place 
and  the  hour,  the  loneliness  of  the  road, 
the  sublime  spectacle  of  the  mighty 
mountains  rising  all  about  and  above 
me,  impressed  me  strongly  and  strange- 
ly. The  light  blue  sky  had  become 
dark,  and  the  stars  glinted  out  over  the 
mountain  tops;  a  sensation  of  delicious 
melancholy  weighed  upon  me. 

A  turn  in  the  road  brought  to  view  a 
white  hut,  or  house,  or  rancho,  at  my 
right  hand,  without  window  or  apparent 
door ;  it  stood  there  like  a  phantom  in 
the  full  darkness  now  upon  me.  I  do 
not  remember  that  I  even  wondered 
what  it  was ;  I  was  overwhelmed  with 
the  sensation  of  strange  emotions. 

As  I  thus  moodily  rode  along,  a  small 
boy  clad  in  white  rags  stood  suddenly 
at  my  side,  and  in  a  hungry  tone  asked 
me  if  I  could  give  him  some  bread  for 
his  sick  brother,  pointing  to  the  white 
cupola,  as  if  his  brother  were,  there. 

"  What  is  the  matter  with  your  broth- 
er ?  "  I  asked. 

"  We  are  Chileans,"  he  replied,  "  and 
were  coming  back  from  the  other  side 
on  foot,  when  my  brother  slipped  and 
fell  down  the  mountain  side  and  hurt  his 
leg,  and  he  cannot  walk,  and  I  brought 
him  along  to  this  casucha,  where  he  is 
now.  I  could  not  leave  him  to  go  to 
Chile,  for  it  would  take  me  a  long  time, 
and  he  would  die,  for  he  has  nothing  to 
eat  and  is  very  weak.  And  if  I  could 
leave  him  two  or  three  rolls  of  bread  I 
would  go  back  to  my  country,  and  then 
I  could  bring  my  friends  for  him  and 
take  him  home." 

But  I  have  not  any  bread  with  me,  I 
thought,  and  must  wait  for  Pascual,  and 

~         '  ' 

—  I  knew  not  when  he  would  come  up; 


it  was  still  half  a  mile  to  the  Juncal, 
and  already  late. 

"  Come  to  the  Juncal  in  an  hour,"  I 
said,  "and  I  will  give  you  bread."  Then 
it  occurred  to  me  that  I  could  at  least 
examine  the  sick  boy,  and  perhaps  help 
him.  "  I  will  go  with  you  to  see  your 
brother,"  I  said.  "  I  am  a  doctor,  and 
may  be  able  to  help  him." 

"  Oh,  God  bless  you,  sir !  for  he  is 
very  bad;"  and  the  little  fellow  hurried 
on  before  me,  while  I  turned  my  ma- 
chb's  head  and  let  him  pick  his  steps 
towards  the  small  house,  for  it  was  too 
dark  to  guide  him.  But  if  it  was  dark 
without  it  was  black  within.  The  dark- 
ness seemed  palpable,  solid,  as  if  you 
might  strike  your  head  against  it.  I 
fumbled  about  for  my  matches.  / 1  heard 
the  child  ask  his  brother  if  he  brought 
him  any  bread. 

"  No,  Jose,  but  God  has  sent  us  a 
doctor  to  cure  your  leg,"  —  I  thought 
that  he  was  putting  it  rather  strongly, 
—  "  and  ho  wilt  give  me  some  bread  for 
you  at  the  Juncal.  But,  sir,"  —  his 
voice  turned  towards  me,  —  "  we  have 
no  light." 

I  had  already  taken  out  a  box  of 
matches,  and  he  spoke  as  one  struck 
fire.  The  flame  showed  me  a  haggard 
little  fellow  lying  almost  naked  on  the 
damp  earthen  floor  in  the  corner,  and  I 
crossed  to  where  he  lay.  As  he  lit 
match  after  match,  I  examined  his  leg 
by  their  flickering  light.  It  was  an  old 
dislocation  at  the  hip-joint,  and  the  ad- 
hesions were  strong.  There  was  only 
one  thing  to  do,  and  he  was  weak  with 
hunger ;  but  I  took  out  my  pocket  flask, 
poured  into  a  cup  a  few  spoonfuls  of 
brandy,  and  gave  it  to  him  with  a  little 
water. 

"  Now,  my  little  fellow,  be  a  man,  for 
this  will  hurt  you  badly,  but  it  is  the 
only  way  to  save  your  leg."  So  he  lay 
back  on  the  floor ;  his  brother  struck  the 
matches,  while  I  with  some  difficulty  re- 
placed the  thigh  bone  in  its  position.  I 
was  struck  with  the  conduct  of  the  two 


1884.] 


Over  the  Andes. 


739 


brave  boys,  one  of  whom  bore  the  ex- 
cruciating pain  of  the  reduction  with- 
out a  shriek,  while  the  other  continued 
scratching  the  matches,  one  after  an- 
other, without  leaving  us  for  a  moment 
in  darkness.  "  Two  genuine  little  Chi- 
lenos,"  I  could  not  help  saying  to  my- 
self as  I  rode  away,  after  giving  them 
what  help  and  directions  I  could.  There 
was  a  glow  at  my  heart  as  my  macho 
picked  his  way  carefully  down  the  slope. 

A  few  paces  further,  I  crossed  an- 
other stream,  —  this  time  a  fairly  large 
one,  —  and  walked  my  macho  up  the 
opposite  bank,  when,  at  a  short  dis- 
tance, he  shied  violently,  and  could  not 
be  induced  by  spurs  or  whip  to  follow 
the  road.  Indistinctly  I  saw  a  black 
mass  lying  in  the  path  before  me,  and 
knew  from  the  macho's  persistent  re- 
fusal to  follow  the  road  that  it  was  a 
dead  body,  but  whether  of  horse  or  man 
I  could  not  see.  I  made  a  detour  over 
the  small  sharp  rocks  at  the  side  of  the 
road,  and  in  a  few  minutes  reached  a 
couple  of  mud-huts,  in  one  of  which  was 
a  light.  I  rode  up  and  called  for  sup- 
per and  a  bed  (comida  y  cama),  and  dis- 
mounted. 

Two  villainous -looking  bandits  ap- 
peared at  my  call,  and  showed  me  into 
one  of  the  huts.  I  suspected  them  from 
the  first.  Dirty,  wrapped  in  rags,  faintly 
seen  in  the  darkness  by  the  stray  light 
of  a  miserable  candle  which  sent  its 
straggling  rays  through  the  half-open 
door,  they  eyed  me  attentively  and  ques- 
tioned me  closely.  I  answered  their 
questions  in  an  offhand  way,  and  en- 
tered the  hut.  Four  posts  stuck  in  the 
uneven  earth  and  connected  by  two  poles, 
upon  which  some  ragged  boards  were 
irregularly  laid,  formed  the  only  furni- 
ture, and  promised  me  a  night's  cold  rest. 

For  supper  they  could  offer  me  noth- 
ing but  a  chicken  cazuela  (stew),  and  the 
chicken  was  perched  somewhere  in  the 
corral  without.  I  hurried  them  up,  got 
them  out  of  the  room,  and  then  exam- 
ined my  quarters.  A  damp  earthen  box 


in  a  mud-hut,  with  no  window,  one  door 
which  padlocked  on  the  outside,  and 
with  a  wooden  shelf  to  sleep  on,  gave  me 
a  poor  assurance  of  comfort.  Nor  did 
I  much  like  the  conduct  of  the  two  sus- 
picious vermin  who  had  received  me. 
One  would  enter  and  ask  if  I  were 
alone,  or  if  I  carried  money,  or  if  my 
luggage  were  soon  coming  up,  and  who 
was  my  arriero,  and  then,  joining  his  fel- 
low, they  would  hold  conferences  out- 
side in  the  darkness.  I  only  responded 
by  telling  them  to  hurry  up  the  stew ; 
but  they  annoyed  me  until  finally  I  took 
my  revolver  from  my  pocket,  laid  it  on 
the  table  which  they  had  brought  in, 
and  sat  down  on  a  box  to  write  in  my 
journal. 

Soon  Pascual  came  up,  and  brought 
the  luggage  to  my  room ;  then  the  cazu- 
ela came  in,  and  I  sat  down  to  supper. 
The  demands  of  impatient  hunger  once 
satisfied,  my  first  question  was  for  news. 

"  Are  there  any  other  travelers  stay- 
ing here  to-night  ?  Who  have  passed 
over  this  way  within  a  few  days  ?  " 

I  found  that  my  friend  Sefior  J. 
Abram  Perez,  the  consul  of  Venezuela 
in  Santiago,  was  a  couple  of  days  ahead 
of  me  ;  that  the  Argentine  minister,  re- 
turning from  his  post  in  Bolivia,  had  also 
lately  gone  over ;  and  that  there  was 
actually  in  the  other  rancho  a  caballero 
who  had  arrived  that  very  afternoon, 
and  who  intended  to  push  on  the  next 
morning.  These  were  all  who  had  re- 
cently passed  on  their  way  to  the  other 
side,  although  two  gentlemen  had  come 
over  from  the  Argentine  several  days 
previous.  This  information  was  got  in 
snatches  and  at  intervals,  and  it  required 
much  skill  not  to  completely  lose  their 
identity  and  mix  them  all  up  in  an  amor- 
phous jumble. 

I  was  anxious  to  see  the  caballero 
who  was  going  my  road,  and  if  agree- 
able we  could  easily  ride  in  company. 
At  any  rate,  whether  agreeable  or  not, 
it  would  be  difficult  to  avoid  him.  Had 
the  caballero  dined  ?  I  asked. 


740 


Over  the  Andes. 


[December, 


Yes,  he  had  diried  two  hours  before, 
and  had  eaten  up  all  the  asndo  (roast) 
that  there  was,  and  then  wanted  more  ; 
and  they  had  to  kill  two  chickens  for 
him. 

What  was  he  doing  now  ? 

Well,  they  could  n't  say  ;  but  if  I 
wanted  to  know  I  could  go  over  to  the 
other  hut  and  ask  him. 

The  coolness  of  this  unexpected  an- 
swer made  me  smile,  and  I  went  on  with 
the  cazuela. 

I  presume  the  Hungry  Unknown  had 
similarly  inquired  of  them  about  me,  — 
though  I  hope  with  better  success  than 
I  had  had,  —  for  when  I  went  from  the 
hut  to  take  a  breath  of  air  I  found  him 
standing  near  by  :  rather  a  short  and 
slightly  formed  figure,  with  a  black 
beard  and  a  slouching  felt  hat,  which 
could  not  conceal  the  brightness  of  his 
eyes,  that  seemed  to  shine  in  the  dark- 
ness. I  could  not  tell  if  he  were  thirty 
or  sixty  years  of  age,  but  his  face  was 
seamed  and  scarred  with  either  age  or 
accident.  All  this  I  learned  better  the 
next  day,  when  in  the  early  morning  we 
set  off  together. 

As  I  came  up  he  stepped  forward,  sa- 
luted me  in  a  quiet  voice,  looked  into 
my  face  closely  and  scrutinizingly  by  the 
faint  light,  and  then  fell  back  again.  But 
if  he  examined  my  face,  he  did  not  try 
to  conceal  his  own,  and  I  was  not  un- 
pleasantly impressed  by  his  quiet  voice 
and  manner  ;  so  after  assuring  myself 
that  Pascual  had  attended  to  the  mules, 
I  went  back  to  the  cazuela,  and  in  a  few 
minutes  sent  out  to  ask  the  caballero  to 
do  me  the  honor  to  come  in  and  take 
a  glass  of  wine  with  me. 

I  was  amused  at  the  alacrity  with 
which  he  answered  the  invitation  in  per- 
son. As  he  entered  my  half  of  the  hut 
his  face  beamed  and  glowed  with  good 
fellowship.  He  seemed  not  at  all  the 
gloomy,  dark,  subdued  Spaniard  whom 
I  had  met  without.  I  should  rather 
have  taken  him  for  an  Italian  than  a 
Spanish  gentleman.  I  arose,  extended 


my  hand,  and  welcomed  him  ;  he  replied 
cordially  but  quietly,  and  gave  a  side- 
long glance  at  the  box  upon  which  a  few 
posthumous  bones  and  supernumerary 
potatoes  represented  my  dinner.  His 
glance  met  a  couple  of  bottles  of  "  Ur- 
meneta,"  however,  and  he  beamed  a 
hundred  fold. 

He  proved  to  be  a  Spaniard  who  had 
long  lived  and  mined  in  Bolivia ;  had 
been  the  proprietor  of  two  silver  mines 
until  recently,  and  had  sold  them  out  in 
Chile  for  the  purpose  of  going  up  into 
Santa  Cruz,  where  he  said  much  gold 
had  been  lately  discovered.  His  sil- 
ver mines  had  paid  him  well  and  were 
still  productive,  but  the  mere  desire  of 
a  change  had  proved  stronger  than  all 
else.  I  found  him  to  be  a  man  of  wide 
experience,  who  had  traveled  through  all 
parts  of  the  world ;  a  nervous,  fasci- 
nating talker,  —  certainly  a  bad  conver- 
sationalist, —  of  vigorous  and  original 
ideas  and  marked  individuality.  I  was 
especially  glad  to  learn  that  he  had 
twice  before  crossed  the  path  we  were 
now  traveling,  and  knew  thoroughly  the 
road  and  its  traditions.  We  agreed  to 
start  out  together  the  next  morning,  and 
he  arose  and  bade  me  good-night.  I,  for 
my  part,  pulled  off  my  outer  clothing, 
and,  with  my  revolver  beneath  the  pil- 
low, lay  down  on  the  bed  they  had  made 
for  me. 

The  next  morning  I  arose  at  5.30,  and 
while  Pascual  saddled  the  mules  I  got 
out  the  coffee,  to  take  a  cup  before  start- 
ing. While  making  it  I  suddenly  re- 
membered the  little  fellow  who  was  to 
have  come  for  the  bread,  and  I  called 
out  to  the  squalid  bandit  who  had  served 
us  the  night  before. 

"  Did  a  little  boy  come  here  last  night 
for  bread  ?  " 

"  Yes,"  in  a  surly  tone ;  "  he  comes 
every  night.  I  have  no  bread  for  beg- 
gars. He  wanted  to  disturb  your  wor- 
ship, but  I  would  n't  let  him." 

"  You  did  very  ill,"  I  answered  se- 
verely, for  my  conscience  stung  me  for 


1884.] 


Over  the  Andes. 


741 


having  forgotten  him,  and  I  did  not 
know  now  how  to  get  food  to  him.  "  It 
is  very  evident  that  you  are  not  a  Chi- 
leno." 

"  No,  I  come  from  the  other  side,"  he 
answered  coolly.  "  As  for  the  boy,  he 
is  hanging  about  here  somewhere,"  and 
he  called  the  little  fellow,  who  came 
into  view  from  behind  the  corner  of  the 
hut.  I  spoke  to  him,  and  asked  him 
about  his  brother,  while  pouring  a  double 
quantity  of  coffee  into  the  pot.  His 
brother  had  been  in  pain  all  night,  he 
said,  but  felt  well  this  morning,  —  better 
than  he  had  done  since  he  hurt  himself ; 
and  the  Holy  Virgin  Mary  would  help 
me  for  my  kindness  to  him.  So  I  gave 
him  an  armful  of  bread,  poured  out  half 
the  coffee  into  a  tomato  can  for  him, 
told  him  to  keep  the  cloths  wet  for  two 
or  three  days,  and  hoped  he  would  get  to 
Chile  safely  and  soon.  The  little  fellow 
skipped  off  gayly  across  the  rocks,  while 
I  drank  my  coffee  and  ate  a  couple  of 
crackers  and  watched  him. 

Desiring  to  cross  the  pass  before  noon, 
we  began  at  6.30  the  ascent  of  the  series 
of  mountains  intervening  between  the 
Juncal  and  the  summit.  Daily  about 
noon  rises  a  strong  wind,  which  blows 
over  the  pass  and  before  which  nothing 
can  stand.  As  I  rode  along  I  saw  why 
this  little  valley  was  called  "Juncal,"1 
for  it  was  everywhere  covered  with  the 
naked  rocks  except  where  the  reedy 
rushes  rise  from  the  swamp.  An  hour 
of  steep  and  rocky  ascent  brought  us  to 
a  summit  overlooking  the  tortuous  path 
by  which  we  had  mounted  and  the  de- 
licious little  valley  of  the  Juncal,  —  a 
beautiful  setting  for  the  miserable  ran- 
cho  in  which  I  had  passed  the  previous 
night. 

The  first  object  that  caught  my  at- 
tention upon  the  upper  level  was  a  big 
white  dog-kenuel-like  building  of  brick, 
which  recalled  the  similar  structure  that 
I  had  entered  the  night  before.  Later 

1  "  Lapis  omnia  nudus 
Limosoque  palus  obducat 


I  found  others  scattered  along  the  road, 
making  in  all  four  on  the  Chilean  side 
of  the  summit  and  six  or  seven  on  the 
Argentine  side,  the  latter  being  much 
worse  kept  and  less  sightly  structures. 
Stationed  at  intervals,  they  are  meant 
to  serve  as  a  protection  to  the  mail-car- 
riers during  the  passage  of  the  Cordil- 
lera in  winter  time,  when  the  pass  is 
closed,  and  all  who  live  now  along  the 

7  o 

road  have  betaken  themselves  to  the  cit- 
ies on  the  plains.  They  are,  as  I  said, 
large  dog-houses  of  brick  and  mortar, 
whitewashed ;  the  walls  being  about  three 
feet  thick,  and  the  only  opening  except 
the  door  being  a  hole  cut  obliquely 
through  the  side  of  the  wall. 

It  was  Don  Ambrosio  O'Higgins,  the 
father  of  the  Chilean  Liberator,  who,  as 
inspector  of  highways,  ordered  these 
post-houses  to  be  built,  and  for  a  century 
they  have  been  kept  in  excellent  repair. 
From  May  to  November  the  couriers 
alone  enter  this  frozen  wilderness.  Three 
of  them  go  together  :  one  carries  the 
post-bag,  the  second  bears  the  provisions, 
—  the  load  of  each  being  strapped  to 
his  shoulders,  —  and  the  third  goes  to  ful- 
fill either  office  in  the  case  of  one  of  his 
companions  being  frozen  to  death.  The 
trip  sometimes  requires  thirty  days,  and 
is  rarely  made  in  eight ;  each  courier 
earning  twelve  dollars  for  going  and 
coming.  In  July,  1880,  a  courier  named 
Vidal  Toro,  one  of  the  most  hardy  and 
expert  of  all,  froze  to  death  in  the 
Puerite  del  Inca,  when  the  thermometer 
registered  24°  Centigrade  below  zero.  A 
year  later,  August,  1881,  two  others,  Vic- 
tor Lagos  and  Juan  Guerra,  were  whirled 
down  by  an  avalanche  for  the  distance 
of  a  mile  and  a  half,  and  their  bodies  were 
found  several  months  later,  when  the 
thawing  of  the  snows  discovered  them 
in  the  valley  below. 

Passing  along  by  the  courier's  lodge, 
we  turned  out  of  the  way  to  see  one  of 
the  wonders  of  the  Cordillera,  the  La- 
guna  del  Inca,  a  beautiful  crystal  sheet 
of  water  occupying  the  whole  space  be- 


742 


Over  the,  Andes. 


[December, 


tween  the  bases  of  the  surrounding  moun- 
tains, and  stretching  away  towards  the 
north.  The  water  bubbles  up  through 
many  springs  at  the  bottom,  and  the 
popular  belief  is  that  it  is  in  direct  con- 
nection with  the  ocean.  Its  water  is 
wonderfully  sweet  and  fresh,  as  I  can 
certify. 

Until  now  I  had  had  few  opportuni- 
ties of  exchanging  more  than  casual  re- 
marks with  my  new  companion,  but  here, 
standibg  on  the  shore  of  the  Iiica's  Lake,1 
he  opened  the  conversation  :  — 

"  When  I  passed  here,  two  years  ago, 
I  did  not  stop  to  visit  this  lake,  as  I 
was  hurrying  to  Valparaiso  to  take  the 
steamer  north,  for  the  news  had  reached 
me  of  a  rich  vein  struck  in  one  of  my 
mines ;  but  I  remember  quite  well  the 
story  that  the  men  on  the  road  were 
laughing  at.  Some  scientific  English- 
man, in  his  journey  over  the  mountains, 
had  stopped,  as  we  have  done,  by  the 
side  of  the  lake,  while  his  guide  told  him 
that  this  lake  had  existed  from  the  time 
of  Noah,  and  that  strange  forms  of  fish 
were  often  seen  deep  down  in  its  clear 
waters,  but  could  never  be  hooked  or 
snared.  This  was  a  very  bald  tale,  like 
guides'  stories  in  general ;  but  three 
months  later  that  Englishman  came 
back,  with  a  tent  and  provisions,  a  boat 
and  a  fish-line,  and  day  after  day  he 
spent  with  his  line  out,  rowing  about  to 
what  he  thought  good  places  for  fish. 
For  weeks  he  stayed  here,  fishing  for 
antediluvian  specimens  to  enrich  the 
British  Museum,  while  all  the  passers-by 
would  come  a  mile  out  of  the  way  to  sit 
on  the  rocks  and  laugh  at  him.  When 
or  how  he  left  nobody  knows,  but  the 
very  boat  he  rowed  round  in  is  in  the 
room  where  I  slept  last  night,  at  the 
Juncal." 

"  And  did  he  catch  his  fish  ?  ' 

"  Quien  sabe  ?  They  say  his  boat 
capsized,  and  that  he  lies  down  there 
now  on  the  cold  bottom,  with  his  face  in 

i  Height    8508  feet  above  the  sea.     (Pretot- 
Freire.) 


the  sand.  I  cannot  tell.  Englishmen 
are  always  doing  senseless  and  unex- 
pected things." 

I  was  inclined  to  pity  the  fate  of  the 
poor  fellow,  and  the  bitter  laugh  of 
Senor  Queseyd  jarred  on  my  mind.  I 
turned  about,  and  we  left  the  lake  to  re- 
turn to  the  path  from  which  we  had 
strayed. 

Between  the  path  and  the  lake  is 
a  sandy  area,  perfectly  level,  through 
which  a  brooklet  cuts  its  way  between 
sandy  ramparts  about  six  feet  nigh, 
their  upper  surface  being  perfectly  par- 
allel with  the  valley  through  which  the 
brook  runs.  On  all  sides  birds  are  fly- 
ing about,  as  large  as  the  English  spar- 
row, and  of  a  dull,  dark-green  color. 
The  natives  call  them  "jilgeros  "  (lin- 
nets). 

This  valley,  near  which  is  the  Laguna 
del  Inca,  is  the  first  of  three,  all  of  near- 
ly the  same  size,  each  on  a  higher  level 
than  the  one  before,  and  all  surrounded 
by  lofty  mountain  crests  towering  into 
the  infinite  ether.  These  valleys  are 
called  the  Valley  of  the  Lake  (Valle 
de  la  Laguna),  the  Valley  of  the  Skull 
(Valle  de  la  Calavera),  and  the  Valle 
de  Tambillos.. 

The  first  received  its  name  from  the 
Inca's  Lake,  and  of  the  third  I  can  find 
no  explanation,  —  certainly  Sefior  Que- 
seyd could  give  me  none ;  but  of  the 
second  the  story  runs  that  many  years 
ago  three  couriers  were  crossing  the 
Cordillera  at  the  worst  season  of  the 
year,  and  had  already  narrowly  escaped 
death  in  many  ways  when  they  passed 
up  together  along  the  side  of  the  hills 
skirting  this  valley,  for  the  purpose  of 
reaching  the  lodge  which  already  ap- 
peared below  them  on  the  edge  of  the 
rising  ground.  While  stepping  care- 
fully along,  a  sudden  avalanche  of  snow 
came  rushing  and  roaring  down  the 
slope,  and  before  they  could  turn  to  see 
if  it  threatened  them  they  were  sunk 
and  separated  by  the  overwhelming 
mass.  One  disengaged  himself,  after  a 


1884.] 


Over  the  Andes. 


743 


time,  and  in  looking  for  his  companions 
found  one  of  them  buried  deep  in  the 
snow,  but  alive.  All  search  for  the 
other  was  in  vain,  and  in  the  following 
November  his  head  was  found  directly 
in  front  of  the  door  of  the  lodge,  whith- 
er the  avalanche  had  bowled  it,  but  his 
body  was  never  again  seen.  For  this 
reason  the  valley  is  called  Valle  de  la 
Calavera,  and  the  lodge  in  the  valley 
is  named  Casucha  de  la  Calavera. 

In  the  Valle  de  Tambillos,  two  little 
streams  of  water  that  crossed  the  road 
were  frozen  over. 

From  the  time  that  we  left  the  La- 
guna,  the  conversation,  or  rather  the 
monologue  of  my  companion,  had  not 
flagged.  Tradition,  incident,  and  stories 
relating  to  the  various  parts  which  we 
had  passed,  or  which  we  were  to  pass, 
flowed  in  an  unceasing  stream  from  his 
lips. 

"  There  is  little  doubt  that  the  Chil- 
ean Indians  crossed  this  very  road  to 
reach  the  grand  highway  that  led  to 
Cuzco,  and  send  to  the  Incas  the  yearly 
tribute  that  they  exacted.  The  last 
journey  that  they  made  was  in  1535, 
when  Don  Diego  de  Almagro  left  Cuz- 
co and  passed  southward  to  conquer 
Chile.  A  little  north  of  Jujui  he  met 
the  Inca's  slaves  bearing  the  annual  trib- 

O 

ute  to  Cuzco,  and  himself  took  it  in  the 
name  of  the  dead  Inca.  At  the  Puente 
del  Inca,  which  we  shall  reach  this  after- 
noon, there  is  still  buried  the  last  royal 
tribute  that  Chile  collected  for  the  liv- 
ing Inca.  You  probably  know  better 
than  I  the  circumstances  of  the  occur- 
rence, but  I  have  read  in  the  history  of 
your  countryman  Prescott  of  the  offer 
Atahuallpa  made  to  Francisco  Pizarro 
to  fill  the  large  room  where  they  were 
standing  with  gold  '  as  high  as  he  could 
reach/  if  Pizarro  would  receive  it  as  a 
ransom  for  his  life.  The  Spaniard  at 
once  accepted  the  offer,  and  the  Inca 
sent  out  to  all  parts  of  his  kingdom  to 
bid  his  subjects  collect  and  send  to  Cuzco 
their  vessels  and  ornaments  of  gold,  with 


which  to  buy  his  freedom.  To  Chile,  as 
to  all  other  possessions  of  Atahuallpa, 
came  the  royal  command,  and  here,  as 
elsewhere,  they  hurried  to  collect  the 
precious  metal  which  was  to  save  the  life 
of  him  who  was  more  to  the  Indian  than 
father,  friends,  or  home,  —  of  him  who 
represented  the  great  sun  which  they 
worshiped.  The  Chilean  tribute,  tied 
up  in  the  fresh  hides  of  guauacos,  was 
carried  along  this  very  road.  I  can  al- 
most see  the  poor  slaves  sweating  up 
this  hot,  dry  road,  in  their  haste  to  pour 
their  gold  at  Pizarro's  feet.  In  the  very 
Valle  del  Inca  came  to  them  the  fatal 
news  that  Pizarro  had  put  their  Inca, 
their  high  priest,  their  beloved  idol,  to 
death,  and  with  sad  hearts  they  scooped 
out  the  earth,  and  hid  the  precious  gold 
which  they  had  brought  to  save  his  life. 
Their  offering  was  no  longer  required, 
and  they  buried  it  in  some  unknown 
place  in  the  Valle  del  Inca.  Ojala  su- 
piera  yo  donde  se  lo  enterraron  1  "  he 
continued,  with  flashing  eyes,  "  that  is 
the  kind  of  mining  that  would  suit  me, 
and  I  hope  to  find  it.  I  have  a  clue. 
Listen  !  Two  years  ago  I  was  in  a  great 
hurry  when  I  crossed  this  road,  but  I 
stayed  one  night  in  the  Puente  del  Inca. 
I  had  no  money  then  to  get  a  room  in 
the  rancho  they  call  a  hotel,  and  I  lay 
down  on  the  lee  side  of  it  to  keep  from 
freezing.  It  was  late  in  the  season,  and 
in  a  week  longer  the  road  would  be  de- 
serted. It  was  already  bitter  cold,  and 

U 

at  midnight  I  had  to  get  up  and  walk 
about  to  keep  my  blood  going.  I  had 
only  slept  an  hour,  but  that  was  an  hour 
too  long,  and  I  could  not  get  warm.  I 
determined  to  cross  the  bridge  and  take 
a  good  run  across  the  plain  to  get  my- 
self alive  again.  I  took  my  revolver 
from  my  alforja,  put  the  strap  about  my 
waist,  and  started  off  on  as  fast  a  run  as 
I  could  with  my  stiff  legs  and  my  sense- 
less feet.  In  a  few  minutes  I  felt  better, 
but  kept  on  running  faster  than  before 
and  straight  ahead,  until  suddenly  I 
stopped  dead  short.  I  saw  a  light  about 


744 


Over  the  Andes. 


[December, 


a  hundred  yards  ahead,  and  some  one 
moving.  'Strange,'  I  thought,  'anyone 
out  here  at  midnight  with  a  lantern  ! '  I 
began  again  walking  slowly  round  about, 
that  I  might  approach  them  behind  the 
shelter  of  a  neighboring  rock.  When  I 
reached  the  rock  I  heard  them  talking, 
and  I  peered  out.  They  were  sitting  on 
the  ground.  The  light  was  out,  and  they 
were  talking  earnestly.  I  heard  and  un- 
derstood them :  they  were  talking  about 
this  very  treasure ;  they  knew  where  it 
was  ;  it  was  at  their  feet  as  they  sat 
there.  How  they  had  found  it  I  could 
not  learn,  —  they  said  nothing  about  that ; 
they  were  disputing  about  the  quantity 
they  should  each  have.  There  were  three 
guanaco  skins,  they  said,  and  each  claimed 
two  of  them.  Each  could  not  have  two 
of  them,  of  course,  and  consequently  they 
went  at  each  other  with  their  knives. 
My  heart  danced  and  sang  for  joy.  '  Let 
them  kill  each  other,'  I  thought,  'and 
the  secret  shall  be  in  my  keeping  alone. 
I  could  not  distinguish  them  in  the 
darkness,  but  I  heard  them  struggling 
and  gasping  and  rolling  over  along  the 
smooth  ground,  until  suddenly  the  noise 
of  the  struggle  ceased.  In  my  intense 
curiosity  I  had  already  stolen  out  from 
behind  the  rock,  and  gradually  felt  my- 
self drawn  towards  them,  and  now  I  was 
at  the  very  scene  of  the  fight.  One  was 
sitting  up  on  the  ground  trying  to  bind 
up  his  arm  or  leg,  I  could  not  see  which ; 
the  other  was  lying  beside  him,  dead. 
The  very  fiend  seized  me,  and  a  fierce 
desire  came  upon  me  and  shook  me,  as 
I  stood  there "  —  He  stopped  short 
and  looked  at  me  closely  ;  his  eyes  were 
filled  with  a  fierce  distrust,  his  cheek 
was  flushed  with  the  vividness  of  his 
recollection,  and  he  glared  at  me  for  a 
moment  like  a  very  tiger.  Then  remem- 
bering himself,  he  half  laughed,  and  said 
uneasily,  as  if  to  finish  the  subject,  "  And 
that  is  all  I  know  of  the  guanaco  skins." 
"  And  the  other  one,  —  the  survivor 

i  Bermejo,  11,580.69  feet  above  sea  level.    (Pre- 
'tot-Freire.) 


from  the  fight  ?  "  I  almost  asked,  but  I 
already  knew  without  asking.  His  wild 
manner  had  told  me  all  that  his  tongue 
had  left  unspoken,  and  I  knew  that  he 
was  the  only  one  alive  that  held  the  clue 
to  the  Inca's  treasure. 

After  this  his  presence  made  me  un- 
easy, and  he  kept  his  eye  on  me  askance 
in  an  indirect,  suspicious  way,  which  did 
not  promise  any  more  friendly  talk  be- 
tween us,  nor  tend  to  tranquilize  me ; 
and  I  was  glad  when  he  gradually 
dropped  behind,  and  rather  secretly  tick- 
led my  macho  with  the  spur,  so  as  to  in- 
crease the  distance  between  us.  In  a 
few  minutes  I  felt  that  he  was  not  in 
sight,  though  I  pretended  to  myself  not 
to  know  that  he  had  left  my  side. 

Through  this  chain  of  contiguous  val- 
leys, lying  level  and  green,  I  passed, 
with  the  imposing  presence  of  the 
mighty  mountains  always  accompany- 
ing me,  until  the  ascent  began  again,  an 
hour  later.  Steep  from  the  first,  it  soon 
became  precipitous,  and  for  a  long  hour 
my  macho  clambered  up  a  sandy  path, 
stumbling  incessantly  over  the  loose 
overlying  blocks  of  stone,  which  were 
too  small  to  obstruct,  but  large  enough 
to  impede,  the  passage. 

At  length  at  9.30  I  stood  upon  the 
summit,1  and  looked  off  on  all  sides 
upon  the  clustering  crests  of  snowy 
mountains,  rising  like  very  companions 
at  my  side.  The  air  was  wonderfully 
clear.  Aconcagua2  rose  before  me  on 
the  north,  and  the  clump  of  Tupungato 
seemed  at  hand  on  the  right.  Above 
each  sharp  white  peak  a  light,  fluffy 
cloud  hung  like  a  halo.  Standing  here 
on  the  summit,  seemingly  suspended, 
like  Mahomet's  coffin,  between  earth  and 
heaven,  I  was  glad  to  be  alone.  I  had 
been  warned  by  friends  in  Chile  of  a 
feeling  of  faintness  and  giddiness,  which 
might  be  followed  by  a  haemorrhage, 
and  which  always  attacked  travelers  at 
the  pass  ;  they  called  the  disease  puna. 

2  The  highest  peak  on  the  western  hemisphere. 


1884.] 


Over  the  Andes. 


745 


I  in  fact  forgot  all  about  it  on  the  cum- 
bre ; l  indeed,  I  forgot  everything,  and 
seemed  to  exist  like  a  cloud  or  a  piec"e 
of  red  porphyry,  without  self-conscious- 
ness, as  if  I  were  a  part  of  the  sublime 
panorama  before  me.  On  the  Chilean 
side  the  mountains  seem  to  crowd  upon 
you,  recklessly,  tumultuously ;  on  the 
Argentine  side  a  beautiful  valley  lies  far 
below  you,  but  almost  at  your  feet,  so 
sharp  is  the  descent.  Through  the  val- 
ley trickles  a  yellow  thread,  apparently 
so  thin  that  only  the  color  renders  it  no- 
ticeable :  it  is  the  River  of  the  Caves  2 
(Rio  de  las  Cuevas),  which  runs  along 
at  the  side  of  the  path  for  about  twenty- 
three  leagues. 

Here  where  I  stand,  on  the  wind- 
swept pass,  a  young  man  from  Valpa- 
raiso, Rafael  Tapia,  came  to  a  tragic  end 
in  1879.  After  arranging  his  business 
in  Valparaiso  and  taking  a  tender  fare- 
well of  his  wife  and  little  ones,  he  set 
out  for  the  Argentine  over  the  moun- 
tains. Without  knowing  the  cause  of 
his  desperation,  one  can  but  vaguely 
imagine  the  poisoned  recollection  that 
drove  him  away  from  his  home  and 
his  friends  on  his  fatal  journey,  and 
whipped  him  up  the  mountains  till  he 
had  reached  their  highest  point.  Here, 
drawing  his  revolver,  he  shot  his  horse 
in  the  head,  and  watched  the  poor  brute 

1  Cumbre  means  simply  "the  highest  point." 
The  special  name  of  this  cumbre  is  Bermejo. 

2  Height  10,248.2  feet  above  sea  level.     (Pretot- 
Freire.) 

8  It  would  be  impossible  for  me  to  give  a  more 
exact  description  of  the  geological  formation  as 
fur  as  the  Bermejo,  or  in  fewer  words,  than  Charles 
Darwin  has  already  done  in  narrating  a  journey 
which  he  made  over  the  same  road  fifty  years 
ago.  I  have  therefore  borrowed  from  his  Private 
Journal  a  part  of  the  following  description,  which, 
in  quotation,  I  have  abridged,  and  in  some  places 
even  ventured  to  modify. 

From  "the  point  where  the  Rio  Aconcagua  de- 
bouches on  the  basin  plain  of  the  same  name  —  at 
a  height  of  about  2300  feet  above  the  sea  —  we 
meet  with  the  usual  purple  and  greenish  porphy- 
ritic  claystone  conglomerate,"  with  an  occasional 
granite  ledge  becoming  dimly  visible  through  the 
overlying  strata.  "Beds  of  this  nature,  alternat- 
ing with  numerous  compact  and  amygdaloidal 
porphyries,  and  associated  with  great  mountain 


roll  and  pitch  down  the  steep  slope. 
He  then  dressed  himself  in  full  even- 
ing dress,  while  the  night-wind  shrieked 
and  swept  by  him,  opened  and  drank  a 
bottle  of  champagne  from  among  his 
stores,  and,  putting  on  his  white  gloves, 
shot  himself  through  the  heart.  He 
was  found  over  three  weeks  later  seated 
there,  with  his  head  bent  on  his  breast 
as  if  asleep,  and  a  dark  stain  on  the 
gravel  beneath  him.  He  was  buried 
at  the  side  of  the  road,  and  one  still  sees 
the  wooden  cross  that  the  pious  hand  of 
a  stranger  erected  to  mark  his  resting 
place. 

The  descent  from  the  cumbre  was  so 
steep  that,  partly  to  rest  myself  after 
the  long  ascent,  and  partly  because  I 
distrusted  my  macho  on  a  plunge  like 
this,  I  dismounted,  and  jumped  and  tum- 
bled down  the  slope  with  the  bridle  on 
my  arm.  Even  thus  it  took  me  a  full 
hour  to  reach  the  valley. 

Here,  as  I  had  taken  only  a  cup  of 
coffee  and  two  thin  wafers  in  the  morn- 
ing, I  paused  to  await  Pascual.  I  un- 
saddled the  macho,  rolled  a  large  stone 
over  upon  the  end  of  the  long  bridle, 
and,  finding  a  convenient  crevice  be- 
tween the  enormous  bowlders,  lay  down 
upon  a  pair  of  blankets  to  rest  while  I 
waited.8 

From  my  post  I  could  see  the  whole 

masses  of  various,  injected,  non-stratified  porphy- 
ries, are  prolonged "  to  the  Bermejo.  "  The 
mountain  range  north  (often  with  a  little  westing) 
and  south.  The  stratification,  wherever  I  could 
clearly  distinguish  it,  was  inclined  westward  or 
towards  the  Pacific."  After  leaving  the  cumbre, 
compact  blocks  of  red  sandstone  rise  perpendicu- 
larly on  each  side,  together  with  green,  yellow, 
and  reddish  porphyry,  with  frequent  calcareous 
conglomerates. 

These  vertical  beds  alternate  with  oblique  strata 
of  the  same  formation,  with  a  westerly  dip,  and 
are  flanked  on  the  north  by  a  lofty  mountain  of 
dark,  amorphous  porphyry,  with  a  jagged  top, 
which  mountain  Mr.  Darwin  believes  "to  have 
determined  by  an  extraordinary  dislocation  the 
excavation  of  the  north  and  south  valley  of  the 
Rio  de  las  Cuevas.  This  mountain  of  porphy- 
ry seems  to  form  a  short  axis  of  elevation,  for 
south  of  the  road,  in  its  line,  there  is  a  hill  of  por- 
phyritic  conglomerate  with  absolutely  vertical 
strata." 


746 


Over  the  Andes. 


[December, 


mountain  side  down  which  I  had  just 
descended,  but  it  was  at  such  a  distance 
that  the  dusty  path  looked  like  a  zigzag 
white    thread.      Many   objects    caught 
my  eye  upon  the  slope,  and  I  examined 
them  all  carefully  to  see  if  they  really 
moved.    I  fixed  them  against  some  rock 
upon  the  hill's  crest,  and  then  watched 
the  relation  between  the  fixed  and  the 
questionable  object.     Then  suddenly  a 
new  object  would  abruptly  attract  my  at- 
tention, and  I  would  say,  ''There  comes 
Pascual ! "   until  by  a  repetition  of  the 
parallax   test    (if  I   may  so   call   it)    I 
found  that  the  new  object  had  probably 
not  moved  for  centuries.     Thus   inex- 
haustible hope    unconsciously  deceived 
me  and  stifled  the  cravings  of  hunger ; 
but  at  noon,  after  a  fruitless  study  of  the 
mountain  side  for  an  hour  and  a  half,  the 
hot  rays  of  the  sun  stole  round  the  angle 
of  the  rocks  and  poured  down  upon  my 
bed.     Hunger  and  heat  together  were 
too  much  for  my  patience.     I  got  up, 
saddled  the  macho,  and  with  a  hot  head 
and   a  fainting  stomach    I   desperately 
spurred  him  on  over  the  dusty  road,  un- 
der the  blazing  sun,  which  beat  down 
into  the  bed  of  the  valley  where  I  rode. 
There  was  but  one  hill  on  my  road 
this    time,  and    in   half  an  hour  I  had 
mounted  its  crest  and  descended  into  the 
valley  on  the  other  side.    The  road  now 
lay  through  a  sand  desert  and  without  a 
breath  of  air,  while  the  thick  dust  fol- 
lowed me  in  a  cloud,  and  filled  my  eyes 
and  parched  my  throat ;  the  heat  seemed 
to  rise  from  the  earth  as  well  as  descend 
upon  my  head  and  back,  and  for  another 
hour  and  a  half  I  tore  along  at  full  trot 
through  the  sandy  desert.     Not  a  living 
thing  moved  on  the  track.     The  white 
and  whitening  bones  of  countless  animals 
lay  strewed  along  on  both  sides  of  the 
path,  while  far  overhead,  a  floating  speck 
in  the  light  blue  sky,  the  silent  condor 
wheeled  his  graceful  and  tireless  flight. 
On  each  side  of  me  the  view  was  closed 


in  by  an  unbroken  range  of  mountains, 
bare  of  vegetation,  and  glistening  red 
a^id  yellow  in  the  blistering  sun.  I 
hardly  noticed  them  as  I  hurried  past. 
At  length  I  saw  in  the  distance  a  round 
red  brick  lodge,  which  I  approached 
and,  dismounting,  entered.  Two  roughly 
dressed  men  were  seated  there  ;  one  was 
the  Resguardo.  I  was  at  the  Fuente 
del  Inca.1 

In  1453  the  Inca  Tupac  Yupanqui 
passed  south  from  Cuzco,  and  with  his 
enormous  armies  conquered  the  whole  of 
the  continent  as  far  as  the  thirty-fifth 
parallel.  During  his  triumphant  passage 
his  army  descended  into  this  very  valley, 
and  under  a  natural  bridge  which  spans 
the  river  the  Inca  found  the  hot  springs, 
in  which  for  several  weeks  he  daily 
bathed,  and  to  which,  as  well  as  to  the 
bridge,  his  royal  title  is  now  firmly  at- 
tached. Some  time  before  reaching  the 
Puente  del  Inca  I  had  passed  the  Rio 
de  los  Horcones  at  its  junction  with 
the  Rio  de  las  Cuevas  ;  and  this  is  the 
stream  2  which,  running  for  a  long  dis- 
tance at  the  bottom  of  a  deep  gorge, 
finally  passes  under  the  bridge  of  the 
Inca. 

Imagine  a  deep  ravine  with  perpen- 
dicular sides,  and  a  brawling  river  at  the 
bottom.  On  passing  a  bend  it  is  unex- 
pectedly spanned  by  a  natural  bridge, 
whose  upper  surface  is  continuous  with 
the  level  on  each  side  of  the  gorge. 
The  bridge  is  perhaps  fifty  to  sixty  feet 
wide,  and  presents  nothing  remarkable 
as  you  cross  it.  Indeed,  you  might  pass  it 
and  never  see  it.  But  on  the  side  towards 
the  Resguardo  is  a  steep  descent,  down 
which  a  circuitous  foot-path  leads  you 
directly  underneath  the  bridge.  From 
ten  thousand  stalactites  of  varying 
length,  which  hang  from  the  arch  of 
the  bridge  above  you  and  before  you, 
fall  the  sluggish  drops,  cold  and  clear, 
upon  the  irregular  surface  where  you 
stand  and  into  the  river  which  raves 


1  Height  8690.2  feet  above  sea-level.     (Pretot-         2  Retaining  the  name  Rio  de  las  Cuevas. 
Freire.) 


Over  the  Andes.  747 

over  its  rocky  bed  far  below  you.  The  pletely  concealed  from  view  is  the  Bath 
water  is  said  to  possess  the  peculiar  of  Venus,  where  in  the  concave  floor 
property  of  petrifying  all  with  which  of  a  grotto,  whose  arched  roof  sparkles 
it  comes  in  contact.  In  two  days  a  with  the  dripping  stalactites,  bubbles 
sheet  of  tissue  paper  becomes  stitf'er  and  foams  the  clear  spring.  It  is  like 
than  parchment,  and  by  the  infiltration  entering  a  sea-shell,  and  an  effort  of 
of  the  salts  which  the  water  contains  it  will  is  required  to  leave  the  bath,  so 
will  petrify  completely  the  body  of  an  delightful  is  the  sensation  and  so  beau- 
animal  placed  in  it.  The  process  is  a  tiful  the  interior  of  the  grotto.  Hand 
long  one,  requiring  a  year  or  more  to  of  man  has  had  nothing  to  do  in  the 
become  complete,  but  the  fact  of  its  preparation  of  these  springs,  but  the 
success  is  attested  by  the  concurrent  most  luxurious  Roman  of  the  time  of 
and  sonorous  voices  of  many  eager  and  the  empire,  even  Petronius  Arbiter  him- 
voluble  witnesses.  self,  could  not  have  dreamed  of  more 

There  are  four  springs :  the  first  one  delightful  baths  than  have  made  them- 

bubbling  from  the  hillside,  seventy-five  selves  here  in  this  beautiful  spot, 
feet  above  the  river  in  the  ravine ;  this         The  composition  of  the  water  I  could 

spring    is    called    Mercurio.     The    sec-  not  learn  with  any  degree  of  accuracy, 

ond    and    third,    Neptuno    and    Cham-  but  it  contains  a  large  quantity  of  sul- 

pana,  are   situated  on  the  ledge  just  be-  phate  of  magnesium,  carbonates  of  lime 

low  the  arch  of  the  bridge,  in   natural  and  of  iron,  and  common  salt.     "  Solid 

grottoes,  and  come  foaming  and  bubbling  matter  amounts   to  forty-five  grains  in 

out  of  apertures    into  which    you  may  every  ten  cubic  inches  of  water."  *     The 

thrust  your  arm  to  its  full  extent.     You  gas  which  bubbles  up  with  the  water  is 

may  do  it,  but  I  should  advise  you  to  re-  sulphureted  hydrogen,  and  the  temper- 

frain  from  the  attempt  if  ever  you  visit  ature  of  the  Bath  of  Venus  is  about  90° 

the  Inca's  bridge.     Out   of  curiosity  I  Fahrenheit.     The  altitude  of  the  bridge 

made  the  trial.     I  expected  that  the  wa-  is  9700  feet  above  sea  level, 
ter,  bubbling  out  so  forcibly,  could  not         In  this  wonderful  valley,  by  the  side 

be   restrained.     Nothing    easier.     I  in-  of  one  of  the  grandest  of  all  natural 

serted  my  hand,  completely  blocked  the  objects,  is  a  filthy  rancho,  ill  kept  by  a 

passage,  and  the  flow  of  water  ceased  ;  wretched  beggar  of  a  Spaniard  ;  and  this 

but  before  I    could  withdraw   my  arm  is  the  only  place  where  one  may  tarry 

the  ground  began  to  shake  and  groan  and  fare  for  the  time  that  he  wishes  to 

under  me  in  the  bath,  and  the  choking  stay  at  the  baths.     It  was  here  that  I 

noise  of  the  water    startled   me  to  the  went  for  a  cup  of  coffee,  on  my  arrival, 

extreme  that  I  could  hardly  tumble  out  weak   and    faint,    at    the    Puente    del 

of  the  bath  and  fall  upon  the  rock  at  its  Inca.     While  taking  it  and  wishing  to 

side.     What  would  have  happened  I  do  learn  what  I  could  from  the  Spaniard's 

not    know.     I   shall    never   repeat   the  -wife,  a  thin,    pinched,    yellow   woman, 

experiment.     Probably  the  force  which  with  her  jaws  tied  up  in  a  flannel  ker- 

expels  the  water  is  in  such  perfect  equi-  chief,  I  asked  her,  — 
librium  with  the  diameter  of  the  passage          "  Will  you  kindly  tell  me  what  .is  the 

that  the  obstruction  of  the  opening  for  altitude  of  this  valley  ?  * 
a  few  seconds  would  suffice  for  the  ac-         "  Altitude  ?  '     (altura).     She  did  not 

cumulation  of  expulsive  power  enough  understand  me. 

to  make  for  itself  another  channel,  which          "  Its    height   above   the   sea,"   I  ex- 
would  perhaps  be  in  the  centre  of  the  plained, 
bath.  Her  face  brightened  at  once.     Yes  ! 

At  a  lower  level  and  even  more  com-  *  Darwin,  op.  cit.  page  505. 


748 


Over  the  Andes. 


[December, 


she  evidently  understood  that.     "  Seven 
days,"  she  replied,  with  a  satisfied  look. 

At  about  three  o'clock  Pascual  ar- 
rived with  the  luggage,  but  Seiior 
Queseyo  did  not  accompany  him,  nor 
had  he  been  seen  since  leaving  the  Juncal 
in  the  morning  with  me.  I  was  hourly 
more  and  more  perplexed  at  this  sin- 
gular man.  Was  he  really  a  Spaniard, 
a  Bolivian  mine-owner  ?  Was  he  even 
in  his  proper  senses  ?  What  unknown 
path  had  he  taken  after  dropping  be- 
hind me  on  the  road  ?  I  had  noticed 
none  by  which  he  could  have  escaped. 
Was  he  perhaps  some  mountain  bandit 
who  wished  to  see  if  I  were  worth  the 
trouble  of  robbing  ?  He  was  certainly 
an  educated  man,  and  could  make  him- 
self a  pleasant  traveling  companion,  but 
he  was  cynical  and  selfish.  He  talked 
well,  however,  and  I  half  regretted  that 
he  had  left  me. 

In  the  early  twilight  I  went  again  to 
the  bridge  to  take  a  bath,  and  I  lay 
there  in  the  warm,  bubbling  water  and 
looked  at  the  brilliant  dripping  stalac- 
tites above  me,  and  then  at  the  early 
shining  stars  away  off  past  the  top  of 
the  bridge,  past  the  mountain  summits, 
past  the  cool  evening  breeze,  —  away 
up  there  in  the  dark  sky.  How  long  I 
dreamed  there  I  cannot  tell,  but  when 
I  came  to  myself  it  was  so  dark  under 
the  bridge  that  I  could  hardly  find  my 
clothes.  I  dressed  rapidly,  and  left  the 
bath-cavern  along  the  slippery,  zigzag 
path  leading  up  to  the  level  ground, 
when  right  before  me  in  the  narrow  way 
I  came  abruptly  upon  a  man  standing 
there  alone  and  silent.  To  say  that  I 
was  startled  would  hardly  express  my 
sensation,  for  almost  without  seeing  him 
I  felt  that  it  was  my  morning's  com- 
panion. My  foot  slipped  ;  he  made  a 
spring  at  me  and  caught  me  by  the  arm, 
saying  politely,  as  he  helped  me  back  to 
my  feet,  — 

"  It  is  dangerous,  sir,  walking  here 
in  the  dark ;  one  stumbles  and  slips  so 
easily  on  these  wet  stones.  A  friend  of 


mine  fell  into  the  river  from  this  very 
spot,  on  an  evening  like  this,  and  broke 
his  head.  But  we  are  happily  all  safe." 
A  suspicion  flashed  through  my  mind 
as  he  spoke  that  perhaps  he  could,  if  he 
wished,  tell  the  story  of  his  fr-iend  more 
minutely ;  but  by  the  time  he  had  fin- 
ished speaking  I  was  able  to  thank  him 
for  his  assistance  to  myself,  and  together 
we  went  back  towards  the  rancho.  By 
the  way  I  thought,  "  If  he  wished  to  take 
my  life,  he  could  not  have  had  a  better 
opportunity.  Indeed,  if  he  had  been 
content  with  the  effect  upon  me  of  his 
sudden  appearance,  he  could  have  simply 
let  me  fall,  as  I  would  have  done  when 
I  slipped,  and  —  No,  he  evidently  did 
not  want  my  life,  nor  could  he  get  it 
now,"  as  I  put  my  hand  in  my  pocket 
and  grasped  my  revolver. 

But  these  thoughts  were  due  to  the 
simple  disturbance  of  my  circulation,  and 
in  a  few  moments  I  was  again  collected 
and  almost  communicative.  I  forgot 
his  tale  of  the  morning,  and  we  walked 
along  quite  gayly  to  the  rancho.  Here 
we  lay  down  under  the  cool  sky,  on  the 
hard,  bare  ground,  as  it  rose  from  the 
valley  to  meet  the  hills.  Senor  Que- 
sey6  continued  talking  :  — 

"  When  I  set  out  it  was  about  this 
time  of  night,  but  much  darker  than 
now.  My  friends  in  San  Isidro  tried  to 
keep  me  till  the  morning,  but  I  was 
anxious  to  reach  the  mine  as  soon  as  I 
could,  and  I  felt  quite  fresh  from  my 
afternoon  sleep  and  a  hearty  dinner.  I 
was  well  armed  and  well  mounted,  and 
had  been  over  the  road  twice  already, 
so  nothing  could  persuade  me  to  stay 
until  the  next  day.  My  dog  ran  along 
beside  me,  and  I  galloped  up  the  slight 
rise  and  then  dipped  into  the  cool  val- 
ley beyond,  leaving  San  Isidro  and  my 
old  companions  far  behind  me. 

"  Well,  it  was  to  be  a  good  long  pull, 
but  my  mule  was  fresh  and  the  moon 
would  be  up  in  an  hour,  and  after  that 
there  would  be  no  chance  of  missing  the 
road.  But  there  was  one  thing  I  had 


1884.] 


Over  the  Andes. 


749 


not  noticed,  —  that  there  was  not  a  star 
above  me.  The  sky  was  blank  and 
empty.  I  rode  along  looking  anxiously 
for  the  first  light  streaks  of  the  rising 
moon,  but  they  did  not  appear.  An 
hour,  two  hours,  I  waited  for  it,  and 
only  then  did  I  perceive  the  dead  dark- 
ness in  the  heavens.  The  sky  seemed 
to  have  almost  settled  upon  me ;  in- 
stinctively I  crouched  in  the  saddle  that  I 
might  not  touch  it  with  my  head.  The 
air  was  hot  and  stifling.  I  was  uneasy. 
I  had  never  seen  it  like  that  before. 

"  I  could  not  see  the  road,  and  I  gave 
over  trying  to  guide  my  mule,  and  trust- 
ing to  her  instinct  I  let  her  choose  her 
own  pace.  This  of  course  rapidly  fell 
off  from  a  gallop  to  a  trot,  from  a  trot 
to  a  walk,  and  then  she  came  to  a  full 
stop.  I  whipped  her,  but  she  did  not 
move  ;  I  spurred  her,  but  she  only  shook 
herself  and  stuck  there.  I  jumped  to 
the  ground  with  a  good  old  Spanish 
oath,  —  forgetting  that  she  might  easily 
enough  have  halted  on  the  side  of  a 
precipice,  and  that  I  might  consequently 
have  leaped  not  four  feet,  but  a  thou- 
sand,—  and  getting  down  on  my  hands 
and  knees  I  felt  about  among  the  rocks 
for  the  road.  I  found  none,  neither  on 
the  way  forward  nor  on  that  by  which 
we  had  come.  Sharp,  jagged  rocks 
covered  the  ground  over  which  we  had 
passed,  and  I  wondered  that  the  mule 
had  found  her  feet  among  their  cutting 
edges.  The  wall  at  my  side  I  found 
to  be  continuous,  rising  higher  than  I 
could  reach,  and  it  seemed  half  smooth, 
as  if  done  by  the  hand  of  man.  Then  I 
remembered  that  I  had  matches,  and  lit 
one.  In  a  moment  I  saw  it  all.  Not  a 
breath  of  wind  stirred  ;  the  flame  of  the 
match  rose  vertically  in  the  still  air.  I 
was  in  an  immense  cavern,  formed  in 
some  mountain  side  by  artificial  exca- 
vation, —  perhaps  some  long  -  deserted 
mine.  The  walls  were  near  together, 
leaving  a  passage  of  only  ten  or  twelve 
feet  in  width  where  I  was.  The  roof  I 
could  not  see ;  I  could  only  guess,  by 


the  gradual  approximation  of  the  sides, 
that  there  was  one.  Ahead  of  me,  in 
the  part  opposite  the  entrance,  the  light 
of  the  match  was  lost ;  it  met  with  no 
object  to  reflect  it;  the  cavern  continued 
in  that  direction.  Should  I  go  on,  should 
I  pass  the  night  there,  or  should  I  re- 
turn by  the  way  I  had  come  ?  I  made 
up  my  mind  at  once  not  to  stay  there 
for  the  night,  and  I  disliked  the  idea  of 
going  back,  because  in  the  darkness  I 
should  have  to  trust  to  my  mule  entire- 
ly, and  she  would  certainly  choose  the 
way  to  San  Isidro ;  and  to  go  back  to 
my  friendg  would  shame  me.  Moreover, 
it  was  possible  that  —  At  any  rate,  I 
was  going  to  explore  that  cavern  and 
make  up  my  mind  as  to  it.  I  searched 
about  for  a  piece  of  wood  to  serve  for  a 
torch  ;  there  was  none,  and  I  had  only 
a  few  matches,  but  I  took  up  the  bridle 
of  my  mule  and  advanced  into  the  dark- 
ness. Conscious  that  my  matches  must 
be  husbanded,  I  decided  not  to  light 
one  until  I  came  to  an  obstacle,  and  as 
the  floor,  after  a  few  steps,  became  fairly 
level  and  smooth,  I  walked  along  con- 
fidently, with  my  dog  beside  me,  the  mule 
behind,  and  my  revolver  in  my  hand, 
when  suddenly  a  damp  puff  of  air  smote 
me  in  the  face,  and  I  stopped  as  short 
as  if  the  blow  had  come  from  a  club. 
It  was  not  repeated,  and  I  lit  a  match. 
Then  indeed  I  saw  what  I  never  ex- 
pected to  see,  what  I  think  I  would 
rather  not  have  seen,  —  a  stone  stair- 
way cut  in  the  living  rock,  and  running 
faf  down  beyond  the  reach  of  my  match 
into  the  darkness.  But  the  air  seemed 
less  heavy  and  dead,  and  now  and  then 
another  damp  whiff  would  send  a  chill 
through  me  as  it  struck  me.  I  still 
stood  there,  undecided  what  to  do.  It 
must  have  been  a  long  time,  but  at 
length  the  darkness  became  less  intense, 
and  I  watched  until  by  the  faint  and 
uncertain  light  of  the  hidden  moon  I 
could  see  the  stone  steps  beneath  me, 
and  trace  them  down  the  hillside  to  the 
valley  below. 


750 


Over  the  Andes. 


[December, 


"  At  once  I  was  easy  again  and  calm. 
This  valley  would  very  likely  lead  me 
—  somewhere,  at  least.  I  would  follow 
the  steps  and  pass  through  it.  Carefully 
I  began  to  go  down.  At  every  step  the 
mule  threw  her  head  back  and  refused 
to  descend,  but  I  pulled  and  jerked  and 
dragged  her  down  after  me.  I  counted 
the  steps  mechanically.  Fifty,  sixty, 
seventy,  seventy-five,  eighty,  ninety,  one 
hundred.  Would  they  never  end  ?  One 
hundred  and  twenty-five,  one  hundred 
and  fifty,  and  still  I  went  down,  down, 
down,  into  the  darkness.  Who  had  cut 
and  built  this  stairway  ?  What  hands  had 
hewed  this  rock  into  form,  and  shaped 
the  descent  down  which  I  passed  ?  Those 
of  men  long  since  dead  and  forgotten, 
whose  very  race  had  disappeared  from 
the  earth.  Probably  for  centuries  the 
foot  of  man  had  not  trod  where  I  now 
stood.  It  seemed  almost  sacrilege  for 
my  mule  to  tread  upon  these  sacred 
steps,  and  descend  where  the  holy  priest- 
esses of  the  sun  had  led  the  long  pro- 
cession by  night  and  tuned  the  sacred 
hymn  to  their  great  sun-god.  I  almost 
expected  to  see  their  white  robes  as  they 
ascended  the  steps,  and  catch  the  gleam 
in  the  darkness  of  the  precious  image  of 
their  god  shining  out  from  the  forehead 
of  their  high-priestess.  In  my  fancy  I 
already  saw  it,  and  paused  to  hear  the 
low  chant  of  their  many  voices.  I  was 
no  longer  in  this  busy  world,  —  I  was  no 
more  a  miner  in  Santa  Elena ;  I  was  an 
Indian  of  the  days  of  the  great  Iluayna 
Ccapac,  and  would  have  fallen  upon  my 
knees  and  worshiped  like  a  very  pa- 
gan had  my  fancy  turned  true.  And  I 
thought  of  the  fervor  with  which  to-day, 
in  Honduras,  they  worship  their  ancient 
gods,  and  it  seemed  not  unlikely  that 
some  few  faithful  souls  might  still  pre- 
serve among  these  inaccessible  moun- 
tains the  ruins  of  the  great  religion  of 
their  ancestors.  I  stopped  suddenly. 
Why  was  this  path  along  which  I 
passed  so  clean  and  in  such  perfect  or- 
der ?  —  not  overgrown  with  cactus  or 


spine  bushes,  nor  half  hidden  in  the  fall- 
ing sand  and  gravel  from  the  mountain  ; 
and  how  had  my  mule  left  the  trodden 
road  to  dive  among  the  bushes,  if  she 
had  not  discovered  another  way,  hid- 
den perhaps  to  the  gaze  of  man,  still  sa- 
cred to  the  worshipers  of  the  great  sun  ? 
Without  being  uneasy  I  was  deeply 
impressed  by  my  thoughts,  —  perhaps 
more  by  finding  myself  alone  at  mid- 
night in  the  dead  darkness  among  un- 
known mountains,  treading  upon  the 
footsteps  of  an  extinct  race.  The  ground 
burned  my  feet.  I  took  another  step 
down  ;  it  was  the  last. 

"  The  darkness  had  again  become 
thick  and  heavy  ;  I  felt  as  if  I  were  at 
the  bottom  of  a  well.  I  could  see  noth- 
ing, so  I  mounted  my  mule  and  let  her 
take  her  own  gait ;  but  in  a  few  min- 
utes she  had  again  stopped,  and  refused 
to  advance.  My  dog  gave  a  long  whine, 
and  then  I  heard  his  feet  running  up 
the  steps  down  which  I  had  come,  while 
his  whine  rang  in  my  ears.  The  mule 
shook  violentlv  and  reared.  I  dismount- 

9 

ed,  and  lit  a  match.  I  could  see  no  val- 
ley at  all,  but  in  front  of  me  was  an 
opening  in  the  rock.  I  dropped  the 
mule's  bridle,  and  entered.  It  was  like 
the  cave  of  some  wild  beast,  — '  A  jaguar, 
most  likely,'  I  thought  ;  but  I  was  in- 
sensible to  danger,  and  would  have  tried 
to  go  in  had  I  seen  the  jaguar  himself 
at  the  door.  It  was  only  a  hole  in  the 
rock,  shallow  and  low ;  but  the  light 
of  a  match  showed  me,  within  a  foot 
of  my  face,  the  fattest  vein  of  virgin 
gold  that  my  eyes  have  ever  seen.  As 
I  followed  this  vein  with  my  sight,  I 
saw  at  the  farther  end  a  chisel  sticking 
from  the  rock.  I  went  up  to  it :  it  was 
a  chisel  of  copper.  Then  I  knew  that 
I  was  in  one  of  the  mines  of  the  old  lu- 
cas,  and  that  I  held  in  my  hand  the  tool 
of  their  slaves.  That  copper  chisel  would 
cut  steel  itself.  My  foot  hit  against 
something  on  the  floor.  I  stooped,  and 
picked  up  an  earthen  lamp,  with  the  be- 
juco  wick  still  projecting  from  it ;  but  it 


1884.] 


Over  the  Andes. 


751 


was  not  that  that  my  foot  had  struck. 
I  stooped  again,  and  touched  —  a  skull. 

"  Well,  I  had  seen  and  handled  many 
a  skull  before,  and  perhaps  shall  again, 
and  I  cannot  explain  the  sudden  pan- 
ic that  thrilled  me  as  I  stood  before 
the  Inca's  wealth  and  with  the  skull 
at  my  feet.  A  fear  fell  upon  me,  and 
shook  me  and  tore  me  inwardly.  I 
would  not  have  stayed  there  a  moment 
longer  for  Atahuallpa's  ransom.  I 
stumbled  to  the  door ;  my  head  struck 
the  ledge  ;  I  dropped  to  the  ground,  and 
rolled  out  of  that  fearful  place.  I  have 
never  had  the  slightest  desire  to  see  that 
gold  again.  It  lies  there  yet  for  some 
wanderer  like  myself,  but  pluckier,  to 
reach,  find,  and  enrich  himself.  I  told 
it  all  to  my  partner  and  to  my  friends  in 
San  Isidro,  and  for  five  years  they  have 
searched  for  that  stairway  ;  they  have 
never  found  it.  I  would  not  find  it  if 
I  could." 

"  That  is  true,  then,  that  the  old  Pe- 
ruvians knew  how  to  temper  copper?' 
I  asked,  after  an  interval ;  for  his  simple, 
direct  tale  had  impressed  me  strongly. 

**  Not  only  true,  but  I  know  how  they 
did  it.  I  once  saved  the  life  of  a  very 
old  Indian  near  my  mines  in  Santa  El- 
ena, and  then  afterwards  kept  him  sup- 
plied with  candles  and  bread,  and  such 
little  things  ;  and  one  day  he  said  that 
he  would  tell  me  a  secret  that  every- 
body had  forgotten  but  himself.  I  half 
laughed,  but  waited  for  what  he  had  to 
say.  He  got  up,  and  brought  me  a  cop- 
per blade  set  in  a  bone  handle.  '  Shave 
with  that  to-morrow,'  was  all  he  said. 
Well,  sir,  I  never  shaved  myself  so  easi- 
ly before,  and  that  copper  blade  had  not 
been  sharpened  for  sixty  years.  I  have 
it  yet,  and  I  myself  know  how  it  was 
hardened." 

This  is  truly  a  remarkable  man,  I 
thought.  I  longed  to  know  how  he 
could  temper  copper,  but  I  was  unwill- 
ing to  ask  him,  and  when  he  spoke  again 
he  had  forgotten  the  subject  entirely. 
We  sat  out  there  talking  until  late. 


He  seemed  to  have  forgotten  the  gua- 
naco  skins.  No  !  and  then  it  all  came 
to  me  why  he  had  waited  for  me  at 
the  bath  and  entertained  me  ever  since. 
He  wanted  to  keep  his  eye  upon  me 
while  I  stayed  at  the  bridge,  and  only 
after  my  departure  would  he  search  for 
the  hidden  gold.  I  had  learned  also 
that  he  had  arrived  at  the  Puente  two 
hours  earlier  than  myself,  though  he  was 
ill  mounted  and  must  have  taken  some 
other  road. 

These  and  a  hundred  other  things  ran 
through  my  head,  as  I  lay  down  on  the 
camp  bed  in  the  earthen  box  provided 
for  me.  Pascual  slept,  as  usual,  on  the 
ground,  just  outside  of  the  door  of  my 
room. 

At  six  o'clock  the  following  morning 
I  was  again  in  the  bath,  and  on  leaving 
it  I  saw  Senor  Queseyo,  seated  on  the 
other  side  of  the  river,  sketching  the 
bridge  from  below.  He  saw  me  at  the 
same  time,  and  crossing  the  river  came 
to  meet  me. 

"  I  know,"  said  he,  "  that  of  course 
our  meeting  at  the  Juncal  and  our  jour- 
ney together  were  quite  accidental,  and 
in  fact  our  acquaintance  is  but  a  day 
old  ;  but  I  am  going  to  stay  here  at  the 
Puente,  as  you  have  probably  guessed, 
while  you  will  soon  resume  your  way  to 
Mendoza.  Still  I  have  learned  in  that 
one  day  to  esteem  you,  and  it  is  possible 
that  at  some  time  I  may  be  able  to  be 
of  service  to  you.  If  that  should  ever 
be  the  case,  you  will  call  upon  me  with- 
out hesitation,"  and  he  handed  me  his 
card,  upon  which  an  address  was  written 
in  pencil.  I  could  do  no  less  than  give 
him  my  card  in  return,  but  I  was  glad 
that  no  address  was  written  upon  it.  We 
separated  with  the  customary  recipro- 
cal regrets  at  parting,  and  did  not  meet 
again. 

I  may  insert  here,  to  finish  this  sub- 
ject, a  part  of  a  letter  which  I  received 
through  the  United  States  Consulate  a 
few  weeks  after  arriving  in  Boston, 
translate  the  part  to  which  I  refer. 


752 


Over  the  Andes. 


[December, 


"  I  was  quite  uncertain,  when  I  said 
adieu  to  you  at  the  Puente  del  Inca, 
whether  the  scheme  that  I  then  had  in 
hand  was  to  be  a  failure  or  a  success,  and, 
wishing  to  have  two  strings  to  my  bow,  I 
waited  until  I  should  know  the  result  def- 
initely before  telling  you  a  secret  that  I 
saw  interested  you  greatly.  *  If  this  plan 
fail,'  I  had  said  to  myself,  'I  will  go  to 
England,  to  Sheffield  or  Birmingham, 
and  start  a  company  for  the  tempering 
of  copper.  That  will  serve  me  better 
than  gold-mining  in  Santa  Cruz,  for 
there  are  many  men  who  would  pay  me 
well  to  learn  my  secret ; '  but  I  am  not 
reduced  to  my  last  resource.  I  inclose 
you,  then,  the  old  Indian's  secret.  Jt  is 
yours,  to  do  with  as  you  like. 

"  Let  it  not  surprise  you  that  the  an- 
cient Peruvians,  while  gradually  evolv- 
ing a  civilization  distinct  from  our  own, 
and  reaching  a  widely  different  social 
state,  achieved  also  certain  side  results, 
chance  issues,  that  were  unknown  to  the 
European  conqueror,  who,  moreover,  in 
his  zeal  for  his  God  and  in  his  thirst  for 
gold,  scorned  to  learn  anything  from 
miserable  Indians,  who  could  not  even 
speak  Spanish.  Later,  when  the  Indians 
realized  this  sentiment  and  felt  the  heel 
of  the  cruel  conqueror  upon  their  necks, 
they  shut  themselves  up  in  the  closest 
reserve ;  they  served  their  lords  faith- 
fully, but  threw  their  gold  vessels  into  the 
lakes,  carried  off  the  images  of  their 
sun-god  to  the  mountain  caves,  and  be- 
came the  dumb,  suffering  beasts  that  you 
have  known  them.  Pedro  Gonzalez  put 
a  whole  tribe  to  death  to  learn  how  they 
made  their  copper  tools  hard  enough  to 
chisel  rock :  but  to  cruelty  the  Indian 
can  reply  only  by  dying  ;  to  his  perse- 
cutor he  never  gives  his  confidence,  — 
onl  v  his  life ;  and  Gonzalez  never  learned 

v 

the  secret  that  he  wanted. 

"  The  Indian  Quipu  lies  still  undeci- 
phered  in  every  museum,  and  the  rec- 
ords of  the  Iricas  from  the  great  Manco 
Ccapac  are  shut  up  forever  in  those 
ragged  threads,  while  conjecture,  un- 


tamed and  vagrant,  runs  wild  over  an- 
cient monuments,  and  the  sweet  babble 
of  Garcilasso  is  the  only  authentic  rec- 
ord known.  Garcilasso  was  himself  an 
Inca,  and  spoke  from  family  tradition 
rather  than  from  the  imperial  docu- 
ments. There  are  still  Indians  who  can 
read  the  Quipu :  if  you  want  fame, 
search  for  them,  unearth  them,  make 
them  speak.  You  will  rank  with  Raw- 
linson,  Elgin,  and  Schliemann. 

"  The  old  Peruvian  sun-temples  have 
excited  much  wonder  and  caused  many 
inane  conjectures.  How  could  these 
immense  blocks  of  stone  be  piled  so 
closely  and  symmetrically  upon  each 
other  ?  Where  did  they  quarry  them, 
and  how  did  they  cut  them,  and  by  what 
means  did  they  pile  them  into  walls  and 
roofs  ?  Those  arid  plains  often  yielded 
nothing  larger  than  pebbles,  and  what 
engines  had  they  to  drag  these  rock 
masses  for  leagues  to  the  chosen  spot  ? 
One  will  tell  you  that  the  stones  were 
quarried  and  cut  in  distant  hills,  carted 
by  thousands  of  men  to  the  site ;  and 
that  when  one  stone  was  placed  earth 
was  brought  and  a  gentle  incline  made 
from  the  plain  to  the  top  of  the  stone, 
up  which  slope  the  next  rock  was  car- 
ried in  the  same  wav,  and  the  earth- 

«*    ' 

slope  again  raised  to  the  second  level ; 
that  in  this  way  they  could  have  built 
temples  much  larger  and  higher  and  of 
still  greater  stones.  It  is  all  a  guess. 
The  old  Peruvians  did  not  have  carts, 
and  wheels  were  unknown  to  them ; 
everything  was  borne  on  the  backs  of 
Indians  ;  no  other  vehicle  was  known 
than  the  royal  chair  borne  litterwise 
by  the  royal  servants.  It  is  all  a 
guess.  The  real  explanation,  much 
more  surprising  from  our  standpoint 
than  the  guesses  of  antiquaries,  is  this  : 
they  did  not  quarry,  and  cut,  and  cart, 
and  pile  those  immense  blocks ;  they 
simply  made  them.  While  Toledo  and 
Damascus  were  turning  iron  bars  into 
delicate  steel  for  fine  swords,  while  Gu- 
tenberg was  making  the  first  rough  es- 


1884.]                                        Over  the  Andes.  753 

says  at  printing,  and  while  gunpowder  They  have  threatened  Guatemala  and 
was  beginning  to  depopulate  the  world  they  have  insulted  Bolivia.  The  weak 
at  the  same  time  that  it  civilized  it,  —  and  the  sick  have  been  their  sport  and 
for  the  world  will  be  civilized  only  when  spoil,  and  their  hand,  like  a  plague,  has 
man  has  disappeared  from  its  surface,  —  spotted  whatever  it  has  touched.  But 
the  ancient  Peruvians  were  stumbling  all  this  only  makes  the  reckoning  great- 
upon  a  way  to  harden  copper  and  a  way  er  when  the  day  of  reckoning  comes, 
to  make  granite.  How  did  they  make  What  was  at  first  a  national  movement 
granite  ?  I  do  not  yet  know.  How  did  is  becoming  an  universal  one.  The 
they  harden  copper  ?  The  inclosure  voice  of  vengeance  cries  aloud  ;  it  goes 
marked  *  reserved '  and  sealed  with  my  up  from  all  lands.  The  day  is  draw- 
seal  will  tell  you."  ing  near,  and  this,"  tearing  open  his 

That  letter  is  still  in  my  keeping.  coat,  "  is  the  sign  of  the  victors  !  "     I 

In  another  part  of  his  letter,  alluding  saw  upon  his  breast  a  cross  and  a  red 
darkly  to  the  success  of  his  scheme  at  ribbon,  which  I  had  not  time  to  exam- 
the  Puente  del  Inca,  he  said,  "  I  am  ine,  for  he  covered  it  almost  at  once 
doubly  glad  at  the  event  of  this  hope,  and  dropped  into  a  moody  silence, 
for  it  provides  me  with  the  means  of  I  spent  the  morning  strolling  about 
carrying  out  the  purpose  of  my  life,  —  through  the  valley  and  climbing  around 
which  sooner  or  later  I  should  in  some  on  the  ledge  of  rock  that  ran  along  like 
way  have  done,  —  and  it  saves  me  from  a  gallery  under  the  arch  of  the  bridge, 
the  necessity  of  depending  in  the  slight-  but  high  above  the  river.  Many  swal- 
est  degree  for  my  resources  upon  that  lows  had  built  their  nests  in  the  niches 
land  that  I  cursed  with  an  oath  and  a  at  the  base  of  the  stalactites,  and  they 
solemn  vow  many  years  ago.  My  time  flew  about  my  head  in  silent  flocks  as  I 
is  coming  now,  and  I  am  not  alone  in  clambered  along.  About  once  an  hour 
the  work.  A  friend  and  companion  of  a  desire  came  upon  me  to  take  another 
the  great  Italian  liberator  as  I  have  bath,  and  I  went  back  and  lay  down  in 
been,  I  have  a  higher  and  a  wider  mis-  the  clear  water  bubbling  warm  about  me. 
sion  than  his  before  me.  Would  to  God  The  whole  hillside  is  covered  with 
he  were  here  at  my  side  !  But  we  are  the  thin  layers  which  form  on  the  rocky 
strong,  and  the  hand  of  man  shall  not  surfaces  where  falls  the  water  from  the 
prevail  against  us."  I  well  remembered,  arch  and  the  springs,  and  which  comes 
on  reading  these  words,  his  vehement  in-  from  the  hills  above.  So  firm  and  reg- 
vective  when  together  we  left  the  Lagu-  ular  are  these  thin  sheets  that  the  peo- 
na  del  Inca,  after  he  had  told  me  of  the  pie  split  them  from  the  rock,  and  em- 
fate  of  the  English  fisherman.  ploy  them  in  making  the  roofs  of  their 

"  Miserable  slave  of  an  accursed  na-  houses.  Above  these  regular  layers  the 
tion  ! '  he  broke  out.  "  Would  to  God  detritus  forms  a  dusty  covering.  It  ap- 
they  might  all  perish  the  same  wretched  pears  to  me  easy  to  account  for  the 
death !  They  have  blistered  the  surface  existence  of  the  bridge  itself ;  that  the 
of  this  fair  earth  with  their  injustice  and  gradual  deposit  of  these  accumulating 
bull-dog  cruelty.  The  blood  of  their  and  adhesive  layers  has  increased  un- 
victims  cries  out  from  all  lands.  For  til,  overhanging  the  ravine  at  its  nar- 
thirty  years  they  have  slaughtered  Kaf-  rowest  part,  the  new  formation  has  pro- 
firs  and  Zulus  and  Chinese  and  Turks  jected  itself  to  the  opposite  bank,  while 
and  Indians  and  Afghans  and  Egyp-  the  continued  accretion  has  filled  up 
tians  alike,  and  there  is  none  to  stay  and  symmetrized  the  span  thus  thrown 
their  hands.  The  Irish  at  home  and  across  the  river.  The  form  of  the  bridge 
the  Greeks  abroad  they  have  outraged,  would  suggest  such  an  origin.  On  the 

VOL.  LIV.  —  NO.  326.  48 


754                                          Over  the  Andes.                             [December, 

high  land  above  the  bridge  the  ground  slides,  smooth  and  fixed  now,  running 
sounds  hollow  to  the  footstep,  as  if  one  down  as  straight  as  the  side  of  a  trian- 
were  walking  on  an  immense  concealed  gle  into  the  plain  below,  which  they 
drum.  There  are  still  to  be  seen  in  the  meet  at  an  angle  varying  from  twenty- 
valley  the  ruins  of  the  old  Indian  huts,  five  to  eighty  degrees.  The  detritus 
which  must  at  one  time  have  formed  which  forms  them  is  vainly  clothing  its 
quite  a  village.  nakedness  with  a  thin  growth  of  hardy 

At  half  past  twelve  I  mounted  again,  spiny   bushes,    which    in   the   spring  is 

and  rode  down  the  valley,  over  the  crest  violently  torn  off  and  rolled  down  the 

of   a   round-topped  hill,    and   into    the  slope  by  the  annual  landslides.     I  may 

Valle  de  los   Penitentes   (the  Vale   of  also    state,   while   it   is   pertinent,   that 

the  Penitents),  so  called  from  the  ver-  both  before  reaching  Uspallata  and  be- 

tical  attitude  of  many  oblong  blocks  of  yond  it,  while  the  road  passes  along  the 

stone  ranged  with  a  certain  regularity  plateau,  the  rocky  summits  have  become 

in  rows  and  files.     At  a  distance   the  entirely    disintegrated   into    sand-hills, 

illusion  is  complete,  —  they  are  women  with  round   tops   and   covered    with   a 

at  prayer.     On  the  right  continued  the  sparse  vegetation  resembling  heather, 

range  of  mountains  which  had  accom-  The  rivers,  too,  that   one   passes    or 

panied   me    the    day   before.     At    this  crosses  during  this  trip,  like  nearly  all 

place  was  a  gap  between  two  adjacent  the  rivers  of  Chile,  carry  yearly  many 

tops,  and  in  this  gap  appeared  a  castle  hundred  tons  of  earth  from  the  Cordil- 

of  brown  porphyry,  with  bastions   and  lera  across  the  abrupt   slope  to  the  sea, 

turrets  and  ramparts  and  battlements,  —  and   deposit    their  earthy  burden  upon 

a  ruin  of   the  grandest   type,   a  feudal  the  coast.     That  they  are  one  of   the 

castle,  gradually    undergoing   decompo-  factors  steadily  at  work  in   the  eleva- 

sition  under  the  septic  agency  of  time,  tion  of  the  Chilean  coast  —  a  fact  long 

It  was  with  difficulty  that  I  could  per-  since  noticed  by  Humboldt  and  Huxley 

suade  myself  that  this  was  simply  one  — becomes  evident  on  taking  a  cupful 

of  Nature's  sportive  deceptions,  arid  that  of  the  yellow  water  and  letting  it  stand 

the  hand  of  man  had  never  traced  and  a  moment.    A  light  sandy  precipitate  at 

modeled  those  upright  symmetrical  tow-  once  forms,  and  a  calculation  could  easily 

ers  that  I  saw  before  me.     On  the  left  be  made  showing  the    annual  work  of 

the  hills  retain  their  porphyritic  struc-  these  rivers  in  the  production  of  laud, 

ture  ;  on  the  right  they  are  sliced  into  From    the  Valle   de   los  Penitentes, 

layers    of  gypsum,  red  sandstone,   por-  with  the  sun  sinking  at  my  back,  I  rode 

phyry,  and  granite,  the  separate  strata  into  the  full  view  of  the  volcano  Tupun- 

standing  out  prominently  in  distinct  col-  gato,  by  whose  base  the  road  twists  to- 

oration  on  the  mountain  side.     The  dip  wards  the   north.     Sublime   and   aloft, 

seems  here  to  become  southwesterly.  conspicuous   among  his  fellows,  like   a 

For  many  leagues  now  I  had  passed  very  Atlas  among  lesser  giants,  towers 
them,  these  bald,  rugged  rock-moun-  the  massive  head  of  Tupungato,  —  its 
tains,  bare  of  grasb,  or  bushes.  They  bleak,  rugged  sides  swept  by  the  winds 
were  all  of  the  same  type,  —  immense  of  centuries,  its  bare  bald  head  erect 
rocky  summits  towering  bleak  into  the  and  unshaken  by  the  threat  of  the  storm- 
light-blue  sky.  But  the  alternate  in-  wind,  with  the  snow  for  a  covering,  the 
fluence  of  the  winter's  frost  and  snow  condor  for  a  companion,  the  cloud  for  a 
and  of  the  hot  summer  sun  is  gradu-  hiding-place. 

.ally  breaking  down  their  lofty  strength,  The  posada  at  the  Punta  de  las  Vacas 1 

tumbling  bowlders  into  the  valleys,  and  l  Height  7575  feet  above  sea.levei.    {pretot- 

covering  the  mountain-sides  with  land-  Freire.) 


1884.] 


Over  the  Andes. 


755 


wher3  I  arrived  at  three  o'clock  is  an- 
other squalid  shanty,  where  one  gets 
the  worst  of  accommodations,  food,  and 
treatment  at  an  exorbitant  figure. 

o 

The  succeeding  day  I  left  Punta  de  las 
Vacas  at  half  past  five,  and  passed  along 
at  an  easy  trot  by  a  level  road  beside 
the  river  bank,  whose  channel  had  been 
cut  deep  into  the  plain  by  the  spring 
freshets.  The  path  lay  over  a  sandy, 
shrub-covered  plain,  and  but  little  water 
was  to  be  met  with  on  the  road.  It  was 
therefore  more  grateful  to  me  to  find  in 
a  deep,  abrupt  gorge,  at  eleven  o'clock, 
when  the  sun  is  hottest,  the  loveliest 
cascade  I  have  ever  seen.  The  lowest 
fall  was  the  only  one  I  could  see  from 
the  saddle ;  so  I  dismounted,  and  with- 
out taking  off  my  spurs  I  clambered 
up  the  sheer  sides  of  successive  rocks, 
until  there  lay  at  my  feet  the  cascade 
that  I  had  seen  from  the  road,  while 
above,  in  the  narrow,  difficult  ravine, 
were  two  more,  one  above  the  other, 
falling  straight  and  smooth  into  the  hol- 
low basins  that  they  had  themselves 
worn  out  in  the  rocks.  I  eagerly  threw 
myself  down  on  my  side  by  the  middle 
pool  of  the  three,  and,  dropping  my  hat, 
I  was  about  to  plunge  my  head  into  the 
clear  water,  when  right  before  me  I 
saw,  in  the  crevice  between  two  rocks, 
a  snake's  head  perking  itself  into  my 
very  face.  I  started  to  my  feet  and 
backed  two  or  three  paces,  with  my 
eyes  on  the  snake,  who,  no  less  surprised 
than  myself,  sought  a  place  to  hide ; 
but  with  a  stone  well  aimed  I  succeeded 
in  dispatching  him.  I  measured  him 
with  my  eye,  three  and  a  half  feet,  drab 
with  black  spots,  and  hastily  withdrew, 
without  my  desired  drink,  cruelly  dis- 
enchanted of  my  beautiful  dream. 

Tli is  gully  leads  one,  climbing  along 
the  face  of  the  cliff,  precipitous  and  al- 
most impassable,  to  a  deep  valley,  heavily 
wooded,  which  lies  behind.1  For  many 

1  I  must  make  my  friend  Sefior  J.  A.  Pdrez  re- 
sponsible for  this,  as  I  did  not  penetrate  any  fur- 
ther than  to  find  the  snake. 


years  the  wood  of  this  concealed  valley 
was  cut  and  carted  away  for  lumber, 
thus  giving  the  name  Las  Cortaderas 
(The  Cuttings)  to  the  whole  region,  in- 
cluding the  outer  valley  through  which 
winds  the  present  road.  If  one  should 
succeed  in  reaching  the  bottom  of  the 
hidden  valley,  and  should  stand  in  a  cer- 
tain position  with  reference  to  the  dis- 
tant mountains,  he  might  still  catch  a 
glimpse  of  the  old  highway  of  the  Incas, 
running  away  north  among  the  moun- 
tains, and  only  lacking  the  reconstruction 
of  the  hanging  bridges  to  become  contin- 
uous. 

At  two  o'clock  we  crossed  the  Rio 
Picheutas,  and  on  the  farther  bank  Pas- 
cual  built  a  fire,  and  on  a  stick  roasted 
a  leg  of  kid,  on  which,  with  some  un- 
leavened bread  and  water  from  the  river, 
we  lunched ;  and  after  a  half  hour's 
sleep  in  the  shade  of  the  rocks  I  again 
mounted,  and  we  set  off. 

At  four  I  was  well  out  of  the  heart 
of  the  Central  Cordillera,  and  paused  to 
take  a  note  in  the  saddle :  "  The  hills 
of  the  Quebrada  Seca  (Dry  Ravine)  rise 
at  the  near  right,  of  green  stratified  por- 
phyry, and  apparently  highly  amygda- 
loidal.  At  the  left  flows  the  Rio  de  las 
Cuevas,  in  its  pebbly  bed  ;  at  this  point 
it  loses  this  name,  and  becomes  the  Rio 
Mendoza.  Beyond  the  river  rises  an 
escarpment  that  the  most  expert  mili- 
tary engineer  might  study  with  profit. 
Nature,  in  her  fits  of  abstraction,  pro- 
duces unconsciously  and  without  effort 
results  far  surpassing  our  difficult  at- 
tempts at  imitation.  Behind  rises  the 
mountain  range,  ever  lessening  at  this 
point  until  it  degenerates  into  the  sand- 
hills of  the  Uspallata  plateau.  In  front 
extends  the  valley,  winding  around  the 
base  of  the  hills,  to  whose  slippery  sides 
the  footpath  clings.  Behind,  thunder 
and  lightning  announce  rain  in  Uspal- 
lata and  Mendoza,  while  a  few  large 
drops  fall  upon  my  bare  head  here." 

I  rode  along  the  river  bed  for  about 
an  hour,  and  picked  up  a  number  of  beau- 


756 


Over  the  Andes. 


[December, 


tiful  stones  as  mementoes  of  the  valley. 
At  half  past  five  we  reached  a  muddy 
stream,  rolling  its  rapid  and  swollen  tor- 
rent down  the  hillside  to  join  the  Rio 
Mendoza.  The  large  stones  at  the  bot- 
tom of  the  stream,  bowling  along  and 
tumbling  against  each  other  in  their 
furious  passage,  gave  me  some  fears  of 
breaking  the  legs  of  my  macho  during 
the  passage,  but  there  was  no  time  to 
wait.  The  stream  must  be  crossed,  and 
its  current  increased  in  rapidity  and  in 
volume  moment  by  moment ;  for  it  had 
rained  long  and  heavily  on  the  heights 
above.  The  whip  would  not  serve,  for 
my  macho  refused  to  enter  the  stream, 
rearing  furiously  when  I  again  and  again 
put  his  head  to  the  water.  The  spurs, 
however,  helped  me,  and  when  at  last  I 
reached  the  other  side  the  blood  was 
fresh  on  my  rowels. 

The  Rio  Uspallata  was  yet  two  leagues 
ahead,  and  already  the  darkness  was 
closing  in  around  me.  Again  I  put  the 
macho  to  the  full  trot,  and  held  him  to 
it  for  an  hour  across  the  plain.  Happily 
the  Uspallata  flows  through  the  smooth 
ground,  and  though  wide  and  rapid  it 
was  not  deep.  I  crossed  easily,  and  rode 
up  the  slope  to  the  inn,  which  put  a 
period  to  this  day's  ride.  Here  I  found 
the  accommodations  good,  and  at  nine 
o'clock  sat  down  to  a  hot  and  substantial 
dinner. 

At  Uspallata  is  another  custom  house, 
to  the  keeper  of  which  I  sent  by  Pascual 
the  certificate  which  the  Resguardo  at 
the  Puente  del  Inca  had  given  me,  and 
I  consequently  passed  without  delay. 
This  inn  is  the  only  point  on  the  road 
where  anything  like  activity  is  found, — 
for  one  meets  more  people  here  than 
on  the  whole  road  elsewhere,1  —  and  the 
stable-yard  was  filled  with  mules  and 
horses  of  people  intending  to  start  off 
the  next  morning.  I  find  that  many 
persons,  ill  used  and  half  starved  with 
the  wretched  treatment  which  they  re- 


ceive along  the  road,  are  glad  enough 
to  stay  a  day  or  two  at  Uspallata,  and 
obtain,  at  a  moderate  price,  a  good  bed 
and  abundant  food.  It  receives  also 
the  travelers  to  and  from  San  Juan, 
who  come  and  go  by  a  road  of  their 
own. 

This  plain  extends  for  nearly  two 
hundred  miles  N.  E.  (perhaps  more  ac. 
curately  N.  N.  E.)  and  S.  W.,  its  aid 
tude  being  6000-6500  feet  above  sea 
level.  It  is  composed,  as  one  easily 
sees  by  the  palisades  of  the  Rio  Men- 
doza, of  a  stratified  gravelly  deposit, 
closely  resembling  shingle,  many  hun- 
dred feet  in  thickness,  due  to  the  grad- 
ual disintegration  of  the  rocky  summits. 
One  also  sees  here  and  there  the  pro* 
jecting  surfaces  and  angles  of  lava  and 
of  a  calcareous  tufa  that  is  indeed  very 
common  through  the  whole  region. 

I  had  ridden  so  easily  and  with  so 
little  fatigue  up  to  this  point  that  I  de- 
termined to  make  the  remaining  thirty 
leagues  between  Uspallata  and  Mendoza 
in  one  day's  journey.  Pascual  tried  to 
dissuade  me,  but  I  was  determined  to 
put  the  two  days'  journey  into  one,  and 
rose  at  4.30.  Moreover  I  carried  letters 
of  introduction  to  the  Senores  Gonzales, 
of  Mendoza  (Don  Carlos  and  Don  Ce- 
sar), and  wished  to  present  them  before 
the  expected  departure  of  those  two 
gentlemen  from  the  city. 

There    was   no   coffee   readv,  and  it 

»   ' 

would  take  too  long  to  make  a  fire  and 
prepare  it,  and  Pascual  had  overslept, 
so  there  was  no  remedy  against  starting 
on  a  hungry  stomach.  I  purchased  bread 
and  meat  for  the  march  before  leav- 
ing, intending  to  stop  on  the  road  at 
about  ten  or  eleven  o'clock,  await  Pas- 
cual, and  take  breakfast,  pushing  on  af- 
terwards towards  Mendoza.  I  expected 
to  reach  this  city  at  about  ten  o'clock  at 
night.  I  thrust  a  roll  of  hard  bread  into 
the  pocket  of  my  traveling  coat,  mount- 
ed, and  set  out  in  the  cool,  early  morn- 


1  By  which  it  must  not  be  supposed  that  any-      about  ten  or  a  dozen,  but  that  number  is  enough  to 
thing  like  a  crowd  is  to  be  found  here.     I  saw      support  my  statement. 


1884.] 


Over  the  Andes. 


757 


ing  air. 


Several  friends  of  Pascual  had 
joined  him  on  the  road,  and  there  was 
quite  a  caravan  sweeping  along  behind 
me  as  I  turned  to  take  a  last  look  at  the 
inn  where  I  had  slept  so  well  after  my 
hearty  dinner.  The  ground  was  still 
covered  with  a  coating  of  soft  mud,  —a 
footing  that  only  a  mule  could  stand  on, 
—  and  ours  were  the  first  tracks  that 
crossed  it.  Gradually  the  morning  air 
lost  its  grateful  coolness,  and  the  plain 
was  already  dry  when,  in  an  hour,  the 
sun  rose  and  promised  us  a  clear  sky 
and  a  hot  day. 

For  five  hours  the  path  lay  along  the 
sandy  uplands,  with  occasional  insignifi- 
cant dips  and  rises,  and  at  ten  o'clock  I 
came,  riding  alone,  to  the  old  and  long- 
worked  mines  of  Paramillo,  which  a 
century  ago  yielded  such  immense  quan- 
tities of  silver.  Now,  however,  without 
being  exhausted,  they  lie  neglected  and 
in  ruins. 

Gradually,  for  the  last  hour,  the  scen- 
ery had  become  more  rugged,  though 
the  vegetation  had  not  changed  nor  the 
geological  formation  varied  ;  but  at  this 
point  the  road  suddenly  drops  down  a 
thousand  feet  from  the  plateau  to  the 
lower  and  outer  range  of  the  Andes, 
where  the  rock  formation  become  slaty, 
with,  I  think,  an  easterly  dip,  though 
not  a  very  well-marked  one. 

I  came  to  this  abrupt  descent  at  about 
half  past  ten,  and  plunged  into  the  bed 
of  a  ravine  which  I  followed  for  another 
hour,  until  I  espied  a  rancho  on  the  op- 
posite hillside,  and  beside  it  a  thin  streak 
of  green,  which  meant  water.  My  roll 
was  long  since  finished,  but  my  hunger 
was  not  appeased,  and  my  throat  was  so 
dry  that  when  I  tried  to  speak  my  voice 
gave  forth  an  uncertain  sound,  and  when 
I  made  an  effort  to  swallow  I  choked  in 
the  attempt.  Down  the  decline,  then, 
I  hastened,  regardless  of  my  macho'? 
stumbling,  and  when  I  reached  the 
rancho  I  drank  a  glass  of  water.  Then 
I  could  speak,  though  my  voice  sounded 
strangely,  and  the  little  old  woman  fried 


a  half  dozen  of  eggs,  after  eating  which 
with  a  piece  of  bread  and  two  cups  of 
tea,  absolutely  all  the  refreshment  that 
the  house  afforded,  1  felt  much  better. 
Here  I  waited  half  an  hour  for  Pascual 
to  come  up,  but  as  he  did  not  appear  I 
set  off  again  down  the  ravine.  At  about 
fifty  rods'  distance  the  thin  stream  sank 
away  into  the  bibulous  sand,  and  soon 
after  my  thirst  again  overtook  me.  I 
regretted  then  not  having  filled  a  fiask 
with  water  while  it  was  possible,  but  I 
reflected  that  I  was  now  on  a  steep  grade, 
with  abundant  shade  from  the  pine  and 
other  trees  covering  the  hillsides,  and  it 
would  be  impossible  not  to  meet  suffi- 
cient water  on  the  way,  so  I  did  not  re- 
turn. The  descent  became  now  more 
rapid,  and  the  road  passed  through  deep 
gulches,  blotted  here  and  there  by  the 
opening  of  some  mine -shaft  into  the 
steep  hillside,  when  suddenly  my  macho 
stumbled  and  fell,  first  throwing  me 
carelessly  over  his  ears  into  the  dusty 
road.  Like  Celia  and  Rosalind,  we 
"  rose  at  an  instant,"  and  as  I  found 
him  uninjured,  and  felt  myself  equally 
sound,  I  again  mounted,  and  having  been 
long  convinced  of  the  truth  of  the  old 
saying,  "  Non  bis  in  idem,"  continued 
the  descent  at  the  same  pace,  though 
with  greater  precaution  than  before. 

At  two  o'clock  I  passed  Villavicencio, 
the  second  rancho  that  has  appeared  on 
the  road,  and  the  last  until  one  nears 
the  outskirts  (which  are  narrow  and 
ragged)  of  Meridoza,  fifteen  leagues 
ahead.  Villavicencio  is  a  fanciful  name 
to  give  to  this  cheap  hut  standing  at  the 
roadside  ;  but  there  are  rich  silver  mines 
on  the  estate,  and  to  their  profits  the 
owner  adds  the  contributions  which  he 
exacts  from  the  tourists  for  the  satisfac- 
tion of  poisoning  them  with  his  leathery 
raw  beef  and  thin  soup,  and  bread  the 
remembrance  of  whose  burnt  skin  and 
thin  glutinous  core  gives  me  an  attack 
of  acute  dyspepsia.  Ah,  the  man  who 
invented  bread  was  the  enemy  of  man- 
kind, for  by  this  simple  and  guileless  in- 


758 


Over  the  Andes. 


[December, 


strument  he  scattered  on  all  hands  the 
indiscriminate  seeds  of  torture.  I  could 
have  cursed  him  with  a  royal  good  will 
as  I  bumped  along  over  the  road,  with  a 
heavier  weight  on  my  stomach  than  I 
hope  ever  to  have  on  my  conscience. 

In  this  I  wish  I  could  be  understood 
as  referring  solely  to  the  proprietor  of 
Villavicencio,  but  I  cannot,  for  his  was 
the  only  house  on  the  road  which  my 
gluttonous  heart  refused  to  enter,  and  I 
knew  that  his,  like  all  the  bread  that  I 
had  eaten  in  other  places  on  the  road, 
was  an  irritant  poison.  I  did  not,  in- 
deed, dismount  at  all,  but,  drinking  a 
glass  of  warm  water,  and  giving  the  lit- 
tle girl  who  handed  it  to  me  a  real, — 
not  for  the  water,  but  for  having  such 
pretty  eyes,  —  I  pushed  forward  on  the 
road  to  Mendoza. 

Two  hours  later  I  rode  out  into  full 
view  of  the  immense  pampa  where  lies 
the  ancient  city  ;  but  although  I  could 
judge  of  its  direction  by  the  bearing  of 
the  road,  I  could  not  make  it  out  in 
the  broad  plain  that  stretched  off  east- 
ward. 

On  and  on  I  rode.  The  hot  sun  and 
the  dry  wind  had  parched  my  throat, 
until  I  began  to  doubt  if  I  should  ever 
be  able  to  speak  or  swallow  again.  I 
felt  strong,  however,  and  fresh  in  all 
other  respects,  and  pushed  on  at  full  trot 
down  the  very  gradual  descent  which 
would  lead  me  to  the  plains.  The  vege- 
tation along  this  road  from  Villavicencio 
was  simply  the  thorn  bush  and  the  flow- 
ering cactus.  Here  and  there  the  cactus 
was  in  full  bloom,  with  its  large  white 
blossoms  like  the  magnolia  flower,  —  a 
delicious  blossom,  fresh  and  sweet  in  the 
hot  sun.  Over  the  level  plain,  too,  its 
flower  shone  here  and  there  above  the 
smooth  surface,  like  a  water-lily  on  some 
immense  lake. 

At  half  past  five  I  had  reached  the 
pampa,  and  the  squawking  parrots  flew 
swiftly  over  my  head.  A  dry,  arid  plain 
it  is,  needing  only  a  little  of  the  Chilean 
system  of  artificial  irrigation  and  some 


of  the  Chilean  industry  to  bloom  with 
clover  and  wheat.  Since  leaviiv*  Villa- 

O 

vicencio  at  two  o'clock  I  had  seen  no 
water,  and  it  was  only  at  six  o'clock  that 
I  rode  up  to  the  Hornos  de  Cal  (Lime- 
kilns), where  a  bucket -well  stood  by 
the  wayside.  In  a  moment  I  was  on 
the  ground,  had  thrown  the  bridle  over 
the  macho's  ears,  and  the  bucket  was  on 
its  rapid  way  to  the  bottom  of  tlie  well, 
whence  it  returned  full  of  the  cool,  de- 
licious water.  I  threw  myself  on  the 
ground  and  tipped  up  the  bucket  to  my 
lips,  and  while  half  of  its  contents  ran 
down  my  neck  and  stood  in  a  pool  in 
each  of  my  shoes  I  slaked  the  first  re- 
ally furious  thirst  I  have  ever  known. 
Strengthened  and  refreshed  by  that  deep 
draught,  I  again  mounted,  and  stood  off 
across  the  plain  towards  the  city,  whose 
steeples  could  now  with  difficulty  be  dis- 
cerned in  the  horizon. 

At  seven  o'clock,  already  dusk,  I  en- 
tered the  Avenida  de  la  Chimba,  a  single 
street  standing  out  from  the  city  like 
the  handle  of  a  saucepan,  —  three  miles 
long.  The  row  of  poplar-trees  at  each 
side  was  well  enough,  but  the  street  was 
full  of  pits  and  man-holes,  and  half  of 
it  was  covered  with  a  rapid  stream  of 
water.  For  three  days  it  had  rained  fu- 
riously in  Mendoza,  and  very  soon  the 
street  became  a  uniform  sheet  of  water, 
stretching  away  in  the  distance  as  far  as 
the  half-moon  could  light  up  the  road  to 
me.  I  did  not  like  the  prospect.  I  felt 
tired  with  my  long  ride,  and  weak  with 
hunger.  The  street  was  ragged  and  full 
of  holes,  and  covered  with  a  treacherous 
sheet  of  flowing  water,  of  unknown  and 

o 

varying  depth.  The  city  was  two  miles 
distant,  and  the  road  deserted  and  badly 
lighted  by  the  young  moon,  which  was 
just  setting.  The  macho  was  heady  and 
restive  with  passing  through  the  water, 
and  I  fully  made  up  my  mind  to  a  good 
ducking,  at  least,  before  reaching  the 
city.  Here  and  there,  on  a  dry  spot 
projecting  into  the  water,  a  group  of 
ladies  would  be  found  prisoners,  waiting 


1884.] 


Francois  Coppge. 


for  the  flood  to  abate  and  leave  them 
passage.  A  less  gracious  and  more  dis- 
heartening entrance  into  a  city  I  have 
never  made,  and  the  barking  of  strange 
and  numerous  dogs  behind  the  hedge 
of  poplar-trees,  together  with  the  raving 
of  the  exposed  drains  1  on  each  side  of 
the  road,  only  added  to  the  sensation  of 
annoyance  and  distrust  that  ruled  me. 
Fetid  odors,  too,  rose  to  meet  me,  and 
once  the  macho  shied  very  violently  at 


759 

the  body  of  a  dead  dog  which  floated  by 
him  in  the  faint  light.  At  length  I 
struck  dry  land,«and  found  my  way  by 
inquiry  to  the  Hotel  Nacioual,  having 
accomplished  my  task,  and  traveled  the 
thirty  leagues  during  the  day.  I  had 
left  the  saddle  four  times :  once  to  tight- 
en the  saddle-girths,  once  when  I  break- 
fasted, once  to  take  a  drink  of  water, 
and  once  when  the  macho  threw  me 
over  his  ears  and  fell  on  top  of  me. 

Stuart  Chisholm. 


FRANCOIS   COPPEE. 


"  A  LIFE  of  home ;  very  quiet,  very 
retired  ;  no  Bohemianism  "  (  Une  vie  en 
famille ;  tres  calme,  tres  retiree  ;  aucune 
boheme),  —  so  does  M.  Coppee  epitomize 
the  story  of  his  younger  days  ;  and  the 
words  might  also,  it  seems  to  me,  serve 
fittingly  for  a  motto  to  a  critical  study  of 
his  works,  or  more  fittingly  still,  per- 
haps, for  a  starting-point. 

And  a  strange  starting-point,  too,  al- 
though the  statement  itself  may  seem 
strange.  Une  vie  en  famille,  aucune  bo- 
heme,  —  such  would  constitute  no  excep- 
tional commencement  to  the  career  of 
an  American  or  English  man  of  letters. 
But  it  unquestionably  strikes  an  excep- 
tional keynote  in  the  life  of  a  French 
litterateur.  For  the  French  journalist, 
or  novel-writer,  or  poet,  generally  comes 
to  Paris  at  an  earlv  age.  His  home  lies 

v  O 

far  away  in  the  sunny  south,  or  by  the 
mist-haunted  western  shores,  or  in  the 
rich  central  plains.  The  ties  that  bind 
him  to  it  are  very  loose.  He  is  rather 
proud  of  their  looseness.  He  throws 
himself  into  the  whirl  of  the  great  city 
with  all  the  zest  and  eagerness  of  his 
youth,  and  with  such  talent  as  may  be 
in  him.  There  is  first  the  Bohemian- 
ism  of  the  student,  that  motley  life  of 

1  Acequias-Mendoza  is  2473.12  feet  ajove  sea- 
level.     (Pretot-Freire.) 


the  Quartier  Latin  that  has  been  de- 
scribed so  often  and  so  well;  a  life  of 
gay  poverty,  and  noisy  pleasures,  and 
shifty  expedients,  and  ephemeral  loose 
loves,  —  loves  that  Alfred  de  Musset 
has  idealized,  and  Gavarni  caricatured. 
Then,  with  a  few  added  years  and  some 
beginnings  of  success,  he  passes  into 
the  adjacent  Bohemianism  of  literature 
and  art.  Here  there  is,  perhaps,  a  lit- 
tle less  noise,  a  little  more  money  to 
spend,  and  in  the  loves  a  greater  affec- 
tation of  passion  and  sentiment.  Oth- 
erwise, in  this  real  essence,  things  re- 
main much  as  they  were,  until  that  mo- 
ment, retarded  as  long  as  may  be,  when 
the  author  "  ranges  himself."  But  such 
a  late  return  to  the  ordinary  bourgeois 
ways  scarcely  avails  to  recolor  his  views 
of  life  or  revivify  his  art.  The  influ- 
ences of  early  manhood  cannot  thus  be 
eliminated.  They  have  become  bone  of 
bone  and  flesh  of  flesh. 

Quite  other  were  the  influences  that 
went  to  the  moulding  of  M.  Coppee's 
character.  He  has  himself  told  us,  in 
a  graceful  letter  which  the  Gaulois  pub- 
lished a  few  months  ago,  the  story  of 
his  earlier  years.  "  I  was  born  in  Paris 
in  1842,"  he  writes,  "  my  parents  being 
Parisians.  My  father  was  a  humble 
clerk  in  the  war  office.  The  family  was 


760 


Francois  Coppge. 


[December, 


numerous,"  —  numerous,  that  is,  accord- 
ing to  French  ideas,  —  "  and  we  were  not 
rich  ;  but  there  is  the  more  love  when  the 
space  is  small,  and  all  have  to  live  very 
close  together.  My  father  had  a  dream- 
er's nature,  and  was  passionately  fond  of 
letters.  He  taught  me  to  love  them,  too, 
and  from  my  first  school-days  I  laid  to- 
gether lines  of  unequal  length,  with  a 
rhyme  at  the  end.  That  was  at  the 

w 

Lycee  Saint-Louis,  where  I  was  only  a 
day  scholar.  At  night  I  wrote  my  ex- 
ercises near  the  only  lamp,  on  the  table 
round  which  all  the  family  were  gath- 
ered. ...  I  was  a  delicate  child,  an  idle 
scholar,  but  there  were  verses  on  the 
margins  of  my  copy-books.  ...  I  was 
still  very  young  when  one  of  my  sisters 
married;  then  another  died;  then  my 
father  died,  too,  and  I  was  left  alone 
with  my  mother  and  my  eldest  sister. 
To  be  the  head  of  a  family  at  twenty, 
—  that  was  at  once  hard  and  sweet.  I 
had  in  turn  become  a  clerk  in  the  war 
office,  and,  like  my  father,  brought  home 
my  salary  at  the  end  of  each  month,  to 
help  keep  matters  going.  Meanwhile 
I  was  always  writing  things  of  all 
kinds,  —  stories,  plays,  verse  especially. 
The  whole  has  long  since  been  con- 
demned. ...  It  was  only  at  the  age  of 
twenty-three  that  I  began  to  think  that 
some  of  my  poems  might  perhaps  de- 
serve publication.  I  was  encouraged  by 
the  poetical  brotherhood  presided  over 
by  Catulle  Mendes,  to  which  I  had  just 
been  admitted.  I  owe  an  infinite  debt 
of  gratitude  to  Mendes  :  without  him  I 
should  never  have  taken  confidence  in 
myself.  The  Reliquaire,  my  first  vol- 
ume, appeared  in  1866  ;  the  Intimites 
in  1867.  .  .  .  But  I  remained  in  com- 
plete obscurity ;  a  few  literary  men, 
a  few  poets,  had  read  my  verses,  and 
that  was  all.  The  success  of  the  Pas- 
sant, in  1869,  changed  the  whole  tenor 
of  my  life.  .  .  .  That  was  fifteen  years 
ago,  and  now  my  works  —  poetry  arid 
dramas  —  form  six  volumes,  more  than 
five  thousand  lines.  It  is  not  for  me  to 


speak  of  them,  to  enumerate  them,  even. 
...  As  to  my  private  life,  it  is  entire- 
ly devoid  of  interest.  A  poet's  exist- 
ence is  made  up  of  dreams  and  sheets 
of  blackened  paper.  I  have  never  mar- 
ried, and  live  with  my  eldest  sister,  my 
dear  Annette,  who  has  also  remained 
single,  and  has  taken  the  place  of  my 
mother,  who  died  a  few  years  ago.  I 
live  in  a  retired  part  of  the  Faubourg 
Saint-Germain,  in  a  quiet  house,  sur- 
rounded by  books  and  flowers.  As  I  . 
am  still  not  rich,  I  leave  home  to  fulfill 
my  duties  as  librarian  to  the  Theatre 
Francois,  arid  to  be  present  at  the  first 
performances  of  new  plays,  which  I  crit- 
Jcise  in  the  columns  of  the  Patrie.  And 
now  what  more  can  I  tell  you  ?  That 
I  have  gone  somewhat  into  society,  but 
do  so  no  longer,  the  working  hours  of 
life  being  too  precious  ;  .  .  .  that  the 
red  ribbon  of  the  Legion  of  Honor  was 
given  me  in  1876  ;  and  that  I  am  a  can- 
didate for  the  Academy.  I  wish  you 
could  add  to  this  biography  that  I  shall 
be  elected.  If  such  were  your  proph- 
ecy, it  would  be  a  very  imprudent  one. 
My  chances,  I  am  assured,  are  slight, 
albeit  I  have  been  excellently  received 
by  all  the  Immortals.  The  great  obsta- 
cle, as  one  of  them  assured  me  with  much 
kindness,  is  that  I  am  paradoxically 
young ;  and  yet,  alas,  I  shall  so  soon  be 
forty." 

Fortunately,  M.  Coppee's  youth  has 
not  prevailed  against  him,  and  he  is  now, 
as  we  all  know,  one  of  the  Immortals, 
and  occupies  a  place  among  the  gods 
on  the  sunny  peaks  of  the  Academical 
Olympus.  There  may  he,  by  all  means, 
"  live  happy  ever  afterwards."  But  my 
object  in  quoting  these  autobiographical 
passages  has  not  been  to  lead  to  that 
climax  of  the  old-fashioned  novel.  Still 
less  has  it  been  to  pander  to  the  taste 
for  personal  detail,  the  very  gossip  of 
literature,  which  is  invading  genuine 
criticism  ever  more  and  more.  What  I 
have  wished  to  do  is  to  show,  as  it  were, 
the  foundation  of  M.  Coppee's  art.  Let 


1884.] 


Francois  Copp£e. 


761 


us  see  to  what  extent  the  superstructure 
may  accord  with  it. 

Born  in  Paris,  of  Parisian  parents, 
a  Parisian  of  the  Parisians,  no  wonder 
that  M.  Coppee  loves  Paris.  He  loves 
it  in  its  every  aspect,  as  a  lover  the 
face  of  his  mistress.  I  don't  mean  that 
he  loves  it  with  an  affection  altogether 
exclusive.  To  go  through  the  world 
having  no  eye  whatever  for  the  great 
aspects  of  nature  was  possible  even  for 
a  real  poet,  in  the  days  of  Villon.  It 
can  scarcely  be  possible  in  this  nine- 
teenth century  of  ours.  And  so  M. 
Coppee  is  to  be  only  half  believed  when 
he  exclaims,  — 

"  For  me,  why,  Paris  is  my  only  love ; " 

or  again,  — 

"  Yes,  I  love  Paris  with  a  morbid  love, 
And  everywhere  regret  the  Seine's  old  shores. 
Before  the  circling  sea  or  snowy  peaks 
I  dream  of  "  — 

What  ?  A  suburb  ringing  to  the  shouts 
of  childhood,  some  forgotten  field  in 
which  clothes  have  been  hung  out  to 
dry,  old  leprous  walls  covered  with  half- 
torn  advertisements.  Yes,  M.  Coppee 
is  to  be  only  half  believed  when  he  ex- 
presses his  admiration  for  these  things 
as  if  he  admired  nothing  else.  Indeed, 
it  seems  scarcely  possible  altogether  to 
acquit  his  enthusiasm  for  some  of  them 
of  a  slight  suspicion  of  affectation.  But 
be  that  as  it  may,  he  certainly  admires 
other  things,  too,  —  the  sea,  for  exam- 
ple. Still,  unquestionably,  the  scenery 
to  which  his  thought  turns  most  habitu- 
ally, lovingly,  caressingly,  is  that  of  the 
incomparable  city.  There  he  is  happy 
and  at  home.  There  he  chooses  the  best 
colors  of  his  palette. 

And  not  the  scenery  only,  the  mere 
inanimate  nature  of  Paris,  does  he  linger 
over  with  affection.  He  loves  all  the 
innumerable  scenes  from  the  drama  of 
life  that  are  ever  being  enacted  there. 
The  streets  are  to  him  as  a  stage  in  a 
theatre  that  is  always  open,  and  there 
the  performances  range  from  the  deep- 
est tragedy  to  the  lightest  farce.  How 


interesting  it  all  is  !  What  a  jumble  of 
characters  and  situations !  Here  the 
hale  pensioner,  sturdy  on  his  wooden 
leg,  traces  the  plan  of  some  battle  for 
the  benefit  of  our  open-mouthed  recruit. 
Here,  in  the  half  -  deserted  Faubourg 
Saint  -  Germain,  a  discreet  abbe  leads 
homeward  from  mass  a  boy  marquis, 
and  seems  to  be  seeking  for  admissible 
terms  in  which  to  describe  the  young 
gentleman's  ancestors  of  the  time  of  the 
Ligue.  Here  a  little  motherly  atom  — 
in  mourning,  alas !  —  conducts  a  smaller 
atom  to  school,  and  (for  M.  Coppee  re- 
coils from  no  humblest  detail)  wipes  the 
smaller  atom's  tiny  nose.  Here  a  noisy 
band  of  students  and  grisettes,  bent  on 
some  river  expedition,  fills  the  station 
with  song  and  strident  laughter.  Here, 
in  the  evening  quiet  of  the  Luxembourg 
gardens,  a  young  soldier,  haled  unwill- 
ingly from  the  plough,  and  a  servant 
from  the  same  far  village  mingle  their 
memories  of  home,  and  speak  their  sim- 
ple loves.  Here  the  drunkard,  sitting 
sodden  at  his  table,  traces  with  unsteady 
finger  a  woman's  name  in  the  drippings 
from  his  wine-can. 

Yes,  for  the  seeing  eye  and  the  sym- 
pathetic spirit,  how  full  of  interest  is 
that  ever-changing  kaleidoscope  of  life  ! 
A  seeing  eye  M.  Coppee  unquestiona- 
bly has,  and  in  a  most  marked  degree 
a  sympathetic  spirit.  At  this  point  I 
place  my  hand  upon  the  main-spring, 
the  motive  power,  of  his  art.  I  touch 
one  of  its  chief  peculiarities.  For  up- 
wards of  sixty  years  or  so  the  bour- 
geois has  been  the  object  of  gibe  and  in- 
sult on  the  part  of  nearly  all  in  France 
who  hold  pen  or  brush.  Gavarni  would 
not  unwillingly  have  asphyxiated  him 
with  the  mingled  odors  of  punch,  pat- 
chouli, and  cigars.  There  was  one  oth- 
er fiery  and  homicidal  gentleman  of  the 
romantic  school  who  expressed  a  can- 
nibal desire  to  feed  upon  him.  From 
such  cravings  of  hate  M.  Coppee  is 
free.  The  environment  of  his  early 
days  has  given  him  the  kindliest  capao- 


762 


Francois  CoppSe. 


[December, 


ity  of  insight  into  homely  joys  and  sor- 
rows, lie  knows  how  much  of  courage 
and  patient  effort  and  unostentatious 
self-devotion  lies  hidden  in  lives  to  out- 
ward seeming  quite  commonplace  and 
mean.  He  is  seldom  happier  than  when 
he  can  cull  some  dainty  flower  from  soil 
that  looks  unpromising  and  barren.  He 
has  tears  for  those  tragedies  that  are 
not  really  less  pathetic  because  they  oc- 
cur in  humble  existences.  The  Humble, 
—  that  is  the  title  of  one  of  his  books. 
It  opens  with  the  story  of  a  peasant 
girl  ill  married  to  a  village  prodigal,  — 
one  of  those  marriages  in  which,  as  he 
says, 

"  Close  on  the  first  kiss  the  first  cuff  follows." 

Then  comes  the  baby ;  and  the  wo- 
man's husband,  having  by  that  time 
spent  all  her  savings,  insists  on  her  go- 
ing to  Paris  as  a  nurse.  Of  course  he 
promises  to  see  that  the  child  is  well 
taken  care  of  meanwhile,  and  equally 
of  course  he  villainously  neglects  it,  and 
it  dies.  When  she  comes  back,  after 
weary  weeks  of  absence,  yearning  with 
all  her  mother-heart  for  the  tiny  crea- 
ture whom  she  expects  to  see  prosper- 
ing and  well,  she  finds,  instead,  a  broken 
cradle,  dirty  and  cobwebbed.  I  take 
another  of  these  poems.  It  is  entitled 
A  Son,  and  tells  of  a  boy's  school  ca- 
reer, promising,  brilliant,  with  all  its 
boundless  hopes  and  possibilities,  but 
suddenly  shadowed  and  blighted  by  the 
revelation  of  his  mother's  shame  and 
his  own  illegitimacy.  He  devotes  his 
changed  life  to  her,  tends  her  through 
the  long  querulous  years  of  age  and  in- 
firmity, and  when  she  dies  is  left  a  poor, 
broken,  prematurely  old  little  govern- 
ment clerk.  A  similar  story,  though 
told  for  the  nonce  in  prose  (M.  Cop- 
pee  being  ambidextrous  in  the  use  of 
prose  and  verse),  is  the  story  of  another 
government  clerk,  a  man  famed  for  his 
thews  and  sinews,  his  bulk  and  brawn, 
his  autobiographical  anecdotes  of  mid- 
night victory  over  the  footpad  and  assas- 
sin, of  wild  and  perilous  adventure  in 


war  and  love,  and  yet  discovered  to  be 
the  gentlest  of  kindly  creatures,  whose 
evening  hours,  so  terribly  depicted  by 
himself,  are  really  spent  in  ministering 
to  an  aged  mother. 

I  will  not  affirm  that  there  is  not 
some  faint  suspicion  of  affectation  in 
a  few  of  M.  Coppee's  presentments  of 
humble  life:  the  grocer,  for  instance. 
I  am  prepared  to  sympathize  to  the 
utmost  with  his  domestic  sorrows,  the 
coldness  and  ill-nature  of  his  wife,  his 
childlessness  ;  with  the  feeling  that 
prompts  him,  like  Miss  Mattie  in  Mrs. 
GaskelFs  delicately  beautiful  story  of 
Cranford,  to  sell  lollipops  for  nothing 
to  the  little  curly-headed  purchasers. 
But  when  I  am  asked  to  drop  the  tear 
of  sensibility  over  the  elegiac  melan- 
choly with  which  he  chops  his  sugar, 
why,  then  I  begin  to  doubt  whether  I 
am  being  treated  quite  seriously.  Nor 
can  I  stifle  the  same  suspicion  when, 
through  many  lines  of  very  good  verse, 
the  poet  moralizes  over 

"An  old  shoe,  ignoble,  fearful,  foul, 
Gone  at  the  heel,  the  sole  breached  and  agape, 
Hideous  as  want,  and  like  want  sinister." 

One  does  not  like  to  be  so  reminded, 
and  yet  one  is  reminded  of  Sterne,  and 
his  remarks  on  the  ramshackle  old  car- 
riage in  the  vineyard  at  Dessein's  ;  yes, 
and  of  Thackeray's  somewhat  uncom- 
plimentary comment  on  that  sentimental 
performance. 

But  still,  after  making  every  deduc- 
tion, there  is  no  doubt  that  in  his  sym- 
pathetic delineation  of  humble  life,  his 
kindly  thought  for  those  who  are  trod- 
den down  in  the  great  battle,  M.  Coppee 
has  given  proof  of  a  very  distinctive 
talent  and  nature.  The  vein  is  not  one 
that  French  poetry  has  worked  to  any 
great  purpose.  A  few  poems  by  Victor 
Hugo  are  all  that  I  at  present  remem- 
ber as  being  at  all  remarkable.  For 
Sainte-Beuve,  as  a  poet,  was  by  no 
means  in  the  first  rank  ;  and  his  ear- 
lier work,  which  bears  most  affinity  in 
subject  with  this  work  of  M.  Coppee,  is 


Francois  Coppee.  763 

moreover  without  M.  Coppee's  tender-  and  pure,  true  love,  and  even  of  faith 

ness   and    peculiar    moral    elevation    of  and    prayer.     This    France  is  far  less 

tone  and  ready  accessibility  to  noble  and  known  to  us.     We  catch  a  glimpse  of  it 

generous  ideas.  now  and  again.     We  hear  its  voice  oc- 

Here  again  I  lay  my  hand,  as  it  were,  casionally.     But  it  never  flaunts  itself 

on  one  of  the  most  essential  character-  much,  nor  does  it  cry  its  virtues  from 

istics  of   M.    Coppee's    art.     Here   the  the  housetops. 

education  of  his  earlier  years  has  stood  Of  this  France  M.  Coppee  may  fit- 
him  in  good  stead.  We  have  all  lately  tingly  be  called  the  laureate.  I  can- 
heard  much  about  that  great  goddess  Lu-  not  attempt  to  enumerate  the  poems,  or 
bricity,  whose  image  fell,  not  perhaps  stories,  or  plays  of  his  which  may  be  re- 
from  Jupiter,  but  from  some  inferior  garded  as  a  setting  to  some  elevated, 
and  foul  deity,  and  whom  France  in  kindly  thought,  which  present  this  poor 
general,  and  Paris  in  particular,  is  sup-  human  stuif  of  ours  in  one  of  its  nobler, 
posed  to  worship  with  a  very  special  better  shapes.  The  catalogue  would  be 
veneration.  We  can  imagine  her  vota-  too  long. 

ries  —  M.    Zola   in    chief  —  clamoring          Do  I  want  a  tale  of  Christ-like  for- 

round    Mr.    Matthew    Arnold,   as    the  giveness  for  the  most  terrible  of  iuju- 

Ephesiaus    of   old  clamored  round  St.  ries  ?     There   is  the  poem  of  Irene  de 

Paul ;  and,  sooth  to  say,  her  rites  occu-  Grandfief,  who   sets    herself   to  tend  a 

py  a  place  all  too  prominent  and  hideous  wounded  German  officer,  and  discovers 

in  contemporary  French  literature.     If  from  his  talk  that  he  has  killed  her  lover, 

we  accepted  the  pictures  of  life  which  somewhere  near  Metz,  in  midnight  am- 

the   "  naturalist "   novelists    offer  to  us  bush,  and  yet,  through  a  long  night  of 

as  true,  or  as   being  in  any  sense  the  agony  that  silvers    the  hair  round  her 

whole  truth,   we  might  indeed  despair  young  forehead,  she  supplies  at  the  stated 

of  the  country ;  weeping  for  the  decay  times  the  medicine  on  which  the  frail 

of  a  race  to  which  in  past  times  —  aye,  life  of  her  sick  foe  depends.    Do  I  want 

and  in  the  present  —  mankind  has  ever  a  story  of  self-devotion?     There  is  the 

owed  and  owes  so  much.     Some  French  poem  that  tells  of  two  prisoners,  during 

novelists  have  a  good  purpose  in  view,  the  Reign  of  Terror,  both  bearing  the 

and  M.  Alphonse  Daudet  unquestionably  same  name  ;  and  how  the  younger,  who 

wished  to  convey  a  weighty  and  terri-  is  unmarried  and  childless,  accepts  the 

ble  message  when  he  wrote  his  Sapho ;  guillotine   in    the   place   of    the  other, 

but  there   is   a  kind  of   acceptance  of  Again,  there  are  poems  that  deal  with 

vice  as  tj%3  normal  condition  of  men,  a  self-sacrifice,  not  in  some  high  and  tragic 

persistent  dwelling  upon  it,  that  are  in  moment,  when  every  impulse  is  strung 

the  last  degree  morbid  and  unhealthy,  to  highest  pitch,  but  carried  out  heroic- 

But  these  pictures  of  French  life  are  in-  ally  through  the  long  hours  of  life,  — 

complete  and  unfaithful.     For  all  their  youth,  health,  love  itself,  being  given  up 

braggart  claims  to  scientific  exactitude,  to  duty. 

and  the  noisy  advertising  of  what  they  Scarcely  one  of  M.  Coppee's  prose 
are  pleased  to  call  "  human  documents,"  contes  fails  to  have  a  moral  motive. 
M.  Zola  and  his  friends  are  only  topsy-  They  are  very  various  in  subject,  of 
turvy  idealists,  with  mud  for  ideal.  Be-  course,  yet  nearly  all  have,  if  not  ex- 
hind  the  France  of  the  French  novel-  actly  a  purpose,  still  an  animating  soul 
writer,  a  France  which  we  know  only  of  goodness  and  elevated  thought.  We 
too  well,  is  a  France  of  toil  and  self-  know  pretty  well  by  this  time  in  what 
sacrifice  and  generous  deeds  and  noble  terms  the  average  French  litterateur  is 
aspirations,  of  kindly  domestic  pieties  likely  to  speak  of  love,  and  how  much 


764  Francois  Coppge.  [December, 

of  mere  sensuality  will  enter  into  bis  de  Cardaillan,  whose  heart  has  been 
view  of  the  relations  between  men  broken  by  the  unworthiness  of  a  young 
and  women.  It  is  by  contrast  that  Al-  roue  to  whom  she  was  engaged,  and  who 
fred  de  Musset's  beautiful  poem,  Uiie  has  become  a  sister  of  charity  ;  and  who, 
Bonne  Fortune,  shines  so  silvery  pure,  as  she  goes  her  way  through  Paris  in 
It  seems  like  a  rift  in  a  cloudy  sky,  an  omnibus,  is  moved  by  a  workingwo- 
through  which  he  had  caught  a  glimpse  man's  homely  story  of  her  child's  sick- 
of  a  purer,  better  heaven.  We  get  the  ness,  and  gives  to  the  little  one  the  last 
same  impression  again  from  the  story  of  memorial  she  has  kept  of  the  world  and 
the  actor,  who  receives  a  letter  of  as-  of  her  love,  —  a  medal  blessed  by  the 
signation  from  a  girl,  almost  a  child,  Pope ;  whereupon  the  conductor,  who 
foolish  and  stage-struck,  and  suddenly  is  an  old  soldier  and  a  subscriber  to 
bethinks  himself  that  he  might  have  a  the  Intransigeant,  and  regards  "  clerical- 
daughter  of  that  age,  and  dismisses  her  ism  "  as  the  "  enemy,"  feels  inclined  to 
with  warning  and  kindly  words,  —  yes,  raise  his  testimony ;  but  seeing  that  the 
and  with  a  superb  and  patriarchal  bless-  mother  is  moved,  he  contents  himself, 
ing;  for  even  when  an  actor  does  the  out  of  pity  for  the  weaker  sex,  with 
good  and  the  right  thing,  he  still  can  smiling  the  smile  of  superiority.  For 
hardly  help  doing  it  with  an  eye  to  im-  that  smile,  I  fear  M.  Coppee  has  not 
aginary  footlights.  all  the  respect  that  might  be  wished ; 
I  have  said  that  many  of  the  stories  and  yet  it  possesses  an  attraction  even 
have  for  obvious  motive  a  kindly  and  for  the  greatest  among  Frenchmen.  Has 
elevated  thought,  and  seem  to  exhale  not  M.  Renan  confessed  that  long  study 
a  fresh  perfume  of  rectitude  and  disin-  of  religious  questions  has  produced  in 
terestedness.  Was  Captain  Mercadier  him  at  last  the  same  mind  that  was  in 
a  perfect  personage  ?  Scarcely  that,  Victor  Hugo's  Gavroche  and  Flaubert's 
I  fear.  "  He  was  not  a  saint,"  we  are  M.  Homais  ?  But  M.  Coppee's  stage  of 
told,  and  there  appeared  every  proba-  religious  development  is  not  so  advanced, 
bility,  when  he  took  his  pension  and  re-  He  still  sees  that  the  older  faiths  pro- 
tired  to  live  thereon  in  his  native  town,  duced  flowers  too  beautiful  and  delicate 
that  the  local  cafe  would  absorb  most  of  for  ridicule. 

his  slender  means.     From  this,  from  a         Am  I  doing  his  art  any  wrong  by 

life  of  selfish,  brutal  old-bachelorhood,  dwelling  at  such  length  upon  its  ethical 

he  is  rescued  by  the  hand  of  a  child,  a  side  ?     I   scarcely  think  so.     I  do  not 

little  lame  foundling,  who   becomes  to  believe  that  M.  Coppee  himself  would 

him  as  a  daughter.     Foreground,  back-  think  so,  if  these  lines  were  l^er  to  fall 

O  O  ' 

ground,  middle  distance,  figures,  and  ac-  under  his  eye.     A  noble1*  purpose,  how- 

cessories,  all  are  different,  and  yet  one  ever,   is    not  everything.     Good  inten- 

is  vaguely  reminded  of  Silas   Marner.  tions  alone   will   not  save  a  poet.     He 

Poor  Leturc,  too,  —  a  sad  story,  possibly  must  be  an  artist  as  well  as  a  moralist, 

a  true  one:    the  gutter   child,   the  re-  or  he  is  a  failure.    It  behooves  us,  there- 

formatory,   the   branded    life,    the   jail,  fore,  to  inquire  what  is  the  value  of  M. 

the  honest  effort  to  mend,  and  then  the  Coppee's  gift  as  a  maker  of  prose  and 

devoted  friendship  for  a  young  country  verse. 

mason,  who  gradually  deteriorates  in  I  myself  set  it  very  high.  The  stories 
the  tainted  moral  atmosphere  of  Paris,  contained  in  the  Contes  en  Prose  and 
turns  thief  to  feed  his  pleasures,  and  al-  the  Vingt  Contes  Nouveaux  are  grace- 
lows  innocent  Leturc  to  assume  the  re-  fully  and  artistically  told.  They  are 
sponsibility  for  the  crime  and  accept  short,  and  naturally  slight ;  some  indeed 
transportation  for  life.  And  Annette  incline  rather  to  the  essay  than  to  the 


1884.] 


firanpois  Coppee. 


765 


story,  but  each  has  a  sufficiency  of  inter- 
est to   justify  its   existence,   and  near- 
ly all  have  much  more  than  this.     M. 
Coppee  possesses  preeminently  the  gift 
of  presenting  concrete  fact  rather  than 
abstraction,  —  the  gift,  it    may  be  re- 
membered, which  M.  Taine  thought  so 
noticeable    in   Thackeray ;    the  gift,  by 
the  way,  which  belongs  more  specially 
to  the  literature  of  the  nineteenth  cen- 
tury as  compared  with  that  of  the  eigh- 
teenth.    We  seem  to  know  his  person- 
ages, to  have  met  them  and  seen  them 
among  just   such    surroundings  as   the 
writer  has  considered  essential.     Small 
as  is  the  canvas,  the  picture  is  finished  ; 
and  yet  it  remains  what  it  should  be,  in 
those  proportions,  a  sketch.     A  sketch, 
also,    is   M.   Coppee's  one   novel,   Une 
Idylle    pendant  le  Siege.     That  is  the 
fault  of  it.     For  in  a  novel  we  require 
stronger  characterization,  greater  grasp 
of  character,  and,  I  was  going  to  add,  a 
more  searching  dissection  of  motive  and 
impulse ;  but  dissection  is  scarcely  the 
right  image,  for  dissection  implies  death, 
whereas  the  art  of  the  novelist  consists 
rather  in  vivisection,  and   should  show 
us  the  human  heart  and  intellect  in  full 
play  and  activity.     This  tale  of  love, 
with  the  siege  of  Paris  for  running  ac- 
companiment, is  not  one  of  my  favorites 
among  M.  Coppee's  works.     I  do  not 
feel,  when  I  have  read  it,  that  I  know 
the  hero  and  heroine  particularly  well, 
or  that  I  have  enlarged  my  knowledge 
of   character,  or   deepened    my   insight 
into  life.    Loves  belonging  so  essentially 
to  the  commonplace  of   French  litera- 
ture scarcely  seem  to  require  for  their 
enacting  such  a  tremendous  theatre  as 
the  great  siege,  with  its  background  of 
famine  and  blood  and  fire.     There  is 
an  incongruity  about  the  whole  thing,  a 
want  of  keeping.     Nor  is   this  feeling 
removed  by  the  fact  that  the  male  lover, 
at  least,  appears  occasionally  to  share 
it  too,  and  to  be  dimly  conscious  that 
his  philandering  is  not  quite  opportune. 
"  Blood  and  iron,"  —  the  times  rang  to 


other  music  than  the  love-notes  in  the 
human  voice. 

However,  it  is  not  as  a  prose-writer 
that  M.  Coppee  is  mainly  known,  or  de- 
serves to  be  known.  So  I  will  not  lin- 
ger for  quotation  and  comment.  The 
ampler,  finer  field  of  his  poetry  calls  me 
onward. 

It  is  a  field  which  he  has  cultivated 
to  various  purposes.  There  are  plays, 
real  plays,  plays  to  be  acted ;  not  plays 
written  as  an  English  or  an  American 
poet  would  probably  have  written  them, 
simply  for  «*  the  closet,"  but  plays  that 
have  stood  the  glare  of  the  footlights, 
with  pelf  and  applause  for  result.  Was 
it  not  after  the  performance  of  one  of 
these,  the  Passant,  by  Madame  Sarah 
Bernhardt  and  Mademoiselle  Agar  that 
he  awoke,  like  Byron,  famous,  and 
crowned  with  a  night's  green  growth  of 
laurel  leaves  ?  As  interludes  to  the 
plays,  there  are  "  occasional  "  theatrical 
pieces,  written  for  the  fiftieth  anniver- 
sary of  the  performance  of  Hernani,  or 
the  two  hundredth  anniversary  of  the 
foundation  of  the  Comedie  FranQaise. 

Besides  these  theatrical  pieces,  of 
which  the  most  important,  and  I  think 
the  best,  is  Severo  Torelli,  produced  not 
so  long  since  at  the  Odeon,  —  besides 
these,  M.  Coppee  has  written  a  very 
considerable  number  of  miscellaneous 
poems,  which  have  appeared  in  a  very 
considerable  number  of  dainty  little  vol- 
umes: and  the  dainty  little  volumes 
have  from  time  to  time  been  compressed 
into  volumes  that  are  thicker,  though 
still  dainty,  —  for  M.  Lemerre,  the  pub- 
lisher, publishes  all  things  well,  —  and 
the  result  is  a  goodly  show  of  verse. 
But  perhaps  a  little  cataloguing  may 
not  be  amiss.  For  French  poetry  does 
not  win  its  way  very  rapidly  into  other 
lands,  and  though  there  are  doubtless 
some  of  my  readers  who  know  a  great 
deal  more  about  M.  Coppee  than  I  do, 
yet  it  would  not  perhaps  be  quite  safe 
for  me,  on  any  grounds,  to  assume  that 
all  stand  to  me  in  that  relationship.  So 


766 


Francois  Coppee. 


[December, 


for  those  who  are  not  so  advanced  in 
knowledge,  I  may  as  well  be  categorical. 
M.  Coppee's  opus  No.  1,  then,  —  or  rath- 
er, perhaps,  opusculus,  as  it  contains  but 
very  few  pages,  —  was  the  Reliquaire, 
published  in  1864,  twenty  years  ago, 
and,  we  are  told,  at  the  poet's  own 
expense.  At  these  first  ventures  of  lit- 
erature, what  winds  of  hope  belly  their 
sails,  and  how  do  the  reefs  and  quick- 
sands gnash  at  them  with  white  teeth, 
and  the  deeps  of  oblivion  wait  for  them 
as  for  a  prey !  M.  Coppee  was  among 
those  more  fortunate  traffickers  whose 
argosies  arrive  safely  at  the  desired 
haven.  The  book  had  but  a  small  sale, 
no  doubt,  but  it  "  numbered  good  in- 
tellects." The  fit  and  few  knew  that 
another  real  poet  was  born  ;  and  their 
knowledge  acquired  greater  certainty  in 
1867,  when  the  Intimites  appeared,  to 
be  followed,  not  long  after,  by  the 
Poemes  Modernes,  which  opens  with 
the  pathetic  story  of  Angelus,  the  little 
foundling  loved  to  death  by  an  old  priest 
and  an  old  soldier  ;  and  followed  again 
by  two  of  M.  Coppee's  noblest  poems, 
the  Benediction  and  the  Greve  des  For- 
gerons. 

Here  the  poet  was  giving  the  full 
measure  of  his  genius,  —  for  I  think 
that  great  word  is  admissible.  He  was 
using,  and  to  fine  purpose,  the  more 
tragic  stops  in  this  human  nature  of 
ours.  La  Benediction  is  a  story  of  the 
siege  of  Saragossa.  It  purports  to  be 
told  by  an  old  trooper,  whose  most  famil- 
iar form  of  speech  was  an  oath,  but 
whose  memory  is  yet  filled  with  horror 
as  he  goes  over  the  incidents  of  the  last 
day  of  the  siege.  After  the  walls  were 
taken  each  house  became  a  citadel,  each 
house  had  to  be  carried  by  storm.  The 
priests  were  known  to  have  been  the 
soul  of  the  defense.  When  one  was 
seen  among  the  combatants,  he  was  shot 
down  gayly.  At  last  one  of  the  attack- 
ing columns  came  before  a  convent 
chapel,  and  found  some  of  their  com- 
rades struggling  with  a  group  of  monks 


on  the  threshoiu.  A  volley  mowed  the 
monks  down.  "  Then,"  says  the  troop- 
er, "  when  the  dense  smoke  had  slowly 
rolled  away,  we  saw  from  underneath 
the  pent  heap  of  the  dead  long  streams 
of  blood  veining  the  steps,  arid  behind 
the  immense  dim  interior  of  the  church. 
Tapers  starred  the  gloom  with  points  of 
geld  ;  incense  filled  the  place  with  the 
languor  of  its  perfume  ;  and  right  at  the 
end,  with  his  face  turned  towards  the 
altar  in  the  choir,  a  very  tall,  white- 
haired  priest  was  quietly  finishing  the 
mass,  as  if  he  had  not  heard  the  sound 
of  the  battle. 

"  The  evil  scene  is  so  present  to  my 
memory  that,  as  I  speak,  I  almost  think 
I  see  it  still,  —  the  old  convent  with  its 
Moorish  front,  the  great  brown  corpses 
of  the  monks,  the  sun  making  the  red 
blood  steam  upon  the  pavement,  and  in 
the  black  frame  of  the  portal  that  priest 
and  that  altar  sparkling  like  a  reliquary, 
and  ourselves  struck  dumb  for  the  mo- 
ment and  awed.  .  .  .  '  Fire  ! '  cried  an 
officer.  No  one  moved.  The  priest  cer- 
tainly heard,  but  showed  no  sign,  and 
faced  us  with  the  consecrated  host,  for 
he  had  now  come  to  that  part  of  the 
service  when  the  priest  turns  towards 
the  faithful  and  blesses  them.  His  up- 
lifted arms  looked  like  wings  out- 
stretched, and  all  recoiled  as  he  made 
the  sign  of  the  cross  in  the  air  with  the 
remonstrance  ;  and  we  could  see  that  he 
trembled  no  more  than  before  a  congre- 
gation of  pious  women,  and  heard  his 
fine  voice  slowly  chanting  forth,  '  Ben- 
edicat  vos  omuipotens  Deus.'  *  Fire/ 
repeated  the  savage  voice,  '  or  I  lose  my 
temper  ! '  Then  one  of  our  men,  a  sol- 
dier, but  a  coward,  lifted  his  gun  and 
fired.  The  old  man  grew  very  pale,  but 
without  lowering  his  eyes,  that  shone 
with  a  stern,  high  courage,  he  added, 
*  Pater  et  Filius.'  What  frenzy,  what 
veil  of  blood  maddening  a  human  brain, 
caused  another  shot  to  ring  from  our 
ranks  I  know  not.  Nevertheless  that 
deed  was  done.  The  monk,  leaning  with 


1884.] 


Francois  Copp£e. 


767 


one  hand  on  the  altar,  and  striving  to 

O 

bless  us  once  more,  lifted  again  the 
heavy  monstrance  of  gold.  For  the 
third  time  he  traced  in  the  air  the  sign 
of  pardon,  arid  in  a  voice  very  low,  but 
still  quite  audible,  for  all  sounds  had 
hushed,  he  said,  with  his  eyes  closed, 
*  Et  Spiritus  Sanctus,'  and  then  fell  dead, 
having  finished  his  prayer. 

"  The  monstrance  rebounded  three 
times  from  the  pavement ;  and  as  we 
were  all,  even  the  oldest  troopers,  stand- 
ing with  grounded  arms,  awed  and  hor- 
ror-struck at  the  sight  of  a  murder  so 
foul  and  a  martyrdom  so  heroic, '  Amen  ! ' 
cried  a  drummer-boy,  and  burst  out 
laughing." 

There  is  a  certain  melancholy  pleas- 
ure in  seeing  how  inadequately  one's 
prose  renders  a  poem  of  this  kind.  But 
it  is  a  pleasure  which  may  easily  pall, 
and  I  shall  not  translate  any  portion  of 
the  Greve  des  Forgerons.  That,  again, 
is  a  dramatic  monologue,  such  as  Mr. 
Browning  has  accustomed  us  to,  and 
deals  with  incidents  equally  tragic.  The 
story,  too,  is  told  with  equal  power. 
An  old  iron-worker  recounts  to  his 
judges  the  tale  of  the  strike :  how  his 
grandchildren  were  starving ;  how  he 
appealed  to  the  committee  to  let  him  go 
back  to  work ;  how  one  of  the  club  ora- 
tors, living  on  the  general  subscriptions, 
gibed  at  his  misery ;  and  how  he  struck 
him  down  with  his  hammer.  To  deal 
with  themes  like  these  in  fully  adequate 
verse  is  to  be  a  poet  of  high  quality. 

After  the  Greve  des  Forjjerons  came 

O 

Les  Humbles,  to  which  I  have  already 
referred  ;  and  a  few  pieces  written  in 
1870,  during  the  siege  of  Paris;  pieces, 
with  the  exception  of  the  Lettre  d'uii 
Mobile  Breton,  by  no  means  remarka- 
ble. Then  followed  a  very  characteris- 
tic volume  of  Promenades  et  Iriterieurs. 
Its  title  may  indicate  the  contents.  This 
was  succeeded  by  Le  Cahier  Rouge,  a 
collection  of  disconnected  pieces.  This 
brings  us  to  1874.  Les  Recits  et  les 
Elegies  appeared  in  1878.  It  contains 


a  number  of  miscellaneous  poems ;  a 
series  which  is  called  Les  Mois ;  anoth- 
er entitled  Jeunes  Filles;  the  story  of 
Irene  de  Grandfief ;  and  several  Recits 
Epiques,  of  the  kind  inaugurated  by 
Victor  Hugo  in  the  Legendes  des  Siecles. 
Of  these  the  finest  —  though  several  are 
fine  —  is,  in  my  opinion,  La  Tete  de 
la  Sultane,  which  is  as  full  of  Oriental 
color  and  as  tragic  as  a  picture  by  Henri 
Regnault. 

Lastly,  after  the  Recits  et  les  Elegies, 
came  Contes  en  Vers  and  Poesies  Di- 
verses,  whereof  the  two  most  notable  are 
La  Marchande  de  Journaux  and  L'En- 
fant  de  la  Balle  :  the  first  being  one  of 
those  stories  of  humble  life  in  which  M. 
Coppee  excels,  —  an  old  newspaper  sell- 
er, to  whom  the  rise  and  fall  of  political 
interests  mean  only  the  more  or  less  of 
comfort  for  her  little  weakling  grandson ; 
and  the  second,  the  story  of  a  child  born 
in  the  theatre  and  bred  among  the  foot- 
lights, who  achieves  upon  the  boards  a 
success  phenomenal  in  every  sense,  and 
dies  a  martyr  to  her  triumph. 

All  these  several  volumes  represent  a 
large  body  of  verse  :  love  poems  in  con- 
siderable number,  stories  of  history  and 
legend,  stories  of  every-day  life,  "  oc- 
casional "  verses  not  a  few,  sonnets  in 
profusion,  a  few  dainty  vers  de  societe, 
and  a  small  quantity  of  songs.  The 
field  has  yielded  a  large  and  varied  crop. 
What  is  to  be  said  as  to  the  quality  of 
the  grain  ? 

Of  the  moral  quality  of  M.  CoppeVs 
work  I  have  already  spoken.  As  to  the 
literary  quality,  a  few  words  are  neces- 
sary. First  I  would  say  of  M.  Coppee's 
verse  that  it  possesses  the  gift  of  spon- 
taneity. It  is  not  "art  manufacture." 
Does  that  seem  small  praise  and  merely 
negative  commendation  ?  Such  is  far 

O 

from  being  my  view.  Take,  by  way  of 
contrast,  the  poems  of  M.  Leconte  de 
Lisle.  M.  Leconte  de  Lisle  has  learn- 
ing, industry,  an  artist's  real  desire  of 
perfection.  But  all  his  work  "  is  full  of 
labor ;  man  cannot  utter  it."  The  sense 


768                                           Frangois  Coppee.                             [December, 

of   effort   chills    the   reader's   pleasure,  does,  it  is  not  because  he  has  wandered 

There  is  none  of  the  seemingly  careless  out  of  the  right  path,  but  because   he 

excellence  of  absolute  mastery.     Every  has  faltered.     Such  lapses  are  rare.    Ha- 

line  bears  the  marks  of  the  hammer  and  bitually  his  step  is  as  sure  as  it  is  easy 

the  anvil.     With  M.  Coppee  it  is  quite  and  light. 

different.  Here  every  poem  seems  to  "  L'art  pour  1'art ! ':  Does  that  mean 
have  sprung  from  a  genuine  inspiration,  that  art  is  to  exist  for  artists  alone,  and 
It  has  taken  root  one  does  not  quite  only  those  qualities  in  a  work  of  art  are 
know  how,  and  effloresces  naturally.  Of  to  be  considered  which  appeal  to  the  art- 
course  this  may  not  Jbe  really  so.  M.  ist's  fellow  craftsmen  ?  If  so,  surely  the 
Coppee  may  produce  with  great  difficul-  message  of  art  were  singularly  impov- 
ty,  possibly  with  even  more  real  pain  erished.  Let  art  exist  for  artists,  by  all 
than  M.  Leconte  de  Lisle  ;  but  so  far  as  means.  Let  every  technical  excellence 
the  result  is  concerned, — and  in  all  have  full  weight  and  value.  It  is  scarce- 
such  matters  one  is  concerned  only  with  ly  possible  to  exaggerate  the  superb  im- 
results,  —  the  younger  alone  is  a  spon-  portance  of  workmanship.  But  beyond 
taneous  poet.  the  artist  lies  the  great  mass  of  men. 
Closely  allied  to  this  gift  of  sponta-  To  them  the  technical  side  of  art  appeals 
neity  is  a  gift  of  interest.  Does  that,  only  in  a  modified  degree.  They  feel  its 
too,  seem  a  slight  thing  ?  I  fancy  not,  to  insufficiency  or  absence.  A  sure  and 
those  who  are  under  any  sort  of  profes-  right  instinct  tells  them,  as  I  have  already 
sional  compulsion  to  read  even  a  small  said,  that  if  the  poet  is  not  an  artist, 
part  of  the  thoroughly  unreadable  verse  he  has  scant  reason  of  existence,  what- 
which  is  produced  annually.  If  poets  ever  may  be  the  worth  of  the  message 
Would  only  realize  that  one  of  the  es-  he  has  to  deliver.  Still,  when  this  has 
sential  conditions  of  saying  something  been  granted  to  the  full,  it  remains  that 
is  having  something  to  say  ;  that  a  nee-  to  the  mass  of  men  the  message  and  its 
essary  preliminary  to  all  poetry  is  some  worth  are  the  objects  of  chief  attraction, 
thought,  passion,  emotion,  that  is  worthy  Surely  I  am  not  contending  that  some 
of  poetry's  brocaded  vesture,  some  scene  direct  ethical  purpose  should  be  the  mo- 
from  the  great  drama  of  life  that  is  fit  tive  of  every  work  of  art.  Far  from  it. 
to  keep  the  stage !  M.  Coppee  does  not  The  motive  may  be  one  of  thought,  or 
fall  into  the  mistake  of  supposing  that  passion,  or  feeling,  or  fancy,  or  imagina- 
gossamer  can  be  made  imperishable,  tion,  —  may,  in  fact,  be  of  almost  any 
He  takes  care  to  weave  with  silk  of  kind.  But  it  must  be  there.  Nor, 
sufficient  substancp.  When  he  sings,  it  maugre  M.  Zola  and  his  school,  will 
is  because  he  has  something  to  sing  sane  and  healthy  ethics  mar  either  the 
about ;  and  the  result  is,  as  I  have  in-  message  or  the  form  of  its  delivery.  So 
timated,  that  his  poetry  is  nearly  always  long  as  we  are  men,  and  not  beasts,  the 
interesting.  Moreover,  he  respects  the  human,  not  the  bestial,  must  be  the  best 
limits  of  his  art ;  for  while  his  friend  stimulants,  must  answer  best  to  our 
and  contemporary,  M.  Sully-Prudhomme,  needs.  To  these  remarks  M.  Coppee's 
goes  astray  only  too  habitually  in  phil-  works,  in  their  sum  and  totality,  may 
osophical  speculation,  and  his  immortal  most  fittingly  serve  for  illustration.  He 
senior,  Victor  Hugo,  often  declaims,  if  is  an  artist,  and  an  admirable  one.  He 
one  may  venture  reverently  to  say  so,  in  possesses  most  fully  the  technique  of 
a  manner  which  is  tedious,  M.  Coppee  French  poetry.  He  plays  upon  his  in- 
sticks  rigorously  to  what  may  be  called  strument  with  all  power  and  grace.  But 
the  proper  regions  of  poetry.  When  he  he  is  no  mere  virtuoso.  There  is  some- 
falls  into  prose,  as  he  very  occasionally  thing  in  him  beyond  the  executant.  Of 


1884.] 


Penelope's  Suitors. 


769 


Malibran  Alfred  de  Musset  says,  most 
beautifully,  that  she  had  that  "  voice  of 
the  heart  which  alone  has  power  to 
reach  the  heart."  Here,  also,  behind 
the  skillful  playor  on  language,  the  deft 
manipulator  of  rhyme  and  rhythm,  the 
learned  disposer  of  pause  and  caesura, 
one  feels  the  beating  of  a  human  heart. 
One  feels  that  the  artist  has  himself 
felt.  One  feels  that  he  is  giving  us  per- 


sonal impressions  of  life  and  its  joys 
and  sorrows,  that  his  imagination  is 
powerful  because  it  is  genuinely  his 
own,  that  the  flowers  of  his  fancy  spring 
spontaneously  from  the  soil.  Nor  can  I 
regard  it  as  aught  but  an  added  grace 
that  the  strings  of  that  instrument  of 
his  should  vibrate  so  readily  to  what  is 
beautiful  and  unselfish  and  delicate  in 
human  feeling. 

Frank  T.  Marzials. 


PENELOPE'S   SUITORS.3 


1639,  Mo.  1, 1.  Long  time  hath  over- 
past since  I  arrived  in  the  colony  of  the 
Massachusetts,  and  long  neglected  hath 
been  the  keeping  of  a  certain  resolve 
made  when  first  I  set  foot  upon  these 
shores.  As  we  came  hither  on  the  good 
ship  Susan  and  Ellen,  I  had  much  dis- 
course with  Madam  Richard  Saltonstall, 
who  claimeth  a  sort  of  kinship  with 
brother  Herbert,  through  his  wife,  the 
sometime  widow  Walgrave,  by  reason 
of  which  she  showed  me  great  civility 
and  gave  me  store  of  wise  counsels. 
Amongst  the  many  was  one  to  keep  a 
journal  of  what  notable  things  should 
befall  in  this  new  world  I  was  coming 
to.  I  repent  me  that  I  have  not  more 
speedily  followed  her  valued  advice,  al- 
beit no  very  great  nor  tragic  event  hath 
yet  transpired. 

Touching  my  first  impressions  of  this 
same  new  world,  truly  I  am  not  like  to 
forget  my  grievous  disappointment.  I 
had  fair  imaginings  of  something  like 

'  The  governor,  Mr.  Bellingham,  was  married. 
I  would  not  mention  such  ordinary  matters  but 
by  reason  of  some  remarkable  accidents.]  The 
young  gentlewoman  was  ready  to  be  contracted 
to  a  friend  of  his  who  lodged  in  his  house,  and  by 
his  consent  had  proceeded  so  far  with  her,  when, 
on  the  sudden,  the  governor  treated  with  her  and 
obtained  her  for  himself.  He  excused  it  by  the 
strength  of  his  affection."  (Winthrop's  History 
of  New  England,  vol.  ii.) 
The  young  gentlewoman  here  mentioned  was 

VOL.  LIV.  —  NO.  326.  49 


Arcady,  but  it  seemeth  not  at  all  Arca- 
dian on  nearer  view,  while  the  poor  lit- 
tle town  of  Boston  filleth  the  beholder 
with  neither  awe  nor  admiration.  I 
dare  not  declare  my  mind  in  this  re- 
spect by  reason  of  giving  offense  to  the 
good  people  hereabout,  who  affect  to  find 
it  a  paradise.  Sure  I  am  that  without 
the  town  it  is  indeed  a  very  wilderness, 
—  yea,  and  filled,  too,  with  wild  beasts 
and  savages,  as  I  am  assured,  and  have 
indeed  the  proof  of  my  own  senses  ;  for 
the  former,  I  hear  them  roar  o'  nights, 
and  for  the  latter,  I  have  beheld  them 
walking  the  streets,  and  profess  myself 
in  such  deadly  terror  if  one  do  but  so 
much  as  draw  near  me  that  I  can  scarce 
forbear  to  cry  out.  I  am  told,  and  can 
well  believe  it,  that  they  have  no  scru- 
ple of  making  a  meal  of  an  Englishman, 
if  they  can  but  once  beguile  him  into 
the  forest.  They  have  here,  moreover, 
numbers  of  blackamoors,  which  are 
kept  for  slaves  ;  they  are  quite  harmless 

Penelope  Pelham,  sister  of  Herbert  Pelham,  who 
came  to  New  England  in  1638,  and  took  an  im- 
portant part  in  colonial  affairs  until  his  return  to 
England  in  1647,  being  at  one  time  treasurer  of 
Harvard  College,  and  at  another  one  of  the  assist- 
ants. He  became  a  member  of  Parliament  after 
his  return  to  England.  Penelope  was  married  to 
Governor  Richard  Bellingham  in  1641,  and  sur- 
vived him  nearly  thirty  years,  dying  in  Boston,  in 
1702.  * 


770 


Penelope's  Suitors. 


[December, 


and  by  no  means  of  an  aspect  so  terrible 
as  the  savages.  But  for  all  that,  I  care 
not  for  one  of  them  to  come  too  closely 
into  my  neighborhood,  nor  touch  any- 
thing I  am  to  eat ;  nor  can  I  be  persuad- 
ed but  that  soap  and  water  might  alter 
their  hue.  For  the  Bostoners  them- 
"selves,  the  leaders  in  this  little  world, 
are,  for  the  most  part,  folk  of  some  birth 
and  breeding,  and  affect,  as  they  may,  a 
little  state.  'T  is  odd  to  see  the  modes 
still  in  vogue  here  that  are  long  time 
bygones  at  home.  Certain  of  my  own 
gowns  which  I  have  esteemed  in  no  wise 
noteworthy  have,  I  hear,  caused  a  great 
buzzing  among  the  worthy  dames  of 
Boston. 

On  landing,  brother  John  and  I  went 
straightway  to  brother  William's  planta- 
tion at  Cambridge,  which  is  three  miles 
and  over  from  the  town.  We  found 
brother  grown  already  to  be  a  person  of 
great  consequence.  They  have  here  set 
up  a  small  school,  which  they  call  a  col- 
lege, and  have  made  Herbert  treasurer 
thereof.1  He  hath  a  large  plantation 
and  a  fair  house,  with  a  troop  of  people, 
amongst  which  are  several  blackamoors. 
By  reason  of  brother's  influence  I  have 
received  much  civility  from  everybody. 
Many  ladies  of  the  best  fashion  from  the 
town  have  waited  upon  me,  and  I  have 
returned  their  visits  ;  amongst  them  I 
have  made  several  friends,  and  thus  no 
longer  feel  like  a  stranger  on  these  re- 
mote shores. 

Mo.  1,  7.  To-day  I  repaired  to  town 
with  brother,  on  a  pillion,  to  wait  upon 
Madam  Winthrop,  wife  of  the  governor. 
While  I  sat  discoursing  quietly  with  the 
governor's  lady,  on  a  sudden  there  arose 
a  great  tumult  without,  and  anon  came 
trooping  into  the  house  a  horde  of  sav- 
ages, with  one  of  their  most  redoubted 
eaefoems  at  their  head,  Unkus  by  name. 
I  had  well-nigh  swooned  with  terror  but 
that  Madam  Winthrop  seemed  in  no 
wise  disturbed,  and  bade  me  not  to  fear. 

1  A  slight  anachronism.    Herbert  Pelham  was 
not  made  treasurer  until  1643. 


Indeed,  when  I  had  somewhat  recovered 
I  could  not  but  remark  the  savages  be- 
haved with  great  decorum.  The  wor- 
shipful governor  came  presently  down- 
stairs to  see  them,  attended  by  one  of 
the  magistrates.  I  know  not  what 
passed  but  that  the  sachem  proffered 
some  strings  of  Indian  money,  which  the 
governor  refused,  by  reason  of  some  of- 
fense committed  by  the  savages.  Truly, 
the  governor  is  a  bold  man  who  dare 
thus  anger  the  heathen.  When  the  pow- 
wow was  over  the  governor  came  and 
spake  graciously  to  me,  and  thereupon 
Madam  Winthrop  finished  by  craving  a 
visit  of  several  days.  I  could  not  refuse 
assent  to  such  civility,  and  so  'tis  con- 
cluded I  shall  come  this  day  week. 
Brother  Herbert  presently  appeared  at 
the  door,  whereat  I  mounted  behind  him, 
and  after  some  words  of  leave-taking  we 
set  forth  homeward. 

Mo.  1,  14.  Yesterday,  about  four 
o'clock  post  meridian,  brother  Herbert 
brought  me  hither  to  Madam  Winthrop's, 
in  answer  to  her  gracious  invitation. 
She  welcomed  me  hospitably,  and  ush- 
ered me  presently  up  to  a  large  chamber, 
where  I  unpacked  my  portmanteau  and 
set  my  dress  in  order.  At  supper  the 
table  was  fairly  set  forth  with  store  of 
good  cheer,  which  I  opine  the  worship- 
ful governor  loveth  right  well.  There 
was  I  presented  to  the  family,  several 
daughters  and  sons,  of  whom  Mr.  Wait- 
Still  chiefly  drew  my  attention,  a  grave 
and  comely  young  man,  who  regarded 
me  narrowly,  and  offered  me  divers 
civilities.  The  discourse  was  mostly  of 
the  weekly  lecture,  which  took  place  to- 
day, for  which  I  arrived  not  in  time.  I 
marveled  to  hear  that  the  teacher,  the 
Reverend  Mr.  Cotton,  therein  inveighed 
loudly  against  wearing  of  lace  veils  over 
the  face,  which  is  newly  the  mode. 
Master  Cotton,  it  seemeth,  spake  bitter- 
ly of  the  practice  as  sinful  and  abomi- 
nable, arguing  a  corrupt  heart.  At  all 
this  I  was  much  perturbed,  as  I  came 
hither  with  a  smart  new  veil  cast  over 


1884.]                                   Penelope's  Suitors.  771 

my  tiffany   hood  ;   and   though  in  my  am  Hibbins,1  a  sister,  't  is  said,  of  Mr. 

blindness  I  perceive  not  that  my  heart  is  Bellingham;  she  hath  a  shrewish  face 

more  corrupt,  yet  may  I  be  deceived,  and   keen   eyes,   which   she   kept,   me- 

and  this  mayhap  prove  a  snare  of  the  thought,  more  often  than  needful  bent 

devil  to  lure  us  through  vanity  on  to  sin.  upon  me,  as  marveling  what  qualities  her 

Alack,  how  countless  are  the  wiles  of  brother  could  find  in  me  worthy  atten- 

the  tempter  !    Nothing,  surely,  seemeth  tion. 

more  innocent  than  this  film  of  network;  Mo.  1,  24.  The  Lord's  Day.  I  was 
't  is  pity  if  it  be  a  sin,  for  it  marvelous-  taken  into  the  church  on  confession  of 
ly  enhanceth  the  comeliness  of  an  indif-  faith,  signing  and  accepting  the  cove- 
ferent  face.  nants  thereof.  With  me  were  one  Mis- 
Mo.  1,  20.  I  become  acquainted  with  tress  Elizabeth  Allen  and  another.  May 
the  family,  and  rest  well  content.  Here  the  Lord  Jesus  Christ  justify  me  through 
is  much  more  astir  than  at  home,  for  be-  faith,  and  endue  me  with  grace  to  keep 
sides  that  the  governor  hath  divers  visit-  his  holy  ordinances.  Went  thrice  to 
ors  upon  ceremony  and  business  daily,  meeting ;  strove  sedulously  to  mortify 
his  dwelling  is  placed  upon  the  chief  the  flesh  and  keep  my  thoughts  on  heav- 
street,  where  is  much  passing  to  and  enly  things.  Bare  in  mind  Mr.  Cotton 
fro.  It  is  a  large  house,  quite  plain  his  words  at  the  lecture,  and  left  behind 
without,  but  well-ordered  within.  Both  my  veil,  yet  noted  several  in  the  con- 
the  governor  and  madam  are  most  gra-  gregation  who  seem  not  in  awe  of  their 
cious  to  me,  and  account  themselves  teacher's  wrath  in  this  respect.  Query 
kinsfolk,  it  seemeth,  with  brother  Her-  whether  it  be  sinful  or  no. 
bert,  through  his  wife.  Yesterday  Mr.  Mo.  1,  25.  Madam  Hibbins  came  be- 
Wait- Still  came  civilly  and  bade  me  times  to  wait  upon  me.  Despite  the 
forth  for  an  outing.  We  walked  upon  sharpness  of  her  visage  and  the  keen- 
the  Gentry  Field,  and  thence  by  the  ness  of  her  black  eyes,  she  hath  at  call 
seashore  to  Mr.  Blackstone  his  garden,  some  honeyed  looks,  and  these  she 
where  we  had  good  prospect  of  the  sun's  spared  not  to  bestow  lavishly  upon  me. 
setting.  She  hath  engaged  my  attention  withal 
Mo.  1,  23.  Dined  to-day  at  Mr.  In-  more  than  any  person  I  have  yet  en- 
crease  No  well's  ;  the  governor  and  lady,  countered.  She  seemeth  a  woman  of 
cousins  Saltonstall,  Mr.  William  Hib-  uncommon  parts  ;  her  wit  is  admirable, 
bins  and  lady,  Mr.  Richard  Bellingham,  and  her  countenance,  once  seen,  not  to 
made  the  company.  The  latter  sat  by  be  forgotten.  I  had  much  discourse 
my  side  and  discoursed  with  me,  a  man  with  her,  which  truly  is  no  great  effort, 
of  majestic  port  and  face  most  proud,  as  she  maintaineth  the  chief  part  there- 
He  fixed  upon  me  a  pair  of  gloomful  of.  I  noted  Madam  Winthrop  grew 
eyes,  deep  set  beneath  shaggy  brows,  somewhat  grave  and  quiet  in  presence 
whose  glance  seemed  able  to  search  out  of  this  visitor.  Madam  Hibbins  was 
my  hidden  thoughts.  I  found  myself  dressed  in  more  splendor  than  I  have 
in  great  awe,  and  sat  with  downcast  yet  anywhere  seen  in  the  town, 
eyes,  stammering  like  a  fool.  Indeed,  in  Mo.  1,  26.  To-day  went  with  the 
everything  I  behaved  rather  like  a  raw  governor  and  his  lady  to  the  lecture  at 
rustic  wench  than  a  young  gentlewoman  Dorchester  ;  afterwards  dined  with  Mr. 
of  breeding,  for  which  I  was  grievously  Dudley,  the  deputy,  who  hath  a  goodly 
ashamed  ;  but  truly  I  have  never  yet  en-  house  and  a  fine  garden.  Returning 
countered  a  man,  of  whatsoever  rank,  betimes,  I  wait  upon  Madam  Hibbins, 
who  hath  wrought  upon  me  such  an  in-  i  Ann  Hibbins,  afterwards,  in  1656,  hanged  as  a 
fluence.  Opposite  at  the  table  sat  Mad-  witch. 


772 


Penelope's  Suitors. 


[December, 


who  dwelleth  a  stone's  throw  south- 
ward of  the  governor's  mansion.  She 
received  me  with  much  favor.  I  deem 
myself  happy  to  draw  thus  far  only  sun- 
shine from  those  glittering  eyes,  which 
show  such  good  capacity  for  lightning. 
As  we  discoursed  there  went  some  one 
past  upon  the  highway,  whom  madam, 
looking  from  the  window,  espied,  and 
speedily  sent  a  servant  to  recall.  Di- 
rectly, thereupon,  came  in  a  stranger, 
whom  she  presented  to  me  as  Mr.  Ed- 
ward Buckley,  a  young  gentleman  lately 
arrived  from  England,  who  is  a  kinsman 
of  her  own,  and  lodgeth  with  her  broth- 
er, Mr.  Bellingham.  He  hath  excellent 
breeding  and  much  ease  of  deportment. 
He  was  very  civil,  and  presently  quite 
at  home  with  me.  Madam  herself  was 
full  of  gayety  :  amongst  the  many  droll 
things  she  recounted  was  the  history  of 
the  new  stocks,  lately  built  for  the  town 
by  one  Goodman  Palmer,  who  yet,  by 
reason  of  demanding  too  great  a  price 
for  his  handiwork,  was  himself  the  first 
culprit  to  be  thrust  in  them. 

Mo.  1,  27.    Came  back  to  Cambridge 

O 

with  brother  Herbert,  who  took  me  up 
on  his  way  from  market.  Bade  adieu 
to  Madam  Winthrop  and  her  family  with 
regret.  It  seemeth  very  dull  and  dead 
at  home  now,  after  so  much  bustle  and 
variety  of  life  in  town. 

Mo.  7,  7.  To-day  came  cousins  Salton- 
stall  with  Madam  Hibbins,  who  made 
some  pretext  for  bringing  Mr.  Buckley  in 
place  of  her  husband,  all  to  dine  with  us 
after  the  lecture.  The  dinner  was  boiled 
fowls,  bacon  and  greens,  with  store  of 
fresh  vegetables  and  dessert  of  a  goose- 
berry tart,  all  washed  down  with  brother 
William's  best  madeira ;  but  had  I  let 
slip  the  secret  that  the  whole  repast  was 
cooked  by  a  blackamoor  brother  hath 
lately  installed  in  the  kitchen,  much  I 
fear  the  gorge  of  many  would  have  risen, 
howbeit  brother  hath  no  patience  with 
this  whimsey  of  mine. 

Mr.  Buckley,  methought,  lent  but  an 
indifferent  ear  to  the  discussion  of  the 


lecture,  which  was  upon  the  necessity  of 
due  recognition  of  sin  in  the  heart  be- 
fore repentance  availeth.  The  young 
gentleman  busied  himself  casting  sheep's 
glances  at  me,  which  I  affected  not  to 
note,  but  maintained  ever  a  grave  and 
discreet  countenance.  Nothing  daunted 
by  my  demeanor,  he  came  straightway 
dinner  was  over  and  set  himself  to  dis- 
course with  me.  And  truly  I  remarked 
not  before  how  proper  a  man  he  is  at 
all  points.  He  lingered  when  Madam 
Hibbins  rose  to  go  as  he  would  fain 
have  stayed  longer,  and  on  bidding  adieu 
craved  the  privilege  of  coming  again, 
which  I  saw  no  good  ground  for  gain- 
saying. 

Mo.  7,  10.  Yesterday  I  repaired  to 
town  to  pay  divers  visits  of  ceremony 
and  go  about  among  the  shops.  There 
is  a  monstrous  stir  among  the  Boston 
dames  by  reason  of  a  law  yesterday 
enacted  by  the  General  Court,  forbid- 
ding all  wearing  of  lace  as  "  tending 
to  little  use  or  benefit  but  the  nourish- 
ing of  pride  and  exhausting  men's  es- 
tates, and  also  of  evil  example  to  oth- 
ers." But  what  seemeth  more  grievous 
tyranny  is  that  short  sleeves  and  wide 
sleeves  are  likewise  frowned  upon,  it  be- 
ing declared  that  in  no  case  shall  sleeves 
be  made  more  than  half  an  ell  wide  in 
the  widest  part,  which,  as  every  mantua- 
maker  knows,  is  of  no  seemly  propor- 
tion. Many  of  the  dames  are  outspoken 
in  their  vexation,  and  truly  it  will  go  far 
to  make  frights  of  us  all. 

Going  through  the  market-place,  I  en- 
countered by  chance  the  worshipful  Mr. 
Bellingham,  who  very  graciously  turned 
about  to  go  with  me  out  of  the  press. 
Hardly  had  we  taken  a  half  score  steps, 
however,  when  forth  from  some  neigh- 
boring shop  ran  Madam  Hibbins,  with 
eyes  snapping  like  coals.  In  her  great 
volubility  I  know  not  clearly  what  she 
said,  but  that  she  told  her  brother  of 
something  demanding  his  instant  atten- 
tion, and  herself  carried  me  off,  despite 
some  urgency  in  my  affairs,  to  dine  with 


1884.] 


Penelope  s  Suitors. 


773 


her.  It  was  in  vain  I  essayed  to  refuse  ; 
she  hath  a  manner  that  overrideth  all 
opposition.  At  the  table  was  her  spouse, 
who  is  a  man  of  few  words,  —  I  had  well- 
nigh  said  of  none  at  all,  for  he  spake  but 
once,  and  that  from  necessity.  Thither 
came  also  Mr.  Buckley,  by  chance  as 
they  would  have  it  appear,  but  I  suspect 
from  certain  looks  between  them  that 
madam  sent  him  warning  on  the  sly. 
He  seemed,  methought,  unduly  rejoiced 
to  see  me,  and  betrayed  an  elation  which 
the  short  sum  of  our  acquaintance  doth 
not  warrant.  It  is  hard  to  quarrel  with 
too  great  kindliness,  but  I  deemed  it 
proper  to  summon  up  a  little  air  of  re- 
serve to  the  young  gallant,  lest  he  should 
deem  my  acquaintance  a  thing  too  light- 
ly to  be  come  by.  He  failed  not  to  note 
my  change  of  demeanor,  and  straightway 
became  anxious  to  discover  the  cause : 
thereto  he  studied  my  countenance  with 
such  evident  concern  that  I  found  it 
most  awkward,  howbeit  I  strove  to  seem 
unheedful  as  I  discoursed  with  Madam 
Hibbins.  I  had  much  ado  on  taking 
leave  to  restrain  him  from  coming  along 
with  me  to  Cambridge,  a  thing  not  to  be 
thought  of. 

Mo.  10,  6.  A  woman,  one  Dorothy 
Talbye,  was  this  day  hanged  upon  the 
Gentry  Field  for  killing  of  her  child. 
There  went  out  a  great  throng  of  people 
to  behold  the  spectacle.  I  had  not  warn- 
ing in  time,  and  so  made  not  one  of  the 
number. 

Mr.  Buckley  came,  not  backward,  it 
seemeth,  to  avail  of  the  privilege  I  yield- 
ed to  wait  upon  me.  I  could  not  but  be 
gracious  in  my  own  house,  and  so  made 
what  effort  I  might  to  amuse  him.  He 

o 

hath  good  store  of  knowledge,  and  con- 
verseth  with  such  great  propriety  and 
ease  as  I  have  not  often  heard  in  a 
young  man.  He  hath,  moreover,  a  merry 
vein ;  he  abounds  in  quaint  conceits 
quite  out  of  the  common.  I  know  not 
when  my  attention  hath  been  so  en- 
thralled ;  two  hours  overpast  so  speed- 
ily I  was  quite  amazed  when  supper-time 


came.  Brother  William  civilly  bade  the 
young  gentleman  stay  and  eat  with  us,  to 
which,  indeed,  he  seemed  nothing  loath. 

Mo.  10,  10.  Yesterday  came  to  town 
to  visit  with  Madam  Saltonstall.  She 
calleth  me  cousin  (which  is  only  by 
compliment),  and  is  in  every  way  most 
cordial.  I  went  with  her  to  the  lecture ; 
saw  many  acquaintances.  Madam  Hib- 
bius  well-nigh  embraced  me.  She  walked 
some  part  of  the  way  home  with  us,  and 
on  parting  Madam  Saltonstall  extracted 
from  her  a  promise  to  come  soon  and 
sup  with  us.  It  was  due  to  this  encoun- 
ter, no  doubt,  that  I  was  honored  in  the 
evening  by  a  visit  from  Mr.  Buckley. 
I  was  much  put  out  of  countenance  at 
first,  lest  Madam  Saltonstall  should  sup- 
pose I  had  connived  at  his  coming,  or 
secretly  bidden  him  hither.  I  was  there- 
fore most  grateful  when  presently  he 
announced  that  he  had  been  surprised 
to  hear  from  his  cousin  of  my  being  in 
town.  He  put  me  further  to  the  blush 
by  protracting  his  stay  till  eleven  o'clock. 
I  was  greatly  scandalized,  and  madam 
had  much  ado  to  suppress  her  yawns  in 
his  face,  which  he  heeded  not  at  all.  For 
all  of  that,  madam  commended  him  this 
morning,  and  said,  with  a  sly  glance  at 
me,  "  He  hath  a  very  persuasive  way," 
which  I  affected  not  to  hear. 

Mo.  10,  12.  To-day,  it  being  warm, 
we  went  a  short  voyage  upon  the  water, 
to  wit,  to  Governor's  Island  :  Mr.  Rich- 
ard Bellingham,  Mr.  Brad  street,  two  of 
the  magistrates,  Madam  Bradstreet,  and 
the  Saltonstalls,  being  of  the  party.  We 
visited  the  fortifications  ;  were  received 
with  great  respect  by  reason  of  the  mag- 
istrates. I  was  in  causeless  dread  lest 
they  should  discharge  guns  in  our  honor. 
On  the  homeward  way  it  so  fell  out  my 
seat  was  beside  Mr.  Bellingham,  and 
quite  too  close  to  please  me.  I  am  not 
yet  cured  of  my  awe  of  him,  and  find  it 
quite  impossible,  in  such  trepidation,  to 
hold  any  reasonable  discourse.  Indeed,  I 
made  such  inconsequent  answers  to  his 
queries  as  must  needs  have  persuaded 


774 


Penelope's  Suitors. 


[December, 


him  I  was  fresh  escaped  from  a  mad- 
house. 

The  same  evening,  as  it  chanced,  came 
Madam  Hibbins  and  her  husband  to  sup 
with  us ;  she  said  her  brother  spake  of 
meeting  me  upon  the  boat,  and  of  pleas- 
ant intercourse  betwixt  us.  'T  is  a'mar- 
vel  he  should  remember  so  small  a  cir- 
cumstance, unless  indeed  he  mocks  at  me, 
which  I  can  hardly  suspect  in  one  of 
such  gravity.  I  noted  Madam  Hibbins 
narrowly  scanning  my  face  while  re- 
counting the  above,  as  finding  in  it  I 
know  not  what  matter  of  suspicion. 
Cousin  Saltonstall  saith  she  keepeth 
ever  a  jealous  eye  upon  her  rich  broth- 
er, lest  his  marriage  should  destroy  a 
certain  fair  prospect  she  hath  of  becom- 
ing his  heir. 

Mo.  10,  15.  This  day  I  waited  upon 
divers  of  my  acquaintances,  Madam  Sal- 
tonstall accompanying.  Later  came  Mr. 
Buckley,  and  invited  me  forth  to  climb 
the  Tramount  and  behold  the  sunset.  I 
sought  a  pretext  for  denial,  but  while  I 
strove  to  fetch  forth  something  worthy 
by  way  of  excuse  Madam  Saltonstall  (I 
know  not  what  evil  spirit  prompted  her) 
cut  off  all  chance  of  retreat  by  crying 
out,  "  Truly,  cousin  Penelope,  if  you 
mind  not  the  toil  of  ascent,  't  is  a  sub- 
lime spectacle,  I  am  told,  and  one  not  to 
be  matched  hereabout.  'T  will  soon  be 
covered  with  snow,  when  your  chance 
will  be  cut  off  till  another  year.  You 
may  easily  be  back  against  supper,  when 
perchance  Mr.  Buckley  will  give  us  his 
company  also."  Hereupon  I  had  no 
other  resource  but  to  set  forth.  'T  is  a 
mountain  of  three  peaks,  the  middle  one 
monstrous  steep:  u-p  the  latter  part  there- 
of Mr.  Buckley  fairly  dragged  me  with 
both  hands  ;  but  once  upon  the  summit  I 
could  not  withhold  a  cry  of  joy  and  ad- 
miration. The  whole  earth,  sea,  and 
land  seemed  outspread  beneath  us.  In 
my  transport  I  had  well-nigh  forgot  my 
young  gallant,  but  was  soon  made  aware 
of  his  presence  by  his  odd  behavior, 
standing  a  short  distance  apart  and  gaz- 


ing at  me  with  rapt  attention,  by  rea- 
son, no  doubt,  of  my  ecstasy. 

"  Madam  Saltonstall  saith  well,"  I 
cried  at  length  :  "  't  is  indeed  a  sublime 
spectacle ! " 

"  'T  is,"  returned  he,  with  eyes  still 
fixed  upon  me,  and  heeding  not  the  pros- 
pect. 

"  Truly  there  can  be  nothing  else  so 
beautiful  in  the  land  ! ' 

"  Nothing  !  "  reechoed  the  swain,  still 
staring. 

"  I  marvel  all  the  world  cometh  not 
hither  to  admire." 

"  So  i'  faith  they  would,  could  they 
but  see  with  my  eyes,"  still  glaring  bold- 
ly into  my  very  face,  which  now  for  the 
first  time  I  became  aware  of,  and  per- 
ceiving his  intent  straightway  reddened 


like  a  rose. 


>rp 


is  a  marvel  what  hardi- 


hood men  have  to  stare  thus  at  a  person, 
till  she  must  e'en  lose  countenance  if 
she  be  not  altogether  brazen ;  and  this 
Mr.  Buckley  is  by  no  means  the  meek- 
est of  his  sex.  I  sat  me  down  anon 
upon  a  stone,  and  strove  to  regain  my 
lost  ease  by  comments  on  the  scene. 

"  Truly,"  I  said,  giving  vent  to  the 
first  reflection  that  came  to  hand,  albeit 
somewhat  trite,  "  nature  hath  multifari- 
ous aspects,  and  all  beautiful." 

"  And  yet,"  returneth  my  gentleman, 
fetching  a  sigh  as  he  threw  himself  on 
the  hard  ground  at  my  feet,  — u  yet 
is  there  something  more  beautiful  still 
than  nature." 

"  I  can  conceive  of  nothing  such  upon 
the  earth." 

"  Yet  one  there  is,  beyond  all  cavil." 

"  I  am  curious  to  learn  it." 

"  'T  is  the  sight  of  the  one  we  love," 
saith  he,  eying  me  askance.  I  marvel  I 
waxed  not  angry  at  such  persistent  re- 
turning upon  so  delicate  a  topic,  but  I 
found  myself  strangely  forbearing  even 
when  he  went  the  length,  which  he  pres- 
ently did,  of  plying  me  with  questions. 

"  Think  you  not  so  ? '"  quoth  he. 

"  I  have  never  yet  had  occasion  for 
such  a  thought,"  I  answered  discreetly. 


1884.] 


Penelope's  Suitors. 


775 


Then  sighed  he  again,  and  said  he 
knew  not  whether  to  deem  me  fortunate 
or  unhappy.  By  dint  of  turning  a  deaf 
ear  to  his  innuendoes  and  discoursing 
only  of  the  prospect  I  presently  gave 
him  a  hint  of  my  displeasure,  and  saved 
myself  from  further  tormenting.  Yet 
otherwise  must  I  in  fairness  confess 
he  was  most  duteous  and  concerned  for 
my  comfort ;  and  ended  by  climbing  the 
beacon  for  my  diversion,  vowing  he 
would  even  fire  the  pot  of  tar  at  my 
bidding,  at  the  risk  of  the  stocks  for 
himself.  He  hath  a  figure  full  of  grace 
and  a  countenance  hard  to  pick  a  flaw 
in,  all  of  which  I  find  more  apparent 
than  at  first. 

On  coming  home,  Madam  Saltonstall 
renewed  her  entreaty.  Mr.  Buckley, 
nothing  averse,  as  it  would  seem,  joined 
us  at  supper,  and  thereafter  stayed  for 
the  evening,  in  course  whereof  it  came 
out  that  I  am  in  thought  to  depart 
homewards  to-morrow,  if  brother  Her- 
bert come  to  town.  Thereupon  it  trans- 
pireth  "  most  opportunely,"  as  he  saith, 
that  Mr.  Buckley  goeth  himself  to 
Cambridge  to-morrow  upon  pressing  af- 
fairs of  business,  and  offereth  me  his 
company  upon  the  way,  if  so  happen 
brother  come  not.  Whiles  I  hesitate 
what  to  say  Madam  Saltonstall  chimeth 
in  again,  and  straightway  plucketh  from 
me  all  semblance  of  reasonable  excuse, 
till  there  is  no  decent  ground  for  nega- 
tion. 

Mo.  10,  16.  This  morning,  contrary 
to  our  expectations,  brother  Herbert 
duly  appeared,  and  thereupon  I  was 
thrown  into  a  most  strange  and  inconse- 
quent frame  of  mind.  There  was  (item) 
a  mixture  of  triumph  that  Mr.  Buckley 
should  for  once  be  thwarted,  and  (item) 
a  mixture  of  chagrin  —  very  odd,  to  be 
sure  —  that  I  am  to  lose  his  society.  But 
as  we  stood  leave-taking  at  the  door,  lo 
and  behold,  there  cometh  my  gallant 
along  the  street,  and  not  to  be  discoun- 
tenanced proposeth  himself  a  member 
of  our  party,  which  brother  Herbert  very 


graciously  accepteth.  Upon  the  road 
he  so  beguileth  the  time  by  arts  he  is 
well  skilled  in  that  brother  bid  him 
come  to  us  to  dine ;  and  thereafter,  a 
storm  threatening,  it  needeth  small  per- 
suasion to  decide  him  to  stay  the  night ; 
nor  yet  is  there  any  appearance  of  the 
weighty  matters  upon  which  he  came 
hither. 

Mo.  10,  17.  By  the  coming  in  of  a 
ship  yesterday  we  have  letters  from 
home.  Sister  Betty  talketh  of  coming 
hither  to  join  us.  Sister  Helena  con- 
demneth  herself  to  a  life  of  virginity  — 
needlessly,  methinks  —  by  reason  of  her 
black-pudding  arm.  There  is  yet  no  talk 
of  brother  Anthony  being  contracted  in 
marriage,  while  sister  Catherine  hath 
been  lately  brought  to  bed  with  a  fine 
boy.  These  news  awaited  us  coming 
home  from  an  excursion  which  hath  oc- 
cupied the  day.  Brother  Herbert  took 
us  to  visit  his  new  plantation  at  Sud- 
berry,  where  he  hath  a  house  already  set 
up.  Took  along  a  servant  with  a  hamper, 
containing  wherewithal  to  dine.  Cousin 
Walgrave  and  lady  of  the  party ;  like- 
wise Mr.  Buckley,  still  strangely  forget- 
ful of  the  momentous  affairs  which 
brought  him  hither.  No  one  hath  been 
of  such  cheerful  mien  nor  so  full  of 
quaint  and  careless  discourse  as  he  the 
livelong  day.  We  were  so  late  coming 
home  that  the  young  gentleman  scrupled 
not  to  lodge  with  us  again.  Thereto  I 
was  constrained  to  add  my  voice  to 
brother  William's,  as  it  seemed  not  fit 
he  should  make  the  journey  to  Boston 
alone,  with  the  night  coming  on. 

1640,  Mo.  3,  14.  Mr.  Buckley  hath 
been  twice  within  the  week  to  visit  us. 
I  marvel  he  findeth  it  worth  while  to 
come  so  far  for  the  fleeting  pleasure  of 
a  little  talk  ;  brother  and  I,  however,  dis- 
courage not  his  comings,  as  he  bringeth 
ever  news  of  the  latest  doings  in  town. 

Mo.  3,  18.  To-day,  after  the  lecture, 
came  Mr.  Increase  Nowell  and  lady  and 
Mr.  Bellingham,  the  worshipful  deputy, 
upon  brother's  invitation  to  dine  with 


776 


Penelopes  Suitors. 


[December, 


us.  I  was  dismayed  again  to  find  Mr. 
Bellingham  at  my  side,  with  the  obliga- 
tion upon  me  of  holding  converse  with 
him.  I  plucked  up  my  drooping  cour- 
age to  look  him  at  least  in  tlu  face, 
which  causeth  me  ever  a  sensation  I 
cannot  describe  ;  he  hath  eyes  so  dark, 
penetrating,  and  mournful.  I  studied 
him  askance  when  he  addressed  brother 
Herbert,  and  was  amazed  to  find  a  kind 
of  grand  beauty  to  his  countenance,  —  a 
nose,  a  mouth,  ay,  and  chin,  that  might 
well  have  been  chiseled  forth  from  mar- 
ble, so  fine,  so  massive,  they  are,  and 
withal  so  inflexible  ;  a  mien  of  power 
he  hath,  and  such  as  I  have  never  be- 
fore beheld.  I  recall  not  one  word  of 
all  that  was  said  ;  I  yielded  a  silly  assent 
to  every  question,  without  the  smallest 
heed  to  the  matter  thereof.  Despite  my 
craven  air  and  great  awkwardness,  Mr. 
Bellingham  bestowed  upon  me  the  most 
of  his  attention,  so  that  ere  the  repast 
was  over  I  had  somewhat  recovered  my 
assurance. 

Mo.  5,  10.  Twice  in  the  course  of 
the  past  week  hath  Mr.  Buckley  been 
here,  and  thus  by  degrees  brought  things 
to  such  a  point  of  intimacy  that  he  no 
longer  deemeth  it  worth  while  to  frame 
pretexts  for  coming. 

Mo.  7,  2.  Brother  hath  lately  built 
a  small  ketch  for  sailing  upon  the  river, 
and  yesterday  we  all  essayed  an  expedi- 
tion to  town  therein.  With  a  favoring 
wind  we  had  a  speedy  passage.  Cousin 
Walgrave  and  lady  met  us.  Mr.  Buckley 
took  upon  him  the  conduct  of  the  ketch, 
and  showed  great  dexterity.  Brother 
thinketh  to  make  it  of  much  use  in 
traffic  to  the  town.  Returning,  the  wind 
was  adverse,  and  we  were  several  hours 
beaten  hither  and  thither  by  the  waves, 
so  't  was  long  after  nightfall  when  we 
came  ashore.  Then  befell  an  accident, 
which,  albeit  not  at  all  tragical,  hath  yet 
given  me  much  food  for  reflection.  As 
brother  hath  not  yet  a  proper  landing, 
we  were  constrained  to  come  ashore 
near  some  large  stones,  by  which  we 


thought  to  step  dry-shod  to  land.  It  so 
chanced  that  in  the  dark  I  missed  my 
footing,  and  thinking  myself  about  to 
fall  uttered  a  cry  ;  whereupon  Mr.  Buck- 
ley, without  more  ado,  leaped  at  once 
into  the  water,  seized  me  tightly  in  his 
arms,  and  bore  me  safely  to  the  shore  ; 
exhibiting  such  great  solicitude  and  con- 
cern for  my  safety  as  I  was  not  prepared 
for.  Thereafter  he  left  not  my  side,  but 
made  me.  lean  upon  his  arm  as  we 
walked  through  the  dark  woods,  the 
others  following.  As  we  went  I  con- 
ceived it  meet  in  me  to  express  my 
gratitude  for  his  good  offices. 

<;  Thank  God,"  he  cried  with  emotion, 
"  that  no  harm  hath  befallen  you  ! " 

'•  Nay,"  I  returned,  "  my  silly  fright 
impelled  you  into  needless  peril." 

"  There  is  no  peril  I  would  not  en- 
counter for  your  sake.  Oh,  Mistress  Pel- 
liam,"  he  cried  ardently,  the  while  I 
trembled  lest  he  was  about  to  seize  me 
in  his  transport,  —  "  oh,  if  I  could  but 
in  some  way  prove  my  devotion  to 
you  ! " 

"  Surely,"  I  replied,  without  much  re- 
garding the  purport  of  my  words,  **  there 
needeth  no  stronger  proof  than  this  of 
to-night." 

"  Say  you  so  ?  "  he  exclaimed,  stopping 
suddenly  and  looking  down  upon  me 
through  the  gloom,  "  Oh,  that  I  dare 
think  myself  worthy  your  regard  ! ' 

"  Truly,"  I  made  answer  in  all  honesty, 
"  I  know  no  sufficient  cause  why  you 
are  not." 

"  Penelope,"  cried  he  then,  in  seeming 
ecstasy,  clutching  the  while  fast  hold  of 
my  hands,  "  may  I  —  do  you  mean  — 
Oh,  can  I  believe  that  you  love  me, 
then  ?  " 

"  Nay,"  I  began,  taken  all  aback  and 
seized  with  a  sudden  trembling,  "  I  can- 
not say.  It  "  — 

"  What !  what !  Speak  !  "  he  broke  in, 
with  the  greatest  vehemency. 

"  It  taketh  my  breath,"  I  gasped.  "  I 
must  have  time  to  think." 

The  others  here  suddenly  coming  up, 


Penelope's  Suitors.  777 

there  was  an  end  of  it.     How  we  came         BELOVED    MISTRESS    PENELOPE, 

home  I  know  not,  only  I  know  sleep  Thus  I  make  bold  to  call  you,  and 
visited  not  my  pillow  the  livelong  night  leave  the  future  to  disclose  my  warrant, 
thereafter.  I  could  not  by  any  means  I  was  grievously  disappointed  and  sore 
still  my  perturbed  nerves,  nor  calm  the  at  heart  indeed  not  to  find  you  y ester- 
beating  of  my  heart.  What  passed  be-  day  at  home.  I  waited  till  constrained 
tween  us  may  indeed  prove  to  me  of  to  return  by  some  pressing  affairs  of 
very  tragical  import.  Accordingly  have  state  Mr.  Bellingham  hath  confided  to 
I  examined  well  my  heart  upon  the  my  hands.  These  hold  me  even  now, 
matter,  and  find  there  without  doubt  else  should  I  be  at  your  side  wherever 
a  very  tender  consideration  for  this  you  may  be  found,  to  say  what  I  must 
young  man.  This  I  can  trace  in  some  here  poorly  set  forth  in  these  dumb 
small  measure  back  to  our  first  acquaint-  characters.  I  bitterly  reproach  myself 
ance,  but  since  he  spake  out  last  night  for  my  vehemency,  that  so  in  the  dark- 
it  hath  flamed  up  prodigiously.  Beyond  ness  and  the  forest  I  should  have  no 
a  doubt  this  must  be  love.  Then  if  it  more  forethought  but  to  terrify  you 
be,  my  content  will  depend  on  its  con-  with  the  suddenness  of  my  avowal.  I 
tiuuance.  But  what  said  I  to  him  ?  deeply  repent  I  had  not  chosen  some 
Not  a  word  of  hope.  Will  he  gather  more  fitting  scene  for  opening  my  heart 
discouragement  from  that,  and  forbear  to  you,  but  pray  you  to  excuse  what  was 
further  following  up  the  matter  ?  I  due  to  the  violence  of  my  emotions,  and 
tremble  to  think  of  such  a  possibility,  vouchsafe  now  to  listen  graciously  while 
Yet  can  I  not  in  maidenly  modesty  I  declare  how  the  feeble  language  I 
break  silence.  Whatever  construction  then  held  cometh  far  short  of  express- 
he  putteth  upon  it,  that  must  I  accept.  ing  the  depth  and  fervor  of  my  great 

Mo.  7,  3.  Yesterday  the  long  day  affection  for  you.  All  the  whole  world 
passed,  and  there  came  to  me  no  token,  is  now  naught  to  me  compared  with  one 
To-day  I  snatch  myself  away  from  these  little  object,  and  that  object  I  leave  you 
sharp  anxieties  and  biting  cares  of  sus-  to  divine.  Indeed,  I  know  not  what  a 
pense,  and  go  with  brother  to  Sudberry  barren  and  arid  waste  this  fair  earth 
on  matters  concerning  the  plantation,  would  be  to  me  without  you.  But  I 
Howbeit,  I  carry  with  me  a  grievous  will  not  yet  torment  myself  with  such 
load  which  will  not  be  left  at  home.  I  thoughts.  I  beseech  you  only  consider 
was  indeed  so  distraught  that  brother  what  anguish  and  wretchedness  and  de- 
rallied  me,  which  brought  me  a  little  to  spair  't  would  be  to  me  to  know  you  can- 
my  senses.  not  hearken  to  me.  Upon  advisement  I 

We  arrived  home  not  until  nightfall,  have  confided  my  passion  to  my  kins- 

and  great  was  my  chagrin  to  learn  that  man  Mr.  Bellingham  ;  he  so  commendeth 

Mr.  Buckley  had  been  here  and  waited  it  as  to  show  that  he  too  hath  taken 

long  for  my  coming;  seeming,  'tis  said,  note  of  the  many  excellences  of  your 

in  great  anxiety.  character.  Adieu !  I  shall  fly  to  you  with 

Mo.    7,    4.      To-day   a    serving-man  the  first  moment  of  freedom.     In   the 

brought   me    early  a   letter   from    Mr.  mean  time  neglect  not,  I  pray,  to  think 

Buckley ;  in  my  eagerness  I  snatch  it  of  me  and  prepare  your  heart  to  accord 

and  run  away  to  my  chamber,  without  a  me  a  gracious  word, 

thought  of  bounty  to  the  poor  Mercury,  May  God,  in   his  divine   surpassing 

who  doubtless  cursed  me  for  a  niggard,  mercy,  hold   you  harmless  and  incline 

Lest  any  mischance  ever  come  to  this  your  heart  to  favor 

precious  missive,  I  here  set  it  forth  in  Your  obedient  servant  nnd  eternallover, 

my  journal:—  EDWARD  BUCKLEY. 


778 


Penelope's  Suitors. 


[December, 


By  oft  conning  this  epistle  I  have  it 
learned  by  heart.  It  must  be  most  en- 
grossing affairs  of  state,  methinks,  that 
can  hold  one  so  fixedly  to  town.  'T  is 
true  the  deputy  is  called  a  stern  task- 
master, but  such  business  concerneth 
the  day,  and  I  mind  me  'twas  by  night 
Leander  swam  the  Hellespont. 

Mo.  9,  5.  Came  to  town  yesterday 
with  brother  John.  Dined  at  Madam 
Nowell's,  went  to  cousin  Saltonstall 
after ;  she  holdeth  me  for  a  visit.  John 
is  to  send  in  my  portmanteau.  Madam 
Hibbins  heareth  of  my  coming,  and 
hasteneth  this  morning  to  wait  upon  me  ; 
saith  Mr.  Buckley  is  gone  on  some  affairs 
of  state  to  Plymouth.  She  craveth  a 
visit  from  me.  I  think  it  jiot  seemly,  in 
view  of  the  late  passages  betwixt  the 
young  gentleman  and  me,  to  accept,  but 
appease  her  insistence  by  promising  to 
go  to-morrow  and  sup. 

Mo.  9,  6.  Madam  Hibbins  waiteth 
not  for  my  going,  but  cometh  betimes 
to  fetch  me.  Cousin  Saltonstall  excuseth 
herself.  Madam  saith  her  kinsman  is  not 
yet  returned.  I  am  content  he  should 
be  gone,  on  the  score  of  propriety ; 
but  having  cherished  a  sneaking  hope 
he  might  be  there,  go  not  now  witli 
much  zest  to  the  supper.  Arriving,  I 
was  greatly  put  out  of  countenance  to 
find  the  worshipful  deputy  seated  at  his 
ease  awaiting  us.  But  my  discomfiture 
was  as  nothing  to  that  of  madam,  who 
stood  staring  for  some  moments,  quite  at 
a  loss  for  words. 

"  I  expected  not  the  honor  of  your 
company  to-night,  brother,"  she  saith  at 
length,  with  some  asperity. 

Mr.  Bellingham,  mayhap  accustomed 
to  his  sister's  humors,  showed  no  sur- 
prise at  this  ungraciousness,  but  an- 
swered with  his  wonted  dignity,  "Nay, 
you  had  no  cause.  Buckley  is  not  yet 
returned.  I  like  not  to  eat  alone,  and  so 
made  bold  to  come  unbidden." 

"  I  would  I  had  received  some  warn- 
ing of  it,"  saith  his  sister,  with  brow 
still  lowering. 


"  I  trust,  at  least,  sister  Hibbins,  I  am 
not  unwelcome." 

"  I  do  not  grudge  you  meat  and  drink, 
as  you  know,  but  it  putteth  me  some- 
what about,"  quoth  madam,  with  un- 
changed front. 

"  It  needeth  not,  when  I  bid  you 
change  in  no  respect  the  ordering  of 
your  household  for  me." 

"  When  had  you  news  of  my  com- 
pany?'1 queried  madam,  whirling  sud- 
denly, and  fixing  the  worshipful  deputy 
with  her  keen,  snapping  eyes. 

"  Nay,"  replied  the  deputy,  not  at  all 
abashed,  "  I  knew  not  you  were  to  be 
honored  with  so  fair  a  visitor,  but  I 
deem  myself  doubly  fortunate  in  en- 
countering  Mistress  Pelham." 

Madam  Hibbins  said  no  more,  but 
withdrew  presently  about  her  household 
matters.  She  was  gone  but  two  or 
thiee  minutes,  when  she  returned  so  sud- 
denly as  to  make  me  start  in  my  seat. 
In  this  brfef  space  her  mood  had  wholly 
changed.  Now  she  was  all  smiles  and 
gayety,  all  graciousness  to  her  brother, 
drawing  him  aside  in  conversation,  to 
my  great  content.  Thus  I  had  leisure 
to  regard  him.  His  grand  looks  and 
majesty  of  bearing  cause  everything  else 
to  be  forgotten  where  he  cometh.  He 
seemeth  a  man  of  few  words,  with  a 
manner  of  saying  these  which  causeth 
them  to  be  remembered.  Never  %  any 
human  being  have  I  yet  encountered 
who  so  filled  the  imagination  that  naught 
can  be  recollected  after  but  his  words 
and  looks.  When  at  length  I  rose  to 
go  for  the  night  he  offered  to  attend  me, 
but  though  I  would  fain  have  gone  with 
a  servant  I  dared  not  deny  him.  On 
the  road  we  came  to  a  pool  of  foul 
water,  too  deep  for  my  pattens  :  without 
a  word  he  put  forth  his  arm  and  lifted 
me  over  as  I  had  been  a  child ;  and 
truly,  in  his  strong  grasp  I  felt  like  noth- 
ing more.  Happily  he  spake  not  of  his 
kinsman,  albeit  I  had  great  qualms  lest 
he  should. 

1641,  Mo.  4,  2.     To-day  came  off  the 


1884.] 


Penelope's  Suitors. 


779 


election,  and  to  the  surprise  of  many 
Mr.  Bellingham  is  made  governor.  I 
know  not  what  ground  there  should  be 
of  surprise ;  he  seemeth  a  man  most  fitted 
for  authority,  and  I  marvel  only  he  hath 
not  before  come  to  it.  Brother  saith  he 
lacketh  the  arts  to  ingratiate  the  multi- 
tude, which  is  easy  to  understand ;  and 
that,  moreover,  he  maintaineth  too  lofty 
a  bearing  upon  all  occasions  to  please 
suitors.  In  the  evening  came  Mr.  Buck- 
ley, who  was  ushered  quite  unawares 
into  the  room  where  we  all  sat.  His 
first  visit  since  the  letter.  He  seemed 
at  a  loss  for  speech,  and  stammered 
forth  I  know  not  what.  I  followed  suit, 
reddening  like  a  village  wench  ;  happily 
't  was  the  gloaming,  and  the  candles  not 
yet  brought  in.  The  poor  young  gen- 
tleman tried  divers  devices  of  getting 
speech  privately  with  me.  He  called 
me  forth  to  see  a  strange  star,  but  all 
the  family  came  trooping  after.  How- 
beit,  anon,  when  the  children  were  gone 
to  bed,  there  arose  some  disturbance 
among  the  cattle  at  the  barn,  and  broth- 
ers William  and  John  went  forth  to  in- 
quire the  cause.  Then  had  we  a  brief 
space  together.  Without  further  ado  he 
cast  himself  on  his  knees,  seized  upon 
my  hands,  and  though  I  implored  him 
to  rise,  lest  we  be  discovered,  he  was 
quite  reckless  of  "all  consequences.  He 
rehearsed  what  is  set  forth  in  the  letter 
above  with  much  more,  very  eloquently 
said.  I  listened  with  no  comfort,  how- 
ever, but  the  greatest  agitation,  lest  every 
moment  brothers  should  return ;  and  this 
my  perturbation  he  would  seem  to  have 
construed  into  disdain  of  his  suit,  and 
thus  continued  his  passionate  imploring 
that  I  should  not  be  so  cruel.  Truly,  I 
had  never  any  intention  to  say  him  nay, 
only  he  left  me  no  occasion  to  show 
him  my  mind  ;  and  thus  it  happed  broth- 
ers' footsteps  were  heard  at  the  door 
before  I  had  ever  a  chance  to  assure 
him  what  good  cause  he  hath  for  hope. 

Mo.  4,  6.    There  cometh  to-day  news 
that  Mr.  Buckley  is  ill,  and  cannot  go 


forth.  I  felt  some  pangs  of  conscience, 
and  straightway  sat  me  down  and  writ 
a  letter,  giving  assurance  of  my  sympa- 
thy and  remembrance. 

Mo.  4,  8.  More  news  from  Mr.  Buck- 
ley :  he  is  thought  worse,  and  there  be 
fears  he  will  not  escape  a  fever.  I  am 
grievously  anxious,  and  have  writ  sev- 
eral letters  advising  him  of  my  great 
concern.  I  sent  him  the  former  time  a 
nosegay  of  wall-flowers,  and  to-day  some 
jelly  of  apricocks. 

Mo.  4,  10.  Madam  Hibbins  hath  writ 
me  a  kind  letter,  giving  tidings  of  her 
kinsman,  who  is  thought  to  be  mending. 
She  is  nurse,  as  it  seems.  She  saith  he 
would  be  talking  of  me  constantly,  and 
would  have  letters  writ  every  half  hour. 
I  returned  by  the  hand  of  the  messenger 
some  knots  of  English  lavender  and  a 
comfiture  of  rose  leaves  sent  me  out  of 
England  by  sister  Catherine. 

Mo.  4,  12.  A  strange  occurrence. 
To-day,  while  brothers  were  both  at 
Sudberry,  I  was  surprised  by  a  visit 
from  the  governor. 

"  Brother  is  away,"  I  murmured  faint- 


"  'T  is  well,"  he  replied.  "  I  came 
not  to  see  your  brother  ;  I  came  to  see 
you,  Mistress  Pel  ham." 

I  was  greatly  abashed,  and  as  helpless 
in  speech  as  ever.  That  the  first  magis- 
trate of  the  colony,  and  such  a  person- 
age as  Mr.  Bellingham  withal,  should 

O  O 

leave  affairs  of  state  to  visit  in  person 
a  simple  maiden  was  indeed  enough  to 
paralyze  my  faculties.  For  some  space 
I  was  dumb,  but  anon  bethought  me 
happily  to  ask  for  his  kinsman.  He  said 
his  cousin  had  sent  me  a  message,  to 
wit  :  that  he  yearned  to  speak  with  me, 
and  hoped  soon  to  gain  strength  to  come 
hither.  I  noted  the  governor  regarded 
me  keenly,  as  he  would  read  my  thoughts, 
whenever  I  spake  of  his  kinsman.  We 
discoursed  of  divers  indifferent  matters 
for  a  space,  when  on  a  sudden  he  turn- 
eth,  arid,  transfixing  me  with  those  deep, 
piercing  eyes,  said,  —  "  Mr.  Buckley 


780 


Penelope's  Suitors. 


[December, 


seemeth  greatly  enamored  of  you,  Mis- 
tress Pelham." 

'T  is  a  marvel  I  did  not  redden  and 
cast  down  my  eyes  and  play  the  fool  as 
heretofore,  but  to  my  much  comfort  I 
answered  with  dignity,  — 

"  Yes  ;  he  hath  told  me  so." 

Hereupon  there  was  so  long  a  pause 
I  presently  uplifted  my  eyes,  and  found 
the  governor  gazing  at  me  as  he  would 
read  my  soul. 

"  Love  you  him,  then,  in  equal  de- 
gree ?  "  queried  he,  staring  as  before. 

"  Nay,  Mr.  Buckley  hath  not  yet  ex- 
amined me  as  to  that  point,  and  till  he 
doth  I  must  be  pardoned  for  keeping 
my  own  counsel,"  I  replied,  with  a  spirit 
which  now  I  marvel  at. 

"  Answer  me  yet  one  question,"  pur- 
sued the  governor,  unheeding  my  man- 
ner. "  How  long  hatli  my  cousin  sought 
your  society  ?  * 

"  For  the  matter  of  a  year,  or  there- 
about." 

"  And  in  that  time  hath  seen  much  of 
you,  no  doubt,"  he  said,  as  speaking  to 
himself. 

I  answered  not,  and  he  presently  rose. 
I  courtesied,  supposing  him  about  to  de- 
part. But  he  suddenly  took  my  hand, 
and  said,  looking  the  while  into  my  eyes 
in  a  way  I  cannot  describe,  "  Penelope, 
my  child,  I  pray  you  may  be  happy  ; ' 
then,  gazing  long  in  silence,  while  he 
held  my  hand  with  a  grasp  that  gave 
me  pain,  he  finished  in  a  thrilling  tone  : 
"  Make  no  mistake  ;  think  well  ere  you 
conclude  this  matter.  It  toucheth  your 
happiness  for  life." 

His  visit  hath  left  me  in  a  tumult.  I 
know  not  what  to  think  of  his  mysteri- 
ous warning,  his  strange  demeanor,  his 
burning  eyes,  his  tender  accents,  and  the 
dread  grasp  in  which  he  held  my  hand. 

Mo.  5,  6.  Yesterday,  at  Madam  Hib- 
bins'  urgent  bidding,  I  went  to  town,  al- 
beit with  extreme  reluctance,  to  wait 
upon  her  at  the  governor's  house,  where 
Mr.  Buckley  is  now  well-nigh  recovered, 
and  demandeth  to  see  me.  'T  is  a  fine 


house,  on  a  hillside ;  a  noble  hall  of  en- 
trance, with  a  window  at  the  bottom 
thereof,  looking  upon  the  garden  rising 
in  terraces  behind,  and  filled  with  a 
goodly  store  of  fruit  and  flowers.  I  ar- 
rived betimes.  Madam  came  straight- 
way to  embrace  me ;  said  her  cousin 
awaited  me  ;  led  me  presently  upstairs 
to  a  large  chamber,  where  I  found  him 
dressed,  sitting  in  a  sick-chair,  with  a 
pitiable  aspect,  his  countenance  both  pale 
and  meagre.  He  smiled  at  my  approach, 
and  held  out  his  hand,  much  pleased,  as 
it  seemed,  at  my  coming.  I  presently 
brought  forth  a  little  offering  of  home- 
made cates,  and  he  thanked  me  heartily. 
I  was  moved  with  pity  at  his  appear- 
ance, and  would  fain  have  embraced  him ; 
but  he  made  no  offer  thereto,  though 
madam  had  discreetly  withdrawn  to  the 
window,  and  made  pretense  of  looking 
out. 

After  some  interchange  of  queries, 
there  seeming  little  purpose  to  the  visit, 
I  expressed  again  my  good  wishes,  and 
withdrew.  Truly,  I  hope  my  coming 
hath  afforded  him  comfort,  the  rather 
that  it  hath  given  me  a  nameless  pain. 
Going  out,  I  encountered  the  worshipful 
governor  in  the  doorway.  He  saluted 
me  with  great  respect,  and  paused  to 
speak.  Hardly  had  we  exchanged  greet- 
ings, however,  when  Madam  Hibbins 
came  flying  down  the  stairway,  with  a 
countenance  of  wrath,  which  most  singu- 
larly changed  to  a  smiling  aspect  as  she 
came  along  the  hall  and  in  between  us 
like  a  flash  of  light.  She  sweepeth  me 
like  a  feather  down  upon  the  outer  step, 
and  under  pretext  of  some  parting  mes- 
sage from  her  cousin  poureth  into  my 
ear  a  hot  torrent  of  incoherency,  whereat 
I  well-nigh  gasped.  Then  presently  she 
brake  forth  again  into  smiles,  and  be- 
stowed some  cheerful  words  of  pleas- 
antry upon  her  brother  and  me.  The 
governor  gave  no  sign  of  heeding  her, 
but  demanded  of  me  gravely  whether  I 
had  in  mind  to  repair  straightway  to 
Cambridge.  I  replied  I  purposed  lodg- 


1884.] 


Penelope  s  Suitors. 


781 


ing  with  cousin  Saltonstall  for  the  night, 
which  I  noted  caused  Madam  Hibbins 
again  to  bite  her  lip. 

Presently  after  supper  came  the  gov- 
ernor to  wait  upon  me  at  cousin  Salton- 
stall's.  I  was  abashed,  as  before  ;  how- 
beit,  much  to  my  comfort,  he  had  no 
occasion  for  private  speech  with  me. 
On  his  departure,  cousin  failed  not  to 
bestow  upon  me  many  quiz/ical  looks, 
saying,  "  Doth  the  worshipful  governor 
come  often  to  visit  you,  cousin  Penel- 
ope ?  'T  is  long,  indeed,  since  he  hath 
honored  our  poor  house  with  a  visit." 

"  I  have  seen  him  on  occasion  at 
brother  William's,"  I  replied. 

"  Mayhap  't  is  in  honor  of  cousin 
William  he  cometh,  then,"  she  said, 
meaning,  as  I  well  knew,  to  rally  me. 

"  Truly,  I  cannot  divine,"  I  made  an- 
swer, somewhat  peevishly,  whereupon 
she  forbore. 

Betimes  in  the  morning  came  one  of 
Mr.  Bellingham's  serving-men  with  a 
fine  basket  of  fruit  and  his  duty  to  Mis- 
tress Pelham.  I  bestowed  the  fruit 
upon  cousin  Saltonstall  to  stop  her 
mouth,  and  by  summoning  up  a  grave 
aspect  checked  her  raillery.  Directly 
thereafter  set  forth  for  home. 

Mo.  5,  20.  To-day  brother  went  alone 
to  lecture,  and  came  bringing  home  to 
dinner  Mr.  Nowell  and  lady  and  the 
governor,  whose  coming  hither  so  soon 
after  my  visit  to  town  seemed  of  intent, 
and  wrought  a  strange  effect  in  me. 
An  impulse  of  audacity  seized  and  car- 
ried me  away.  At  table  I  talked  with- 
out stay.  I  laughed  immoderately  and 
without  cause.  Brother  looked  amazed, 
and  little  knew  I  was  all  the  time  on 
the  point  of  blubbering.  When  dinner 
was  over  Mr.  Bellinjjham  found  occa- 

O 

sion  to  speak  apart  with  me. 

"  I  bring  news  of  my  cousin,"  quoth 
he. 

"  I  would  fain  hear,  if  they  be  good 
news,"  I  said. 

"  He  findeth  himself  of  better  cheer, 
and  sendeth  his  duty  to  you." 


There  was  a  pause,  which  I  knew  not 
how  to  fill.  Mr.  Bellingham  anon  brake 
silence  himself. 

"  I  suppose,"  he  said,  regarding  me 
with  most  intent  look,  "  as  soon  as  he 
cometh  to  his  feet  it  will  be  published." 

"  What  will  be  published  ?  " 

"  That  you  are  contracted  to  each 
other." 

"  Nay,  but  we  are  not  contracted,"  I 
made  answer,  with  much  pride. 

"  I  pray  God,  then,  you  never  may 
be  !  "  brake  he  forth  in  a  sudden  trans- 
port, the  while  his  voice  shook  as  I  be- 
lieved nothing  could  have  made  it.  "  Pe- 
nelope, Penelope,  my  darling,  my  sweet 
child,  stay  !  bethink  you  !  Carry  it  no 
further  !  There  is  one  loves  you,  adores 
you,  craves  you,  with  a  passion  yonder 
sick  boy  hath  no  capacity  of ! ' 

All  this,  like  the  outpouring  of  a  vol- 
cano, with  such  a  mighty  torrent  of 
emotion  and  such  a  wondrous  change 
of  countenance  as  I  never  beheld  in  any 
man.  Anon,  before  I  saw  his  intent,  he 
snatcheth  me  up  like  a  straw  or  feather, 
claspeth  me  to  his  bosom,  toucheth  my 
lips  with  a  kiss  like  scorching  fire,  and 
was  away  as  the  passing  of  a  tempest. 

I  sat  scarce  alive.  The  vast  throbs  of 
my  heart  brake  upon  my  ear  with  awful 
clamor.  I  was  giddy.  The  floor  up- 
lifted beneath  my  feet.  I  rose  anon 
and  sought  my  chamber,  reeling  like 
one  in  liquor.  My  hands  and  feet,  me- 
thought,  were  lumps  of  ice,  my  head 
was  a  coal  of  fire,  and  so  have  they  ever 
since  remained.  I  am,  indeed,  like  one 
bereft  of  wits.  I  heed  not  what  passeth, 
eat  nothing,  answer  at  random,  and  so 
neglect  every  reasonable  pursuit  that 
brother  hath  drawn  me  apart  in  great 
concern  to  inquire  into  my  state,  and 
would  fain  fetch  the  doctor  but  for  my 
strenuous  denial. 

Mo.  5,  23.  Three  days  are  overpast, 
yet  't  is  all  in  vain  I  strive  to  bring  any 
cool  judgment  to  bear  upon  my  state. 
In  vain  I  try  to  pray.  I  know  not  for 
what  I  should  pray,  nor  how  I  should 


782 


Penelope's  Suitors. 


[December, 


feel,  nor  how,  again,  I  should  act.  Me- 
thinks  I  have  been  hitherto  living  in  a 
dream,  and  am  but  now  awaked  to  a 
reality,  which  yet  is  too  large  and  mo- 
mentous, too  full  of  mighty  raptures 
and  pains,  for  my  weak  being.  Anon 
cometh  a  dread  feeling  of  guilt,  as  of 
having  entered  upon  some  pathway  of 
crime  which  leadeth,  yet  strangely,  to  a 
blissful  state  beyond,  whither  fate  driveth 
me  ever  on.  Alas,  my  conscience  is  con- 
founded, and  serveth  me  no  longer  at 
need.  I  dare  not,  though  sore  tempted, 
take  counsel  of  my  teacher  in  a  matter 
concerning  one  of  such  rank,  and  so 
stand  darkling  and  amazed. 

Mo.  5,  25.  A  letter  cometh  from 
Mr.  Buckley.  He  hath  been  thrice  al- 
ready to  take  the  air.  Hopeth  soon  to 
attempt  the  journey  hither.  Rehearseth 
his  affection,  bespeaketh  my  fidelity. 
Truly,  I  am  cast  into  a  most  strange  and 
woful  perplexity.  I  would  reason  of 
this  matter,  but  find  no  clear  or  safe 
ground.  This  letter  cometh  to  me  like 
a  message  out  of  the  past,  as  it  were, 
long  left  behind.  Yet  hath  it  aroused 
within  a  voice  that  crieth  ever,  "  Art 
thou  not  in  honor  contracted  to  him  that 
writ  it  ?  What  though  not  in  deed 
and  word,  yet  in  fair  dealing  and  iutend- 
ment  ?  " 

Mo.  5,  30.  The  governor  cometh  to 
Cambridge  on  some  matter  of  the  col- 
lege, and  is  brought  by  brother  hither 
to  dine.  I  fly  to  my  chamber,  and  come 
not  down  to  table,  quaking  with  terror 
lest  I  be  summoned.  Brother  excuseth 
me  on  the  score  of  my  late  illness.  Mr. 
Bellingham  seemed  concerned,  't  is  said, 
and  made  many  inquiries. 

Mo.  5,  31.  To-day  came  Madam  Hib- 
bins,  quite  unlooked  for,  who  hath  em- 
braced me  I  know  not  how  many  times, 
and  smiled  so  continuously  that  I  have 
never  known  her  so  gracious.  She  dis- 
coursed most  eloquently  of  Mr.  Buck- 
ley and  the  desperate  degree  of  his  af- 
fection for  me  ;  extolled  his  family,  his 
character  and  person ;  proffered  me  open- 


ly congratulations :  and  all  in  so  voluble 
a  tone  that  I  could  not  once  break  in  to 
set  her  right.  When  at  last  I  had  occa- 
sion and  would  declare  the  truth,  she 
hastened,  by  smiles  and  winks  and  nods, 
to  silence  me,  and  would  nothing  but 
that  it  is  an  affair  concluded  betwixt  her 
cousin  and  me.  Suddenly  she  artfully 
brake  off  in  the  midst  of  some  harangue, 
demanding  if  we  had  her  brother  to  dine 
with  us  yesterday.  Taken  so  unawares 
I  reddened  ere  I  could  frame  a  reply, 
which  was  the  proof  she  would  put  me 
to,  and  presently  went  on  to  discourse 
of  her  brother  in  no  very  flattering  vein, 
to  the  effect  that  he  hath  of  late  waxed 
stern  and  morose,  beyond  all  bearing ; 
is  quite  given  over  to  worldly  ambition  ; 
thinketh  only  of  himself,  and  is  of  no  fit 
society  for  anybody  ;  that,  moreover,  he 
is  much  older  than  he  seemeth,  and,  in 
fact,  in  his  very  dotage ;  that  he  is  fickle 
and  heartless,  and  meaneth  nothing  by 
his  fair  speeches  ;  that  he  hath  already 
addressed  himself  to  several  dames  of 
character  and  respectability  in  the  town, 
raising  in  them  fair  hopes  only  to  be 
crushed  and  defeated  :  all  this  with  some 
show  of  commendation  that  naught  may 
be  set  down  to  malice.  This  recounted 
she  flieth  away,  after  more  smiles  and 
embraces,  before  I  could  so  much  as 
utter  a  protest.  In  truth,  it  needeth  a 
nimble  wit  to  follow  madam,  who  hath 
ever  the  air  of  pursuing  some  hidden 
purpose,  and  whose  words  are  designed 
as  oft  to  cloak  as  to  disclose  her  mean- 


ing. 


Mo.  6,  5.  Alas,  it  would  seem  I  am 
foredoomed  to  live  in  the  midst  of  trag- 
edy. I  know  not  what  is  left  that  cau 
befall  me.  What  folio weth  here  must 
be  as  the  recounting  of  a  dream,  albeit 
every  smallest  event  is  branded  forever 
upon  my  memory.  'T  was  yesterday, 
though  seeming  ages  ago.  I  had  re- 
paired to  the  arbor  at  the  bottom  of  the 
garden,  there  to  be  alone.  Anon,  as  I 
sat,  there  is  a  noise  upon  the  gravel.  I 
look  up  and  behold  Mr.  Bellingham  only 


1884.] 


Penelope  s  Suitors. 


783 


a  short  distance  from  me.  I  would  fain 
fly  ;  there  is  no  way  of  escape.  I  sink 
back  and  wait,  my  heart  in  my  mouth. 
He  cometh  presently  and  seateth  him- 
self at  my  side.  I  speak  not,  nor  raise 
my  eyes.  Truly,  I  seem  bereft  of  all 
power  of  locomotion. 

"  Penelope  !  "  saith  he,  after  a  pause. 

I  answer  not. 

"  Penelope,  my  darling  ! ': 

I  essay  to  speak.  I  fain  would  pro- 
nounce a  word  of  entreaty,  but  in  vain. 

He  pauseth  a  moment ;  anon  he  put- 
teth  forth  his  hand  and  gently  uplifteth 
my  head  till  he  can  look  into  my  eyes. 
Then  straightway  I  burst  into  violent 
weeping.  He  taketh  my  hands  and 
would  soothe  me. 

"  Nay,  nay,"  I  cried,  starting  to  my 
feet  and  stopping  my  ears,  "  I  may  not 
hearken  to  you !  I  am  contracted  to 
another." 

"  Said  you  not  "  — 

"  Ay,  ay  !  "  cried  I,  sobbing  bitterly  ; 
"albeit  I  spake  not  the  words,  yet  am  I 
contracted  in  honor.  He  believe th  in 
me  ;  't  is  sin  to  deceive  him.  Oh,  go ! 
go  !  I  may  not  hearken  to  you  ! " 

"Ay,  but  you  must,  you  shall,  hearken 
to  me !  "  cried  he,  clasping  me  in  his  arms 
with  a  terrible  vehemency.  "  Since  you 
made  no  promise  you  are  not  contracted. 
Honor  is  not  in  question.  You  are 
mine.  God  hath  sent  you  to  me.  Yon- 
der silly  boy  will  outgrow  his  fancy ; 
't  is  but  a  fever  of  his  blood.  You  were 
foreordained  for  me.  Since  I  beheld  you 
I  have  thought  of  naught  else.  My 
peace  is  at  stake.  You  shall  not  go 
from  me.  You  are  my  happiness,  my 
life,  my  all.  Penelope,  child,  dearest, 
look  up  into  my  eyes,  nay,  closer,  nearer, 
—  now  speak  !  Say  you  are  mine  ! " 

God  he  knoweth  I  had  no  power  to 
say  aught  else.  Be  it  sin  or  no,  I  know 
not.  I  looked  into  his  eyes.  I  heard 
his  voice,  and  straightway  my  heart  was 
filled  with  a  thrilling  ecstasy,  such  as  it 
hath  never  known  the  like  before.  All 
care  for  any  earthly  creature  beside  wag 


lost  or  forgotten,  and  anon  as  I  lay  at 
rest  upon  his  bosom  a  strange  surpassing 
peace  fell  upon  me.  Yet  in  the  very 
fullness  of  my  joy  was  I  doomed  to  pay 
its  bitter  price.  A  figure  darkened  the 
doorway  of  the  arbor.  All  unawares  1 
looked  up,  and  cried  aloud.  'T  was 
Buckley,  come  from  town,  all  pale  and 
wan,  stood  gazing  down  upon  me  with 
dumb  reproach.  I  know  not  what  came 
after.  My  wits  gave  way  straightway  ? 
I  swooned.  When  I  revived  Richard 
alone  was  there,  chafing  my  hands  and 
kissing  my  cold  lips.  Methought  I 
awoke  then  to  a  new  world,  wherein  he 
was  sole  sovereign  and  ruler.  Surely 
he  was,  and  ever  henceforth  will  be,  sov- 
ereign and  ruler  of  my  heart  and  life. 
Presently  he  raised  me  tenderly  in  his 
arms  and  bare  me  to  the  house.  Before 
the  door,  upon  horseback,  sat  Buckley, 
with  Madam  Hibbins  on  a  pillion.  I 
turned  away  my  head.  Madam,  in  a 
fury,  springeth  from  the  horse  and  bar- 
reth  our  way.  Never  beheld  I  a  counte- 
nance so  terrible  with  passion.  Bitterly 
she  upbraided  us  twain  with  unchose 
epithets  of  scorn,  spake  of  dishonor  and 
discredit  Richard  hath  brought  upon  his 
high  office,  threatened  to  discover  all  to 
the  elders  and  publish  it  to  the  church, 
and  what  else  I  know  not.  I  cowered 
before  the  blast,  but  Richard  sternly 
bade  her  hold  her  peace  and  begone,  and 
when  she  heeded  not  swept  her  from  the 
way,  and  placed  me  at  shelter  within. 
Before  he  went  he  bade  me  not  to  fear; 
that  he  would  find  a  way  to  establish 
my  peace.  He  hath  kept  his  word. 
To-day  came  he  again,  bringing  from 
Buckley  this  declaration  of  dismissal :  — 

MISTRESS  PELHAM, —  My  worship- 
ful kinsman  hath  been  at  the  pains,  in 
your  behalf  and  his  own,  to  bestow  upon 
me  some  explanation  of  the  strange 
spectacle  I  yesterday  beheld  in  your 
garden.  He  saith,  in  brief,  upon  exam- 
ination of  your  heart,  you  find  it  not 
inclined  to  m«  as  YOU  had  made  me  be- 


784 


Two  Harvests. 


[December, 


lieve,  but  wholly  knit  to  him.  What 
hath  wrought  this  sudden  and  marvelous 
conversion  he  vouchsafed  not  to  disclose, 
and  't  is  indeed  bootless  to  inquire.  If 
it  be  true,  as  from  the  evidence  of  my 
own  eyes  I  can  make  no  doubt,  then 
shall  I  not  esteem  so  lightly  my  own 
self-respect,  nor  the  fervency  of  my  true 


passion,  as  to  persist  in  any  further 
claim  upon  you  ;  nor  shall  I  needless- 
ly waste  your  time  nor  squander  my 
feeble  energies  in  preferring  vain  re- 
proaches. It  remaineth,  then,  only  that 
I  subscribe  myself,  dear  madam, 

Your  very  obedient  humble  servant. 

EDWARD  BUCKLEY. 
Edwin  Lassetter  Bynner. 


TWO  HARVESTS. 

i. 

BLOSSOM  and  fruit  no  man  could  count  or  hoard; 
Seasons,  their  laws  forgot,  in  riot  haste 
Lavishing  yield  on  yield  in  madman's  waste  ; 
No  tropic,  with  its  centuries'  heat  outpoured 
In  centuries  of  summers,  ever  stored 
Such  harvest. 

Had  the  earth  her  sole  pearl  placed 
In  wine  of  sun  to  melt,  —  one  blissful  taste 
To  drain  her  dead,  —  it  had  not  fuller  dowered 
This  harvest ! 

She  who  smiling  goes,  a  queen, 
Reaping  with  alabaster  arms  and  hands 
The  fruits  and  flowers  of  these  magic  lands, 
With  idle,  satiate  intervals  between,  — 
Oh,  what  to  her  do  laws  of  harvest  mean  ? 
Joy  passes  by  her,  where  she  laden  stands ! 

ii. 

A  parched  and  arid  land,  all  colorless, 

Than  desert  drearier,  than  rock  more  stern, 

Spring  could  not  find,  nor  any  summer  learn 

The  secret  to  redeem  this  wilderness. 

Harsh  winds  sweep  through  with  icy  storm  and  stress, 

Fierce,  lurid  suns  shine  but  to  blight  and  burn, 

And  streams  rise,  pallid,  but  to  flee  and  turn  : 

Who  soweth  here  waits  miracle  to  bless 

The  harvest ! 

She  who  smiling  goes,  a  quee~, 
Seeking  with  hidden  tears  and  tireless  hands, 
To  win  a  fruitage  from  these  barren  lands,  — 
She  knoweth  what  the  laws  of  harvest  mean ! 
Blades  spring,  flowers  bloom,  by  all  but  her  unseen; 
Joy's  halo  crowns  her,  where  she  patient  stands ! 

Helen  Jackson. 


1884.]  The  Lakes  of  Upper  Italy.  785 


THE   LAKES   OF  UPPER  ITALY. 

IV.  down  the  roads  on  the  hillsides.     Some 

of  our  party  went  into  Bellagio  and  re- 

THERE  is  an  education  needed  for  the  ported  it  full  of  old  soldiers  with  med- 
appreciation  of  nature  as  well  as  of  art.  als  and  shabby  uniforms,  and  of  villagers 
Many  people  scorn  this  notion,  and  as  and  peasants  from  the  neighborhood,  but 
there  undoubtedly  are  some  with  so  fine  that  there  are  no  costumes  to  be  seen, 
an  innate  perception  and  discrimination  The  church-bells  in  these  Italian  coun- 
of  the  beautiful  that  they  instinctively  try  towns  do  not  chime,  but  keep  up  an 
recognize  it,  anybody  may  believe  him-  unmeaning  chatter  of  a  few  notes,  re- 
self  to  be  one  of  those  chosen  few.  But  peating  them  over  and  over  as  if  they 
the  rest  of  us  know  that  without  the  were  counting  their  beads.  Towards 
native  gift,  which  nothing  can  wholly  midnight  the  weather  changed ;  I  could 
replace,  the  eye  and  taste  require  expe-  not  have  believed  the  lake  could  look 
rience  and  training  to  comprehend  and  so  threatening ;  the  water  of  the  two 
analyze  the  beauties  of  the  outer  world,  bays  was  like  blackened  steel,  the  near- 
There  was  a  time  when  I  resented  as  er  mountains  were  ink-black,  the  further 
hotly  as  most  other  Americans  the  idea  ones  being  hidden  by  heavy  white  clouds 
that  any  scenery  could  surpass  our  own  ;  and  ghostly  mists.  The  very  sky  was 
I  knew  that  the  Alps  were  higher  than  black,  torn  here  and  there  into  rifts  that 
the  Alleghanies,  but,  beyond  that,  I  let  through  a  pale,  troubled  light  upon 
thought  that  where  there  are  mountains,  the  stormy  scene ;  distant  lightning 
valleys,  a  lake,  a  waterfall,  there  must  of  glared  among  the  clouds  every  few  min- 
necessity  be  a  view  of  the  utmost  beauty,  utes  and  the  thunder  rolled  from  moun- 
without  regard  to  degree.  It  would  be  tain  to  mountain. 

as  rational  to  maintain  that  a  human  be-  "  August  16.  A  stormy  morning; 
ing  is  necessarily  beautiful  because  pos-  not  much  thunder,  but  high  wind  and 
sessed  of  eyes,  nose,  mouth,  and  chin ;  heavy  rain.  The  lake  is  slate  color  and 
almost  everything  depends  upon  the  out-  covered  with  vicious  little  white  caps 
line  and  the  relative  proportion  and  dis-  that  spit  and  sputter  and  dash  against 
position  of  the  features.  The  Italian  the  shore,  flying  off  in  spray.  The  land- 
landscape  has  a  classic  form  and  profile ;  scape  is  metamorphosed  ;  its  warm  col- 
its  glowing  complexion  is  due  to  the  light,  ors  have  given  place  to  a  prevailing 
—  that  heavenly  effulgence  which  can  light  green,  the  cypresses  are  dull  rath- 
transfigure  any  scene.  It  is  surprising  er  than  dark,  the  wind-swept  olives  are 
what  changes  are  wrought  by  a  dark  or  gray,  the  hillsides  hoary.  Yet  they  look 
rainy  day,  or  even  by  the  shifting  of  the  as  soft  as  ever,  as  soft  as  the  fields  un- 
wind. As  summer  waned  we  found  that  der  a  warm  April  rain  at  home, 
the  Lake  of  Como  does  not  always  show  "  August  21.  A  fine,  bright  day, 
a  radiant  visage.  with  a  hot  sun  and  stiff  breeze.  Took 

"  Villa  Serbelloni.     August  15, 1883.  the  first  steamboat  to  the  upper  end  of 

This  is  the  festa  of  the  Assumption  of  the  lake,  which  I  had  not  yet  seen.   The 

the  Virgin ;  and  all  day  long  there  has  water  through  which  we  drove  our  way 

been  the    greatest  row  of   brass-bands,  was    a   delicate    shade   of   aquamarine, 

singing,  shouting,  firing  of  cannon  and  melting  into   ultramarine   blue  further 

clanging  of  bells  down  in  the  town,  and  off.  As  we  advanced,  the  familiar  moun- 

a  straggling  military  procession  up  and  tains  on  either  side    took  new  shapes, 

vox,.  LIV.  —  NO.  326.  50 


786                                  The  Lakes  of  Upper  Italy.                     [December, 

different   groups    were   formed,   gorges  peace  with  the  Duke  of  Milan,  the  great 

opened  into  their  recesses  traced  by  the  Sforza,  abandoned  the  castle  of  Musso, 

white  thread  of  a  waterfall,  pe'aks  and  which  was  demolished,  and  passed  into 

crests  hitherto  unseen  appear  and  look  the  service  of  the  Emperor  Charles  V. ; 

over  into   the   lake.     The  post-road  to  but  he  remained  to  the  last  a  type  of  the 

the  Stelvio  Pass,  a  great  military  work,  ferocious,    unscrupulous    condottiere   of 

makes  the  eastern  margin  a  succession  the  Renaissance.     There  is  a  fine  monu- 

of  sunny  galleries   and  cavernous   tun-  ment  to  him  and  his  brother  Gabriele,  in 

nels.     The  shores  constantly  bend  into  the  cathedral  of  Milan.     On  the  crags 

capes  and  headlands  inclosing  little  bays,  above  Musso  there  are  some  dilapidated 

each  having  its  own  town  with  a  mu-  battlements,  only  to  be  reached  by  a  nar- 

sical,  sonorous  appellation,  generally  as-  row  path  intersected  by  numerous  deep 

sociated  with   some   historical  name  or  ravines    crossed   by    high-arched    foot- 

with  one  dear  to  letters.     They  all  pre-  bridges,  easily  defended   or   destroyed, 

sent  the  same  features :  white,  pink,  and  the    last   vestiges    of   the    Medeghiui's 

buff  houses,  with  archways  below  and  stronghold. 

balconies  above,  in  irregular  tiers,  inter-  "  A  terrible  amount  of  blood  has  been 
spersed  with  long  villa  fronts  and  walls  spilled  into  these  laughing  ripples  ;  for 
holding  masses  of  dark  polished  verdure,  ages  there  were  incessant  encounters  on 
golden  fruit  and  prismatic  bloom,  like  the  unstable  battle-field,  in  which  the 
huge  flower-baskets,  the  gray,  Lombard  Swiss,  Spaniards,  French,  Germans,  and 
church-tower  crowning  the  whole  ;  many  Italians  fought  for  supremacy  or  liberty, 
of  these  last  have  been  disfigured  by  They  were  worse  centuries  for  the 
walling  up  the  graceful,  columned  win-  wretched  inhabitants  of  the  shore  than 
dows  and  piercing  loop-holes.  Most  of  the  days  of  the  Goths  and  Vandals.  As 
the  towns  are  old,  dating  from  the  times  grew  milder,  the  villages  crept 
twelfth  century  or  earlier,  and  the  more  down  nearer  to  the  water,  until  now 
ancient  part  of  them  is  the  more  remote  the  most  important  portion  is  on  the 
from  the  water  under  the  wing  of  the  wharves,  where  palaces  amid  the  gar- 
castle,  which  is  to  be  seen  in  ruins  on  dens  of  Armida  serve  as  suburbs  to  an 
the  first  high  ground.  Each  paese  had  arcaded  street  of  fruit-stalls  and  small 
its  feudal  lord,  who  was  habitually  at  shops  of  bright  wares,  and  a  broad, 
war  with  his  next  neighbors  ;  sometimes  sunny  promenade  edged  by  a  double 
the  entire  lake  was  in  terror  of  one  ty-  row  of  clipped  locust  trees,  a  line  of 
rant  like  Gian  Giacomo  Medici  or  Me-  boats  like  floating  tents  drawn  up  at  its 
deghini,  the  castellan  of  Musso  in  the  base.  Near  some  of  them  there  is  a 
sixteenth  century.  His  family  was  ob-  beach  or  spit  of  sand  brought  down 
scure,  being  distinct  from  the  Floren-  from  the  mountain  gullies  by  a  torrent 
tine  one,  but  intermarried  with  the  Ser-  which  is  dry  all  summer ;  some  have 
belloni  and  became  powerful  enough  to  small  breakwaters  harboring  a  merchant- 
give  a  Pope  to  the  Holy  See,  under  the  navy  of  skiffs  and  sloops  to  carry  lum- 
name  of  Pius  IV.  Gian  Giacomo  took  ber  to  Como  and  Lecco.  Bellano  has 
the  position  of  an  independent  sovereign,  large  iron-works  and  wears  a  busy  lit- 
coined  his  money,  maintained  his  own  tie  air  of  trade  and  commerce,  so  that 
army  and  flotilla,  and  waged  war  with  the  inhabitants,  of  whom  there  are  three 
the  Swiss,  the  Milanese,  and  the  Vene-  thousand,  proudly  call  it  the  Manches- 
tian  Republic,  for  a  number  of  years,  ter  of  Lake  Como.  But  repose  and  pas- 
After  a  disastrous  naval  engagement  on  sive  enjoyment  are  the  ordinary  expres- 
the  Bay  of  Lecco,  in  which  he  lost  his  sion  of  these  townlets  and  of  those  who 
youngest  brother  Gabriele,  he  made  dwell  in  them ;  even  the  hard-taxed, 


1884.] 


The  Lakes  of  Upper  Italy. 


over-worked,  under-fed  peasants  have  a 
calm,  dreamy  gaze  when  their  toil-worn 
visages  are  at  rest,  which  breaks  into  a 
brilliant  smile  at  a  friendly  question  or 
a  cordial  '  thank  you.' 

"  As  the  steamboat  approaches  the 
upper  end  of  the  lake,  the  villas  are  no- 
tably fewer  and  the  gardens  less  luxuri- 
ant ;  the  flowers  that  hang  over  the  walls 
are  coarser  and  hardier  ;  no  more  pleas- 
ure boats  are  to  be  seen  moored  to  the 
shore  ;  the  vegetation  of  the  slopes  is 
not  so  meridional  as  of  those  on  the 
Bay  of  Como,  and  lacks  the  richness  and 
softness  which  clothes  those  as  with  a 
vesture  of  moss  ;  the  colors  are  colder, 
light  green  and  dull  purple,  like  the 
Scotch  hills.  The  towns  keep  up  the 
interest.  Rezzonico  is  a  mere  handful 
of  scattered  houses  with  a  ruined  castle 
in  their  midst,  but  has  a  grave,  self-con- 
tained air  as  if  still  mindful  of  having 
given  a  head  to  Christendom.  On  the 
outskirts  of  Gravedona  there  is  a  strik- 
ing group  of  sacred  buildings  standing 
apart,  without  the  walls,  in  ecclesiastical 
retirement,  on  a  grassy  level  screened 
from  the  lake  by  a  row  of  locust  trees. 
One  of  them  is  a  fine  twelfth  century 
baptistery,  in  courses  of  black  and  white 
marble  dimmed  by  time  to  quiet  tones 
of  gray ;  the  arms  of  the  nave  and  tran- 
sept, which  are  very  short,  end  in  semi- 
circular apses,  and  there  is  a  central 
decagonal  tower  of  alternately  broad  and 
narrow  sides  rising  three  stories  from 
the  roof,  —  the  upper  one  being  much 
higher  than  the  others  and  with  larger 
windows,  —  crowned  by  a  pillared  gallery 
and  a  bulb-shaped  cupola  ;  it  is  Roman- 
esque, but  in  some  details  differs  from  all 
other  specimens  of  that  style  which  I 
have  seen.  It  is  altogether  an  imposing 
edifice,  of  which  any  large  Italian  town 
might  boast,  yet  it  seems  to  be  forgot- 
ten even  by  the  insignificant  village  at 
its  elbow.  In  the  same  group  there  is  a 
much  older  and  simpler  church,  claiming 
Queen  Theodelinda  as  its  foundress,  in 
which  there  are  some  early  Christian  in- 


787 

scriptions,  more  ancient  than  the  church 
itself.  Beyond  a  sort  of  cloister  round 
which  these  buildings  stand,  less  skilled 
hands  have  raised  a  mortuary  chapel, 
rudely  painted  with  death's-heads,  one 
wearing  a  papal  tiara,  another  an  impe- 
rial crown,  a  third  a  warrior's  helmet, 
and  so  on  through  several  phases  of 
mortal  greatness,  above  a  grated  open- 
ing which  displays  a  ghastly  collection 
of  skulls  and  bones.  The  place  is  silent 
and  isolated.  Gravedona  was  not  al- 
ways so  unimportant  as  now,  and  has 
played  its  part  in  history;  it  was  the 
capital  of  a  republic  which  made  war 
and  peace  with  the  Lombard  League ; 
its  troops  assaulted  the  rear-guard  of 
Barbarossa's  army,  capturing  banners 
and  booty,  among  other  spoil,  the  im- 
perial crown  which  was  deposited  in 
the  baptistery, -^  a  feat  that  so  enraged 
the  great  emperor  that  he  wished  to  ex- 
clude the  town  from  the  conditions  of 
the  peace  of  Constance.  As  late  as  the 
middle  of  the  sixteenth  century  it  was 
still  a  place  of  note ;  for  there  is  said  to 
have  been  some  talk  of  transferring  the 
seat  of  the  Council  of  Trent  hither,  to 
hold  its  sessions  in  Cardinal  Gallio's 
villa.  This  is  now  known  as  the  Palaz- 
zo del  Pero,  from  the  name  of  its  pres- 
ent owners  ;  it  stands  on  a  rock  forming 
a  natural  terrace,  with  a  high  and  state- 
ly stairway  to  the  water's  edge,  and  it  is 
the  finest  private  residence  on  the  lake, 
a  princely  mansion  ;  there  are  four  cor- 
ner towers,  each  terminating  in  a  grace- 
ful loggia,  and  a  massive  main  building, 
divided  by  a  three  story  portico  with  a 
triple  arch  resting  on  handsome  yellow 
marble  pillars,  and  a  Venetian  balcony. 
I  was  informed  that  the  "  famiglia  del 
Pero  e  richissima,"  yet  the  house-linen 
was  drying  on  the  sculptured  balustrades, 
and  the  fire-wood  was  being  chopped 
under  the  arch  of  the  principal  entrance. 
It  was  altogether  unexpected  to  find  so 
much  worth  seeing  at  a  place  of  which 
I  had  never  heard,  a  place  of  but  fif- 
teen or  sixteen  hundred  inhabitants, 


788 


The  Lakes  of  Upper  Italy. 


[December, 


where  a  stranger  seldom  goes  ashore  ; 
and  besides  this,  Gravedona  has  a  de- 
cided pictorial  character  of  its  own.  Its 
population  still  separates  into  the  old 
quarters  of  the  riva  and  the  castello,  and 
there  are  touches  of  provincial  elegance 
discernible  about  the  latter,  while  at  the 
landing,  white  houses  garlanded  with 
nasturtium  vines  from  window  to  win- 
dow and  story  to  story,  and  huge  sun- 
flowers staring  over  the  walls  into  the 
water,  look  as  if  modern  aestheticism  had 
taken  root  there. 

"  We  had  reached  the  head  of  the  lake, 
—  its  real  head  has  been  cut  off  by  the 
muddy  deposits  of  the  river  Adda,  and 
is  called  the  Lago  Mezzola  or  Lago  di 
Riva.  The  shores  are  low  ;  inland,  the 
mountain  wall  rises  rugged,  forbidding, 
streaked  and  patched  with  snow.  The 
steamboat  goes  no  furjjier  than  Colico, 
an  ill  name  and  a  poor  place,  but  happy 
in  being  the  point  at  which  travelers 
from  the  Splugen  and  Stelvio  passes 
reach  the  lake  of  Como.  It  goes  to 
sleep  between  the  hours  of  morning  and 
evening  arrival,  with  which  the  steam- 
boat corresponds;  I  seemed  to  have  it 
to  myself,  and  the  carriage  drivers  fought 
as  to  who  should  charge  most  for  taking 
me  to  see  the  ruined  fortress  of  Fuentes, 
and  Azzo  Visconti's  bridge.  The  road 
is  wide,  dusty,  glaring,  a  sort  of  cause- 
way bordered  by  water-willows  and 
large  poplars,  which  look  plebeian  in 
the  land  of  the  cypress  ;  fields  of  maize 
and  mulberry  plantations  lie  on  each 
hand  for  a  mile  or  two;  then  a  wide, 
noisome  swamp  spreads  out  to  the  right, 
while  on  the  left  a  ridge  of  rock  rises 
suddenly  from  the  narrow  plain,  and 
along  its  whole  length  the  remains  of 
the  great  stronghold  may  be  traced,  here 
a  barbican,  there  the  base  of  a  tower, 
further  on  some  crumbling  battlements. 
The  road  crosses  the  Adda,  which  comes 
suddenly  into  sight,  its  olive  waters  flow- 
ing swiftly  and  smoothly  past  the  ridge, 
under  the  brows  of  the  fort,  into  a  pleas- 
ant valley  fenced  by  mountains  on  both 


sides.     Some  of  the  arches  of  the  new 
bridge,  built  only  last  year,  rest  on  the 
piers  of  that  which  the  best  of  the  Vis- 
conti   erected  early  in    the    fourteenth 
century,  to  give  his  people  a  way  over 
the  swamp,  and  the  Adda  a  way  out  to 
the  lake.     Here  I  turned  back,  but  was 
overtaken  by  a  long  cloud  of  dust,  through 
which  the    diligences  from    the  Stelvio 
came  rattling  and  jingling  into  Colico 
to  catch  the  last  boat.     The  beauty  of 
the  voyage  increased   every  instant  as 
we    descended   the    lake;    the    sunset 
poured   over  the  scenery  like  elixir  of 
gold.     As  I  sat  on   the  deck  near  the 
usual  party  of  noisy  Germans,  —  whose 
satchels  were  stuffed  with  edelweiss,  for- 
get-me-nots, alpenroses,  and  lunch-par- 
cels in  greasy  newspaper,  and  who  be- 
haved themselves  as  if  they  had  char- 
tered the  steamboat  and   as  if  nobody 
else  had  any  business   to  be  there,  — 
I  reflected  for  the  first  time  on  the  size 
of  Lake  Como.     It  is  forty  miles  long, 
and   nowhere  visible  —  except   from  a 
considerable  height  —  for  more  than  a 
third  of  its   length ;  its    average  width 
must  be  under  four  miles.     These  statis- 
tics were  suggested  by  the  conversation 
of   a  well-dressed  young  English   cou- 
ple, light-haired  and  handsome,  though 
burnt  as  red  as  brick,  who  sat  near  me 
and  thus  commented  on  the  scene  be- 
fore   them :   '  I    like   our  lakes    better, 
they  're  so  nice  and  small,  you  know.' 
'Yes,  so  jolly   for   boating,  don't  you 
know.'  " 

In  enumerating  the  resources  of  the 
Villa  Serbelloni,  it  would  be  ungrateful 
to  omit  the  gay  little  town  of  Bell  agio, 
with  its  arcaded  water-street,  into  which 
we  made  descents  to  buy  fruit,  from 
heaping  baskets  of  melons,  plums,  pears, 
figs,  and  grapes,  or  native  manufac- 
tures, —  olive-wood  tables,  portfolios, 
paper-knives,  boxes  of  every  size  and 
use,  raw  silk  blankets  of  gorgeous  colors, 
and  handsome  coarse  linen-lace  which 
dark-eyed  girls  wove  on  cushions  at 
their  doorways.  As  the  lake  season  ap- 


1884.]                             The  Lakes  of  Upper  Italy.                                789 

proaclied,  the  innocent  rascals  who  had  warnings,  and  benedictions  were  going 
cheated  us  so  genially  of  a  few  francs  on,  while  a  stream  of  children,  friends, 
were  supplanted  by  a  tribe  of  real  vil-  and  servants   continued   to   pour   bare- 
lams  from  the  cities,  jewelers  with  pret-  headed  out  of  the  street  to  join  in  the 
ty  coral  and  lava  rubbish  from  Naples,  '  addio.'     With  many  good-by  gestures, 
and   bricabrac    dealers    more   depraved  she  put  her  foot  on  the  plank,  when 
than  those  of  Paris  or  Amsterdam,  who  '  Mamma  mia ! '  was  heard  in  a  shrill, 
brought   some  of   us    to    the    verge   of  infantine  scream,  and  a  curly-pate  aged 
ruin.     At  length   there  came  a  cloud-  four  or  five  rushed  from  the  street,  hold- 
less  morning  in  September,  when  I  got  ing  up  her  arms  for  another  kiss  ;  the 
up  early  and  took  the  eight  o'clock  boat  mother  turned  back,  and  there  was  a  long 
for  Lecco,  and  the  halcyon  days  were  hug.     '  Avanti !  Avanti!  '  (Come  on!) 
done.  shouted   the   captain.      The    lady   had 
"  The  glamour  and  dewy  sparkle  of  reached  the  deck,  when  there  was  an- 
the  first  hours  after  sunrise  still  lingered  other  cry,  and  out  of  the  same  street 
on  land  and  water,  as  I  looked  my  last  hobbled   an    untidy,  unkempt   old    wo- 
at  the  shores   and  villages,  mountains,  man,  the  cook   to    all   appearance ;   at 
promontories,  and  cascades  which  I  knew  sight  of  her,  the  fair  passenger  sprang 
so  well.     By  the    time  we  were  fairly  back  to  land,  fell  into   her   arms,  and 
under  way  in   the  bay  of  Lecco,  they  only  tore  herself  away  as   the  captain 
seemed  already  to  belong  to  the  past,  for  stamped  and  ordered  the   plank   to  be 
I  was  on  a  new  cruise.     It  is  not  com-  pulled  up.     The  lady  and   child  stood 
parable  to  the  twin  branch,  and  is  very  waving  their  hands  in  reply  to  a  flutter 
different  from  it.     There  are  no  villas,  of    handkerchiefs    that   looked   like   a 
and  few  towns  or  villages  or  even  ruined  week's  wash,  until  we  had  rounded  the 
castles  and   church-towers.     Nature   is  point  and  were  lost  to  sight ;  they  then 
left  to  herself  ;  the  mountains  rise  from  placidly  settled  themselves  among  their 
the  water's  edge  unbroken  by  terraces  parcels  and  chatted  about  their  journey  ; 
and  vineyards,  and  for   the    most  part  they  were  going  for  twenty-four  hours 
wooded   to    the  summit,  haunches   and  to  Milan,  which   is  two   hours  distant, 
shoulders    of  rock   occasionally  forcing  The  Italians,  like  all  other  Europeans 
themselves   through  the  foliage.     Over  among  whom  I  have  been,  never  take 
Olcio,  a  solitary  bare  peak  raises  its  gray  a  trunk  when  they  can  avoid  it,  to  es- 
head    above  a   hundred   close  crowding  cape  paying  the  charge  on  luggage ;  the 
breasts  of  rock,  like  acosmic  Diana  of  quantity  of   hand -baggage  they  carry 
Ephesus.     Mandello,  the  prettiest  town  is  inconceivable  to  Americans  ;  the  va- 
on  this  bay,  stands  on   the    point  of  a  lises  are  often  as  large  as  a  middle-sized 
cape   which   so   narrows    the  lake  that  trunk,  and  they  are  put  into  railway  car- 
from  a  little  distance  above  or  below,  it  riages  to  the  utter  discomfort  of  the  in- 
seems  to  end  here.  At  Mandello  a  hand-  mates. 

some  young  woman  holding  a  little  girl  "  Beyond  Mandello  the  mountains  fall 

by  the  hand,  both  prettily  dressed,  came  back  from  the  shore  and  range   them- 

running  out  of  a  narrow  street  as  the  selves  in  an  imposing  amphitheatre  of 

steamboat  bell  was  ringing  for  departure,  ash-colored   crags,  the    ridge  split   and 

She  was  followed  by  six  or  seven  shab-  chipped  into  innumerable  small  fissures 

by  figures   of  both   sexes  and  all  ages  and    strange  dents.     The   lake  rounds 

carrying  traveling  bags,  shawls,  parasols,  and  widens  towards  the  lower  end,  and 

bandboxes,  and  paper  bundles.    As  these  evidences  of  a  larger  industry  are  seen 

were  passed  to  the  boat-porters  on  deck,  on   the  banks   than  anywhere  else  ex- 

the    farewells,    embraces,    adjurations,  cept  at  Bellano.     The  base  of  the  hills 


790 


is  scooped  out  by  chalk  quarries  ; 
the  water  are  great  limekilDS  with  cas- 
tellated fronts  ;  there  are  huge  stacks  of 
fagots  for  the  furnaces,  thatched  with 
fine  twigs,  making  brown  masses  of  con- 
siderable effect  in  the  landscape.  Lecco, 
the  last  town  on  the  eastern  branch  of 
the  lake,  is  a  busy  place  with  iron  works 
and  smoking  chimneys.  Across  the  low, 
embowered  coast  is  seen  an  inland  re- 
gion of  mountains,  so  various  in  height, 
form,  color,  and  distance,  that  they  sug- 
gest a  novel  and  charming  field  of  un- 
explored loveliness.  Lecco  itself  has 
neither  interest  nor  attraction ;  among 
its  closely  overhanging  chalk  cliffs  it  is 
the  hottest  place  on  the  lake,  and  the 
railway  station  is  the  hottest  place  in 
the  town.  A  little  way  out  of  Lecco 
there  is  a  small  lake  called  the  Lago 
d'  Olgiate,  which  is  only  a  tag-end  of 
Lake  Como  cut  off  by  the  Adda  again, 
which  in  this  place  also  had  to  be  bridged 
by  Azzo  Visconti ;  his  ten  arches  re- 
main to  testify  that  he  did  good  in  his 
day.  The  river,  issuing  from  the  lake 
of  Olgiate,  winds  and  bends  gently 
through  a  wide  vale  of  grassy,  shady 
reaches,  laving  the  herbage  of  the  low 
meadow-capes." 

My  comrades  and  I  had  parted  some 
time  before  I  forsook  the  Lake  of  Como, 
and  I  do  not  know  what  their  state  of 
mind  was  after  leaving  the  enchantress ; 
for  my  part  I  confess  that  for  some 
days  I  wandered  about  as  disconsolate 
and  sick  and  sore  at  heart  as  one  who 
has  lost  his  love.  I  endeavored  to  dis- 
tract my  thoughts  in  the  company  of  the 
old  Lombard  painters,  and  thus  made 
acquaintance  with  the  towns  of  Ber- 
gamo and  Brescia,  going  even  as  far 
as  Verona,  which  was  familiar  ground. 
The  last  name  is  not  to  be  coupled  with 
any  other,  but  stands  alone,  like  Rome, 
Florence,  Venice,  or  Naples,  though  her 
ancient  and  lofty  beauty  is  fast  disap- 
pearing under  insensate  restorations. 
The  other  two  are  excessively  striking 
and  picturesque,  with  an  undiluted  fla- 


The Lakes  of  Upper  Italy. 


[December, 


vor  of  the  past.  They  are  sturdy  rem- 
nants of  the  Middle  Ages ;  each  has  a 
central  piazza  where  the  medievalism 
is  concentrated,  on  or  near  which  stand 
the  cathedral,  the  castle,  and  the  town- 
hall  ;  here  the  town  still  wears  an  air 
of  being  her  own  mistress,  as  of  yore. 
There  is  a  great  deal  to  tell  of  them, 
and  of  their  rich  little  picture-galleries 
and  churches,  full  of  masterpieces  by 
Lorenzo  Lotto,  Solari,  Moroni,  and  Mo- 
retto ;  but  they  are  not  to  be  disposed  of 
in  a  parenthesis.  This  I  will  add,  how- 
ever, that  at  the  hotels  of  both  places 
you  may  be  lawfully  robbed  in  the  good 
old-fashioned  way,  as  in  the  days  of  tho 
"  grand  tour,"  without  receiving  any 
equivalent  for  your  money. 

The  road  from  Brescia  to  Bergamo 
skirts  the  Lago  d'  Iseo,  which  is  praised 
in  proportion  to  the  difficulty  of  getting 
at  it.  The  approach  is  uninteresting, 
the  country  for  miles  round  Brescia  be- 
ing level,  the  hills  distant ;  the  only  di- 
version is  to  watch  the  peasants,  with 
their  scythes  and  sickles,  mowing  and 
reaping,  and  the  white  oxen  waiting  un- 
der the  aspens  for  their  loads.  The 
road  at  length  turns  a  sharp  corner  into 
the  mountains,  and  comes  in  sight  of 
the  lake  lying  among  them  under  ward 
of  several  great  embattled  ruins.  They 
are  repelling  mountains,  either  spotted 
with  scanty  vegetation,  or  bare  and 
stony  as  newly  mended  turnpike  roads. 
The  further  ones  were  of  a  dull  opaque 
blue  without  lights  or  shadows,  owing  to 
the  covered  gray  sky.  On  a  sunny  day 
the  little  lake  may  be  one  smile,  but  on 
the  afternoon  of  which  I  write  it  looked 
morose  and  boding,  and  as  if  it  deserved 
its  ill-fame  for  danger  to  boats.  On  one 
side,  the  mountains  come  steeply  down  to 
the  water ;  on  the  other,  the  land  is  flat 
and  marshy,  intersected  by  ditches,  which 
were  redeemed  by  being  covered  with 
water  -  lilies.  Altogether  Lago  d'  Iseo 
did  not  seem  worth  the  trouble  of  com- 
ing out  of  one's  way  to  see.  There  are 
such  lakes  lying  about  in  every  direc- 


1884.]  The  Lakes  of  Upper  Italy.  791 

tion    throughout  upper   Italy  —  lonely  and  produce.     I  got   on  board  at  four 

mountain  meres,  or  strung  together  like  P.  M.,  at  Dezenzano,  a  stopping-place  oil 

crystal  beads  by  the  silver  thread  of  a  the  railroad  from  Milan  to  Venice,  about 

small  river  ;  the  traveler  does  not  turn  half-way  between  Brescia  and  Verona, 

aside  a  single   hour  between  the  Alps  the  station,  however,  being   at  least  a 

and  the  Apennines  to  see  them,  though  quarter  of  an  hour's  drive  from  the  town 

he  would  journey  hundreds  of  miles  to  and  wharf.     It  is  a  steep,  picturesque, 

gladden  his  eyes  upon  them  in  different  dirty  old  place,  with  a  citadel  upon  its 

latitudes.  croup.     The  quay   had  a  lazy,  Levan- 

There  is  one  clear,  round  pond  not  tine  air,  with  men  in  Turkish  trousers 
bigger  than  a  palace  fountain,  clean  cut  and  fezzes,  or  bare  legs  and  head-ker- 
in  the  turf  of  a  private  estate  between  chiefs,  lounging  among  the  bales.  The 
Brescia  and  Verona,  which  deserves  no-  fishing-boats  on  this  lake  carry  the  saf- 
tice,  because,  if  my  topography  served  fron-colored,  red-barred  sails  of  the  Adri- 
me,  it  lies  within  the  limits  of  the  bat-  atic.  We  steamed  and  snorted  through 
tie-field  of  Solferino  ;  it  is  in  sight  of  the  translucent"  waves,  hugging  the  land 
the  swooping  bronze  eagle  perched  upon  for  some  time.  The  splendor,  the  soft 
the  monumental  pillar  that  rises  above  transparency  of  the  afternoon,  surpassed 
the  vine-bound  mulberry  trees  to  com-  anything  I  had  ever  seen  even  in  Italy, 
memorate  that  bloody  day.  I  saw  it  on  The  colors  of  the  water  were  extraordi- 
my  way  to  the  last  and  largest  of  the  nary,  —  the  deepest  blue,  like  the  dark 
lakes  of  upper  Italy,  the  majestic  Lago  iris  or  flag-flower,  belted  at  intervals 
di  Garda,  of  which,  —  with  bands  of  clear  azure,  like  the  sky 
"  Per  mille  fonti  credo,  e  piu,  si  bagna,"  —  in  April  or  the  light  blue  lotus,  the 
says  Dante,  and  which  Catullus  made  whole  surface  glittering  like  the  pet- 
his  own  forever  by  a  rapturous  little  als  of  those  flowers.  The  lake  is  very 
poem.  I  had  once  caught  sight  of  its  wide  at  this  end,  the  low  shores  bend- 
shining  plane  and  fantastic  mountains,  ing  in  a  great  sweep  which  ends  right 
from  the  railroad  on  going  to  Venice,  and  left  in  the  peninsula  of  Sermione 
and  had  carried  away  an  indelible  im-  and  the  cliffs  of  Mauerbo  ;  between 
pression  of  magnitude  and  mystery  from  these  outworks  can  be  seen  strange 
that  single  glimpse.  The  interest  it  had  mountain  shapes,  distorted,  crowded  to- 
waked  was  deepened  by  recognizing  gether,  torn  apart,  and  of  a  blue  that  is 
the  same  unwonted  shapes  and  colors  neither  of  sea  nor  sky,  dissolving  into 
in  the  background  of  Leonardo  da  Vin-  dreamland.  Going  up  the  lake,  the 
ci's  pictures,  —  in  the  Monna  Lisa  and  steamboat  touches  only  at  towns  on  the 
Vierge  aux  Rochers.  The  desire  to  see  western  side,  which  is  low  and  grassy, 
more  of  them  survived  twelve  years  of  with  plenty  of  trees,  until  the  rocks  of 
absence  and  stimulated  me  to  disregard  Manerbo  start  up  suddenly  with  a  fine 
various  inconveniences  attendant  on  the  front  of  yellow  crag.  They  form  a 
expedition.  tableland,  once  hallowed  by  a  temple  to 

"  September  7.  One  of  the  many  Minerva,  and  rounding  inland  open  a 
drawbacks  to  seeing  the  Lago  di  Garda  deep  bay,  at  the  head  of  which  is  the 
is  the  inconvenient  hour  at  which  the  first  landing,  the  brown  little  vine- 
steamboat  starts  from  either  end ;  an-  wreathed  town  of  Salo  bathing  its  feet 
other  is  the  discomfort  of  the  boat,  a  in  the  water.  The  next  stopping-place 
big,  business-like  vessel,  ugly  and  dirty,  is  the  island  of  Garda,  or  Isola  dei  Frati 
without  upper  deck  or  saloon  ;  the  pas-  as  it  is  called,  from  a  Franciscan  con- 
sengers  for  pleasure  are  crowded  aft,  vent  founded  there  in  the  thirteenth 
the  fore-part  being  reserved  for  peasants  century  by  St.  Francis  himself,  on  the 


792  The  Lakes  of  Upper  Italy.  [December, 

ruins  of  a  temple  of  Jupiter.  It  is  now  orange  hues  burned  in  the  dark  ravines 
quite  given  over  to  this  world,  and  trans-  out  of  which  slipped  the  infrequent  cas- 
formed  into  a  villa,  which  rises  with  cades  —  the  prettiest  of  them  glides  into 
leafy  and  blooming  gardens  from  the  the  lake  at  a  place  with  the  sensitive 
lake  edge,  though  the  buildings  on  the  name  of  Tremosine.  The  twilight  blend- 
top  keep  some  of  that  inalienable  air  of  ed  the  colors  and  massed  the  outlines  ;  by 
contemplation  which  establishments  for-  and  by  a  young  moon  shed  a  pale  glim- 
merly  religious  never  entirely  lose.  Im-  mer  on  the  spectral  eastern  cliffs,  and  a 
mediately  beyond  the  island  the  lake  bright  path  upon  the  water.  Before  us 
narrows ;  the  mountains  on  each  side  rear  the  mountains  looked  heavy  and  threat/- 
themselves to  a  great  height,  mole-col-  ening,  behind  us  they  closed  like  a  gate- 
ored  on  the  west,  mingled  with  chrome-  way.  The  scene  was  more  in  keeping 
yellow  deepening  to  orange  so  vivid  with  historical  memories  than  senti- 
that  its  warmth  is  felt  from  the  depths  mental  fancies ;  the  imagination  suffered 
of  the  gorges,  while  those  on  the  east  no  violence  at  the  recollection  of  the 
are  silver-gray  like  the  Monte  Grigna.  martial  exploits  which  had  been  per- 
Their  forms  are  very  singular  and  strik-  formed  there.  The  last  canto  of  that 
ing,  —  abrupt  detached  cubes  and  spikes  romantic  epic  of  the  Lombard  dominion, 
like  those  in  Leonardo's  backgrounds,  in  which  the  melodious  cadence  of  a 
There  is  no  luxuriance  of  growth,  nat-  woman's  name  is  so  often  heard,  opens 
ural  or  cultivated,  the  vegetation  is  with  the  captivity  of  the  beautiful  and 
scarce  and  sparse  ;  there  seem  to  be  al-  saintly  Adelaide,  the  widow  of  Lothair, 
most  no  villas,  and  but  few  towns ;  sovereign  of  northern  Italy,  who  had 
there  is  none  of  the  captivating  amenity  been  thrown  into  a  dungeon  on  the  lake 
of  Lake  Como,  or  the  stately  gracious-  of  Garda  by  Berenger,  the  usurper  and 
ness  of  Lago  Maggiore  ;  the  character  of  suspected  murderer  of  her  youthful  hus- 
this  scenery  is  grand,  wild,  and  softly  band.  He  had  tried  by  every  persecu- 
savage.  A  great  blemish  upon  it  is  a  tion  to  force  her  into  a  marriage  with 
contrivance  for  protecting  the  orange  his  son  Adalbert,  and  this  rigorous  im- 
and  lemon  trees,  —  rows  upon  rows  of  prisonment  was  a  last  resort.  Otho  the 
flat,  white  pillars  from  six  to  ten  feet  high  Great  dashed  across  the  Alps  to  her 
supporting  skeleton  roofs,  the  whole  be-  rescue,  set  her  free,  married  her,  and 
ing  boarded  up  in  winter  when  it  must  be  marched  upon  the  royal  city  of  Pavia, 
still  more  ugly  ;  it  is  bad  enough  in  sum-  which  opened  its  gates  to  him,  and 
mer,  —  acres  of  them  in  ten  or  a  dozen  crowned  him  King  of  Lombardy.  Five 
tiers,  looking  like  the  bleaching  ground  hundred  years  later,  Sorbolo  of  Candia 
of  some  great  woollen  mill.  Limone  is  laid  a  wager  with  the  famous  free-lance 
totally  marred  by  them  ;  the  houses  Gattamelata,  then  in  the  service  of  Ven- 
stand  prettily  round  a  cove,  and  rise  ice,  that  he  would  bring  a  fleet  over  the 
against  an  amphitheatre  of  rock,  but  Alps  and  launch  it  in  these  waters  ;  he 
they  are  lost  in  continuous  circles  of  won  it,  two  thousand  oxen  dragging  the 
white  posts  nearly  a  mile  long  and  seal-  heavy  galleys  and  galleons  upon  turn- 
ing the  cliff  for  at  least  a  hundred  feet ;  brels.  Two  naval  engagements  with  the 
they  look  like  innumerable  whitewashed  Milanese  ensued,  in  one  of  which  Ven- 
palings,  and  as  the  steamboat  passes  ice  was  defeated,  in  the  other  victorious, 
them  they  criss-cross  with  the  most  an-  April,  1440.  There  has  been  plenty  of 
noying  rapidity.  fighting  hereabouts  since  then,  but  mod- 
"  The  sun  went  down,  changing  the  ern  warfare  is  more  prosaic  in  its  ven- 
jagged  silvery  combs  to  imperial  purple  tures. 
against  the  pellucid  sky.  Even  then  the  "  The  boat  reached  Riva,  at  the  head 


1884.] 


The  Lakes  of  Upper  Italy. 


793 


of  the  lake,  at  half-past  eight  o'clock.  To 
my  dismay,  my  first  step  on  landing  was 
into  a  low,  ill-lighted  room,  foggy  with 
tobacco  smoke,  where  men  in  black  and 
yellow  uniforms  were  apparently  rifling 
the  travelers'  luggage,  and  the  German 
language  smote  upon  my  ears.  It  was 
the  Austrian  custom-house,  and  I  had 
unintentionally  come  out  of  Italy.  No- 
body had  told  me  that  Riva  was  not  in 
Italy,  if  they  had  I  would  not  have 
come  ;  I  was  in  a  rage ;  but  then  I  had 
asked  nobody,  I  had  not  been  deceived  : 
it  was  an  impotent  situation.  The  next 
shock  was  the  irredeemable  character  of 
the  Grand  Hotel  Imperial  du  Soleil  d'Qr. 
My  room  opened  on  a  dark  wooden  bal- 
cony above  a  long,  narrow  court  smell- 
ing like  a  stable-yard.  I  protested ; 
they  assured  me  that  it  was  one  of  the 
best  in  the  house,  and  asked  me  what 
I  wanted.  '  Licht,  luft '  (light,  air),  I 
replied.  They  shook  their  heads,  and 
I  heard  them  walking  up  and  down 
the  balcony,  which  was  a  thoroughfare, 
for  hours,  making  reflections  upon  me. 
*  What  more  could  man  wish  for  ?  A 
magnificent  chamber,  prachtvoll,  herr- 
lich.'  I  discovered  by  degrees  that  the 
walls  were  hideously  painted  with  fruit 
and  flowers,  and  that  the  pillow-case 
and  the  sheets  were  trimmed  with  cotton 
lace. 

"  September  8.  The  fault  of  the 
Soleil  d'Or,  which  is  not  without  a 
quaintness  and  style  of  its  own,  is  an 
absence  of  the  elements  of  comfort  in 
the  arrangements,  and  of  a  notion  of 
them  in  the  mind  of  the  administration ; 
so  that  it  was  useless  and  hopeless  to 
complain.  Therefore  the  best  thing  was 
to  escape  as  soon  as  possible.  The  only 
steamboat  starts  at  five  A.  M.  ;  that  be- 
ing gone  past  recall,  I  cast  about  me,  and 
discovered  that  there  is  a  station  on  the 
Brenner  railroad  but  two  hours'  drive 
away,  where  I  could  take  a  train  and 
be  shortly  in  Verona.  The  diligence 
had  started  too,  hours  before,  at  eight 
o'clock ;  so  I  made  my  own  arrange- 


ments, and  then  breakfasted  pleasantly 
enough  under  a  vine-trellis  on  the  lit- 
tle terrace  garden  of  the  hotel,  which  is 
like  a  morsel  of  Venice,  so  close  above 
the  water  that  the  picturesque,  swarthy 
boatmen  stand  up  in  their  boats  and 
look  over  the  parapet  to  offer  their  ser- 
vices. The  lake  is  almost  closed  at  this 
end ;  through  the  rocky  portal  there  is 
one  distant  glimpse  of  a  faint  blue  coast, 
and  then  a  wide  expanse  of  deep  blue 
water,  sparkling  like  a  summer  sea. 
The  mountains  beetle  over  Riva ;  they 
look  as  if  they  were  toppling  down  upon 
it.  The  strangeness  of  their  forms  is 
oppressive  ;  one  mass  is  like  a  flight 
of  enormous  steps  to  a  vast,  primor- 
dial throne,  raised  in  the  beginning  of 
time  over  this  forgotten  corner  of  chaos. 
The  aspect  of  the  town  is  absolutely 
mediaeval  still ;  a  huge,  square  tower  of 
the  thirteenth  century  rises  straight  up 
from  the  pavement,  with  the  traffic  of 
to-day  at  its  foot ;  a  still  older  one,  in 
ruins,  keeps  guard  on  the  rocks  directly 
over  the  town.  In  the  fourteenth  cen- 
tury Riva  belonged  to  the  Veronese,  who 
built  the  fine  Palazzo  del  Pretorio  with 
an  arcade  to  the  lake ;  but  in  the  follow- 
ing age  it  fell  into  the  hands  of  the  Ve- 
netians, who  gave  it  the  Palazzo  Mu- 
nicipale.  The  place  is  well  protected 
against  present  emergencies ;  the  high- 
road passes  through  the  modern  fortifi- 
cations of  San  Niccol6  before  it  is  clear 
of  the  town,  and  a  couple  of  miles  fur- 
ther out,  through  the  gateway  of  an- 
other fortress,  high  on  the  hillside,  under 
a  cliff  bearing  the  warlike  remains  of 
the  castle  of  Nago,  like  a  skeleton  in 
armor. 

"  As  the  road  ascends,  a  wider  view 
of  the  lake  comes  into  sight ;  its  pure, 
deep  hue  discolored  to  a  poisonous  green 
just  off  shore  before  every  town.  North- 
ward the  grass-green  Sarca  breaks  its 
way  through  a  maze  of  rocks,  fragments 
of  mountain  lying  on  each  side  of  its 
course  as  if  the  impetuous  torrent  had 
swept  them  aside.  The  vale  of  the 


794                                 The  Lakes  of  Upper  Italy.                    [December, 

Sarca  is  literally  one  great  market-gar-  where  my  driver,  in  spite  of  appearances, 
den  and  orchard  ;  every  foot  of  it  is  un-  said  that  wheels  could  go  no  further,  for 
der  cultivation,  sheltered  and  warmed  my  way  lay  through  the  famous  Quadri- 
by  the  surrounding  cliffs  as  if  it  were  a  lateral.  This  I  afterwards  found  to  be 
hot-bed,  and  irrigated  by  the  river.  Ol-  not  strictly  true  ;  but  knowing  no  better 
ive  trees  grow  from  every  crevice  of  the  at  the  moment,  I  got  out  and  began  to 
rock ;  great,  gaunt  trunks,  twisted  and  follow  a  narrow,  rather  steep  foot-path 
rent,  covered  with  a  profusion  of  hoary,  through  a  beautiful  olive  grove,  accom- 
glaucous  foliage  and  smooth,  unripe  panied  by  eight  ragged  urchins  of  from 
fruit.  The  fertility  stops  short  below  six  to  twelve  years  old,  who  had  come 
the  mountains'  knees,  contrasting  sharp-  nobody  could  say  whence,  how,  or  when, 
ly  with  the  sterility  above  them.  The  The  biggest,  who  had  a  clean,  intelligent 
scenery  is  harsh  and  desolate.  Half  face,  I  took  as  a  guide,  and  gave  him  my 
way  to  Mori,  the  railway  station,  we  lunch-basket  and  books  to  carry.  The 
passed  a  gloomy,  marshy  pool,  the  lake  rest  I  dismissed,  first  amicably,  then 
of  Loppio,  and  soon  afterwards  descend-  with  threats,  finally  with  a  show  of 
ed  into  lower  land  through  which  the  sticks  and  stones,  but  in  vain  ;  they 
Adige  takes  its  way.  The  castellated  stuck  to  me  with  silent  pertinacity,  fall- 
ruins  on  every  commanding  point  show  ing  to  the  rear  when  I  frowned  and 
how  fiercely  beset  this  border-land  was  bade  them  begone,  dodging  and  disap- 
in  the  Middle  Ages.  pearing  when  I  brandished  my  cudgel, 
"  Verona,  September  10.  Morning  but  ever  returning  to  the  pursuit.  At 
cool  and  bright,  refreshed  by  last  night's  last  I  gave  it  up,  deciding  that  they  were 
thunder-storm.  I  set  off  for  the  penin-  too  small  to  murder  me,  even  in  such 
sula  of  Sermione  and  Catullus'  Villa,  numbers,  whereas  they  might  be  some 
The  country  about  Verona  has  nothing  protection  in  the  extreme  solitude,  for 
to  show  but  flat  fertility  ;  at  intervals  by  that  time  I  had  reached  a  lonely 
the  long  back  of  a  basilica  at  right  angles  plateau  covered  with  short  grass  and 
to  its  tall  tower  rises  above  the  low  wild  thyme  and  lovely  shimmering  olive 
tree-tops  under  the  clear  hot  sky.  The  trees.  The  fallen  masonry  of  an  old 
glacis  and  bomb-proofs  of  modern  forts  church  lies  among  the  aromatic  herbs, 
cut  the  horizon  in  every  direction,  one  tower  alone  remaining  upright ; 
Left  the  railroad  at  Dezenzano,  took  a  further  on  are  the  subterranean  chain- 
one-horse  carriage,  and  drove  through  bers  of  a  Roman  house,  and  at  the  very 
a  Virgilian  landscape  ;  the  lake,  at  first  front  of  the  headland,  looking  up  the 
seen  at  a  distance  through  the  mulberry  lake,  the  ivied  arches  and  piers  of  an 
orchards,  drew  nearer  and  nearer  on  ancient  palace  with  fragments  of  retic- 
both  sides,  until  the  fields  ceased  and  the  ulated  brick-work  and  mosaic  pavement, 
road  entered  a  neck  of  land  deeply  The  promontory  breaks  off  in  a  fine  cliff 
fringed  by  tall,  waving  grass  with  a  several  hundred  feet  above  the  lake, 
plumy  gray  flower.  After  about  a  mile  which  beats  upon  the  slabs  at  its  base 
of  this,  I  was  confronted  by  the  fine  with  the  sound  of  a  gentle  surf.  It 
ramparts  of  Castelnuovo,  a  feudal  pile  was  breezy  and  sunny  ;  the  blue  sheet 
of  battlemented  walls  and  crenelated  sparkled,  spreading  further  and  further 
towers,  with  a  noble  gateway,  through  among  the  mountains,  which  took  a  hun- 
which  everybody  must  pass  who  goes  dred  rich  changes  from  the  shadows  of 
to  Sermione,  over  a  moat  filled  by  the  the  clouds  on  their  silvery,  leaden,  and 
lake.  The  town  consists  of  a  dozen  or  tawny  crags  and  purple  depths  of  dis- 
two  dilapidated  houses,  and  the  paved  tance.  It  is  a  happy,  heathen  spot, 
road  soon  expires  in  a  sandy  cart-track,  ruled  by  the  spirit  of  the  classic  muse 


1884.] 


The  Lakes  of  Upper  Italy. 


795 


and  antique  myth ;  no  wonder  a  Chris- 
tian church  fell  into  decay  there. 

"  I  sat  down  under  an  olive  tree,  and 
favorite  scraps  of  poetry  and  thoughts 
of  absent  friends  hovered  about  me  like 
a  joyous  company.  As  I  ate  my  lunch 
of  fruit,  bread,  and  red  wine,  my  small 
body-guard  seated  themselves  in  a  line 
along  a  furrow,  like  a  flock  of  birds,  to 
wait  for  the  crumbs.  Presently  Bertol- 
di,  the  little  guide,  rose  and  went  so 
rashly  over  the  edge  of  the  precipice 
that  I  called  out  to  him  to  be  careful ; 
whereupon  the  others  jumped  up  and 
rushed  over  it  as  though  they  would  all 
have  run  violently  down  like  certain 
swine;  instead  of  that,  they  capered 
from  point  to  point  and  ledge  to  ledge 
like  kids  ;  until,  seeing  that  I  showed 
no  fears  for  their  safety,  they  came  back 
and  lay  in  a  row  on  their  stomachs  and 
elbows,  with  their  heels  in  the  air,  not 
a  yard  from  my  toes.  I  sprang  to  my 
feet  in  mock  fury  ;  up  they  sprang  too, 
and  in  half  a  minute  were  lodged  in  the 
branches  of  the  olive  tree.  There  they 
began  swinging,  climbing,  and  dropping 
from  limb  to  limb  like  apes,  with  which 
exercises  they  diverted  themselves  till 
I  was  ready  to  visit  the  underground 
chambers,  or  the  grottoes  of  Catullus  as 
they  are  called.  The  monkeys  scrambled 
and  slid  to  the  ground,  scampered  off, 
and  vanished,  as  if  they  had  been  exor- 
cised. 

"  Bertoldi  alone  remained,  and  I  fol- 
lowed him  obediently  as  he  directed,  — 
*  Piano,'  l  Andante,  '  Si  ferma'  ('  Stop 
here '),  —  descending  the  broken  passage, 
until  we  reached  a  cavern-like  room  of 
good  dimensions,  with  openings  in  the 
wall  into  two  others.  Lo!  there  were 
my  tormentors  kneeling,  crouching,  or 
hanging,  each  with  a  lighted  candle-end 


to  illuminate  the  darkness  and  show  the 
extent  of  the  vaults,  with  their  bare  feet, 
slouched  hats,  dark  eyes  and  white  teeth, 
looking  like  diminutive  banditti  in  a 
Salvator  Rosa  study  of  light  arid  shadow. 
This  was  the  secret  of  their  persistency, 
and  this  was  their  little  industry,  poor 
children,  yet  they  did  not  one  of  them 
ask  for  a  penny. 

"  I  found  a  perfect  subject  for  a  picture 
among  the  palace-ruins:  a  great  bit  of 
brick  wall,  tufted  with  fine  grass  and 
slightly  robed  in  ivy,  with  a  gaping, 
broken  arch  in  which  grew  a  big  gnarled 
and  twisted  olive  tree  with  an  argentine 
haze  of  leaves,  just  veiling  the  intense 
radiance  of  the  lake,  the  opposite  line  of 
shore,  and  Minerva's  Rocks.  I  tried  to 
sketch  it,  but  it  was  too  beautiful  for 
me ;  the  boys  peeped  over  my  shoulders 
in  clusters,  whispering  *  Bello  !  Bello ! ' 
before  I  had  drawn  a  stroke,  false  flat- 
terers, and  making  it  impossible  for 
me  even  to  try.  So  I  shut  the  sketch- 
book and  they  lifted  sweet,  true,  childish 
voices,  and  warbled  very  harmoniously 
in  three  parts,  tenor,  alto,  and  soprano ; 
until  carried  away  by  my  applause,  they 
took  to  yelling  and  shouting  in  the  dis- 
cordant way  to  which  Italians  are  ad- 
dicted when  they  sing.  When  my  time 
was  up,  they  escorted  me  back  to  the 
carriage  and  then  disappeared  as  they 
had  come." 

My  pilgrimage  through  the  Lakes  of 
Lombardy  ended  with  this  classic  morn- 
ing, and  I  turned  northward,  asking 
myself,  like  Virgil,  how  I  should  tell  of 
their  treasures :  — 

"  Anne  lacus  tantos  ?  te  Lari  *  maxime,  teque 
Fluctibus  et  fremitu  assurgens,  Benace,2  ma- 
rino?" 

1  Lacus  Larius,  Lake  of  Como. 

2  Lacus  Benacus,  Lake  of  Garda. 


796 


Combination  Novels. 


[December, 


COMBINATION  NOVELS. 


FROM  time  to  time  we  hear  the  an- 
nouncement, as  if  it  were  a  complete 
novelty,  of  some  project  of  an  imaginative 
work  by  several  authors  in  common ; 
but  this  species  of  diversion  has  frequent- 
ly been  indulged  in  by  groups  of  friends 
and  by  private  semi-literary  clubs.  Nor 
are  examples  wanting  of  illustrious  rep- 
utations which  have  given  it  their  sanc- 
tion. Balzac,  Alfred  de  Musset,  and 
George  Sand  once  thought  it  advisable 
to  endow  from  the  stores  of  their  genius 
a  volume  entitled  Les  Parisiennes  a 
Paris,  which  was  not,  however,  in  the 
true  sense  a  collaboration.  Another  at- 
tempf  was  made  with  eminent  success 
by  Madame  de  Girardin,  Theophile  Gau- 
tier,  Jules  Sandeau,  and  Joseph  Mery,  in 
La  Croix  de  Berny.  Those  Christmas 
books  —  No  Thoroughfare  and  Mugby 
Junction  —  in  which  Dickens  enlisted 
auxiliaries  directed  by  himself  cannot 
strictly  be  placed  in  the  same  category, 
because  the  responsibility  for  each  por- 
tion was  kept  rather  more  distinct ;  but 
they  remind  us  that  Dickens  was  at  least 
not  averse  to  the  plan  of  partnerships. 
In  this  country,  some  ten  years  ago,  Mr. 
Edward  Everett  Hale  joined  Mrs.  Har- 
riet Beecher  Stowe,  Mrs.  Whitney,  Miss 
Lucretia  Hale,  Frederic  Loring,  and 
Frederic  Perkins  in  a  story  —  Six  of 
One  by  Half  a  Dozen  of  the  Other  — 
which  the  array  of  names  on  the  title- 
page  has  not  saved  from  oblivion.  And 
now  again,  quite  lately,  we  have  had 
given  us  The  King's  Men,  by  Robert 
Grant,  John  Boyle  O'Reilly,  J.  S.  of 
Dale,  and  John  Wheelwright ;  as  well 
as  The  Miz-Maze,  by  nine  English  wo- 
men, among  whom  are  Charlotte  Yonge, 
Frances  M.  Peard,  and  Christabel  Rose 
Coleridge. 

The  list  might  perhaps  be  extended  ; 
but  the  ordinary  form  of  partnership  is 
that  between  two  persons  only.  Beau- 


mont and  Fletcher,  in  play-writing,  gave 
to  it  a  historic  renown,  a  traditional 
dignity,  and  in  our  day  it  is  not  at  all 
uncommon  for  two  writers  to  unite  their 
powers  in  working  for  the  stage  ;  but, 
in  addition  to  that,  we  have  to  credit 
narrative  fiction  with  the  successes  of 
Erckmann  -  Chatrian,  of  Besant  and 
Rice,  and  of  the  two  Goncourts.  There 
was  a  time  when  a  large  part  of  the 
American  public  used  to  await  impa- 
tiently the  latest  joint  novel  of  the  sis- 
ters Susan  and  Anna  Warner;  and, 
much  more  recently,  Mr.  Charles  D. 
Warner  appeared  as  the  associate  of 
Mark  Twain  in  The  Gilded  Age,  which 
made  some  amends  for  a  remarkable 
absence  of  literary  quality  by  presenting 
the  racy  character  of  Colonel  Sellers. 
Setting  aside  those  regular  partnerships 
which  have  been  maintained  for  long 
terms,  we  shall  have  to  own  that  con- 
glomerate authorship  does  not  turn  out 
so  well  as  we  might  imagine  it  would. 
Instead  of  giving  an  aggregate  of  all 
that  is  best  in  each  participant,  it  is  an 
addition  of  plus  and  minus  quantities, 
and  the  totals  disappoint  us.  One  might 
suppose  that,  as  "  stars "  are  brought 
into  favorable  conjunction  on  the  stage 
in  one  play,  the  light  of  divers  literary 
talents  might  be  blended  with  dazzling 
brightness  in  one  book.  A  richer  or- 
chestration, we  should  say  at  first  blush, 
ought  to  issue  from  a  harmonious  union 
of  several  good  instruments.  But,  the 
art  of  the  novelist  not  being  interpre- 
tative, the  parallel  will  not  hold.  All 
the  same,  the  somewhat  glittering  array 
of  distinguished  names  that  can  be  mus- 
tered on  the  side  of  combination  writing 
demands  consideration.  If  so  many  men 
and  women  of  excellent  rank  in  the 
world  of  letters  do  not  hesitate  to  club 
their  abilities  —  perhaps  I  ought  to  say, 
cudgel  their  brains  —  in  order  to  make 


1884.] 


Combination  Novels. 


797 


a  story  together,  one  infers  that  such 
employment  must  have  a  strong  attrac- 
tion, whether  it  be  a  valid  one  or  not. 

The  fancy  that  the  sharp  contact  of 
two  minds,  in  such  a  work,  bears  some 
analogy  to  the  action  of  flint  and  steel  is 
obviously  alluring,  and  may  have  a  share 
in  bringing  about  these  mutual  efforts. 
Then,  too,  there  is  the  spice  of  under- 
taking with  a  companion  something 
which  one  would  not  have  hazarded 
alone.  Possibly  the  motive  at  the  bot- 
tom of  literary  partnerships  is  akin  to 
the  instinctive  desire  for  experiment, 
for  adventure,  asserting  itself  in  the 
same  mild  way  as  with  the  floriculturist 
who  hybridizes  plants.  We  like  to  see 
what  will  be  the  outcome  from  a  min- 
gling of  two  individualities  in  an  artistic 
creation,  just  as  the  florist  is  interested 
in  botanical  "  freaks."  If  my  guess  be 
a  true  one,  then  we  must  regard  the 
germinant  principle  of  these  enterprises 
as  containing  a  bias  towards  the  arti- 
ficial ;  and  it  is  at  least  suggestive,  in 
this  connection,  that  generally  writers 
who  collaborate  are  also  capable  of  in- 
dependent work  so  good  that  there  would 
seem  to  be  no  inherent  need  of  their 
calling  in  the  aid  of  an  associate.  Erck- 
mann  and  Chatrian,  I  believe,  are  alone 
in  having  absolutely  merged  their  iden- 
tity so  far  as  authorship  is  concerned. 
Beaumont,  as  well  as  Fletcher,  wrote 
plays  in  which  no  one  else  had  part  or 
lot.  Edmond  and  Jules  de  Goncourt 
issued  book  after  book  under  their  joint 
signature ;  yet  Jules  died  in  1870,  and 
his  brother  continued  for  years  to  pro- 
duce both  novels  and  works  of  criticism, 
without  any  apparent  diminution  of 
force  or  pronounced  alteration  of  tone. 
In  much  the  same  way  it  turned  out, 
when  James  Rice  came  to  his  end,  that 
Walter  Besant  could  still  bring  forth 
fiction  that  bore  the  accustomed  stamp 
and  had  the  same  characteristics  which 
he  and  his  friend  had  imparted  to  their 
popular  and  ingenious  stories.  Reversed 
illustrations  of  the  same  rule  are  af- 


forded by  the  instance  of  Mr.  Hale  and 
his  contributors,  by  the  Englishwomen 
who  planned  The  Miz-Maze,  and  by  the 
French  authors  of  Les  Parisiennes  and 
La  Croix  de  Berny.  Nearly  every  one 
of  the  participants  had  made  for  him- 
self or  herself,  as  the  case  may  be,  a 
distinctive  position.  What,  then,  was 
to  be  gained  by  a  deliberate  sacrifice  of 
personal  qualities,  in  the  endeavor  to 
achieve  a  result  which,  so  far  as  might 
be,  should  hide  the  several  sources  of 
the  composition  ?  It  may  be  well  to 
bear  in  mind  that  painters  have  more 
than  once  combined  to  make  a  picture, 
—  one  supplying  the  landscape,  let  us 
say,  while  the  other  was  responsible  for 
animals  or  human  figures  introduced 
into  the  scene ;  and  the  masters,  also, 
have  had  their  pupils  who  not  only  laid 
in  the  foundation,  but  were  even  called 
upon  to  impress  on  the  canvas  by  their 
own  touches  subordinate  parts  that  had 
a  considerable  importance.  Neverthe- 
less, there  exist  no  precedents  of  dis- 
tinguished pictorial  partnership  on  a 
large  scale.  Neither  can  we  well  con- 
ceive of  such  a  thing  as  Cervantes,  Wal- 
ter Scott,  Fielding,  Thackeray,  Georgo 
Eliot,  or  Hawthorne  choosing  to  mate 
their  imagination  with  that  of  another 
individual,  for  creative  purposes.  It  is 
in  reflections  of  this  kind  that  we  shall 
find,  I  suspect,  a  clue  to  the  lurking 
prejudice  with  which  readers  are  often, 
though  it  may  be  unconsciously,  inclined 
to  receive  combination  novels.  At  all 
events,  one  can  understand  a  fear  lest 
the  sanctity,  or  at  least  the  peculiar  and 
essential  value,  of  one  of  the  included 
personalities  shall  suffer  in  the  process 
of  amalgamation. 

To  be  sure,  Johnson  might  supply  a 
line  which  Goldsmith  accepted  for  one 
of  his  poems,  and  even  Wordsworth 
and  Coleridge  could  plan  a  ballad  which 
they  meant  to  write  together ;  but  here 
a  law  of  inevitable  fitness  intervened, 
and  The  Ancient  Mariner  —  except  for 
a  phrase  or  two  like  the 


798 


Combination  Novels. 


[December, 


"And  thou  art  long  and  lank  and  brown 
As  is  the  ribbed  sea-sand  "  — 

became  radically  and  characteristically 
Coleridge's  composition.  It  is  difficult  to 
imagine  a  "  fine  frenzy  "  inciting  to  or 
governing  the  execution  of  a  novel  by 
more  than  one  author.  I  have  heard 
the  idea  advanced  that,  in  the  composi- 
tion of  a  four-handed  novel,  the  expe- 
rience of  each  author  must  resemble 
that  of  sitting  at  whist  with  two  "  dum- 
mies." Each,  in  playing  his  own  cards, 
would  encounter  the  same  sort  of  diffi- 
culty as  if  his  partner's  hand  were  lying 
exposed ;  a  condition  of  things  which 
necessarily  diminishes  the  excitement  of 
the  game,  curtails  the  exercise  of  skill, 
prevents,  in  fine,  the  development  of 
many  sudden  inspirations  and  surprises 
that  would  otherwise  come  in  naturally. 
Let  a  novelist  think  out  the  form  and 
contents  of  his  book  as  much  as  he 
pleases  :  Mr.  William  Black  goes  so  far 
as  to  frame  the  chapters  and  model 
every  separate  sentence  before  putting 
anything  on  paper ;  but  with  most  men 
it  will  happen  that,  after  the  skeleton 
has  been  made  and  numerous  details 
have  been  seen  to,  some  of  the  best 
touches  —  nay,  .whole  scenes  —  will  be 
added  to  the  work  unexpectedly,  at  the 
moment  of  writing.  Improvisation  is 
assuredly  one  of  the  items  in  a  novel- 
ist's equipment  which  yields  the  most 
enjoyable  results  ;  the  writer  should  be 
left  free  to  tell  the  story  to  himself  as 
well  as  to  the  reader,  for  by  so  doing  he 
may,  in  the  act  of  composition,  make  high- 
ly interesting  and  piquant  discoveries. 
Sudden  turns  of  fancy ;  flashes  of  insight 
which  illuminate  the  whole  scene  and 
the  characters  to  the  eye  of  the  creator 
himself ;  fortunate  epithets  or  vivid 
phrases  that  mirror  with  instantaneous 
life  and  sparkle  the  spectacle  of  reality 
presenting  itself  to  the  imagination,  — 
these  are  accessions  to  the  preconceived 
scheme  which,  it  seems  to  me,  one  would 
sometimes  have  to  deny  himself  in  work- 
ing with  another  person's  consciousness 


always  linked  to  his  own.  Erckmann 
and  Chatrian  are  said  to  proceed  by  a 
method  which,  when  the  outline  has 
been  arranged,  permits  one  collaborator 
to  write  at  will  all  that  he  thinks  or 
feels ;  but  his  companion  afterwards 
strikes  out  and  rewrites  w^ith  absolute 
discretion,  and  although  the  first  collab- 
orator is  then  given  an  opportunity  for 
further  correction  or  change,  a  kind  of 
surrejoinder  (to  adopt  a  legal  term),  it 
is  evident  that  he  is  to  some  extent 
bound  not  to  introduce  again  those 
things  which  have  been  rejected  from 
the  first  draft.  The  two  associates  may 
arrive  at  an  agreement  quite  satisfactory 
to  themselves :  but  is  there  not  some 
danger  here  to  that  spontaneity  which  is 
one  of  the  highest  charms  of  fiction  ? 
In  theory  it  would  appear  that  such  a 
peril  does  threaten  ;  arid,  without  pre- 
tending to  lay  down  a  sweeping  or  in- 
fallible rule,  we  shall  find  traces,  in  fact, 
that  the  drift  of  combination  writing  is 
towards  forms,  aims,  or  modes  of  ex- 
pression that  partake  of  the  convention- 
al or  mechanical. 

The  Goncourts,  it  may  be  said,  do 
not  show  this  especially  in  a  book  like 
Charles  Demailly ;  but  in  spite  of  the 
careful  art  of  Erckmann-Chatrian,  the 
existence  of  a  fixed  code  of  regulations 
and  recipes  constantly  makes  itself  felt 
through  their  pages.  Just  how  the  per- 
ception of  this  becomes  clear  to  a  sen- 
sitive observer  cannot  perhaps  be  ex- 
plained to  any  one  who  is  not  of  the 
craft ;  but,  by  way  of  indication,  it  may 
be  mentioned  that  Erckmann-Chatrian 
deal  chiefly  with  generalized  types. 
The  actors  in  their  stories  do  not  come 
before  us  as  strongly  individual  beings. 
The  authors  are  content  to  describe  a 
young  girl  briefly  as  having  blue  eyes, 
golden  hair,  and  a  fresh  complexion ; 
emotion  of  the  widest  variety  is  exem- 
plified by  saying  that  the  person  who 
experiences  it  turns  pale.  Then,  too, 
they  give  a  great  deal  of  detail  to  illus- 
trate particular  characters,  which  fre- 


1884.]                                     Combination  Novels.  799 

quently  seems  intruded  and  superfluous,  clogs  the  flight  of  fancy  ;  and  collabo- 
interruptiug  the  story  or  muddling  the  rators,  one  would  think,  must  be  tempted 
effect,  when  it  ought  to  do  just  the  con-  to  adopt  and  refer  to  formulas  more 
trary,  and  doubtless  would  do  so  if  it  than  the  single-handed  artist.  Take  up 
had  not  been  too  deliberately  and  dry-  for  a  moment  Messrs.  Besant  and  Rice's 
ly  planned.  These  clever  and  diligent  elaborate  study  of  a  miser,  in  Ready- 
Frenchmen  introduce  us  to  a  sufficiently  Money  Mortiboy.  The  significant  traits, 
diverse  assortment  of  people  ;  they  give  actions,  utterances,  of  the  man  have  been 
their  creatures  positive  traits  and  ardent  accumulated  with  great  care  and  are 
passions  ;  they  even  portray  remarkable  very  well  put  together ;  but  the  charac- 
eccentricities  ;  but,  for  all  that,  we  sus-  ter  hardly  exhibits,  at  least  to  my  ap- 
pect  the  figures  of  over-careful  manu-  prehension,  the  unfettered  movement 
facture,  and  feel  about  them  a  curious  which  it  might  have  enjoyed  if  it  had 
air  of  being  subject  to  unlimited  repro-  sprung  from  one  brain.  However  this 
duction,  as  if  they  were  lithographs,  —  may  be,  something  of  the  same  quality 
very  distinct,  very  neat,  prettily  colored,  observable  in  Erckmann-Chatrian  marks 
and  dexterously  grouped,  but  wanting  at  the  less  succinct  and  more  complicated 
last  the  finest  vitality  of  imagination,  writings  of  their  English  counterparts. 
Above  a  certain  level  of  story-telling,  on  Messrs.  Besant  and  Rice  have  given  to 
which  all  good  novelists  may  be  regard-  the  world  some  entertaining  novels  ; 
ed  comparatively  as  equals,  the  test  of  and  one  who  reads  these  with  no  little 
difference,  of  less  or  greater  artistic  en-  interest  and  pleasure  may  be  acquitted 
dowmerit,  is  to  be  sought  in  the  richness  of  prejudice  in  saying  that,  after  all, 
of  their  imagination.  Where  that  is  they%  are  moulded  upon  a  pattern  and 
best  and  most  copious,  it  will  inevitably  present  humanity  in  conventional  forms, 
precipitate  itself  in  dramatic  intensity,  Neither  do  the  elements  of  which  they 
in  power  of  pathos  and  humor,  and  in  a  are  composed  seem  to  be  thoroughly 
multitude  of  delicate,  indirect,  unfore-  fused :  the  fabric  is  a  sort  of  rubble- 
seeable  strokes  that  make  the  characters  work ;  incidents,  bits  of  character,  opin- 
real  to  us  as  persons  whom  we  know  and  ions,  being  held  together  by  the  gen- 
who  cannot  be  duplicated.  The  require-  eral  cohesive  substance  of  the  plot,  rath- 
ments  of  this  higher  test  are  met  only  er  than  growing  organically  out  of  one 
in  a  limited  manner  by  Erckmann-Cha-  idea.  An  excellent  lecture  which  Mr. 
trian,  who,  however,  are  very  well  off  Besant  has  recently  published,  on  The 
for  inventiveness,  lucidity,  and  precision.  Art  of  Fiction,  goes  to  fortify  the  view 
Dramatic  situation  is  also  something  of  collaborative  fiction  which  I  have 
which  they  know  how  to  contrive  and  been  suggesting;  for  Mr.  Besant  main- 
carry  out ;  two  of  their  stories,  Les  tains  with  much  decision  that  the  novel-1 
Rantzau  and  Le  Juif  Polonais  (better  ist's  art  may  be  taught  to  students,  and 
known  in  P^nglish  as  The  Bells),  have  he  sets  forth  a  theory  of  the  art,  to  which 
been  successfully  transferred  to  the  he  endeavors  to  give  a  firm  and  conclu- 
stage  ;  but  they  do  not  infuse  into  their  sive  outline.  Mr.  Henry  James  has 
situations  the  dramatic  fire  which  Dick-  taken  issue  with  him,  objecting  to  def- 
ens,  with  a  less  polished  technique  than  inite  prescription  on  the  ground  that  the 
theirs,  could  command.  novel  "  in  the  broadest  definition  is  a 
The  deficiency  may  with  some  reason-  personal  impression  of  life,"  and  should 
ableness  be  attributed  to  the  necessity  therefore  be  made  so  elastic  as  to  es- 
they  are  under  of  mapping  out  a  theory  cape,  if  the  author  choose,  all  obliga- 
of  their  art,  so  minutely  defined  as  to  tion  to  impart  adventures  or  to  tell  what 
leave  small  room  for  mystery.  Formula  is  commonly  called  a  story.  For  the 


800 


Combination  Novels. 


[December, 


most  part,  writers  and  readers  still  with- 
hold assent  to  that  disbelief  in  "  story," 
which  Mr.  James  implies  and  Mr.  How- 
ells  distinctly  announces.  But,  without 
subscribing  in  the  least  to  the  new  doc- 
trine, —  which  appears  to  be  the  error 
either  of  extremists  or  of  imperfect  state- 
ment, since  its  upholders  permit  them- 
selves a  certain  amount  of  "excitement," 
adventure,  and  story,  —  one  may  easily 
see  that  Mr.  James  is  speaking  for  those 
resources  of  refined  and  complex  ex- 
pression which  widen  the  range  and  in- 
crease the  worth  of  any  artistic  work. 
That  is,  provided  the  work  also  fulfills 
the  primary  and 'essential  function  of  its 
class :  namely,  to  embody  the  truth  of 
life  in  strong  or  beautiful  forms,  and 
to  amuse  or  interest  the  reader.  Mr. 
James  may  be  too  much  emancipated 
from  the  artistic  duty  of  story-telling, 
which  the  greatest  masters  have  not 
scorned.  But  it  is  possible,  on  the  oth- 
er hand,  that  Mr.  Besant  has  bound  him- 
self fast  to  an  unalterable  notion  as  to 
how  that  duty  should  be  done :  his  the- 
ory may  be  too  cut  and  dried.  For 
our  present  purpose  it  is  enough  to  take 
his  indirectly  confirmatory  evidence  that 
collaboration  encourages  formulas  and 
theories. 

The  authors  who  have  practiced  it 
may  not  ratify  such  a  conclusion.  It 
would  be  instructive  to  have  their  opin- 
ions. But  in  fact  we  already  have  some 
of  their  testimony.  Those  who  wrote 
Six  of  One  took  pains  to  give  us,  in  one 
of  their  six  prefaces,  a  glimpse  of  the 
process  they  went  through.  "  All  I 
know,"  we  are  told,  "  is  that  it  grew, 
novel  and  plot,  much  as  I  remember  to 
have  seen  Signor  Blitz's  plates  start 
from  the  table  when  he  was  spinning 
them.  ...  If  he  saw  one  faint  and 
weary  he  encouraged  it  by  a  touch  of 
his  finger  at  the  point  of  revolution  ; 
and  when  these  three  were  happily  gy- 
rating, like  so  many  interior  planets,  he 
let  loose  in  succession  numbers  four, 
five,  and  six.  I  think  the  chief  started 


the  novel  in  much  the  same  way."  The 
similitude  is  a  very  good  one  ;  for,  in  a 
sense,  all  undertakings  of  the  kind  de- 
pend upon  what  may  be  termed  literary 
legerdemain.  It  appears  further  that 
there  was  a  "  chief  ;  "  and  we  shall  not 
go  far  wrong  if  we  say  that  of  two  col- 
laborators one  must  generally  represent 
the  active  element,  the  other  the  pas- 
sive. They  must  be  alternately  creative 
and  critical ;  one  would  be  likely  to  put 
his  strength  into  the  plot,  while  the  oth- 
er gave  form  and  color  to  the  charac- 
ters. In  this  case,  four  principals  met, 
"  possessed  themselves  mutually  of  the 
best  plot,  the  best  moral,  the  locale,  and 
the  atmosphere  of  the  story  ; "  they  also 
selected  names  for  the  personages  ;  and 
then  they  inducted  the  other  two  writ- 
ers into  the  scheme.  A  skeleton  of 
the  plot  was  made  by  the  chief,  and 
remodeled  in  conference  with  his  com- 
panions ;  and  in  this  skeleton,  which  is 
given,  we  discover  at  once  that  predom- 
inating force  of  the  mechanical  element 
already  alluded  to.  The  authors  seized 
promptly  upon  a  sharp,  distinct,  some- 
what arbitrary  plan,  resting  upon  artful 
complexities.  Attributes  were  assigned 
to  the  characters,  in  few  words,  and  the 
evolution  of  the  characters  was  conduct- 
ed upon  simple,  elementary  lines ;  so 
that,  necessarily,  the  result  gave  little 
of  the  finer  analysis  and  various  reality 
of  human  nature  which  the  best  fiction 
conveys.  Three  young  men  were  made 
to  appear  in  love  with  each  one  of  a  trio 
oj:  young  women,  successively :  influ- 
enced first  by  local  propinquity,  then  by 
accidents  of  new  association,  and  at  last, 
in  the  stress  of  a  great  emergency,  seek- 
ing each  his  true  mate.  Such  were  the 
best  plot  and  the  best  moral  of  Mr. 
Hale  and  his  coadjutors ;  and  in  the  em- 
bodiment we  see  again  the  same  gener- 
alized types,  the  same  conventional  ten- 
dency, the  same  bustling  stage  business 
of  the  story,  which  are  presented  in  the 
novels  of  Erckmann-Chatrian  and  of 
Besant  and  Rice. 


1884.] 


Combination  Novels. 


801 


The  nine  authors  of  The  Miz-Maze  story,  The  Documents  in  the  Case,  — 
likewise  act  upon  a  theory  ;  but  theirs  a  performance  which  proves  that  collab- 
relates  to  a  special  point  of  construction,  oration  may  yield  perfect  work  within 
Thinking  that  novels  in  the  form  of  let-  the  limited  field  of  construction.  But 
ters  are  generally  unsatisfactory,  they  the  authors  of  La  Croix  de  Berny,  be- 
assume  that  it  is  because  the  correspon-  sides  completing  a  beautiful  piece  of 
dence  is  conducted  by  one  writer  under  construction,  illuminated  their  pages 
different  masks  ;  and  they  accordingly  with  style  of  a  delightful  ease,  full  of 
try  the  experiment  of  giving  a  narrative  wit,  color,  incident,  and  charm.  They 
in  letters  written  by  several  hands.  We  also  chose  the  form  of  letters  ;  but  there 
need  hardly  remind  ourselves  that  the  were  just  four  personages  in  the  piece, 
theory  is  fallacious,  for  the  reason  that  and  each  writer  took  one  character, 
their  objection  applies  to  all  forms  of  Gautier  and  Madame  de  Girardin  con- 
fiction  in  which  one  writer  represents  spicuously  bore  off  the  honors  in  this 
the  various  characters  from  his  own  friendly  competition  ;  but  the  other  roles 
point  of  view.  If  the  English  ladies  were  at  least  very  well  carried  out,  and 
were  right,  single  novelists  would  have  the  whole  affair,  while  unfolding  a  sit- 
to  retire  altogether,  and  we  should  be  nation  of  strong  interest  and  passion, 
driven  to  depend  on  collaboration  solely,  never  loses  the  engaging  element  of  per- 
As  it  is,  the  nine  authors  have  written  sonality.  Tt  is  an  exceptional  achieve- 
letters  for  nineteen  imaginary  beings,  ment,  which  may  well  be  commended  to 
and  it  is  impossible  to  give  them  credit  the  study  of  the  wanderers  in  The  Miz- 
for  having  differentiated  their  fictitious  Maze. 


porrespondents,  by  markings  of  style  or 
thought,  with  even  as  much  success  as 

O          7 


Like  most  of  the  other  productions  at 
which  we  have  been  glancing,  The  King's 


single  writers  have  attained.     The  Miz-     Men  depends  largely  on  plot,  adventure, 


Maze  is  a  pleasant,  sleepy  little  English 
story   in   one    hundred    and    sixty-two 


suspense,  the  unwinding  of  "  threads ;  " 
but  it  makes  an  appeal  on  another  side, 


The  endless  subdivision  thus  entailed  is 
really  a  much  more  serious  objection  to 


chapters  ;  for   each    letter,   it  must   be  by  plunging  into  the  future,  and  treat- 
borne  in  mind,  is  virtually  a   chapter,  ing  of  events  supposed  to  have  happened 

(if  we  may  say  so)  in  the  next  century. 
Two  of  the  authors  have  been  known 
the  letter  form  than  the  one  which  our  separately  by  work  of  a  serious  pur- 
English  friends  have  raised.  Another  port ;  a  third  has  written  burlesque,  be- 
is  that  epistolary  style  in  real  life,  ex-  sides  trying  his  hand  at  a  novel  which 
cept  under  a  master's  control,  is  as  apt  offers  a  more  balanced  estimate  of  life  ; 
to  drop  into  monotonous  grooves  as  the  and  the  remaining  contributor  has  thus 
voice  is  to  fall  into  sing-song  when  a  far  limited  himself  to  the  comic  phase, 
letter  is  read  aloud ;  and  monotony  is  From  a  quartette  so  constituted  one 
therefore  risked  in  a  story  told  by  cor-  might  expect  a  mixture  such  as  they 
respondence.  Besides,  The  Miz-Maze  have  compounded.  Apparently,  they 
contains  numerous  repetitions.  A  piece  looked  upon  their  joint  proceeding  as  a 
of  family  lace  is  sold,  an  English  youth  jest,  a  sportive  exercise,  which  should 
is  imprisoned  in  Italy  ;  and  straightway  allow  them  plenty  of  range  for  irre- 
each  of  these  incidents  is  related  over  sponsible  inventions  and  humorous  ex- 
and  over,  in  half  a  dozen  letters,  notes,  travaganza ;  but  a  strain  of  greater 
or  diaries.  The  problem  has  been  han-  earnestness  asserts  itself  here  and  there, 
died  with  far  more  skill,  indeed  with  and  passages  of  some  dramatic  effective- 
much  brilliancy,  by  Mr.  Bunner  and  ness  or  sensational  interest  are 
Mr.  Brander  Matthews  in  their  short  spersed,  such  as  the  revolt  of  the  Roy- 
VOL.  LIV. — NO.  326.  51 


802 


Combination  Novels. 


[December, 


alists,  the  death  of  Dacre,  and  an  escape 
of  prisoners  from  Dartmoor.  The  fan- 
tasy of  a  British  republic,  under  the 
presidency  of  an  Irishman  and  approach- 
ing anarchy,  with  a  state  of  affairs  in 
which  the  nobility  and  gentry  are  hired 
out  as  guests  to  an  American  millionaire 
who  rents  a  great  estate  in  England,  is 
sufficiently  amusing.  Little  attempt, 
however,  is  made  to  improve  the  oppor- 
tunity which  offers  for  invention  in  de- 
picting a  stage  of  history  that  still  lies 
beyond  us.  Nor  is  the  book  open  to 
discussion  as  a  piece  of  literature.  Con- 
sidered seriously,  it  evaporates.  It  is 
simply  a  joke,  offered  to  the  public  in 
a  mood  of  light-hearted  bravado.  Our 
American  ventures  at  cooperative  writ- 
ing, in  fact,  seem  principally  to  issue 
in  skylarking  ;  for  Mr.  Hale  and  Mrs. 
Stowe's  Six  of  One  had  nothing  more 
than  a  transitory,  playful  value,  and  the 
novels  of  the  Misses  Warner  were  in- 
sufferably dull,  as  well  as  quite  devoid 
of  literary  merit.  The  single  success  of 
Messrs.  Bunner  and  Matthews  should 
here  be  excepted,  because  it  shows  — 
like  some  of  the  tales  which  they  have 
written  independently,  but  have  bound 
together  under  the  heading  In  Partner- 
ship —  a  touch  of  brilliant  lightness,  an 
exacting  artistLe  conscience,  and  minute- 
ly thorough  handling. 

It  -remains  to  ask  whether  labor  be- 
stowed upon  these  federations  of  talent 
is,  on  the  whole,  worth  while.  So  far 
as  the  playwright  is  concerned,  the  ques- 
tion would  seem  to  be  answered  by  ex- 
perience in  the  affirmative  ;  partly  be- 
cause theatrical  composition  rests  upon 
a  scheme  of  art  so  entirely  separate 
from  that  of  making  books,  and  depends 
so  much  less  on  delicate  shadings  of  lit- 
erary technique,  or  upon  the  charm  of  a 
personal  style.  But  in  respect  of  the 
novel  I  should  say  that  we  must  agree 
with  Mr.  James,  that  its  highest  claim 
upon  us  arises  from  its  being  "  a  per- 
sonal impression  of  life ;  *  and  it  is 
manifestly  not  often  that  collaborators 


can  with  justice  bring  forward  such  a 
claim.  The  Goncourts  were  altogether 
apart ;  they  constituted  an  unique  entity, 
—  a  single  soul,  as  Gautier  has  said,  in 
two  bodies.  Notwithstanding  that  their 
dates  of  birth  separated  them  by  ten 
years,  they  were  mentally  twins.  They 
lived,  thought,  worked,  walked,  studied, 
composed,  together.  Their  very  cor- 
respondence was  signed  in  conjunction, 
until  the  day  when  the  elder  brother, 
Edmond,  wrote  above  his  solitary  signa- 
ture the  heart-broken  announcement  of 
the  death  of  Jules.  Consequently,  the 
works  which  they  issued  in  company 
were  indistinguishable  from  those  which 
take  their  stamp  from  one  will,  one  im- 
pulse, one  creative  instinct.  They  re- 
vealed the  same  unpremeditated  move- 
ment and  fire  that  capture  us  by  assault 
in  the  attacks  of  a  writer  who  obeys 
only  his  own  orders.  They  took  their 
readers  by  surprise.  Erckmann  -  Cha- 
trian,  Besant  and  Rice,  are  admirable 
tacticians  ;  they  move  according  to  law, 
and  it  is  impossible  to  condemn  their 
evolutions  without  reserve ;  but  if  in 
the  end  we  gracefully  acknowledge  our- 
selves prisoners  to  their  skill,  we  have 
the  right  to  keep  our  highest  admira- 
tion for  those  who  conquer  us  by  forces 
equally  well  deployed,  but  more  impetu- 
ously launched. 

Taking  simply  the  average  outcome, 
as  it  is  permissible  to  do,  we  may  say 
that  collaborators  have  it  in  their  power 
to  fashion  adroitly  adjusted  machines 
that  run .  very  smoothly,  or  to  piece  to- 
gether mosaics  which  might  almost  be 
mistaken  for  paintings ;  but  when  we 
come  to  that,  the  veritable  painting  is 
the  more  satisfactory  —  the  masterpiece 
in  which  every  line,  every  sweep  of 
color,  is  governed  by  one  supreme  cre- 
ative consciousness.  Cooperation  will 
serve  well  so  long  as  the  aim  is  not  too 
high,  or  the  theme  too  abstruse.  It 
may  safely  be  counted  upon  where  con- 
struction is  a  main  factor,  and  where 
picturesqueness  goes  for  more  than  depth 


1884.] 


Combination  Novels. 


803 


and  breadth  of  view,  or  vigorous,  fresh 
truthfulness.  But,  in  the  end,  the  com- 
bination novel  is  made,  not  born.  It  is 
conservative  rather  than  radical  and 
progressive  ;  hence  it  must  usually  fall 
into  the  old  forms,  instead  of  expanding 
into  newer,  more  flexible  ones.  The 
problem  would  no  doubt  be  reduced  to 
greater  clearness  if  we  could  define  and 
place  beyond  the  reach  of  incertitude 
the  difference  between  old  forms  and 
new.  This  can  hardly  be  done.  We 
might  say  that  the  old  forms  are  the 
conventional  ones.  But  "  the  conven- 
tional "  changes  with  every  generation  ; 
frequently  it  changes  from  decade  to 
decade.  To  us  of  the  current  time,  how 
much  more  ancient  the  artificial  devices 
of  "  Monk  "  Lewis  and  Anne  Radclyffe 
appear  than  the  historical  romances  of 
Scott,  the  interminable  epistolary  novels 
of  Richardson,  or  the  vital  reproductions 
of  Fielding !  Yet  these  writers  last 
named  precede  Scott,  Lewis,  and  Mrs. 
Radclyffe,  chronologically. 

There  exists,  however,  one  geodetic 
point    of   observation,  from    which    we 
may  calculate  measurably  that  distance 
and    that   curvature  which  make    it  so 
hard  for  the  opposing  parties  to  see  and 
understand  one  another's  position.    Wri- 
ters who  hold  one  view  insist  that  nov- 
els should  conform  to  a  stated  system  of 
surprises,  incidents,  complications,  which 
real  life,  as  they  maintain,  continually 
discloses.     Writers    who    hold   anotner 
view  say  that  real  life  does  not  thrust 
upon  their  notice  any  system  of  occur- 
rences at  all.     Let    us,  for  an  instant, 
fall  back  upon  our  own  private  knowl- 
edge.    We    all  find    that,  occasionally, 
the  lives  of  human  beings  with  whom 
we  are    acquainted  abound   in  peculiar 
coincidences :    people    of    the    most   di- 
verse   kinds  are  brought  into  intimate 
association,    without    will    or   warning; 
one   event  that  seems  to  have   no  sig- 
nificance suddenly  exercises  control  over 
some    subsequent   occurrence.     In    this 
way  the  idea  of  a  series  grows  up :  we 


cease  to  regard  the  phenomenon  of  the 
hour  as  an  isolated  thing,  and  learn  that 
it  connects  itself  with  other  phenomena. 
Here  we  find  the  natural  origin  of  "  a 
story."    It  is  as  much  an  absolute  neces- 
sity as  the  mathematician's  series  of  num- 
bers, in  calculating  the  law  of  chances. 
No  series,  no  calculation ;  no  connection 
of  events,  no  novel.     But  within  a  few 
years  the  doctrine   has  been    advanced 
that  one  incident  is  as  good  as  another  ; 
that,  in    short,  everything  or  anything 
is  an  incident  —  a  look,  a  word,  an  in- 
tonation, the  color  of  a  flower,  the  rela- 
tive position  of  three  persons  in  a  room. 
It  is  contended  that  if  you  have  the  skill 
to  make  such  incidents  interesting,  one 
by  one,  nothing  further  should  be  de- 
manded on  the  side  of  narrative.     Con- 
nection, "  story,"  in  that  case  becomes 
wholly   useless.       This   proposition,  of 
course,  if  well  founded,  would  make  the 
novelist's  standard  very  simple.     Chil- 
dren settle  all  their  literary  preferences 
by  resolving  that  a  book  is  "interest- 
ing" or  that  it  is  not  interesting;  and 
if  such  verdicts  obtained,  a  great  many 
productions   not   now  admitted   to   the 
catalogue  would  be  registered  as  works 
of   art.     But   it   can  hardly  be  denied 
that   any   plan    of   classification    which 
should  rely  upon   the   opinion   of   any 
individual,  or  of  an  uninstructed  body, 
as  to  what   is  interesting   and  what  is 
not,  would  result  in  dire  confusion.     It 
would  not  give  us  a  comprehensive  or 
intelligent  criticism.     We   are   obliged, 
therefore,  to  conclude  that  the  man  or 
woman  who  wishes  to  reproduce  in  fic- 
tion a  large  and  responsive  likeness  of 
life  must  include,  in  the  survey  of  mun- 
dane affairs,  not  simply  a  given  number 
of    separate    occurrences,    but    likewise 
the  series  of  precedence  and  consequence 
—  in  fine,  the  "story,"  towards  which 
our  most  casual  experiences  shape  them- 
selves. 

But  there  is  something  beyond  both 
the  photographic  transcript  of  daily  oc- 
currences, and  the  plan  which  is  dis- 


804  Combination  Novels.  [December, 

cernible  in  the  relation  of  one  incident  ing  obsolete  or  adventitious,  to  remain 

to    another.     There  is   a  higher  truth,  very  contracted  in  his  view,  and  to  pre- 

including   both   of    these.      There   are  sent  a  limited,  artificial  picture  of  exist- 

eternal  laws  of  verity  and  falsehood,  of  ence. 

justice  and  of  what  we  name  injustice ;  It  is  difficult  to  understand  why  all 
and  there  is  an  abiding  design  full  of  known  or  imaginable  resources  should 
strength  and  beauty,  which  it  is  the  not  be  at  the  beck  of  the  novelist  who 
novelist's  mission  to  indicate,  though  he  wishes  to  establish,  between  his  writings 
may  not  be  able  to  define  or  explain  and  the  life  which  displays  itself  around 
it.  No  matter  what  the  incongruities,  him,  a  complete  correspondence.  And 
the  horror,  the  dissonance,  or  the  long,  not  the  least  among  such  resources  is 
weary  ague  of  disappointments  which  the  exhibition  of  a  train  of  incidents 
may  have  to  be  set  forth,  the  author  which  shall  repeat,  with  the  closest  pos- 
should  still  retain  strength  and  insight  sible  adherence  to  actuality,  the  succes- 
enough  to  throw  around  this  whole  pic-  sion  of  affairs  in  our  daily  experience, 
ture  of  human  vicissitude,  demoraliza-  Jt  is  equally  hard  to  see  why  the  novel- 
tion,  joy,  or  sorrow  some  grand,  inclu-  ist  who  rejects  that  element  of  verisi- 
sive  outline  that  shall  suggest  beauty  militude  is  not  guilty  of  narrowness 
and  harmony.  The  cadaverous  presence  and  of  a  sort  of  unfaithfulness.  Cari- 
of  death  itself  is  softened,  through  the  cature,  for  example,  is  sometimes  object- 
action  of  an  unquenchable  instinct,  by  ed  to  ;  but  why,  pray,  should  we  not 
heaps  of  flowers.  In  a  portrayal  of  employ  caricature  when  it  is  fit  ?  A 
life,  whatever  its  grimness  may  be,  we  friend  of  mine,  a  painter,  was  once  en- 
ought  at  least  to  provide  a  palliation  of  gaged  in  making  a  water-color  sketch  of 
loveliness,  and  of  the  aroma  of  hope,  as  Windsor  Castle.  He  brought  in,  from 
pronounced  as  that  which  we  accord  to  his  point  of  view,  the  Clock-Tower  ;  but 
death.  There  need  be  no  falsity  in  some  country  urchins  who  were  observ- 
making  a  design  of  this  sort :  it  simply  ing  his  work  said  to  him,  "  Why  don't 
adumbrates  the  finest  good  that  inces-  you  put  in  the  clock-face  ? '  The  rea- 
santly,  in  a  broken  way,  asserts  itself  son  why  he  did  not  put  in  the  clock-face 
amid  the  dust  and  haze  of  passing  was,  that  it  remained  quite  invisible 
events.  from  the  position  he  had  taken.  In  a 
Thus  we  apprehend  that  there  exists  like  manner,  some  critics  think  it  very 
a  very  substantial  basis  for  the  demand  strange  that  the  writer  of  fiction  should 
that  there  shall  be  an  instructive  story,  not  invariably  tell  them  all  about  the 
or  series  of  events,  culminating  in  an  other  side  of  a  character  which  it  is  in- 
intelligible  "ending."  That  sundry  tended  —  by  the  plan  of  the  composi- 
writers  have  tried  to  satisfy  such  a  de-  tion,  the  special  grouping  of  the  scene 
sire  by  crude  expedients,  or  by  formal  —  to  present  only  from  one  particular 
and  clumsy  attempts  at  "  winding  up,"  point  of  view.  Consequently,  they  find 
does  not  prove  that  the  desire  ought  not  fault  with  a  novelist  for  portraying  some 
to  be  considered  and  sincerely  ministered  characters  in  full,  and  other  characters 
to.  Those  who  fancy  that,  by  ignoring  only  on  one  side.  But  do  we  not,  in 
it,  they  are  able  to  give  a  bolder  and  real  life,  behold  people  and  things 
richer  interpretation  of  life  are  often  grouped  together  at  all  sorts  of  angles ; 
just  as  restricted  as  the  writers  who  up-  some  in  full  face,  others  in  quarter- 
hold  the  principle  of  striking,  in  their  face ;  still  others  in  profile,  or  in  some 
fiction,  a  full  chord  of  incident  and  com-  grotesque,  haphazard  obliquity  of  per- 
plex relations.  It  is  quite  possible  for  spective  ?  It  strikes  me  that  caricature 
a  novelist  who  excludes  "  story,"  as  be-  is  nothing  more  than  the  translation,  or 


1884.] 


"  These  are   Your  Brothers.' 


805 


symbol,  of  one  set  of  perfectly  normal 
perceptions.  Hence  I  conclude  that  car- 
icature, "  realism,"  literalism,  romanti- 
cism, satire,  may  all  find  a  lawful  place 
in  the  highest  type  of  novel,  provided 
that  they  are  held  in  a  judicious  and 
proportioned  control.  It  is  likely  enough 
that  the  collaborative  novel  will  not 
utilize  with  supreme  and  sensitive  mas- 
tery the  various  means  just  mentioned, 
for  the  reason  that,  as  I  have  hinted, 
it  will  generally  prefer  to  mould  itself 
upon  a  fixed  pattern.  Still,  it  may  at 
times  recognize  a  loftier  motive,  a  mis- 
sion which  it  might  fulfill.  It  is  possi- 
ble for  it  to  emphasize  the  greatest  use 
of  fiction  —  that  of  showing  the  process 
of  cause  and  effect,  through  all  the  in- 
calculable diversities  of  individual  expe- 
rience. Those  who  fervidly  declaim  for 


the  liberation  of  the  novelist's  art  from 
all  constraints  of  tradition  and  the  pop- 
ular longing  for  "  endings  "  would  per- 
haps carry  us  too  far,  if  they  had  their 
way.  A  counterbalancing  force,  there- 
fore, may  be  desirable.  The  fiction  of 
collaborators,  being  thrown  by  its  spe- 
cific weight  upon  the  conservative  side, 
could  be  made  to  supply  such  a  force. 
However,  if  it  is  to  be  effectual,  the  in- 
fluence must  be  exerted  not  hastily  nor 
in  amateur  wise,  but  with  indefatigable 
toil  towards  the  highest  goals  of  art. 
Let  us  hope  that  it  will  lend  its  aid  to 
the  augmentation  and  refining  of  that 
art  of  story-telling  without  which  the 
complete  novel  would  be  an  impossibil- 
ity, that  art  which  the  world  will  surely 
require  from  the  writers  of  the  future, 
as  it  has  from  those  of  the  past. 

George  Parsons  Lathrop. 


"THESE   ARE  YOUR   BROTHERS." 


A  WELL-KNOWN  French  man  of  let- 
ters wrote  a  book,  nearly  thirty  years 
ago,  with  the  express  object  to  "  reveal 
the  bird  a  soul,  to  show  that  it  is  a  per- 
son ; '"  in  the  hope  of  diminishing  the 
enormous  slaughter  for  purposes  of  per- 
sonal adornment,  of  ministering  to  our 
appetites,  adding  to  our  collections,  or, 
worst  of  all,  gratifying  our  love  of  mur- 
der, pure  and  simple,  by  whatever  name 
we  choose  to  dignify  the  taking  of  life 
for  our  own  amusement.  To  this  noble 
man's  effort  every  lover  of  birds,  for 
higher  uses  than  to  put  in  the  stomach 
or  on  the  shelf,  should  add  his  chronicle, 
however  unpretending. 

It  is  a  mystery  how  men  of  hearts 
tender  to  suffering  can  be  so  carried 
away  by  the  excitement  of  the  hunt  as 
to  lose  sight  of  the  terror  and  pain  of 
the  victim.  Many  hunters  have  con- 
fessed to  a  return  to  their  better  selves 
the  moment  the  chase  was  won.  In 


what  does  this  short  madness  differ  from 
the  sudden  rage  which  impels  one  to 
lift  his  hand  against  the  life  of  man, 
merely  a  (should  be)  nobler  game  ? 
It  seems  even  more  strange  that  a  gen- 
tle woman  can  endure  the  beautiful 
plumage  of  a  delicate  winged  creature, 
whose  sweet  life  of  song  and  joy  was 
rudely  cut  short  by  brutal  men  that  the 
poor  dead  body  might  shine  among  her 
laces.  For  those  who  are  willing  to 
gratify  their  palate  at  the  cost  of  so 
much  beauty  and  music  there  is  nothing 
to  be  said,  —  they  cannot  be  reached. 
Not  until  man  has  outgrown  the  bar- 
barism of  nourishing  his  body  at  the 
expense  of  his  soul  can  we  hope  to 
touch  those  who  eat  birds.  It  is  sad 
enough  to  turn  our  murderous  weapons 
against  the  gentle  ox  that  trusts  us,  the 
innocent-faced  sheep,  and  the  honest- 
eyed  calf,  but  to  rob  the  world  of  an  in- 
spiring robin  or  a  rollicking  bobolink, 


806 


"  These  are   Your  Brothers' 


[December, 


for  the  small  bits  of  flesh  under  their 
feathers,  is  too  pitiful. 

"  Open  your  eyes  to  the  evidence  " 
(says  Michelet).  "  Throw  aside  your 
prejudice,  your  traditional  and  derived 
opinions.  Dismiss  your  pride,  and  ac- 
knowledge a  kindred  in  which  there  is 
nothing  to  make  one  ashamed.  What 
are  these  ?  They  are  your  brothers." 

The  following  notes  are  based  upon 
several  years'  study  of  birds  enjoying 
the  freedom  of  a  large  room,  without 
attempting  to  tame  them,  further  than 
by  letting  alone  to  inspire  confidence 
and  dispel  fear. 

The  most  noticeable  thing  about  birds 
is  their  individuality  ;  even  those  of  the 
same  family  differ  as  greatly  as  children 
of  a  household.  One  goldfinch  that  I 
have  studied  is  a  shy,  timid  little  crea- 
ture, utterly  unresponsive  to  its  human 
neighbors,  while  another  is  the  embod- 
iment of  gayety,  brimming  over  with 
good  spirits,  and  always  ready  to  answer 
a  greeting  with  a  cheerful  "  Pick-wick." 
This  bird  is  extremely  fond  of  human 
society,  and  after  being  without  it  for 
an  hour  or  two  will  pour  out  a  torrent 
of  greetings  in  his  loudest  voice,  wrig- 
gling his  body  from  side  to  side,  as 
though  too  full  of  joy  to  keep  still. 
Even  in  times  of  adversity,  when  he  is 
moulding  (which  he  does  with  difficulty) 
and  his  wings  fail  of  their  office,  so  that 
on  setting  out  for  his  favorite  perch,  af- 
ter the  bath,  he  flies  wide  of  the  mark, 
beating  the  air  vainly,  and  at  last  flut- 
tering to  the  floor,  where  he  never  will- 
ingly goes,  —  even  then  he  will  hasten 
to  a  ladder  placed  for  him,  hop  up  round 
after  round,  stopping  now  and  then  to 
call  out  gleefully,  as  if  to  say,  "  I  'm  not 
hurt  a  bit!  I'm  all  right!"  When 
at  last  the  time  comes  that  he  does  not 
try  to  fly,  he  cheerfully  avails  himself 
of  a  series  of  perches  running  around 
the  room,  and  takes  his  exercise  as 
blithely  as  though  he  had  never  known 
wings. 

Next  neighbor  to  the  goldfinch  is  a 


cardinal  grosbeak,  a  fellow  of  different 
temperament.      He   is  a  cynic,  morose 
and  crusty.     His  world  is  hollow  and 
his  cage  is  his  castle,  which  he  declines 
to   leave   for  an    instant,  although   the 
door    stands    open   from   morning    till 
night.     Above  all  he  is  captious  on  the 
subject  of  his  rights,  and  insists  on  hav- 
ing them  respected.     To  have  a  bird 
perch  near  his  door  is  offensive  in  the 
extreme,  and  alighting  on  his  cage  is  a 
crime  which  stirs  him  to  fury.     He  de- 
spises his  restless  neighbors,  and  feels  no 
need  of  exercise  himself.     He  sits  —  not 
stands,  like  most  birds  —  on  his  chosen 
perch  hour  after  hour,  leaving  it  only 
to  eat ;  and  I  think   that   if   his    food 
were  within  reach  of  this  seat  he  would 
not  rise  half  a  dozen  times  a  day.     His 
only  recreation  is  music,  in  which  he  in- 
dulges freely ;  and  his  song  has  a  curi- 
ous quality  of  defiance  in  it,  quite  con- 
sistent with  his   character.     His   notes 
indicate  a  more  gentle   sentiment  only 
in  the  morning,  before  his  cage  is  un- 
covered and  his  churlishness  aroused  by 
the  sight  of  associates  whom  he  chooses 

O 

to  consider  foes.  At  that  charmed  hour 
he  will  favor  his  delighted  audience  of 
one  with  a  sweet  and  tender  strain,  ut- 
terly unlike  his  performance  at  any  other 
time.  A  pining  captive  is  an  unwel- 
come guest  in  this  small  bird  colony, 
and  the  cardinal  could  have  his  liberty 
at  any  moment.  But  that  is  not  his  de- 
sire. He  evidently  appreciates  the  com- 
fort of  a  cage,  is  satisfied  with  his  bill  of 
fare,  and  has  no  inclination  to  forage  for 
himself.  The  only  thing  he  wishes  is  to 
be  let  alone.  His  dream  of  happiness, 
if  put  into  words,  would,  I  think,  resem- 
ble the  ideal  of  some  of  the  human  fam- 
ily,—  a  well-appointed  house,  having 
everything  to  please  the  eye  and  gratify 
the  taste  within  and  about  it,  and  sur- 
rounded by  a  wall  unsurmountable  and 
impenetrable,  even  to  the  glances  of  the 
world  at  large. 

In  striking  contrast  with  this  uncivil 
personage  is  a  serene   and  philosophic 


1884.] 


u  These  are  Your  Brothers" 


807 


character,  partaking  neither  the  rollick- 
ing spirits  of  the  goldfinch  nor  the 
moodiness  of  the  cardinal.  The  return 
of  the  house-mistress,  after  a  week's  ab- 
sence, elicits  no  manifestations  of  joy 
from  this  bird,  as  it  does  from  all  the 
others,  including  the  cardinal.  Yet, 
though  undemonstrative,  he  is  not  with- 
out emotions.  He  will  follow  her  all 
day,  stand  for  an  hour  within  an  inch  of 
the  rocker  of  her  chair,  and  spend  half 
his  time  on  her  knee,  watching  every 
movement,  taking  occasional  lunches 
from  her  fingers,  and  not  hesitating  to 
indulge  in  a  nap  when  he  feels  so  dis- 
posed. 

The  element  of  mischief,  of  caprice, 
and  practical  joking  is  well  represented 
by  a  cat-bird ;  or  was,  until  he  grew  un- 
happy and  a  window  was  opened  to  give 
him  liberty.  No  more  tricksy  spirit 
ever  dwelt  in  human  frame :  delighting 
in  pranks,  teasing  the  smaller  birds, 
working  confusion  in  desk  drawers  or 

O 

sewing  baskets,  performing  a  war-dance, 
with  appropriate  screams,  on  top  of  the 
cardinal's  cage,  and  exulting  in  his  help- 
less frenzy.  This  bird  was  not  quite 
affectionate,  not  absolutely  trustful ;  he 
would  alight  on  my  hand  for  food,  being 
however  so  wary  and  alert  that  he  was 
as  secure  from  surprise  as  though  he 
stood  on  a  tree. 

Easy-going  amiability  is  the  promi- 
nent characteristic  of  another  goldfinch. 
He  submitted  meekly  to  the  tyranny  of 
his  cage-mate,  ate  only  when  he  had 
eaten,  bathed  only  when  he  had  finished, 
till,  growing  bold  by  success,  the  auto- 
crat waxed  domineering,  when  the  vic- 
tim suddenly  roused  himself,  became  ag- 
gressive, asserted  his  right  to  the  con- 
veniences of  the  household,  and,  as  in  hu- 
man society  under  similar  circumstances, 
carried  everything  before  him. 

The  manners  of  "  these  our  brothers  " 
are  as  individual  as  their  tempers.  Noth- 
ing is  more  impressive  than  the  dignity 
of  the  thrush  family ;  no  vulgar  haste 
or  fussiness,  no  ignoble  panic.  All  is 


tranquil  repose,  yet  without  a  symptom 
of  dullness.  A  stranger  may  approach 
a  thrush,  and  he  will  neither  flinch  nor 
fidget  until  the  observer  becomes  intru- 
sive, when  he  calmly  and  quietly  slips 
away.  Opposed  to  this  high-bred  man- 
ner is  that  of  the  redwing  blackbird,  who 
is  never  still  a  moment,  restless  and  un- 
easy to  the  last  degree ;  jumping  from 
perch  to  perch,  stretching  one  wing  and 
then  the  other,  jerking  the  tail,  craning 
the  neck,  ever  assuming  new  attitudes, 
and  showing  in  every  movement  his  un- 
quiet spirit. 

Different  from  each  of  the  above  in 
manner  is  the  cat-bird.  There  is  an 
appearance  of  grave  repose,  but  it  is 
superficial;  it  is  the  repose  of  the  air 
before  a  tornado,  of  the  volcano  before 
a  violent  eruption.  He  is  quiet,  —  he 
stands  as  still  as  a  thrush,  and  looks  one 
full  in  the  eye  ;  but  he  is  alert  to  the 
tips  of  his  toes,  and  a  slight  but  signifi- 
cant jerk  of  the  tail  shows  that  he  is 
wide  awake  and  prepared  for  instant 
movement.  Let  him  suspect  one's  in- 
tention to  be  hostile,  and  he  will  flash  out 
of  sight;  not  silently,  like  the  thrush, 
but  with  harsh  screams  that  fairly  startle 
one  with  their  violence. 

To  find  rude,  blustering,  self-assertive 
manners  we  need  go  no  farther  than 
our  city  streets,  which  the  house  spar- 
row has  made  his  own.  For  cool  impu- 
dence and  offensive  intrusion  upon  the 
rights  of  humanity  about  him  this  bird 
has  no  equal.  He  is  a  genuine  gamin, 
and  shows  the  effect  of  life  in  the  streets 
even  on  a  bird. 

Birds  not  only  cough  and  sneeze,  but 
they  dream  and  snore,  making  most  dis- 
tressing sounds,  as  if  strangling.  They 
hiccough  — a  very  droll  affair  it  is,  too, 
—  and  they  faint  away.  The  goldfinch 
spoken  of  above,  being  frightened  one 
night,  in  his  struggles  was  caught  be- 
tween the  wires,  and  gave  a  cry  like 
the  squeak  of  a  mouse  in  distress.  On 
my  hastening  to  his  release,  he  slipped 
out  into  the  room,  and  flew  wildly  about 


808 


"  These  are   Your  Brothers." 


[December, 


till  he  hit  something  and  fell  to  the  floor. 
He  was  picked  up,  and  his  fright  culmi- 
nated in  a  dead  faint.  The  little  head 
drooped,  the  body  was  limp,  apparently 
perfectly  lifeless,  and  he  was  laid  in  his 
cage,  ready  to  be  buried  in  the  morning. 
He  was  placed  carefully  on  the  breast, 
however,  and  in  a  few  minutes  he 
hopped  upon  his  perch,  shook  out  his 
ruffled  feathers,  and  composed  himself 
to  sleep. 

One  feat  sometimes  ascribed  to  man 
is  in  the  case  of  birds  a  literal  fact,  — 
they  can  sleep  with  one  eye  open.  This 
curious  habit  I  have  watched  closely, 
and  I  find  it  common  in  nearly  all  the 
varieties  I  have  been  able  to  observe. 
One  eye  will  close  sleepily,  shut  tight, 
and  appear  to  enjoy  a  good  nap,  while 
the  other  is  wide  awake  as  ever.  It  is 
not  always  the  eye  towards  the  light 
that  sleeps,  nor  is  it  invariably  the  one 
from  the  light.  The  presence  or  absence 
of  people  makes  no  difference.  I  have 
even  had  a  bird  /  stand  on  my  arm  or 
knee,  draw  up  one  leg,  and  seem  to 
sleep  soundly  with  one  eye,  while  the 
other  was  wide  open.  In  several  years' 
close  attention  I  have  been  unable  to 
find  any  cause,  either  in  the  position 
or  the  surroundings,  for  this  strange 
habit. 

No  "  set  old  woman  "  is  more  wedded 
to  her  accustomed  "  ways "  than  are 
birds  in  general  to  theirs.  Their  hours 
for  eating,  napping,  and  singing  are  as 
regular  as  ours.  So,  likewise,  are  their 
habits  in  regard  to  alighting  places,  even 
to  the  very  twig  they  select.  After  a 
week's  acquaintance  with  the  habits  of  a 
bird,  I  can  always  tell  when  something 
disturbing  has  occurred,  by  the  place  in 
which  he  is  found.  One  bird  will  make 
the  desk  his  favorite  haunt,  and  freely 
visit  tables,  the  rounds  of  chairs,  and 
the  floor,  while  another  confines  himself 
to  the  backs  of  chairs,  the  tops  of  cages 
and  picture  frames.  One  hermit  thrush 
frequented  the  bureau,  the  looking-glass 
frame,  and  the  top  of  a  cardboard  map 


which  had  warped  around  till  the  upper 
edge  was  almost  circular.  On  this  edge 
he  would  perch  for  hours,  and  twit- 
ter and  call,  but  no  other  bird  ever  ap- 
proached it.  Still  another  would  always 
select  the  door  casing  and  window  cor- 
nices. 

Every  bird  has  his  chosen  place  for 
the  night,  usually  the  highest  perch  on 
the  darkest  side  of  the  cage.  They  soon 
become  accustomed  to  the  situation  of 
the  dishes  in  their  cages,  and  plainly  re- 
sent any  change.  On  my  placing  a  drink- 
ing cup  in  a  new  part  of  the  cardinal's 
residence,  he  came  down  at  once,  scold- 
ing violently,  pretended  to  drink,  then 
looked  over  to  the  corner  where  the  wa- 
ter used  to  be,  and  renewed  his  protes- 
tations. Then  he  returned  to  the  upper 
perch,  flirting  his  tail  and  expressing  his 
mind  with  great  vigor.  A  few  minutes 
passed,  and  he  repeated  the  performance, 
keeping  it  up  with  great  excitement 
until,  to  pacify  him,  I  replaced  the  cup. 
He  at  once  retired  to  his  usual  seat, 
smoothed  his  roughened  plumage,  and 
in  a  few  moments  began  to  sing.  A 
dress  of  new  color  on  their  mistress 
makes  great  commotion  among  these 
close  observers,  and  the  moving  about 
of  furniture  puts  the  tamest  one  in  a 
panic. 

"  Besides  song,"  says  Michelet,  "  the 
bird  has  many  other  languages.  Like 
men,  he  prattles,  recites,  and  converses." 
The  subject  of  birds'  language  is  one  of 
great  interest,  and  I  have  studied  it  very 
closely.  I  notice  that  all  the  birds  un- 
derstand certain  sounds  made  by  any 
one  of  them,  even  by  sparrows  outside, 
—  a  cry  of  distress,  any  excitement,  calls 
for  food,  and  especially  an  expression 
of  dislike  for  another's  song  ;  but  I  have 
never  seen  any  appearance  of  talk  ex- 
cept between  those  of  the  same  family. 
Two  goldfinches  keep  up  a  continual 
chatter,  with  distinctly  different  tones 
for  different  occasions,  as  when  a  fly 
alights  on  the  window  near  them,  or  a 
neighboring  bird  makes  any  uncommon 


1884.] 


"  These  are   Your  Brothers." 


809 


movement.  They  never  talk  at  the  same 
time,  although  they  often  sing  together, 
and  one  is  much  more  talkative  than  the 
other.  Sometimes  their  notes  are  low 
and  their  manner  indifferent,  as  if  the 
talk  were  mere  desultory  chat ;  but  if 
anything  occurs  of  interest  in  their  small 
world  the  tones  become  animated,  and 
in  times  of  excitement  their  voices  are 
raised  almost  to  shrieks.  After  a  quar- 
rel, moreover,  there  is  no  more  exchange 
of  opinion  for  a  long  time.  Further 
than  this,  I  have  experimented  by  tak- 
ing one  from  the  room,  when  invariably 
all  talk  ceased.  I  have  never  known 
one  to  make  the  peculiar  sounds  I  have 
called  "  talk "  when  the  other  was  not 
in  the  room.  Robins  notoriously  talk 
together,  and  when  one  intrudes  upon 
their  neighborhood  he  can  almost  trans- 
late into  English  their  low  words  of 
warning  and  caution,  and  their  observa- 
tions upon  his  movements.  Who  that 
has  ever  lain  on  his  back  in  the  hay, 
and  watched  the  barn  swallows  as  they 
come  to  their  nest  and  perch  on  the 
great  beam  to  dress  their  feathers,  and 
perhaps  give  their  quaint  little  song  be- 
fore setting  out  again,  but  is  convinced 
that  they  are  great  chatterers !  Indeed, 
one  can  hear  them,  as  they  fly  through 
the  air,  not  only  calling  to  each  other, 
but  exchanging  remarks,  which  is  quite 
different. 

To  one  who  has  watched  birds  it  is 
plain  that  they  are  fond  of  play.  A 
bit  of  string  will  often  amuse  one  for  a 
long  time:  he  will  jump  sideways  and 
drag  it  about  in  a  very  droll  way,  beat 
it  on  the  floor,  fly  away  with  it,  and  in 
other  ways  enjoy  it.  A  marble,  or  any- 
thing that  rolls,  will  sometimes  answer 
the  same  purpose.  A  mocking-bird  de- 
lighted in  a  grass  stalk  with  the  seeds 
on.  He  would  grasp  it  in  the  middle, 
hop  all  about  his  cage,  lay  it  carefully 
down  in  one  place,  leave  it,  and  then 
return  and  take  it  up  again.  He  would 
entertain  himself  a  half  hour  at  a  time 
in  this  manner.  A  cat-bird  was  partic- 


ularly pleased  with  a  handkerchief.  If 
one  fell  to  the  floor  he  was  after  it  in  an 
instant,  jerking  it  over  the  carpet  and 
enjoying  himself  greatly.  Another  bird 
made  himself  happy  by  swinging  on  a 
spring  perch,  jumping  back  and  forth, 
and  seeming  to  like  the  motion.  The 
desire  for  amusement  is  also  shown  by 
a  habit  of  throwing  things  down  to  see 
them  drop.  Several  birds  have  liked  to 
throw  pins  from  the  cushion,  and  look 
over  to  observe  the  fall ;  and  a  cat-bird 
never  came  near  a  spool  without  push- 
ing it  over,  rolling  it  to  the  edge  of  desk 
or  table,  and  noticing  the  result  with 
interest.  This  is  true  not  only  of  birds 
in  a  house,  which  may  be  supposed  spe- 
cially in  need  of  something  to  pass  away 
the  hours,  but  I  have  seen  sparrows 
amuse  themselves  in  the  same  way, 
throwing  small  objects  —  leaf  stems,  I 
think  —  from  a  roof,  and  looking  over 
to  see  them  flutter  to  the  ground. 

One  bird  diverted  himself  after  the 
manner  of  a  "  sportsman  '  hunting  a 
fox,  by  chasing  smaller  birds  from  one 
side  of  a  room  to  the  other,  and  the  more 
frightened  he  could  make  them  the 
more  he  exulted  in  the  "  sport."  He 
would  also  run  the  length  of  a  cornice 
in  a  panic-stricken  way,  as  though  sud- 
denly gone  mad,  stop  short  at  the  last 
inch,  turn  instantly,  and  repeat  the  per- 
formance, and  he  would  keep  it  up  for 
an  hour.  The  fun  of  another,  a  gold- 
finch, consisted  in  turning  "  back  sum- 
mersets." He  would  hang,  head  down- 
ward, from  the  roof  of  his  cage,  walk 
about  in  that  position,  using  his  bill  to 
help,  like  a  parrot,  and  at  last  give  a 
backward  spring,  turn  completely  over, 
and  land  on  the  floor  of  the  cage.  His 
cage  mate  did  not  approve  of  this  sort 
of  frolic,  and  after  mildly  expressing  his 
opinions  once  or  twice  he  put  an  end 
to  the  gymnastics  by  a  sharp  reproof, 
accompanied  by  a  twitch  of  one  of  the 
offender's  feathers. 

Most  birds  take  deep  interest  in  things 
going  on  about  them,  as  any  one  who  has 


810 


"  These  are   Your  Brothers." 


[December, 


watched  them,  wild  or  tame,  must  know. 
I  have  seen  a  swallow  hover  like  a  great 
humming-bird  before  a  stranger,  to  sat- 
isfy his  curiosity  regarding  him.  Noth- 
ing shows  difference  of  character  more 
plainly  than  the  various  ways  of  grati- 
fying curiosity.  One  is  very  cautious, 
and  circles  around  a  new  object  a  long 
time  before  touching  it,  while  another 
flies  directly  to  the  spot,  and  pounces 
upon  it  or  tries  it  with  the  bill  at  once. 
Many  birds  are  fond  of  looking  at  things 
outside  the  window,  carriages,  people, 
sparrows  flying  about,  and  falling  snow 
or  rain,  while  the  appearance  of  a  boy's 
kite  in  the  air  never  fails  to  put  the 
whole  roomful  in  a  fright. 

Especially  are  birds  interested  in  oth- 
ers of  their  kind,  and  they  are  generally 
ready  to  help  with  their  presence  arid 
advice,  if  nothing  else.  A  cry  of  dis- 
tress will  bring  sympathizers  from  every 
quarter,  and  during  several  sparrow 
broils  I  have  noticed  there  has  always 
been  an  audience,  all  talking,  —  giving 
advice,  no  doubt,  —  and  many  ready  to 
take  a  hand  in  any  sort  of  scrimmage. 
Robins,  too,  rush  in  crowds  to  the  as- 
sistance of  their  neighbors. 

Birds  show  a  love  of  teasing  in  sev- 
eral ways,  the  most  common  being  to 
display  contempt  for  another's  song. 
One  of  my  goldfinches  will  assume  the 
most  indifferent  air  when  the  other  be- 
gins to  sing ;  moving  to  the  farther  end 
of  the  long  perch,  puffing  himself  out, 
and  ostentatiously  getting  ready  for  a 
nap.  The  singer  never  fails  to  notice 
the  offense  at  once,  and  follows  up  his 
tormentor,  singing  somewhat  louder,  till 
the  naughty  fellow  deliberately  puts  his 
head  under  his  feathers  as  if  to  sleep, 
when  the  voice  rises  to  a  positive  shriek, 
and  the  offended  bird  stretches  himself 
up  tall,  and  towers  above  his  sleepy  com- 
rade as  though  he  would  devour  him. 

The  coolest  insult  I  ever  saw  is  often 
paid  by  a  goldfinch  to  a  cardinal  as  big 
as  half  a  dozen  of  himself.  He  insisted 
upon  alighting  upon  the  cardinal's  cage 


to  shake  himself  after  bathing,  and  in 
spite  of  hard  words  from  the  owner, 
kept  up  the  custom  until  sundry  nips  of 
his  toes  convinced  the  saucy  goldfinch 
that  it  was  not  a  good  place  to  dry 
himself.  Since  then  he  perches  close  to 
the  door  of  his  crusty  neighbor  to  sing, 
edging  as  near  as  he  can,  and  singing 
his  loudest.  The  cardinal  expresses  dis- 
approval by  sharp  "  Trip's  ?"  and  other 
sounds,  but  when  he  becomes  too  en- 
raged to  contain  himself  he  sings  !  It 

o  o 

is  certainly  a  strange  way  of  showing 
anger.  He  puffs  out  his  feathers,  holds 
his  quivering  wings  a  little  away  from 
his  sides,  erects  his  crest,  and  sways  his 
body  like  a  Chinese  mandarin  in  the 
tea  shops,  only  from  side  to  side,  sing- 
ing all  the  time  at  the  top  of  his  voice. 

The  goldfinch  understands  the  mean- 
ing of  this  demonstration,  and  it  really 
seems  to  awe  him,  for  as  long  as  the 
cardinal  continues  it  he  stands  meek  and 
silent.  Although  fearing  it  would  be 
useless,  I  on  one  occasion  fastened  open 
the  door  of  the  angry  bird's  cage,  to  put 
him  on  more  equal  terms  with  his  small 
foe.  But  so  far  from  helping  matters, 
the  goldfinch  became  more  saucy  than 
before,  even  venturing  into  the  enemy's 
cage  for  hempseed  which  he  spied  upon 
the  floor.  The  cardinal  hurried  down 
when  he  saw  this  ;  but  the  smaller  bird 
was  so  quick  in  his  movements  that  he 
could  go  in,  snatch  a  seed,  and  be  out 
before  his  clumsy  adversary  reached 
him.  Once  outside,  where  he  knew  per- 
fectly well  he  would  not  be  followed 
by  the  irate  proprietor,  the  small  rogue 
stood  on  a  perch  not  two  inches  from 
the  open  door,  calmly  cracked  and  ate 
his  seed,  and  then  waited  for  another 
chance  to  make  a  raid  upon  the  coveted 
stores. 

No  one  who  has  kept  several  birds 
needs  to  be  told  of  their  jealousy.  In 
spite  of  infinite  pains  and  redoubled  at- 
tentions to  the  older  resident,  I  have 
been  pained  to  see  the  feeling  towards 
a  new-comer  cause  unhappiness,  even 


1884.] 


"  These  are   Your  Brothers." 


811 


misery,  and  in  one  case  a  permanent 
souring  of  temper. 

It  is  curious  to  see  a  bird  show  rage. 
Besides  the  singing  already  spoken  of, 
the  cardinal  sometimes  displays  it  in 
another  way.  He  will  perch  as  near  as 
possible  to  the  wires  which  separate  him 
from  the  goldfinch ;  raise  the  feathers 
of  his  neck  all  around,  till  they  look 
like  a  ruff ;  lean  his  head  far  over  one 
side,  with  crest  down,  eyes  fixed  on  the 
enemy,  and  one  wing  quivering.  This 
attitude  of  speechless  wrath  seems  to  im- 
press the  goldfinch  for  a  moment,  but  at 
last  he  takes  courage  and  begins  to  sing, 
low  at  first,  but  gradually  louder,  till 
almost  shrieking,  while  his  own  wings 
droop  and  quiver,  and  he  edges  nearer 
and  nearer  to  his  insulter,  until  his 
swelling  body  fairly  touches  the  wires. 
Meanwhile,  upon  the  opening  of  the 
song  the  cardinal  scolds  his  harshest, 
and  when  the  goldfinch  touches  his  wires 
he  gives  a  vicious  dig  into  his  rice,  which 
sends  a  volley  flying,  and  seizes  a  wire 
in  his  bill  as  though  he  would  bite  it 

o 

off.  Yet  he  will  not  avail  himself  of  his 
open  door.  The  native  thrush  alone, 
of  all  the  birds  I  have  watched,  fails  to 
display  temper.  I  never  saw  one  angry. 

There  is  great  difference  in  the  gen- 
eral intelligence  of  birds,  and  so  far 
in  my  studies  I  have  found  the  larger 
ones  on  a  higher  grade  in  this  respect. 
The  robin,  cat -bird,  thrush,  learn  the 
intentions  of  the  various  members  of  a 
family  towards  them  much  more  quick- 
ly than  those  that  are  smaller.  These 
birds  soon  confide  in  me,  let  me  do  any- 
thing I  like  about  their  cages  without 
a  flutter,  while  the  goldfinches,  though 
the  oldest  residents  and  very  familiar 
at  a  distance,  and  a  linnet  and  a  chip- 
ping sparrow  are  frightened  if  I  touch 
the  cage. 

That  birds  show  selfishness  I  am 
obliged  to  admit.  Any  dainty  put  into 
the  cage  of  one  arouses  the  interest  of  all, 
and  a  big  bird  hovering  in  the  air  be- 
fore a  neighbor's  residence,  to  discover 


if  his  grape  or  bit  of  apple  is  better 
than  his  own,  is  a  queer  sight.  A  bunch 
of  fresh  leaves  in  the  goldfinch  cage 
makes  an  excitement  that  would  be 
funny,  except  that  it  is  painful  to  see 
this  ignoble  passion  so  strong.  To  avoid 
trouble  I  always  put  in  two  bunches,  one 
at  each  end  of  the  longest  perch.  Nei- 
ther bird  can  settle  to  one  bunch  lest 
the  other  is  better,  and  so  they  vibrate 
between  the  two,  till  the  whole  is  eaten. 
Even  the  gentle  thrush  so  dislikes  see- 
ing others  possessed  of  plantain  leaves 
that  he  will  snatch  away  from  another's 
cage  any  leaf  that  he  can  reach  from 
the  outside.  He  is  very  dexterous,  too, 
flying  up  and  seizing  the  protruding 
stem  without  alighting. 

Birds  are  as  prone  as  children  to 
imitate  what  they  see  others  do.  I 
have  noticed  them  particularly  in  the 
matter  of  bathing.  I  have  one  bird  that 
never  really  bathed  till  he  learned  by 
seeing  another.  He  simply  "  washed 
his  face,"  and  then  passed  half  an  hour 
arranging  his  feathers.  But  when  a 
companion  was  put  into  his  cage  who 
greatly  enjoyed  the  bath,  going  in  all 
over  and  splashing  violently,  he  stood 
and  watched  the  proceeding  with  great 
interest,  came  on  to  the  perch  nearest 
the  bathing  dish,  looked  on  earnestly, 
and  seemed  to  be  amazed.  Two  or  three- 
days  this  went  on,  his  interest  in  the 
thing  not  diminishing  ;  and  at  last,  after 
circling  many  times  around  the  pan  in 
an  undecided  way,  dreading  yet  wish- 
ing to  make  the  plunge,  he  finally  got 
up  his  courage  and  jumped  into  the  mid- 
dle, —  it  was  a  shallow  pan  with  one 
inch  of  water.  Even  then  he  hesitated, 
looked  over  to  me,  and  called  out  gayly 
as  though  to  say,  "See  what  I  've  done ! ' 
I  answered,  and  in  a  few  moments  'he 
dipped  his  head  and  began  to  spatter.  It 
was  evidently  a  new  experience,  and  he 
called  to  me  again  and  again,  and  was 
so  delighted  that  it  was  charming  to 
see.  Never  since  that  day  has  he  neg- 
lected the  bath,  and  he  often  gets  so  wet 


812 


Among  the  Redwoods. 


[December, 


that  he  cannot  fly  to  his  cage,  four  feet 
above,  till  he  has  shaken  himself  out. 

Now,  at  this  hour  of  noon,  all  four 
birds  are  sitting  quietly  on  their  perches, 
indulging  in  their  accustomed  midday 
siesta.  Suddenly  the  goldfinch  utters  in 
soft  undertone,  "  Seep  ! "  There  is  no 
reply,  and  after  a  moment  he  speaks 
again,  a  little  louder :  "  Peep  !  peep  ! ' 
Across  the  window  the  cardinal,  sitting 
motionless  on  his  perch,  now  adds  his 
voice  in  a  low  call,  followed  soon  by  a 
loud  "  Three  cheers  !  three  cheers  !  ' 
The  thrush,  on  the  other  side  of  the 
room,  next  strikes  in  gently,  a  genuine 
whisper  song,  keeping  his  eye  on  me  to 
see  if  I  observe  him.  And  at  last  comes 
the  blackbird,  with  loud,  clear  "  Conk-a- 
ree !  "  and  all  four  are  singing  like  mad. 
Then  suddenly  they  drop  to  silence. 
The  cardinal  goes  down  for  a  lunch  of 
rice  ;  the  thrush  stands  swelled  out, 
motionless,  on  his  perch ;  the  blackbird 


interests  himself  in  the  state  of  his  feet 
and  in  stretching  his  wings ;  and  the 
goldfinch  plumes  his  feathers.  When 
all  these  duties  are  performed  and  the 
cardinal  has  settled  himself  once  more, 
there  is  a  pause  of  a  few  moments,  and 
the  concert  begins  again  in  the  same 
way. 

Let  me  close  with  the  sentiment  of 
Emerson  upon  the  bird  :  — 

"  In  ignorant  ages  it  was  common  to 
vaunt  the  human  superiority  by  under- 
rating the  instinct  of  other  animals,  but 
a  better  discernment  finds  that  the  dif- 
ference is  only  of  less  and  more.  Ex- 
periment shows  that  the  bird  and  the 
dog  reason  as  the  hunter  does  ;  that  all 
the  animals  show  the  same  good  sense 
in  their  humble  walk  that  the  man  who 
is  their  enemy  or  friend  does,  and  if  it 
be  in  smaller  measure,  yet  it  is  not  di- 
minished, as  his  often  is,  by  freak  and 
folly." 

Olive  Thome  Miller. 


AMONG  THE  REDWOODS. 

FAREWELL  to  such  a  world  !     Too  long  I  press 
The  crowded  pavement  with  unwilling  feet. 

Pity  makes  pride,  and  hate  breeds  hatefulness, 
And  both  are  poisons.     In  the  forest,  sweet 

The  shade,  the  peace !     Immensity,  that  seems 

To  drown  the  human  life  of  doubts  and  dreams. 

Far  off  the  massive  portals  of  the  wood, 
Buttressed  with  shadow,  misty-blue,  serene, 

Waited  my  coming.     Speedily  I  stood 

Where  the  dun  wall  rose  roofed  in  plumy  green. 

Dare  one  go  in  ?  —  Glance  backward  !     Dusk  as  night 

Each  column,  fringed  with  sprays  of  amber  light. 

Let  me,  along  this  fallen  bole,  at  rest, 

Turn  to  the  cool,  dim  roof  my  glowing  face. 

Delicious  dark  on  weary  eyelids  prest ! 
Enormous  solitude  of  silent  space, 

But  for  a  low  and  thunderous  ocean  sound, 

Too  far  to  hear,  felt  thrilling  through  the  ground. 


1884.]  Among  the  Redwoods.  813 

No  stir  nor  call  the  sacred  hush  profanes  ; 

Save  when  from  some  bare  tree-top,  far  on  high, 
Fierce  disputations  of  the  clamorous  cranes 

Fall  muffled,  as  from  out  the  upper  sky. 
So  still,  one  dreads  to  wake  the  dreaming  air, 
Breaks  a  twig  softly,  moves  the  foot  with  care. 

The  hollow  dome  is  green  with  empty  shade, 
Struck  through  with  slanted  shafts  of  afternoon  ; 

Aloft,  a  little  rift  of  blue  is  made, 

Where  slips  a  ghost  that  last  night  was  the  moon ; 

Beside  its  pearl  a  sea-cloud  stays  its  wing, 

Beneath  a  tilted  hawk  is  balancing. 

The  heart  feels  not  in  every  time  and  mood 

What  is  around  it.     Dull  as  any  stone 
I  lay  ;  then,  like  a  darkening  dream,  the  wood 

Grew  Karnak's  temple,  where  I  breathed  alone 
In  the  awed  air  strange  incense,  and  uprose 
Dim,  monstrous  columns  in  their  dread  repose. 

The  mind  not  always  sees ;    but  if  there  shine 

A  bit  of  fern-lace  bending  over  moss, 
A  silky  glint  that  rides  a  spider-line, 

On  a  trefoil  two  shadow-spears  that  cross, 
Three  grasses  that  toss  up  their  nodding  heads, 
With  spring  and  curve  like  clustered  fountain-threads, — 

Suddenly,  through  side  windows  of  the  eye, 
Deep  solitudes,  where  never  souls  have  met ; 

Vast  spaces,  forest  corridors  that  lie 
In  a  mysterious  world,  unpeopled  yet. 

Because  the  outward  eye  elsewhere  was  caught, 

The  awfulness  and  wonder  come  unsought. 

If  death  be  but  resolving  back  again 

Into  the  world's  deep  soul,  this  is  a  kind 
Of  quiet,  happy  death,  untouched  of  pain 

Or  sharp  reluctance.     For  I  feel  my  mind 
Is  interfused  with  all  I  hear  and  see  ; 
As  much  a  part  of  All  as  cloud  or  tree. 

Listen  !     A  deep  and  solemn  wind  on  high ; 

The  shafts  of  shining  dust  shift  to  and  fro; 
The  columned  trees  sway  imperceptibly, 

And  creak  as  mighty  masts  when  trade-winds  blow. 
The  cloudy  sails  are  set;  the  earth-ship  swings 

Along  the*  sea  of  space  to  grander  things. 

E.  R,  SiU. 


814 


Poes  Legendary  Years. 


[December, 


FOE'S   LEGENDARY   YEARS. 


THE  Legend  of  Edgar  Allan  Poe 
would  not  be  an  inappropriate  title  for 
bis  biography.  The  most  striking  of  the 
few  things  that  the  narratives  of  Poe's 
life  have  in  common  is  a  mythological 
strain,  as  if  some  subtle  influence  were 
at  work  in  the  minds  of  men  to  trans- 
form his  career  into  a  story  stranger 
than  truth,  and  to  make  his  memory  a 
mere  tradition.  It  appears  in  that  first 
newspaper  article  which  Griswold  wrote 
before  the  earth  had  chilled  the  body 
of  the  dead  poet :  — 

"  He  walked  the  streets,  in  madness 
or  melancholy,  with  lips  moving  in  in- 
distinct curses,  or  with  eyes  upturned  in 
passionate  prayer  for  their  happiness 
who  at  the  moment  were  objects  of  his 
idolatry ;  or  with  his  glances  introverted 
to  a  heart  gnawed  with  anguish  and 
with  a  face  shrouded  in  gloom,  he  would 
brave  the  wildest  storms,  and  all  night, 
with  drenched  garments  and  arms  beat- 
ing the  winds  and  rains,  would  speak  as 
if  to  spirits  that  at  such  times  only  could 
be  evoked  by  him  from  the  Aidenn." 

It  is  as  plain  to  be  seen  in  Baude- 
laire's declamatory  eulogy  over  him  as 
the  martyr  of  a  raw  democracy.  In 
Gilfillan  he  is  the  archangel  ruined ;  in 
Ingram  he  is  the  ruined  archangel  re- 
habilitated ;  in  all  the  biographies  there 
is  a  demoniac  element,  as  if  Poe,  who 
nevertheless  was  a  man  and  an  Ameri- 
can, were  a  creature  of  his  own  fancy. 
This  change  which  is  worked  upon  Poe's 
human  nature  by  the  lurid  reflection  of 
his  imagination  is  almost  justifiable,  since 
the  true  impression  of  him  must  be  not 
only  of  a  man  who  ate,  slept,  and  put  on 
his  clothes,  but  of  a  genius  as  well,  whose 
significant  life  was  thought.  In  the  leg- 
end of  him,  however,  there  is  also  a  ro- 
mantic element,  not  springing  from  any 
idiosyncrasy  of  his  own  character,  but 
purely  literary,  historic;  belonging  to 


the  time  when  our  fathers  wore  Byron 
collars  and  were  on  fire  for  adventure 
in  the  corsair  line,  and  all  for  dying  in 
the  sere  and  yellow  leaf  of  their  thirty- 
sixth  year.  Thus,  in  what  would  sen- 
timentally be  called  his  Wanderjahrc, 
Poe  is  represented  as  a  young  Giaour  in 
Greece,  or  as  a  Don  Juan  in  some  French 
provincial  town ;  but  always  as  a  scape- 
grace of  the  transcendent  order,  impet- 
uous, chivalric,  unfortunate,  —  in  a  word, 
Byronic. 

It  is  an  amiable  human  weakness  to 
believe  those  we  love  better  than  they 
are  ;  and  he,  even  the  humblest  of  us, 
who  has  not  profited  by  such  fond  idol- 
atry must  be  a  very  pitiable  creature. 
The  idealization  of  the  illustrious  dead 
is  wrought  similarly,  though  rather  by 
the  imagination  than  the  heart ;  and  this 
refining  and  exalting  power  is  a  great 
privilege  of  our  nature,  for  it  strength- 
ens and  supports  our  faith  in  perfection, 
and  brings  a  light  of  promise  on  our 
own  lives.  Of  old,  Hercules  and  Per- 
seus, Roland  and  St.  Francis,  were  gold- 
en names  on  the  lips  of  youth,  and  the 
modern  age  has  not  been  a  mean  heir  of 
history.  There  is  a  light  round  Shelley's 
head  that  any  saint,  the  noblest  and 
purest  in  the  calendar,  might  righteously 
envy.  No  man  would  deny  to  Poe  the 
honor  or  affection  won  by  his  manhood 
or  his  genius,  if,  in  however  less  a  de- 
gree, his  purpose  was  of  the  same  high 
kind.  Nay,  if  the  memory  that  gathers 
about  his  name  were  merely  picturesque, 
were  that  of  a  boy-Byron,  who  rode  on 
until  he  drank  waters  of  Marah  quite 
different  from  those  mock  ones  for  which 
the  noble  lord  found  hock  and  soda  a 
sufficient  remedy,  we  would  welcome  the 
romance  and  regret  the  sorrow  of  it,  and 
never  disturb  the  tradition  of  a  fine  folly. 
Let  the  myth  increase  and  flourish  if  the 
root  be  sound  and  the  flower  sweet,  and 


1884.] 


Poe's  Legendary   Years. 


815 


let  a  leaf  from  it  decorate  our  sober  an- 
nals ;  but  if  the  bloom  be  fleurs  du  mat, 
and  the  root  a  falsehood,  let  us  keep 
our  literary  history  plain  and  unadorned, 
raw  democracy  though  we  be.  In  the 
worship  of  genius,  we  know,  as  in  that 
of  the  gods,  there  springs  up  now  and 
then  a  degraded  cult. 

"  In  a  biography,"  wrote  Poe,  "  the 
truth  is  everything  ; "  but  he  was  think- 
ing of  other  people's  biographies.  The 
speediest  discovery  that  a  student  of  his 
life  makes  is  that  Poe  was  his  own 
myth-maker.  He  had  a  habit  of  se- 

V 

crecy,  and  on  occasion  he  could  render 
silence  more  sure  by  a  misleading  word. 
Thus  it  happens  that  in  the  various  ver- 
sions of  his  story  the  incidents  seem  to 
share  in  the  legendary  character  of  the 
hero.     The  record  belongs,  one  would 
say,  to   that  early  period  of   literature 
when   our  ancestors  first   termed  biog- 
raphies Veracious  Hystories.    The  three 
white  stones  of  life,  even,  —  birth,  mar- 
riage, and  death,  —  are,  in  Poe's  case, 
graven  with  different  dates ;  the  first  bear- 
ing four  from  his  own  hand,  to  which  Mr. 
E.  H.  Stoddard  has    thoughtfully  con- 
tributed a  fifth.     The  most  obscure  pe- 
riod, however,  extends  from  the  Christ- 
mas holidays  of  1826,  when  he  was  just 
under  eighteen  years  old,  to  the  fall  of 
1833,  when  Kennedy  found  him  starv- 
ing  in    Baltimore.     During    this    time, 
from  July  1,  1830,  to  March  7,   1831, 
he  was  in  the  light  of  day  at  West  Point. 
To  the  remainder  of  the  period  on  each 
side  of  his  cadet  life  the  romantic  ele- 
ment in  his  myth  belongs,  and  to  it  this 
paper  will  be  devoted  in  order  to  eluci- 
date somewhat  more  in  detail  than  was 
possible  in  a  limited  volume  the  facts  of 
his  career. 

Poe  left  his  home  at  Mr.  Allan's  in 
the  beginning  of  1827,  and  he  entered 
West  Point  in  July,  1830.  The  story 
which  was  accredited  throughout  his 
lifetime  as  a  true  account  of  his  doings 
during  the  intervening  years  first  ap- 
peared in  print  in  the  sketch  of  him  in- 


cluded in  Griswold's  Poets  and  Poetry 
of  America,  published  in  1842,  the  ma- 
terials for  which,  Griswold  said,  were 
furnished  by  Poe  himself.  It  was  as 
follows  :  — 

"  Mr.  Allan  refused  to  pay  some  of 
his  [Poe's]  debts  of  honour.  He  hastily 
quitted  the  country  on  a  Quixotic  ex- 
pedition to  join  the  Greeks,  then  strug- 
gling for  liberty.  He 'did  not  reach  his 
original  destination,  however,  but  made 
his  way  to  St.  Petersburg,  in  Russia, 
where  he  became  involved  in  difficulties, 
from  which  he  was  extricated  by  the 
late  Mr.  Henry  Middleton,  the  American 
minister  at  that  capital.  He  returned 
home  in  1829,  and  immediately  after- 
ward entered  the  military  academy  at 
West  Point." 

The  next  year,  H.  B.  Hirst,  a  young 
Philadelphia  poet,  repeated  this  state- 
ment in  a  more  extended  sketch  of  Poe : 

"  With  a  young  friend,  Ebenezer  Bur- 
ling, he  endeavored    to  make  his  way, 
with  scarcely  a  dollar  in  his  pocket,  to 
Greece,  with  the  wild  design  of  aiding 
in    the   revolution    then    taking   place. 
Burling   soon   repented   his   folly,   and 
gave  up  the  design  when  he  had  scarce- 
ly entered  on  the  expedition.     Mr.  Poe 
persevered,  but  did  not  succeed  in  reach- 
ing the   scene   of   action ;    he  proceed- 
ed, however,  to  St.  Petersburg,  where 
through  deficiency  of   passport,  he  be- 
came involved  in  serious  difficulties,  from 
which  he  was  finally  extricated  by  the 
American  consul.    He  returned  to  Amer- 
ica, only  in  time  to  learn  the  severe  ill- 
ness of  Mrs.  Allan,  who,  in  character, 
was   the  reverse   of   her  husband,  and 
whom  he  sincerely  loved.     He  reached 
Richmond  on  the  night  after  her  burial." 
This  was  published  in  the  Philadel- 
phia Saturday  Museum,  with  which  Poe 
then  had  close  connections,  and  the  arti- 
cle was  written  for  the  express  purpose 
of  advancing  a  scheme  which  he  had  in 
hand,  in  partnership  with  the  owner  of 
this  newspaper,  to  establish  a  new  peri- 
odical.    Poe  sent  the  sketch  to  Lowell 


816 


Poe's  Legendary   Years. 


[December, 


a  year  later  as  authority  for  a  new  life 
which  the  latter  was  to  prepare  for  Gra- 
ham's Magazine,  and  wrote  that  Hirst 
had  obtained  his  information  from  Mr. 
T.  W.  White,  owner  of  the  Southern 
Literary  Messenger,  and  Mr.  F.  W. 
Thomas,  a  litterateur,  both  intimates  of 
Poe ;  and  he  added  that  he  believed  it 
was  "  correct  in  the  main."  Lowell 
therefore  introduced  the  story  as  here 
told  into  his  own  article,  and  sent  it  to 
Poe,  who  revised  it  with  his  own  hand 
and  forwarded  it  to  Graham's,  where  it 
appeared  in  February,  1845.  Griswold 
naturally  embodied  the  reiterated  and 
un contradicted  account  in  his  Memoir 
after  Poe's  death. 

This,  however,  was  the  established 
version  long  before  1842.  A  gentleman 
who  saw  Poe  last  at  some  time  earlier 
than  1831,  at  Baltimore,  writes  to  me, 
"  I  remember  he  told  me  he  had  left 
Richmond  in  a  coal  vessel,  and  made  his 
way  to  Europe,  to  Russia."  Allan  B. 
Magruder,  Esq.,  who  was  with  him  at 
West  Point,  also  writes,  "  I  am  unable 
to  remember  whether  I  derived  the  in- 
formation I  gave  you  in  a  former  letter, 
as  to  Poe's  rambles  in  the  East  and  his 
whaling  voyage  before  the  mast,  from 
Poe  himself  while  a  classmate  at  West 
Point,  or  from  some  mutual  friend  who 
received  the  account  from  him.  I  cer- 
tainly learned  it  while  he  was  at  the 
military  academy."  Mr.  Magruder  goes 
on  to  give  the  story  then  current  as 
follows :  "  He  made  a  voyage  to  sea  on 
some  merchant  vessel,  before  the  mast. 
Finding  himself  in  the  Mediterranean, 
he  debarked  at  some  Eastern  port,  and 
penetrated  into  Egypt  and  Arabia.  Re- 
turning to  the  United  States,  he  enlisted 
as  a  private  in  the  United  States  army 
at  Fortress  Monroe.  After  some  months' 
service  his  whereabouts  and  position  be- 
came known  to  Mr.  Allan,  who,  through 
the  mediation  of  General  Scott,  obtained 
his  release  from  the  army,  and  sent  him 
a  cadet's  warrant  to  West  Point."  These 
letters  fix  the  date  of  the  alleged  adven- 


tures before  July,  1830.  The  voyage  to 
Greece  and  the  journey  to  St.  Peters- 
burg, however,  are  stated  by  Mr.  Didier, 
in  his  biography,  to  belong  to  the  life  of 
Poe's  elder  brother,  William,  and  have 
consequently  been  discredited  by  later 
writers. 

A  second  story  is  at  hand,  and  for  it 
we  are  indebted  to  Mr.  Ingram,  the  Eng- 
lish biographer.  After  mentioning  that 
Poe's  first  book  was  printed  at  Boston, 
in  1827,  on  which  account  he  supposes 
that  the  young  man  visited  that  city  in 
the  spring,  he  continues  his  narrative  as 
follows :  — 

"  Toward  the  end  of  June,  1827,  Ed- 
gar Poe  would  appear  to  have  left  the 
United  States  for  Europe.  It  is  very 
problematical  whether  he  ever  reached 
his  presumed  destination,  the  scene  of 
the  Greco-Turkish  warfare.  .  .  .  Edgar 
Poe  was  absent  from  America  on  his 
Hellenic  journey  about  eighteen  months. 
The  real  adventures  of  his  expedition 
have  never,  it  is  believed,  been  pub- 
lished. That  he  reached  England  is 
probable,  although  in  the  account  of  his 
travels,  derived  from  his  own  dictation, 
that  country  was  not  alluded  to  any 
more  than  was  the  story  of  his  having 
reached  St.  Petersburg,  and  there  hav- 
ing been  involved  in  difficulties  that  ne- 
cessitated ministerial  aid  to  extricate 
him.  The  latter  incident  is  now  stated 
to  have  occurred  to  his  brother,  William 
Henry  Leonard,  whilst  Edgar  himself, 
it  has  been  suggested  by  a  writer  claim- 
ing personal  knowledge  of  him,  resided 
for  some  time  in  London,  formed  the 
acquaintance  of  Leigh  Hunt  and  Theo- 
dore Hook,  and,  like  them,  lived  by 
literary  labor. 

"  According  to  Poe's  own  story,  which 
apparently  accounts  only  for  a  portion 
of  his  time,  he  arrived,  eventually,  at  a 
certain  seaport  in  France.  Here  he 
was  drawn  into  a  quarrel  about  a  lady, 
and  in  a  fight  which  ensued  was  wound- 
ed by  his  antagonist,  a  much  more  skill- 
ful swordsman  than  he  was.  Taken  to 


1884.] 


Poe's  Legendary   Years. 


817 


his  lodgings,  and  possibly  ill  tended,  he 
fell  into  a  fever.  A  poor  woman,  who 
attended  to  his  needs  and  pitied  him, 
made  his  case  known  to  a  Scotch  lady 
of  position,  who  was  visiting  the  town 
in  the  hope  of  persuading  a  prodigal 
brother  to  relinquish  his  evil  ways  and 
return  home  with  her.  This  lady  came 
to  see  the  wounded  stranger,  and  for 
thirteen  weeks  had  him  cared  for ;  pro- 
viding for  all  his  wants,  including  the 
attendance  of  a  skilled  nurse,  whose 
place,  indeed,  she  often  took  herself. 
Whilst  Poe  was  in  a  precarious  condi- 
tion she  visited  him  daily,  and  even 
persuaded  her  brother  to  come  and  see 
the  young  Englishman,  as  his  language 
led  them  to  believe  he  was.  When  the 
patient  became  convalescent  he  was  nat- 
urally intensely  grateful  to  his  gener- 
ous benefactor.  As  the  only  means  he 
possessed  at  that  time  of  showing  his 
gratitude,  he  wrote  a  poem  to  her, 
which  he  entitled  Holy  Eyes,  with  ref- 
erence to  the  trust,  sympathy,  and  faith 
which  he  deemed  her  blue  eyes  typical 
of.  Indeed,  according  to  Poe's  descrip- 
tion, the  lady's  eyes  were  her  chief  per- 
sonal attraction,  she  being  otherwise 
plain,  large-featured,  and  old-maidish. 
Owing  to  the  peculiarity  of  her  position 
in  this  foreign  seaport,  she  did  not  wish 
her  name  made  public,  and  impressed 
this  upon  the  youthful  poet.  She  made 
him  promise  to  return  to  America  — 
and  perhaps  supplied  the  means  for  him 
to  do  so  —  and  adopt  a  profession,  in 
which  she  expressed  a  hope  of  some  day 
hearing  that  he  had  become  famous. 

"  During  his  stay  in  France  —  so  runs 
Poe's  narration  —  he  wrote  a  novel,  in 
which  his  own  adventures  were  described 
under  the  garb  of  fiction.  The  manuscript 
of  this  story  he  carried  back  with  him 
to  America,  and  retained  it  in  his  pos- 
session until  at  least  some  few  years 
before  his  death.  When  asked  why  he 
had  not  published  it,  he  replied  that  a 
French  version  of  it  had  been  published, 
and  had  been  accredited  to  Eugene  Sue, 

VOL.  LIV.  —  NO.  326.  52 


but  that  he  would  not  sanction  its  pub- 
lication in  English  because  it  was  too 
sensational ;  that  it  was  not  to  his  taste ; 
that  it  had  too  much  of  'the  yellow- 
cover-novel  style '  for  him  to  be  proud 
of  it;  and,  moreover,  that  it  contained 
*  scenes  and  pictures  so  personal  that  it 
would  have  made  him  many  enemies 
among  his  kindred,  who  hated  him  for 
his  vanity  and  pride  already,  and  in 
some  respects  very  justly,  —  the  faults 
of  his  early  education/  The  truth  in 
his  story,  he  asserted,  was  yet  more  ter- 
rible than  the  fiction.  The  Life  of  an 
Artist  at  Home  and  Abroad  was  the 
title  by  which  Poe  at  one  time  desig- 
nated this  youthful  novel :  it  was  writ- 
ten entirely  in  the  third  person,  and  was 
pronounced  by  its  author  to  be  '  com- 
monplace.' 

This  circumstantial  narrative  was  dic- 
tated by  Poe  to  Mrs.  Maria  L.  Shew, 
of  New  York,  "from  what,"  says  Mr. 
Ingram,  "  it  was  deemed  at  the  time 
might  be  his  death-bed."  That  biog- 
rapher finds  it  hard  to  decide  whether 
the  story  "  was  fact,  or  fact  and  fiction 
deliriously  interwoven,  or  mere  fiction, 
invented  in  such  a  spirit  of  mischief  as, 
like  Byron,  he  frequently  indulged  in  at 
the  expense  of  his  too  inquisitive  ques- 
tioners." A  death-bed  is  not  the  place 
where  one  expects  to  find  a  spirit  of  mis- 
chief, and  there  is  more  truth,  though  not 
perhaps  in  the  sense  meant,  in  what 
Mr.  Ingram  elsewhere  remarks  of  this 
same  matter  :  "  There  does  not  appear 
to  be  any  reason  for  doubting  the  accu- 
racy of  this  any  more  than  of  any  other 
of  the  poet's  statements." 

A  third  story  develops  the  tradition 
referred  to  by  Mr.  Magruder,  that  Poe 
was  in  the  army  ;  but  instead  of  placing 
this  in  the  period  before  he  went  to 
West  Point,  his  biographers  assign  it  to 
the  time  after  he  was  dismissed  from  the 
academy.  The  first  mention  of  it  in 
print  occurs  in  Griswold's  Memoir  as 
follows :  — 

"  His    contributions    to   the   journals 


818 


Poe's  Legendary   Years. 


[December, 


attracted  little  attention,  and,  his  hopes 
of  gaining  a  living  in  this  way  being 
disappointed,  he  enlisted  in  the  army  as 
a  private  soldier.  How  long  he  re- 
mained in  the  service  I  have  not  been 
able  to  ascertain.  He  was  recognized 
by  officers  who  had  known  him  at  West 
Point,  and  efforts  were  made  privately, 
but  with  prospects  of  success,  to  obtain 
for  him  a  commission,  when  it  was  dis- 
covered by  his  friends  that  he  had  de- 
serted." 

Mr.  Gill  supports  this  version,  on  the 
authority  of  Mrs.  Clemm,  Poe's  mother- 
in-law  :  — 

"  In  a  fit  of  desperation,  the  poet  on 
leaving  Mr.  Allan's  house  [in  1831]  en- 
listed in  the  army.  He  soon  became 
seriously  ill  from  the  exposure  incident 
to  the  unwonted  hardship  of  barrack- 
life,  and,  being  recognized  by  friends 
while  at  the  hospital,  his  discharge  was 
promptly  secured.  Griswold's  statement 
that  he  deserted  is,  like  others  made  by 
him,  a  malicious  invention.  The  facts 
are,  on  the  written  testimony  of  Mrs. 
Clemm,  that  at  this  time  his  friends 
were  seeking  for  him  a  commission." 

Mr.  Ingram  remarks  on  this  period : 

"All  attempts  hitherto  made  to  ex- 
plain what  Poe  did  and  whither  he 
wandered  during  the  next  two  years 
[1831-1833]  succeeding  his  expulsion 
from  his  godfather's  home  have  signal- 
ly failed.  The  assertion  that  he  was  re- 
siding at  Baltimore  with  his  aunt,  Mrs. 
Clemm,  is  not  in  accordance  with  fact, 
her  correspondence  proving  that  she 
never  did  know  where  her  nephew  was 
during  this  interregnum  in  his  history. 
.  .  .  Another  biographer,  of  proven  un- 
reliability [Griswold],  suggests  that  Poe 
enlisted  in  the  army,  but  after  a  short 
service  deserted." 

Of  other  writers  who  have  dealt  with 
the  problem,  Powell  states  that  Poe 
went  to  help  the  Poles  against  Russia 
(but  this  is  evidently  a  misquotation 
from  Hirst)  ;  Mr.  Didier  places  him  at 
Richmond  in  the  first  period,  and  at  Bal- 


timore in  the  second  ;  and  Mr.  Stod- 
dard,  while  discrediting  the  early  rup- 
ture with  Mr.  Allan  on  the  ground  that 
the  latter  probably  paid  for  the  Boston 
edition  of  the  poems,  discreetly  disclaims 
any  faculty  for  writing  imaginary  biog- 
raphies. 

In  all  that  has  been  laid  before  the 
reader  in  opening  the  state  of  the  ques- 
tion there  is  but  one  sure  fact.  A  book, 
Tamerlane  and  Other  Poems,  by  a  Bos- 
tonian,  was  published  in  Boston  by  Cal- 
vin F.  S.  Thomas  in  1827.  A  copy  is 
in  the  British  Museum,  and  its  contents 
consist  of  the  first  drafts  of  poems  since 
known  as  Poe's.  On  the  threshold  of 
investigation,  however,  I  was  met  by 
the  opinion  that  the  author  was  John 
Howard  Payne ;  but  this  suggestion  was 
altogether  too  startling,  it  disclosed  too 
dismal  a  view  of  my  hero,  to  be  enter- 
tained. The  volume  had  contemporary 
mention  in  The  United  States  Review 
arid  Literary  Gazette,  August,  1827 ; 
The  North  American  Review,  October, 
1827  ;  and  Kettell's  Specimens  of  Amer- 
ican Poetry,  1829.  In  all  these  it  was 
only  named,  but  that  is  enough  to  show 
that  it  was  issued  before  August  and 
had  some  circulation.  The  name  of  Cal- 
vin F.  S.  Thomas  is  in  the  Boston  Di- 
rectory, 1827,  where  he  is  described  as 
a  printer  at  70  Washington  Street ;  but 
he  was  not  a  member  of  the  Franklin 
Typographical  Union,  nor  does  any  Bos- 
ton printer  of  that  time  remember  him 
except  one  now  in  Wisconsin,  who  mere- 
ly thinks  that  he  recalls  him.  His  name 
is  found  also,  crossed  off,  in  a  trial  tax- 
list  of  1827,  in  which  he  is  assessed  only 
for  a  poll-tax.  These  are  meagre  facts, 
nor  is  much  added  to  them  by  the  state- 
ments of  his  daughter,  who,  I  learned 
through  some  obliging  strangers,  is  liv- 
ino-  in  Missouri.  She  writes  that  her 

o 

father  resided  in  Boston  with  his  wid- 
owed mother  and  a  sister  in  1827,  and, 
being  then  nineteen  years  old,  had  a 
printer's  shop  there  ;  he  left  the  city  in 
1828,  and  afterwards  lived  in  New  York, 


1884.] 


Poe's  Legendary   Years. 


819 


Buffalo,  and  Springfield,  Mo.,  and  died 
in  1876.  "  None  of  us,"  she  says  (his 
wife  and  sister  being  still  alive),  "  can 
remember  ever  having  heard  him  speak 
of  himself  as  the  publisher  of  Poe's  early 
poems ;  no  copy  of  the  book  is  in  the 
possession  of  any  member  of  the  fam- 
ily, —  neither  account-books  nor  letters 
of  that  period."  In  view  of  the  almost 
universal  publication  of  reminiscences 
by  those  who  knew  Poe,  and  of  the  ex- 
traordinary interest  of  this  portion  of 
his  life,  it  may  fairly  be  inferred  that 
Thomas  never  identified  the  author  of 
the  first  book  he  printed  with  Poe.  or, 
in  other  words,  that  the  latter  dealt  with 
him  under  an  assumed  name. 

One  other  source  of  information,  be- 
sides this  volume,  would  naturally  occur 
to  the  mind,  but  it  is  so  obvious  that  re- 
sort to  it  would  seem  superfluous.  If 
Poe  was  in  the  army,  the  records  of  the 
war  department  would  show  the  facts. 
Secretary  Lincoln  had  a  search  made  for 
the  name  of  Poe,  or  any  name  with 
his  initials  whose  bearer's  career  in  the 
army  corresponded  in  time  and  charac- 
ter with  that  ascribed  to  him.  Adjutant- 
General  Drum  took  up  the  subject  with 
great  kindness,  and  it  is  to  his  personal 
efforts,  Secretary  Lincoln  informs  me, 
that  the  recovery  of  Poe's  army  record 
is  due.  The  examination  of  documents 
both  at  Washington  and  elsewhere  has 
been  exhaustive. 

From  these  papers  it  appears  that  on 
May  26,  1827,  Poe  enlisted  at  Boston 
in  the  army  of  the  United  States  as  a 
private  soldier,  under  the  name  of  Ed- 
gar A.  Perry.  He  stated  that  he  was 
born  at  Boston,  and  was  by  occupation 
a  clerk  ;  and  although  minors  were  then 
accepted  into  the  service  he  gave  his  age 
as  twenty-two  years.  He  had,  says  the 
record,  gray  eyes,  brown  hair,  and  a  fair 
complexion  ;  was  five  feet  eight  inches 
in  height.  He  was  at  once  assigned 
to  Battery  H  of  the  First  Artillery, 
then  serving  in  the  harbor  at  Fort  In- 
dependence;  on  October  31  the  battery 


was  ordered  to  Fort  Moultrie,  Charles- 
ton, S.  C.,  and  exactly  one  year  later  to 
Fortress  Monroe,  Va.  The  officers  un- 
der whom  he  served  are  dead,  but  it  ap- 
pears that  he  discharged  his  duties  as 
company  clerk  and  assistant  in  the  com- 
missariat department  so  as  to  win  the 
good- will  of  his  superiors.  On  January 
1,  1829,  he  was  appointed  Sergeant-Ma- 
jor, a  promotion  which,  by  the  invariable 
custom  of  the  army,  was  given  only  for 
merit.  He  now  made  his  circumstances 
known  to  Mr.  Allan,  and  shortly  after 
Mrs.  Allan's  death,  February-28,  1829, 
he  returned  to  Richmond  on  leave  of 
absence.  Of  this  furlough  there  is  no 
record,  but  on  February  28  he  is  report- 
ed on  the  rolls  as  present  for  duty.  The 
result  of  his  visit  is  told  in  the  follow- 
ing letter,  which  is,  however,  extraordi- 
narily inaccurate  in  its  details  :  — 

FORTRESS  MONROE,  March  ZQth,  '29. 

GENERAL  :  I  request  your  permission 
to  discharge  from  the  service  Edgar  A, 
Perry,  at  present  the  Sergeant-Major 
of  the  1st  Reg't  of  Artillery,  on  his  pro- 
curing a  substitute. 

The  said  Perry,  is  one  of  a  family  of 
orphans  whose  unfortunate  parents  were 
the  victims  of  the  conflagration  of  the 
Richmond  theatre,  in  1809.     The  sub- 
ject of  this  letter,  was  taken  under  the 
protection  of  a  Mr.  Allen,  a  gentleman 
of   wealth    and   respectability,    of   that 
city,  who,  as  I  understand,  adopted  his 
protege  as  his  son  and  heir ;  with  the 
intention  of  giving  him  a  liberal  educa- 
tion, he  had  placed  him  at  the  Univer- 
sity of  Virginia  from  which,  after  con- 
siderable  progress  in  his   studies,  in  a 
moment  of  youthful  indiscretion  he  ab- 
sconded, and  was  not  heard  from  by  his 
Patron  for  several  years  ;  in  the  mean- 
time, he  became  reduced  to  the  neces- 
sity of  enlisting  into   the   service   and 
accordingly  entered  as  a  soldier  in  my 
Regiment,   at    Fort    Independence,    in 
1827.     Since    the  arrival   of   his    com- 
pany at  this  place,  he  has  made  his  sit- 


820 


Foe's  Legendary   Years. 


[December, 


uation  known  to  his  Patron  at  whose 
request,  the  young  man  has  been  per- 
mitted to  visit  him  ;  the  result  is,  an 
entire  reconciliation  on  the  part  of  Mr. 
Allen,  who  reinstates  him  into  his  fam- 
ily and  favor,  and  who  in  a  letter  I 
have  received  from  him  requests  that 
his  son  may  be  discharged  on  procuring 
a  substitute.  An  experienced  soldier 
and  approved  sergeant  is  ready  to  take 
the  place  of  Perry  so  soon  as  his  dis- 
charge can  be  obtained.  The  good  of 
the  service,  therefore  cannot  be  materi- 
ally injured  by  the  discharge. 

I  have  the  honor  to  be,  with  great 
respect, 

Your  obedient  servant, 
JAS.  HOUSE,  Col.  1st  Arty. 

To    the    General    Commanding   the  E.  Dept. 
U.  S.  A.,  New  York. 

The  reply  to  this  was  a  special  or- 
der:  — 

OFFICE  HEAD  QUARTERS  EASTERN  DEPT. 
NEW  YORK,  April  4th  1829. 

SPECIAL  ORDER  No.  28. 
Sergt.  Major  Edgar  A.  Perry  of  the 
1st  Reg't  of  Arty.  .  .  .  will  be  discharged 
the  service  of  the  United  States,  on 
their  furnishing,  each,  an  acceptable 
substitute  without  expense  to  the  Gov- 
ernment. 

By  order  of  Major  General  Gaines. 
(Sd)         R.  LOWNDES, 

A.  A.  Adjt.  GerCl. 

In  accordance  with  this  Poe  was  dis- 
charged, by  substitute,  April  15th.  Be- 
fore leaving  his  post  he  obtained  the 
following  letters  from  his  officers,  which 
show  conclusively  that  he  had  already 
formed  the  plan  of  entering  West  Point, 
and  indicate  that  this  entered  into  the 
understanding  on  which  Mr.  Allan  took 
him  into  favor :  — 

FORTRESS  MONROE,  VA.,  20th  Ap.  1829. 

Edgar  Poe,  late  Serg't-Major  in  the 
1st  Art'y,  served  under  my  command  in 
H.  company.  1st  Regt.  of  Artillery 
from  June  1827  to  January  1829,  dur- 


ing which  time  his  conduct  was  unex- 
ceptionable. He  at  once  performed  the 
duties  of  company  clerk  and  assistant 
in  the  Subsistent  Department,  both  of 
which  duties  were  promptly  and  faith- 
fully done.  His  habits  are  good,  and 
intirely  free  from  drinking. 

J.  HOWARD. 
Lieut  1st  Artillery. 

In  addition  to  the  above,  I  have  to 
say  that  Edgar  Poe  [originally  written 
Perry,  but  changed  to  read  Poe~\  was 
appointed  Sergeant -Major  of  the  1st 
Arty,  on  the  1st  of  Jan'y,  1829,  and 
up  to  this  date,  has  been  exemplary  in 
his  deportment,  prompt  and  faithful  in 
the  discharge  of  his  duties  —  and  is 
highly  worthy  of  confidence. 

H.  W.  GRISWOLD. 
Bt.  Capt.  and  Adjt.  1st  ArCy. 

I  have  known  and  had  an  opportunity 
of  observing  the  conduct  of  the  above 
mentioned  Sergt-Majr  Poe  some  three 
months  during  which  his  deportment 
has  been  highly  praiseworthy  and  de- 
serving of  confidence.  His  education  is 
of  a  very  high  order  and  he  appears  to 
be  free  from  bad  habits,  in  fact  the  testi- 
mony of  Lt  Howard  and  Adjt.  Griswold 
is  full  to  that  point.  Understanding  he 
is,  thro'  his  friends,  an  applicant  for 
cadet's  warrant,  I  unhesitatingly  recom- 
mend him  as  promising  to  aquit  himself 
of  the  obligations  of  that  station  stu- 
diously and  faithfully. 

W.  J.  WORTH. 
Lt.  Col.  ConicTg,  Fortress  Monroe. 

With  these  credentials  in  his  pocket 
the  discharged  Sergeant- Major,  aged 
twenty,  went  to  Richmond,  where  no 
time  was  lost  in  attempting  to  place  him 
at  West  Point. 

The  following  letters  were  obtained 
for  him  :  — 

RICHMOND  May  6,  1829. 

DR  SIR  :  I  beg  leave  to  introduce 
to  you  Mr.  Edgar  Poe,  who  wishes  to 


1884.] 


PoSs  Legendary   Years. 


821 


be  admitted  into  the  military  academy 
and  to  stand  the  examination  in  June. 
He  has  been  two  years  in  the  service 
of  the  U.  States,  and  carries  with  him 
the  strongest  testimonials  from  the  high- 
est authority.  He  will  be  an  acquisi- 
tion to  the  service  and  I  most  earnestly 
recommend  him  to  your  especial  notice 
and  approbation. 

Very  respy.  yr.  obt.  serv't. 

A.  STEVENSON. 

To  HONBLE.  J  H.  EATON, 
Secy,  of  War. 

RICHMOND,  Qth  May,  1829. 

D  SIR  :  The  history  of  the  youth 
Edgar  Allan  Poe  is  a  very  interesting 
one  as  detailed  to  me  by  gentlemen  in 
whose  veracity  I  have  entire  confidence, 
and  I  unite  with  great  pleasure  with 
Mr.  Stevenson  and  Col.  Worth  in  recom- 
mending him  for  a  place  in  the  Military 
Academy  at  West  Point.  My  friend 
Mr.  Allan  of  this  city  by  whom  this 
orphan  and  friendless  youth  was  raised 
and  educated  is  a  gentleman  in  whose 
word  you  may  place  every  confidence 
and  can  state  to  you  more  in  detail  the 
character  of  the  youth  and  the  circum- 
stances which  claim  for  him  the  patron- 
age of  the  Government. 

With  great  respect,  your  obdt.  sevt. 

JOHN  CAMPBELL. 

THE  HONBL.  JOHN  H.  EATON, 
Sec.  of  War,  Washington  City. 

RICHMOND,  VA.,  May  13th,  1829. 

SIR  :  Some  of  the  friends  of  young 
Mr.  Edgar  Poe  have  solicited  me  to  ad- 
dress a  letter  to  you  in  his  favor  be- 
lieving that  it  may  be  useful  to  him  in 
his  application  to  the  Government  for 
military  service.  I  know  Mr.  Poe  and 
am  acquainted  with  the  fact  of  his  hav- 
ing been  born  under  circumstances  of 
great  adversity.  I  also  know  from  his 
own  productions  and  other  undoubted 
proofs  that  he  is  a  young  gentleman  of 
genius  and  taleants.  I  believe  he  is 
destined  to  be  distinguished,  since  he 


has  already  gained  reputation  for  tal- 
eants and  attainments  at  the  University 
of  Virginia.  I  think  him  possessed  of 
feeling  and  character  peculiarly  intitling 
him  to  public  patronage.  I  am  entire- 
ly satisfied  that  the  salutary  system  of 
military  discipline  will  soon  develope  his 
honorable  feelings,  and  elevated  spirit, 
and  prove  him  worthy  of  confidence. 
I  would  not  unite  in  his  recommenda- 
tions if  I  did  not  believe  that  he  would 
remunerate  the  government  at  some  fu- 
ture day,  by  his  services  and  taleants, 
for  whatever  may  be  done  for  him. 
I  have  the  honor  to  be 

Very  respectfully  your  obt.  serv't, 

JAMES  P.  PRESTON. 
MAJOR  JOHN  EATON, 

Sec'y  of  War,  Washington, 

Of  more  interest  than  all  these,  how- 
ever, is  Mr.  Allan's  own  communica- 
tion :  — 

RICHMOND,  May  6,  1829. 

DR  SIR  :  The  youth  who  presents 
this,  is  the  same  alluded  to  by  Lt  How- 
ard, Capt  Griswold,  Colo  Worth,  our  rep- 
resentative and  the  speaker  the  Hon'ble 
Andrew  Stevenson,  and  my  friend  Ma- 
jor Jno.  Campbell. 

He  left  me  in  consequence  of  some 
gambling  at  the  University  at  Charlottes- 
ville,  because  (I  presume)  I  refused  to 
sanction  a  rule  that  the  shopkeepers 
and  others  had  adopted  there,  making 
Debts  of  Honour,  of  all  indiscretions. 
I  have  much  pleasure  in  asserting  that 
he  stood  his  examinations  at  the  close 
of  the  year  with  great  credit  to  himself. 
His  history  is  short.  He  is  the  grand- 
son of  Quartermaster  General  Poe,  of 
Maryland,  whose  widow  as  I  understand 
still  receives  a  pension  for  the  services 
or  disabilities  of  her  husband.  Frankly 
Sir,  do  I  declare  that  he  is  no  relation 
to  me  whatever :  that  I  have  many  [in] 
whom  I  have  taken  an  active  interest 
to  promote  theirs  ;  with  no  other  feel- 
ing than  that,  every  man  is  my  care,  if 
he  be  in  distress.  For  myself  I  ask 


822 


Poe*s  Legendary   Years. 


[December, 


nothing,  but  I  do  request  your  kindness 
to  aid  this  youth  in  the  promotion  of 
his  future  prospects.  And  it  will  afford 
me  great  pleasure  to  reciprocate  any 
kindness  you  can  show  him.  Pardon 
my  frankness  :  but  I  address  a  soldier. 

Your  obdt  servt, 
JOHN  ALLAN. 

THE  HON'BMC  JOHN  H.  EATON, 
Secy  of  War,  Washington  City,  s 

From  the  tenor  of  these  letters  it 
would  seem  that  Poe  delivered  them  in 
person.  On  his  return  from  this  journey 
to  Washington  he  made  the  closer  ac- 
quaintance of  his  blood  relations  at  Bal- 
timore, where  he  remained,  engaged  in 
publishing  a  new  edition  of  his  poems 
and  corresponding  with  John  Neal,  the 
editor  of  The  Yankee,  until  the  end  of 
the  vear.  It  must  have  been  at  this 

v 

time  that  he  received  help  from  my  un- 
named correspondent,  and  said  he  had 
been  in  Russia,  and  that  he  entered  into 
some  obscure  relations  with  William 
Gwynn,  the  editor  of  the  Baltimore 
American,  and  showed  him  the  manu- 
script of  Al  Aaraaf.  On  the  issue  of 
his  volumes,  in  which  it  was  stated  that 
the  Boston  edition  had  been  suppressed 
through  circumstances  of  a  private  na- 
ture, he  went  back  to  Richmond,  about 
Christmas  time,  and  waited  for  his  cadet 
warrant.  His  birthday  came  and  went ; 
he  was  twenty-one,  and  hence  past  the 
legal  limit  within  which  he  could  receive 
an  appointment.  This  circumstance  did 
not  disturb  him :  he  had  grown  four 
years  older  in  1827  ;  he  now  grew  two 
years  younger  in  1829,  and  relying  on 
the  fiction  he  solicited  the  favor  of  Pow- 
hatan  Ellis,  a  younger  brother  of  Mr. 
Allan's  partner,  and  then  Senator  from 
Mississippi,  who  wrote  to  the  Secretary 
of  War  in  his  behalf  :  — 

WASHINGTON  March  13,  1830. 
HON.  JOHN  H.  EATON. 

DEAR  SIR  :  I  have  received  a  letter 
from  a  young  gentleman  in  Richmond 


by  the  name  of  Edgar  A.  Poe  stating, 
that  he  was  an  applicant  for  a  situation 
in  the  Military  Academy  at  West  Point. 
He  requested  me  to  ask  you,  if  there  was 
any  probability  of  his  receiving  a  war- 
rant to  enter  that  institution.  I  am  not 
personally  acquainted  with  Mr.  Poe, 
but  from  information  I  would  say  his 
capacity  and  learning  eminently  qualify 
him  to  make  in  a  few  years  a  distin- 
guished officer. 

I  am  sir,  with  great  respect, 

Your  obdt.  servant, 
POWHATAN  ELLIS. 

HON.  MR.  EATON, 
Secretary  of  War. 

This  letter  received  immediate  atten- 
tion. The  appointment  was  made,  and 
Mr.  Allan,  as  Poe's  guardian,  gave  his 
formal  consent  to  his  ward's  enlistment. 

RICHMOND,  VA.  March  31st  1830. 
SIR  :  As  the  guardian  of  Edgar  Allan 
Poe  I  hereby  signify  my  assent  to  his 
signing  articles  by  which  he  shall  bind 
himself  to  serve  the  United  States  for 
Five  years,  unless  sooner  discharged,  as 
stipulated  in  your  official  letter  appoint- 
ing him  a  cadet.  Respectfully 

Your  obt.  servant, 
JOHN  ALLAN. 

THE  HON  :  SEC'Y.  OF  WAR, 
Washington. 

There  is  no  evidence  that  General 
Scott,  Judge  Marshall,  or  John  Ran- 
dolph had  any  hand,  in  securing  the  ap- 
pointment, as  has  been  asserted  since 
Hirst  wrote  his  early  sketch  of  Poe. 
Scott's  wife  was  a  cousin  of  the  young 
lady  whom  Mr.  Allan  was  now  prepar- 
ing to  marry,  but  his  interest  in  Poe 
belongs  to  a  later  time.  Powhatan  El- 
lis's  letter  was  plainly  the  determining 
influence.  The  young  cadet  was  fur- 
nished by  Mr.  Allan  with  whatever  was 
necessary,  and  started  north.  He  stopped 
at  Baltimore,  where  he  called  upon  Dr. 
N.  C.  Brooks,  as  that  gentleman  told 


1884.]                                Poe9  s  Legendary   Years.  828 

me,  and  read,  and  engaged  to  send  to  which  Mr.  Allan  was  not  likely  to  meet 

him,  a  poem  for  a  forthcoming  annual,  voluntarily  ;  and  since  it  indicates  that 

and  at  length  entered  West  Point  July  his  purse  was  not  liberally  supplied,  it 

1,   1830,  —  his  age   being   recorded   as  also  explains  how  it  happened  that  dur- 

at  the  time  of  entrance  nineteen  years  ing  his  long  stay  in  Baltimore  he  was 

and  five  months,  —  and  there  he  figured  now  and  then  out  of  funds.     This  in- 

among  his  classmates  as  an  adventurous  cident,  however,  may  be  left  one  side; 

boy  who  had  run  away  from  home  and  nor  would  it  have  been    revived   here 

sown  his  wild  oats  in  the  East.  had  it  not  seemed  necessary  to  include 

In  further  elucidation  of  Poe's  life  at  in    this   article    everything   which    has 

this  period  an  extract  should  be  added  been  alleged  regarding  Poe  during  this 

which  has  only  lately  been  brought  with-  period. 

in  my  reach,  by  the  courtesy  of  Colonel  The  natural  construction  to  be  placed 

Thomas  H.  Ellis,  the  son  of  Mr.  Allan's  on  the  foregoing  story  would  seem  to  be 

partner.    It  is  from  an  open  letter  April  this :  that  Poe's  officers,  becoming  inter- 

22,  1880,  from  himself  to  the  Richmond  ested  in  him,  advised  him  to  go  to  West 

Standard,  and  contains  in  my  judgment  Point,  the  only  way  in  which  he  could 

the  only  account  of  the  relations  between  rise  in  the  service ;  and  that  in  compli- 

Poe  and  Mr.  Allan  that  can  pretend  to  ance  with    the   dying  request  of   Mrs. 

any  authority  whatever.     In  this  Colo-  Allan,  with  whom   Poe  kept  up  some 

nel  Ellis  quotes  from  a  letter  of  the  sec-  correspondence,  Mr.  Allan  recalled  him, 

ond  Mrs.  Allan  to  himself  (and  this  is  provided  a  substitute,  and  agreed  to  be- 

the  only  published  utterance  of  the  Allan  friend  him  further,  on  the  distinct  un- 

family  upon  the  subject)  as  follows  :  —  derstanding  that  he  should  go  to  West 

"  Mr.  Poe  had  not  lived  under  Mr.  Point,  but  with   no   intention    of   ever 

Allan's  roof  for  two  years  before   my  making  him  his  heir ;  and,  finally,  that 

marriage,  and  no  one  knew  his  where-  during   the   fifteen  months  intervening 

abouts  ;    his   letters,   which    were   very  between  his  discharge  at  Fortress  Mon- 

scarce,  were  dated  from  St.  Petersburg,  roe  and  his  entrance  at  West  Point  Poe 

Russia,  although  he  had  enlisted  in  the  lived  mainly  apart  from  Mr.  Allan,  and 

army  at  Boston.     After  he  became  tired  gave  no  reason  for  the   latter  to  trust 

of  army  life,  he  wrote  to  his  benefactor,  him  more  than  in  years  past.     It  would 

expressing  a  desire  to  have  a  substitute  also  appear  that  Poe  invented  the  ac- 

if  the  money  could  be  sent  to  him.    Mr.  count  of  his  travels  in  the  East  or  in 

Allan  sent  it,  Poe  spent  it;  and  after  Russia  at   once,  possibly  appropriating 

the    substitute    was   tired   out,    waiting  something   from  the  adventures  of   his 

and  getting  letters  and  excuses,  he  (the  brother,  who  died  in  Baltimore,  in  July, 

substitute)  enclosed  one  of  Poe's  letters  1831,  and  that  he  used  this  tale  in  later 

to  Mr.  Allan,  which  was  too  black  to  be  years  to  conceal  his  enlistment.     If  he 

credited  if  it  had  not  contained  the  au-  ever  went  on  a  voyage  before  the  mast, 

thor's   signature.     Mr.   Allan    sent  the  as    is  not  altogether  unlikely,   it  must 

money  to    the  man,  and  banished  Poe  have  been  on  his  way  from  Richmond 

from  his  affections  ;  and  he  never  lived  to  Boston,  when  he  first  left  Mr.  Allan's 

here  again."  counting-room,  in  1827.     He  would  then 

Mrs.  Allan  was  an  interested  witness,  have  as  the  basis  of  the  nautical  knowl- 
and  her  prejudices  were  strongly  excited  edge  he  displays  in  his  works  his  early 
against  Poe.  If  her  story  be  true  in  its  ocean  voyages  in  boyhood,  this  hypo- 
essential  part,  it  explains  where  Poe  thetical  one,  and  those  with  his  regiment 
might  have  obtained  the  money  to  pay  in  its  changes  from  post  to  post,  be- 
f or  his  second  volume  of  poems,  —  a  bill  sides  the  information  he  would  naturally 


824 


Poe's  Legendary  Years. 


[December, 


acquire  during  a  two  years'  residence 
by  the  sea  ;  nor  is  it  to  be  forgotten  that 
his  later  journeys  between  the  North 
and  South  were  largely  by  water.  His 
seamanship  thus  seems  to  be  amply  ac- 
counted for  without  assuming  that  he 
derived  it  from  any  long  practical  ser- 
vice in  the  merchant  marine.  As  to 
Mr.  Ingram's  legend  of  the  duel  in 
France,  the  Scotch  lady,  and  the  novel 
ascribed  to  Eugene  Sue,  it  requires  no 
discussion. 

In  the  seventh  month  of  his  cadet  life 
Poe  was  court-martialed  for  neglect  of 
duty,  and  dismissed  the  service.  The 
sentence  went  into  effect  March  6, 1831. 
The  version  of  this  affair  that  was  circu- 
lated by  Poe  has  been  universally  adopt- 
ed. This  was  that  the  birth  of  an  heir 
to  Mr.  Allan  by  his  second  wife  having 
destroyed  Poe's  expectations  of  inherit- 
ing his  patron's  estate,  and  Mr.  Allan 
having  refused  to  allow  him  to  resign 
his  place,  he  intentionally  so  acted  as  to 
be  dismissed,  in  order  to  be  free  to  fol- 
low some  other  profession  better  suited 
to  a  poor  man  than  was  that  of  arms. 
This  may  be  substantially  true.  Never- 
theless, as  Mr.  Allan  was  not  married 
until  October  5,  1830,  there  was  no  heir 
born  in  January,  when  Poe's  offenses 
against  discipline  were  committed :  the 
marriage  alone,  therefore,  determined 
him  to  take  so  extreme  measures,  and 
as  it  was  a  near  event  when  he  entered 
West  Point  he  was  probably  apprised 
of  it  from  the  first.  From  the  tone  of 
Mr.  Allan's  letter  to  the  Secretary  of 
War  it  would  seem  that  he  had  most 
likely  made  it  clear  to  Poe  that  he  did 
not  look  upon  him  as  his  heir,  and  meant 
merely  to  start  him  in  a  military  career. 
Poe  left  West  Point,  one  can  be  quite 
sure,  not  because  he  had  lost  the  hope 
of  a  large  fortune,  but  because  he  was 
restless,  willful,  and  discontented.  There 
is,  however,  nothing  improbable  in  the 
statement  that  his  dismissal  was  sought 
by  him  as  his  only  way  of  exit  from 
army  life. 


On  the  morning  of  March  7,  1831,  he 
was  thus  a  free  man.  He  had,  left  over 
from  his  pay,  twelve  cents  to  begin  that 
career  which  was  better  fitted  for  a  poor 
man  than  the  military  profession.  Pos- 
sibly additional  funds  were  provided 
from  the  subscription  of  the  cadets,  at 
seventy-five  cents  each,  to  the  new  edi- 
tion of  his  poems  ;  this  money  was  al- 
lowed to  be  deducted  from  their  pay,  but 
a  part  only  was  advanced.  Poe  went 
to  New  York,  and  may  have  stayed  in 
the  city  a  while  attending  to  his  forth- 
coming volume,  which  was  not  delivered 
to  the  cadets  until  some  time  after  ho 
had  departed.  It  is  commonly  said  that 
he  now  went  to  Richmond  to  Mr.  Al- 
lan's, where  he  was  coldly  received,  and 
after  a  short  time  banished  from  the 
house.  One  hesitates  to  reject  entirely 
so  generally  received  a  tradition,  though 
it  has  no  evidence  in  its  support.  It  is 
unlikely  that  Poe,  who  had  now  made 
Mr.  Allan's  renewed  efforts  in  his  behalf 
wholly  futile  by  violent  and  disgrace- 
ful methods,  should  present  himself  as 
if  he  expected  to  remain  an  inmate  of 
the  home  where  he  had  not  lived  for 
five  years  past,  and  to  which  in  the 
mean  time  a  young  wife  of  thirty  had 
come ;  nor  would  Mr.  Allan's  letters  to 
him  have  invited  such  a  course.  At 
all  events,  the  only  fact  in  the  matter 
is  that  two  months  after  leaving  West 
Point  he  was  in  Baltimore,  and  perhaps 
that  was  as  far  South  as  he  got  upon 
this  present  journey.  On  May  6,  1831, 
he  addressed  his  old  acquaintance,  Wil- 
liam Gwynn,  the  editor,  as  follows :  — 

May  6,  1831. 

MR.  W.  GWINN. 

DEAR  SIR  :  —  I  am  almost  ashamed 
to  ask  any  favor  at  your  hands  after  my 
foolish  conduct  upon  a  former  occasion, 
—  but  I  trust  to  your  good  nature. 

I  am  very  anxious  to  remain  and  set- 
tle myself  in  Baltimore  as  Mr.  Allan 
has  married  again  and  I  no  longer  look 
upon  Richmond  as  my  place  of  residence. 


1884.] 


Poe's  Legendary   Years. 


825 


This  wish  of  mine  has  also  met  with 
his  approbation.  I  write  to  request 
your  influence  in  obtaining  some  situa- 
tion or  employment  in  this  city.  Salary 
would  be  a  minor  consideration,  but  I 
do  not  wish  to  be  idle. 

Perhaps  (since  I  understand  Neilson 
has  left  you)  you  might  be  so  kind  as 
to  employ  me  in  your  office  in  some 
capacity. 

If  so  I  will  use  every  exertion  to  de- 
serve your  confidence. 

Very  respectfully  yr.  ob.  st., 

EDGAR  A.  POE. 

I  would  have  waited  upon  you  per- 
sonally, but  am  confined  to  my  room 
with  a  severe  sprain  in  my  knee. 

* 

Poe's  application  to  Mr.  Gwynn  was 
apparently  fruitless,  and  shortly  after- 
wards he  wrote  to  another  acquaintance, 
Dr.  Brooks,  —  to  whose  annual,  it  will 
be  remembered,  he  had  promised  a  contri- 
bution, —  and  asked  for  a  position  as 
teacher  in  that  gentleman's  school  at  Rei- 
sterstown,  but  there  was  no  vacancy. 
Dr.  Brooks,  who  told  me  the  incident, 
recalls  perfectly  well  the  time  of  its 
occurrence.  This  is,  however,  the  last 
definitely  dated  event  in  Poe's  life  un- 
til October  12,  1833,  when  his  name 
was  printed  as  the  winner  of  a  prize  for 
the  best  story  contributed  to  the  Satur- 
day Visiter,  a  Baltimore  literary  weekly. 
During  this  period,  the  tradition  of  the 
Poe  family  and  the  sketches  of  his  life 
published  before  he  died  place  him  at 
Baltimore,  arid  there  is  not  in  any  quar- 
ter the  slightest  bit  of  evidence  on  which 
to  base  a  doubt  of  the  truth  of  this  be- 
lief. The  fact  that  Judge  Neilson  Poe 

o 

was  then  living  in  another  town,  and 
that  Mrs.  Clemm,  Poe's  future  mother- 
in-law,  had  apparently  also  moved  away, 
may  explain  why  our  knowledge  of  his 
whereabouts  is  not  more  exact,  and  how 
he  came  to  fall  into  such  circumstances 
of  poverty  as  he  did.  A  cousin,  how- 
ever, then  Miss  Herring,  whose  remi- 
niscences of  Poe  have  been  carefully 


obtained  for  me  by  a  member  of  the 
Poe  family,  says  that  Poe  called  on  her 
at  this  time,  in  the  morning  or  afternoon, 
when  he  could  see  her  alone,  and  used 
to  entertain  her  by  reading,  or  by  writ- 
ing verses  in  her  album ;  but  her  father 
discouraged  these  attentions  because  of 
the  relationship  and  of  Poe's  habits  of 
drinking.  These  calls  were  made  at 
frequent  intervals,  on  flying  visits  from 
Philadelphia  and  other  places,  and  this 
lady  is  positive  that  they  extended  from 
1830  to  1834,  when  she  was  herself  mar- 
ried. She  never  heard  of  his  leaving 
this  country  during  these  years.  A  date 
that  depends  only  on  the  memory  of  a 
long-past  event  is  always  open  to  ques- 
tion. In  this  case  it  was  in  1830  that 
Poe  called  on  his  relatives  as  he  passed 
through  Baltimore  to  West  Point  ;  in 
1834  he  visited  Richmond,  and  possibly 
Philadelphia,  where  he  was  endeavoring 
to  get  a  book  published :  and  such  ab- 
sences, though  few,  may  have  left  the 
impression  that  he  was  given  to  travel- 
ing. However  this  may  have  been, 
such  are  the  statements  of  the  only  per- 
son who  claims  any  personal  knowledge 
of  Poe  between  the  summers  of  1831 
and  1833. 

Some  inferences  may  be  drawn  from 
the  condition  in  which  Poe  was  found 
by  Kennedy,  who  befriended  him  on 
his  reappearance  as  a  prize  story-teller. 
Griswold  may  have  exaggerated  the 
meanness  of  Poe's  poverty,  but  notwith- 
standing the  strenuous  denials  of  Mr. 
Ingram  and  others,  who  seem  to  think 
Poe  degraded  by  misfortune,  there  is  not 
the  least  doubt  that  he  was  in  extreme 
distress,  as  is  conclusively  shown  by  this 
extract  from  Kennedy's  diary  :  — 

"  It  is  many  years  ago,  I  think,  per- 
haps as  early  as  1833  or  '34,  that  I 
found  him  in  Baltimore,  in  a  state  of 
starvation.  I  gave  him  clothing,  free 
access  to  my  table,  and  the  use  of  a 
horse  for  exercise  whenever  he  chose ; 
in  fact,  brought  him  up  from  the  very 
verge  of  despair."  (Tuckerman's  Life 


826 


Poe's  Legendary   Years. 


[December, 


of  Kennedy.)  It  is  further  illustrated 
by  the  following  self-explanatory  note 
from  Foe  to  that  kind-hearted  gentle- 
man, who  throughout  life  was  seeking 
out  and  advancing  merit :  — 

"  Your  invitation  to  dinner  has  wound- 
ed me  to  the  quick.  I  cannot  come  for 
reasons  of  the  most  humiliating  nature 
—  my  personal  appearance.  You  may 
imagine  my  mortih'cation  in  making  this 
disclosure  to  you,  but  it  is  necessary." 
(Tuckerman's  Life  of  Kennedy.) 

And  if  further  proof  be  needed  it  is 
furnished  by  a  letier  of  Poe's,  written 
years  afterwards,  in  which  he  says,  "Mr. 
Kennedy  has  been  at  all  times  a  true 
friend  to  me  —  he  was  the  first  true 
friend  I  ever  had  —  I  am  indebted  to 
him  for  life  itself."  (Poe  to  Thomas. 
Stoddard.) 

If  this  extreme  destitution  of  Poe  be 
considered  in  connection  with  the  fact 
that  he  had  sent  in  to  the  competition 
for  prizes  six  tales,  so  well  finished  that 
the  committee  advised  him  to  publish 
all  of  them,  it  may  fairly  be  thought 
that  he  had  been  devoting  himself  to 
literature  for  some  time  previous,  and 
that  his  garret  was  in  Baltimore.  Nev- 
ertheless, if  any  one  chooses  to  suppose 
that  Poe  was  starving  elsewhere,  there 
can  be  no  check  to  the  vagaries  of  his 
fancy  ;  for  if  the  unappreciated  genius 
who  had  now  found  out  what  a  poor 
man's  career  was  like  was  not  at  Bal- 
timore, there  is  as  much  reason  to  imag- 
ine him  in  Hong  Kong  as  in  any  other 
place. 

One  other  source  of  information  must 
be  glanced  at,  since  it  has  been  relied 
on  to  clothe  Poe  with  more  respectabil- 
ity when  he  was  in  his  worst  disgrace 
with  fortune  and  men's  eyes.  Mr.  Lam- 
bert A.  Wilmer,  whose  books,  at  least, 
do  not  entitle  him  to  much  regard,  since 
they  are  scurrilous  and  filthy,  was  one 
of  the  projectors  of  the  Saturday  Vis- 
iter.  He  published  reminiscences  of 
Poe  several  times,  but  the  only  article 
which  need  be  referred  to  here  is  one, 


Recollections  of  Edgar  A.  Poe,  con- 
tributed to  the  Baltimore  Daily  Com- 
mercial, May  23,  1866.  He  writes :  — 

"  My  acquaintance  with  Poe  com- 
menced in  Baltimore,  soon  after  his  re- 
turn from  St.  Petersburg,  *  covered  with 
debt  and  infamy,  and  confirmed  in  hab- 
its of  dissipation,'  as  one  of  his  biog- 
raphers represents.  I  can  most  consci- 
entiously declare,  however,  that  at  the 
time  referred  to,  and  a  long  time  after- 
wards, I  heard  nothing  of  his  debts  and 
infam}r,  and  saw  nothing  of  his  dissi- 
pated habits.  His  time  appeared  to  be 
constantly  occupied  by  his  literary  la- 
bors ;  he  had  already  published  a  vol- 
ume of  poems,  and  written  several  of 
those  minor  romances  which  afterwards 
appeared  in  the  collection  called  Tales 
of  the  Grotesque  and  Arabesque.  He 
lived  in  a  very  retired  way  with  his 
aunt,  Mrs.  Clemm,  and  his  moral  de- 
portment, as  far  as  my  observation  ex- 
tended, was  altogether  correct.  *  Intem- 
perance,' says  the  biographer  quoted 
above,  '  was  his  master-passion.'  How 
then  did  it  happen  that  during  an  inti- 
mate acquaintance  with  him,  which  con- 
tinued for  more  than  twelve  years,  I 
never  saw  him  intoxicated  in  a  single 
instance  ? 

"  His  personal  appearance  and  equip- 
ments at  the  time  I  speak  of  have  been 
thus  described  :  '  He  was  thin  and  pale 
even  to  ghastliness  ;  his  whole  appear- 
ance indicated  sickness  and  the  utmost 
destitution.  A  well-worn  frock-coat 
concealed  the  absence  of  a  shirt,  and 
imperfect  boots  discovered  the  want  of 
hose.'  This  description  is  wholly  incor- 
rect. In  his  youthful  days,  Poe's  per- 
sonal appearance  was  delicate  and  effem- 
inate, but  never  sickly  or  ghastly,  and  I 
never  saw  him  in  any  dress  which  was 
not  fashionably  neat,  with  some  approx- 
imation to  elegance.  Indeed,  1  often 
wondered  how  he  could  contrive  to  equip 
himself  so  handsomely,  considering  that 
his  pecuniary  resources  were  generally 
scanty  and  precarious  enough. 


1884.] 


Poe's  Legendary   Years. 


827 


"  My  intercourse  with  Poe  was  almost 
continuous  for  weeks  together.  Almost 
every  day  we  took  long  walks  in  the 
rural  districts  near  Baltimore,  and  had 
long  conversations  on  a  great  variety  of 
subjects  ;  and  however  dry  might  be  the 
subject  of  our  discourse,  and  however 
dusty  the  road  we  traveled,  we  never 
stopped  at  any  hotel  for  liquid  refresh- 
ment, and  I  never  observed  any  dispo- 
sition on  the  part  of  my  companion  to 
avail  himself  of  the  liberal  supplies  of 
alcoholic  beverage  which  were  always 
to  be  had  in  the  vicinity  of  Baltimore. 
In  short,  his  general  habits  at  that 
time  were  strictly  temperate,  and  but 
for  one  or  two  incidents  I  might  have 

O 

supposed  him  to  be  a  member  of  the 
cold  -  water  army.  On  one  occasion 
when  I  visited  him  at  his  lodgings  he 
produced  a  decanter  of  Jamaica  spirits, 
in  conformity  with  a  practice  which  was 
very  common  in  those  days,  especially  in 
the  Southern  and  Middle  States,  where 
one  gentleman  would  scarcely  visit  an- 
other without  being  invited  to  drink. 
On  the  occasion  just  referred  to,  Poe 
made  a  moderate  use  of  the  liquor ;  and 
this  is  the  only  time  that  ever  I  saw  him 
drink  ardent  spirits.  On  another  occa- 
sion I  was  present,  when  his  aunt,  Mrs. 
Clemm,  scolded  him  with  some  severity 
for  coming  home  intoxicated  on  the  pre- 
ceding evening.  He  excused  himself  by 
saying  that  he  had  met  with  some 
friends,  who  had  persuaded  him  to  take 
dinner  with  them  at  a  tavern,  where  the 
whole  party  had  become  inebriated,  —  a 
circumstance  for  which  many  a  poetical 
gentleman's  experience  might  furnish  a 
parallel.  I  judged  from  the  conversa- 
tion between  Mrs.  Clemm  and  Poe  that 
the  fault  for  which  she  reproved  him 
was  of  rare  occurrence,  and  I  never  af- 
terwards heard  him  charged  with  a  rep- 
etition of  the  offense." 

This  is  all  that  Wilmer  has  to  say  with 
regard  to  this  particular  time.  The  twelve 
years'  intimate  acquaintance  with  Poe 
which  he  asserts  is  an  absurd  claim. 


Ha  knew  Poe  well  only  for  a  very  few 
months  at  this  time  ;  during  six  of  the 
twelve  years  he  did  not  see  Poe  at  all, 
and  for  the  last  five  of  them  he  met  him 
only  incidentally  in  Philadelphia.  Oth- 
er statements  in  this  article  —  for  ex- 
ample, the  circumstantial  account  of 
Poe's  attempt  to  learn  lithographing  in 
Philadelphia  about  1841  — are  entirely 
fictitious.  Wilmer,  therefore,  is  not  a 
scrupulous  and  careful  witness,  and  his 
word  would  not  for  a  moment  stand 
against  Kennedy's  as  recorded  in  his 
diary.  From  Wilmer's  book,  Our  Press 
Gang,  in  which  he  gives  an  account  of 
his  life,  but  without  dates,  it  appears 
that  he  went  from  Washington  to  Bal- 
timore to  start  the  Visiter,  and  was  its 
editor  not  much  longer  than  six  months  ; 
he  lost  his  place,  and  was  soon  forced  to 
go  away  from  Baltimore  in  search  of  a 
living  elsewhere,  and  did  not  return  un- 
til after  Poe  had  left  the  city.  It  is 
possible,  of  course,  that  Poe  offered  his 
services  to  the  new  weekly  at  once,  and 
that  an  acquaintance  sprang  up  between 
the  editor  and  contributor,  but  this  sup- 
position cannot  be  verified,  as  no  file  of 
the  paper  is  known  to  exist.  It  is  quite 
as  likely,  and  the  hypothesis  reconciles 
all  the  facts,  that  Wilmer's  intimacy  with 
Poe  grew  out  of  the  latter's  winning 
the  prize,  and  his  reminiscences  there- 
fore cover  the  months  just  subsequent 
to  Kennedy's  charity,  when,  after  Mrs. 
Clemm  again  settled  in  Baltimore,  he 
went  to  reside  with  her.  Poe  was  then, 
under  the  stimulation  of  Kennedy's 
friendship  and  active  interest,  trying  to 
retrieve  his  reputation  and  break  off  his 
bad  habits. 

Whether  during  these  hard  years  Poe 
made  any  application  for  assistance  to 
Mr.  Allan  has  never  been  publicly 
known.  The  account  which  Colonel  El- 
lis (whose  article,  as  has  been  said,  is 
the  only  one  of  the  slightest  authority) 
has  given  of  the  final  scene  between 
Poe  and  his  old  patron,  though  it  took 
place  six  months  after  Poe's  literary 


828 


Poe*3  Legendary   Years. 


[December, 


adoption  by  Kennedy,  seems  to  belong 
here  :  — 

"  A  short  time  previous  to  Mr.  Al- 
lan's death,  on  the  27th  of  March,  1834, 
he  was  greatly  distressed  by  dropsy, 
was  unable  to  lie  down,  and  sat  in  an 
armchair  night  and  day  ;  several  times 
a  day,  by  the  advice  of  his  physician, 
he  walked  across  the  room  for  exercise, 
leaning  on  his  cane,  and  assisted  by  his 
wife  and  a  man  servant.  During  this 
illness  of  her  husband,  Mrs.  Allan  was 
on  an  occasion  passing  through  the  hall 
of  this  house,  when,  hearing  the  front- 
door bell  ring,  she  opened  the  door  her- 
self. A  man  of  remarkable  appearance 
stood  there,  and  without  giving  his  name 
asked  if  he  could  see  Mr.  Allan.  She 
replied  that  Mr.  Allan's  condition  was 
such  that  his  physicians  had  prohibited 
any  person  from  seeing  him  except  his 
nurses.  The  man  was  Edgar  A.  Poe, 
who  was,  of  course,  perfectly  familiar 
with  the  house.  Thrusting  her  aside, 
and  without  noticing  her  reply,  he  passed 
rapidly  tip-stairs  to  Mr.  Allan's  cham- 
ber, followed  by  Mrs.  Allan.  As  soon 
as  he  entered  the  chamber  Mr.  Allan 
raised  his  cane,  and,  threatening  to  strike 
him  if  he  came  within  his  reach,  or- 
dered him  out,  upon  which  Poe  with- 
drew ;  and  that  was  the  last  time  they 
ever  met." 

In  this  article  all  that  has  ever  been 
alleged  or  is  now  known  in  regard  to 
Poe's  life,  from  his  desertion  of  Mr.  Al- 
lan's home  in  1827  to  his  expulsion 
from  it  under  the  circumstances  just  re- 
lated, has,  I  believe,  been  included. 
His  story,  stripped  of  its  fabulous  inci- 
dents, has  turned  out  to  be  the  common- 
place one  of  a  runaway  boy,  who  persist- 
ently rejected  and  at  last  forfeited  the 
honest  kindness  of  his  friends.  There 


is  nowhere  in  it  a  generous,  noble,  or 
picturesque  incident.  If  one  desires  to 
build  up  a  transforming  legend  and  to 
perpetuate  the  romance  of  a  bygone 
literary  fashion,  he  can  do  so  only  by 
suppressing  the  facts  and  elaborating  the 
myth  in  the  direction  of  a  tawdry  and 
foolish  sentimentality.  Whether  or  not, 
as  Poe  said,  the  truth  is  everything  in 
a  biography,  justice  has  a  supreme  right 
there  as  elsewhere  :  I  do  not  mean  the 
justice  that  is  expressed  in  verdicts,  but 
that  ideal  justice,  which,  however  ob- 
scured, or  lost,  or  overborne,  it  may  be, 
by  the  intrusion  of  extraneous  influ- 
ences, is  nevertheless  discernible  in  hu- 
man affairs,  and  brings  about  a  certain 
consistency  in  life  and  character.  Shel- 
ley's youth  was  full  of  error,  and  at  his 
death  his  name  was  held  in  dishonor*; 
but,  the  nobility  of  his  nature  always  re- 
maining undefined,  ruin  could  not  touch 
him  nor  shame  live  beside  his  grave.  If 
Poe,  on  the  other  hand,  was  the  victim, 
he  was  also  the  servant,  as  he  was  the 
poet,  of  the  evil  gods  ;  and  the  same 
consistency,  the  same  ideal  justice,  work- 
ing itself  out  to  a  different  end,  is  to  be 
seen  in  his  life  as  in  Shelley's.  It  is 
not  the  career  of  a  youth  between  the 
ages  of  eighteen  and  twenty-five  that 
has  been  so  minutely  examined  in  this 
paper  ;  it  is  rather  the  sowing-time  of  a 
man  of  genius,  whose  harvest  proved  so 
black  a  growth  that  it  is  deemed  hardly 
natural.  But  so  far  from  learning  to 
credit  any  part  of  the  legend  that  strives 
to  turn  Poe  into  the  object  of  an  ex- 
ceptional fatality,  one  rises  from  the 
exhaustive  study  of  his  days  from  birth 
to  death,  with  only  the  more  profound 
conviction  that  nothing  but  a  man's 
own  acts  can  plunge  him  into  the  worst 
of  life. 

G.  E.  Woodberry. 


1884,] 


An  American  Flirtation. 


829 


AN  AMERICAN   FLIRTATION. 


TIME,  a  warm,  moonlit  night  in  April ; 
Scene,  a  public  parlor  in  a  comparative- 
ly old  and  incomparably  respectable 
hotel ;  Place,  one  of  the  very  loveliest 
of  the  many  lovely  little  spots  that  have 
sprung  up  along  the  shores  of  the  won- 
derful Mediterranean  to  lure  the  shiv- 
ering Briton  from  his  wintry  home ; 
Dramatis  persons —  but  no;  the  actors 
were  out  of  the  way  for  the  moment, 
and  the  audience,  to  wit  the  rest  of  the 
hotel  company,  was  discussing  them  in 
their  absence.  A  fire  of  dry  olive  wood 
and  odorous  pine  cones  burned  brilliant- 
ly on  the  hearth,  intended,  however,  like 
many  another  blaze,  for  display  rather 
than  for  comfort,  as  the  windows  were 
wide  open  at  the  same  time,  and  the 
breath  of  the  roses  outside  stole  fra- 
grantly in  through  the  green  lattices. 

A  number  of  ladies — an  inordinate 
number  it  seemed  at  the  first  glance,  so 
voluminous  were  the  petticoats  and  so 
various  the  shawls  —  sat  comfortably 
established  about  the  room.  They  were 
nearly  all  old,  nearly  all  interested  in 
the  subject-matter,  and  quite  all  English, 
as  was  indicated  by  the  brilliancy  of  the 
gowns  and  the  universality  of  that  for- 
midable piece  of  architecture  known  as 
the  cap,  even  without  the  added  testi- 
mony of  their  voices,  —  those  soft,  full, 
pleasant  tones  which  are  the  privileged 
birthright  of  Englishwomen,  and  which 
the  Pilgrim  mothers,  in  their  transat- 
lantic voyage,  unfortunately  lost  by  the 
way. 

"  Of  course  they  are  engaged,"  said 
one  of  these  ladies,  with  that  emphasis 
which  seems  to  establish  indisputably 
the  fact  which  it  announces.  "  It 's  im- 
possible that  they  are  not." 

"  Well,  no,  Lady  Bruce,  I  believe  not, 
—  not  exactly,  you  know,"  said  another 
voice,  a  little  apologetic  cough  following 
the  hesitating  contradiction  like  a  gentle 


"  By  your  leave."  "  Of  course  I  did  n't 
like  to  ask  either  Mr.  Elsworth  or  Miss 
Allison  point-blank,  but  I  hinted  the 
question  to  that  friend  of  hers,  —  that 
wide  awake  little  Miss  Wright,  with 
the  American  nose,  you  know.  And 
she  said  there  was  n't  anything  in  it  on 
either  side ;  it  was  only  the  American 
way.  It  seems  all  the  young  men  in 
the  States  are  always  particularly  de- 
voted to  some  girl  or  other,  —  first  one, 
and  then  another,  continuously."' 

"  It  's  a  very  shocking  way,"  said 
Lady  Bruce  severely,  pausing  in  her 
work  to  smooth  out  a  blue  worsted 
stripe  upon  her  purple  satin  knee.  "  I 
hope  we  may  never  import  it  into  Eng- 
land. How  is  one  to  know  whether  a 
young  man  means  anything  or  not  ?  ' 

"  He  never  does  mean  anything,  I  am 
told." 

"  Oh,  but,  my  dear  Miss  Woodruff,  a 
little  common  sense  will  tell  you  that 
there  must  come  a  time  when  he  does 
mean  something,  don't  you  see?  And 
if  this  sort  of  thing  goes  on  in  the  mean 
while,  how  are  parents  ever  to  judge 
of  his  intentions  ?  Now  this  Theodora 
Allison,  —  if  that  young  Elsworth  is  n't 
courting  her,  why  is  he  allowed  to  dan- 
gle after  her  in  this  open  fashion  ?  If 
any  young  man  devoted  himself  to  my 
daughter  in  that  marked  manner,  I 
should  ask  him  his  intentions  directly. 
I  should  fail  in  my  duty  if  I  did  n't." 

Miss  Bruce,  a  small,  plain,  white- 
faced  little  thing,  hopelessly  deficient  in 
that  bright,  healthful  beauty  which  be- 
longs to  most  young  English  faces,  was 
sitting  silently  by  her  mother's  side, 
and  blushed  the  color  of  her  hair  at 
the  bare  idea  of  a  young  man  ever  be- 
ing devoted  to  her  in  the  way  that  Mr. 
Elsworth  was  devoted  to  Miss  Alli- 
son. Perhaps  up  in  heaven  there  might 
be  some  manly  angel  detailed  for  that 


830 


An  American  Flirtation. 


[December, 


kind  office,  but  certainly  here  on  earth 
every  other  impossibility  would  happen 
first. 

"  They  went  off  for  a  walk  this  after- 
noon," volunteered  a  third  lady,  with  an 
amused  laugh. 

"  Alone,  I  suppose  ?  ' 

"  Quite  alone,  if  you  please." 

u  Fancy,  now!  Goodness  knows  where 
they  went  to." 

"  Only  to  the  pier,  I  believe,"  an- 
swered Mrs.  Pemberry  reluctantly,  feel- 
ing that  she  owed  an  apology  for  the 
tame  admission.  "  Theo  told  me  about 
it  at  the  table  d'hote  to-night.  She 
said  it  was  so  interesting  watching  the 
workmen  dump  in  stones.  Odd  taste, 
is  n't  it  ?  " 

"  Extraordinary  ! ':'  said  Lady  Bruce, 
thrusting  on  her  thimble  as  one  would 
clap  an  extinguisher  on  a  candle.  "The 
unprotected  way  in  which  American 
parents  allow  their  girls  to  go  about 
with  young  men  is  something  incompre- 
hensible. Fancy  rny  Anna  here  going 
about  alone  with  a  young  man  ! ' 

Anna  again  blushed,  the  suggestion 
was  so  shameful  and  so  undeniably  at- 
tractive. 

"  They  went  on  a  donkey  ride  this 
morning,  did  you  see  ?  '  said  somebody 
else  from  an  unimportant  corner.  "  It 
was  quite  a  large  party,  to  he  sure ;  still 
Mr.  Els  worth  started  by  the  side  of  Miss 
Allison,  and  came  back  by  her  side,  and 
doubtless  he  never  left  her  for  a  mo- 
ment." 

"  American  girls  do  seem  to  have  such 
a  good  time  of  it ! '  murmured  little 
Miss  Bruce  quite  irrelevantly. 

It  was  a  bold  speech.  Lady  Bruce 
glanced  around  sharply,  then  bent  again 
to  her  work.  "  American  girls  are  the 
worst  brought  up  in  the  world,"  she  pro- 
nounced scathingly ;  "  and  this  free- 
handed comradeship  between  young  men 
and  young  women  is  simply  scandalous. 
The  girls  treat  the  men  like  so  many 
other  girls,  and  the  men  treat  the  girls 
as  if  making  love  to  each  one  they  speak 


to.  It  's  an  unnatural  and  preposterous 
state  of  affairs.  But  in  the  case  of  these 
two,  of  course  there  can  be  no  question 
how  matters  stand.  They  are  engaged." 

"  Hush,  here  he  is  !  " 

A  sudden  expectant  silence  fell  upon 
the  room  as  a  young  man  appeared  in 
the  doorway.  The  entr'acte  was  over, 
and  the  curtain  had  risen  again  upon  the 
drama. 

The  new-comer  was  a  tall,  handsome 
fellow,  with  a  noticeable  air  of  good 
breeding  and  refinement.  He  stood  still 
an  instant,  while  his  pleasant  glance 
shot  swiftly  around  the  little  circle. 
Miss  Allison  was  not  there  yet,  and 
what  a  dull  time  the  poor  women  were 
having !  He  must  make  the  best  of  it 
till  she  came.  In  another  moment  he 
had  gathered  Miss  Woodruff's  skein 
from  the  back  of  a  chair,  and  was  hold- 
ing it  for  her  with  admirable  grace  and 
dexterity,  chatting  amiably  and  general- 
ly as  he  did  so,  with  an  easy  flow  of 
talk  that  could  hardly  fail  to  please  his 
feminine  audience,  even  though  it  be- 
trayed neither  great  originality  nor  un- 
usual intelligence.  It  was  the  guiding 
rule  of  this  young  man  always  to  make 
the  best  of  existing  circumstances,  ex- 
tracting the  utmost  pleasure  from  even  the 
most  unpropitious  materials, — a  selfish 
principle  which  produced  charmingly  un- 
selfish effects  ;  and  he  now  threw  him- 
self so  heartily  into  the  task  of  enter- 
taining and  of  being  entertained  that 
even  Lady  Bruce  was  won  over,  observ- 
ing to  Mrs.  Pemberry,  in  what  she  in- 
tended for  an  undertone,  that  this  agree- 
able polish  of  manner  was  due  entirely 
to  the  young  fellow's  foreign  education, 
no  American  being  able  to  get  it  at 
home. 

Miss  Allison,  with  her  friend  Miss 
Wright,  came  in  somewhat  later.  Miss 
Bruce  looked  up  at  her  with  a  faint  pang, 
impossible  to  repress.  It  was  very  hard 
that  American  girls  should  have  not  only 
all  the  fun  and  all  the  young  men,  but 
so  much  of  the  prettiness  and  the  taste- 


1884.] 


An  American  Flirtation. 


831 


ful  dressing,  too.  Theo  Allison  certain- 
ly was  enviably  pretty.  With  her  large, 
innocent  blue  eyes  and  her  fluffy  hair, 
parted  on  the  side  and  falling  across  her 
forehead  in  great  light  rings  that  tempt- 
ed one  to  lift  them  into  place  with  ca- 
ressing fingers,  and  with  a  certain  quaint 
picturesqueness  of  dress,  which  had  al- 
ways some  little  dainty  extra  touch  to 
make  it  an  altogether  different  affair 
from  every  other  toilette,  she  was  indeed 
a  pleasant  object  to  look  upon. 

Elsvvorth  naturally  rose  at  once  to 
give  her  a  chair,  and  as  naturally  placed 
his  own  beside  it,  immediately  concen- 
trating upon  her  the  attentions  hitherto 
diffused  among  the  roomful.  He  was 
only  acting  up  to  his  creed,  —  doing 
what  brought  himself  the  most  pleasure 
at  the  time ;  and  no  one  could  deny  that 
for  a  young  man  it  must  certainly  be 
pleasanter  to  talk  with  Theo  than  with 
any  one  else  present.  After  her  entrance, 
therefore,  those  who  had  for  a  short 
while  enjoyed  the  privilege  of  the  full 
loaf  had  again  to  content  themselves 
with  the  crumbs.  The  two  sat  chatting 
merrily  enough,  yet  saying  nothing 
whatever  that  the  others  might  not  over- 
hear ;  and  in  point  of  fact  what  was  so 
overheard  formed  the  chief  staple  of 
conversation  for  the  rest,  who  used  it  as 
a  text  upon  which  to  build  running  com- 
mentaries. 

44  He  calls  her  Miss  Theo.  Why 
should  n't  he  say  Miss  Allison  ?  '  said 
Lady  Bruce,  biting  off  a  thread  as  if  it 
were  a  dissenting  opinion.  "  It  would 
make  me  shiver  to  hear  my  daughter 
familiarly  spoken  to  in  society  as  Miss 
Anna.  I  should  fancy  that  all  the  young 
men  were  footmen." 

"  Oh,  he  's  asked  her  to  go  to  church 
with  him  to-morrow  ! ':  broke  in  Miss 
Bruce,  with  wide  eyes,  aghast  at  the 
idea  of  this  devotion  to  a  fellow  crea- 
ture being  carried  into  the  very  heart  of 
the  sanctuary.  Dear,  dear,  how  was  it 
possible  that  Miss  Allison  could  say  her 
prayers  rightly,  with  such  a  handsome 


young  fellow  kneeling  directly  beside 
her!  Would  n't  she  get  the  service 
hopelessly  jumbled  up,  and  perhaps  be- 
gin with  the  "  We  beseech  Thee  to  hear 
us  '  before  it  was  time  to  have  done 
with  the  "  Good  Lord,  deliver  us "  ? 
"  I  know  /  should,"  said  honest  little 
Miss  Bruce  pathetically  to  herself. 

'*  Do  young  ladies  often  go  to  church 
alone  with  young  gentlemen,  in  Amer- 
ica ? '  she  inquired  timidly  of  Miss 
Wright. 

Miss  Wright  gave  her  a  keen  little 
glance  of  intelligent  condolence. 

"  Often,"  she  replied,  with  the  relish 
of  one  speaking  from  personal  experi- 
ence of  a  desirable  and  not  widely 
enough  disseminated  custom,  —  "  very 
often.  It 's  good  for  the  young  men. 
They  would  otherwise  stay  at  home,  per- 
haps, to  smoke  injurious  cigarettes." 

"  But  I  should  think  it  might  n't  be 
quite  as  good  for  the  girls,"  stammered 
Miss  Bruce  confusedly.  "  It  might  dis- 
tract them  from  the  service.  Why,  if  I 
had  a  young  man  next  me  and  he  looked 
over  my  Prayer-Book,  I  should  be  so 
afraid  it  might  open  of  itself  at  the 
marriage  service  that  I  could  n't  attend 
to  anything  else." 

"  It  would  be  much  more  likely  to 
open  at  the  commination  service,  I 
should  say  ;  there  are  so  many  things 
you  English  are  forbidden  to  do,"  re- 
plied Miss  Wright,  with  compassion. 
"  Theo,  are  we  not  to  have  some  mu- 
sic ?  " 

The  request  being  warmly  seconded, 
Theo  rose  at  once  and  went  to  the  piano, 
Elsworth  following  as  a  matter  of  course 
to  find  her  the  music  and  turn  over  the 
leaves.  She  was  an  accomplished  per- 
former, and  for  a  while  all  voices  were 
still  as  her  skillful  fingers  swept  over  the 
keys,  gliding  from  one  harmony  into  an- 
other before  any  one  had  time  to  ask 
for  more,  or  even  to  know  that  the  first 
was  ended. 

"  Why  does  n't  it  fluster  her  to  have 
him  stand  so  near  and  never  take  his 


832 


An  American  Flirtation. 


[December, 


eyes  off  her  ?  "  whispered  Miss  Bruce. 
"  It  would  make  me  play  all  my  sharps 
flats." 

"  Oh,  we  Americans  are  so  used  to 
young  men  that  we  never  think  of  mind- 
ing them,"  Miss  Wright  returned,  with 
what  seemed  the  very  acme  of  sangfroid 
to  the  little  English  girl.  "  They  never 
put  us  out." 

"  And  are  you  as  used  to  them  as  Miss 
Allison  ?"  ventured  Miss  Bruce.  This 
stolen  talk  about  young  men  was  cer- 
tainly treading  on  forbidden  ground,  but 
after  the  first  step  it  did  not  seem  so 
wrong  to  go  further. 

"  Oh,  yes,  I  am  quite  as  used  to  them," 
responded  Miss  Wright  calmly,  "  though 
to  be  sure  I  have  none  here ;  but  that 
is  because  there  is  no  one  here  but  Mr. 
Elsworth,  and  he  belongs  to  Theo." 

"  Belongs  to  Miss  Allison  ?  "  repeat- 
ed Miss  Bruce  eagerly.  "Oh,  then 
they  are  "  — 

"  Oh,  no,  they  're  not,"  said  Miss 
Wright.  "  They  're  merely  having  a 
good  time  together.  It 's  so  much  pleas- 
anter  for  a  girl  to  have  some  man  al- 
ways devoted  to  her,  and  so  much  easier 
for  a  man  to  devote  himself  to  one  girl 
rather  than  to  half  a  dozen,  don't  you 
see  ?  " 

"  Oh,"  said  Miss  Bruce  blankly,  con- 
scious of  a  sympathetic  pity  for  the  neg- 
lected five. 

"  At  home  I  have  any  number  of  gen- 
tleman friends,"  continued  Miss  Wright, 
with  an  air  of  being  rather  bored  by  the 
subject  which  possessed  so  absorbing  an 
interest  for  her  companion.  "  But  Eu- 
rope is  a  poor  place  for  men.  We  girls 
leave  our  good  times  behind  us  when  we 
come  abroad.  Europeans  are  always  in 
earnest  when  they  go  in  for  this  sort  of 
thing,  you  see,  and  that  quite  spoils  it. 
Theo  was  uncommonly  lucky  to  get  hold 
of  Fred  Elsworth  here." 

"  But  how  do  Americans  act  when  they 
are  in  earnest  ? ':  asked  Miss  Bruce, 
growing  bold  in  iniquitous  inquiry. 

"  Oh,  they  don't  act  any  differently. 


The  girls  just  know  it 's  different ;  that 's 
all.  It's  perfectly  easy  to  tell.  Any 
American  girl  understands  directly 
whether  a  man  is  in  love  with  her  or 
whether  he 's  only  passing  the  time. 
But  I  must  go  upstairs  now.  Good- 
night ; "  and  with  a  bright  nod  around 
at  the  roomful  of  ladies,  and  scarcely  a 
glance  in  the  direction  of  Elsworth,  —  to 
whom,  since  he  belonged  to  Theo,  she 
was  as  indifferent  as  to  a  log  of  wood, 
—  Miss  Wright  made  her  escape. 

Soon  after  she  had  disappeared  some- 
thing dreadful  happened.  Theo  rose  all 
at  once  from  the  piano  in  the  middle  of 
a  bar,  turning  around  a  sweet,  flushed 
face. 

"  I  can't  play  another  minute  !  "  she 
exclaimed,  lifting  her  hands  to  her 
cheeks.  "  The  heat  is  stifling." 

Elsworth  looked  at  her  concernedly. 
"  I  am  afraid  you  have  over-exerted 
yourself,  Miss  Theo.  That  sonata  is 
one  of  the  most  difficult  of  the  set.  You 
have  played  too  long." 

"  No,  it  is  not  that,  only  I  am  so  warm. 
Those  shutters  don't  let  in  a  breath  of 


air. 

"  Come  outside,"  suggested  Elsworth. 
"  It 's  a  lovely  night,  and  there  's  quite 
a  refreshing  breeze  in  the  garden.  It 
will  revive  you." 

"  I  believe  it  would,"  assented  Theo, 
bending  back  her  neck,  as  if  even  the 
soft  lace  at  her  throat  impeded  her 
breathing.  "  Do  let  me  get  out  of  this 
stuffy  atmosphere  for  a  moment,"  and 
she  impulsively  turned  to  the  door. 

"  Wait.  You  may  need  a  shawl !  * 
cried  Elseworth.  "  Ah,  her.e  is  one. 
Miss  Woodruff,  you  are  always  so  kind, 
—  I  'm  sure  you  won't  object  to  lending 
us  this.  We  '11  be  back  in  a  minute," 
and  he  hurried  off  after  his  fair  com- 
panion. 

A  blank  silence  followed  the  depart- 
ure of  the  reckless  couple.  Was  it  pos- 
sible that  such  improprieties  as  this 
were  of  daily  occurrence  in  America,  — 
young  men  and  young  women  going 


1884.] 


An  American  Flirtation. 


833 


out  alone   together  into    the  garden  at 
night  ?     To    be    sure,  the   garden    was 
very    small,  —  scarcely    more    than    an 
open  vestibule ;  one  could  hear  the  voices 
of   the  two  as  they  paced  leisurely  up 
and  down  before  the  house,  passing  and 
repassing  the  windows  ;  and  to  be  sure, 
there  was  a  brilliant  full  moon  shedding 
its  broad  rays  with  an  effulgence    that 
should   have    turned   the    darkest   deed 
white ;  and  to  be  sure,  too,  the  garden 
was    never  less   deserted   than    at    this 
hour,  when  the  proprietor  and  his  book- 
keeper and  at  least  a  maid  or  two  were 
always  strolling  about  it.     But  still  — 
no,  it    was   impossible    to   believe   that 
such  regardless  acts  were  common  even 
in  the  land  of  enormities.     Miss  Bruce 
felt  her  heart  beat  high,  half  in  rebel- 
lious sympathy  with  the  sinners,  half  in 
alarm  at  the  scandal  of  their  behavior. 
After  this,  what    might   they   not   do ! 
And  out  there  in  the  garden,  what  might 
they  not  be  doing   this  very  moment ! 
He   might   be   holding  her  hand.     He 
might   even,  —  he    wouldn't   mind  the 
proprietor  and  the  maids,  perhaps,  —  he 
might  even  —  even  be  pressing  it !     A 
little  chill  ran  over  Miss  Bruce  as  the 
unmaidenly  thought  flashed  through  her 
mind,  and  she  looked  guiltily  around  in 
an  agony  lest  some  one  had  read  it  on 
her  face.  Everybody  else  looked  around, 
too.     Mrs.   Pemberry   raised   her   eye- 
brows till  they  were  almost  lost  under 
her   cap,  and   Miss  Woodruff   coughed 
deprecatingly,  feeling  somewhat  incrim- 
inated from  the  fact  that  she  had  lent 
the   offenders    the  countenance    of   her 
shawl. 

Lady  Bruce  was  the  first  to  speak:  — 

"  Do  you  understand  that  this  is  an 
ordinary  proceeding  for  American  young 
people,  Mrs.  Pemberry,  —  going  out 
alone  in  this  way  at  nine  o'clock  at 
night  ?  " 

Mrs.  Pemberry  lifted  her  hands  in 
protest  at  the  appeal.  "  Don't  refer  to 
me,  please.  I  was  never  but  five  weeks 
in  America,  and  then  only  in  Nova 

VOL.  LIV.  —  NO.  326.  53 


Scotia.  I  'm  sure  I  don't  know  what 
may  n't  go  on  in  the  States.  Almost 
anything,  I  believe." 

"  How  can  Mrs.  Allison  allow  her 
daughter  to  do  such  things  !  "  continued 
Lady  Bruce.  "  Do  you  suppose  she 
knows  it  ?  She  seems  a  refined,  well- 
bred  woman,  too.  Anna,  you  '11  remem- 
ber never  to  be  with  Miss  Allison  again 
unless  I  am  by.  It 's  really  scandalous  to 
leave  those  two  out  there  alone.  Some 
one  ought  to  go  to  them.  If  it  were  not 
for  my  rheumatism,  I  would  go  myself." 

A  merry  laugh  rang  out  near  the 
window  as  she  spoke.  The  pair  were 
just  passing. 

"  Yes,  indeed,"  said  Theo's  high,  clear 
voice.  "  Riz  de  veau  five  days  out  of 
seven  is  rather  often,  I  admit." 

"  And  the  chickens,"  responded  the 
gentleman  with  animation,  —  "  don't  you 
think  it  would  be  an  advantage  if  they 
had  fewer  legs  and  more  wings  ? ' 

And  the  voices  passed  out  of  hearing. 

"  If  I  were  not  afraid  of  stopping  in 
the  night  air,  I  should  certainly  go  out- 
side to  them,"  said  Mrs.  Pemberrv  vir- 

V 

tuously.  "  But  the  girl  can't  come  to 
any  real  harm,  can  she  ?  After  all, 
every  one  knows  she  's  an  American." 

"  That  excuses  a  great  deal,"  added 
gentle  old  Miss  Woodruff  conciliatorily. 
"  Those  two  young  things  are  certainly 
deeply  interested  in  each  other,  —  deep- 
ly ;  and  one  must  make  allowances  for 
people  in  love.  I  dare  say  to  stand  out 
there  under  the  moon  and  look  in  each 
other's  eyes  is  bliss  enough  to  risk  every- 
thing for,  even  a  sore  chest  to-morrow." 

The  voices  were  going  by  the  window 
again. 

"  You  don't  mean  it !  The  man  cheated 
you !  "  Elsworth  was  saying.  "  Why,  I 
only  gave  twenty-three  francs  for  mine, 
and  I  thought  that  an  awful  price.  Try 
the  shop  on  the  left-hand  side  next 
time,"  and  distance  swallowed  up  the 

rest. 

"  All  I  can  say,"  declared  Lady  Bruce 
oracularly,  "  is  that,  if  they  are  not  en- 


834 


An  American  Flirtation. 


[December, 


gaged,  they  ought  to  be.  I  never  saw 
such  devotion  before,  —  he  waiting  on 
her  every  movement,  without  thought 
for  another  being  if  she  is  present,  and 
she  accepting  it  all  in  the  most  matter- 
of-fact  way  as  her  rightful  due.  Why, 
of  course  they  are  engaged." 

"  Oh,  I  feel  so  much  better,"  said  Theo 
from  the  door.  "  Miss  Bruce,  you  ought 
to  have  come,  too.  You  don't  know  how 
nice  it  is  outside,  only  all  the  couriers 
are  smoking.  Miss  Woodruff,  thank 
you  so  much  for  the  shawl." 

Miss  Woodruff  took  it  back,  with  the 
smile  of  generous  pardon  difficult  to 
withhold  from  an  offender  who  has  the 
grace  to  be  young  and  pretty,  while 
Lady  Bruce  rose  austerely,  and  carried 
off  her  daughter  to  the  safe  seclusion 
of  their  own  apartments.  Anna  never 
dreamed  of  asking  to  be  left  behind, 
though  there  was  a  whole  roomful  of 
competent  old  chaperones,  and  only  one 
young  man  to  be  chaperoned  from.  She 
followed  her  mother  obediently  upstairs, 
and  sat  for  a  long  time  pretending  to 
read  by  the  glimmer  of  an  incapable 
lamp,  which  threw  as  dull  a  light  upon 
her  book  as  the  book  threw  upon  her 
brain.  In  reality  she  was  wondering 
whether  in  that  great  and  strange  world 
over  the  seas,  which  seemed  to  be  stocked 
so  full  of  unappropriated  young  men,  it 
could  be  possible  that  even  plain  girls 
—  even  ugly  girls,  she  added  stoutly  to 
herself,  catching  a  glimpse  of  her  unat- 
tractive little  face  in  the  mirror  —  might 
stand  a  chance  of  winning  from  any  one 
such  lovely  service  as  was  now  being 
laid  at  Theo's  feet.  How  gladly  would 
she  repay  with  her  whole  soul's  wealth 
but  a  tithe  of  such  devotion  as  this !  It 
was  a  great  pity  indeed  that  English 
people  could  not  spend  their  winters 
sometimes  in  America,  instead  of  always 

• 

on  the  Riviera.  Oh,  what  a  land  that 
mast  be,  where  life's  highest  pleasures 
not  only  were  never  forbidden  fruits, 
but  were  hung  by  a  beneficent  fate 
within  convenient  reach  of  even  the 


most  timid  hand  !  One  could  afford  to 
be  just  a  little  barbarous,  for  the  sake 
of  being  denizens  of  such  a  country. 

The  next  day  was  Sunday,  and,  at- 
tended by  her  faithful  cavalier,  Theo 
came  to  church  in  the  morning,  looking 
prettier  than  any  picture.  Anna  saw 
the  couple  the  moment  they  entered, 
and  colored  high  with  interest,  becon> 
ing  immediately  so  wholly  absorbed  in 
them  that  she  made  sorry  work  with  her 
responses,  and  at  last  forgot  to  turn  over 
the  leaves  of  her  book  as  the  service 
proceeded.  It  was  surprising  that  Theo 
could  look  so  innocent  and  unabashed 
all  the  time,  though  not  even  Miss 
Wright  was  there  to  support  her.  Once 
Mr.  Elsworth  leaned  towards  her  and 
murmured  something  in  the  tiny  pink 
ear  next  him,  and  the  faintest  gleam  of 
a  smile  appeared  on  Theo's  charming 
face,  followed  by  the  lightest  possible 
deepening  of  the  delicate  rose  in  her 
cheeks.  Was  she  blushing  at  what  he 
had  said,  or  only  blushing  because  she 
had  smiled  ?  And  once,  when  some  un- 
professional chorister  in  the  background 
added  a  few  original  and  altogether  un- 
praiseworthy  notes  to  the  anthem,  Theo 
turned  to  Elsworth  with  a  wicked  little 
glance  of  intelligence.  Anna  watched 
the  pair  breathlessly,  and  wondered 
whether  "  Woman,  wilt  thou  take  this 
man  to  be  thy  wedded  husband  ? ':  got 
elaborately  mixed  up  with  the  text  in 
Theo's  brain,  as  it  somehow  did  in  hers. 

The  sermon,  truly,  was  quite  lost  on 
poor  Anna.  It  was  a  black-letter  day 
for  her  morals.  She  felt  as  if  she  were 
reading  a  novel  in  church.  But  who 
could  lay  down  so  sweet  a  romance  un- 
read, when  it  was  fate,  not  will,  that 
thus  enticingly  turned  the  leaves  ? 

Mrs.  Pemberry  joined  Lady  Bruce  at 
the  conclusion  of  the  service.  Theo  and 
Mr.  Elsworth  were  directly  in  front  of 
them,  as  they  all  strolled  slowly  home- 
wards along  the  sun-bright  esplanade. 

"  Engaged,   don't   you    think    so  ?  ' 
whispered  Mrs.  Pemberry,  with  a  nod 


1884.]                                An  American  Flirtation.  835 

of  her  many  ribbons  towards  the  pair  "  Prettily     matched,    are  n't     they, 

in  front.  dear  ?  "  murmured  Miss  Woodruff,  draw- 

"  Unquestionably,"    answered    Lady  ing  a  fur  cape  closer  around  her  neck, 

Bruce,  quite  aloud.     "  Ought  to  be,  if  with  the  unconscious  caution  of  a  con- 

they  are  n't.     Anna,  can't  you  keep  up  firmed  invalid,  as  she  stretched  out  her 

with  us  ?  '  head  beside  Anna's  to  look  after  them. 

Anna  was  lagging  behind.    It  seemed  "  Very  imprudent  of  them  to  go  out  in 

indelicate  to  walk  within  earshot  of  that  this  wind  ;  and  likely  as  not,  too,  they  '11 

self-centred  couple.    Perhaps  even  Lady  forget  that  they  should  come  in  before 

Bruce  was  moved  by  some  compassion-  sunset.     But   I   suppose  young   people 

ate  instinct  of  the  sort,  for  she  presently  can't  be  minding  doctors  when  they  're 

quickened  her  pace,  till   her  party  not  in  love.     Foolish,  foolish  ;  but  it  seems 

only  reached  Theo,  but  passed  her  by.  they  can't  be  separated  a  moment.     I 

Anna  could  not  help  catching  a  bit  of  dare  say  they  're  going  up  among  the 

their   conversation   in    the   moment   of  olives." 

passing,  though  she  conscientiously  tried  Anna's  heart  beat  high.     Up  among 
her  best  not  to  hear.  the  olives  !    All  alone,  with  that  kindly, 
"  Hot,  was  n't  it  ? '    from  Elsworth.  leafy  screen  shutting  them  out  from  un- 
"  Awfully,"  from  Theo.  sympathetic  eyes  !  "  Do  you  think  so  ?" 
"  Hard  seats,  too."  she  answered  faintly.  Through  her  mind 
"  Yes.     I  wish  I  had  stayed  at  home,  there  darted,  like  the  glimpse  of  a  paint- 
There  was  sure  to  be  a  mail."  ed  picture,  a  possible   scene  under  the 
"  That 's  so.  The  steamer 's  in.  Let 's  gray  old  trees  :  two  young  people  seated 
hurry."  together  on  a  bench   not   long  enough 
Oh,  how  silly  to  hurry  home  for  let-  for   three,  holding   each   other  by  the 
ters  when  one  could  linger  on   such  a  hands  and  not  speaking  for  content.  No 
tete-a-tete  walk  as  that !     Anna  sighed,  wonder  she  blushed  so  hotly  and  turned 
How  little  some  over-blessed  people  ap-  away  her  head.     "  Do  you  think  so  ? ' 
preciate  Heaven's  favors  !  she  repeated,  lower  yet. 

But  that  very  afternoon,  as  she  sat  at  "  I  should  think  it  natural,"  said  Miss 

the  window  of  the  reading-room,  while  Woodruff,  quite  off  her  guard  from  her 

Lady  Bruce  bent  devouringly  over  the  deep  interest  in  the  couple.    "  At  least," 

Times,  undisturbed  by  the  hungry  gaze  she  added  hastily,  recollecting  her  duty 

of  an  old  gentleman  who  had  been  wait-  towards  the  uncontaminated  young  girl 

ing  already  three  quarters  of   an  hour  at  her  side,  —  "  at  least,  it 's  most  foolish 

for  the  paper,  Anna  saw  the  fortunate  and  out  of  the  way,  and  not  at  all  to  be 

pair  starting  out  again  for  a  stroll,  Theo  recommended,  my  dear  ;  but  they  're  so 

turning  up  her  bright  face  to  a  window  wrapped  up  in  each  other,  poor  things, 

above  to  kiss  her  hand  to  her  mother.  —  see  him  buttoning  her  gloves  ;  . .  al- 

Mrs.  Allison  certainly  seemed  to  see  no  most  feel  as  if  we  oughtn't  to  look,  — 

harm  in   her  daughter's  walking  off  all  and  they  '11  like  to  have  a  good,  quiet 

alone  with  a  young  man.     Strange  that  talk,  off  by  themselves,  I  doubt  not.  It 's 

two   mothers    judged    so   differently  of  the  way  of  young  people  in  their^state. 

the  same  thing,  one  deeming  altogether  It 's  a  very  foolish  state,  my  dear." 

right  what  the  other  deemed  altogether  "  Good-by,"   called    a    cheery 

wrong  !  But  of  course  it  is  always  one  's  from  some  window  out  of  sight, 

own  mother  who  knows  best.     That  is  by,  Theo. 

what  makes  a  line  of  action  clear  and  «  It 's  Miss  Wright,"  whispered  Anna, 

easy   to   each   daughter.     Still   Anna's  Theo  looked  up,  still  holding  01 

eyes  rested  wistfully  on  the  pair.  gloved   hand   towards  her  knight,  and 


836 


An  American  Flirtation. 


[December, 


with  the  other  tilting  back  her  hat,  the 
better  to  see  her  friend.  "  Oh,  Nettie, 
do  change  your  mind,  and  come  too  !  " 

"  Can't.  Letters  to  write,"  came  down 
in  decisive  answer. 

"  Merely  an  excuse,  I  am  sure,"  com- 
mented Miss  Woodruff,  reaching  out  her 
head  still  further  in  a  vain  attempt  to 
see  Miss  Wright,  too.  "  When  one  is 
at  home  one  says  headache,  and  when 
one  is  abroad  one  says  letters.  But 
it 's  kind  of  her  to  take  their  condition 
into  consideration,  utterly  foolish  as  it 


is." 

"  So  sorry,"  Theo  called  out  skyward. 
"  We  are  going  to  the  public  gardens. 
It 's  fun  to  see  the  crowds  there.  Good- 

by." 

The  picture  in  Anna's  mind  of  the 
two  alone  beneath  the  olives  was  sud- 
denly obliterated.  Still,  in  a  crowd, 
an  Italian  crowd,  —  and  she  rapidly  re- 
flected that  English  was  not  taught  in 
the  common  schools,  —  almost  as  much 
might  be  ventured  as  in  a  tete-a-tete. 
Theo  was  still  greatly  to  be  envied. 

"  What  do  you  suppose  they  talk 
about  when  they  are  off  all  alone  ?  "  she 
asked  Miss  Woodruff,  in  the  convenient 
half  whisper  in  which  their  conversation 
was  conducted  out  of  regard  to  Lady 
Bruce  and  the  Times. 

"  Oh,  my  dear  !  "  exclaimed  the  good 
little  old  lady,  scandalized  at  such  an 
over-curious  question,  and  hastily  draw- 
ing in  her  head.  "  It  won't  do  for  us 
to  imagine.  They  are  Americans,  and 
so  of  course  not  to  be  judged  by  our 
codes ;  but  I  really  would  n't  like  to 
guess.  It 's  very  improper,  their  being 
allowed  off  so  beyond  all  restraint  and 
oversight  of  their  guardians,  and  I  don't 
know  at  all  what  they  may  be  saying 
under  such  circumstances  ;  but  I  have  a 
sort  of  idea,"  —  she  glanced  around  un- 
easily at  Lady  Bruce,  and  lowered  her 
voice  still  more,  —  "  of  course  I  don't 
know,  but  I  have  a  sort  of  idea  that  the 
young  man  must  either  be  making  her 
a  declaration  every  moment,  or  at  the 


least  paying  her  very  open  compliments, 
such  as  he  would  n't  dream  of  doing  in 
the  presence  of  a  mamma,  they  would 
sound  so  foolish.  And  compliments  are 
foolish  ;  remember  that,  my  dear.  They 
are  always  foolish,  even  when  the  mam- 
ma is  n't  by." 

"  But  Theo,"  whispered  Anna  almost 
inaudibly,  —  "  what  could  she  be  saying? 
She  could  n't  be  accepting  him  over  and 
over  again,  you  know." 

"Well,  no,  she  couldn't.  That  is 
true,"  agreed  Miss  Woodruff,  after  a 
moment's  consideration.  "  I  don't  see 
what  she  could  be  saying.  Perhaps  she 
only  listens.  But,  as  I  said,  it  won't  do 
for  us  to  imagine  it  too  closely.  It's 
a  very  uuhealthful  subject  for  young 
girls.  You  should  keep  your  mind  clear 
of  all  such  foolishness.  And  I  think 
your  mamma  is  wanting  you." 

It  was  an  easy  way  for  Miss  Woodruff 
to  be  rid  of  the  delicate  subject.  But 
Anna  was  absorbed,  body  and  soul,  in 
this  one  theme,  and  for  her  there  was 
no  escape  from  it,  turn  where  she  would. 
All  the  sultry  afternoon  she  sat  closeted 
in  her  own  little  room  behind  closed 
blinds,  peering  down  stealthily  through 
the  slats.  Her  book  lay  unopened  on 
her  lap.  If  lost  in  reading  she  might 
miss  seeing  Theo  as  she  came  back. 
She  was  more  than  rewarded  for  the 
long  watch,  when  at  last  the  two 're- 
turned, by  the  glimpse  of  a  bunch  of 
violets  in  Theo's  belt  that  was  not  there 
before.  Were  these  the  first  flowers  he 
had  ever  given  her  ?  Violets  were  cheap 
on  the  Riviera,  but  oh  how  precious 
these  must  be  !  Doubtless  as  he  gave 
them  he  told  her  that  they  were  the 
color  of  her  eyes,  only  less  sweet,  and 
less  blue,  and  less  perfect,  as  all  things 
were  less  perfect  to  him  than  she  was. 
Perhaps  she  permitted  herself  to  smile 
back  at  him  as  he  said  it,  unless,  fright' 
ened  at  the  love  welling  over  in  her 
heart,  her  lashes  had  drooped  lower  than 
before,  and  she  had  not  dared  to  lift  her 
head. 


1884.] 


An  American  Flirtation. 


837 


Surely,  the  next  best  thing  to  having 
a  romance  in  one's  own  life  is  the  living 

«  o 

near  some  one  else's  romance,  and  poor 
little  Anna  felt  very,  very  near  to  Theo's, 
—  so  near  that  it  quite  made  her  heart 
jump  when  they  met.  She  wondered  if 
Theo  had  made  a  confidant  of  her  friend, 
and  if  so  how  it  was  possible  for  Miss 
Wright  to  look  so  unconscious  and  cool 
all  the  time,  just  as  if  no  such  lovely 
secret  lay  throbbing  on  her  soul.  For 
of  course  Theo  and  Mr.  Elsworth  were 
betrothed.  Everybody  said  they  were 
only  waiting  for  the  arrival  of  Mr.  Alli- 
son for  the  engagement  to  be  announced. 
And  it  was  but  a  few  days  later,  in  fact 
when  it  was  suddenly  proclaimed  that 
Mr.  Allison  was  actually  coming. 

"  He  will  be  here  to-morrow  night," 
said  Miss  Woodruff,  her  gentle  face  all 
aglow  with  pleasure.  "  Theo  told  me  just 
now,  and  you  never  saw  such  bright 
eyes  and  rosy  cheeks.  *  I  dare  say  his 
coming  means  a  great  deal  to  you,  my 
dear,'  I  said,  very  significantly.  *  It 's 
surely  a  great  deal  more  than  just  your 
papa's  coming  back  that  brings  such 
roses  to  these  bonny  cheeks.'  The 
pretty  creature  stooped  and  kissed  me, 
and  laughed,  and  then  ran  away,  redder 
than  ever.  Silly  of  her  not  to  say  any- 
thing, was  n't  it  ?  But  one  can't  expect 
sense  of  young  people  in  love,  and  it  '11 
be  all  settled  now." 

"  Time  it  was,"  said  Lady  Bruce,  — 
"  high  time.  I  hope  they  '11  be  married 
the  day  after.  Then  perhaps  they  can 
see  enough  of  each  other,  which  they 
don't  seem  able  to  do  now." 

But  the  very  day  of  Mr.  Allison's 
expected  arrival  a  remarkable  event 
took  place. 

Lady  Bruce,  with  her  docile  daughter 
at  her  side,  stepped  into  the  reading- 
room  on  her  way  indoors  from  a  walk, 
and  quite  ran  into  Mr.  Elsworth,  who, 
cap  in  hand,  and  arrayed  unmistakably 
in  traveling  garb,  was  saying  farewell  to 
the  two  or  three  ladies  present. 

"  Ah,  Lady  Bruce,  I  am  glad  not  to 


have  to  leave  without  saying  good-by  to 
you ! "  exclaimed  the  young  man,  coming 
HP  to  her  with  his  most  cordial  smile. 
"  I  am  just  off  for  Genoa." 

"  Indeed  ?  How  soon  do  you  re- 
turn ?  " 

"I  really  can't  say,"  he  rejoined, 
smiling  still  more.  "  But  it  will  hardly 
be  again  this  season." 

Lady  Bruce  drew  back,  and  looked  at 
him. 

"  What !  "  she  said. 

Her  tone  gave  the  monosyllable  some- 
thing of  the  character  of  a  pistol  shot. 
Anna  looked  to  see  the  young  man  felled 
by  it,  but  he  merely  shook  his  head  in 
the  most  amiable  way,  and  drew  out  his 
watch. 

"  Yes,  —  hardly  again  this  season," 
he  repeated  cheerily.  "  I  am  to  join 
friends,  who  are  not  thinking  of  coming 
this  way.  Perhaps  "  —  he  looked  quite 
embarrassed  all  of  a  sudden  —  "  you 
have  all  been  so  kind  to  me,  perhaps 
it  may  interest  you  to  hear  what  calls  me 
away.  You  must  congratulate  me.  I 
am  going  to  Genoa  to  meet  the  young 
lady  to  whom  I  am  engaged,  and  whom 
I  am  to  marry  next  fall,  so  that  whether 
I  shall  ever  return  here  or  not  will  de- 
pend, you  see,  upon  a  higher  will  than 
my  own.  However,  I  hope  I  may  meet 
you  all  again  some  day.  Good-by,  Lady 
Bruce.  Good-by,  Miss  Woodruff.  Good- 
by,  Miss  Bruce.  Good-by." 

He  shook  hands  heartily  all  round,  in- 
cluding in  his  large  good-humor  a  newly 
arrived  old  maid,  with  whom  no  one  had 
as  yet  exchanged  a  syllable,  and  who 
was  greatly  taken  aback  at  this  exuber- 
ant cordiality  ;  and  in  another  moment 
he  was  off. 

The  group  of  ladies  looked  at  each 
other  in  consternation. 

"Well !  "  said  Lady  Bruce.  «  What 
has  he  done  with  Miss  Allison  ?  What 
does  it  all  mean  ?  And  her  father  com- 
ing this  very  day ! ' 

"  Oh,  the  poor  pretty  dear  !  the  poor 
pretty  young  creature!"  sighed  Miss 


838 


An  American  Flirtation. 


[December, 


Woodruff,  with  wet  eyes.  "  The  wretch 
has  broken  faith  with  her.  Oh,  the  un- 
feeling, cruel  monster !  the  heartless 
scoundrel !  To  think  of  her  pink  cheeks 
last  night,  and  her  bright  eyes !  Oh, 
the  poor  pretty  child  !  She  '11  be  crying 
her  sweet  eyes  out  now  up-stairs,  locked 
in  her  room.  To  think  there  's  no  say- 
ing a  word  to  comfort  her  !  Whatever 

O 

will  she  do  ?  However  will  she  look  us 
all  in  the  face  again,  and  we  knowing 
how  it  is?  I  said  to  her  only  last 
night,  '  I  dare  say  your  papa's  coming 
means  a  great  deal  to  you,  my  dear/ 
and  I  said  it  most  significantly." 

Anna  stood  by,  very  white  and  silent. 
Was  this,  then,  the  cruel  end  of  that 
lovely  romance  she  had  been  watching 
from  its  beginning  ?  Down  to  the  pro- 
foundest  depths  of  her  compassionate 
heart,  she  pitied  that  poor  girl  up-stairs. 
Vividly  as  she  had  pictured  the  scene 
beneath  the  olives,  she  now  pictured 
Theo  in  her  desolation.  How  had  he 
told  her  the  cruel  truth  ?  Had  he  thrown 
it  at  her  shortly,  bluntly,  unfeelingly,  as 
he  had  thrown  it  at  them,  regardless  of 
her  |?ain  ?  Had  it  nearly  killed  her  to 
hear  it,  or  had  she  been  brave,  as  hero- 
ines sometimes  are,  and  smiled  up  at  him 
unflinchingly  over  her  broken  heart,  as 
if  listening  to  welcome  news  ?  Oh,  but 
it  was  cruel,  cruel !  And  she  could  do 
nothing  to  show  her  sympathy  !  Unless 
—  what  if  she  should  lay  a  rose  beside 
the  girl's  plate  at  dinner  ?  She  could 
slip  it  into  place  as  she  went  by.  Her 
mother  and  she  were  always  down  be- 
fore the  rest.  Nobody  need  know 
who  put  it  there,  and  perhaps  Theo 
would  feel  a  little  comforted,  finding  so 
delicate  a  message  of  love  from  an  un- 
obtrusive friend.  Comforted  somewhat 
herself  with  the  idea,  Anna  stole  away 
into  the  garden  to  seek  her  flower.  It 
must  be  very  fair,  very  sweet,  very  per- 
fect, that  rose  that  was  charged  with 
so  tender  a  burden  of  sympathy.  She 
found  it  at  last,  after  a  long  and  patient 
search,  and  returned  to  the  house  just 


as  the  omnibus  drove  up  to  the  door 
from  the  station.  There  were  but  t^wo 
passengers,  one  of  them  evidently  Theo's 
father.  Mrs.  Allison  had  come  down- 
stairs to  meet  him,  all  smiles  and  gentle 
gladness  ;  and  Miss  Wright  was  there, 
too,  with  her  American  nose,  and  her 
wide-awakeness,  and  her  air  of  encyclo- 
paedical intelligence.  Anna  did  not  like 
to  push  by  to  reach  the  door,  and  so 
stood  a  little  aside,  timidly  waiting  till 
the  greeting  should  be  over,  and  holding 
her  rose  gingerly  between  her  fingers, 
lest  pressure  should  fade  it. 

The  omnibus  stopped,  and  almost  be- 
fore the  passengers  could  alight  a  third 
figure  sprang  out  from  behind  the  others 
and  threw  herself  into  the  old  gentle- 
man's arms.  It  was  Theo.  Was  she 
laughing  or  crying  on  her  father's  neck  ? 
Anna's  eyes  dropped.  How  could  she 
lift  them  to  the  poor  girl's  face,  so  dread- 
ing what  she  should  see  there  ? 

But  the  other  passenger,  a  handsome 
young  fellow,  much  like  a  second  edition 
of  Elsworth,  was  bolder  than  Anna. 
He  walked  up  to  Theo,  and  standing 
directly  behind  her  loosened  her  hands 
from  her  father's  neck,  and  so  drew  her 
backward  till  he  could  look  down  into 
her  face. 

"  Theo  !  "  he  said. 

And  right  before  everybody  that 
strange  and  bold  young  man  stooped 
and  kissed  her  on  the  lips.  Theo's  face 
was  rosier  than  the  dawn,  and  her  eyes 
were  brighter  than  any  stars,  and  she 
looked  like  one  who  had  that  very  min- 
ute entered  heaven. 

In  the  hall  there  was  the  usual  bustle 
of  officious  porters,  and  ubiquitous  bags, 
and  bowing  landlords.  Back  of  them 

o 

all  stood  Lady  Bruce. 

"  Miss  Wright,"  she  said,  unceremo- 
niously stopping  that  young  lady  on  her 
way  up-stairs  after  the  others  by  lunging 
at  her  with  her  parasol,  "  is  that  young 
man  Miss  Allison's  brother  ?  ' 

"  Bless  you,  no,"  returned  Miss 
Wright,  cheerfully,  moving  a  step  or  two 


1884.]                     Canada  and  the  British  Connection.  839 

TT^  ^T.  °>f  ^  d*n^ou*  Weap0n*  6r  than  not'"  rePlied  Miss  W"ght,  un- 

la    s^  Iheo  s  fiance.     Good-looking,  concernedly,  turning  to  follow  her  friends 

V3    \r     UM  UP  th*  stairs.    «  Nobody  means  anything 

And  Mr.  Elsworth  ?     Pray,  was  he  by  it,  and  everybody  understands.    You 

Janes'  pro  tern  ?  •  might  call  it  an  American  flirfcatioil  % 

)h,"  answered  Miss  Wright  bright-  you  like.     Au  revoir." 

ly,  « I  always  told  you  there  was  noth-  Just  outside  the  doorway  poor  little 

?hey    were    only   good  Anna  stood  transfixed.     Her  rose   had 

Sach  one  knew  all    the  time  fallen  to  the  ground,  and  the  heel  of  the 

that  the  other  was  engaged.     It  made  bold  young  man  who  had  kissed  Theo 

it  very  safe  and  pleasant  for  them."  had  crushed  it  quite  out  of  shape  as  hi 

Lady  Bruce   gave   an    unaristocratic  passed  by. 

grunt.      <  And  what  name  do  you  give  So  nobody  meant  anything,  and  every- 

such  sort  of  devotion  as  theirs,  if  you  body  understood. 

please?     It's  a  common  thing  in  your  Ah,  could  it  be  that  if  anything  like 

country,  I  believe."  that  ever  happened  in  her  own  life  it 

;  Very  common,  indeed  ;  rather  often-  would  mean  no  more  than  this  ? 

Grace  Denio  Litchfield. 


CANADA   AND   THE   BRITISH   CONNECTION. 

SIR  FRANCIS  HINCKS  summed  up  much.  There  are  known  to  be  some 
his  conclusions  upon  the  Future  of  Canadians  who  are  persuaded  that  their 
Canada,  in  an  article  printed  last  sum-  country  is  not  working  out  the  highest 
mer  in  a  Montreal  newspaper,  by  say-  destiny  of  which  it  is  capable,  but  those 
ing  that  "  at  the  present  time  there  is  who  favor  a  change  in  the  relation  with 
not  the  slightest  ground  for  believing  Great  Britain  are  very  few  in  number 
that  the  subsisting  connection  with  Great  and  uninfluential.  Moreover,  there  are 
Britain  is  in  the  least  danger  of  being  sporadic  and  local  outbreaks,  like  that 
dissolved."  Sweeping  as  the  statement  in  British  Columbia  a  few  years  ago,  and 
is,  it  is  probably  quite  true.  Were  any  like  the  more  recent  one  in  Manitoba, 
intelligent  Canadian  to  be  requested  to  which  might  lead  superficial  observers  to 
name  the  most  distinguishing  national  think  that  no  very  strong  provocation 
trait  of  his  countrymen,  the  chances  would  be  needed  to  bring  about  a  gen- 
are  that  he  would  instantly  respond,  eral  movement  in  favor  of  the  indepen- 
"  Loyalty  to  the  Crown."  The  people  dence  of  Canada.  But  these  ebullitions 
of  the  Dominion  are  never  weary  of  have  slight  significance.  The  newspapers 
repeating,  in  public  and  in  private,  at  on  the  American  side  of  the  line  make 
meetings,  in  the  newspapers,  and  in  all  that  is  possible  out  of  them,  which 
conversation  with  casual  acquaintances,  is  not  much.  The  men  who  partici- 
their  expressions  of  attachment  to  the  pate  in  these  movements  are  for  the  most 
mother  country,  and  their  unwilling-*  part  recent  immigrants,  who  are  neither 
ness  even  to  discuss  the  possibility  of  strongly  attached  to  Canada,  nor  bur- 
a  weakening  of  the  bonds  between  the  dened  with  a  sense  of  responsibility  for 
dependency  and  the  imperial  govern-  her  past,  present,  or  future  government, 
ment.  The  facility  with  which,  when  their  real 

Nor  is  this  a  case  of  protesting  too  or  their  fancied  grievances  have  been 


840 


Canada  and  the  British  Connection. 


[December, 


redressed,  they  become  obstreperously 
loyal  suggests  that  their  solemn  threats 
of  secession  and  revolution  were  not 
meant  to  be  taken  seriously.  If  we  al- 
low, however,  to  such  outbreaks  all  the 
importance  that  might  be  claimed  for 
them,  it  still  remains  true,  so  far  as  an 
outsider  can  discover,  that  not  one  Ca- 
nadian out  of  a  hundred  has  ever  brought 
himself  to  the  belief  that  a  change  in 
the  relations  between  Great  Britain  and 
the  Dominion  would  be  desirable  under 
any  circumstances  which  may  be  classed 
as  probable. 

So  much  being  admitted,  it  may  be 
deemed  presumptuous  to  maintain,  nev- 
ertheless, that  the  imperial  connection  is 
an  injury  rather  than  a  benefit  to  Can- 
ada. It  seems  to  imply  that  a  whole 
people,  including  statesmen  and  private 
citizens,  are  laboring  under  a  delusion. 
It  does  not,  however,  really  imply  so 
much  as  that ;  for  the  willingness  of 
men  to  adhere,  conservatively,  to  things 
as  they  are  causes  them  frequently  to 
undervalue  the  arguments  in  favor  of  a 
change,  if  not  to  refuse  to  listen  to  such 
arguments ;  and  the  chance  that  this  par- 
ticular bond  might  not  be  snapped  ex- 
cept by  war  may  have  disinclined  Cana- 
dians even  to  consider  what  they  might 
gain  by  separation. 

What  a  Canadian  may  not  do  with- 
out forfeiting  something  as  a  penalty  of 
his  temerity,  an  American  may  do.  Of 
course  it  is  permitted  to  the  people  of 
the  Dominion  to  believe  that  the  motive 
that  prompts  a  writer  on  this  side  of 
the  line  to  present  the  argument  is 
territorial  cupidity.  But  annexation,  or 
union,  which  is  the  better  term,  is  no 
longer  considered  as  a  probable  event 
of  the  future  by  our  most  flighty  orators. 
There  would  inevitably  be  a  strong  op- 
position to  the  acquisition  of  Canada, 
were  the  Dominion  to  solicit  admission ; 
and  the  least  symptom  of  unwillingness 
to  join  us  would  reduce  the  number  of 
those  who  would  favor  the  acquisition 
to  the  merest  handful.  No  wise  states- 


man could  support  the  measure.  We 
have  had  experience  enough  with  a 
group  of  States  which,  having  tried  to 
sever  the  ties  which  united  them  to  the 
rest  of  the  country,  resumed  their  al- 
legiance with  great  reluctance.  To  as- 
sume responsibility  for  the  government 
of  what  would  be  the  Ireland  of  Amer- 
ica, should  Canada  become  a  part  of  the 
American  Union  except  of  her  own  free 
and  unanimous  choice,  would  be  rash 
and  imprudent  to  the  last  degree. 

It  is,  however,  no  part  of  the  present 
purpose  to  consider  what  the  ultimate 
future  of  Canada  should  be,  but  to  ex- 
amine the  effect  upon  her  material  in- 
terests of  the  relation  in  which  she 
stands  toward  Great  Britain,  the  limi- 
tations it  imposes  upon  her  freedom  and 
her  progress,  and,  briefly,  the  possibilities 
which  a  career  as  an  independent  coun- 
try might  open  before  her. 

Canada  is,  with  exceptions  to  be 
noted,  a  self-governing  dependency  of 
Great  Britain.  In  the  conduct  of  its 
domestic  affairs  but  two  restrictions  are 
placed  upon  its  sovereignty  and  su- 
premacy. A  Governor-General  is  sent 
out  by  the  home  government,  which  also 
reserves  a  right  to  disallow  —  that  is,  to 
give  an  absolute  veto  to  —  any  act  of  the 
Dominion  Parliament.  Under  existing 
circumstances,  under  any  circumstances 
which  are  likely  to  arise,  neither  of  these 
features  of  the  Canadian  constitution 
impedes  the  progress  of  the  Dominion. 
The  Governor-General  represents  the 
sovereign,  and  bears  substantially  the 
same  relation  to  the  Canadian  legislature 
that  the  queen  bears  to  the  Parliament  of 
Great  Britain.  Though  he  is  governor, 
he  does  not  govern.  He  accepts  the  ad- 
vice of  his  ministers,  who  are  responsi- 
ble only  to  Parliament,  in  all  matters 
•  of  administration,  and  would  act  un- 
constitutionally if  he  acted  otherwise. 
The  government  of  the  day  and  the 
Parliament  exercise  complete  authority, 
and  the  Governor-General  merely  gives 
to  their  doings  his  official  sanction.  That 


1884.]  Canada  and  the  British  Connection.  841 

authority  is  nominally  unlimited.     The  defense  of  the  Dominion,  and  shapes  its 

government  raises  money  at  its  discre-  general  foreign  policy  without  consult- 

tion  in  any  amount,  by  taxation  or  by  ing  Canadian   wishes  is   proof   enough 

loan,  and   expends  it  for  such  objects  that  the  foreign,  interests  of  the  empire 

as  seem  desirable.     It  establishes  courts  and  of  the  colony  are  distinct,  though 

for  the  enforcement  of  its  own  civil,  so-  they  may  not  be  adverse  to  each  other, 

cial,  and  criminal  laws.     As  between  its  For  Canada  has   interests   abroad   sep- 

own  citizens,  it  is  conscious  of  no  supe-  arable  from  those  of  the  empire.    Were 

rior  authority  ;   for  although   the  right  it  a  free  and  independent  government, 

of  veto  exists,  the  power  is  rarely  ex-  it  would  make  treaties  with  other  pow- 

ercised,  and  will  never  be  employed  in  ers  different  from  those  which  are  made, 

a  way  to  cause  irritation  between  the  au-  partly  for  her  alone  aifd  partly  for  the 

thoritres  at  Ottawa  and  those  at  West-  whole  empire,  by  the  home  government, 

minster,  until    one   government   or  the  It  would  not  be  doing  justice  to  them- 

other  is  desirous  of  an  excuse  for  sep-  selves  for  Canadian  statesmen  to  assert 

aration.     Canada  will    attempt  to  pass  that  a  British  foreign  minister  could  un- 

no  law  distinctly  hostile  to  Great  Brit-  derstand    what  Canada   needs   as   well 

ain,  nor  any  which  it  expects  to  be  dis-  as  they  do,  or  that  he  would  enter  into 

allowed,  unless  it  is  ready  to  dispense  a   negotiation  with   as   great   spirit   as 

with  British  approval  altogether  by  de-  would  they,  and  with  the  same  singleness 

claring  its  independence.     On  the  other  of  purpose  which  would  animate  them, 
hand,  so  long   as  the  imperial  govern-         It  is  in  the  virtual  prohibition  upon 

ment  sets  a  proper  value  upon  its  rich-  Canada   to  have  and  pursue  a  foreign 

est  colony,  it  will  not  exercise  the  veto  policy  of   its  own,  and  to   adopt   such 

power  capriciously.      It   may  be   said,  measures  as  from  time  to  time  might  be 

therefore,  that  if  the  British  connection  expedient  for  the  promotion  of  its  own 

is  of  no  value  in  domestic  affairs  —  and  interests,  regardless   of   the   wishes   of 

it  would  be  difficult  to  specify  wherein  Great    Britain,   and   in    the   ability   of 

it  is  of  value  — it  has  not  been,  and  is  England  to  use  the  Dominion  as  a  pawn 

not  likely  to  be,  a  hindrance.  in  its  own  great  game,  that  the  weak- 

The  right  of  self-government  at  home,  ness  of  the  position  of   Canada  chiefly 

which  has  been,  in  the  main,  wisely  em-  consists.    No  doubt  the  people  are  aware 

ployed,  has  made  Canada  a  nation.    But  of  the  resources  which  their  country  pos- 

the  privilege  which  independent  nations  sesses.     The  subject  is  with  them  a  fre- 

prize  more  than  any  other,  and  which  quent  and  a  favorite  theme.    But  if  they 

is  more  valuable  than  any  other,  Canada  know,  also,   what   an    advantage   these 

has  not.     Sovereign  in  all  internal  af-  resources,  by  their  character  as  well  as 

fairs,  she  has  no  voice  whatever  in  regu-  by  their  magnitude,  might  give  them  in 

lating  her  foreign  affairs.     She  is  a  part  dealing  with  other  powers,   they  must 

of  the  British  empire.     She  is  governed  be  conscious  of   making  a  great  sacri- 

by  all  treaties  made  in  the  name  of  the  fice  for  the  sake  of  the  British  connec- 

sovereign,  but  really  made  by  the  prime  tion.     Their  peculiar  treasures  are  the 

minister   and    the   foreign   secretary  of  finest  fisheries   in  the   world,  immense 

England,  who  are  no  more  responsible  tracts  of  valuable  forest,  and  an  unsur- 

to  Canada  for  what  they  do  or  leave  un-  passed  wheat  country.     As  Canada   is 

done  than  they  are  to  the  people  of  Chi-  at  present  situated,  it  derives  no  benef 

cago.     The  very  fact  that  Great  Brit-  whatever  from  these  advantages,  except 

ain  asks  no  help  from  Canada  in  men  the  money  return  from  the  sale  of 

or  money  for  the  support  of  its  army  products.     If   it  were   an    independ* 

and  navy,  contributes   nothing   to   the  power,  it  might  easily  adopt  measure! 


842 


Canada  and  the  British  Connection. 


[December, 


which  would   give  to  it  certain  advan- 
tages which  it  does  riot  now  possess. 

For  example,  no  Canadian  is  unaware 
that  Americans  desire  fishing  privileges 
in  British  waters,  which  the  sovereign 
authority  has  the  right  to  concede  or  to 
withhold.  These  privileges  have  been 
the  subject  of  discussion,  of  negotiation, 
of  treaty,  of  compensation,  for  nearly  a 
century.  The  present  arrangement  — 
which  will  soon  come  to  an  end  —  is 
thoroughly  unsatisfactory  to  Americans, 
but  not  so  much  on  account  of  the 
amount  as  by  reason  of  the  form  of 
compensation  which  this  country  pays, 
during  a  short  term  of  years,  for  the 
privileges  it  has  purchased.  The  Treaty 
of  Washington  was  concluded  uuder 
circumstances  peculiarly  favorable  for 
Canadian  interests.  The  government  of 
the  United  States,  having  the  Alabama 
claims  on  hand,  was  disposed  to  yield 
more  than  it  would  ordinarily,  certainly 
more  than  it  would  after  its  recent  ex- 
perience, concede  on  this  minor  point  of 
the  fisheries ;  and  Canada  was  directly 
represented  in  the  joint  high  commis- 
sion. It  is  not  difficult  to  see  that,  when 
the  subject  comes  up  for  discussion 
again,  Canada's  position  will  be  less  ad- 
vantageous in  each  aspect  of  the  matter. 
There  is  no  other  question  than  this,  of 
any  moment,  between  Great  Britain  and 
the  United  States.  Should  the  imperial 
government  treat  this  matter  by  itself, 
and  yield  to  Canada  all  the  benefits  and 
compensation  which  may  be  made  the 
price  of  a  share  in  the  fisheries,  it  can 
obtain  no  more  than  a  Canadian  minister 
might  obtain ;  it  is  likely  to  get  much 
less.  For  the  British  foreign  secretary, 
or  the  British  minister  at  Washington, 
is  not  to  be  expected  to  place  as  much 
value  upon  the  privilege  as  a  Canadian 
would  set  upon  it ;  and  the  British  gov- 
ernment, with  its  manifold  concerns  of 
trade  and  commerce  in  all  parts  of  the 
world,  would  be  willing  to  concede  more, 
and  be  more  ready  to  come  to  terms,  than 
would  independent  Canada,  in  order  to 


have  no  questions  at  issue  with  a  coun- 
try whose  cordial  friendship  is  so  useful 
to  it  as  is  that  of  the  United  States. 

It  is  not  necessary  to  carry  out  this 
line  of  thought,  for  it  is  quite  obvious 
that  Canada  itself  knows  its  own  inter- 
ests best.  To  assert  that  the  British 
foreign  office  can  promote  them  better 
than  they  could  be  promoted  by  a  Cana- 
dian statesman  would  be  uncomplimen- 
tary to  the  latter.  To  assert  that  they 
would  be  more  zealously  advanced  by  a 
British  minister  would  imply  either  a 
lack  of  patriotism  on  the  part  of  Cana- 
dians, or  a  disposition  on  the  part  of  the 
home  government  to  sacrifice  something 
of  value  to  England  to  secure  an  advan- 
tage for  one  of  its  colonies  ;  and  the  lat- 
ter supposition  involves  a  degree  of  self- 
abnegation  on  the  part  of  the  mother 
country  which  even  the  most  loyal  of 
Canadians  will  never  expect. 

But  it  is  in  the  relations  of  Canada  to- 
ward Great  Britain  itself  that  the  chief 
objection  to  the  existing  connection  lies, 
so  far  as  commercial  interests  are  con- 
cerned. Roughly  stated,  nine  tenths  of 
her  foreign  trade  is  with  the  United  States 
and  Great  Britain,  and  this  amount  is  al- 
most equally  divided  between  the  two. 
At  the  best  she  can  make  a  commercial 
treaty  with  the  United  States  only  with 
the  consent  of  the  mother  country  ;  in 
making  and  changing  her  relations  with 
Great  Britain  she  has  no  voice  and  no 
share.  If  one  may  draw  any  conclusion 
from  the  numerous  attempts  made,  it 
was  for  many  years  desired,  on  the  part 
of  Canada,  that  there  should  be  a  reci- 
procity treaty  between  the  Dominion  and 
the  United  States.  Whether  the  desire 
continues  or  not  does  not  matter.  Can- 
ada invariably  met  with  complete  indif- 
ference on  the  subject  on  this  side  of 
the  line,  but  not  because  American  mer- 
chants did  not  appreciate  the  value  of 
a  trade  with  Canada,  nor  because  they 
would  not  advocate  a  treaty  which  would 
promote  that  trade ;  on  the  contrary, 
they  would  do  much  to  secure  a  more 


1884.]                     Canada  and  the  British  Connection.  843 

extensive   commerce  over  the  frontier,  the  United  States,  and  of  recompensing 
The    reason  was   because   Canada   had  this  country  for  its  illiberal  commercial 
nothing  to  offer  in  exchange  for  the  ad-  policy.    The  result  has  not  been  special- 
mission  of  Canadian  products  into  the  ly  injurious  to  American  trade,  and  no    1 
United  States  free  of  duty.     She  might  disposition  to  modify  our  sentiments  on    j 
agree  to  reduce  her  tariff  on  certain  ar-  the  subject  of  a  reciprocity  treaty  has 
tides  of  American   manufacture,  or  to  yet  appeared. 

remove  the  duty  altogether.     But  if  she  Sir  Francis  Hincks,  in  the  newspaper     . 

had  done  that  she  must  have  included  article  already  referred  to,  dismisses  the 

in  the  same  measure,  and  admitted  on  idea  that  the  power  to  make  treaties  for 

the  same  terms,  the  similar  manufactures  itself  would    be   useful    to    Canada,  in 

of  Great  Britain,  and  of   all  countries  the  most  offhand  manner.    "  The  pol- 

with  which  England  had  treaties  of  com-  icy  of  civilized  nations,  with  few  excep- 

merce.  The  only  benefit  America  would  tions,"  he  remarks,  "  is  to  incorporate  in 

derive  from  such  a  treaty  would  be  the  their  commercial  treaties  a  clause  known 

sale  ^of  a  slightly  larger  amount,  but  not  as  the  most  favored  nation  clause.    Were 

a  larger  percentage,  of  the  whole  quan-  Canada  independent  it  could  not  avoid 

tity  of  goods  carried  into  Canada,  in  case  agreeing  to  a  similar  proviso,  and  would 

the  lower  duty  stimulated  imports.  therefore  be  unable  to  adopt  the  policy 

To  be    specific  :    a  reciprocity  treaty  which  has  found  favor  with  some  of  her 

would   naturally  admit   free  at  United  prominent  politicians."     The  statement 

States  custom-houses  bread-stuffs,  wood,  is  altogether  too  sweeping.     If  Canada, 

unmanufactured  lumber,  fish,  and  coal,  being  independent,  and  putting  the  most 

Though  we  were  to  place  all  these  arti-  favored  nation  clause  into  her  treaties, 

cles  on  the  free  list,  as  regards  all  coun-  were  to  agree  with  the  United  States  to 

tries,  the  benefit  would  go  exclusively  admit  "  coal  "  free  of  duty,  no  doubt  it 

to  Canada,  which  is  the  only  large  pro-  would   be   necessary  for   her  to   admit 

ducer   of   either   class   of   articles   that  English  coal  free,  also.    But  if  she  were 

could  compete  with  our  home  supplies,  to   admit  "  anthracite   coal '    free,  who 

On  the  other  hand,  we  might  sell  in  the  would  profit  by  it  ?     The  United  States 

maritime  provinces  a  few  more  barrels  admits  "  Hawaiian  sugar  "  free  of  duty 

of  flour,  and  in  Ontario  a  few  tons  of  without  giving  offense   to   Spain  or  to 

anthracite  coal.     What  we  wish  to  sell  the    Netherlands,    upon    whose    Cuban 

in  Canada   is  our  manufactured  goods,  and  Javan  sugar  there  is  a  heavy  duty. 

To  have  even  a  slight  advantage  in  that  Should  Canada,  as  an  independent  pow- 

respect   over    Great    Britain   might   be  er,  desire  to  grant   special  trade  privi- 

worth  paying  for  by  deranging  our  own  leges  to  the  United  States  in  compensa- 

revenue    laws.      But   if   the    Canadian  tion  for  other   privileges   received,  she 

tariff  is  to  be  the  same  on  English  and  would  find  no  practical  difficulty  in  the 

American  pianos,  on  cotton  cloth  from  way.     In  her  present  position  she  can 

either  Manchester,  on  cutlery  from  Mas-  do  nothing  whatever  ;  but  as  a  part  of 

sachusetts  or  from  Sheffield,  why  should  the  British  empire  is    required   to   ob- 

we  care  much  whether  that  tariff  be  high  serve  the  most   favored  nation   clau  ie, 

or  low  ?     Canada,  having  found  a  state  which  has  been  imposed  upon  her  with- 

of  perfect  indifference    on    the    subject  out  consulting  any  special  interes 

of  reciprocity  in  the  United  States,  has  may  have.     The   inability   to 

turned  its  attention  in  another  direction,  her  own  foreign  affairs,  or  to  < 

and  has  adopted  a  «  national  policy  "  of  any  respect  her  trade  regulati 

protection  to  its  own  manufactures,  with  Great  Britain,  is  a  real  and 

an  avowed  purpose  of  retaliating  upon  advantage.     It  will  continue  as  ! 


844 


Canada  and  the  British   Connection. 


[December, 


the  right  to  conclude  treaties  is  withheld, 
and  that  right  will  never  be  conceded 
as  long  as  the  British  connection  is 
maintained. 

Still  another  class  of  disadvantages 
must  be  mentioned  as  a  result  of  this 
connection.  It  is  certainly  not  regarded  . 
in  Canada  as  a  misfortune  that  the  Do- 
minion is  enabled,  by  being  a  depen- 
dency of  Great  Britain,  to  borrow  large 
sums  of  money  on  favorable  terms  ;  but 
there  is  too  good  reason  to  think  that 
it  is  a  misfortune,  nevertheless.  At  all 
events,  no  candid  Canadian  statesman 
will  deny  that  a  huge  and  burdensome 
debt  has  been  created,  nor  would  he  as- 
sert that  it  would  have  been  incurred  but 
for  the  facilities  which  the  situation  of 
Canada  with  respect  to  Great  Britain 
conferred.  A  brief  study  of  Canadian 
finances  will  be  interesting. 

On  the  1st  of  July,  1867,  when  the 
act  of  confederation  went  into  effect,  the 
net  debt  was  $75,728,641.  On  the  1st 
of  July,  1883,  the  last  date  to  which  the 

•/  7 

accounts  have  been  published,  the  net 
debt  was  $158,466,714.  The  net  inter- 
est during  the  last  year  reported  was 
$6,603,387,  being  an  average  of  $1.52 
per  annum  upon  each  inhabitant  of  Can- 
ada, according  to  the  census  of  1881. 
The  expenditure  for  interest  on  the  pub- 
lic debt  by  the  United  States  during  the 
same  year  was  $59,160,131,  or  an  aver- 
age of  $1.17  per  annum  for  each  per- 
son, according  to  the  census  of  1880. 
The  following  figures  compare  the  situ- 
ation of  the  two  countries,  as  respects 
their,  debts,  in  the  middle  of  1883.  The 
difference  of  a  year  in  the  time  of  the 
census  is  to  the  advantage  of  Canada  in 
the  comparison  :  — 

Canada.  United  States. 

Population              4,324,810  ,50,419,933 

Net  debt            $158,460,714  $1,538,781,825 

Debt  per  caput            $36.64  $30.52 

Net  interest          $6,603,387  $59,160,131 

Interest  per  caput         $1.52  $1.17 

Canada  had  thus,  at  the  date  specified, 
created  a  debt,  and  was  forced  to  pay 
interest  upon  it,  imposing  a  heavier  bur- 


den, both  of  principal  and  of  interest, 
than  rests  upon  the  American  people. 
To  say  nothing  of  the  fact  that  the  rela- 
tive wealth  and  resources  of  the  United 
States  are  so  much  greater  than  those 
of  Canada  that  the  nominal  difference 
expresses  only  partially  the  real  differ- 
ence in  the  weight  of  the  burden,  the 
debt  of  the  Dominion  is  still  constant- 
ly augmenting.  About  one  half  of  the 
twenty-five  million  subsidy  to  the  Cana- 
dian Pacific  Railway  Company  remained 
to  be  paid  over  to  the  company  in  the 
middle  of  1883.  Last  year,  in  addition 
to  all  that  had  been  done  before,  a  fur- 
ther loan  of  $22,500,000  to  the  same 
company  was  authorized ;  and  the  end 
of  the  grand  system  of  public  works  has 
not  yet  been  reached. 

Let  us  pause  here,  and  consider  that, 
while  the  American  debt  was  necessa- 
rily incurred  for  the  purpose  of  nation- 
al self-preservation  in  war,  the  debt  of 
Canada  represents  for  the  most  part 
expenditures  for  public  improvements 
in  a  time  of  peace.  What  are  the 
works  to  which  this  vast  fund  has  been 
devoted  ?  Chiefly  railways  and  canals 
which  do  not  pay  the  bare  expenses  of 
operation.  During  the  fiscal  year  1882— 
83  the  revenues  of  all  the  government 
canals  were  $346,768  ;  the  expenses  of 
operation  were  $487,205.  The  revenues 
of  all  the  government  railways  were 
$2,541,205  ;  the  current  expenses  were 
$2,636,552.  The  combined  deficit  was 
$235,784.  But  to  this  deficiency  should 
be  added  the  sum  of  $1,833,422,  ex- 
pended and  charged  to  capital  cost  of 
the  canals,  and  $1,683,819,  expenditure 
in  construction  and  equipment  of  rail- 
ways owned  by  the  government.  The 
Intercolonial  Railway,  946  miles  long, 
connecting  the  maritime  provinces  with 
Quebec,  has  cost  the  Dominion  govern- 
ment more  than  forty-one  million  dollars. 
During  the  year  1882-83  its  revenue 
exceeded  its  ordinary  operating  expenses 
by  the  insignificant  sum  of  $10,547.83, 
which  would  have  been  applicable  to- 


1884.]  Canada  and  the  British  Connection.  845 

ward  interest  on  the  forty-one  millions  exists   or   not,  the    whole   territory  in- 

of   cost,  had    uot   the  Dominion    spent  eluded  within  the  Dominion  and  all  the 

more  than  a  million  and  a  half  dollars  people  inhabiting  it  are   British.     The 

in  extensions,  side-tracks,  stations,  roll-  prestige  of  Great  Britain   may   be   in- 

ing  stock,  and  other  capital  charges.  creased   by  the   possession    of   a   great 

The  liberality  of  the  government  to-  country  stretching  from  the  Atlantic  to 
ward  the  Pacific  Railway  has  been  un-  the  Pacific,  and  the  railroad  is  to  it  a 
bounded.  A  gift  of  twenty-five  million  benefit  strategically.  But  how  does  the 
dollars,  and  as  many  acres  of  land ;  a  railroad  improve  the  political  standin^ 
guarantee  of  three  per  cent,  per  annum  of  Canada  ?  Her  fame  in  the  world  is 
for  ten  years  upon  its  capital  stock,  now  not  increased  by  it,  and  she  is  always 
sixty-five  millions,  and  to  be  increased  remembered  as  a  dependency.  She  gains 
to  one  hundred  millions  ;  and  a  loan  of  nothing  in  her  relations  to  England  ;  she 
$22,500,000,  —  these  are  the  favors  of  has  no  relations  with  foreign  powers; 
the  government  granted  to  the  company  she  is  not  stronger  or  richer  at  home, 
up  to  the  present  time.  It  is  true  that  In  short,  Canada  has  expended  vast 
security  has  been  given  for  the  guaran-  sums  to  promote  and  cement  a  union 
tee  and  for  the  loan  ;  but  that  does  not  which  is  beneficial  to  Great  Britain,  but 
prevent  the  loss,  in  case  the  railroad  not  especially  so  to  Canada.  The  states- 
should  be  unsuccessful,  from  falling  alto-  men  of  the  Dominion,  holding  the  views 
gether  upon  the  Dominion  government,  they  profess,  will  hardly  maintain  that 

The  object  of  incurring  these  enor-  to  be  Canadian-British  is  something  bet- 

mous    obligations    was    to    cement   the  ter  than  to  be  British.     But  if  the  po- 

political  union  of  the  provinces  and  to  litical  union  which  they  have  expended 

consolidate  the  Dominion.     That  is  an  much  money  to  secure  is  so  valuable, 

intelligible  and  a  praiseworthy  motive,  should  they  not  have  all  the  advantages 

But  has  not  Canada  paid  an  excessive  of  it,  instead  of  paying  all  the  price  and 

price  for  what  it  has  gained  ?     Were  it  allowing  Great  Britain  to  derive  all  the 

looking  forward  to  an  independent  ex-  profit  ? 

istence,  perhaps   not,  for   no   one   can         As  has  been  remarked,  the  creation 
blame  a  free  and  public-spirited  people  of  this  debt   has  been  assented  to  by 
for  assuming  great  burdens  in  order  to  the  Canadian  public   in  great  measure 
insure  their  unity  and  strength.  Canada,  because  the  British  connection  made  it 
however,  is  still  a  dependency,  and  has  easy  to  borrow.     It  would  be  interest- 
no    thought   of    separate   national   life,  ing  to  analyze  the  ideas  of  borrowers 
What  it  has  accomplished  and  hopes  yet  and  lenders  with  respect  to  these  loans, 
to  achieve  by  its    magnificent  extrava-  On  the  part  of  the  Canadians  there  is, 
gance  in  public  works  is  surely  of  great  no  doubt,  an  abiding  faith  in  the  richness 
value  to   Great  Britain,  but  what  is  to  of  their  country,  and  in  their  ability  to 
be  its  value  to  Canada  ?     The  expendi-  bear  even   greater   burdens    than    they 
ture  for   the   Pacific  Railway  —  at  all  have  assumed.     But  there  is  something 
events,  for  that  part  of  it  beyond  Mani-  beyond  this.     There  is  a  feeling  that  in 
toba  —  is  the  price  paid  for  the  union  case  of  need,  and  as  the  last  resort,  they 
of  British  Columbia  with  the  Dominion,  can  appeal  successfully  to  England 
Of  what  advantage  is  that  union  to  the  help.     That  is  what  the  imperial  guar- 
eastern   provinces  ?      In   a   commercial  antee  of  a  large  part  of  the  Canadi 
point  of  view,  the  benefit  is  as  nothing  debt  means,  and  it  explains  the  readi 
compared  with  the  cost  of  the  railway,  ness  of  the    Dominion   government 
Is  it  then  a  political  advantage,  and  if  incur  obligations  recklessly. 
so  in  what  sense  ?     Whether  the  union  ever  good  may  be   the  prospect   that 


846 


Canada  and  the  British  Connection. 


[December, 


Great  Britain  might  afford  temporary 
assistance  to  her  colony,  in  case  of  ur- 
gent need,  not  only  must  the  responsi- 
bility for  all  Canadian  obligations  rest 
finally  upon  Canada  itself,  but  the  im- 
perial government  will,  as  it  has.  the 
power,  enforce  payment.  No  doubt  the 
creditors  of  Canada  have  a  confidence 
which  is  justified  in  the  large  resources 
and  the  good  faith  of  the  Dominion. 
But  it  is  the  power  of  Great  Britain 
over  Canada  which  they  rely  upon  as 
their  ultimate  security,  and  it  is  that 
which  explains  the  ease  with  which  loan 
after  loan  has  been  taken  on  favorable 
terms.  Had  the  case  been  different 
Canada  would  not  have  been  able  to 
borrow  at  such  a  prodigious  rate,  and 
a  much  more  cautious  and  economical 
policy  would  have  been  necessary. 

Turning  to  the  effects  of  the  British 
connection  upon  the  growth  of  Canada, 
we  can  trace  nothing  beneficial  to  that 
connection.  The  Dominion  has  no  trade 
which  it  would  not  have  as  an  indepen- 
dent power.  It  has  attracted  no  immi- 
grants who  have  gone  thither  because 
it  was  a  British  dependency,  except  im- 
migrants of  the  least  desirable  class. 
It  has  gained  nothing  in  wealth  by  the 
connection.  On  the  contrary,  the  habit 
of  regarding  England  as  "  home  "  influ- 
ences many  persons  to  return  to  Great 
Britain  with  the  wealth  which  they  have 
acquired  by  trade  in  Canada.  The  re- 
sult of  the  connection  is  to  make  the 
people  British  rather  than  Canadian. 
The  sentiment  of  national  pride  is  not 
destroyed,  but  it  is  weakened.  Attach- 
ment to  the  country  is  a  secondary  mat- 
ter, and  the  tendency  is  unfavorable  to 
vigorous  growth,  because  there  are  so 
many  persons  who  regard  residence  in 
Canada  as,  not  exactly  an  evil,  but  as 
something  which  is  to  be  endured  with 
good  grace  until  a  lucky  stroke  of  for- 
tune enables  them  to  return  "  home." 

The  population  of  Canada  has  in- 
creased at  a  good  rate,  but  not  so  rapid- 
ly that  any  part  of  the  increase  can  be 


attributed  to  the  fact  that  the  Dominion 
is  British  territory.  Its  growth,  indeed, 
has  been  less,  proportionately,  than  that 
of  the  adjoining  territory  on  the  Ameri- 
can side.  To  illustrate  this  compare  the 
population  of  Canada  in  1871  and  1881 
with  that  of  a  strip  of  territory  on  the 
south  side  of  the  border  in  1870  and  1880. 
Take  the  three  northern  States  of  New 
England ;  that  part  of  New  York  north 
of  a  line  drawn  from  Troy  to  Bing. 
hamton,  but  including  neither  of  those 
cities  ;  the  State  of  Michigan  ;  the  Ter- 
ritory of  Dakota  ;  and  the  Territory  of 
Washington.  The  aggregate  population 
of  this  imaginary  district  in  1870  was 
4,487,290;  in  1880  it  was  5,357,520, 
an  increase  of  19.4  percent.  The  popula- 
tion of  what  is  now  Canada  was  3,670,- 
676  in  1871,  and  4,324,810  in  1881,  an 
increase  of  17.8  per  cent.  So  that,  al- 
though we  have  included  in  the  Ameri- 
can district  the  most  sluggish  States  in 
the  country,  so  far  as  growth  of  popula- 
tion is  concerned,  —  because  there  is  a 
constant  drain  from  them  into  the  newer 
States,  —  and  although  the  district  is 
formed  so  as  to  include  no  commercial 
city  of  the  first  class,  the  growth  of  that 
district  has  been  more  rapid  than  that  of 
Canada.  Washington  Territory  tripled 
its  population  in  the  decade,  adding  more 
than  fifty  thousand  to  the  number  of  its 
inhabitants  ;  British  Columbia,  according 
to  the  census,  was  stationary.  Dakota 
increased  nearly  tenfold,  and  added  120,- 
000  to  her  numbers  ;  Manitoba  increased 
a  little  less  than  sixfold,  and  added  less 
than  55,000  to  her  population.  Michi- 
gan's percentage  of  increase  was  thirty- 
eight  per  cent,  while  that  of  Ontario 
was  only  eighteen  per  cent.  It  is  true 
that  in  the  east  the  Canadian  growth 
has  been  more  rapid  than  has  that  of 
the  corresponding  territory  in  the  United 
States,  but  even  there  the  population  is 
barely  more  than  one  third  as  dense  as 
it  is  in  Northern  New  England.  The 
average  population  to  the  square  mile 
in  Maine,  New  Hampshire,  and  Ver- 


1884.] 


Canada  and  the  British   Connection. 


847 


mont  is  27.5  ;  in  the  four  eastern  prov- 
inces of  Canada  it  is  but  9.7. 

The  trade  of  Canada  has  not  shown 
any  remarkable  growth  during  the  last 
ten  years.  The  exports  of  the  Domin- 
ion in  1883  were  but  ten  per  cent,  high- 
er than  they  were  in  1874.  A  more 
proper  comparison,  and  one  more  favor- 
able to  it,  is  between  the  exports  of 
1879,  the  lowest  in  ten  years,  which 
were  valued  at  71^  millions,  and  those 
of  1882,  the  highest  in  the  decade,  val- 
ued at  102  millions,  —  an  increase  of 
nearly  forty-three  per  cent.  The  im- 
ports of  1883  were  three  per  cent,  more 
than  those  of  1874.  The  increase  from 
1879  to  1883,  when  the  lowest  and  the 
highest  amounts  respectively  were  re- 
corded, was  from  82  millions  to  132J 
millions,  —  sixty-one  per  cent.  Com- 
pared with  the  much  more  steady  growth 
of  the  trade  of  this  country,  the  above 
figures  are  not  favorable.  Our  imports 
in  1883  were  twenty-seven  per  cent, 
and  our  exports  forty  per  cent,  higher 
than  in  1874,  and  the  increase  from  the 
poorest  year  to  the  best  was  in  each 
case  sixty-eight  per  cent. 

Perhaps  these  comparisons,  and  oth- 
ers of  the  same  class  which  might  be 
made,  are  "  odious."  They  are  made, 
of  course,  not  for  the  sake  of  depreciat- 
ing Canada  or  of  glorifying  America, 
but  merely  to  show  that  Canada  derives 
no  advantage  in  these  respects  from  the 
British  connection  which  is  not  pos- 
sessed in  a  greater  degree  by  her  neigh- 
bor, which  is  independent.  The  infer- 
ence is  very  strong  that  Canada  herself 
would  gain  in  population,  in  wealth,  and 
in  commerce  by  cutting  herself  loose. 

Let  us  very  briefly  consider  what 
would  be  the  situation  of  Canada,  start- 
ing out  on  an  independent  career.  Can 
anything  to  be  desired  by  a  nation  pro- 
posing such  a  destiny  for  itself  be  con- 
ceived which  Canada  has  not  ?  It  has, 
in  the  first  place,  a  perfectly  defined 
boundary  :  the  sea  on  three  sides,  and 
on  the  fourth  a  line  accurately  deter- 


mined by  treaty,  arbitration,  and  survey, 

—  a  line,  moreover,  which  is  accepted 
through   its  whole   length  by  the  only 
government  whose  territory  adjoins  its' 
own.     Its  people,  more  than  four  fifths 
of  them  natives,  and  more  than  one  half 
of  them  members  of  families  which  are 
occupiers  of   land,  are  attached  to  the 
soil.     They  have   been   accustomed   to 
self-government,  and  for  seventeen  years 
have  been    living   together  as   a  quasi 
nation.     Their  institutions  are  excellent 
in   form   and  well   administered ;  their 
laws  form   an   intelligible   and  well-di- 
gested code,  and  public  sentiment  sus- 
tains their   just  and  impartial  enforce- 
ment.    Canada   is  furthermore  as  well 
situated  as  is  the  United  States  to  main- 
tain itself  free  of  entangling  foreign  al- 
liances.    It  has  the  most  peaceable  and 
the  least  covetous  of  neighbors,  and  only 
one.    The  country  has  large  wealth  and 
varied   resources,   of    which    Canadians 
are  even  now  justly  proud  and  boastful, 
and  of  which,  were  they  sole  possessors 
of    those   resources,    they   could   make 
much  more  than  they  have  yet  made  of 
them.     It  has    a  foreign   commerce  of 
no    mean    importance,  extensive   ship- 
ping, admirable  harbor.8,  and  well-lightr 
ed  coasts  and  rivers.     Having  all  these 
things,  it  has  no  enemy  anywhere,  and 
but  one  question  —  that  of  the  fisheries 

—  on  which  it  finds  it  necessary  to  come 
to  an  early  understanding  with  any  other 
power ;  and  even  that  question  is  only 
for  how  much   it   can  sell   an   eagerly 
sought  privilege. 

Should  it  be  said  that,  while  it  might 
be  for  the  present  advantage  of  Canada, 
in  material  things,  to  be  free,  the  chances 
of  a  war  are  to  be  considered,  the  an- 
swer is  easy.  England's  interests  might 
force  Canada  to  participate  in  a  war 
with  other  countries  ;  Canada's  own  in- 
terests could  hardly  bring  her  into  col- 
lision with  any  country  except  the  Unit- 
ed States.  But  whereas  Canada  would 
inevitably  be  involved  in  any  war  be- 
tween this  country  and  Great  Britain,  no 


848 


The   Contributors'   Club. 


[December, 


matter  what  the  occasion  of  it  might 
be,  her  independence  would  secure  her 
against  hostilities  on  any  account  except 
her  own.  It  would  be  insulting  to  Can- 
ada to  suppose  that  she  would  reject 
independence  on  account  of  a  fear  that 
the  changed  relation  would  leave  her  de- 
fenseless against  the  attacks  of  a  pow- 
erful neighbor  ;  but  it  would  be  no  less 
unjust  to  the  United  States  to  think 
that  this  country  covets  more  territory, 
or  has  any  but  the  most  friendly  feel- 
ings toward  Canada,  or  cherishes  the 
most  remote  thought  of  assailing  the 
Dominion.  Unless  this  is  an  untrue 
statement,  the  danger  of  being  involved 
in  war  is  far  greater  under  existing  cir- 
cumstances than  it  would  be  if  Canada 
were  independent. 

What  remains  ?  A  sentiment,  and 
certainly  a  very  high  and  noble  senti- 
ment. That  which  we  call  patriotism, 
and  which  in  monarchical  countries  in- 
cludes loyalty  to  the  sovereign,  is  one 
of  the  most  elevating  emotions  of  which 

o 

the  human  heart  is  capable ;  and  the 
deep  loyalty  of  the  Canadians  is  alto- 
gether to  their  credit.  Yet  it  is  by  no 
means  true  that  the  highest  manifesta- 
tion of  loyalty  consists,  necessarily,  in 
devotion  to  the  government  as  it  is. 
History  proves  abundantly  that,  while 
conquests  and  revolutions  and  treaties 
have  developed  new  nations  and  altered 
the  map  of  the  world  times  without 
number,  the  sentiment  of  patriotism  has 
survived  through  all  these  changes.  In- 


deed, it  has  never  been  displayed  in 
greater  fervor  and  intensity  than  on 
occasions  when  it  has  employed  itself  in 
breaking  down  existing  institutions  and 
in  rupturing  existing  national  relations. 

It  is,  therefore,  —  without  offense  be  it 
said,  —  merely  an  accident  that  causes 
Canadian  patriotism  to  assume  the  form 
of  loyalty  to  the  British  crown.  Should 
the  national  interest  —  for,  after  all, 
Canada  is  a  nation  —  point  in  the  di- 
rection of  a  dissolution  of  the  political 
bands  which  have  connected  it  with 
Great  Britain,  it  would  be  the  aim  of 
the  highest  patriotism  to  effect  that  dis- 
solution. The  watchword,  "  Canada 
first !  "  is  an  assertion  of  the  priority  of 
Canadian  interests.  Were  the  time  ever 
to  come  when  the  people  of  the  provinces 
must  choose  between  devotion  to  the 
crown  and  devotion  to  themselves,  they 
would  be  highly  unpatriotic  not  to  act 
upon  the  principle,  Canada  before  all! 

In  the  present  temper  which  prevails 
both  at  Westminster  and  at  Ottawa  the 
question  cannot  be  presented  in  a  form 
which  will  excite  ill-feeling  in  Canada. 
Doubtless  it  would  be  extremely  difficult, 
in  the  absence  of  an  intolerable  griev- 
ance, to  persuade  the  people  of  the  Do- 
minion even  to  consider -the  advantages 
of  separation.  But  that  condition  of 
the  public  mind  is  entirely  consistent 
with  the  existence  of  overpowering  rea- 
sons why  it  would  be  for  the  best  in- 
terest of  Canada  to  become  an  indepen- 
dent nation. 

Edward  Stanwood. 


THE    CONTRIBUTORS'    CLUB. 


IN  this  Club  I  suppose  we  may  have 
our  little  private  fling  at  the  editors. 
They  will  probably  never  read  it.  And 
besides,  they  doubtless  have  an  Edit- 
ors' Club  somewhere,  in  secret,  where 
they  relieve  their  minds  about  us  con- 


tributors, and  so  get  their  revenge. 
There  are  two  grievances  I  wish  to 
mention  :  First,  the  apparent  assump- 
tion by  the  editors  that  we  are  going  to 
be  vexed,  or  feel  injured,  at  receiving 
back  our  small  contributions  of  unao- 


1884.] 


The   Contributors'   Club. 


849 


tive  through  having  so  much  of  this  to 
do,  —  by  being,  as  it  were,  a  kind  of  re- 
turning board.  But  there  really  is  no 
reason  for  its  being  ridden  constantly  by 
dark  imaginings  of  our  raving  round  our 
apartments,  tearing  our  expensive  note 
paper  and  saying  disagreeable  words. 
There  may  be  exceptions,  but  certainly 
as  a  rule  we  do  not  do  it.  We  feel  only 
the  meekest  emotions  when  we  take  out 
of  our  post-office  boxes  these  too,  too 
thick  envelopes,  with  the  neat  print  of 
the  magazine's  address  in  the  upper  cor- 
ner. Sometimes  we  almost  wish  this 
tell-tale  print  had  been  omitted ;  so 
much  do  we  suspect  the  sprightly  post- 
mistress of  having  mentally  registered 
the  correspondence,  and  the  number  of 
stamps  on  the  rejoinder.  As  we  look 
with  an  air  of  unconsciousness  at  the 
trivial  remainder  of  our  mail,  edging 
our  way  unobtrusively  through  the  knot 
of  villagers  who  loiter  about  the  post- 
office  door,  we  wonder  if  she  is  looking 
out  through  the  glass  boxes,  and  read- 
ing our  innermost  reflections  in  the  ex- 
pression of  our  back. 

So  far  from  feeling  shocked  or  out- 
raged at  the  verdict,  we  do  not  even 
feel  any  surprise ;  unless  it  be  a  small 
sense  of  guilty  surprise  that  we  should 
have  had  the  temerity  to  send  away  the 
things  at  all.  So  far  from  hating  the 
editor,  wo  always  feel  that  he  has  done 
a  kindly  and  Christian  act  in  sending 
back  our  little  unavailable  efforts.  Why 
should  he  ?  The  green-grocer  does  not 
send  back  to  the  farmer  his  load  of  un- 
desired  pumpkins ;  nor  does  the  farmer 
send  away  to  the  depot  in  his  best  spring 
wagon  the  peddler  whose  wares  he  did 
not  wish  to  buy.  Why  should  the  edit- 
or be  obliged  to  return  the  basketf uls  — 

o 

or  what  might  have  fitly  become  basket- 
fuls  —  of  offered  pumpkins  from  Parnas- 
sus that  are  not  "  some,"  or  the  prose 
peddler's  tinsel  finery  ? 

The  second  grievance  is  that  the  edit- 
ors seem  to  fear  that  we  shall  not  enjoy 
the  printed  circular  that  sometimes  so 

VOL.  LIV.  —  NO.  326.  54 


courteously  accompanies  our  trembling 
manuscript  home.  But  there  are  many 
painful  situations  in  life  where  the  least 
said  the  soonest  mended.  When  Bar- 
nardine,  in  Measure  for  Measure,  re- 
fused absolutely  to  "  rise  and  be  hanged," 
protesting,  "  You  rogue,  I  am  not  fitted 
for  't,"  it  was  no  doubt  because  the  com- 
munication was  made  too  effusively  per- 
sonal. If  Abhorson  had  sent  in  a  neat 
circular,  he  would  probably  have  felt 
very  differently  about  it.  There  may, 
again,  be  exceptions,  even  outside  of 
boarding-schools  and  asylums  for  the 
mildly  insane  ;  but  I  avow  that,  so  far 
as  my  own  observation  extends,  we  con- 
tributors prefer  the  editors'  communica- 
tions to  be  "  yea,  yea,"  or  "  nay,  nay." 
I  mean,  of  course,  on  that  particular  sub- 
ject of  our  Rejected  Addresses.  On 
other  topics,  we  should  prize  the  largest 
utterance  possible. 

When  we  shall  become  very  famous 
personages,  and  receive  the  distinguished 
pilgrim  to  smoke  pipes  with  us  in  our 
awful  attic  sanctum,  while  the  faith- 
ful wife  keeps  off  the  vulgar  who  stand 
without,  then  we  may  wish  to  talk 
and  be  talked  to  about  our  literary  off- 
spring. But  oh  !  not  now  !  Have  we 
not  studied  whole  nights  on  short  meth- 
ods for  changing  the  subject,  when  ap- 
proached on  the  theme  of  our  modest 
productions?  Only  last  month,  when 
the  magazines  came  to  the  book-store, 
did  we  not  practice  thirteen  new  ways 
of  suddenly  seizing  on  the  subject  of 
the  weather  ? 

—  It  seemed  very  like  the  theatre,  as 
at  the  entrance  designed  for  the  public 
were  presented  little  octagonal  bits  of 
pasteboard  with  printed  inscriptions: 
"  Entree  pour  une  personne.  Chambre 
des  Deputes.  Gallerie  D."  Still  more 
did  it  seem  so  when  our  tickets  were  torn 
in  two,  a  coupon  returned  to  us,  and  we 
passed  on  by  one  scarlet  and  black  me- 
nial to  another  till  we  reached  Gallerie 
D.  At  the  top  of  the  staircase  our 
theatrical  illusion  was  by  no  means  dis- 


850 


The   Contributors9   Club. 


[December, 


D.  At  the  top  of  the  staircase  our 
theatrical  illusion  was  by  no  means  dis- 
sipated ;  for  there  we  were  received  by 
yet  another  scarlet  and  black  menial, 
who  held  the  door  of  Gallerie  D  tight- 
ly closed  while  he  said  in  exactly  the 
tone  of  a  Porte  Saint  Martin's  ouvreuse, 
intent  upon  pour-boires,  "  Will  you  not 
relieve  yourselves  of  your  mantles,  mes- 
dames  ?  It  is  very  hot  in  there.  There 
is  a  great  crowd." 

There  was  a  crowd.  The  gallery 
above  us,  like  our  own,  was  thronged. 
The  seance  of  the  day  before  had  been 
so  stormy  that  cards  of  admission  had 
been  in  great  demand  for  this  afternoon's 
continuation  of  the  same  discussion. 
This  subject  was  I' interpellation  of  the 
government  upon  the  .condition  of  its 
magistracy  in  the  island  of  Corsica. 
This  subject  does  not  smell  of  fire  and 
brimstone  to  the  natural  mind.  It  proved, 
however,  a  perfect  mine  of  gunpowder 
among  French  legislators.  It  exploded 
parties  out  of  all  natural  relations  to  each 
other,  and  resulted  in  the  queerest  of 
combinations :  fragments  of  the  extreme 
Left  in  affiliation  with  the  extreme 
Bight ;  Bonapartist  and  Radical  embrac- 
ing each  other  ;  Paul  de  Cassagnac  and 
the  fiercest  Intrausigeant  falling  on  each 
others  necks,  and  if  not  exactly  kissing 
each  other,  at  least  ceasing  to  bite. 

The  interpellation  originated  in  the 
Left  wing  of  the  Republican  party,  and 
its  object  in  citing  the  ministry  to  show 
cause  why  its  management  of  Corsican 
affairs  should  not  be  condemned  was  to 
overthrow  the  present  cabinet  for  the 
chance  of  c  le  of  less  conservative  tenden- 
cies. An  internecine  fight  in  a  party 
is  of  course  the  most  delightful  of  spec- 
tacles to  the  opposition,  which  is  there- 
fore quite  ready  to  help  in  every  way  to 
ferment  the  disorder.  In  this  case  poor 
Corsica  was  the  bone  of  contention,  and 
was  so  pulled  and  hauled  about,  so  re- 
viled and  spat  upon,  by  one  side  and 
another,  in  its  morals  and  manners,  that 
a  Corsican  deputy,  M.  Emmanuel  Arene, 


whose  seat  was  next  to  that  of  Corsica's 
most  active  traducer,  M.  Andrieux,  both 
of  them  of  the  extreme  Left,  kept  jump- 
ing up  all  through  his  colleague's  speech, 
like  a  Jack-in-a-box,  in  a  continual  sput- 
ter of  contradiction  and  recrimination. 
Thus  we  had  the  curious  spectacle  of  a 
speaker  contemptuously  howled  at  by 
one  section  of  his  own  party  while  ap- 
plauded from  the  opposition  benches ;  a 
member  of  the  extreme  Left  receiving 
applause  from  Monseigneur  Frappel. 

One's  first  impression  of  the  Cham- 
ber is  a  very  crimson  one.  But  as  the 
benches  fill  with  deputies  the  upholstery 
disappears,  arid  the  Chamber  becomes 
an  arrangement  in  black  and  red.  Its 
shape  is  a  semicircle :  the  flat  side  is  occu- 
pied by  the  president's  lofty  chair  and 
desk,  the  orator's  tribune  below  the  pres- 
ident's, with  the  reporters'  table  below 
and  in  front  of  the  orator's  tribune.  The 
benches  of  the  deputies  rise  amphithe- 
atrically,  the  upper  row  scarcely  an  arm's 
length  below  the  lower  of  the  two  gal- 
leries devoted  to  spectators.  The  minis- 
terial benches  are  the  first  three  of  the 
Centre,  and  are  inscribed  in  large  gold 
letters,  "  Banes  des  Ministres." 

There  is  little  decoration  except  a 
large  painting  flanked  by  two  rather  su- 
perciliously smiling  female  statues  above 
President  Brisson's  head,  two  gold-and- 
green  panels  over  the  crimson-draped 
doors  through  which  the  deputies  pass, 
and  very  light  gold  ornamentation  upon 
the  white  paint  of  the  galleries. 

Of  course  there  were  numerous  clocks. 
We  smiled  in  counting  them.  They  re- 
minded us  of  the  four  ticking  away  in 
our  two  rooms  in  the  hotel,  and  striking 

*  O 

all  sorts  of  hours  at  all  sorts  of  unrea- 
sonable times,  in  flat  contradiction  to 
every  one  of  the  countless  timepieces 
striking  in  the  rooms  above,  below,  and 
each  side  of  us.  There  were  five  clocks 
within  our  sight  in  the  Chamber ;  we 
could  only  guess  at  the  number  there 
might  be  somewhere  out  of  our  sight. 
Before  the  seance  began  we  amused 


1884.]                                The  Contributors'   Club.  851 

ourselves  with  various  frivolous  obser-  a  bully  cultivated  into  the  appearance 
vations.     Thus    we  decided  that  there  and  manners  of   a  perfect  man  of  the 
were  more  blonds  upon  the  Republican  world.     That   he  is  as  irrepressible  as 
benches  than  elsewhere,  and  a  greater  ever  is  proved  by  the  fact  that  he  was 
luxuriance   of  whisker.     The  best  fur-  incessantly  called  to  order  dunn"  this 
nished   heads  —  that   is,   hirsutely   fur-  seance  by  President  Brisson,  whose  pa- 
nished  —  were  those  of  the  Centre,  and  tience  finally  gave  way  to  the  extent  of 
among  them  white  was  the  color  most  inflicting  two  fines  upon  him,  avec  in- 
in  wear.     Upon  the  benches  of  the  Right  scription  au  proces  verbal. 
baldness   and    shiningness    seemed    the  Monsieur  le  President  Brisson,  whose 
rule,  amid  which  baldness  and  shining-  office  is  no  sinecure,  and  whom  we  have 
ness  the  wonderful  black  crop  of  Paul  sometimes  heard  with  voice  so  broken 
de  Cassagnac  and  the  purple  velvet  cap  by  efforts  to  quell  the  noisy  transports 
of  Archbishop  Frappel,  always  hobnob-  of  the  deputies  that  he  could  only  whis- 
bing   together,   thrust  themselves   with  per,  is  a  tall,  imposing-looking  man  in 
striking  effect.     Archbishop  Frappel  is  a  dress  coat.     His  head  is  gray,  but  his 
a  fat  old  man  in  a  black  gown  with  red  body  is   stalwart  and  vigorous ;  other- 
cords  up  the  seams  of  the  back  of  the  wise  he  would  have  been  long  ago  forced 
body,  and    a   purple  scarf   around  the  into  a  better  world,  under  the   terrific 
ample  waist.     He  is  decidedly  a  mili-  physical  strain  of   this.     The  little  re- 
tant  priest ;  too  much  so  to  be  a  self-  spect  shown  his  authority  by  the  more 
possessed   and   effective    orator.     Once  turbulent  members  is  amazing  to  Amer- 
when  we  heard  him  speak  in  the  Cham-  lean   eyes.     The  writer  has   seen   him 
ber    upon  the  question  of  substituting  go  through  every  dramatic  expression  of 
affirmation  in  place  of  the  legal  oath,  he  command,  expostulation,  entreaty,  and 
waxed  into  such  a  tremendous  temper  finally   even    piteous    supplication,   ex- 
in  the  tribune,  and  consumed  so  many  tending  his   arms   this   side    and   that, 
glasses  of   beer   before  our  very  eyes,  crossing    them    despairingly   upon    his 
that  he  reminded  us  much   more  of  a  breast,  striking  his  head,  madly  ringing 
war-horse  prancing  in  among  the  cap-  his  bell,  beating  the  table  with  his  knife ; 
tains,  and  shouting,  "  Ha !   ha !  "    than  and  all  the  time  not  a  sound  could  be 
of  a  Christian  priest.     Paul  de  Cassag-  heard  from,  his  frantic  pantomime,  be- 
nac,  the  Creole  swash-buckler,  the  un-  cause  of  the  bowlings,  screamings,  vitu- 
scarred  hero  of  twenty  duels,  cannot  get  perations,  criminations,  and  recrimina- 
any  further  Right  than  he  is,  unless  he  tions  raging  upon  the  floor  beneath  him. 
moves  out  into  the  corridor.     His  seat  During  the  recent  debate  upon  the  di- 
is  at  the  very  end  of  the  front  row  cf  vorce  bill  the  uproar  at  one  time  became 
banes   de   droites.     De    Cassagnac   was  so  ungovernable  that  the  president  was 
once  a  handsome  man,  so  the  tradition  forced   to   put    on   his   hat   and   stand 
runs  ;  but  to  look  at  him  now  tradition  speechless   and    motionless   before    the 
seems  greatly  to  have  flattered  him.    His  astonished   Chamber   as    evidence  that 
back  is    hugely  broad  ;  not  unshapely,  nothing  could  be  done  with  it,  —  that 
but  with  the  soft  plumpness  of  encroach-  the  seance  was  dissolved.     At  one  time, 
ing  flesh  and  retreating  muscle.     He  is  during   the   stance   at   which  we  were 
tall,  swarthy,  with  ample  mustache,  and  present,  M.  le  Comte  Douville-Maille- 
a    marvelous   black   mane  combed    en-  feu,  in  a  violent  temper,  stood,  or  rather 
tirely  back  from  his  face,  and  of  such  raged  to  and  fro,  in  the    tribune.     He 
dense  blackness  as  to  seem  almost  unnat-  had  been  called  to  order  several  times 
ural  and  unhuman.     His  skin  and  fea-  during  the  session,  and  was  now  attempt- 
tures  are   coarse,  the  ensemble  that  of  ing  to  expostulate  against  the  president's 


852 


The   Contributors'   Club. 


[December, 


injustice  in  so  doing  while  overlooking 
the  interruptions  of  favorites.  M.  le 
Comte  was  so  naive  in  his  wrath,  he 
banged  and  thrashed  the  tribune  so  like 
a  passionate  boy,  was  so  generally  in- 
fantile in  his  fury,  that  the  whole  house 
burst  into  uproarious  merriment. 

"  I  will  not  have  you  making  fun  of 
me !  You  have  no  right  to  grin  while 
I  am  speaking ! "  screamed  the  tribune. 
Then  more  laughter  from  the  deputies, 
more  impotent  rage  from  the  tribune, 
till  finally  we  saw  M.  Brisson,  from  his 
altitude  above,  bending  down  towards 
the  tribune,  whence  M.  Douville-Maille- 
feu  reached  up,  both  to  every  appear- 
ance shaking  vicious  fists  in  each  other's 
faces,  while  not  a  sound  amid  the  uni- 
versal uproar  could  be  heard  proceeding 
from  them.  "  They  are  going  to  fight ! " 
exclaimed  the  lady  next  us.  And  indeed 
it  looked  so. 

The  first  speaker  was  M.  Andrieux, 
deputy  from  Arbresle,  a  former  prefet 
de  police.  Once  his  radicalism  found 
Blanqui's  lukewarm ;  to-day  he  speaks 
in  the  name  of  Law  and  Order  against 
the  license  of  a  conservative  Republican 
cabinet!  He  is  a  gray-haired  man,  of 
the  thoroughly  French  type,  sallow  and 
black-eyed,  of  middle  age  and  middle 
stature,  with  the  red  ribbon  upon  his 
breast.  He  spoke  fluently  from  occa- 
sional notes,  with  voice  both  sonorous 
and  penetrating.  He  was  evidently  well 
prepared  with  charges  against  the  gov- 
ernment's administration  in  Corsica,  and 
spoke  two  mortal  hours,  arraigning  the 
ministry,  —  except  at  such  intervals  as 
he  could  not  make  himself  heard,  and 
calmly  recuperated  for  another  elan  dur- 
ing the  deafening  uproar. 

Sometimes  an  excited  deputy  would 
be  laid  hold  of  by  a  friend  or  two,  and 
an  animated  private  squabble  would  go 
on  under  the  president's  hail  of  rebukes 
and  amid  the  larger  general  clamor. 
Mingled  with  it  all  the  sharp  ding,  ding, 
ding,  of  the  president's  bell  made  con- 
fusion worse  confounded,  while  unhappy 


M.  Brisson  varied  his  ordinarily  more 
virile  attitude  by  pathetic  appeals. 

"  Laissez  parler,  messieurs !  Je  vous 
en  supplie !  Laissez  parler  !  " 

"  Who  would  imagine  these  the  law- 
makers of  a  nation !  "  said  an  astonished- 
eyed  American. 

During  this  scene  the  ministers  upon 
their  central  benches  appeared  to  take 
no  interest  whatever  in  the  proceedings. 
Jules  Ferry,  blase  and  faded,  looking  old- 
er than  his  photographs,  with  a  few  hairs 
strained  over   the  scalp  and  long,  lax, 
tired-looking  side  whiskers,  seemed  half 
asleep.     Beside  him  sat   a   gentleman, 
slightly  more  interested,  —  very  slightly, 
—  who  made  occasional  languid  notes. 
We  thought  him  too  young  for  a  minis- 
ter, and  wondered  to  see  him  upon  those 
benches.   We  wondered  still  more  when, 
after  M.  Andrieux   had   descended,  he 
calmly  mounted  the  tribune  to  reply  to 
him,  and  we  discovered  that  this  was  the 
minister  most  virulently  accused  by  the 
preceding  speaker,  the  Minister  of  the 
Interior,    M.    Waldeck  -  Rousseau.     M. 
Waldeck-Rousseau  does  not  look  more 
than  thirty-five.     His  appearance  is  of 
striking  elegance,  without  hint  of  fop- 
pishness ;    his    manner   cold,    dignified 
and   of  perfectly  haughty  aplomb;  his 
type  medium  blond,  his  stature  above 
middle    height,   his   figure    moderately 
slender.     He  began  to  speak  in  a  voice 
scarcely    raised    above     conversational 
le-vel,  but  was  greeted  by  cries  of  "  Plus 
haut ! '    from  the   Left  benches.     Not- 
withstanding this  hint  he  made  no  ap- 
parent effort  to  be  better  heard,  although 
by  degrees  his  voice  grew  upon  us,  till 
its  calm,  dignified,  even  accents  became 
infinitely  more  articulate  to  our  foreign 
ears  than  the  war-whoops  of  M.  Dou- 
ville-Maillefeu,  the  thick-tongued,  half- 
lisping   boom   of    Paul   de    Cassagnac. 
The  minister's  speech  was  chiefly  a  re- 
buttal of   charges  brought  against    the 
magistral  administration  in  Corsica.  The 
subject  afforded  no  field  for  eloquence, 
even  if  M.  Waldeck-Rousseau  possesses 


1884.]                                 The  Contributors'   Club.  853 

that  gift,  which  his  passionless  manner  of  careless  carriage  and  insouciant  man- 
seems  to  deny.  We  followed  his  self-  ner.  He  gave  forth  a  thick-voiced  grum- 
possessed,  easy  diction  with  but  scant  ble  —  "full-throated,"  but  not  in  the 

interest,  and  certainly  sympathized  with     least   like  "  laughter   of  the   gods  " 

the  voluble  lady  near  us  who  exclaimed  against  President  Brisson  for  showing 
exultantly,  "  We  have  well  done  to  come  partiality  toward  M.  Waldeck-Rousseau 
to-day."  A  row  is  always  more  interest-  in  permitting  him  liberties  of  speech  re- 
ing  than  a  debate."  strained  from  M.  Andrieux.  Here  was 
M.  Waldeck-Rousseau  was  not  obliged  one  of  the  curiosities  of  this  seance  ora- 
to  submit  to  quite  so  many  interruptions  geuse,  a  member  of  the  Extreme  Right 
as  his  predecessor,  though  those  inter-  quarreling  for  the  right  of  free  speech 
ruptions  were  numerous  and  vicious  for  a  member  of  the  Extreme  Left ! 
enough  to  disconcert  almost  anybody  It  was  half  past  six  when  the  se- 
else  than  a  French  legislator.  ance  was  suspended.  MM.  les  Deputes 
It  seemed  curious  to  us  that  the  dep-  rushed  pell-mell  from  their  places,  like 
uties  speaking  from  the  tribune  never  hungry  schoolboys  kept  beyond  their 
address  "  M.  le  President "  as  Englis*h  dinner  hour.  As  we  came  out  from 
and  American  parliamentarians  address  Gallery  D  we  saw  the  scarlet  and  black 
"-Mr.  Speaker."  The  deputies  address  menial  delivering  cloaks  and  gathering 
each  other,  and  stand  with  the  president  in  his  harvest  of  francs.  As  we  also 
not  only  above  their  heads,  but  behind  presented  our  pour-boires  and  possessed 
their  backs.  When  the  occupant  of  the  ourselves  of  our  umbrellas,  we  certainly 
tribune  speaks  of  or  to  another  deputy  seemed  to  be  leaving  some  place  of  live- 
he  rarely  says  "  my  honorable  colleague  ly  entertainment  rather  than  a  legisla- 
from  So  and  So,"  or  "  the  member  for  tive  assembly. 

This  and  That,"  but  speaks  personally  —  A  pleasant  study  in  human  nature 
of  or  to  each  gentleman  by  name.  Dur-  is  to  ascertain  the  estimate  formed  of 
ing  M.  Waldeck-Rousseau's  occupancy  each  other  by  any  two  persons  of  like 
of  the  tribune,  M.  Laguerre,  a  youthful  mental  and  moral  status.  Commonly, 
and  conspicuous  deputy  of  twenty-six,  such  mutual  reflectors  are  little  in  love 
ally  and  co-accuser  with  M.  Andrieux  with  their  mirrors.  This  was  notably 
called  out,  —  the  case  with  the  Two  Georges.  If  sim- 
"  You  know  that  is  a  calumny  while  ilarity  of  trait  and  habit  make  for  am- 
you  are  saying  it ! "  ity,  there  was  every  reason  why  these 
"  M.  Laguerre,"  called  President  Bris-  two  should  have  been  most  favorably 
son,  "you  have  used  unparliamentary  inclined  each  towards  the  other.  On 
language.  I  call  you  to  order !  "  the  principle  that  misery  loves  company, 
"  I  will  not  allow  a  minister  to  slan-  it  might  seem  that  the  bond  between 
der  me  in  the  Chamber  any  more  than  them  should  have  been  indissoluble ; 
I  will  in  the  discourses  he  makes  while  though  the  question  arises,  Were  they 
traveling  about  the  country,"  retorted  indeed  miserable  ?  On  the  theory  that 
M.  Laguerre.  two  of  a  trade  cannot  agree,  the  deep- 
As,  pale  and  exhausted,  the  minis-  rooted  prejudice  which  existed  between 
ter  took  his  seat  beside  Jules  Ferry,  them  is  more  easily  explicable,  -  -  though 
the  volcanic  Comte  Douville-Maillefeu  I  am  reminded  that  neither  individual 
rushed  into  the  vacated  tribune.  Fair-  had  ever  mastered  a  trade, 
ly  forced  from  it  by  the  derisive  laugh-  The  Two  Georges  —  such  was  the 
ter  of  the  Chamber,  he  was  followed  joint  title  which  they  had  acquired  in 
by  Paul  de  Cassagnac.  De  Cassagnac  their  native  village  —  were^  privileged 
looked  fat  and  slouchy  in  the  tribune,  characters  of  the  roi  faineant  order. 


854 


The  Contributors'   Club. 


[December, 


Free  and  idle,  with  the  civic  irresponsi- 
bility of  the  sluggard  king,  they  might 
have  been  seen,  and  were  often  seen,  in 
all  the  favorite  haunts  of  the  village, 
among  which  were  included  the  post-of- 
fice, the  grocery,  the  steps  of  the  town 
hall,  and  a  particular  corner  fence  that 
had  always  afforded  excellent  leaning 
facilities  to  the  possessors  of  bodies  in- 
ert and  spirits  uuweariedly  speculative. 
The  Two  Georges,  it  must  at  length  be 
said,  belonged  to  that  class  of  humanity 
which  a  rustic  euphemism  of  mild  nega- 
tion characterizes  as  "  not  overly  smart." 
While  there  may  have  been  those  ac- 
counted of  whole  wit  who  found  enter- 
tainment in  "  bantering  "  these  "  half- 
witted "  ones,  the  latter  were  generally 
treated  with  kindly  consideration  for 
their  infirmity.  But  the  odium  existing 
between  the  two  themselves  was  of  an 
extreme  degree,  neither  being  able  to 
put  up  with  the  feeble  intellectual  cali- 
bre of  the  other.  "  He 's  a  fool,  and  I 
can't  bear  a  fool,  nohow  ! '  George  I. 
was  wont  to  declare,  referring  to  George 
II.  This  opinion  was  fully  reciprocat- 
ed by  George  II.,  who  was  known  to 
have  pronounced  his  compeer  "  com- 
mompos  mentis,"  —  an  epithet  which,  I 
suspect,  had  been  recommended  by  some 
one  or  other  of  the  whole-witted. 

It  was  remarked  that  this  mutual  an- 
tipathy affected  the  entire  walk  and  con- 
versation of  the  Two  Georges.  To 
cover  with  derision  and  discredit  any 
statement  made  by  the  other  was  the 
particular  delight  of  each ;  if  one  ex- 
pressed preference,  the  other  was  moved 
to  excessive  dislike  towards  the  object 
in  question ;  and  the  opinion  of  each  re- 
garding any  matter  of  local  interest  was 
at  once  determined  adversatively,  upon 
learning  what  was  the  other's  view. 
While  George  I.  was  a  strenuous  sup- 
porter of  Republican  principles,  George 
II.  held  as  tenaciously  to  those  of  the 
Democratic  party ;  and  I  have  heard  it 
said  that  the  two  debated  political  meas- 
ures with  very  nearly  as  great  sagacity 


as  was  observable  in  many  whose  vote 
could  never  be  "  challenged." 

In  this  singular  feud  there  was  that 
which  resembled  the  nature  of  a  pro- 
found attachment.  When,  in  course  of 
time,  death  took  the  one,  the  other  ex- 
hibited every  sign  of  the  deepest  mel- 
aitaholy ;  but  whether  this  melancholy 
should  have  been  attributed  to  grief,  or 
merely  to  the  satiety  of  an  existence  no 
longer  made  relishable  by  antagonism, 
cannot,  at  this  remove  in  time,  be  as- 
serted with  any  certainty. 

—  I  wonder  why  it  is  that  blue  flow- 
ers are  so  few  in  proportion  to  red,  yel- 
low, and  white  ones.  It  may  seem  as 
fo'olish  to  ask  the  reason  of  this  simple 
natural  fact  as  to  question  why  the  sky 
is  blue  or  the  grass  green,  and  yet  there 
must  be  aesthetic  laws  governing  tho 
production  of  beauty  in  the  visible 
world.  I  think  I  am  not  mistaken  about 
the  fact  of  the  comparative  scarcity  of 
blue  flowers,  either  wild  or  cultivated. 
I  have  no  very  wide  acquaintance  with 
the  flowers  of  the  woods  and  fields,  but 
according  to  my  observation  white,  vivid 
red,  and  yellow  are  the  prevailing  col- 
ors, together  with  a  smaller  number  of 
pink  and  purple  blossoms.  White  and 
yellow  flowers  bloom  all  through  the 
season,  from  the  anemone  and  dande- 
lion of  early  spring  to  the  wild  carrot 
and  golden-rod  of  the  later  summer. 
There  is  surely  an  artistic  design  per- 
ceptible in  the  natural  succession  wo 
see,  which  harmonizes  the  delicate  tints 
of  the  early-coming  flowers,  the  arbutus, 
laurel,  wild  azalea,  and  wild  rose,  with 
the  tender  green  of  spring  foliage  and 
the  soft  blue  of  spring  skies,  and  again 
assimilates  with  the  glowing  sunshine 
and  the  richer  green  of  summer  the  in- 
tenser  tones  of  golden-rod  and  sumach 
berry,  purple  aster  and  thistle  blossoms. 

In  driving  about  these  Connecticut 
uplands  I  have  noticed  this  season  sev- 
eral blossoming  weeds  I  was  not  before 
familiar  with,  mostly  of  varying  shades 
of  yellow.  One  of  these  is  the  clustered 


1884.] 


The   Contributors'   Club. 


855 


blossom  of  the  wild  tansy  ;  another,  hav- 
ing a  delicate  little  head  nodding  like  a 
columbine,  on  the  slenderest  of  stems,  I 
learn  is  called  the  "  fly-catcher,"  or  wild 
lady-slipper.     Two    others    are   as    yet 
nameless  for  me :  one  with  a  bright  ca- 
nary-colored flower  starred  over  a  bush 
looking  not   unlike  the  English   gorse, 
while   the  other,  more  rarely  found,  is 
brilliant  with  a  clustered  mass  of  red- 
dish-orange ^>r  orange-red.     The  dwarf 
sunflower,  which  children  sometimes  not 
inaptly  name    "  Black-eyed    Susan,"   is 
blazing   everywhere,    and    my   favorite 
golden-rod,  waving  its  graceful  plumes, 
"fringes  the  dusty  road  with  harmless 
gold."     Here  and  there  appears  a  wild 
orange  lily,  and  in  almost  every  farm- 
house   "  yard "   tall    groups   of    flaming 
"  tiger "'  lilies,  which  have  an  excellent 
aesthetic  value  in  juxtaposition  with  the 
soft  gray  of  weather-painted  old  houses 
set  back  among  the  maple-trees.     Na- 
ture orders  that  all  these  gorgeous  yel- 
lows shall  be  contrasted  with  a  due  pro- 
portion of  purple,  in  the  wild  aster  (or 
"Michaelmas  daisy'    of  England),  the 
downy  thistle  blossom,  the  pinkish-pur- 
ple   lobelia,    and    other   weeds    whose 
names  I  have  not  discovered.     To  my 
great  satisfaction,  I  lately  came  upon 
the  royal-hued  cardinal  flower;  at  first 
but  a  single,  half-opened  spray,  which 
it  cost  me  a  wetting  to  pluck  from  its 
moist  bed.     Since  then  I  have  found  a 
glowing  mass  of  it  in  the  shadow  of  a 
wooded  bank  overhanging  a  little  lake 
unromantically  known  as  North    Pond. 
Let  me  in  passing  pay  a  tribute  to  the 
picturesqueness  of  this  sheet  of  water, 
connected  with  two  larger  ones  by  chan- 
nels so   narrow   that  a   row-boat  must 
work  its  slow  way  through  by  careful 
paddling  and   poling    from   either   side. 
The   louder    of   these  channels   throws 

O 

light  and  shade  in  the  most  charming 
fashion,  the  clear  brown  water  reflect- 
ing the  tops  of  the  tallest  trees  upon  its 
edge.  Each  curve  presents  a  new  and 
lovely  picture,  —  a  tangle  of  wild  green- 


ery closing  in  about  the  base  of  thin- 
stemmed,  light-foliaged  trees ;  here  and 
there  the  bare  gray  trunk  of  one  prone 
among  the  undergrowth,  and  clambered 
over  with  bright  vines,  or  fast  falling 
to  decay  and  leaning  across  the  stream 
to  rest  its  bent  head  against  a  brother 
still  erect  and  strong.  One  could  fancy 
the  little  creek  a  Louisiana  bayou ;  the 
scene,  indeed,  in  its  wildness  and  silence, 
might  have  been  almost  anywhere  a*> 
well  as  in  this  old-settled  State.  It  was 
just  too  late  in  the  month  for  us  to 
gather  the  beautiful  white  pond  lilies 
from  the  lake,  and  the  thickly  wooded 
shores  yielded  the  sight  of  no  other 
blossom  than  the  cardinal  flower  I  have 
mentioned. 

The  love  of  flowers  seems  to  be  uni- 
versal, and  the  cultivation  of  them  in 
tiny  garden  patches  or  in  a  few  pots 
upon  a  window  ledge  the  sole  aesthetic 
indulgence  of  thousands  of  poor  folk 
in  town  and  country.  How  one  wishes 
that  country  people  grasped  more  en- 
joyment from  the  beauty  within  their 
reach !  A  poet  sings,  — 

"  I  said  it  in  the  meadow  path, 
I  said  it  on  the  mountain  stairs, 
The  best  things  any  mortal  hath 
Are  those  which  every  mortal  shares." 

This  is  true,  no  doubt,  yet  with  qualifi- 
cation. After  the  joys  of  the  domestic 
affections,  the  love  of  natural  beauty  is 
a  source  of  pure  and  unfailing  delight, 
open  to  a  greater  number  than  perhaps 
any  other ;  but  this  love  does  not  spring 
up  and  grow  in  people  without  educa- 
tion, any  more  than  the  love  of  art  does. 
In  regard  to  either  there  must  be  a 
certain  fund  of  native  sensibility  to 
work  upon,  and  the  rest  is  developed 
and  refined  by  cultivation,  by  intimate 
acquaintance  with  the  things  which 
minister  to  the  aesthetic  sense.  Hard- 
working farmer  folk  have  small  time  to 
spare  for  anything  beyond  the  routine 
labors  of  the  day.  Yet  this  one  pleas- 
ure is  within  reach,  if  they  but  knew 
enough  to  seize  it.  Their  imagination 


856 


Books  of  the  Month. 


[December, 


and  their  powers  of  reflection  upon  sub- 
jects not  of  direct  practical  importance 
are,  however,  so  unused  and  undevel- 
oped that  it  is  safe  to  say  the  mass  of 
them  pay  as  little  heed  to  the  natural 
beauty  about  them  as  the  oxen  that 
draw  their  ploughs.  It  is  not  mere  fa- 
miliarity with  the  scene  they  live  in 
that  breeds  this  neglect  of  its  beauty, 
but  their  eyes  have  never  opened  to  see 
it.  They  feel  in  a  half-conscious  way 
the  pleasantness  of  clear  sunshine  and 
soft  airs,  but  do  not  pause  in  their  sow- 
ing or  reaping  to  look  at  the  lovely 
gold-green  light  filtering  through  the 
tree  branches,  or  the  soft  blue  shadows 


over  in  the  misty  hollows  of  the  bill,  or 
the  rich  contrast  of  their  yellow  grain 
lields  with  the  dark  green  of  the  wood- 
ed slope  beyond.  Could  they  only  have 
learned  to  take  in  all  this  simple  beauty, 
what  a  refreshment  to  mingle  the  sense 
of  it  with  the  toil  of  the  working-day ! 
Would  it  not  be  a  missionary  labor 
worthy  to  absorb  the  life  of  a  true  lover 
of  his  kind  to  go  and  dwell  among  these 
people,  whose  existence  is  so  narrowed 
and  whose  powers  of  enjoyment  are  so 
stunted  and  starved,  and  teach  them  to 
know  this  one  unbought  delight  and 
make  it  theirs  for  the  enlargement  and 
refreshment  of  their  minds  and  souls  ? 


BOOKS   OF   THE   MONTH. 


Illustrated  Books  and  Books  on  Art.  Shake- 
speare's The  Seven  Ages  of  Man  has  again  been 
made  the  subject  of  illustration  by  Church,  Harper, 
Shirlaw,  Frost,  and  others.  (Lippincott  )  The  il- 
lustrations are  photogravures  from  original  paint- 
ings, a  process  which  keeps  something  of  the  paint- 
ing quality,  yet  lacks  firmness  of  outline.  The 
treatment  of  the  several  subjects  is  unequal.  Mr. 
Church's  nurse  and  child  is  graceful,  and  Mr. 
Frost's  Justice  repeats  the  character  cleverly.  But 
are  they  photogravures  '?  The  same  designs  are 
issued  in  a  smaller  form  as  engravings  on  wood. 
The  comparison  of  the  two  forms  is  interesting 
for  the  hint  it  gives  of  how  an  engraver  may  either 
help  or  harm.  Mr.  Shirlaw's  second  childhood,  for 
example,  gains  in  definiteness  in  engraving,  and 
Mr.  Hovenden's  in  color,  but  Mr.  Church's  loses 
in  richness.  —  Picturesque  Sketches,  comprising 
architectural  sculpture,  statues,  monuments,  tombs, 
fountains,  capitals,  cathedrals,  iron-work,  details 
of  ornament,  etc.  (Osgood),  a  series  of  twenty-six 
plates  in  a  case.  It  is  difficult  to  see  on  what  prin- 
ciple of  selection  the  subjects  are  taken.  Good,  bad, 
and  indifferent  objects  are  huddled  together,  and 
all  rendered  commonplace  by  some  inferior  process 
of  reproduction.  The  plates  are  useless  for  any 
study  of  detail,  and  the  drawings  are  too  undecid- 
ed to  have  any  picturesque  value.  —  Gray's  Elegy 
(Lippincott)  is  a  new  edition  of  a  work  already 
recorded  here,  with  no  addition  that  we  can  dis- 
cover. —  The  Wagoner  of  the  Alleghanies,  by  T.  B. 
Read  (Lippincott),  is  illustrated  from  drawings  by 
Hovenden,  Fenn,  Gaul,  and  Low.  The  engravings 
have  a  hard,  metallic  character.  Whatever  dream- 
iness there  may  have  been  about  Mr.  Fenn's  illus- 
tration "  Vague  as  a  vessel  in  a  dream  "  has  been 


resolutely  waked  up  in  the  engraving.  —  Marmion, 
by  Sir  Walter  Scott,  has  been  issued  by  J.  R. 
Osgood  &  Co.  in  an  illustrated  edition,  on  the  same 
general  plan  as  The  Lady  of  the  Lake  and  Tenny- 
son's Princess,  but  a  somewhat  bolder  style  of 
work  seems  to  have  been  adopted.  —  The  Art  of 
Life  and  the  Life  of  Art,  by  Alexander  F.  Oakey, 
appears  in  Harper's  Franklin  Square  Library, 
with  a  number  of  effective  illustrations,  and  com- 
prises several  short  essays  which  deal  with  the  re- 
lation of  art  and  life  in  an  honest  anti-commercial 
spirit.  — Austin  Dobson's  Thomas  Bewick  and  his 
Pupils  (Osgood  &  Co.)  is  a  delightful  bit  of  art  and 
literature.  Mr.  Dobson's  appreciative  text  is  illus- 
trated by  nearly  a  hundred  specimens  of  Bewick's 
work.  —  The  English  Illustrated  Magazine  for 
1884  (Macmillan)  makes  a  handsome  volume. 
England  evidently  does  not  mean  to  let  the  Ameri- 
can illustrated  monthlies  have  the  field  all  to  them- 
selves. —  The  Art  Year  Book  for  1884  (John  Mason 
Little)  is  among  the  most  artistic  volumes  of  the 
season,  and  in  point  of  varietj1-  and  workmanship 
sets  a  handsome  example  to  the  makers  of  conven- 
tional holiday  books.  —  Mr.  Bouton  sends  us  the 
Illustrated  Catalogue  of  the  Luxembourg  Gallery, 
containing  250  reproductions  after  the  original 
drawings  of  the  artists,  engravings,  and  miscella- 
neous documents,  edited  by  M.  Dumas.  The  ex- 
ecution of  the  process  plates  compares  unfavor- 
ably with  American  work.  The  letterpress  is 
better  than  usual,  a  brief  historical  sketch  of  the 
old  Luxembourg  palace  being  especially  interest- 
ing.—  M.  Racinet's  valuable  work,  Le  Costume 
Historique  (Bouton,  New  York),  has  reached  its 
fifteenth  part.  Many  of  the  plates  are  marvels  of 
color-printing. 


1884.] 


Books  of  the  Month. 


857 


History  and  Politics.  A  History  of  Presidential 
Elections,  by  Edward  Stanwood  (Osgood),  is  a  very 
convenient  hand-book,  which  gathers  into  compact 
form  all  that  one  can  desire  to  know  respecting  the 
mode  in  which  our  electoral  machinery  has  worked. 
It  contains  the  text  of  party  platforms  and  a  great 
deal  of  political  matter  which  it  would  be  hard  for 
any  student  to  collect  from  the  various  ephemeral 
sources.  —  Contemporary  Socialism,  by  John  Rae, 
is  a  historical  survey  of  the  subject  by  a  clear- 
headed man  who  is  in  sympathy  with  the  people 
from  whom  socialistic  movements  spring,  but  crit- 
ical of  the  philosophy  which  they  have  adopted. 
(Scribners.)  — The  Conventional  Lies  of  our  Civili- 
zation, from  the  German  of  Max  Nordau  (L.  Schick, 
Chicago),  on  the  other  hand,  is  a  somewhat  virulent 
attack  from  the  socialistic  side  upon  the  various 
outgrowths  of  civilization.  The  author  is  for 
plucking  up  by  the  roots  all  the  tares,  regard- 
less whether  the  wheat  comes  up  or  not.  —  The 
True  Issue  is  No.  XVI.  of  Questions  of  the  Day. 
(Putnams.)  Its  subject  is  Industrial  Depression 
and  Political  Corruption  caused  by  Tariff  Monopo- 
lies, by  E.  J.  Donnell,  who  calls  for  reform  in  the 
interest  of  manufacturers,  farmers,  and  working- 
men.  The  tract  bristles  with  italics  and  small 
caps.,  and  Mr.  Donnell  calls  so  many  names  that 
he  makes  one  doubt  if  a  debater  so  heated  when 
treating  of  economic  subjects  can  be  trusted  to 
keep  carefully  within  the  lines  of  reason  and  fact. 
—  The  Standard  Silver  Dollar  and  the  Coinage 
L^w  of  1878,  by  Worthington  C.  Ford  (Society 
for  Political  Education,  New  York) :  a  tract  of  a 
different  order,  written  by  a  man  who  goes  care- 
fully to  work  with  his  facts,  and  labors  to  convince 
the  reasonable  man.  —  Reforms,  their  difficulties 
and  possibilities,  by  the  author  of  Conflict  in  Na- 
ture and  Life.  (Appleton.)  The  writer  is  a  man 
of  conservative  habits  of  thought,  who  recognizes 
the  value  of  institutions,  which  have  been  the  slow 
growth  of  generations,  while  at  the  same  time  he  is 
ready  to  acknowledge  the  defects  which  weaken 
them.  He  occupies  a  middle  ground,  and  endeav- 
ors in  the  various  questions  of  labor,  finance,  and 
society  to  point  the  way  both  to  preserve  and  to 
correct.  Such  writers  are  rarely  heeded,  but  this 
one  is  worth  attention.  — The  Man  versus  the  State, 
by  Herbert  Spencer,  contains  four  papers  contrib- 
uted originally  to  the  Contemporary  Review.  (Ap- 
pleton.) Mr.  Spencer  perceives  a  tendency  in 
politics  to  give  to  the  state  a  tyrannical  power, 
and  to  check  the  freedom  of  the  individual.  His 
message  is  a  warning  to  democracy,  but  does  he 
take  into  account  sufficiently  the  immense  advan- 
tage given  to  the  individual  by  the  increased  facil- 
ity of  combination  and  the  greater  ease  of  break- 
ing up  combination  ?  Certainly,  if  political  ex- 
perience in  the  United  States  teaches  anything, 
it  teaches  the  flexibilit}*  of  society,  the  increasing 
power  of  leagues  for  the  accomplishment  of  defi- 
nite ends,  and  the  lessening  power  of  party  to  en- 
force allegiance.  —  Social  Problems,  by  Henry 
George  (John  W.  Lovell  Company,  New  York), 
is  a  new  edition  in  cheap  form.  —  In  the  Johns 
Hopkins  University  Studies  in  Historical  and  Po- 
litical Science  a  very  interesting  number  is  Dr. 
Edward  Channing's  paper  on  Town  and  County 


Government  in  the  English  Colonies  of  North 
America.  (N.  Murray,  Baltimore.)  Dr.  Chamiing 
shows  very  clearly  the  connection  between  the 
English  parish  and  the  New  England  town.  — The 
Policy  of  Protection,  by  Charles.  A.  Murdock 
(Samuel  Carson  &  Co.,  San  Francisco),  is  a  mild 
plea  for  the  continuance  of  a  protective  policy. 
—  Protection  and  Free-Trade  To-Day,  at  Home 
and  Abroad,  in  Field  and  Workshop,  by  Robert  P. 
Porter  (Osgood),  is  a  more  vigorous  plea  of  the 
same  sort.  —  Protection  and  Communism,  a  consid- 
eration of  the  effects  of  the  American  tariff  upon 
wages,  by  William  Rathbone.  (Putnams.)  Mr. 
Rathbone,  who  is  a  M.  P.,  contends  that  in  free- 
trade  England's  wealth  is  becoming  more  widely 
dispersed,  while  in  protective  America  it  is  be- 
coming massed  in  a  few  families.  But  the  fact 
in  America  certainly  is  that  the  day  of  great 
fortunes  for  the  few  is  passing  by.  There  must 
therefore  be  other  causes  at  work  than  those 
which  can  be  referred  to  the  two  policies.  —  The 
Ancient  Empires  of  the  East,  by  A.  H.  Sayce. 
(Scribners.)  Mr.  Sayce  has  attempted  in  this 
volume  to  give  his  readers  the  benefit  of  the  latest 
discoveries.  He  writes  in  the  spirit  of  the  new 
learning,  which  does  not  see  this  subject  through 
a  strictly  classical  atmosphere,  yet  is  well  equipped 
in  the  best  that  Greece  and  Rome  can  give.  — 
History  of  Gustav  us  Adolphus,  by  John  L.  Ste- 
vens. (Putnams.)  Mr.  Stevens  was  at  one  time 
United  States  Minister  at  Stockholm,  and  used  his 
opportunity  for  becoming  acquainted  with  his  sub- 
ject at  first  hand.  He  treats  his  work  modestly, 
and  evidently  has  labored  to  make  it  fair  and 
truthful.  Perhaps  on  this  ground  one  should 
forgive  the  writer  for  being  a  little  dull  in  his 
style.  —  Women  under  the  Law  of  Massachu- 
setts, their  rights,  privileges,  and  disabilities,  by 
Henry  H.  Sprague  (W.  B.  Clarke  &  Carruth, 
Boston)  :  a  careful  summary,  under  heads,  of  the 
statutes  relating  to  the  subject,  accompanied  by 
slight  comment,  but  the  whole  cast  in  a  form  to 
render  the  pamphlet  of  great  value  to  those  who 
would  understand  the  exact  standing  of  woman 
before  the  law.  Mr.  Sprague's  conclusion  is  that, 
with  a  few  amendments,  woman's  position  in 
Massachusetts  may  be  regarded  as  an  unusually 
favored  one.  —  Icaria,  a  Chapter  in  the  History  of 
Communism,  by  Albert  Shaw,  Ph.  D.  (Putnams.) 
Icaria  is  a  community  founded  by  a  Frenchman, 
Etienne  Cabet,  who  set  sail  in  1848  with  sixty-nine 
followers,  landed  at  New  Orleans,  and  thence  went 
to  Texas  to  lands  near  Dallas,  which  had  been 
bought  for  the  enterprise.  The  place  chosen  was  un- 
suited,  and  after  various  vicissitudes  a  remnant  of 
the  compan}7  settled  in  Iowa,  and  last  of  all  in  Cali- 
fornia, where  the  organization  still  continues.  The 
story  of  this  enterprise  is  admirably  told,  and  the 
book  throws  a  good  deal  of  light  on  the  philoso- 
phy of  communism.  —  Fifty  Years'  Observation  of 
Men  and  Events,  civil  and  military,  by  E.  D.  Keyes 
(Scribners)  :  an  entertaining  volume  of  reminis- 
cences, in  which  Scott,  Sherman,  Thomas,  Grant, 
Lee,  Washburn,  and  lesser  men  are  described  with 
considerable  picturesqueness  by  a  frank  and  gener- 
ous soldier.  There  are  many  descriptions  of  his- 
torical events  which  will  be  valuable  hereafter  to 


858 


Books  of  the  Month. 


[December* 


those  who  write  history  and  need  the  testimony  of 
eye-witnesses.  —  History  of  the  Andover  Theolog- 
ical Seminary,  by  the  Rev.  Leonard  Woods,  D.  D. 
(Osgood)  :  a  valuable  work,  long  in  MS.  in  the 
hands  of  both  the  Woods,  and  now  printed  by 
a  grandson  of  the  first  professor.  The  documents 
and  other  papers  are  not  the  least  important  part 
of  the  book,  which  will  be  welcomed  for  the  light 
it  throws  on  a  tangled  controversy.  —  Mr.  Mot- 
ley's work  has  been  both  of  advantage  and  of  dis- 
advantage to  Mr.  Alexander  Young  in  writing  his 
History  of  the  Netherlands.  (Estes&Lauriat.)  Mr. 
Motley  has  undoubtedly  made  his  task  easier, 
though  this  new  book  makes  use  of  new  material 
and  also  of  criticism  on  the  earlier  work ;  but,  on 
the  other  hand,  Mr.  Young  stands  under  the  shadow 
of  a  great  name.  His  book,  to  be  sure,  is  briefer, 
but  it  will  inevitably  be  drawn  into  comparison. 
It  will  not  suffer  in  one  respect,  for  its  clearness 
of  language  and  straightforwardness  of  style  are 
more  agreeable  to  many  readers  than  Motley's 
high  color.  It  also  brings  the  subject  to  date,  and 
altogether  one  would  have  to  go  far  to  find  so 
business-like  and  interesting  a  history  within  the 
limits  which  Mr.  Young  has  set  himself.  It  is  a 
pity  that  the  cuts  could  not  have  been  fewer  if 
they  were  going  to  be  so  poor. 

Theology,  Exegesis,  Biblical  Studies,  and  Phi- 
losophy. Dr.  Mark  Hopkins,  long  the  president 
of  Williams  College,  was  wont  to  preach  at  every 
Commencement  a  sermon  to  the  graduating  class. 
In  these  sermons  he  gave  as  good  an  example 
of  his  method  in  treating  philosophical  religious 
themes  as  can  be  found  in  any  of  his  writings. 
The  sermons,  moreover,  were  charged  with  a  per- 
sonal feeling,  always  earnest  but  always  subor- 
dinated to  the  theme.  He  has  collected  twenty  of 
these  sermons  under  the  title  Teachings  and  Coun- 
sels (Scribners),  and  it  would  be  hard  to  find  twen- 
ty discourses  by  one  writer  of  the  day  of  more 
comprehensive  thought  and  more  practical  in  their 
bearing. — Dr.  AVilliam  Smith's  Dictionary  of  the 
Bible  appears  in  a  new  form,  a  compact  volume  of 
800  pages,  in  which  Rev.  F.  N.  and  M.  A.  Pelou- 
bet  have  tried  their  hands  at  bringing  the  work 
into  a  shape  most  useful  to  Sunday-school  teach- 
ers. It  might  have  been  condensed  still  further 
by  the  omission  of  the  pious  reflections  and  a  good 
many  of  the  cuts.  —  Manual  of  Biblical  Geog- 
raphy (Rand,  McNally  £  Co.,  Chicago) :  a  much 
more  serviceable  book  than  the  last,  and  well 
adapted  to  aid  teachers  and  pupils  in  a  thorough 
and  systematic  study  of  Bible  history  upon  a  ge- 
ographical basis.  The  maps  are  clear,  and  the 
whole  work  has  grown  out  of  practical  experi- 
ments in  the  class-room.  —  An  Outline  of  the  Fu- 
ture Religion  of  the  World,  with  a  consideration 
of  the  facts  and  doctrine  on  which  it  will  probably 
be  based,  by  T.  Lloyd  Stanley.  (Putnams.)  Mr. 
Stanley  looks  for  a  world's  religion  which  will 
rest  mainly  on  the  teachings  of  Christ,  but  he 
seems  to  disregard  the  central  teaching  of  all  as 
regards  the  personal  relation  of  Christ  to  God  and 
man.  —  The  Reality  of  Faith,  by  Newman  Smyth 
(Scribners),  is  a  series  of  sermons  looking  toward 
a  new  adjustment  of  Catholic  belief  with  modern 
terms.  The  book  has  all  the  writer's  persuasive 


rhetoric  and  large  disregard  of  stumbling-blocks. 
—  Correspondences  of  the  Bible.  The  Animals. 
By  John  Worcester.  (Massachusetts  New  Church 
Union,  Boston.)  A  new  edition  of  a  thoughtful 
book,  in  which  the  writer,  in  the  light  of  Sweden- 
borg's  faith,  turns  the  natural  world  into  a  spir- 
itual parable.  —  The  Native  Religions  of  Mexico 
and  Peru,  by  Albert  Re"ville,  translated  by  P.  H. 
Wicksteed  (Scribners)  :  a  volume  of  lectures  on 
the  Hibbert  foundation.  The  study  of  these  relig- 
ions gives  the  author  an  opportunity  to  make  certain 
comparisons,  and  to  confirm  himself  in  the  belief 
that  the  religious  nature  is  immanent  and  inde- 
structible. "It  teaches  us,"  he  concludes,  "that 
there  is  a  principle,  bordering  closely  upon  that 
of  religion  itself,  which  must  serve  as  the  torch  to 
guide  the  religious  idea  in  its  development,  —  not 
to  supplant  it,  but  to  direct  it  to  the  true  path.  It 
is  the  principle  of  humanity." — Simon  Peter, 
his  Life,  Times,  and  Friends,  by  Edwin  Hodder. 
(Cassell.)  It  is  a  little  odd  that  while  Paul  has 
had  his  life  written  a  thousand  and  one  times  Si- 
mon Peter  should  have  had  to  wait  patiently  for 
his  turn.  The  material,  of  course,  is  not  so  abun- 
dant, but  the  character  is  quite  as  striking ;  the 
situations,  indeed,  are  far  more  dramatic.  Mr. 
Hodder  treats  his  subject  as  if  he  were  personally 
interested  in  it,  and  has  made  a  readable,  sensible 
book.  —  The  Destiny  of  Man  Viewed  in  the  Light 
of  his  Origin,  by  John  Fiske  (Hough ton,  Mifflin, 
&  Co. ) :  a  suggestive  little  book,  in  which  immor- 
tality is  considered  by  a  student  who  examines 
the  subject  by  the  aid  of  the  theory  of  evolution. 
His  treatment  of  infancy  is  singularly  fresh  and 
thoughtful.  —  Occident,  with  Preludes  on  Current 
Events,  by  Joseph  Cook  (Houghton,  Mifflin  &  Co.), 
merely  uses  the  circumstance  of  travel  in  Europe 
for  the  exploiting  of  views  in  philosophy  and  re- 
ligion. Mr.  Cook  travels  far  in  his  thought,  but 
constantly  comes  home  to  make  a  fresh  start. 

w 

Biography.  Some  Heretics  of  Y.esterda}*,  by 
S.  E.  Herrick.  (Houghton,  Mifflin  &  Co.)  The 
heretics  are  the  great  Protestants,  exclusive  of 
Luther ;  the  term  being  used  not  technically,  but 
to  include  such  churchmen  as  Savonarola  and 
Tauler.  Mr.  Herrick  sets  before  himself  no  se- 
verer task  than  to  tell  over  again  in  brief  form 
the  stories  of  a  dozen  or  more  of  these  men,  but 
he  does  it  with  an  animation  and  an  interest  in 
his  subject  which  commend  the  book,  and  the 
adoption  of  a  chronological  order  makes  the  vol- 
ume a  running  commentary  on  Protestantism.  — 
The  Letters  and  Times  of  the  Tylers,  by  Lyon  G. 
Tyler.  In  two  volumes.  (Whittel  &  Shepperson, 
Richmond.)  The  Tylers  are  Judge  Tyler  and  his 
son  John  Tyler,  the  President.  The  piety  of  a 
descendant  has  produced  a  full  and  minute  biog- 
raphy, involving  a  discussion  of  historical  subjects 
with  which  the  two  men  were  connected  in  a 
greater  or  less  degree.  The  work,  of  which  the 
first  volume  only  has  appeared,  promises  to  be 
monumental  in  character,  and  the  diligent  student 
will  find  a  good  deal  of  local  history  which  will 
interest  him.  Judge  Tyler  also,  whose  life  oc- 
cupies the  former  half  of  the  first  volume,  offers  a 
good  picture  of  a  Virginian  gentleman.  — Anoth- 
er campaign  life  of  Cleveland,  with  a  sketch  of 


1884.] 


Books  of  the  Month. 


859 


Hendricks,  appears  in  Lovell's  Library,  by  Desh- 
ler  Welch.  The  writer  is  not  fulsome,  but  like 
previous  biographers  makes  liberal  use  of  Gov- 
ernor Cleveland's  public  papers.  —  Some  Literary 
Recollections,  by  James  Payn  (Harpers),  is  an  in- 
teresting little  book,  written  with  as  much  candor 
and  modesty  as  can  be  expected  of  a  man  who 
does  not  leave  his  memoirs  for  other  folk  to  print. 
Like  all  English  books  that  especially  require  an 
index,  this  has  none. 

Natural  History  and  Travel.  The  Fishes  of  the 
East  Atlantic  Coast,  that  are  caught  with  hook 
and  line,  by  Louis  O.  Van  Doren  ;  including  the 
Fishes  of  the  East  Coast  of  Florida,  by  Samuel 
C.  Clarke  (The  American  Angler,  New  York): 
a  series  of  chapters  originally  contributed  to  the 
Angler  by  men  who  are  sportsmen  rather  than 
commercially  interested.  The  writing,  like  that 
of  all  enthusiasts,  has  humor,  intentional  and  un- 
witting. In  speaking  of  the  menhaden,  so  useful 
for  bait,  one  of  the  writers  says,  "  The  great  use 
the  menhaden  are  put  to  is  in  making  fish  oil, 
and  right  here  lies  a  very  threatening  danger  to 
our  coast  fishing.  Seine  nets  are  made  that  cover 
acres.  Fast-sailing  steam  tugs  scour  the  shoal 
waters  of  the  coast  at  all  times  and  seasons,  and 
with  one  haul  of  the  nets,  worked  by  huge  engines, 
countless  thousands  of  the  defenseless  menhaden 
are  taken.  In.  this  way,  in  season  and  out  of 
season,  thousands  upon  thousands  of  the  most  im- 
portant bait  fish  that  swims  are  ruthlessly  slaugh- 
tered to  serve  the  pleasure  and  avarice  of  greedy 
capitalists,  among  whom  it  would  be  safe  to  bet 
there  is  not  an  angler."  —  A  Naturalist's  Rambles 
about  Home,  by  Charles  C.  Abbott.  (Appleton.) 
The  home  is  in  New  Jersey,  and  Mr.  Abbott,  with- 
out straying  from  it,  has  presented  the  results  of  his 
observations  in  some  forty  interesting  chapters. 
He  is  not  a  literary  scientist ;  that  is,  his  first  object 
is  not  to  turn  a  graceful  sentence ;  but  he  is  a  close 
observer,  an  interested  narrator,  and  his  writing  is 
free  from  technicalities.  Altogether  the  book  is  a 
capital  one,  which  young  people  will  read  with  avid- 
ity and  older  readers  will  find  equally  attractive. 
—  Country  Cousins,  Short  Studies  in  the  Natural 
History  of  the  United  States,  by  Ernest  Ingersoll. 
(Harpers.)  Mr.  Ingersoll  writes  partly  at  first 
hand  and  partly  at  second  hand.  His  book  lacks, 
therefore,  some  of  the  freshness  of  Dr.  Abbott's, 
and  while  much  of  his  matter  is  interesting  there  is 
often  a  lack  of  simplicity  and  directness,  a  wordi- 
ness in  short,  which  renders  his  book  occasionally 
unnecessarily  tedious. —  Our  Birds  in  their  Haunts, 
a  popular  treatise  on  the  birds  of  Eastern  North 
America,  by  Rev.  J.  Hibbert  Langlille.  (Cassino.) 
The  author  does  not  lay  aside  his  cloak  altogether, 
but  the  reader  of  his  preface  will  be  misled  if  he 
fancies  that  he  is  constantly  to  be  reminded  of  the 
argument  for  design.  On  the  contrary,  the  book  is 
a  readable  account  of  birds  in  widely  remote  dis- 
tricts, and  is  drawn  much  more  from  personal  ob- 
servation than  from  books.  —  Life  and  Labor  in 
the  far,  far  West,  being  notes  of  a  tour  in  the  West- 
ern States,  British  Columbia,  Manitoba,  and  the 
Northwest  Territory,  by  W.  Henry  Barneby. 
(Cassell.)  One  ought  to  read  this  book  on  a  long, 
long,  weary  day.  As  a  hasty  series  of  letters  writ- 


ten home  to  one's  wife  it  has  some  excuse,  but  the 
writer  makes  little  discrimination  between  the  triv- 
ial and  the  exceptional,  and  occupies  his  pages  with 
a  good  deal  of  detail  which  supplies  one  with  little 
real  knowledge  of  the  country  traversed.  —  De- 
scriptive America,  a  Geographical  and  Industrial 
Monthly  Magazine.  (George  H.  Adams  &  Son, 
New  York.)  The  August  number,  devoted  to 
Michigan,  has  reached  us.  The  somewhat  unwieldy 
form  of  the  magazine  appears  to  offer  convenience 
only  to  tabular  views,  but  the  general  plan  of  such 
a  magazine  is  well  adapted  to  give  a  rapid  sur- 
vey of  the  features  of  the  several  districts  of  the 
country.  A  State,  however,  is  rather  a  large  field 
for  one  number.  —  Ten  Days  in  the  Jungle,  by 
J.  E.  L.  (Cupples,  Upham  &  Co. :  a  simple,  un- 
pretending narrative  of  personal  experience  in  a 
journey  from  Peuang,  told  in  the  form  of  letters. 

Fiction.  Where  the  Battle  was  Fought  (Osgood) 
is  the  title  of  the  first  novel  published  by  C.  E. 
Craddock,  whose  stories  collected  under  the  title 
of  In  the  Tennessee  Mountains  are  already  familiar 
to  readers  of  The  Atlantic.  —  A  Yankee  School- 
Teacher  in  Virginia,  by  Lydia  Wood  Baldwin. 
(Funk  &  Wagnalls.)  The  title-page  further  de- 
scribes the  book  as  a  tale  of  the  Old  Dominion  in 
the  transition  state,  and  the  scenes  are  carefully 
studied,  —  too  caref  ully,  one  might  think,  for  entire 
freedom  and  naturalness.  Nevertheless,  the  fresh- 
ness of  the  subject  compensates  for  what  might 
otherwise  be  only  a  conventional  tale.  —  The  Chil- 
dren of  Issachar,  a  story  of  wrongs  and  remedies 
(Putnams),  has  its  scene  also  laid  in  the  South  after 
the  war.  It  is  a  confusing  melange,  in  which  a 
purpose  struggles  through,  intelligible  apparently 
to  the  author,  but  somewhat  concealed  from  the 
reader. — Love  and  Marriage,  or  the  Waiting  on 
an  Island  (Harpers),  is  a  sentimental  English 
tale,  in  which  the  actual  facts  are  enveloped  in  a 
gauzy  unrealism.  —  A  Young  Girl's  Wooing,  by 
Edward  P.  Roe  (Dodd,  Mead  &  Co.),  —  a  moral 
tale.  —  Recent  issues  in  Harper's  Franklin  Square 
Library  are :  Hago  the  Dreamer,  a  tale  of  Scotch 
University  Life,  by  William  Sime;  Between  the 
Heather  and  the  Northern  Sea,  by  M.  Linskill; 
Judith  Shakespeare,  by  William  Black ;  Joy,  or 
the  Light  of  Cold-Home  Ford,  by  May  Crommelin. 
—  Admiral  Porter  has  begun  a  serial  romance,  Al- 
lan Dare  and  Robert  Le  Diable.  It  has  an  old- 
fashioned  honest  tang  about  it,  and  if  the  admiral 
brings  his  venture  into  port  he  will  probably  find 
a  good  many  of  the  inhabitants  waiting  to  cheer 
him.  (Appleton.)  —  Tales  of  Three  Cities,  by  Hen- 
ry James  (Osgood),  includes  the  Impressions  of 
a  Cousin,  Lady  Barberina,  and  a  New  England 
Writer.  —  An  Old  Sailor's  Yarns,  Tales  of  Many 
Seas,  by  Capt.  R.  F. Coffin.  (Funk  &  Wagnalls.) 
A  continuous  stream  of  maritime  lingo  unrelieved 
by  any  reasonable  English  gives  one  a  fatigued 
sense  of  trying  to  keep  on  his  legs  in  these  stories, 
and  a  doubt  whether  he  is  going  to  reach  any  har- 
bor at  all.  — It  may  be  well  to  record  here  the  sen- 
sible little  paper  by  Walter  Besant  on  the  Art  of 
Fiction.  (Cupples,  Upham  &  Co.)  — The  sixth 
volume  of  Stories  by  American  Authors  (Scribner's 
Sons)  is  notable  for  Mr.  C.  H.  White's  The  Village 
Convict.  This  sketch  and  Mr.  Bunner's  Love  in 


860 


Books  of  the  Month. 


[December. 


Old  Clothes  (in  volume  five)  seem  to  us  the  best 
stories  in  the  collection  thus  far.  —In  Partnership, 
by  Brander  Matthews  and  H.  C.  Bunner  (Scribner's 
Sons),  contains  eight  short  stories,  the  first  and 
fourth  being  written  in  partnership.  Of  these 
two,  The  Documents  in  the  Case  is  much  the  supe- 
rior, in  both  motif  and.  execution.  Mr.  Matthews 
"  goes  alone  "  in  Venetian  Glass,  The  Rival  Ghosts, 
and  a  pretty  little  parlor  piece  called  Playing  a 
Part.  Mr.  Bunner  contributes  The  Red  Silk  Hand- 
kerchief, A  Letter  and  a  Paragraph,  and  Love  in 
Old  Clothes,  the  last  being  easity  his  best  work 
in  this  line.  —  It  is  difficult  for  a  person  with  ink 
of  only  one  tint  to  write  adequately  about  a  book 
printed  upon  paper  of  seven  different  colors.  —  The 
Inner  Sisterhood,  by  Douglas  Shirley  (J.  P.  Mor- 
ton &  Co. ),  is  a  series  of  social  studies  supposed  to 
be  written  by  several  (feminine)  hands.  The  con- 
ception demanded  a  sort  of  dramatic  ability  which 
the  author  does  not  seem  to  possess.  The  sketches 
differ  from  each  other  in  degree  and  not  in  kind. 
The  most  successful  of  the  series  is  cleverly  called 
Flirting  for  Revenue  Only.  The  printing  and 
paper  of  the  volume  remain  its  most  striking  fea- 
tures. 

Books  for  Young  People.  The  Boys  and  Girls' 
Herodotus  is  a  companion  volume  to  the  Plutarch 
of  last  year,  edited  by  the  same  scholar,  John  S. 
White.  (Putnams.)  Mr.  White  has  not  had  the  ad- 
vantage of  such  good  translations  as  served  him 
in  the  former  instance,  and  has  given,  we  think,  a 
little  too  involved  a  form.  Sir  John  Mandeville 
ought  to  have  translated  Herodotus.  The  project, 
however,  is  admirable,  and  a  better  book  for  young 
people  it  would  be  hard  to  find.  —  Under  the  title 
of  Captains  of  Industry,  or  Men  of  Business  who 
did  something  besides  making  Money  (Houghton, 
Mifflin  &  Co.),  James  Parton  has  written  nearly 
fifty  brief  biographies,  in  which  he  gives  in  sharp 
outline  the  careers  of  men  who  have  made  their 
mark  not  only  by  achieving  personal  success,  but 
by  making  the  success  earn'  with  it  the  good  for- 
tune of  others.  Of  the  list  about  four  fifths  are 
Americans,  the  remainder  being  English  and 
French.  The  book  is  one  well  calculated  to  stim- 
ulate the  honorable  ambition  of  boys.  —  Haw- 
thorne's Wonder-Book  has  been  charmingly  illus- 
trated by  F.  S.  Church  (Houghton,  Mifflin  &  Co.), 
and  the  page  and  style  generally  of  the  book  are 
fit  form  for  the  most  delightful  modern  transla- 
tions of  the  ancient  stories.  The  very  frankness 
with  which  Hawthorne  throws  away  all  the  antique 
dress  of  the  stories  enables  one  to  accept  them,  not 
as  imitations  or  even  as  reproductions,  but  as  trans- 
migrations. —  Queer  Stories  for  Boys  and  Girls,  by 
Edward  Eggleston  (Scribners):  lively  stories  of 
a  bizarre  order,  and  we  think  they  might  have 
been  just  as  lively  and  just  as  natural  if  Mr.  Eg- 
gleston had  used  a  little  more  reserve  in  the  boy- 
ish language.  —  The  Viking  Bodleys,  by  H.  E. 
Scudder  (Houghton,  Mifflin  &  Co.),  implies  by 
its  title  far  more  savagery  than  the  readers  of  the 
mild  Bodley  books  are  accustomed  to,  but  the 
Berserker  rage  is  all  on  the  title-page  and  in  an  oc- 
casional picture.  The  book  intends  a  jaunt  through 
Norway  and  Denmark.  The  author  takes  leave 


of  his  readers  at  the  end  of  the  eighth  volume  of 
the  series,  and  promises  not  to  write  anv  more.  — 
The  Hunter  Cats  of  Connorloa,  by  Helen  Jackson 
(H.  H.), is  a  story  of  California,  in  which  cats  and 
children  and  Chinamen  figure  in  a  very  interest- 
ing fashion.  The  story  is  a  bright  one,  well  told. 
(Roberts.)  — Tip  Cat,  by  the  author  of  Miss  Too- 
sey's  Mission  and  Laddie.  (S.  P.  C.  K.,  E.  &  J.  B. 
Young  &  Co.,  New  York.)  Tip  Cat  is  not  one  of 
H.  H's.  kind,  but  an  English  squire,  Tipton  Cath- 
cart,  of  eccentric  memory,  and  the  story  centres 
about  him.  It  is  rather  for  misses  of  the  romantic 
period  than  for  children,  but  it  has  character  and 
humor  in  it.  Published  also  by  Roberts  Brothers. 

—  The  Story  of  Vitean,  by  Frank  R.    Stockton 
(Scribners).     Vitean  is  the  name  of  a  chateau  in 
Burgundy,  and  the  story  is  of  the  time  of  Louis 
IX.,  with  two  boys  for  the  principal  characters. 
Mr.  Stockton  has  told  his  historical  tale  with  sim- 
plicity and  directness,  and  while  he  cannot  alto- 
gether lay  aside  his  drollery  he  has  not  allowed  it 
to  dominate  in  his  work.    One  discovers  from  this 
book,  if  he  has  doubted  it  before,  that  the  author's 
humor,  dry  and  unintentional   as  it  appears,  is 
really  a  subtle  force  which  he  understands  perfect- 
ly.    His  naivete  is  a  distinct,  measured  quality. 

—  A  Sea  Change,  by  Flora  L.  Shaw  (Roberts),  is 
a  story  of  a  waif  saved  from   shipwreck,  whose 
history  is  unraveled   in  the  course  of  the   book. 
The  scenes  are  laid  in  England  among  gentlefolk, 
and  the  story  is  what  may  be  called  a  novel  for 
children.  —  Ralph  the  Drummer  Boy,  a  story  of 
the   days  of    Washington,   by  Louis  Rousselet, 
translated  by  W.  J.  Gordon  (Holt),  —  a  French 
version  of  our  war  for  independence.    The  for- 
eign accent  to  the  story  makes  familiar  things  pic- 
turesque, but  it  is  a  pity  that  the  author  could 
not  have  kept  to  facts  a  little  more  closely.     His 
desire  for  dramatic  effect  has  made  him  negligent 
of  historic  truth.  —  The  Ice  Queen,  by  Ernest  In- 
gersoll  (Harpers)  :  the  story  of  how  some  3roung 
people  moved  themselves  and  luggage  a  hundred 
miles  across  the  frozen  Lake  Erie   to  Cleveland, 
with  the  thrilling  adventures  which  they  met  on 
the  way.     Mr.  Ingersoll  has  seized  on  a  very  clev- 
er and  novel  theme,  and  his  story  illustrates  the 
immense  field  of  new  adventure  open  to  writers 
of  American   life.  —  Jack  Archer,  a  tale  of  the 
Crimea,   by  G.   A.   Henty   (Roberts)  :    the    old 
story  of  a  young  English  midshipman  who  mar- 
ries not  the  captain's  daughter,  but  a  Russian  no- 
bleman's   daughter.     We   suppose   these  gallant 
tales  will  go  on  forever,  and  old  heads  continue  to 
sprout  from  young  shoulders.  —  Our  Young  Folks' 
Josephus.  (Lippincott.)  Josephus  has  been  simpli- 
fied by  William  Shepard,  and  the  book  makes  a 
volume  far  more  likely  to  be  read  than  the  orig- 
inal unabridged  Josephus,  although  that  has  been 
the  nutriment  of  many  minds  now  mature.     The 
heroism  of  the  Maccabees  can  be  read   nowhere 
else  so  well.  — Young  Folks'  Ideas,  a  Story  by 
Uncle  Lawrence  (Lippincott) :  chats  about  the  phi- 
losophy of  familiar  fact,  such  as  cooking,  printing, 
photographing,    mining,    etc.      It   requires   some 
threshing  to  get  the  wheat,  and  the  story  portion 
ia  not  especially  to  be  commended. 


AP       The  Atlantic  monthly 

2 

A8 


PLEASE  DO  NOT  REMOVE 
CARDS  OR  SLIPS  FROM  THIS  POCKET 

UNIVERSITY  OF  TORONTO  LIBRARY 


^^^^^•^^^H 

RH 


HBKflB 


•KM! 


•••OH 


•HBB 


•H