HANDBOUND
AT THE
UNIVERSITY OF
TORONTO PRESS
THE
ATLANTIC MONTHLY
A MAGAZINE OF
literature, Science, &rt, ana
VOLUME LXXXIII
UEin i >
BOSTON AND NEW YOEK
HOUGHTON, MIFFLIN AND COMPANY
1899
COFYBIGHT,
BY HOUGHTON, MIFFLIN AND COMPANY.
The Riverside Press, Cambridge, Mass., U. S. A,
Electrotyped and Printed by H. O. Houghton & Company.
CONTENTS.
Actor of To-Day, The, Norman Hapaood 119
American Deep- Water Shipping, H. Phelps
Whitmarsh . . . 585
Australasian Extensions of Democracy,
H. de B. Walker ........ 577
Autobiography of a Revolutionist, The,
P. Kropotkin . . . 105, 179, 382, 676, 841
Autumn in Franconia, Bradford Torrey 57," 207
Battle with the Slum, The, Jacob A. Biis 626
British Colonial Conception, Growth of
the, W. Alleyne Ireland 488
Browning, Robert and Elizabeth, Harriet
Waters Preston 812
Censor, Experiences of a War, Grant
Squires 425
Charity, The Subtle Problems of, Jane
Addams 163
Chief, James B. Hodgkin 374
City Life, Improvement in, Charles Mul-
ford Robinson 524, 654, 771
Colonial Conception, Growth of the Brit-
ish, W. Alleyne Ireland 488
Colonial Expansion of the United States,
The, A. Lawrence Lowell 145
Comida : An Experience in Famine, Frank
Norris 343
Contemporary Ancestors in the Southern
Mountains, Our, William 'Goodell Frost . 311
Cranks and their Crotchets, Some, John
Fiske 292
Crawford's, Mr., Ave Roma 276
Cromwell: A Tricentenary Study, Sam-
uel Harden Church 445
Cuba, The Outlook in, Herbert Pelham
Williams 827
Democracy, Australasian Extensions of,
H. de B. Walker .577
Destructive and Constructive Energies of
our Government Compared, Charles W.
Eliot. 1
Economic Aspects of the Liquor Problem,
Some, Henry W. Farnam 644
Elders' Seat, The, Arthur Colton .... 697
Eliot, President, as an Educational Re-
former, William De Witt Hyde ... 348
End of an Era, The, John S. Wise . 498, 592
Enjoyment of Poetry, The, Samuel M.
Crothers . t 268
Evicted Spirit, An, Marguerite Merington . 366
Evil, The Mystery of, John Fiske ... 433
Expansion of the United States, The Colo-
nial, A. Lawrence Lo well 145
Experiences of a War Censor, Grant
Squires 425
Farewell Letters of the Guillotined, J. G.
Alger. j 194
Fathers, Mothers, and Freshmen, L. B. B.
Briggs 29.
Fiction, Some Recent 518
Franconia, Autumn in, Bradford Torrey 57, 207
Gasparof the Black Le Marchands, Charles
G. D. Boberts 246
Glass Decoration, Notes on, Annie Fields . 807
Greaser, The, William R. Lighton ... 750
Group of Recent Novels, A 281
Growth of the British Colonial Conception,
W. Alleyne Ireland 488
Guillotined, Farewell Letters of the, J. G.
Alger 194
Hill Town, A New England, Bollin Lynde
Hartt 561, 712
Hot-Foot Hannibal, Charles W. Chesnutt 49
Howe, Julia Ward, Reminiscences of, Julia
Ward Howe .... 38,219. 330, 474, 701
Improvement in City Life, Charles Mul-
ford Robinson 524, 654, 771
Indian, The Wild, George Bird Grinnell . 20
Indian on the Reservation, The, George
Bird Grinnell 255
Japan and the Philippines, Arthur May
Knapp 737
Johnston, The Surrender of, John S. Wise 592
Judiciary, Politics and the, Frank Gaylord
Cook 743
Kindergarten Child, The after the Kin-
dergarten, Marion Hamilton Carter . . 358
Lanier, Sidney, The Correspondence of
Bayard Taylor and. See Letters be-
tween Two Poets.
Lee's Army, The Last of, John S. Wise . 498
Letters between Two Poets. The Cor-
respondence of Bayard Taylor and Sid-
ney Lanier, Henry Wysham Lanier . . 791
Letters of the Guillotined, Farewell, J. G.
Alger 194
Liquor Problem, Some Economic Aspects
of the, Henry W. Farnam 644
Literature, The Vital Touch in, John Bur-
roughs 399
Love and a Wooden Leg, William B.
Lighton 550
Love Story of a Selfish Woman, The,
Ellen Mackubin 691
Man at the Wheel, The, Gilbert Parker . 785
March Wind, A, Alice Brown 537
Miss Wilkins : An Idealist in Masquerade,
Charles Miner Thompson 665
Mother of Martyrs, A, Chalmers Boberts . 90
Mountain Whites. See Our Contempora-
ry Ancestors in the Southern Mountains.
Mystery of Evil, The, John Fiske ... 433
Mysticism, Psychology and, Hugo Mun-
sterberg 67
Negro Schoolmaster in the New South, A,
W. E. Burghardt Du Bois 99
New England Hill Town, A, Bollin Lynde
Hartt 561, 712
New South, A Negro Schoolmaster in the,
W. E. Burghardt Du Bois 99
Notes on Glass Decoration, Annie Fields . 807
Novels, A Group of Recent 281
Novels of the Year, Some 127
Orator of Secession, The : A Study of an
Agitator, William Garrott Brown . . 605
Our Contemporary Ancestors in the South-
ern Mountains, William Goodell Frost . 311
Outlook in Cuba, The, Herbert Pelham
Williams 827
Philippines, Japan and the, Arthur May
Knapp 737
IV
Contents.
268
743
634
67
235
407
Poetry, The Enjoyment of, Samuel M.
Crothers
Politics, A Wholesome Stimulus to Higher
Politics and the Judiciary, Frank Gaylord
Cook
Porto Rico, William V. Pettit ....
Psychology, Talks to Teachers on, Wil-
liam James 155,320, 510,,617
Psychology and Mysticism, Hugo Munster-
berg
Queen's Twin, The, Sarah Orne Jewett .
Quotable, Writers that are, Bradford Tor-
rey . .
Recent Fiction, Some 518
Recent Novels, A Group of 281
Reminiscences of Julia Ward Howe, Julia
Ward Howe .... 38, 219, 330, 474, 701
Revolutionist, The Autobiography of a,
P. Eropotkin . . . 105, 179, 382, 676, 841
Robert and Elizabeth Browning, Harriet
Waters Preston 812
Shipping, American Deep - Water, H.
Phelps Whitmarsh 585
Slum, The Battle with the, Jacob A.
Riis
Solar System in the Light of Recent Dis-
coveries, T. J.J. See
Some Cranks and their Crotchets, John
Fiske
Some Economic Aspects of the Liquor
Problem, Henry W. Farnam .... 644
Some Novels of the Year 127
Some Recent Fiction 518
626
464
292
Southern Mountains, Our Contemporary
Ancestors in, William Goodell Frost .
Stimulus to Higher Politics, A Whole-
some
Subtle Problems of Charity, The, Jane
Addams
Talks to Teachers on Psychology, Wil-
liam James 155,320,510,
Taylor, Bayard, and Sidney Lanier, The
Correspondence of. See Letters be-
tween Two Poets.
Tenement HouseBlight,The,!Jaco& A . Riis
Theatre, The Upbuilding of the, Norman
Hapgood
To Have and to Hold, Mary Johnston ,. .
Twenty-First Man, The, Madge Suther-
land Clarke
United States, The Colonial Expansion of
the, A. Lawrence Lowell
Upbuilding of the Theatre, The, Norman
Hapgood
Vital 'Touch in Literature, The, John
Burroughs
War Censor, Experiences of a, Grant
Squires . . . . . . . . . . . .
Wholesome Stimulus to Higher Politics, A
Wild Indian, The, George Bird Grinnell .
Wilkins, Miss : An Idealist in Masquerade,
Charles Miner Thompson
Writers that are Quotable, Bradford Tor-
rey
311
289
163
617
760
419
721
86
145
419
399
425
289
20
665
407
Yancey, William Lowndes. See Orator
of Secession, The.
Benedictus, Julie M. Lippmann ....
Bereavement of the Fields, W. Wilfred
Campbell
Black Sheep, Richard Burton
Bobolinks after Sunset, J. Russell Taylor
Brooklyn Bridge, Charles G. D. Roberts .
Echo, Flavian Rosser
In the Trenches, F. Whitmore ....
Largest Life, The, Archibald Lampman .
Meadow Frogs, John B. Tabb
POETRY.
417 Road -Hymn for the Start, William
Vaughn Moody 840
837 Salutation. To Nicholas II., Elizabeth
574 Stuart Phelps 97
839 Shadow of a Cloud, The, Anna Hempstead
839 Branch 575
576 Such is the Death the Soldier Dies, Robert
162 Burns Wilson 418
416 Waiting, F. Whitmore 37
720 Winter Holiday, A, Bliss Carman ... 412
CONTRIBUTORS' CLUB.
Artist and Marriage, The 142
British Novelists on Show 859
Cyrano Speaks 859
Every Book on its own Bottom .... 141
God of Battles, The 139
In the Confidence of a Story- Writer . . 137
My Babes in the Wood 857
Passing of the Spare Chamber, The . . 140
BOOKS REVIEWED.
Altsheler, Joseph A. : A Herald of the
West 286
Buchan, John : John Barnet of Barnes 133
Crawford, F. Marion : Ave Roma . . 276
Crawford, F. Marion : Corleone ... 130
Crockett, S. R. : The Red Axe ... 286
Deland, Margaret : Old Chester Tales 518
Dunne, F. P. : Mr. Dooley in Peace and
in War 288
Earle, Mary Tracy : The Man who Worked
for Collister 287
Frederic, Harold : Gloria Mundi .... 522
Glasgow, Ellen: Phases of an Inferior
Planet 284
Johnston, Mary : Prisoners of Hope . . 133
Kipling, Rudyard : The Day's Work . . 136
Merriman, Henry Seton : Roden's Corner 135
Mitchell, S. Weir : Adventures of Fran-
131
livant, Alfred : Bob, Son of Battle
286
Page, Thomas Nelson : Red Rock ... 519
Parker, Gilbert : The Battle of the Strong 281
Payne, Will : The Money Captain ... 285
Peattie, Elia W. : The Shape of Fear . . 287
Pool, Maria Louise : A Golden Sorrow . 285
Ralph, Julian : An Angel in a Web . . 285
Slosson, Annie Trumbull : Dumb Fox-
glove 287
Smith, F. Hopkinson : Caleb West, Mas-
ter Diver 282
Thompson, Maurice : Stories of the Chero-
keeHills 287
Ward, Mrs. Humphry : Helbeck of Ban-
nisdale 127
Watson, H. B. Marriott : The Adventur-
ers 286
Watts-Dunton, Theodore : Aylwin ... 521
White, Eliza Orne : A Lover of Truth . 520
Wiggin, Kate Douglas: Penelope's Pro-
.283
THE
ATLANTIC MONTHLY:
iftaga?ine of literature,, ^cience^ rt> ana
VOL. LXXXIII. JANUARY, 1899. No. CCCCXCV.
DESTRUCTIVE AND CONSTRUCTIVE ENERGIES OF OUR GOV-
ERNMENT COMPARED.
WE have been witnessing, during the
past months an extraordinary exhibition
of energy on the part of the govern-
ment of the United States in making
sudden preparation for the war with
Spain, and in prosecuting that war to a
successful issue. Men of science, and
teachers and promoters of science, have
a special interest in the lessons of the war,
because the instruments and means used
in modern warfare are comparatively
recent results of scientific investigation
and of science applied in the useful arts.
Moreover, the serviceable soldier or
sailor is himself a result, not only of
moral inheritance and instruction, but
of training in the scientific processes of
exact observation, sure inference, and
accurate manipulation. It is not the
linguistic side of school training which
makes the effective soldier or sailor ; it
is the scientific side. His vocabulary
may be limited though expressive, and
his grammar false ; but his eye must be
true, his judgment sound and prompt,
and his hand capable of using instru-
ments of precision.
Many suppose that chemistry, mathe-
matics, and physics are the only sciences
which have contributed to the resources
of modern warfare. This is far from
the fact. Biological science is an im-
portant contributor. The first -relief
package, which every soldier carries, is
crammed with surgical knowledge which
1 The ration of the United States soldier is a
liberal one in comparison with that of other ar-
the world waited for till the last quarter
of the nineteenth century. The hospital
ship Bay State is full of appliances for
the care of the sick and wounded which
are new within twenty years, and have
all resulted from scientific discoveries
and inventions made in times of peace
and for purposes the opposite of warlike.
Physiological science has really arrived
at valuable conclusions with regard to
the soldier's diet, the indispensable
foundation of his effectiveness, conclu-
sions which relate to portability, nutri-
tiousness, and adaptation to different
climates ; though it must be confessed
that these conclusions do not seem to
have affected as yet the practice of the
United States Commissary Department. 1
Financial science is also a contributor
of prime importance ; since success in
war depends more and more on the com-
mand of money and credit. To this
war with Spain we owe the most effec-
tive revenue bill or rather, the only
comprehensive revenue bill the coun-
try has had within a whole genera-
tion.
It cannot be doubted, then, that the
energy put forth by our government for
the immediate purpose of capturing or
destroying Spanish vessels, forts, towns,
and war material, and incidentally kill-
ing, wounding, and starving Spaniards,
has been a great exhibition of power in
applied science, and as such must com-
mies ; but if the Commissary Department avails
itself of the option to issue pork or bacon, it is a
2 Destructive and Constructive
mend itself to the attention of men of
science. I hear already a protest against
the thought that devotees of science can
have any special interest in war, war
the supreme savagery, the legalization
of robbery and murder, the assemblage
of all cruelties, crimes, and horrors, set
up as an arbiter of international justice.
I recall the indictment set forth by
Charles Sumner forty years ago, in his
address on the war system, " that this
trade of barbarians, this damnable pro-
fession, is a part of the war system, sanc-
tioned by international law ; and that
war itself is hell, recognized, legalized,
established, organized by the common-
wealth of nations, for the determination
Energies of our Government.
of international questions ! " l This is
the jurist's and philanthropist's view.
But the man of science has another view
of war. He regards it as the worst sur-
vival of savage life, still occasionally un-
avoidable because of other survivals of
the savage state, such as superstition,
passion uncontrolled, and lust of wealth
and power. He recognizes the fact that
war makes a temporary and local hell
on earth, and that all its characteristic
activities are destructive ; whereas all
the normal activities of a free govern-
ment should be constructive, and intend-
ed to promote the good of its citizens
and general civilization ; but he does not
accept Sumner's dictum in his oration of
ration ill adapted to a warm climate. Never- l " ' Give them hell ! ' was the language writ-
theless, good cooking would make the Ameri- ten on a slate by a speechless dying American
can ration an acceptable and wholesome one. officer. ' Ours is a damnable profession,' was
War rations. the confession of a veteran British general.
British soldier Quantity ' War is a trade of barbarians ! ' exclaimed
in India : allowed daily. Ozs. Napoleon in a moment of truthful remorse,
Meat with bone 16.00 prompted by his bloodiest field. Alas ! these
Bread 16.00 words are not too strong. The business of war
Potatoes 16.00 cannot be other than a trade of barbarians, a
Rice 4.00 damnable profession ; and war itself is certain-
Sugar 2.50 ly hell on earth. But consider well do not
Tea 0.71 forget let the idea sink deep into your souls,
Salt 0.66 animating you to constant endeavors, that this
trade of barbarians, this damnable profession, is
Total 55.87 a part of the war system, sanctioned by inter-
national law ; and that war itself is hell, recog-
German soldier : nized, legalized, established, organized by the
Bread 26.50 commonwealth of nations, for the determination
Fresh or raw salt meat or smoked of international questions ! " (War System of
beef 13.25 the Commonwealth of Nations : an address by
Mutton, ham, bacon, or sausage . 8.82 Charles Sumner, before the American Peace
Rice or ground barley 4.41 Society, at its Anniversary in Boston, May 28,
or peas, beans, or flour .... 8.82 1849. Boston : Pratt Brothers, 37 Cornhill,
or potatoes 53.00 1869. Stereotype Edition. In pursuance of
Salt 0.90 the above vote of our society, several large edi-
Coffee roasted 0.90 tions were issued ; but, thinking that a per-
or coffee raw 1.00 formance of such signal ability ought to have
a still wider and more permanent circulation,
United States soldier : we asked permission to stereotype it. Mr.
Fresh meat 20.00 Sumner kindjy consented ; and in preparing
or salt beef 22.00 this edition, he has made no alteration in any
or pork or bacon 12.00 principle or argument from the original ad-
Bread or flour 18.00 dress, his views, like our own, having experi-
Potatoes 16.00 enced on the question of peace and war no
Peas or beans 2.40 change from any events of the last twenty
Rice 1.60 years. Geo. C. Beckwith, Corresponding Sec-
Sugar 2.40 retary. Boston, Jan., 1869.)
Coffee raw 1.60
Salt 0.25
Destructive and Constructive Energies of our Government. 3
1845 on The True Grandeur of Nations,
" There can be no war that is not dishon-
orable." He recognizes that occasional
war, and therefore constant prepared-
ness for war, are still necessary to na-
tional security, just as police, courts,
prisons, and scaffolds are still indispen-
sable to social order and individual free-
dom in the most civilized and peaceful
states. Moreover, the man of science
perceives that, while the immediately de-
structive objects in war are savage and
barbarous, the instrumentalities and
forces used in modern warfare are close-
ly akin to the great constructive agencies
and forces in human society. The bat-
tleship is, to be sure, the most complex
and the crudest machine yet constructed
by man ; but all its parts, except its ar-
mament and its armor, are not only ap-
plicable in works of peace, but have
actually been wrought out for peaceful
constructive purposes. The organization
and disciplined skill which make possi-
ble the equipment of great bodies of
soldiers within a few weeks, and their
transportation to distant lands with in-
credible speed and safety, are the same
sort of organization and skill needed in
every great productive industry ; and the
mechanical and electrical engineers who
have become indispensable in warfare
have been developed, not for war, but
for modern industries and systems of
transportation. The applications of Bes-
semer steel in war are not its primary
uses ; its peaceful constructive applica-
tions give it its primary value. The ap-
plication of compressed air for the trans-
mission of power was not invented for
the dynamite gun, but for tunneling and
mining. The ammonia refrigerating pro-
cess was not invented for hospital uses
in war, but for domestic and commer-
cial cold storage. No nation can now
succeed in war which has not developed
in peace a great variety of mechanical,
chemical, and biological arts. The nor-
mal activities of these arts must and
do tend to advance humane civilization.
Their application to the destructive
cruelties of warfare is abnormal. Yet,
inasmuch as they are applied in war
with a prodigious energy and intensity,
it may well be that the acute horrors of
even the shor.test war may have a les-
son for the long normal periods of peace.
The destructive activities of the govern-
ment of the United States are abnormal
and rare ; but they are intense, and they
attract in a high degree the attention
and interest of the people. I therefore
wish to call your attention to some of
the lessons which this unusual energy of
the government in war suggests in re-
gard to its normal activities in times of
peace.
One further introductory explanation
seems to be needed for the sake of clear-
ness. There is a class of a priori social
philosophers who would not be at all
content with this moderate claim that
times of war may have useful lessons
for peaceful times ; for they believe that
the virtues bred and the habits estab-
lished in war alone make possible the
assured progress of society during peace ;
and that, therefore, occasional wars are
to be welcomed as renovators of society,
which during peace tends to corruption,
luxury, and enfeebling vices. Now men
of science, so far as I have observed,
generally think that this doctrine just
reverses the real order of cause and ef-
fect. They do not consider the martial
virtues courage, endurance, loyalty,
and the willingness to subordinate self-
interest to the interest of clan, tribe, or
nation to be the supreme and ultimate
objects toward which the human race
must struggle on. They regard these
virtues as the elementary, fundamental,
preliminary virtues, which can be culti-
vated in man's savage state, and so be-
come the stepping-stones of his moral
advance ; but they know, on the demon-
strative evidence of both history and
natural history, that these virtues may
coexist with cruelty, rapacity, and lust,
and an almost complete indifference to
4 Destructive and Constructive
both truth and justice. Civilization, in
their eyes, means the adding of justice,
truth, and gentleness to the martial vir-
tues, an addition which does not ne-
cessarily involve any countervailing sub-
traction. The civilized man should be
as brave, enduring, self-sacrificing, and
loyal as the savage, and should also be
just, truthful, magnanimous, and gentle.
The warlike virtues are those of the
hunter, and war is a chase with man the
prey ; but as man rises in the scale of
civilization, he is less and less the nomad
and the hunter. Truly, it is not war
which prepares men for worthy and suc-
cessful lives in times of peace. On the
contrary, it is worthy life in time of
peace on the part of individual men or
a nation of men which prepares for suc-
cess in war ; and this principle is quite
as true of men in the savage state as in
the civilized. The winning tribe in sav-
age warfare is that which in peace lives
habitually a simple, hardy, robust life,
loves the chase and daring sports, travels
fast and far afoot, and subsists at need
on what it can find on the way, or carry
with it in the rudest methods. In civ-
ilized warfare, that nation will be suc-
cessful which produces plenty of healthy,
vigorous, intelligent men, who have add-
ed to the ancient martial virtues a moral
quality which free institutions can best
develop, namely, individual initiative
and self-reliance, and have acquired
skill in a great variety of useful arts.
Do we not all believe that the normal
activities of peace under free institutions
are the best possible, though not the
only necessary, preparation for inevitable
war, and that such normal activities of
the nation never need to be purified or
uplifted by avoidable war? Neverthe-
less, we may also believe that some les-
sons for times of peace can be drawn
from the prodigiously stimulated activity
of the government and the sacrifices of
the people in time of war.
The first important inference which
may be drawn from the experience of
Energies of our Government.
our government and people during the
past months is anthropological, it is
the permanence of the martial virtues
and their commonness. In any vigor-
ous race these virtues may fairly be
called inextinguishable. A whole gen-
eration has passed since this country has
been at war, just as a whole generation
passed between the war of 1812 and the
Mexican war ; and yet courage, endur-
ance, and patience were promptly ex-
hibited by hundreds of thousands of our
young men. The extinction of the sol-
dierly qualities is not at all to be feared
in a robust race inhabiting the temper-
ate zone, which cultivates manly sports,
and pursues on land and sea all the oc-
cupations which require the maintenance
of a watchful struggle against adverse
powers of nature, or the utilization of
natural forces of mysterious and for-
midable intensity. Civilized society is
always maintaining a perilous conflict
with natural forces, which ordinarily
serve man's purposes, but sometimes try
to overwhelm him. Fire, the greatest
of man's inventions, and his humblest
servant, suddenly breaks out into de-
structive fury ; wind ordinarily fills his
sails, turns his mills, and refreshes the
atmosphere of his cities, but now and
then in spots sweeps from the surface of
the earth and sea all man's works,
crops, buildings, vehicles, and vessels.
The mineral oil which every night lights
so brilliantly the humblest homes in
every clime occasionally kills the igno-
rant or careless user, or sets a huge city
in flamCvS. Any single-minded worm or
insect will be too much for man, unless
man knows how to set some other crea-
ture of one idea at destroying the first
invader. How small is the range of the
thermometer within which man can live
with comfort or even safety ! A change
of a few degrees below or above the
normal range sets him fighting for his
life. This conflict with external nature
is the great school of mankind in courage,
persistence, patience, and forethought;
Destructive and Constructive Energies of our Government. 5
and mankind never needs any other.
The professional soldier may be soft-
ened, and perhaps corrupted, by a long
period of peace ; for in peaceful times
he may have nothing to do, or at least
his occupation may be so slight and so
dull as not to keep his physical and
mental powers at full play ; but a citi-
zen soldiery, when free from the horri-
ble activities of war, returns promptly to
the labors of peace, and escapes the
dangers to which a professional soldiery
is exposed. It is, then, the regular pur-
suits and habits of a nation in times of
peace which prepare it for success in
war ; and not the virtues bred in war
which enable it to endure peace.
The second lesson to be drawn from
the recent experience of the nation in
war is the immense value of long-pre-
pared, highly-trained public service. The
instant efficiency of our navy is a strik-
ing demonstration of this principle, which
needs to be brought home to the great
body of our people. The war teaches that
though a navy can be extemporized for
the purposes of transport and blockade,
for fighting purposes the trained naval
expert is the invaluable man, whether in
command or behind a gun or in the en-
gine-room. The preparedness of our
regular army for immediate service, and
the comparative unreadiness of the mili-
tia, even in those states which have paid
most attention to volunteer military or-
ganization, enforce the same lesson.
Would that the plain teaching of this
short war in this regard might sink into
the minds of our people, and convince
them of the immense advantages they
would derive from a highly-trained per-
manent civil service in every branch of
the public administration !
Another lesson of these pregnant
months relates to a principle which un-
derlies our form of government, yet is
often seen but dimly by portions of our
people. I refer to the principle that the
government of the United States should
do nothing which any other visible agency
state, city, town, corporation, or pri-
vate individual can do as well. This
seems a strange principle to be enforced
by the action of our government in time
of war, since the government has a mo-
nopoly of that hideous activity ; but this
war has brought out in a very striking
way the fact that, when it comes to the
pinch, the source of victory is in the per-
sonal initiative of each individual com-
mander and private soldier or sailor.
When all preparation is made, when all
appliances have been perfected and
brought together, in the particular thick-
et or mined strait in which the work of
the moment is to be done, it is the percep-
tive power and moral resolution of the
individual which command success. In
warfare, as in industries, the automaton
counts for less and less, and the thinking,
resourceful individual for more and more.
The automaton is the natural result of
despotic institutions, civil and religious ;
the resourceful, initiating individual is
the natural product of free institutions,
under which the citizens are as little re-
stricted as possible in the development
and training each of his own will-power
and capacities. To secure this funda-
mental advantage of free institutions, as
many fields of activity as possible must
be left open to the individual, and to vol-
untary associations of individuals. If the
government enters a field which individ-
uals, or voluntary associations of indi-
viduals, could till, it diminishes by so
much the range or reach of the great
school of self-governing freemen, name-
ly, the school of creative and constructive
industry under liberty and with respon-
sibility. Is it not a wonderful thing that
the invention of more and more destruc-
tive weapons, like the long-range maga-
zine rifle and the machine gun, which
have made impossible close formations,
and have forced every modern army to
imitate what used to be called Indian
warfare, should bring out so strikingly,
as this recent war has done, the immense
superiority of the disciplined freeman to
6 Destructive and Constructive Energies of our Government.
the trained automaton ? A firing line is
now composed of detached men, each
seeking cover at every moment, and all
using smokeless powder, that the exact
position of the line may not be revealed
to the enemy one thousand or two thou-
sand yards away. The enemy is invisi-
ble, and there is none of the excitement
of personal encounter. The individual
soldier is not supported on right and left
by bodily contact with comrades, and the
nearest officer may be a long way off.
Under such circumstances each man must
do his own fighting, and success depends
on the courage, skill, and judgment of
the individual soldier. The maxim, " In
time of peace prepare for war," means,
therefore, vastly more than it used to.
It no longer refers chiefly to the provi-
sion of vessels, forts, and weapons, but
rather to the bringing up of generations
of young men trained by school, college,
political life, and the great national in-
dustries to habits of self-direction and of
disciplined cooperation. This bringing
up is best secured under free institutions
which leave everything possible to the
initiative of the citizen.
This principle that government
should do nothing which any other agen-
cies can do as well being admitted and
established, the next question to be con-
sidered is whether the legitimate activi-
ties of our government in time of peace
activities directed toward constructive
" It appears from the last Report of the
Treasurer that the whole available property of
the University [Harvard], the various accumu-
lation of more than two centuries of generosity,
amounts to $703,175.
" Change the scene, and cast your eyes upon
another object. There now swings idly at her
moorings, in this harbor, a ship of the line, the
Ohio, carrying ninety guns, finished as late as
1836, for $547,888 ; repaired only two years
afterwards, in 1838, for $223,012 ; with an ar-
mament which has cost $53,945; making an
amount of $834,845 (Document No. 132, House
of Representatives, Third Session, Twenty-
Seventh Qougress) as the actual cost at this mo-
ment of that single ship, more than $100,000
beyond all the available wealth of the richest
and most ancient seat of learning in the land !
and wholly beneficent objects should
not be increased. On this point I can-
not help thinking that the lesson of the
war is plain and convincing. It is unde-
niable that our people have rejoiced in
the exhibition of power which the gov-
ernment has given during this war. We
have all derived great satisfaction from
our government's display of power, ex-
ercised with promptness, foresight, and
the sagacious adaptation of means to
ends. It is human nature, always and
everywhere, to enjoy such success as the
government has won, even when it costs
heavily in blood and money. To have
the consciousness of possessing power,
and to display the power possessed, is a
national gratification. Now, this sort of
satisfaction ought to be obtainable in
peace as well as in war ; so that the
power of the United States, displayed in
peace for ends wholly constructive and
beneficent, ought to be in some measure
comparable with the power the govern-
ment is capable of displaying for destruc-
tive ends in war. Charles Sumner's ar-
gument from the comparative cost of the
Ohio, a ship of the line, and of Har-
vard University l (a comparison made in
1845) helped him to the wrong conclu-
sion that war is always dishonorable and
always to be avoided, and that prepara-
tions for war are foolish and criminal.
Nevertheless, the comparison was and is
highly suggestive, and becomes more and
" Pursue the comparison still further. The
expenditures of the University during the last
year, for the general purposes of the College,
the instruction of the Undergraduates, and for
the Schools of Law and Divinity, amount to
$46,949. The cost of the Ohio for one year
of service, in salaries, wages, and provisions, is
$220,000; being $175,000 above the annual
expenditures of the University, and more than
four times as much as those expenditures. In
other words, for the annual sum lavished on a
single ship of the line, four institutions like
Harvard University might be sustained through-
out the country ! " (The True Grandeur of
Nations : an oration, by Charles Sumner, deliv-
ered before the authorities of the City of Bos-
ton, July 4, 1845. Boston: American Peace
Society, 1869.)
Destructive and Constructive Energies of our Government.
more so as preparation for war and war
itself grow more and more costly. In-
deed, in one respect the recent war has
made such comparisons more effective and
interesting ; for it has proved that the de-
fense of coast cities and harbors is easier
than we had supposed, since the strong-
est fleets have no formidable powers of
offense against them. Comparatively
cheap mines, protected by respectable
earthworks on shore, cannot be success-
fully dealt with by any naval forces yet
devised. A navy without an army can-
not make conquests ; and the defense of
all important points on a coast can be ex-
temporized at moderate cost. Such com-
parisons make us desire that the steady
energy of the government for good ends
in times of peace be made to bear a bet-
ter comparison with its intense energy in
the spasms of war. How can the United
States put forth during the long periods
of peace a beneficent power comparable
to the destructive power it wields in war,
without violating the principle of leaving
to its citizens every field of activity which
they can till to advantage ?
If we examine the fields of activity
which must perforce remain to the gov-
ernment, we shall find that they will
amply suffice for the exercise of power
enough to gratify the most ambitious and
the most benevolent citizen of the repub-
lic. Let us briefly survey some of these
fields. The first I shall mention is the
fostering of commerce. This function
obviously belongs to the general govern-
ment, which has power not only to regu-
late, but to annihilate at will, the trade
of its citizens with foreign countries. We
have indeed seen our foreign commerce
destroyed by our own national legislation.
Now, commerce, foreign and domestic, is
the great peace-maker and peace-keeper,
and, on the whole, it is the great enricher
of mankind in comforts and luxuries. It
deserves on every account the fostering
care of a powerful nation, not only for the
benefits it confers on that particular na-
tion, but because it tends to bring about
the confederation of all races of mankind
in the pursuit of a common well-being.
The war with Spain has distinctly en-
larged the moral outlook of our people.
It has presented to them wholly unex-
pected problems concerning the respon-
sibility of a fortunate people for the wel-
fare of the less fortunate. It has sug-
gested to them that a policy of political
seclusion and commercial isolation is not
worthy of a strong, free, and generous
people ; and that such a policy is not the
way to the greatest prosperity and the
most desirable influence.
Another great field of beneficent
activity for our government is the pro-
curing of just and humane conditions
of labor in industries which cannot be
carried on within the jurisdiction of any
single state, because they necessarily
cover several states. For the protec-
tion of work-people in industries car-
ried on completely within a single state,
state legislation may suffice ; but when,
as in the case of railroads, the industry
must be carried on through several or
many states, it is only the national
government that can adequately protect
the interests of the persons employed.
The great functions of the national
government in this respect are now
only beginning to be exercised. In the
Ninth Annual Report of the Interstate
Commerce Commission on the Statistics
of Railways in the United States, a re-
port dated June 30, 1897, I read 1 that
in the year 1896 the number of railroad
employees killed in the service was 1861,
and the number injured 29,969, the num-
ber of men employed on the railroads
of the United States in this year being
826,620. In 1897 the corresponding
figures were 1693 killed and 27,667 in-
jured. These actual numbers equal the
casualties of a great battle ; but the deaths
and injuries occurred in a single year,
and are not above the average of the
five years preceding. The total number
of persons killed on American railroads
1 Comparative summary of railway acci-
8 Destructive and Constructive Energies of our Government.
in the year 1896 was 6448, while the
injured were 38,687, and these figures
are not above the average of the five
years preceding. In the same year
there were killed and wounded in cou-
pling and uncoupling alone 6614 train-
men, 1744 switchmen and flagmen, and
328 other employees, making a total of
8686 killed and wounded in coupling
and uncoupling alone. 1 Of the total
number of trainmen in the United
States one in every 152 was killed, and
one in every 10 was injured during the
railroad year 1896 ; 2 during 1897 one
in 165 was killed, and one in 12 injured.
Great battles do not occur every year ;
but these losses do. Do not these terri-
ble figures suggest that our government
has not yet undertaken to discharge its
duty of protecting by legislation large
classes of its citizens engaged in indispen-
sable service to the community ? The
obstacles to the use of automatic cou-
plers are pecuniary alone. On June 30,
1896, only about one third of the total
equipment of American railroads in cars
and locomotives was fitted with train-
brakes, and only about two fifths were
fitted with automatic couplers. Have we
not here a new function for our govern-
ment, in which the wise exercise of its
great power would have far-reaching be-
neficent results ?
As time goes on, it appears that more
and more industries have a national
scope. Thus, it may be doubted whe-
ther the mining of soft coal can be suc-
cessfully regulated by the separate le-
gislation of single states ; for coal mined
in Virginia is necessarily in competition
with coal mined in Ohio, for example,
and the unprotected condition of labor-
ers in Ohio may prevent the adequate
protection of coal miners in Virginia.
Within a few months New England
cotton manufacturers have been startled
dents for the years ending June 30, 1896, 1895, 1894, 1893, 1892, 1891, 1890, 1889, and
1888 :
Year.
Employees.
Passengers.
Other Persons.
Total.
Killed.
Injured.
Killed.
Injured.
Killed.
Injured.
Killed.
Injured.
1896.
. 1,861
29,969
181
2,873
4,406
5,845
6,448
38,687
1895.
. 1,811
25,696
170
2,375
4,155
5,677
6,136
33,748
1894.
. 1,823
23,422
324
3,034
4,300
5,433
6,447
31,889
1893 .
. 2,727
31,729
299
3,229
4,320
5,435
7,346
40,393
1892.
. 2,554
28,267
376
3,227
4,217
5,158
7,147
36,652
1891 .
. 2,660
26,140
293
2,972
4,076
4,769
7,029
33,881
1890.
. 2,451
22,396
286
2,425
3,598
4,206
6,335
29,027
1889.
. 1,972
20,028
310
2,146
3,541
4,135
5,823
26.309
1888.
IT .
. 2,070
20,148
315
2,138
2,897
3,602
5,282
25,888
(Interstate Commerce Commission ; Statistics of Railways in the United States, 1896, page 87.)
1 Accidents in the United States, 1896, in coupling and uncoupling :
Trainmen. Switchmen, Flagmen, Other Employees. Total.
and Watchmen.
Killed. Injured. Killed. Injured. Killed. Injured.
157 6,457 58 1,686 14 314
(Ibid, page 88.)
2 Comparative summary showing number of employees and trainmen for one killed and for
one injured in the United States for the years ending June 30, 1896, 1895, 1894, 1893, 1892, 1891,
and 1890.
Year. Num
Killed.
229
Injured.
8,457
1896
1895
1894
1893
1892
1891
1890
(Rid. page 96.)
Killed.
444
433
428
320
322
296
306
Employees for one Number of Trainmen for one
Injured.
Killed.
Injured.
. . . 28 .
. . . 152 .
. . 10
. . . 31 .
... 155 .
. . 11
. . . 33 .
... 156 .
. . 12
. . . 28 .
... 115 .
. . 10
. . . 29 .
... 113 .
. . 10
... 30 .
... 104 .
. . 10
... 33 .
... 105 ,
. . 12
Destructive and Constructive Energies of our Government. 9
by the development of the cotton manu-
facture in the Southern States ; and one
of the first suggestions of remedy made
by the New England operatives was a
national law to regulate hours of labor
in cotton mills all over the country.
This incident simply marks a tendency.
Interests common to many states cer-
tainly suggest that the common govern-
ment has duties in regard to them.
<An established function of our na-
tional government is the execution of pub-
lic works for the improvement of rivers
and harbors, works which redound to
the advantage of the localities where
they are situated, to be sure, but also to
that of the people at large. These works
are too often executed in a slow, waste-
ful manner, which no private person or
corporation could possibly afford. As
an illustration of bad government meth-
ods, and therefore of the possibilities of
improvement in governmental efficiency,
I take the Columbia River at the Cascade
Gorge. This improvement comprises
1 Columbia River at Cascade :
Year. Appropria-
works on a great lock and on a canal
about three thousand feet long, includ-
ing the lock. The original estimate of
the cost was a million and a half dollars,
and the work was actually begun in
1878. At the end of 1891, when $1,-
609,324.94 had been expended on the
work, the estimate for its completion
was a million and three-quarters dollars.
It is not yet finished, after the lapse of
twenty years. 1 In six of the years since
the first appropriation was made Con-
gress made no appropriation whatever.
Until 1893 it never appropriated any-
thing like the sum which the engineers
reported could profitably be expended
in the following year, and even then the
appropriation lacked half a million dol-
lars of the money the engineers wanted.
The total expended to date is more than
five millions of dollars, not counting
interest on expenditures which have
stretched over twenty years. In the
meantime not a particle of benefit has
accrued to the population on the Coluin-
tious.
1876 $90,000
1877
1878 150,000
1879 100,000
1880 100,000
1881 100,000
1882 265,000
1883
1884 150,000
1885
1886 187,500
1887
1888 300,000
1889 .....
1890 435,000
1891
1892 326,250
1893 1,239,653*
1894
1895
1896
1897 .
Amount expended
including liabili-
ties and con-
tracts.
$4,616.65
5,854.05
44,785.87
207,626.83
83,269.43
133,329.57
186,233.53
73,586.92
133,873.48
19,050.74
110,445.55
77,788.44
221,835.26
72,858.38
234,170.24
190,650.11
19,398.27
330,984.95
630,000.00
427,001.28
Available.
$90,000.00
90,000.00
235,383.35
329,529.30
384,743.43
217,116.60
133,847.17
265,517.60
79,284.07
155,697.15
21,823.67
190,272.93
79,837.38
302,347.59
80,512.33
442,653.95
208,483.71
1,583,736.60
1,564,338.33
Estimated amount
that could be pro-
fitably expended
in following year.
Estimate for
completion
from date.
$500,000
500,000
500,000
500,000
750,000
500,000
500,000
500,000
750,000
800,000
400,000
500,000
700,000
900,000
1,500,000
1,419,250
$1,459,136
1,524,338
1,424,338
1,324,338
1,224,338
1,655,397
1,655,397
1,505,397
1,250,000
1,100,000
1,850,000
1,550,000
1,250,000
1,115,000
1,745,000
1,419,250
(From Bookkeeper's accounts.)
. . 342,248.72'
Total expended $5,007,742
Original estimate 1,459,136
Total expended with interest up to 1897 at 4% 5,880,000
* Sundry Civil Act of 1893, " not more than f to be expended during the fiscal year ending June 30, 1894."
10 Destructive and Constructive Energies of our Government.
bia River or to the nation at large. The
delay and waste have been caused by
the scanty and intermittent appropria-
tions, involving frequent suspensions of
work and the deterioration of an expen-
sive plant. 1 The cost of the work has
been greatly enhanced by the necessity
of renewing the plant, and recruiting
anew at short intervals the whole force
of work-people. If a vigorous corpora-
tion had undertaken the work, it could
have completed the job within six years,
and would thereafter have enjoyed a
good income on the money invested. It
is impossible for the nation at large to
take satisfaction in grand works so fee-
bly conducted. Such a process impairs,
rather than increases, the self-respect of
the nation ; for everybody perceives that
it is a stupid and discreditable process.
Whenever a public work must be com-
pleted before the country can derive any
1 Extracts from the reports of U. S. engi-
neers in charge of the work.
Report of Major James, 1885: "In conclu-
sion, I will only add that if the necessary funds
can be afforded, I can open this work for navi-
gation inside of two years, and that every year
saved in the opening of navigation through the
Cascade Mountains will save to the masses of
people affected a sum approximate to the
whole cost of the work."
Captain Powell, 1887 : " Operations had been
generally suspended from want of funds for
several months previous to August, 1886. . . .
The estimate of cost for completing the canal
with the single lock, carefully revised during
the year and based on the cost of work done,
gives a total in round numbers of $1,850,000.
The increase over the original estimate results
principally from previously uncounted ex-
penses from suspension of work ; the severity
of the climate and difficulties of the situation
at the Cascade Gorge were, I judge, not suffi-
ciently considered. ... On account of small
and uncertain appropriations the opening of
the Cascade Canal will require several years."
Major Thomas H. Handbury, 1888: "For
all works of this character, where the improve-
ment to be effected must be completed before
any advantage can accrue to commerce, it does
seem that the policy of small appropriations
running through a long term of years enhances
enormously their ultimate cost."
Major Handbury, 1890 : "On the 5th [of
July] active work was resumed and continued
benefit from it, the government should
prosecute the work with all the dis-
patch consistent with thoroughness of
execution. This single instance illus-
trates the opportunities for immense
improvement in the conduct of the oper-
ations of our government on public
works. Already there are some exam-
ples which indicate that better times are
in store for us in this respect. Thus, in
1884, estimates of $3,710,000 were sub-
mitted for clearing out the mouth of the
Columbia River by dredging and con-
structing jetties. On June 30, 1896,
this work was practically finished at a
cost of two millions of dollars, favor-
able circumstances .and prompt continu-
ous work having effected a saving of a
million, seven hundred thousand dollars. 2
The rapid erection of the Library of
Congress under the direction of General
Casey within the original estimates is
until November, when it was discontinued on
account of unfavorable weather and a scarcity
of funds."
Major Handbury, 1891 : " The estimated
amount yet to be appropriated for completing
the work is $1,745,500. If this amount were
available now, so that the work from this time
forward could be pushed to the full extent of
our arrangements and the capacity of the plant
now provided, it is within the range of possi-
bility, under ordinary circumstances of wea-
ther, to advance it so near completion that
boats could be regularly passed through the
lock by the end of the year 1892 ; but this is
not the case."
2 Extract from report of Major Handbury,
1891 : " Receiving reasonably large appropria-
tions, the officer in charge has been enabled to
provide a plant commensurate with the impor-
tance and difficulties of the work in hand, and
has used this to good advantage. The work
has been well organized and pushed forward
on business principles, as all large govern-
ment work must be if economical results are
to be expected. The rock and other mate-
rials have thus far been obtained at reasonable
figures, and the employees have taken a com-
mendable interest in the success of the project
and rendered faithful service. This could not
have been done had the work been overshad-
owed with the constant dread of disorganiza-
tion on account of limited and inadequate ap-
propriations."
Destructive and Constructive Energies of our Government. 11
another hopeful example. 1 The self-
respect of the nation is enhanced by
every public improvement which is well
planned and well executed, and then
turns out to be of public benefit propor-
tionate to the expenditure. The cost
of clearing the mouth of the Columbia
River was not so much as the cost of
one armored cruiser ; but it is a perma-
nent work of daily utility, the benefi-
cence of which is without alloy.
To illustrate further the directions in
which the beneficent expenditures of
our government might reasonably be in-
creased, I now invite consideration of
certain comparisons between items of
military and naval expenditure which
the Cuban war has forced on our atten-
tion, and the cost of some government
establishments which are of especial in-
terest. The annual cost of the Light-
house Establishment, on the average of
five years from 1893 to 1897 inclusive,
was $3,000,000. The cost of maintain-
ing naval vessels in commission during
the year 1897 a year of peace was
$9,000,000. 2 Now the Lighthouse Es-
tablishment is one of the most interest-
ing and useful departments of national
expenditure. It has a high scientific
quality, and also a protecting, guiding,
friendly quality. It renders an unremit-
ting service in storm and in calm, over
rough waters and smooth, on both oceans,
on the Great Lakes, and on many rivers,
and in all the extremes of climate which
our widespread country affords. It calls
forth in high degree the best human
qualities, intelligence, fidelity, and
watchfulness. It ought to be the object
of constant interest on the part of the
whole population, and of Congress in par-
ticular. With our resources and com-
mercial needs, and our thousands of miles
of coasts and rivers, the Lighthouse Es-
tablishment ought to be the best in the
world, as well as the most extensive. In-
deed, it ought to be absolutely as good
as it can be made, and every promising
experiment for the improvement of any
single light or of all lights, of any single
foghorn or of all foghorns, ought to be
promptly tried by the government with-
out regard to cost. Some other nations
and regions of the earth excel us in the
proportion of first-order and second-order
1 The law of October 2, 1888, put the whole
charge of the construction into the hands of
General Casey, Chief of Engineers, United
States Array. In March, 1889, Congress ap-
propriated $5,500,000, in addition to $745,000,
2 From the United States Treasurer's Report
a balance of former appropriations. It was
then estimated that the time of construction
would be eight years. The building was com-
pleted just within that time ; and there was an
unused balance of over $50,000.
1897.
Expenses of the Smithsonian Institution $127,551.75
" National Museum 195,740.14
" National Zoological Park 67,779.26
" Fish Commission, general 428,827.27
" Colleges of Agriculture and Mechanic Arts 1,056,000.00
" Department of Agriculture . . * ... 2,176,530.38
" Weather Bureau 848,949.81
" Preventing spread of epidemic diseases . . . 32,677.72
" Protecting public lands, timber, etc. . . . 92,809.69
" Coast and Geodetic Survey 380,865.52
" Lighthouse Establishment 3,390,090.45
" Marine Hospital 620,506.90
" Geological Survey 422,366.82
" Geological Maps of the United States . . . 65,580.11'
" Increase of the Navy 14,539,911.36
Report of the Paymaster-General of the Navy, 1897 :
For new ships $10,543,373.72
Maintaining ships in commission 8,938,549.71
Average for five
years, 1893-1897.
$123,882.84
173,633.80
54,920.83
362,078.78
969,600.00
2,030,979.84
845,360.07
127,619.37
90,689.47
417,476.27
3,002,231.77
646,511.81
382,824.95
58,707.13
13,680,906.92
12 Destructive and Constructive Energies of our Government.
lights to all lights, and several nations
have experimented more patiently and
more successfully than we have with the
electric coast light. There is no doubt
that the number of lights and fog-signals
might be increased to great advantage,
that many more range lights and lighted
buoys should be supplied, and that the
vessels maintained by the Lighthouse
Establishment might be better equipped
and better adapted to the service they
are expected to render. A government
vessel ought always to be of the best pos-
sible type, and to be supplied with all
the best appliances for its service.
The progress of medical science im-
poses upon modern governments a new
duty toward their citizens, the duty,
namely, of protecting them from conta-
gious or infectious diseases. This pro-
tection has to be provided by means of
inspection stations, quarantines, and oth-
er methods proper to secure the isolation
of infected persons. The doctrine of
state rights has been invoked in our
country to prevent effective inspection
and quarantine on our sea coast, and ef-
fective isolation in the interior of the
country. The assumption by the na-
tional government of an effective control,
on the coast and in the interior, over im-
ported infectious or contagious diseases
has also been resisted, on the ground that
national health officers would not be
careful of the commercial interests of
single ports threatened with the invasion
of disease, or actually suffering there-
from ; whereas state or municipal au-
thorities would always bear in mind the
commercial and industrial interests of
the afflicted places. Such arguments
against national control of these dangers
are narrow and unworthy, and have too
long prevented the establishment of an
effective national board of health. The
diseases against which protection is most
to be desired are cholera, smallpox, lep-
rosy, and yellow fever ; and these dis-
eases come in at the coast on vessels
which are sailing under national au-
thority and regulation. It is impossible
to see how an effective control can be
exercised over them except by the na-
tional government. The government has
an established agency already, called the
Marine Hospital Service, which has a
considerable variety of functions not well
indicated by its title. Thus, it examines
candidates for the positions of keeper
and surfmen in the Life-Saving Service,
pilots for steam vessels in regard to color
blindness, cadets and seamen for the re-
venue-cutter service, and renders aid to
the immigrant service by inspecting ar-
riving immigrants. It is also charged
with a certain amount of public health
service, but its authority on this subject
is not well established, and has often
been successfully resisted. It is obvious
that the Marine Hospital Service is a cre-
ditable and useful one, but that it lacks
the authority which a national board of
health should have, and that both its staff
and the money placed at its disposal are
inadequate to the important ends in
view. Now that our government has
driven Spain out from its West Indian
colonies, and has assumed possession
of Porto Rico and temporary control of
Cuba, an opportunity is afforded of or-
ganizing this department, and putting it
upon a much more effective footing than
would have been possible before. The
island of Cuba has been the great source
of yellow fever infection ; and we now
have, temporarily at least, the opportuni-
ty of ridding ourselves of this source of
danger and dread. At the same time,
Congress can reconstruct what is now
called the Marine Hospital Service, and
render it, under some other name, a
thoroughly effective agent for the pro-
tection of the people of the United States
from imported preventable diseases. An
effective bureau once established would
undoubtedly find new opportunities of
usefulness to the people. Thus, the pol-
lution of streams occurring within the
limits of one state, but affecting the peo-
ple of other states, is a subject which a
Destructive and Constructive Energies of our Government. 13
national health department might very
properly deal with ; and the disinfection
of public interstate conveyances on land
and water is another. The community
is just beginning to desire the applica-
tion of effective methods to prevent the
diffusion of transmissible diseases. The
.prohibition of expectoration in public
conveyances is a good sign of the ad-
vent of better municipal practices with
regard to the spread of contagion. The
community is also beginning to under-
stand how t;he industrial effectiveness of
the community is diminished by pre-
ventable diseases and deaths, and to ap-
prehend the economic aspects of the pre-
vention of disease. The preservation of
the public health against the invasion of
preventable disease is really one of the
great interests of the American people,
health and the protection of life to the
normal period being infinitely precious
to the individual, and desirable alike for
the happiness and the productiveness of
the whole people. Indeed, the public
health more directly concerns the public
happiness than does agriculture, mining,
trade, or any other of the national activi-
ties. The commercial argument for an
effective national health bureau is a
strong one ; yet it is the feeblest of all
the arguments for the reinforcement of
the existing national health agencies.
To remove from American families, or
greatly diminish, the fear of death by
preventable imported disease would be
to confer an immense blessing on all
classes of our people. The progress of
medical science has made typhoid fever
a preventable disease, and has reduced
the mortality in diphtheria to one third
of the former rate. When the record
1 In 1889 the Coast and Geodetic Survey, at
the request of the Lighthouse Board, prepared
the following statements of the length, in stat-
ute miles, of the general sea coast, and also
of the coast-line including islands, bays, etc.,
to the head of tide-water :
General sea coast of the United States.
Atlantic Ocean 2,043
Gulf of Mexico 1,852
of this short war with Spain is made
up, it will appear that one of the few
thoroughly discreditable features of the
war was the occurrence of numerous
cases of typhoid fever in instruction
camps within the limits of our own coun-
try. The present expenditure of the
government for the Marine Hospital
Service has been about $650,000 a year,
on the average for the five years 1893
to 1897. This budget ought to be great-
ly increased. It would be wholly rea-
sonable for the government to spend as
much on behalf of the public health as
it costs to keep three battleships in com-
mission for a year in time of peace, say
$1,000,000. The debates on this sub-
ject have been going on for a long time.
The cholera invasions of the later forties
and early fifties started the discussion.
The cholera of 1892 provoked further
discussion, and each invasion of our
Southern coast by yellow fever has in-
creased the public interest in the sub-
ject. In Congress, in local boards of
trade, and in the communities which
have been invaded by epidemic diseases,
all aspects of the subject have been re-
viewed. It is now time for effective ac-
tion on the part of Congress.
The Life-Saving Service of the United
States deserves to be greatly enlarged.
The general sea coast of the United
States, excluding Alaska, is estimated as
5705 miles long; but if islands, bays,
and rivers to the head of tide-water be
included, the estimated length reaches
64,559 miles. This mileage does not
include 3000 miles of lake coast, or
nearly 5000 miles of rivers above tide-
water. 1 On June 30, 1895, the number
of life-saving stations was only 251 ; and
Pacific Ocean 1,810
Alaska 4,750
Coast-line, including islands, bays, rivers, etc.,
to the head of tide-water.
Atlantic Ocean 36,516
Gulf of Mexico 19,143
Pacific Ocean 8,900
Alaska 26,376
This mileage does not include the more than
14 Destructive and Constructive Energies of our Government.
of these, 53 were on the Great Lakes, 1
on the Ohio River, and 13 on the Pacific
coast. For the year ending June 30,
1895, the men at these stations gave aid
in 675 cases of disaster, the amount of
property involved being eleven millions
of dollars, and the number of persons in-
volved about six thousand. The mere
mention of these figures demonstrates at
once the inadequacy of the number of
stations. The men employed must pos-
sess skill in surf-work and in the use of
the various appliances for life-saving, and
must be also men of unquestionable cour-
age and good judgment. They are ex-
posed in their routine of duty to many
hardships and dangers. They struggle
with wind and cold on the shore, and
with some of the most formidable dangers
of the sea. They must patrol beaches or
rock-bound shores in the worst weather,
and must be always ready for prompt ser-
vice by night and by day. They need
all the martial virtues ; and these virtues
are displayed not in killing and wound-
ing, but in rescuing from death and in-
jury. They must have not only individ-
ual courage and skill, but discipline and
capacity for combined action in moments
of great excitement and stress. As the
result of the organization of this service,
the number of lives lost in proportion to
the number of persons on board vessels
suffering disaster within the domain of
the Life-Saving Service has been greatly
reduced. The ratio for the five years
1875 to 1880 was 1 to 65 ; the ratio for
the years 1890 to 1895 was 1 to 95.
Shall we not all agree that this noble
service should not be limited in its scope
by any pecuniary consideration ; but only
by the probability of rendering service ?
When the United States undertakes to
save life, and in so doing maintains a
fine corps of servants whose manly quali-
ties are all exerted for beneficent pur-
poses, it should not consider what the
service properly organized costs, but sim-
3000 miles of the lake coast or the nearly
5000 miles of rivers which are lighted ; but it
ply how useful it can be made. The ap-
propriation for the fiscal year 1898 was
only $1,562,795.
The Department of Agriculture is of
comparatively recent creation, dating
from 1893. The appropriations made
for this department have always exceed-
ed the amount expended, partly because
of its newness, and partly because Con-
gress has been disposed to be liberal in
& A
this direction. The proper objects of the
department are the discovery, study, and
development of the agricultural resources
of the United States. It is primarily a
scientific and technical bureau. Of its
twenty-two divisions, seven are adminis-
trative, eight technical, and seven purely
scientific. It is distinguished among the
departments of government by having its
whole body of servants under civil ser-
vice rules, the only persons not in the
classified service being the secretary, the
assistant secretary, and the chief of the
Weather Bureau. Its main work is done
not in Washington, but at scattered sta-
tions all over the country. Thus, there
are (1897) outside of Washington 153
observing stations and 244 stations on
the sea coasts and Great Lakes where
storm signals are displayed for the bene-
fit of mariners. There are (1898) also
135 meat inspection stations in 35 cities
of the country, 28 quarantine stations for
imported cattle, 16 stations for inspect-
ing export stock, beside several stations
for examining stock for Texan fever.
The Division of statistics affords a mea-
sure of protection against combination
and extortion in buying and selling the
products of agriculture. It collects infor-
mation as to the condition and prospects
of the principal crops, tabulates statis-
tics of agricultural productions, and of
the distribution and consumption of these
products, and issues a monthly crop re-
port for the benefit of producers and
consumers. It is obvious that this use-
ful Division tends to check irrational and
does include the Alaskan coasts, great parts of
which are not lighted.
Destructive and Constructive Energies of our Government. 15
injurious speculation in food products.
The usefulness of the department is be-
yond all question, whether we consider
domestic or foreign commerce, the agri-
cultural industries proper, or the great
business of exporting foods. The Eng-
lish government supervises with much
care and at large cost the importation,
transportation, and marketing of cattle,
sheep, and pigs, and of the foods de-
rived from these animals. Why should
we be less careful than the English of
the welfare of the population in this re-
spect ? When we consider the large
proportion of our population engaged in
industries which this department serves,
and the importance of these industries
to our national budget, may we not rea-
sonably be surprised that the department
is crippled by the parsimony of Con-
gress with regard to salaries ? On ac-
count of the low salaries authorized for
scientific and technical services, the de-
partment is constantly losing some of
its ablest and best workers. Universi-
ties, colleges, and experiment stations
carry off the best men. On account of
the youth of the department, most of
its officers and servants are now young
men, who may perhaps be retained for
a time at the low salaries authorized by
Congress, but are sure to be lost to the
service as their age and experience in-
crease. Apart from the Weather Bu-
reau, which is now one of its divisions,
the cost of the Department of Agriculture
during the financial year 1896-97 was
rather more than two millions of dollars,
about the cost of one day of the war
with Spain.
Next to agriculture in importance to
the country comes the mining of coal and
the metallic ores. The mineral wealth
of the United States, including coal, is
immeasurable, and there lie the founda-
tions of all our manufacturing industries,
and of the household comfort with which
our population is so greatly blessed. One
would naturally have supposed that the
government of the United States would
have been inclined to spend liberally on
the discovery and investigation of our
mineral resources, and that the Geologi-
cal Survey of the United States would
always have been carefully fostered, and
developed as rapidly as possible. When-
ever new territory has come into our pos-
session, or has been newly occupied, we
might naturally have endeavored to ob-
tain, with the utmost promptness, com-
plete surveys of its geological and min-
eralogical features, in order to bring to
the notice of the population the resources
of the new areas. Such has not been
the history of the Geological Survey of
the United States. The expenditure
upon it has never been generous, and
has often been parsimonious ; and large
areas of our country have remained for
generations unexplored and unmapped.
There has been no method of cordial co-
operation between national surveys and
state surveys, and the geological inves-
tigations of the government have gen-
erally followed in the wake of private
mining enterprises, rather than led the
way. For the average of the five years
1893-97 the expenditure of the gov-
ernment on the Geological Survey, and
the issue of geological maps, was about
$450,000 a year, or less than the cost of
six hours' war with Spain from April to
August.
In the city of Washington the govern-
ment maintains a National Museum, a
National Zoological Park, and a Con-
gressional Library. All these three in-
stitutions together do not cost the gov-
ernment $300,000 a year ; whereas the
English government spends on the Brit-
ish Museum alone about $600,000 a
year.
The Weather Bureau of the United
States, on which the nation spends less
than a million dollars a year, contributes
greatly to the comfort and health of the
people, and to the protection of their
property. The warnings it gives of cold
waves, frost, hot waves, and high winds,
of the coming of heavy rains and the
16 Destructive and Constructive Energies of our Government.
rise of rivers, have a constantly increas-
ing usefulness ; yet its number of sta-
tions for weather observations is mani-
festly insufficient, and the number of
places at which warnings are conspicu-
ously given is also insufficient. We owe
to the war with Spain the first attempt
to establish an adequate number of ob-
servation stations in the West Indies,
stations which have been greatly needed
from the first establishment of the Bu-
reau. The field of observation ought to
be much broadened, and its results ought
to he more thoroughly and promptly
made known. In the year ending June
30, 1897, that is, before the war, the
country spent twice as much on mere re-
pairs of naval vessels as it did on the
Weather Bureau.
The Coast and Geodetic Survey of the
United States has been a great credit to
the country, and has a value not only
for the protection of commerce, but for
the promotion of geographical science,
a value it would be impossible to esti-
mate. It should be maintained in a
state of the utmost efficiency, and its re-
sults should be at the service of every
mariner and merchant. It is a part of
the equipment of our government which
has conferred on the United States sci-
entific distinction. Nevertheless, it has
often been crippled in its work by lack
of steady, timely, and adequate appro-
priations. Its annual cost for the five
years 1893-97 averaged $418,000, or
only a little over what it cost to maintain
in commission the armored cruiser New
York 1 for the year 1897.
A new department of our govern-
ment ought to be at once organized to se-
cure the permanent protection and utiliza-
1 From a statement showing the amounts authorized for new vessels under " Increase of the
Navy " in each act of Congress from March 3, 1883, to and including the act of March 3, 1893,
the objects (ships) authorized, the amounts appropriated, the amounts expended upon each vessel
authorized, including armor and armament, and the actual total cost of completed ships.
Objects (ships) authorized and Dates of Acts
of Congress.
Amounts authorized for Hull and
Machinery, including Hull Ar-
Cost of Maintenance for One Tear,
including Coal, Provisions, Re-
pairs, and Pay of Officers, Crew,
and Marines.
Act of Mar. 3, 1885, Yorktown
$520,000
$155,435.36
" Aug. 3, 1886, Terror . .
630,000
126,561.47
Mar. 3, 1887, San Francisco
1,500,000
242,845.48
" Sect 7 1888 J New York
3,500,000
391,065.69
S8b ' } Bancroft
260,000
82,444.47
" June 30, 1890, \ J, ndiana
' / Oregon .
4,000,000
4,000,000
323,695.67
Mar. 19, 1892, Brooklyn .
3,500,000
AMOUNTS EXPENDED.
Shins
For Equipment,
For Hull and Ma-
chinery, includ-
ing Hull Armor.
For Armor for Gun
Protection.
For Armament.
Bureaus of
Equipment, Con-
struction and Re-
pair, and Steam
Total.
Engineering.
Yorktown . .
Terror . . .
San Francisco
New York .
Bancroft . .
Indiana . .
Oregon . . .
Brooklyn . .
$548,906.61
1,234,810.91
1,738,257.82
3,727,541.29
362,505.05
4,355,893.53
4,868,902.47
3,621,268.52
$144,664.64
170,299.03
977,134.02
1,029,591.42
323,552.21
$156,722.64
133,853.^8
272.876.54
341,626.43
47,559.50
553,972.48
585,598.77
341,639.32
$62,401.34
64,489.17
124,168.95
107,175.64
21,217.0S
95,691.45
75,412.09
137,330.04
$768,030.59
1,577,818.40
2,135,303.31
4,346,642.39
431,281.63
5,982,691.48
6,559,504.75
4,423,790.09
Destructive and Constructive Energies of our Government. 17
tion of the forests on the national do-
main. The experience of other nations
has already demonstrated that well-man-
aged national forest reserves not only pay
their expenses, but yield a revenue. The
objects of such forest administration are
of the utmost importance to a mining and
farming population ; being, briefly, to in-
sure a permanent supply of timber, to
protect the water supply in agricultural
regions adjacent to the forests, to prevent
floods, and to store water which in arid
and semi-arid regions can subsequently be
utilized for irrigation. .The efforts thus
far made to protect the national proper-
ty in forests have not been successful,
the greatest destruction being wrought
by fire and by pasturage, 1 but much harm
also being done by simple stealing of the
forest product in districts where there is
no adequate policing of the reservations.
The experience of Canada has proved,
under conditions analogous to those
which exist within our own territory, that
forest guards and patrols can do much to
keep down fires, even in the driest sea-
sons. The problem in our own country
is to procure legislation that will protect
the forests, while promoting the occupa-
tion by private settlers of land within
the districts covered by the reservations
which is better adapted to agricultural
or mining use than it is to forestry.
The opposition to the reservation of
forest land which has proceeded from
the mining interests is an opposition
that prefers the immediate pecuniary
interest of a single generation to the
1 "Most of the Fresno group (Big Tree
lumber) are doomed to feed the mills recent-
ly erected near them, and a company of lum-
bermen are now cutting the magnificent forest
on King's River. In these milling operations
waste far exceeds use ; for after the choice
young manageable trees on any given spot
have been felled, the woods are fired to clear
the ground of limbs and refuse with reference
to further operations, and of course most of
the seedlings and saplings are destroyed.
" These mill ravages, however, are small as
compared with the comprehensive destruction
VOL. LXXXIII. NO. 495. 2
permanent pecuniary interest of many
generations; for it is certain that dif-
fused mining industries cannot be per-
manently maintained in regions denuded
of timber, except by large companies
owning the richest mines, companies
which can support the expense of bring-
ing timber from afar. In semi-arid re-
gions pasturage is fatal to future forest
growth, while in well-watered regions like
Oregon and Washington the injury it
inflicts is insignificant ; but it is precise-
ly in semi-arid regions that a storage of
water for purposes of irrigation is most
important. Neither state ownership of
forest lands nor private ownership can
be satisfactory under present conditions.
Private individuals and corporations have
an immediate interest in cutting off the
timber ; and this done, their interest
ceases. Wherever forests are cut down
for firewood, as has happened through-
out New England, every tree is cut, and
the forest is permanently injured. Many
deciduous trees, like the birches and ma-
ples, start up again from the stumps,
with numerous sprouts, and this sprout
growth remains very inferior to seed-
ling growth. The woods of New Eng-
land have been seriously damaged by be-
ing cropped for firewood in successive
generations. This may happen in re-
gions where the rainfall is sufficient to
secure reforesting ; but in arid or semi-
arid regions reforesting, when once the
original timber has been removed, is ex-
tremely difficult, or in many cases impos-
sible. Any one who has traveled through
caused by ' sheepmen.' Incredible numbers
of sheep are driven to the mountain pastures
every summer, and their course is ever marked
by desolation. Every wild garden is trodden
down, the shrubs are stripped of leaves as if
devoured by locusts, and the woods are burned.
Running fires are set everywhere, with a view
to clearing the ground of prostrate trunks, to
facilitate the movement of the flocks and im-
prove the pastures." (The Mountains of Cali-
fornia, p. 199. ByJohnMuir. New York, The
Century Co., 1894.)
18 Destructive and Constructive Energies of our Government.
the comparatively treeless countries
around the Mediterranean, such as Spain,
Sicily, Greece, Northern Africa, and
large portions of Italy, must fervently
pray that our own country may be pre-
served from so dismal a fate. It is not
the loss of the forests only that is to be
dreaded, but the loss of agricultural re-
gions now fertile and populous, which
may be desolated by the floods that rush
down from bare hills and mountains,
bringing with them vast quantities of
sand and gravel to be spread over the
lowlands. Traveling a few years ago
through Tunisie, I came suddenly upon
a fine Roman bridge of stone over a wide,
bare, dry river-bed. It stood about thirty
feet above the bed of the river, and had
once served the needs of a prosperous
population. Marveling at the height
of the bridge above the ground, I asked
the French station master if the river
ever rose to the arches which carried
the roadway of the bridge. His answer
testified to the flooding capacity of the
river and to the strength of the bridge.
He said, " I have been here four years,
and three times I have seen the river
running over the parapets of that
bridge." That country was once one
of the richest granaries of the Roman
Empire. It now yields a scanty sup-
port for a sparse and semi-barbarous
population. The wh&le region round
about is treeless. The care of our na-
tional forests is a provision for future
generations, for the permanence over
vast areas of our country of the great
industries of agriculture and mining,
upon which the prosperity of the coun-
try ultimately depends. The National
Forestry Bureau ought to be organized
at once, with its director, clerks, inspec-
tors, head overseers, assistant overseers,
rangers, and field force, as recommended
by the commission appointed by the Na-
tional Academy of Sciences on a Forest
Policy for the United States. A good
forest administration would soon come to
support itself ; but it should be organized
in the interests of the whole country, no
matter what it cost. The forestry com-
mission of the Academy estimated the
cost of the organization at $250,000 a
year for the first five years. This is
about the annual expense of the mainte-
nance of the protected cruiser San Fran-
cisco.
The government has carried on for
many years an inquiry into the habits,
feeding-grounds, and modes of breeding
and migration of the fish which make
an important part of human food, and
inhabit the Western Atlantic and the
Eastern Pacific, the Great Lakes, and
the rivers and brooks of the continent.
It is obvious that no power but that of
the general government can carry on ef-
fectively a research of this magnitude,
covering such enormous areas and deal-
ing with such a variety of creatures.
The waters of the globe yield food of
great variety and great value to man-
kind ; but the habits and conditions of
breeding of fish and shellfish have re-
mained until this century almost un-
known, and indeed are still wrapped
in much mystery. Yet questions are
constantly arising as to possible dimi-
nution of this important food supply,
and as to the effects on the perma-
nence of the supply of new methods of
catching fish. These serious questions
are legitimate objects of study by the
government ; but it is obvious that such
researches require expensive outfit, long
time, and highly trained observers.
When to these researches are added the
actual breeding of young fish in large
quantities for the stocking of rivers,
ponds, and brooks, it becomes apparent
that the field of labor is simply enor-
mous, and that the economic interests
involved are vast and permanent. Now,
in this great enterprise the expenditures
of the government during the five years
1893-97 have been $360,000 a year,
which is less than the annual cost of main-
taining one of our battleships.
One other mode of beneficent expen-
Destructive and Constructive Energies of our Government. 19
diture the United States government
has maintained for a generation, name-
ly, the annual appropriation of money
for certain colleges of agriculture and
mechanic arts, which were founded un-
der the Act of 1862. In aid of these
colleges the government appropriated in
1897 a million of dollars. It is hard to
see why the government aid should be
limited to this particular sort of instruc-
tion, to which only a very small per-
centage of the youth of our country can
possibly resort; but if the government
is going to aid exclusively the colleges
of agriculture and the mechanic arts,
what a pittance is one million a year!
Can any of us see with satisfaction our
government spend no more on the annual
support of education in agriculture and
the mechanic arts throughout the coun-
try than on the annual maintenance of
three battleships in time of peace ?
In instituting these comparisons be-
tween military and naval expenditure
on the one hand, and expenditure for
purely beneficent objects, such as the
advancement of science, the development
of technical skill, the saving of life, the
improvement of industries, and the sup-
port of education, on the other, I have
no intention of even suggesting that the
expenditures on military and naval pre-
paration should be diminished, much
less stopped, as Charles Sumner pro-
posed. The short war with Spain has
taught us the immeasurable value of the
regular army and navy, and has justified
the expenditure of all the money they
have ever cost. As war becomes more
and more a matter of science chemi-
cal, physical, biological, and fiscal and
of highly trained skill on the part of all
who direct or operate the complicated
machinery of war, it is manifest that it
is the duty of the United States to build
and maintain the most perfect instru-
ments and appliances of war that the
utmost skill of our engineers and me-
chanics can produce, and to keep in
training adequate bodies of men to use
effectively this elaborate machinery. But
is it not equally clear that the nation
which can afford to make this expen-
diture can afford to make much freer
expenditures than our nation has ever
made on the wholly beneficent agencies
of the government, which save life, in-
crease food and ore production, avert
evils, facilitate transportation, promote
industries and commerce, and foster edu-
cation? If the self-respect of the na-
tion were habitually increased by the
visible achievements of the government
in peace, there would be less chance of
the people's being tempted to war by
the desire to see the power of the gov-
ernment exhibited. If the government
habitually displayed a great beneficent
power, a power exerted primarily for
the good of its own citizens, but secon-
darily for the good of mankind, and
which, in order to its full effects, called
for the permanent maintenance of large
bodies of disciplined and devoted ser-
vants of an excellence comparable with
that of the regular army and navy, would
there not be solid grounds for pride and
satisfaction in our government which
would tend to keep us from seeking that
pride and satisfaction in military glory ?
After everything possible has been
said in favor of martial virtues and
achievements, whenever our people real-
ly take up the question how best to win
glory, honor, and love for free institu-
tions in general, and the American Re-
public in particular, whether in our own
eyes or in the eyes of other nations and
later times, they will come to the con-
clusion that more glory, honor, and love
are to be won by national justice, sincer-
ity, patience in failure, and generosity
in success, than by national impatience,
combativeness, and successful self-seek-
ing ; and glory, honor, and love more by
as much as the virtues and ideals of
civilized man excel those of barbarous
man.
Charles W. Eliot.
20
The Wild Indian.
THE WILD INDIAN.
IF after a long period the Indian pro-
blem remains a problem still, it is be-
cause we have no sufficient knowledge
of the people we are striving to teach.
The solution of the problem is not to be
reached until the stronger race shall un-
derstand the weaker, and, in the light of
that understanding, shall deal with it
wisely and well. I say this with the
more confidence because for many years
I have lived with the plains people in
their homes, engaging in their pursuits,
sharing their joys and sorrows, standing
toward them in all essentials as one of
themselves. I have thus learned to think
and feel as an Indian thinks and feels,
and to see things as he sees them and
from his point of view.
To contribute in some measure to a
better comprehension of the Indian as
a man, and thus to an appreciation of
the real nature of the Indian problem in
its present phase, I shall attempt to show
very briefly what the Indian was and
is; to describe the old-time savage in
his old home and his old free life twen-
ty-five years ago, and then the new In-
dian, who, amid surroundings but dimly
comprehended, is staggering under the
heavy burdens which civilization has
laid upon him.
The wild Indian exists no longer.
The game on which he lived has been
destroyed ; the country over which he
roamed has been taken up ; and his
tribes, one by one, have been compelled
to abandon the old nomadic life, and to
settle down within the narrow confines
of reservations. This change, by which
an entire race has been called to give
over the ways of wanderers, and to adapt
itself to the life of a people of fixed
abodes, is most momentous. The mag-
nitude of it is equaled only by the sud-
denness with which it has been wrought,
and by its completeness. The transition
is not material alone, but intellectual.
To fit himself to it, the Indian of mid-
dle age must become literally as a little
child, that he may think new thoughts.
The plains Indian on the reservation
of to-day is a " reconcentrado," taken
from his old home and shut up within
narrow limits beyond which he may not
pass. He is ignorant unless he be taught,
helpless unless he be helped. His is the
problem of conforming to unwonted con-
ditions, of adjusting himself to the ways
of a new life, of meeting its exactions,
reconciling himself to its privations, com-
prehending the larger opportunities it of-
fers, proving its compensations and win-
ning its rewards. Ours is the problem
of helping him in the new life. The re-
sponsibility is one we can neither evade
nor escape. We shall assume it the
more intelligently and discharge it the
more successfully when we know the real
character of the natural Indian, and un-
derstand the influence which his former
wild life must have upon the life he is
now living on the reservation. We can-
not deal with the Indian of to-day unless
we know the Indian of yesterday. The
average man seldom thinks about In-
dians, and when he does he thinks of
them either with entire indifference or
with contemptuous dislike. He is moved
in part by that narrowness which leads
us to despise those who in appearance or
by birth or tradition are different from
ourselves, the feeling which leads many
a white man to speak with contempt of
negroes or Chinamen. More weighty
than this feeling, however, is the inher-
ited one that the Indian is an enemy,
who from the time he was first known
has been hostile to us. Even nowadays
most people seem to think of the Indian
only as a warrior, who is chiefly occu-
pied in killing women and children,
The Wild Indian.
21
burning homes and torturing captives.
From the days when Indians fought
the Pilgrim Fathers, and then the set-
tlers of the Ohio Valley, and later still
the emigrants crossing the plains, nine
tenths of all that has appeared in print
about them has treated them with pre-
judiced ignorance ; and the newspapers,
which now constitute so large a portion
of the reading matter of the American
public, seldom print anything about Indi-
ans except in connection with massacres
and uprisings. The effect of all this liter-
ature on the popular estimation in which
the race is held has been very great.
The popular impressions are entirely
erroneous. The Indian was a fighter,
yet war was only an incident of his life.
Like any other human being he is many-
sided, and he did not always wear his
war paint. If certain of his character-
istics repel us, there are other aspects
of his nature which are pleasing. If in
some relations he may appear to the
civilized man ferocious and hateful, in
others he seems kindly and helpful. The
soldier sees the Indian from one point
of view only, the missionary from an-
other, the traveler from a third, the agent
from a fourth. Each of these is im-
pressed by some salient feature of his
character, yet each sees that one only or
chiefly, and the image shown is imper-
fect, ill - proportioned, and misleading.
Only the man who for years has shared
the Indian's home, who has seen him
under all the varying conditions of his
life, who has learned what motives gov-
ern him and how he feels and thinks
and reasons, can, in the present mood of
almost universal prejudice, form a just es-
timate of him ; only one so well acquaint-
ed with the Indian can look at things
as he looks at them, and so can fairly
judge in what respects he differs from a
white man and what his needs really are.
Knowledge such as this can be had at
first hand only by one who has had a
long association with him. You learn
him as in the first instance you learn
any other human being, by living with
him. And after you have lived with
him for a time you will see that if he is
a savage, he is also a man. The same
wind that freezes you chills him ; he is
warmed by the same sun, rejoices in the
same kind of success, resists when he is
ill treated, and when trouble comes is
downhearted and depressed. He is a
man, but one in the child stage of de-
velopment, in which passions and im-
pulses are stronger and reasoning pow-
ers are more feeble than they are with
civilized men.
Perhaps the first thing that impressed
the visitor to the old-time Indian camp
was its picturesqueness ; for whether one
viewed him with eyes friendly or hostile
the wild Indian was always picturesque.
It was a fine sight to watch him on his
fleet pony, charging down upon you,
when with long hair, feather-decked,
streaming in the wind, and weapon ready
for instant use, he swept toward you, a
perfect master of horse and seat. And
it was not less fine to ride in the midst
of five hundred such men your friends
in the hurly-burly of the charge on
the buffalo herd, when you felt yourself
part of a confused blur of dust, flying
pebbles, great brown beasts, naked men,
and straining horses. As striking, though
in a different way, was the long line of
the marching camp, as in slow proces-
sion, stretched out over a mile or two
of prairie, it wound its course among the
hills. Viewed from a distance, it looked
like a long ribbon, spotted here and
there with bright bits of color ; but if you
were a part of it, as it advanced, you
saw that it was made up of groups of
silent men with bows and quivers at their
backs, of women riding or leading pa-
tient pack ponies that dragged their
travois, of racing boys, of loose horses,
and of vagrant dogs. The barking, the
neighing, the shouting, the scolding, that
fell on your ear, told something of the
vitality that animated the component
parts of the procession.
The Wild Indian.
Hardly less picturesque were the quiet
scenes of the Indian's home life, when
you lived with him in his village of con-
ical skin tents. Sitting in the shade of
the lodge when the sun was hot, you
smoked the long -stemmed pipe and
talked with your friends, while all about
you the people came and went. Men
returned from the hunt, riding horses
heavily laden with fresh meat and hides ;
women were at work pegging out the
skins or dressing them ; from neighbor-
ing lodges men were shouting invitations
to the feast ; all about there were little
groups like your own, smoking, chatting,
and laughing. For the Indian is not,
as the popular idea figures him, stolid,
taciturn, or even sullen in his every-day
life. He may be shy and silent in the
presence of strangers, but in his home
life he is talkative, eager to give and
receive the news, and to gossip about it.
He is merry and laughter-loving, and
likes to make good-natured fun of an-
other's personal peculiarities. Thus, one
of her companions may jeeringly call a
very slender woman the shadow of a
moccasin string. Once, on the prairie,
in the bright hot sunlight, I heard one
Indian say to another who was very
stout, " My friend, stand still for a little
while. I want to sit down in the shade
and cool off."
Some years ago I was on the reser-
vation of a tribe known as the Big Bel-
lies Gros Ventres at Fort Belknap,
Montana ; and while I was there a new
agent came to them. He was a fat
man, and one of the Indians, who met
the agent for the first time in my pre-
sence, said, as he shook hands with him,
" Ah, you are one of our own people.
You, too, are a Big Belly."
It is true that Indians are savages
and have savage vices ; but they also have
savage virtues, many of which are ad-
mirable, among them honesty, bravery,
hospitality, consideration for their neigh-
bors, family affection, and fidelity, the
keeping of pledged faith even with an
enemy. These people have a respect for
their promises which seems remarkable
to a white man. A liar is regarded with
contempt, and when a man has once
been detected in an untruth it is almost
impossible for him to regain his reputa-
tion. Often when I ask a man to tell
me a sacred story, he sits silent for a
while, to arrange his ideas. Then he
holds his palms up toward the sun, and
passes them over his head, arms, and
body, rubs them on the ground, and
again passes them over his head, arms,
and body. Then he prays: "O Wise
One Above, listen. Earth, listen. All
you Spiritual Powers, listen. Take pity
on me. Help me. I am going to talk
to this man. I am going to tell him a
story of ancient times, of the things which
used to happen a long time ago. Help
me to talk straight to him. "Watch me,
and do not let me tell a lie. Make me
tell these things just as they used to be.
Listen carefully, and make me tell him
the truth."
A striking example of the faithfulness
with which the Indians keep their en-
gagements was shown by the northern
Cheyennes, who in 1879 surrendered, as
prisoners of war, to General Miles, and
immediately afterward enlisted under
him as scouts. For four years, as prison-
ers of war and mindful of the promises
they had made, they faithfully served the
government, scouting by themselves over
hundreds of miles of territory, and fight-
ing hard against hostile tribes, often
against their own people. Instances even
more impressive occur at intervals among
the civilized tribes of the Indian Terri-
tory. Among these people, if a man
kills one of his fellows, he is tried by the
tribal court, and if convicted is sentenced
to be shot. The day for his execution
having been fixed, he is released on pa-
role and goes away, promising to be pre-
sent at the place of execution at the ap-
pointed time. He is always there. In
a case recently reported, the convict was
a member of a famous ball team which
The Wild Indian.
23
had engagements running through the
summer. He was sentenced to die ear-
ly in August, but in view of the incon-
venience which his death would cause
to the ball team he was reprieved until
the last days of October, so that he
might fulfill his engagements with the
team. After being sentenced, he married
the girl on whose account he had killed
his rival, set his affairs in order, played
the different games of ball, and on the
morning set for his execution went alone
to the ground and paid the penalty of
death.
Nowhere in the world was property
more safe than in the old-time Indian
camp. To take what belonged to his
neighbor was something that could no
more have occurred to an Indian than
it would occur to a guest at dinner to
pocket the spoons and forks from the
table of his hostess. This perhaps is
not to be imputed to the Indian for
righteousness : the very idea of theft was
wholly foreign to him; he was never
exposed to the temptation. If in the
camp you lost any piece of property,
such as your knife or your pipe, and if
at your request the old crier shouted
through the village that you had lost
something, the article, if found by any
one in the camp, would be returned to
you immediately. Several years ago my
brother and I, with an interpreter, visited
a camp, took up our quarters in the lodge
assigned to us, and unpacked our things
there. When we went out, we left our
possessions scattered about. Just after
leaving the lodge, my brother, who was
new to Indian camps, said to the inter-
preter, " Bill, I left all my things lying on
my bed. Will they be safe ? " Safe,"
returned Bill, " sure ; they '11 be safe all
right. There ain't a white man within
thirty miles of here." The Indians of
to-day have picked up from white peo-
ple many of the white people's ways,
and are not always honest, but they do
not yet take things from one another or
from their guests.
Like ourselves, Indians are fathers and
mothers, husbands and wives, brothers
and sisters. In order to exist with any
comfort they must live on good terms
with their neighbors ; they love their
wives, their children, their friends, their
tribe. Their lives are wholly devoted
to securing the welfare, first of the im-
mediate family, then of the tribe. No
people are more patriotic. They love
their tribe as we love our country ; an
Indian believes that his own people are
better than any others. Though so in-
tensely loyal true clansmen they
are yet sufficiently fair-minded to see
the qualities, good and bad, of alien and
hostile peoples. I have heard the Chey-
ennes one of the bravest tribes of the
plains speak in highest praise of the
courage and fighting qualities of tribes
who were their enemies, and with con-
tempt of others who might perhaps be
their friends. Thus of the Sioux they
say that to fight them was like chasing
buffalo cows ; for the Sioux ran away so
fast that the Cheyennes had to ride hard
to overtake them before they could kill
them. But of the Pawnees and the Crows
they say that when they met either of
these in battle, the contest was like that
between two buffalo bulls fighting : they
would come together with a great shock,
and push .and push, yielding this way
and that, and presently one body of men
would push harder than the other and
would drive their opponents back, and
then the latter would make a supreme
effort and drive the others a little way ;
and so the battle might sway backward
and forward for hours, before either par-
ty gained the victory.
In daily intercourse within the tribe
Indians might teach many white people
lessons of patience, courtesy, and gen-
erosity toward their fellows, and of fam-
ily affection and consideration for the
comfort of wives and children. When
a number of men are sitting together,
^discussing some subject, each speaker is
listened to with the same grave patience,
24
The Wild Indian.
whether he is the wisest and most im-
portant or the most foolish and least
considered of the group. He is never
interrupted, but is allowed to finish his
remarks. Even if he should lose the
thread of his speech and stop short, striv-
ing to remember something he wished
to say, no one smiles or laughs or moves.
All sit quiet, and wait until he signifies
that he has finished what he has to say.
If one individual in an assembly begins
to pray, all the others are silent until
the prayer is ended. No one speaks, no
one whispers. When the prayer is over,
conversation may begin again. Indians
are not ashamed to show their affection
for one another. Close friends who have
been separated for any length of time,
when they meet, put their arms around
and hug and kiss one another. Often
two young men will be seen standing or
sitting close together and holding hands,
or with the arm of one about the neck
of the other. When we meet after a
long absence, my old father among the
Blackfeet puts his arms around me and
hugs me. The purely social side of life
in an Indian camp could not fail to in-
terest any one who might be introduced
to it. The gatherings of mature men for
discussion of subjects affecting the gen-
eral welfare, the assembling of old wo-
men for gossip and of middle-aged wo-
men for gambling, the active games of
young men and women, the visiting, the
dancing, and the feasting, all remind us
as closely as possible of what is going on
about us in our own surroundings every
day ; in fact, these represent our round
of town meetings, mutual improvement
clubs, whist clubs, and golf meetings,
calls and afternoon teas and dances and
dinners.
In the family relation the Indian
shows a side which is attractive. He
loves his wife and family as we love
ours, and he thinks of them before think-
ing of himself. But besides the natural
affection that any animal has for its
young the Indian cares for his children'
for another reason. He is intensely pa-
triotic. His pride in his tribe and its
achievements is very strong. He glories
in the prowess of its braves and the wis-
dom of its chiefs ; his soul thrills as he
hears told over and over again the sto-
ries of the victories which his people
have won over their enemies ; he re-
joices at the return of a successful war
party. In the children growing up in
the camp, in the boys shooting their
blunt-headed arrows at blackbirds and
ground squirrels, or yelling and shouting
with excitement in the mimic warfares
which constitute a part of their sport,
and in the girls nursing their puppies
or helping their mothers at their work,
he recognizes those who a few years
hence must bear the responsibilities of
the tribe, uphold its past glories or pro-
tect it from danger, as he and his an-
cestors have done. No wonder he loves
them.
Indians seldom punish their children,
yet usually they are well trained, though
chiefly by advice and counsel. When a
tiny little boy, who has just received his
first bow and arrows, starts out of the
lodge to play with his fellows, his mother
is likely to say to him, " Be careful, now ;
do not do anything bad, do not hit any
one, do not shoot any one with your ar-
rows. You may hurt people with these
things, if you are not careful. Pay at-
tention to what I say."
If older people are sitting in the lodge,
and a child comes in, it sits down by
its mother and remains quiet. It sel-
dom speaks or makes any noise or dis-
turbance. If a very small child comes
in and begins to talk, its mother lifts
up her finger and says Sh ! and at once
it is quiet. I have never seen children
who seemed to be better behaved at
home. Out of doors they are as full of
animal spirits, as boisterous, and as fond
of playing in the dirt as healthy chil-
dren are the world over. The boys hunt
birds, engage in sham battles, and go in
swimming. The girls play with their
The Wild Indian.
25
dolls, make clothing for them, and pitch
or move their mimic camps. Some of
the older people enjoy the society of the
children. The father delights to play
with his little boys, and the grandfather
pets the tiny child, perhaps painting its
face or hanging about its neck some
cherished charm or ornament that he
himself has long worn. Here is the ad-
vice given by a poor Pawnee widow to
her young son who was growing to man-
hood. Her precepts of industry, cour-
age, singleness of purpose, charity, and
devotion to friends might worthily have
been spoken by any woman of the high-
est civilization.
" You must always trust in God. 1 He
made us, and through him we live. When
you grow up you must be a man. Be
brave and face whatever danger may
meet you. Do not forget, when you look
back to your young days, that I have
raised you and always supported you.
You had no father to do it. Your fa-
ther was a chief, but you must not think
of that. Because he was a chief it does
not follow that you will be one. It is
not the man who stays in the lodge that
becomes great. It is the man who works,
who sweats, who is always tired from
going on the warpath. When you get
to be a man, remember that it is his
ambition that makes the man. If you
go on the warpath, do not turn around
when you have gone part way, but go
on as far as you were going, and then
come back. If I should live to see you
become a man, I want you to become a
great man. I want you to think about
the hard times we have been through.
Take pity on people who are poor, be-
cause we have been poor, and people
have taken pity on us. If I live to see
you a man, and to go off on the war-
path, I should not cry if I were to hear
that you had been killed in battle. That
is what makes a man, to fight and to be
brave. I should be sorry to see you die
1 Atius Tirawa = Spirit Father, or Father
Above.
from sickness. If you are killed, I would
rather have you die in the open air, so
that the birds will eat your flesh, and the
wind will breathe on you and blow over
your bones. It is better to be killed in
the open air than to be smothered in the
earth. Love your friend and never de-
sert him. If you see him surrounded
by the enemy, do not run away. Go to
him, and if you cannot save him be killed
with him and let your bones lie side by
side. Be killed on a hill, high up. Your
grandfather said it is not manly to be
killed in a hollow. It is not a man who
is talking to you, advising you ; yet heed
my words, even if I am a woman."
Though the Indian woman like
her husband works hard in behalf of
her family, she is not the slave which
popular fancy pictures her. If it is true
among civilized people that the hand
that rocks the cradle rules the world, in
an Indian village it is not less true that
the hand that scrapes the parfleche rules
the camp. The impression is firmly fixed
in the popular mind that in an Indian
camp the woman does all the work, yet
I have seen no place in the world where
woman was better able to take care of
herself than there. In many tribes it is
the woman who owns the property. In
some tribes women are the chiefs. In
all they are treated with respect, receive
consideration from men, and possess
great influence. In former times young
and unmarried women sometimes went
off with a war party, usually not as war-
riors, but as helpers. When they did
this, they were treated with the utmost
respect and consideration by every mem-
ber of the party.
Just as in a white community, in an
Indian tribe the man is the provider,
the woman cares for the household.
Among the plains tribes it was the duty
of the man to keep his wife supplied
with food for the lodge, and with skins
for clothing or shelter. He strove to
add to the consideration in which he and
his family were held by going to war
26
The Wild Indian.
and exposing himself to danger, gaining
glory and wealth by killing enemies or
capturing property. As among white
people, the wife cooks for her husband,
prepares clothing for the family, attends
to the packing up when the village is
moved, and, in the case of agricultural
people, helps to cultivate and gather the
crops. White people look upon hunting
and war in the light of pastimes or re-
creations, but with Indians each of these
occupations was a serious one. Often in
winter, if food were scarce, men traveled
many miles to get buffalo; and they were
obliged to go, no matter what the wea-
ther was. Though the cold were bitter
and the fine snow flying in level clouds
over the prairie, his family must eat, and
the man must hunt. After he had killed
the game, he had to skin and pack his
meat ; though often before he got it on
his horse it might be frozen solid. He
might get lost in the storm, and have to
lie out for two or three nights, freezing
hands or feet, or even perishing. Per-
haps the buffalo might disappear from
a district, and young men might be
obliged, in the worst of weather, to make
long journeys, scouting to see where food
could be obtained.
The men's toil on the warpath was
more severe. The party started out on
foot, carrying upon their backs heavy
loads of food, extra moccasins and arms.
They might be forced to go two or three
hundred miles before turning back, every
day exposed to discovery and death by
the enemies through whose country they
were passing. If they made a success-
ful trip and captured a herd of horses,
they were obliged, in order to escape
pursuit, to ride these naked animals for
two or three days, literally without stop-
ping, except to change from tired horses
to fresh ones. No one who has not lived
the hard life of the plains can imagine
what such a journey was. It was far
more laborious than anything that the
women had to do, and besides it was full
of danger,
While the men were engaged in this
hard and dangerous work, the women
were at home in the comfortable lodges,
and had no labor to perform more ardu-
ous than cutting and collecting a supply
of fuel, which occupied them only for
an hour each day. In mild and pleasant
days they often worked at the dressing
of robes, but in the severest weather
they did little or nothing at this. In
some sheltered place among the timber
they would clear away the weeds and
undergrowth from a considerable space,
and hanging up about this robes or lodge-
skins to serve as wind-breaks, would
build a great fire in the middle and work
at their tasks before it. Such a place
was comfortable, almost like the inside
of a lodge, except that it was open at
the top.
The Indian woman does not stand in
awe of her husband. On the contrary,
if in her presence he says something
with which she does not agree, she is
very likely to correct him, and tell him
that he knows little about the matter.
I have seen an angry woman enter a
lodge in which were sitting half a dozen
of the wisest old men and bravest war-
riors of the tribe, and, irritated by some
innocent remark, turn on them and rate
them with high-pitched scoldings, until
one by one they drew their blankets
over their heads and fled from the lodge
to escape her clamor. If you wish to
have anything done in an Indian camp,
and can get the women on your side,
you will obtain your desires. At the
same time, they are conservative and op-
posed to change. They sometimes hold
the tribe back when the men are willing
to make a step in advance and abandon
an old custom for the ways of civili-
zation. They are good wives and mo-
thers, and devotedly attached to their
families. Frequently the tie of affec-
tion between husband and wife is re-
markably strong, and this not only be-
tween young couples, but even between
the middle-aged and the old. Often the
The Wild Indian.
27
two accompany each other everywhere,
and are seldom seen apart. If you stop
an old man to talk with him, his wife
stops too, and very soon she begins to
take part in the conversation. In other
words, in a very large proportion of cases
the sexes stand on an equality.
This family affection is one of the
most striking characteristics of the In-
dian, and permeates all his legend and
folklore. It is the motive which in-
duces many a hero to start off on his
travels, striving to accomplish some great
thing. Numerous examples might be
cited from the literature of those tribes
whose stories have been recorded, which
exemplify the truth that the family re-
lation among the buffalo savages of the
plains is essentially the same that holds
good among civilized people. Stories
having this motive are Comanche Chief
and the Ghost Wife in Pawnee, and Scar-
face and the Origin of the Worm Pipe
in Blackfoot literature. An abstract of
this last tale will give an idea of its char-
acter, and incidentally show its resem-
blance to one of the most familiar clas-
sical myths.
There was once a man who was very
fond of his wife. After they had been
married for some time they had a little
boy. After that the woman fell sick and
did not get well. The young man loved
his wife so dearly that he did not wish to
take a second wife. She grew worse
and worse. Doctoring did not seem
to do her any good, and at last she
died. The man used to take his baby
on his back and travel out from the
camp, walking over the hills crying. He
kept away from the village. After
some time he said to his child, " My
little boy, you will have to go and live
with your grandmother. I am going to
try to find your mother and bring her
back." He took the baby to his mother's
lodge and asked her to take care of it
and left it with her. Then he started off
to look for his wife, not knowing where
he was going nor what he was going to
do. He traveled toward the land of the
dead ; and after long journeyings, by
the assistance of helpers who had spirit-
ual power, he reached it. The old wo-
man who helped him to get there told
him how hard it was to penetrate to the
ghosts' country, and made him under-
stand that the shadows would try to
scare him by making fearful noises and
showing him strange and terrible things.
At last he reached the ghosts' camp, and
as he passed through it the ghosts tried
to scare him by all kinds of fearful
sights and sounds, but he kept up a
brave heart. He reached a lodge, and
the man who owned it came out and
asked him where he was going. He
said, " I am looking for my dead wife.
I mourn for her so much that I cannot
rest. My little boy, too, keeps crying
for his mother. They have offered to
give me other wives, but I do not want
them. I want only the one for whom I
am searching."
The ghost said to him : " It is a fear-
ful thing that you have come here. It
is very likely that you will never get
away. There never was a person here
before." But the ghost asked him to
come into the lodge, and he entered.
Then this chief ghost said to him :
" You shall stay here for four nights,
and you shall see your wife ; but you
must be very careful or you will never
go back. You will die right here."
Then the chief went outside and
called for a feast, inviting this man's
father-in-law and other relations who
were in the camp, saying, " Your son-
in-law invites you to a feast," as if to
say that their son-in-law was dead, and
had become a ghost, and had arrived at
the ghosts' camp. Now when these in-
vited people, the relations and some of
the principal men of the camp, had
reached the lodge, they did not like to
go in. They called out, " There is a
person here ! " It seemed that there
was something about him that they could
not bear the smell of. The ghost chief
28
The Wild Indian.
burned sweet pine in the fire, which took
away this smell, and the people came in
and sat down. Then the host said to
them : " Now pity this son-in-law of
yours. He is seeking his wife. Neither
the great distance nor the fearful sights
that he has seen here have weakened
his heart. You can see for yourselves
he is tender-hearted. He not only
mourns for his wife, but mourns also be-
cause his little boy is now alone, with no
mother ; so pity him and give him back
his wife."
After consultation the ghosts deter-
mined that they would give him back
his wife, who should become alive again.
They also gave him a sacred pipe. And
at last, after many difficulties, the man
and his wife reached their home.
I have thus briefly indicated some of
the more striking personal traits of the
Indian in the old time, from which
his character may be judged. He was
childlike in his simplicity, in his eager-
ness to revenge a wrong, in his shyness,
and in his fear of things that he did not
understand. A creature of quick im-
pulses, he could endure the keenest suf-
ferings and the greatest dangers, yet
was subject to groundless panics, when,
like one of a herd of stampeded ani-
mals, he fled in headlong terror from he
knew not what. So with the Indian of
to-day. His powers of observation are
highly trained, yet on matters without the
range of his limited experience he rea-
sons like a child. On the prairie, from
the appearance of the sky, the direction
of the wind, the actions of birds or ani-
mals, or of people at a distance, he will
make predictions whose accuracy will
startle you ; but if you attempt to ex-
plain to him some of the most ordi-
nary events and methods of civilized
life, he fails to comprehend you and
seems quite unable to use his wits. A
little investigation will show you that
you are talking over his head and about
Something which is utterly strange to
him, and that you are using terms for
which his vocabulary has no equiva-
lents. Most of the processes of civili-
zation are as obscure to him as is the
art of writing to a four-year-old child,
and, like a child, the Indian must have
instruction often repeated before
he can comprehend these processes, and
much practice before he can -perform
them.
The old-time Indian had the stature
of a man with the experiences and rea-
soning powers of a child. He was a
nomad, a free wanderer, limited in his
ordinary hunting journeys only by his
natural range, and in war roaming with-
out limits. In summer he followed the
game or the fish, accumulating a store
of provisions to carry him through the
winter. Among the buffalo tribes the
winter hunt usually took place during
November and December, when the
robes were at their best and the buf-
falo fat, and before the weather be-
came very cold and stormy. When
really severe weather came he retreated
to his permanent village, or, if his tribe
was one that had no permanent habi-
tation, he chose some sheltered place
where wood was abundant and remained
there with the camp. Except in case
of necessity the men did not venture
far nor hunt much in bad winter wea-
ther, but if the food supply ran low
they were forced to brave the storm.
Until about fifteen years ago the old
free life still prevailed over much of the
Western country. Fifteen years earlier
than this it had first in some degree
been interrupted by the building of a
transcontinental railroad, and every rail-
road built afterward imposed new and
stronger limits on the freedom of the
old-time dwellers of the West. The
railroads brought hunters and settlers,
and made a market for the flesh and
skins of the wild beasts on which the In-
dians subsisted, and so caused extermi-
nation of this food supply. With the
railroads, too, came the speedier move-
Fathers, Mothers, and Freshmen.
29
ment of troops, and the punishment and
gathering in of hostile or vagrant camps.
Thus little by little the Indians were
collected on reservations ; the wild West
began to be settled, and of a sudden
was wild no longer. The Indian ceased
to wander.
He has ceased to wander, but he has
not forgotten. The fierce joys of the
warpath still live in his mind : the long
weary marches under a sun like fire,
the stealthy approach, the successful
charge, and the long flight. Sometimes
in memory he feels again the sense of
swelling triumph that filled his heart as,
with blackened face and bearing his
trophies, he rode over the hills and
swiftly passed on down toward the vil-
lage ; he sees as if but yesterday the
people streaming out from the lodges to
meet his party, singing for joy and
shouting out the names of the fortunate
warriors, his name among the rest ; he
recalls how old men praised him and old
women danced before him, singing a song
in his honor, and how all the people, old
and middle-aged and young, down to the
tiniest children, honored him as one of
those to whom the tribe owed its tri-
umph. Nor does he forget the pleasures
of the more peaceful pursuits of the old
life. Often he recalls his scouting as a
young man after buffalo, when the camp
was hungry, and each scout prayed that
he might be the one who should find
food and bring life and happiness to the
people. He remembers the times when*
he was successful, and how, when he
brought the good news, they said that
he was smart and had good luck ; how
his name was called through the camp,
and every one was glad that he, and not
another, had been sent out ; and he re-
members, too, how, on one of these tri-
umphant returns, that young woman
now the mother of his children had
heard about it, and the next time he met
her, instead of looking at the ground, she
raised her eyes to his face and smiled.
There were many buffalo chases to
remember, even from the time when he
was a little boy ; the shouts of the cri-
ers saying that the tribe should hunt,
the orders to men and women, the start,
the control exercised by the soldiers, the
headlong race of the final charge, all
the active life and quick changes of the
pursuit, and the confusion of the kill-
ing ; then the happiness that came of
plenty in the camp, when the drying-
scaffolds hung red and white with sheets
of meat and of rich backfat, and the
feast shout had no end.
This was the old life in the free days,
the life which moulded the Indian and
made him what he was and is. No
marvel then that to the older men of
the tribe, though but a memory grow-
ing dim, that old life is yet more real
than this new existence on the reserva-
tion, with its limitations and perplexi-
ties, its white man's ways, which the
centuries of his training have made it
so hard for the Indian to assume.
George Bird Grinnell.
FATHERS, MOTHERS, AND FRESHMEN,
" BY virtue of the authority com-
mitted to me,'* says President Eliot on
Commencement Day, " I confer on you
the first degree in Arts ; and to each of
you I give a diploma which admits you,
as youth of promise, to the fellowship
of educated men." The college sends
her alumni into the world with nothing
more than a warrant that they are pre-
sentable intellectually. Yet her unwrit-
ten and unspoken purpose is not so much
intellectual as moral ; and her strongest
30
Fathers, Mothers, and Freshmen.
hope is to stamp her graduates with an
abiding character. A college stands for
learning, for culture, and for power ; in
particular, it stands for the recognition
of an aim higher than money-getting. It
is a place where our young men shall
see visions ; where even the idlest and
lowest man of all must catch glimpses of
ideals which, if he could see them steadi-
ly, would transfigure life. The Bachelor
of Arts is seldom, on his Commencement
Day, a scholar either polished or pro-
found ; but he may be in the full sense
of the word a man.
Though the responsibility of the Alma
Mater for the manhood of her sons gets
little formal recognition, whoever loves
her feels it none the less, and knows that
her good name depends not so much
on her children's contributions to learn-
ing as on their courtesy, their efficiency,
their integrity, and their courage. The
college herself, as represented by her
governing bodies, feels this deeply, in a
general way, but does not know and
cannot find out how far her responsibil-
ity reaches into details. Intellectual
discipline she professes and must pro-
vide, subjects of study, old and new ;
instructors that know their subjects and
can teach them : and she is happy if she
has money enough to make these things
sure. Thus beyond what is spent for the
chapel and for the maintenance of de-
cent order in the premises there can be
little visible outlay for the protection
and the development of a student's char-
acter. Nor can the formation of charac-
ter, except as effected by courses in eth-
ics, be measured out and paid for by the
hour or by the job ; and thus the col-
lege can do little more than trust in the
awakening of intellectual interests to
drive out the trivial and the base, in the
often unconscious influence of men of
character among its Faculty, and in the
habits and standards of conduct already
acquired at school and at home. Now
and then a college teacher rejects all re-
sponsibility outside of the classroom.
" My business," he says, " is to teach
men : if the students are not men, I
don't want them in my classes ; if they
don't care to learn, let them go their
own way. What becomes of them is no
business of mine ; and if they have to
leave college, so much the better for the
college and for them. The first, last,
and only duty of a teacher in a univer-
sity is to advance the knowledge of his
subject ; he is false to his trust, if he
spends time and strength in patching up
worthless boys who have no place in an
institution of learning."
This doctrine, seldom enunciated by
men that have sons and happily never
lived down to, is the natural refuge of
professors who see the opposition be-
tween the advancement of learning and
concern for their pupils' character, and
who, with the enthusiasm of the inves-
tigator and the teacher, have time and
strength for nothing more. Nor is the
professor the only interested person that
would shift the responsibility. Those
parents who have turned their children
over successively to the governess, the
little boys' school, and the big boys'
school, turn them over in time to the col-
lege. The college, they admit, has its
dangers ; yet it is the only thing for a
gentleman's sons at a certain time in
their lives, and the risk must be taken.
The business of the college they patro-
nize is, like the business of the schools
they have patronized, to develop, culti-
vate, and protect their sons, whom, to
put it in their own language, they " con-
fide " to the college for that purpose.
" I sent my boy to college," writes the
mother of a lazy little Freshman that
has come to grief, " and I supposed he
would be looked out for." " Write me
a good long letter about my Darling,"
says another. " I want my boy to be up
and washed at eight," says a careful fa-
ther. " Please send me every week an
exact record of my son's absences," a sus-
picious father writes to the dean, and
the dean wonders what would become of
Fathers, Mothers, and Freshmen.
31
himself, his stenographer, and his osten-
sible duties if all parents should ask for
consideration on this same scale.
" Some things are of that nature as to make
One's fancy chuckle, while his heart doth
ache ; "
and often such appeals as I have cited,
though superficially amusing, belong to
the sad phenomena of the college world ;
for they imply distrust at the very time
when a youth, just entering the larger
life and the fiercer temptations of early
manhood, needs, beyond all other human
helps, a relation with father and mother
of long - tried and perfect trust. They
imply, also, parents' ignorance of chil-
dren's character.
To the dean of a large college, who
has most to do with students and their
parents in all academic sorrows, it soon
becomes clear that parents are account-
able for more undergraduate shortcom-
ings than they or their sons suspect,
and this after liberal allowance for faults
in the college and its officers. " I have
spent an hour to-day with Jones's father,"
said a college president in a formidable
case of discipline. " I have conceived a
better opinion of the son after meeting
the father," and the experience is re-
peated year by year. Five minutes, or
two minutes, with a father or a mother
may reveal the chief secret of a young
man's failure or misconduct, and may
fill the heart of an administrative officer
with infinite compassion. " You say he
gambles," says a loud, swaggering father.
" Well, what of it ? Gentlemen always
play cards." " I told my boy," says a
father of a different stamp, " that I did
not myself believe in [what is commonly
called " vice "] ; but that if he went into
that sort of thing, he must not go off with
the crowd, but must do it quietly in a
gentlemanly way."
Hereditary and home influence less
palpable but quite as pervasive and near-
ly as demoralizing is that of the trivi-
ally biographic mother, who, while a
dozen men are waiting at the dean's of-
fice door, assures the dean that her son,
now on trial for his academic life, " was
a lovely baby," and who, so to speak,
grows up with him then and there, track-
ing him step by step, with frequent coun-
termarches, to his present station ; or of
the mother who insinuates that the fa-
ther (whose ambassador she is) has been
less competent and wise than she, and
that her son gets from the father's fam-
ily offensive traits which she hopes will
be kept under by the sterling merits that
he gets from her own ; or of the father
who is tickled by the reminiscences of
his own youth that are evoked when his
son is caught stealing a poor shopkeep-
er's sign ; or of the father who suggests
that the college should employ at his ex-
pense a detective against his son ; or of
the father who, when his son is suspend-
ed from the university, keeps him in a
neighboring city, at any cost and with
any risk and with any amount of prevar-
ication, rather than take him home and
let the neighbors suspect the truth ; or
of the father who at a crucial moment in
the life of a wayward son goes to Europe
for pleasure (though, to do him justice,
he has been of little use at home) ; or
of the father who argues that his son's
love of drink cannot be hereditary, since
he himself straightened out before his son
was born.
The best safeguard of a young man
in college better even than being in
love with the right kind of girl is a
perfectly open and affectionate relation
to both parents, or to the one parent or
guardian that represents both. In say-
ing this, I presuppose parents and guar-
dians of decent character, and capable
of open and affectionate relations. One
of the surprises in administrative life at
college is the underhand dealing of par-
ents, not merely with college officers,
but with their own sons. " Your son's
case is just where I cannot tell whether
or no it will be wise to put him on pro-
bation," says the dean to a well-educated
and agreeable father. " It will do him
32
Fathers, Mothers, and Freshmen.
good," says the father emphatically.
" Then," says the dean, " we will put
him on ; " and the father, as he takes
his leave, observes, " I shall give him to
understand that it was inevitable, that
/ did all / could to prevent it." Now
and then a father writes to the dean for
an opinion of a son's work and charac-
ter. The dean would like to tell the son
of the inquiry and to show him the an-
swer before sending it, so that every-
thing, favorable or unfavorable, may be
above board ; but he has, or thinks he
has, the father's confidence to keep.
Accordingly he says nothing to the stu-
dent concerned, answers the father
straightforwardly, and learns later that
his letter, if unfavorable, has passed
from the father to the son without com-
ment, as if it had been a gratuitous ema-
nation from the dean's office. The let-
ter may be garbled. In answer to the
inquiry of a distinguished man about his
ward, the dean of a college made clear,
first, that the young man had been in
danger of losing his degree, and next
that the danger was probably over. The
distinguished man had the unfavorable
part of the letter copied, omitted the fa-
vorable, and sent the partial copy to the
student. He omitted the dean's signa-
ture : but the letter itself showed whence
it came ; and it appeared to have been
written just after the dean had assured
the student of his belief that the degree
was safe. The young man was frank
enough and sensible enough in his per-
plexity to go straight to the dean ; but
the false position of the distinguished
man and the false position in which (to
some degree unwittingly) he would have
left the dean before the student are clear.
It is absolutely essentiaj to successful col-
lege government that executive officers
should be square rather than " politic,"
and should be outspoken, so far as they
can be without breaking anybody's con-
fidence. At best, it is scarcely possible
to make the younger students see that
the main purpose of a disciplinary officer
is not the detection of wrongdoers, by
fair means or by foul ; and it is quite im-
possible for such an officer to be above
suspicion in the eyes of students while
parents assume that he is either a part-
ner or a rival in disingenuous dealing.
Sometimes father and son combine to
keep a mother in ignorance; and fre-
quently that great principle of parental
relation that father or mother will
forgive all and will love in spite of all,
but will be most deeply wounded unless
trusted is not recognized by one par-
ent toward another, or by the son to-
ward either. In cases of almost total
want of previous acquaintance, cases of
parents who complain of vacation at
boarding-school because it leaves their
children on their hands, this is not to be
wondered at ; but in the e very-day father,
willing to give his children the best of
all he has, a profound ignorance of his
son's acts, motives, and character must
be rooted in some deep mistake, not of
heart, but of judgment. That such igno-
rance exists is plain : it attributes truth
to the tricky, sobriety to the vinous, and
chastity to the wanton. Its existence
is further confirmed by the attitude of
these misapprehended sons when no ar-
gument can persuade them to be the
first messengers, to father or mother, of
their own transgression. " Your father
must know this from me ; but he has a
right to know it first from you. You
say you cannot give him pain ; but no-
thing will help him so much in bearing
the pain that must be his as the know-
ledge that you yourself can tell him all.
Before I write to him or see him, I will
give you time ; and I beg you to tell
him : you cannot help him more now
than by going to him, or hurt him more
than by avoiding him. This I know if
I know anything : it is not mere theory ;
it is based on what I have seen of many
fathers and of many sons." Yet often
the student, especially the young student,
still keeps clear of his father as long as
he can.
Fathers, Mothers, and Freshmen.
33
This want of filial courage at critical
moments must be accounted for by a
false reticence in those early years in
which affectionate freedom between fa-
ther or mother and son must begin.
Unhappily it is fostered by literature.
Even Thackeray, whose total influence
is honest and clean, seems, when he
writes of college life, to have in mind
such general propositions as that young
men always run into debt and seldom
make all their debts known at home ;
that all normal young men live more or
less wantonly ; that only girls (whose in-
tellects are seldom strong) are pure in
heart and life, and that their purity is a
kind of innocence born of blindness and
of shelter from the world ; that no mo-
ther knows the morbid unrest which is
stirring in her sweet-faced little boy.
Pendennis, Philip, the Poems all fur-
nish marked instances of Thackeray's
attitude toward the exuberant folly and
sin of young men ; and his notion of a
man's standard in things moral is re-
vealed by his remark that " no writer of
fiction among us has been permitted to
depict to his utmost power a man," since
the author of Tom Jones.
Thackeray is only too near the truth*
The earliest important cause of reticence
between parent and child, the longest
continued, the fiercest, and the most
morbidly silent temptation, the tempta-
tion most likely to scorch and blight a
whole life and the lives of those who
come after, the temptation most likely
to lead through passion to reckless self-
ishness, and through shame to reckless
lying, is the manifold temptation in the
mysterious relation of sex to sex. No
subject needs, for the health of our sons
and for the protection of our daughters,
to be brought earlier out of the region
of alluring and forbidden exploration
into the light of wholesome truth out
of the category of the unspeakable into
the category of things which, though
talked of seldom, may be talked of free-
ly between father or mother and son.
VOL. LXXXIII. NO. 495. 3
Temptation, passion, will exist always ;
but temptation and passion which must
be nursed or suppressed in secret are
far more insidious, far less conquerable.
Moreover, temptation and passion, when
confided to a father or a mother by a
son who is struggling to do right, lose
half their danger : the strength of those
nearest and dearest buoys up our own ;
and the fear of confessing a sin a
false fear when once the sin is commit-
ted may be wholesome as a safeguard.
No parent can begin to be in a frank re-
lation to his son if he has left that son
to pick up in the street and in the news-
paper all his knowledge of the laws to
which he owes his life ; yet, as things
stand, this most vital of all subjects is
often the one subject about which a
young man shrinks from talking with
any but contemporaries as ignorant as
himself, a subject kept in the dark, ex-
cept for coarse jokes at the theatre or at
convivial gatherings of boys and men.
Almost equally important with an un-
derstanding between parent and son is
an understanding between every student
and at least one college officer. There
must be some one on the spot to whom
the student may talk freely and fully
about such perplexities as beset every
young man in a new life away from home.
Even a college-bred father is college-
bred in another generation, and cannot
know those local and temporal charac-
teristics of a college on the mastery of
which depends so large a measure of the
student's happiness. Besides, a father
may not be promptly accessible, whereas
every good college has at hand many
officers whose best satisfaction lies in
giving freely of their time and strength
to less experienced men that trust them.
Some confidences, no doubt, a college
officer cannot accept ; but even in a case
of grave wrongdoing, if the relation be-
tween him and the student is on both
sides clearly understood, a full confes-
sion, the only honorable course, is usu-
ally, in the long run, the only prudent
34
Fathers, Mothers, and Freshmen.
course also. At Harvard College the
relation between a Freshman and his
" adviser " is much what the Freshman
makes it ; for the adviser feels an older
man's diffidence about forcing his friend-
ship on defenseless youth ; but it may be
made of high and permanent value. So
may the relation between a student and
any worthy college teacher whom the stu-
dent, because he has seen in him some-
thing to inspire confidence, has chosen
for a counselor. Here, too, a father inti-
mate with his son may help him to over-
come shyness, and to make use of that
disinterested friendship of older men
which is one of the best opportunities of
college life and is often thrown away.
By fostering these friendships and in-
fluences, by interesting himself in every
detail of a son's career, a father may do
much. A mother may often do more,
by establishing her son in the friendship
of good women. This is partly a mat-
ter of social influence, no doubt ; a poor
and ignorant woman a thousand miles
away may not see how she can effect it ;
may shrink from an appeal to the un-
known wives of unknown professors for
friendly greetings to her boy : but many
women whose sons are sent to a college
town know, or have friends that know,
or have friends who have friends that
know, good women there. The friend-
ship of good women is, as everybody
knows, the sweetest and most wholesome
corrective of loneliness and of wander-
ing desires. A boy of seventeen or
eighteen, far from home for the first
time, fresh from the society of mother
and sisters and girl friends, may be ter-
ribly lonely. Near any college he will
find a number of foolish girls, easy of
acquaintance, proud to know a student,
and not fastidious about convention-
alities ; girls not 7 vicious as yet, but on
the unseen road to vice ; girls whom he
could not comfortably introduce to his
mother and sisters, but who, merely as
girls, are of interest to him in the ab-
sence of social and intellectual equals.
The peril of such friendships is as com-
monplace as truth and as undying : reck-
less giddiness on one side, reckless self-
ishness half disguised by better names
on the other, the excitement of things
known to be not quite proper but not
clearly recognized as wrong, have led to
one kind of misery or another, so long
as men have been men and women wo-
men. Yet these sorrows, toward which
men move at first with no semblance of
passion, but with mere lonely curiosity,
may be forestalled. Counsel of parents,
too seldom given in such matters, will do
much ; access to home life, to the friend-
ship of motherly mothers and of modest,
sensible daughters, will do more. Shy
and awkward a Freshman may be, and
ridiculously afraid of speaking with wo-
men : yet the shyer and the more awk-
ward he is, the lonelier he is the more
in need of seeing the inside of a house
and of a home ; the more likely to re-
member as what made his first college
year supportable some few days in which
a good woman who used to know his mo-
ther has opened her doors to him as to a
human being and a friend.
After all, the most searching test of
a parent's relation to his son in college
is the son's own view of the purpose of
his college life. As I have said else-
where, " Many parents regard college
as far less serious in its demands than
school or business, as a place of delight-
ful irresponsibility, a sort of four years'
breathing-space wherein a youth may at
once cultivate and disport himself be-
fore he is condemned for life to hard la-
bor." They " like to see young people
have a good time ; " a little evasion, a
little law-breaking, and a handful of
wild oats mark in their minds the youth
of spirit. They distinguish between
outwitting the authorities, whom they
still regard as impersonal or hostile,
and outwitting other less disinterested
friends. " Boys will be boys " is a cov-
er, not merely for the thoughtless ex-
uberance of lively young animals, but
Fathers, Mothers, and Freshmen.
35
for selfishness, trickiness, cruelty, and
even vice. I wonder at the recklessness
with which respectable men talk of wild
oats as a normal and on the whole an
attractive attribute of youth ; for the
wild oats theory of a young man's life,
when seen without its glamour, may
mean awful physical peril, disingenuous
relations with father and mother, dis-
honor to some girl, as yet perhaps un-
known, who is going to be his wife.
Yet parents, whether by precept or by
example or by mere personal ineffective-
ness or by dullness and neglect, encour-
age that very disingenuousness which is
exercised against themselves. Those
who have seen the unhappiness that such
disingenuousness brings can never forget
it. I have been begged by undergrad-
uates to keep students out of a great
Boston gambling-house, long since closed.
In that gambling-house as Freshmen
they had become bankrupt ; and for
months almost for years they had
shifted and lied to keep their bankrupt-
cy unknown at home. The crash of
discovery had come, as it always comes ;
the air had cleared ; and as Seniors they
were unwilling to leave college without
at least an attempt to save other Fresh-
men from doing and from suffering what
they had done and suffered. I have seen
sons before the crash, and I have seen
parents after it.
How much that is objectionable in
college life is the result of injudicious
money allowances (whether princely or
niggardly) I have never determined.
Some students use large incomes as wise-
ly as their elders and more generously ;
some pay the entire college expenses of
fellow students in need : others, no doubt,
have more money than is good for them ;
but it is hard to pick out that part of
their moral and academic disaster for
which wealth is responsible.
I may mention here that two-edged
argument so often urged by a father
when his son is to be dismissed from
college : " If you don't keep him here,
what shall I do with him ? He is n't
fit for anything else ; he would do no-
thing in a profession or in business." I
cannot say with some that it is no con-
cern of the college what is done with
him ; for a college, as I conceive it, has
some interest in the future of every boy
that has darkened its doors : but I can
say that a youth confessedly fit for no-
thing else is not often good timber for an
alumnus. A college is not a home for
incurables or a limbo for the dull and in-
efficient. Moreover, as a Western father
observed, " It does not pay to spend two
thousand dollars on a two-dollar boy."
Though a firm believer in college train-
ing as the supreme intellectual privilege
of youth, I am convinced that the salva-
tion of some young men (for the practical
purposes of this present world) is in tak-
ing them out of college and giving them
long and inevitable hours in some office
or factory. I do not mean that all suc-
cess in college belongs to the good schol-
ars ; for many a youth who stands low in
his classes gets incalculable benefit from
his college course. He may miss that
important part of training which con-
sists in his doing the thing for which he
is booked ; but he does something for
which through a natural mistake, if it
is a mistake he thinks he is booked :
he leads an active life, of subordination
here, of leadership there, of responsibil-
ity everywhere ; and he leads it in a
community where learning and culture
abound, where ideals are noble, and
where courage and truth are rated high.
Such a young man, if he barely scrapes
through (provided he scrapes through
honestly), has wasted neither his father's
money nor his own time. Even the de-
sultory reader who contracts', at the ex-
pense of his studies, what has been called
"the library habit," may become the
glory of his Alma Mater. It is the
weak-kneed dawdler who ought to go,
the youth whose body and mind are wast-
ing away in bad hours and bad company,
and whose sense of truth grows dimmer
36
Fathers, Mothers, and Freshmen.
and dimmer in the smoke of his ciga-
rettes ; yet it is precisely this youth who,
through mere inertia, is hardest to move,
who seems glued to the university, whose
father is helpless before his future, and
whose relatives contend that, since he is
no man's enemy but his own, he should
be allowed to stay in college so long as
his father will pay his tuition fee, as
if a college were a public conveyance
wherein anybody that pays his fare may
abide " unless personally obnoxious," or
a hotel where anybody that pays enough
may lie in bed and have all the good
things sent up to him. No college
certainly no college with an elective sys-
tem, which presupposes a youth's inter-
est in his own intellectual welfare can
afford to keep such as he. Nor can he
afford to be kept. One of the first aims
of college life is increase of power : be
he scholar or athlete, the sound under-
graduate learns to meet difficulties ;
" stumbling-blocks," in the words of an
admirable preacher, " become stepping-
stones." It is a short-sighted kindness
that keeps in college (with its priceless
opportunities for growth and its corre-
sponding opportunities for degeneration)
a youth who lies down in front of his
stumbling-blocks in the vague hope that
by and by the authorities will have them
carted away.
The only substitute for the power that
surmounts obstacles is the enthusiasm
before which obstacles disappear ; and
sometimes a student who has never got
hold of his work finds on a sudden that
it has got hold of him. Here, I admit,
is the loafer's argument (or, rather, the
loafer's father's argument) for the loaf-
er's continuance at a seat of learning. In
any loafer may lurk the latent enthusiast :
no man's offering is so hopelessly non-
combustible that it never can be touched
by the fire from heaven ; and few places
are more exposed to the sparks than our
best colleges. Some hew study, chosen,
it may be, as a "snap," some mag-
netic teacher, some classmate's sister,
may, in the twinkling of an eye, create
and establish an object in a hitherto
aimless life, and an enthusiasm which
makes light of work, just as the call
to arms has transmuted many an idler
into a man. Some idlers whose regen-
eration is less sudden are idlers at col-
lege chiefly because they have yet to
adjust themselves to an elective system,
have yet to find their niche in the intel-
lectual life. Talking with a famous pro-
fessor some years ago about his wish to
lower the requirements for admission to
college, I expressed the fear that, with
lowered requirements, would come a
throng of idlers. " That," said he, with
a paradoxical wisdom for which I am
not yet ripe, but which I have at last
begun to understand, " That is precisely
what I should like to see. I should like
to see an increase in the number of these
idle persons ; for here are set before them
higher ideals than are set before them
elsewhere." " People talk of evil in
college," says a graduate with business
experience in New York. " I tell you,
college is a place of white purity when
compared with the New York business
world." In the withdrawal of the veriest
idler from the hope of the vision lies a
chance of injury ; and this chance, small
as it is, may fill the horizon of father or
mother. " Dismissal from college means
certain ruin." Hence these tears of
strong men, these " fits of the asterisks "
in undisciplined women. Hence those va-
riations in the father who first proclaims
that his son must stand near the head of
his class or go ; next, when that son has
fallen short of the least that the college
demands, drags out every argument good
or bad for keeping him till the end,
and at last almost leaps for joy if he is
warranted auction-sound on Commence-
ment Day. Recognition of the possible
disaster in withdrawal may be blended,
in a parent's mind, with desire to avoid
personal mortification ; but it is a strong
motive for all that, and a worthy one.
It makes an administrative officer cau-
Waiting.
37
tious in action, and enables him to listen
with sympathy to pleading for which a
careless outsider might find no excuse.
Yet the chance is too small, and the
risk is too great. The shock of adver-
sity when the doors of the college close,
the immediate need of hard, low-paid
work in a cold world where there is no
success without industry, may be the
one saving thing after the failure of the
academic invitation to duty with no pal-
pable relation of industry to success.
Compulsory labor with a definite object
may at length bring voluntary labor and
that enjoyment of work without which
nobody who is so fortunate as to work
for his living through most of his wak-
ing hours can be efficient or happy ; and
exclusion from college is sometimes the
awakening from dull and selfish imma-
turity into responsible manhood. No
one is entitled to a college education who
does not earn the right from day to day
by strenuous or by enthusiastic life ; col-
lege is for the ablest and the best : yet,
as some fathers send their least efficient
sons into the ministry, as some men who
have failed in divers walks of life seek
a refuge as teachers of literature, so,
and with results almost as deplorable,
some people send their boys to college
because nobody can see in those boys a
single sign of usefulness.
Wise fathers and mothers, when they
visit a college officer, are commonly con-
cerned with their sons' courses of study ;
their mission is rarely sorrowful. The
parents of troublesome students are not,
as a rule, wise. Yet some fathers and
mothers whose sons have gone wrong
stand out clearly in my mind as almost
everything that a parent should be, ask-
ing no favors, seeing clearly and prompt-
ly the distinction between the honorable
and the dishonorable, and the distinction
between the honorable and the half hon-
orable, holding the standard high for
their sons and for themselves in every
relation of life : women struggling in si-
lent loyalty to free their children from
the iniquity of the fathers, and men as
tender as women and as true as truth
itself. What they are to their sons we
can only guess ; to an administrative of-
ficer, they are " as the shadow of a great
rock in a weary land."
L. B. R. Briggs.
WAITING.
WITH rosy flushing ear, and cheeks that wear
The soft auroral hues that garment her,
She waits ; nor doth one slender gold beam stir,
Of all the floating sunshine of her hair,
One sigh's waft vex the tense and listening air,
One bosom's heave the tender hope aver
That parts the lips where late her arch smiles were,
Where they will break anon. Hark ! On the stair,
She hears, e'en now she hears thrice-tranced thereby
The whisper of light feet that come anear,
And nearer ; and the spirit of a sigh
Hovers, the while her hope becomes a fear,
And yet fulfillment lingers nigh, so nigh
Nor may she breathe till all her bliss is here !
F. Whitmore.
38
Reminiscences of Julia Ward Howe.
REMINISCENCES OF JULIA WARD HOWE.
II. LITERARY AND SOCIAL NEW YORK, 1830-1840.
ALTHOUGH the New York of my youth
had little claim to be recognized as a lit-
erary centre, it yet was a city whose tastes
and manners were much influenced by
people of culture. One of these, Robert
Sands, was the author of a poem entitled
Yamoyden, its theme being an Indian
story or legend. His family dated back
to the Sands who once owned a consid-
erable part of Block Island, and from
whom Sands Point takes its name. If I
do not mistake, they were connected by
marriage with one of my ancestors, who
were also settlers in Block Island. I
remember having seen the poet Sands
in my childhood, a rather awkward,
near-sighted man. His life was not a
long one. A sister of his, Julia Sands,
wrote a biographical sketch of her bro-
ther, and was spoken of as a literary
woman.
It must have been in the twenties that
James K. Paulding united with Wash-
ington Irving in editing a comic period-
ical called Salmagundi. The motto of
this announced its character and inten-
tion :
" In hoc est hoax, cum quiz et jokeses,
Et roastum, toastum, boilura folkses."
William Cullen Bryant took a promi-
nent part in politics, but mingled little in
general society, being much absorbed in
his duties as editor of The Evening Post,
of which he was also the founder.
I first heard of Fitz-Greene Halleck as
the author of various satirical pieces of
verse relating to personages and events
of nearly eighty years ago. He is now
best remembered by his Marco Bozzaris,
a noble lyric, which we have heard quot-
ed in view of recent lamentable encoun-
ters between Greeks and barbarians.
Among the lecturers who visited New
York I recall Professor Silliman of Yale
College ; Dr. Follen, who spoke of Ger-
man literature ; George Combe and Sir
Charles Lyell.
Charles King, for many years editor
of a daily paper entitled The New York
American, was a man of much literary
taste. He had been a pupil at Harrow
when Scott and Byron were there. He
was an appreciative friend of my father,
although as convivial in his tastes as my
father was the reverse. One evening
when a temperance meeting was going
on in one of our large parlors Mr. King
called, and, finding my father thus en-
gaged, began to frolic with us young peo-
ple. He even dared to say, " Now I should
like to open those folding doors just wide
enough to fire off a bottle of champagne
at those temperance people." He was
the patron of my early literary ventures,
and kindly allowed my fugitive pieces to
appear in his paper. He always advo-
cated the abolition of slavery, and could
never forgive Henry Clay his part in
effecting the Missouri Compromise, con-
firming the rights of slaveholders below
Mason and Dixon's line. He and his
brother James, my father's junior part-
ner, were sons of Ruf us King, who was
one of the signers of the Declaration of
Independence. I was a child of perhaps
eight years when I heard my elders say
with regret that " old Mr. King was dy-
ing." Quite late in life Mr. Charles King
became president of Columbia College,
which then, with the homes of its officers,
occupied the greater part of Park Place.
Its professors were well known in socie-
ty, and the college was very conservative
in its management. The professor of
mathematics, when he was asked one day
by one of his class whether the sun did
not really stand still in answer to the
prayer of Joshua, laughed at the ques-
Reminiscences of Julia Ward Howe.
39
tion, and was in consequence reprimand-
ed by the faculty.
Professor Anthon, of the college, be-
came known through his school and col-
lege editions of many Latin classics.
Professor Morse, in the department of
Hellenics, was popular among the un-
dergraduates, partly, it was said, on
account of his very indulgent method
of conducting examinations. Professor
MacVickar, in the chair of philosophy,
was one of the early admirers of Ruskin.
The families of these gentlemen mingled
a good deal in the society of the time,
and contributed, no doubt, to impart to
it a tone of polite culture. I should say
that before the forties the sons of the
best families were usually sent to Colum-
bia College. My own brothers, three in
number, were among its graduates. New
York parents in those days looked upon
Harvard as a Unitarian institution, and
shunned its influence for their children.
The venerable Lorenzo Da Ponte was
for many years a resident of New York,
and a teacher of the Italian language
and literature. When Dominick Lynch
introduced the first opera troupe to the
New York public, some time in the twen-
ties, the audience must surely have com-
prised some of the old man's pupils well
versed in the language of the librettos.
In earlier life he had furnished the text
of several of Mozart's operas, among
them Don Giovanni and Le Nozze di
Figaro.
Charles Augustus Davis, the author of
Jack Downing's Letters, was a gentle-
man well known in the New York soci-
ety of my youth. The letters in question
contained imaginary reports of a tour
which the writer professed to have made
with General Jackson, when the latter
was a candidate for reelection to the pre-
sidency. They were very popular at the
time, but have long since passed into ob-
livion. In one of them Major Downing
describes an occasion on which it was im-
portant that the general should interlard
his address with a few Latin quotations.
Not possessing any learning of that kind,
he concluded his speech with, " E pluri-
bus unum, gentlemen, sine qua non."
The great literary boast of the city, at
the time of which I speak, was undoubt-
edly Washington Irving. I was still a
child in the nursery when I heard of his
return to America, after a residence of
some years in Spain. A public dinner
was given in honor of this event. One
of the guests told of Mr. Irving's embar-
rassment when he was called upon for a
speech. He rose, waved his hand in the
air, and could only utter a few sentences,
which were heard with difficulty. Many
years after this time, I was present, with
other ladies, at a public dinner given in
honor of Charles Dickens by prominent
citizens of New York. The ladies were
not bidden to the feast, but were allowed
to occupy a small anteroom which,
through an open door, commanded a view
of the tables. When the speaking was
about to begin, a message came suggest-
ing that we should take possession of
some vacant seats at the great table.
This we were glad to do. Washington
Irving was president of the evening, and
upon him devolved the duty of inaugurat-
ing the proceedings by an address of wel-
come to the distinguished guest. Peo-
ple who sat near me whispered, " He '11
break down, he always does." Mr.
Irving rose and uttered a sentence or
two. His friends interrupted him by ap-
plause, which was intended to encourage
him, but which entirely overthrew his self-
possession. He hesitated, stammered,
and sat down, saying, " I cannot go on."
It was an embarrassing and painful mo-
ment, but Mr. John Duer, an eminent
lawyer, came to his friend's assistance,
and with suitable remarks proposed the
health of Charles Dickens, to which Mr.
Dickens promptly responded. This he
did in his happiest manner, covering Mr.
Irving's defeat by a glowing eulogy of
his literary merits.
" Whose books do I take to bed with
me, night after night ? Washington Ir-
40
Reminiscences of Julia Ward Howe.
ving's, as one who is present can testify."
This one was evidently Mrs. Dickens,
who was seated beside me. Mr. Dickens
proceeded to speak of international copy-
right, saying that the prime object of his
visit to America was the promotion of this
important measure.
I met Washington Irving several times
at the house of John Jacob Astor. He
was silent in general company, and usual-
ly fell asleep at the dinner table. This
occurrence was, indeed, so common with
him that the other guests noticed it only
with a smile. After a nap of some ten
minutes he would open his eyes and take
part in the conversation, apparently un-
conscious of having been asleep.
In his youth Mr. Irving had traveled
extensively in Europe. While in Rome
he had received marked attention from
the banker Torlonia, who repeatedly in-
vited him to dinner parties, the opera,
and so on. He was at a loss to account
for this, until his last visit to the bank,
when Torlonia, taking him aside, said,
" Pray tell me, is it not true that you
are a grandson of the great Washing-
ton ? " Mr. Irving in early life had
given offense to the descendants of old
Dutch families in New York by the
publication of Knickerbocker's History
of New York, in which he had presented
some of their forbears in a humorous
light. The solid fame which he ac-
quired in later days effaced the remem-
brance of this old-time grievance, and
in the days in which I had the pleasure
of his acquaintance he held an enviable
position in the esteem and affection of
the community. He always remained
a bachelor, owing, it was said, to an at-
tachment the object of which had been
removed by death. I have even heard
that the lady in question was a beautiful
Jewess, the same one whom Walter Scott
has depicted in his well-known Rebecca.
It has been explained that the contin-
ued prosperity of France under varying
forms of government is due to the fact
that the municipal administration of the
country is not affected by these changes,
but continues much the same under king,
emperor, and republican president. I
find something analogous to this in the
permanence of certain underlying ten-
dencies in the society of New York, de-
spite the continual variations which di-
versify the surface of the domain of fash-
ion. The earliest social function which I
remember is a ball given by my parents
when I must have been about four years
of age. Quite late in the evening I was
taken out of bed and arrayed in an em-
broidered cambric slip. Some one tried
to fasten a- pink rosebud on the waist
of my dress, but did not succeed to her
mind. I was brought into the drawing-
rooms, which had undergone a surprising
transformation. The floors were bare,
and from the ceiling of either room was
suspended a circle of wax lights and ar-
tificial flowers. The orchestra included
a double bass. I surveyed the company
of dancers, but soon curled myself up on
a sofa, where one of the dowagers fed me
with ice cream. This entertainment took
place at our house on Bowling Green, a
neighborhood which has long been given
up to business.
In the days of my childhood silver
forks were in use at dinner parties,
though on ordinary occasions we used
the three-pronged steel fork, which is
now rarely seen. My father sometimes
admonished my maternal grandmother
not to put her knife into her mouth, but
in her youth every one had used the knife
in this way. Meats were carefully roast-
ed in what was called a tin kitchen, be-
fore an open fire. Desserts on state oc-
casions consisted of pastry, wine jelly,
and blanc mange, with pyramids of ice
cream, which was always supplied by a
French resident, Jean Contoit by name,
whose very modest garden long contin-
ued to be the only place at which such
a dainty could be obtained. It may have
been M. Contoit who, speaking to a com-
patriot of his first days in America, said,
" Imagine ! When I first came to this
Reminiscences of Julia Ward Howe.
41
place people cooked vegetables with wa-
ter only, and the calf's head was thrown
away
r
The ladies of that period wore white
cambric gowns, finely embroidered, in
winter as well as in summer, and walked
abroad in thin morocco slippers. Pe-
lisses were worn in cold weather, often
of some bright color, rose pink or blue.
I have found in a family letter of that
time the following description of a bride's
toilet : " Miss E. was married in a frock
of white merino, with a full suit of steel,
comb, ear-rings, and so on." I once
heard Mrs. William Astor, ne'e Arm-
strong, tell of a pair of brides, twin sis-
ters, who appeared at church dressed in
pelisses of white merino trimmed with
chinchilla, with caps of the same fur.
They were much admired at the time.
Among the festivities of old New York
the observance of New Year's Day held
an important place. In every house of
any pretension the ladies of the family
sat in the drawing-room, arrayed in their
best dresses, and the gentlemen of their
acquaintance made short visits, during
which wine and rich cakes were offered.
It was allowable to call as early as ten
o'clock in the morning, but the visitor
sometimes did little more than appear
and disappear, hastily muttering some-
thing about the " compliments of the sea-
son." The gentlemen prided themselves
upon the number of visits paid, the
ladies upon the number received. Girls
at school vexed one another with emu-
lative boasting.
" We had fifty callers on New Year's
Day."
" Oh ! but we had sixty-five."
This perfunctory performance grew
very tedious by the time that the calling
hours were ended, but apart from this
the day was one on which families were
greeted by distant relatives rarely seen,
while old friends met and revived their
pleasant memories. In our house the
rooms were all thrown open, and bright
fires burned in the grates. My father,
after his adoption of temperance prin-
ciples, forbade the offering of wine to
visitors, and ordered it to be replaced by
hot coffee, a prohibition at which we
were rather chagrined, but his will was
law. , I recall a New Year's Day, early in
the thirties, on which a yellow chariot
stopped before our door. A stout elderly
gentleman descended from it, and came
in to pay his compliments to my father.
This gentleman was John Jacob Astor,
who was already known to be possessed
of great wealth.
The pleasant custom just described was
said to have originated with the Dutch
settlers of the olden time. As the city
grew in size, it became difficult and well-
nigh impossible for gentlemen to make
the necessary number of visits. Finally,
a number of young men of the city took
it upon themselves to call in squads at
houses which they had no right to molest,
consuming the refreshments provided for
other guests, and making themselves dis-
agreeable in various ways. This offense
against good manners led to the discon-
tinuance, by common consent, of the New
Year's receptions.
Mrs. Jameson's visit to the United
States in the year 1835 gave me the op-
portunity of making acquaintance with
that very accomplished lady and author.
I was then a girl of sixteen summers,
but I had read The Diary of an Ennu-
ye'e, which first brought Mrs. J*ameson
into literary prominence. I afterward
read with avidity the two later volumes in
which she gives so good an account of
modern art works in Europe. In these
she speaks with enthusiasm of certain fres-
coes in Munich, which I was sorry, many
years later, to be obliged to consider less
remarkable than her description of them
had warranted me in supposing. When
I perused these works, having myself no
practical knowledge of art, their graphic
style gave me a vision of the things de-
scribed. The beautiful Pinakothek and
Glyptothek of Munich became to me as
if I actually saw them ; and when it was
42
^Reminiscences of Julia Ward Howe.
my good fortune to visit them, I seemed,
especially in the case of the marbles, to
meet with old friends. Mrs. Jameson's
connoisseurship was not limited to picto-
rial and sculptural art ; she was passion-
ately fond of music, also. I still remem-
ber her account of one evening passed
with the composer Wieck in his Ger-
man home. In this she mentions his
daughter Clara, and her lover, young
Schumann. Clara Wieck became well
known in Europe as a pianist of emi-
nence, and of Schumann as a composer
there is now no need to speak.
There were various legends regarding
Mrs. Jameson's private history. It was
said that her husband, marrying her
against his will, parted from her at the
church door, and thereafter left England
for Canada, where he was residing at
the time of her visit. I first met her at
an evening party at the house of a
friend. I was invited to make some
music, and sang, among other things, a
brilliant bravura air from Semiramide.
When I would have left the piano Mrs.
Jameson came to me and said, " Altra,
cosa, my dear." My voice had been cul-
tivated with care, and though not of
great power was considered pleasing in
quality, and was certainly very flexible.
I met Mrs. Jameson at several other en-
tertainments devised in her honor. She
was of middle height and red blonde in
color ; Her face was not handsome, but
sensitive and sympathetic in expression,
and her want of taste in dress somewhat
scandalized the elegant dames of New
York. I actually heard one of them say,
" How like the devil she does look ! "
After a winter passed in Canada, Mrs.
Jameson again visited New York, on her
way to England. She called upon me
one day with a friend, and asked to see
my father's pictures. Two of these, por-
traits of Charles I. and his queen, were
supposed to be by Vandyke, but Mrs.
Jameson doubted their genuineness. She
spoke of her intimacy with the celebrated
Mrs. Somerville, and said, " I think of
her as a dear little woman who is very
fond of drawing." When I went to re-
turn her visit, I found her engaged in
earnest conversation with a son of Sir
James Mackintosh. When he had taken
leave she said to me, " Mr. Mackintosh
and I were almost at daggers drawn."
So far as I could learn, their dispute re-
lated to democratic forms of government
and the society therefrom resulting, which
he viewed with favor and she with bit-
ter dislike. I inquired about her winter
in Canada. She replied, " As the Irish-
man said, I had everything that a pig
could want." Soon after this time her
volume entitled Winter Studies and Sum-
mer Rambles appeared ; her work on
Sacred and Legendary Art and her Le-
gends of the Madonna were not pub-
lished, however, until after a long inter-
val of time.
My first peep at the gay world in grown-
up days was at a dinner party given by
the lady mentioned above, a daughter of
General Armstrong married to the eld-
est son of the original John Jacob Astor.
Mrs. Astor was a person of very elegant
taste. She had received a part of her
education in Paris at the time when her
father represented our government at the
court of France, and her notions of pro-
priety in dress were stringent. Accord-
ing to these, jewels were not to be worn
in the daytime ; glaring colors and strik-
ing contrasts were also to be avoided.
Much that is in favor to-day would have
been ruled out by her as inadmissible.
At the dinner of which I speak the ladies
were in evening dress, which in those
days did not exceed modest limits. One
pretty married lady wore a white turban,
which was much admired. Another lady
was adorned with a coronet of fine stone
cameos, which has recently been present-
ed to the Boston Museum of Fine Arts
by a surviving member of her family.
My head was dressed for this occasion by
Martel, a dainty half Spanish or French
octoroon, endowed with exquisite taste, a
ready wit, and a saucy tongue. He was
Reminiscences of Julia Ward Howe.
43
the Figaro of the time, and his droll say-
ings were often quoted among his lady
customers. The hair was then worn low
at the back of the head, woven into elab-
orate braids and darkened with French
pomade, and upon the forehead, or just
above it, there was usually an ornament
called a feroniere. This was sometimes
a string of pearls with a diamond star in
the middle, oftener a gold chain or band
ornamented with a jewel. The fashion,
while it prevailed, was so general that
evening dress was scarcely considered
complete without it.
Not long after the dinner party just
mentioned my eldest brother married
the eldest daughter of the Astor family.
I officiated at the wedding as first brides-
maid, the others being a sister of the
bride and one of my own sisters. The
bride wore a dress of rich white silk,
and was coifed with a scarf of some
precious lace in lieu of a veil. On her
forehead shone a diamond star, the gift
of her grandfather, Mr. John Jacob As-
tor. The bridesmaids' dresses were of
white moire, then a material of the new-
est vogue. I had begged my father to
give me a fe'roniere for this occasion,
and he had presented me with a very
pretty string of pearls, with a pearl pan-
sy and drop in the centre. This fash-
ion, I afterward learned, was ill suited
to the contour of my face ; at the time,
however, I had the comfort of supposing
that I looked uncommonly well. The
ceremony took place in the evening, at
the house of the bride's parents, and an
elaborate supper was afterward served,
at which the first groomsman proposed
the health of the bride and groom, which
was drunk, I remember, without re-
sponse. A wedding journey was not a
sine qua non in those days, but a wed-
ding reception was usual. In this in-
stance it took the form of a brilliant ball,
every guest being in turn presented to
the bride. On the floor of the ballroom
a floral design had been traced in colored
chalks. The evening was at its height
when my father gravely admonished me
that it was time to go home ; and since
paternal authority was without appeal, in
those days, I sadly withdrew. In my
character of bridesmaid, I was allowed
to attend one or two of the entertain-
ments given in honor of this marriage.
The gayeties of New York were then lim-
ited to balls, dinners, and evening par-
ties, for the afternoon tea was not in-
vented, or imported, until a much later
period. A very few extra elegantes re-
ceived on stated afternoons. A dear
uncle of mine, taking up a card left for
me, with the inscription, " Mrs. S. at
home on Thursday afternoons," re-
marked, " At home on Thursday after-
noons ? I am glad to learn that she is so
domestic." This lady, who was a lead-
ing personage in the social world, used
also to receive privileged friends one
evening in the week, when she served
only a cup of chocolate and some cakes
or biscuits.
Young as my native city was in my
youth, it still retained some fossils of an
earlier period. Conspicuous among these
were two sisters, of whom the elder had
been a recognized beauty and belle at
the time of the war of independence.
Miss Charlotte White was what was
called " a character " in those days.
She was tall and of commanding figure,
and was always attired after an ancient
fashion, but with great care. I remem-
ber her calling upon my aunt, one morn-
ing, in company with a lady friend much
inclined to embonpoint. The lady's
name was Euphemia, and Miss White
addressed her thus : " Feme, thou fe-
male Falstaff." She took some notice
of me, and began to talk of the gayeties
of her youth, and especially of a ball
given at Newport during the war, at
which she had received special attention.
" I was unwilling," she said, " to have
my hair, which was the finest I ever saw,
touched by a hairdresser. It was con-
sidered necessary, however, and I con-
sented." I cannot now remember the
44
Reminiscences of Julia Ward Howe.
names of the distinguished officers with
whom she had danced, though they im-
pressed me at the time. On returning
the visit we found the sisters in the
quaintest little sitting-room imaginable,
the floor covered with a green Brussels
carpet that had a medallion of flowers
in the centre, evidently woven to order
and in one piece. The furniture was
of enameled whitewood, and we were
entertained with cake and wine. The
younger sister was much afraid of light-
ning, and had devised a curious little re-
fuge to which she always betook herself
when a thunderstorm appeared immi-
nent. This was a wooden platform
standing on glass feet, with a seat and a
silken canopy ; the latter the good lady
drew closely around her, remaining thus
enveloped until the dreaded danger was
past.
My father sometimes endeavored to
overcome my fear of lightning by taking
me up to the cupola of our house and
bidding me admire the beauty of the
storm. Wishing to impress upon me
the absurdity of giving way to fear, he
told me of a lady whom he had known
in his youth, who, being overtaken by a
thunderstorm at a place of public resort,
so lost her head that she seized the wig
of a gentleman standing near her and
waved it wildly in the air, to his great
wrath and discomfiture. I am sorry to
say that this dreadful warning provoked
my laughter, but did not increase my
courage.
My brother and his bride came to re-
side with us shortly after their mar-
riage. In their company I often visited
the Astor mansion, which was made de-
lightful by good taste, good manners,
and hospitable entertainments. Mr.
William B. Astor, the head of the fam-
ily, was a rather shy and silent man.
He had received the best education that
a German university could offer. The
Chevalier Bunsen had been his tutor,
and Schopenhauer, then a student at the
same university, had been his friend.
He had a love for letters, and might
perhaps have followed his natural lean-
ing to advantage had he not become his
father's man of business, and thus been
forced to devote much of his life to the
management of the great estate. At
the time of which I speak he resided on
the unfashionable side of Broadway, not
far below Canal Street. I was often
invited to the house of his father, Mr.
John Jacob Astor, a house which the
old gentleman had built for himself, sit-
uated on Broadway, between Prince and
Spring streets. Adjoining it was one
he had built for a favorite granddaugh-
ter, Mrs. Boreel. He was very fond of
music, and sometimes engaged the ser-
vices of a professional pianist. I re-
member that he was much pleased at
recognizing, one evening, the strains of
a brilliant waltz, of which he said, " I
heard it at a fair in Switzerland, years
ago. The Swiss women were whirling
round in their red petticoats." On an-
other occasion we sang the well-known
song Am Rhein, and Mr. Astor, who
was very stout and infirm of person,
rose and stood beside the piano, joining
with the singers.
"Am Rhein, am Rhein, da wachset susses Le-
ben,"
he sang, instead of " unsrer Leben."
My sister-in-law, Emily Astor Ward,
was gifted with a voice whose unusual
power and beauty had been enhanced
by careful training. We sometimes sang
together or separately at old Mr. Astor 's
musical parties, and at one of them he
said to us, as we stood together, " You
are my singing birds." Of our two
repertoires, mine was the more varied,
as it included French and German songs,
while she sang mostly operatic music ;
the rich volume of her voice, however,
carried her hearers quite away. Her
figure and carriage were fine, and in her
countenance beauty of expression lent a
great charm to features which in them-
selves were not handsome. The pre-
sence of the opera in New York had
Reminiscences of Julia Ward Howe.
45
done much to create a taste for Italian,
and especially for operatic music. One
or two of the artists who accompanied
Garcia's troupe remained in the city af-
ter his departure, and found occupation
in cultivating the voices of amateur sing-
ers. Garcia's eldest daughter, the signo-
rina so much admired in her early per-
formances, had married a French resident
of New York, Malibran by name. He
was supposed to be very rich, but went
into bankruptcy soon after his marriage,
and his young wife was obliged to work
for her own support. She gave singing
lessons in families, and sang in the choir
of Grace Church, which was then by far
the best in New York. I remember at-
tending a special service held there in
commemoration of John Henry Hobart,
Bishop of New York, then recently de-
ceased. A soprano solo was introduced,
of which the words were, " When the
eye saw him, it blessed him, and when
the ear heard him, it gave witness of
him." A female voice, rich, powerful
wonderful, seemed to fill the building
with pathetic melody. Every heart was
thrilled, and those who listened whis-
pered, " Malibran."
Although the elder Astor Jiad led a
life mainly devoted to business interests,
he found great pleasure in the society of
.literary men. Fitz-Greene Halleck and
Washington Irving were among his fa-
miliar visitors, and he conceived so high
a regard for Dr. Cogswell, the founder
and former principal of Round Hill
School, as to insist upon his becoming
one of his household. Dr. Cogswell
made his home with us for some years
after the closing of his famous school,
but finally went to reside with Mr. As-
tor, attracted partly by the latter's pro-
mise to endow a public library in the
city of New York. This was accom-
plished after some delay, and the doctor
was for many years director of the As-
tor Library. He used to relate some
humorous anecdotes of excursions which
he made with Mr. Astor. In the course
of one of these the two gentlemen took
supper together at a hotel recently
opened. Mr. Astor remarked, " This
man will never succeed."
" Why not ? " inquired the other.
" Don't you see," replied the financier,
" what large lumps of sugar he puts in
the sugar-bowl ? "
As they were walking slowly to a pi-
lot boat which the old gentleman had
chartered for a trip down the harbor,
Dr. Cogswell said, " Mr. Astor, I have
just been calculating that this boat costs
you twenty-five cents a minute." Mr.
Astor immediately hastened his pace, re-
luctant to waste so much money.
In his own country Mr. Astor had
been a member of the German Lutheran
Church. He once mentioned this fact
to a clergyman who called on him in
the interest of some charity. The vis-
itor congratulated Mr. Astor upon the
increased ability to do good which his
great fortune gave him. " Ah ! " said
Mr. Astor, " the disposition to do good
does not always increase with the means."
In the last years of his life he was af-
flicted with insomnia, and Dr. Cogswell
often sat with him through a large part
of the night ; the coachman, William, be-
ing also in attendance. In these sleep-
less nights his mind appeared to be much
exercised with regard to a future state.
On one occasion, when the doctor had
done his best to expound the theme of
immortality, Mr. Astor suddenly said to
his servant, "William, where do you
expect to go when you die ? " The man
replied, " Why, sir, I always expected
to go where the other people went."
The house of my young-ladyhood was
situated at the corner of Bond Street
and Broadway. When my father built
it, the fashion of the city had not pro-
ceeded so far up town. The model of
the house was a noble one. Three spa-
cious rooms and a small study occupied
the first floor. These were furnished
with curtains of blue, yellow, and red
silk. The red room was that in which
46
Reminiscences of Julia Ward Howe.
we took our meals. The blue room was
the one in which we received visits and
passed the evenings. The yellow room
was thrown open only on high occasions,
but my desk and grand piano were placed
in it, and I was allowed to occupy it at
will. This and the blue room were
adorned with beautiful sculptured man-
telpieces, the work of Thomas Crawford,
afterward known as a sculptor of great
merit. Many years after this time he
became the husband of the sister next
me in age, and the father of F. Marion
Crawford, the now celebrated novelist.
Our family was patriarchal in its dimen-
sions. The aunt who had taken my
dear mother's place lived with us thence-
forth. She had married the young phy-
sician of whom my father was so fond.
Their children, born in our house, were
very dear to him. My maternal grand-
mother also passed much time with us.
My two younger brothers, Henry and
Marion, were at home with us after a
term of years at Round Hill School.
My eldest brother, Samuel (the Sam
Ward of the Lobby), was sent to Eu-
rope immediately after graduating from
Columbia College. He had shown an
unusual aptitude for mathematics, and
it was hoped that he would become emi-
nent as a scientist. His residence in Eu-
rope, however, was not strictly devoted to
mathematical studies. He returned home
after an absence of some years, speaking
French and German with fluency, a
most accomplished and agreeable young
man. He had been permitted to collect
a noble library, and my father, having
added to his large house a spacious art
gallery, added to this a study whose walls
were entirely occupied by my brother's
books. I had free access to them, and
did not neglect to profit by it.
From what I have said it may rightly
be inferred that my father was a man
of fine tastes, inclined to generous and
even lavish expenditure. He desired to
give us the best educational opportuni-
ties, the best and most expensive mas-
ters. He filled his art gallery with the
finest pictures that money could com-
mand in the New York of that day. He
gave largely to public undertakings, and
was one of the founders of the New York
University and one of the foremost pro-
moters of church building in the then
distant West. He relucted only at ex-
penses connected with dress and fash-
ionable entertainment, for he always dis-
liked and distrusted the great world.
Our way of living was simple ; though
the table was abundantly supplied, it was
not with the richest food, and for many
years no alcoholic stimulant appeared on
it. My father gave away by dozens the
bottles of costly wine stored in his cellar,
but neither tasted it nor allowed us to do
so. He was for a great part of his life
a martyr to rheumatic gout, and a witty
friend of his once said, " Ward, it must
be the poor man's gout that you have,
as you drink only water." We break-
fasted at eight in the winter, at half
past seven in the summer. My father
read prayers before breakfast and before
bedtime. If my brothers lingered over
the morning meal, he would come in,
hatted and booted for the clay, and would
say, " Young gentlemen, I am glad that
you can afford to take life so easily ! I
am old and must work for my living,"
a speech which broke up our coterie.
Dinner was served at four o'clock,
a light lunch abbreviating the fast for
those at home, and at half past seven
we sat down to tea, a meal of which
toast, preserves, and cake formed the
staple. In the evening we usually sat
together, with books and needlework,
often with an interlude of music. An
occasional lecture, concert, or evening
party varied this routine. My brothers
went much into fashionable society, but
my own participation in its doings came
only after my father's death, and after
the two years' mourning which, accord-
ing to the usage of those days, followed
it. He had retained the Puritan feel-
ing with regard to Saturday evening,
Reminiscences of Julia Ward Howe.
47
and would remark that it was not a pro-
per evening for company, but a time of
preparation for the exercises of the day
following, the order for which was very
strict. We were indeed indulged on
Sunday morning with coffee and muffins
at breakfast, but, besides the morning
and afternoon services at church, we
young folks were expected to attend the
two meetings of the Sunday school. We
were supposed to read only Sunday
books, and I must here acknowledge my
indebtedness to Mrs. Sherwood, an Eng-
lish writer now almost forgotten, whose
religious stories and romances were sup-
posed to come under this head. In the
evening we sang hymns, and sometimes
received a quiet visitor.
My readers may ask whether this re-
stricted routine satisfied my mind, and
whether I was at all sensible of the
privileges which I really enjoyed or
ought to have enjoyed. I must own
now that, after my schooldays, I warm-
ly coveted an enlargement of inter-
course with the world. I did not desire
to be counted among fashionables, but I
did aspire to much greater freedom of
association than was allowed me. I
lived, indeed, much in my books, and my
sphere of thought was a good deal en-
larged by the foreign literatures, Ger-
man, French, and Italian, with which I
became familiar. Yet I seemed to my-
self like a young damsel of olden time,
shut up within an enchanted castle, and
I must say that my dear parent, with all
his noble generosity and overweening af-
fection, sometimes appeared to me as my
jailer. My brother's return from Eu-
rope and his subsequent marriage opened
the door a little for me. It was through
his intervention that ' Mr. Longfellow
first visited us, to become a valued and
lasting friend. Through him, in turn, we
formed an acquaintance with Professor
Felton, Charles Sumner, and Dr. Howe.
My brother was very fond of music, of
which he had heard the best in Paris
and in Germany. He often arranged
musical parties at our house, at which
trios of Beethoven, Mozart, and Schubert
were given. His wit, social talent, and
literary taste unfolded a new world to
me, and enabled me to share some of the
best results of his long residence in Eu-
rope.
My father's extremely jealous care of
us was by no means the result of a dis-
position tending to social exclusiveness.
It proceeded, on the contrary, from an
overanxiety concerning the moral and re-
ligious influences to which his children
might become subjected. His ideas of
propriety were very strict. He was, more-
over, not only a strenuous Protestant,
but also an ardent Evangelical, holding
the Calvinistic views which then char-
acterized that portion of the Episcopal
Church in America. I remember that
he once spoke to me of the anguish he
had felt at the death of his own father,
of the orthodoxy of whose religious opin-
ions he had had no sufficient assurance.
My grandfather, indeed, was supposed
in the family to be of a rather skeptical
and philosophizing turn of mind. He
fell a victim to the first visitation of the
cholera, in 1832.
Despite a certain austerity of charac-
ter, my father was greatly beloved and
honored in the business world. He did
much to give to the firm of Prime,
Ward & King the high position which it
attained and retained during his life-
time. He told me once that when he
first entered the office, he found it, like
many others, a place where gossip cir-
culated freely. He determined to put
an end to this, and did so. Among the
foreign correspondents of his firm were
the Barings of London, and Hottinguer
& Cie of Paris. In the great financial
trouble which followed Andrew Jackson's
overthrow of the Bank of the United
States, several states became bankrupt,
and repudiated the obligations incurred
by their bonds, to the exceeding indig-
nation of business people in both hemi-
spheres. The state of New York was
48
^Reminiscences of Julia Ward Howe.
at one time on the verge of pursuing this
course, which my father strenuously op-
posed. He called meeting after meet-
ing, and was unwearied in his efforts to
induce the financiers of the state to hold
out. When this appeared well-nigh im-
possible, he undertook that his firm
should negotiate with English correspond-
ents a loan to carry the state over the
period of doubt and difficulty. This he
was able to effect. My eldest brother
came home one day and said to me, " As
I walked up from Wall Street to-day, I
saw a dray loaded with kegs on which
were inscribed the letters P. W. & K.' "
Those kegs contained the gold just sent
to the firm from England, to help our
state through this crisis.
My father once gave me some account
of his early experiences in Wall Street.
He had been sent, almost a boy, to New
York, to try his fortune. His connec-
tion with Block Island families, through
his grandmother, Catherine Ray Greene,
had probably aided in securing for him
a clerk's place in the banking house of
Prime & Sands, afterward Prime, Ward
& King. He soon ascertained that the
Spanish dollars brought to the port by
foreign trading vessels could be sold in
Wall Street at a profit. He accordingly
employed his leisure hours in the pur-
chase of those coins, which he carried to
Wall Street and there sold. This was
the beginning of his fortune.
A work published a score or more
of years since, entitled The Merchant
Princes of Wall Street, concluded a
sketch of my father with the statpment
that he died without fortune. This was
far from true. His death came indeed
at a very critical moment, when, on ac-
count of extensive investments in real es-
tate, his skill would have been requisite
to carry this extremely valuable proper-
ty over a time of great financial disturb-
ance. His brother, our uncle, who be-
came the guardian of our interests, was
familiar with the stock market, but little
versed in real estate transactions. By
forced and untimely sales, much of the
valuable estate was scattered. Yet it
gave to each of my father's six children
a fair inheritance for that time ; for the
millionaire fever did not break out until
long afterward.
The death of this dear and noble par-
ent took place when I was a little more
than twenty years of age. Six months
later I attained the period of legal re-
sponsibility ; but before this a new sense
of the import of life had begun to alter
the current of my thoughts. With my
father's death came to me a realization of
my lamentable insensibility to his great
kindness, and of my ingratitude for the
many comforts and advantages which his
affection had secured to me. He* had
given me the most delightful home, the
most careful training, the best masters
and books. He had even built a picture
gallery for my especial instruction and
enjoyment. All this I had taken as a
matter of course and as my natural right.
He had done his best to keep me out of
frivolous society, and had been extremely
strict about the visits of young men to
the house. Once, when I expostulated
with him upon these points, he told me
that he had early recognized in me a tem-
perament and an imagination oversen-
sitive to impressions from without, and
that his wish had been to guard me from
exciting influences until I should appear
to him fully able to guard and guide
myself. It was hardly to be expected
that a girl in her teens, or just out of
them, should acquiesce in this restrictive
guardianship, tender and benevolent as
was its intention. My little acts of re-
bellion were met with considerable se-
verity, but I now recall my father's ad-
monitions as " soft rebukes in blessings
ended."
Julia Ward Howe.
Hot-Foot Hannibal.
49
HOT-FOOT HANNIBAL.
"I HATE you and despise you! I
wish never to see you or speak to you
again ! "
" Very well ; I will take care that
henceforth you have no opportunity to
do either."
These words the first in the passion-
ately vibrant tones of my sister-in-law,
and the latter in the deeper and more
restrained accents of an angry man
startled me from my nap. I had been
dozing in my hammock on the front
piazza, behind the honeysuckle vine. I
had been faintly aware of a buzz of con-
versation in the parlor, but had not at all
awakened to its import until these sen-
tences fell, or, I might rather say, were
hurled upon my ear. I presume the
young people had either not seen me ly-
ing there, the Venetian blinds opening
from the parlor windows upon the piaz-
za were partly closed on account of the
heat, or else in their excitement they
had forgotten my proximity.
I felt somewhat concerned. The
young man, I had remarked, was proud,
firm, jealous of the point of honor, and,
from my observation of him, quite like-
ly to resent to the bitter end what he
deemed a slight or an injustice. The
girl, I knew, was quite as high-spirited
as young Murchison. I feared she was
not so just, and hoped she would prove
more yielding. I knew that her affec-
tions were strong and enduring, but that
her temperament was capricious, and her
sunniest moods easily overcast by some
small cloud of jealousy or pique. I had
never imagined, however, that she was
capable of such intensity as was revealed
by these few words of hers. As I say,
I felt concerned. I had learned to like
Malcolm Murchison, and had heartily
consented to his marriage with my ward ;
for it was in that capacity that I had
stood for a year or two to my wife's
VOL. LXXXIII. NO. 495. 4
younger sister, Mabel. The match thus
rudely broken off had promised to be
another link binding me to the kindly
Southern people among whom I had not
long before taken up my residence.
Young Murchison came out of the
door, cleared the piazza in two strides
without seeming aware of my presence,
and went off down the lane at a furious
pace. A few moments later Mabel be-
gan playing the piano loudly, with a touch
that indicated anger and pride and in-
dependence and a dash of exultation, as
though she were really glad that she
had driven away forever the young man
whom the day before she had loved with
all the ardor of a first passion.
I hoped that time might heal the breach
and bring the two young people together
again. I told my wife what I had over-
heard. In return she gave me Mabel's
version of the affair.
*' I do not see how it can ever be set-
tled," my wife said. " It is something
more than a mere lovers' quarrel. It
began, it is true, because she found fault
with him for going to church with that
hateful Branson girl. But before it
ended there were things said that no
woman of any spirit could stand. I am
afraid it is all over between them."
I was sorry to hear this. In spite of
the very firm attitude taken by my wife
and her sister, I still hoped that the
quarrel would be made up within a day
or two. Nevertheless, when a week had
passed with no word from young Mur-
chison, and with no sign of relenting on
Mabel's part, I began to think myself
mistaken.
One pleasant afternoon, about ten days
after the rupture, old Julius drove the
rockaway up to the piazza, and my wife,
Mabel, and I took our seats for a drive
to a neighbor's vineyard, over on the
Lumberton plankroad.
50
Hot-Foot Hannibal.
" Which way shall we go," I asked,
" the short road or the long one ? "
" I guess we had better take the short
road," answered my wife. " We will get
there sooner."
" It 's a mighty fine dribe roun' by de
big road, Mis' Annie," observed Julius,
" en it doan take much longer to git dere."
" No," said my wife, " I think we will
go by the short road. There is a bay
tree in blossom near the mineral spring,
and I wish to get some of the flowers."
" I 'spec's you 'd find some bay trees
'long de big road, ma'am," said Julius.
" But I know about the flowers on
the short road, and they are the ones I
want."
We drove down the lane to the high-
way, and soon struck into the short road
leading past the mineral spring. Our
route lay partly through a swamp, and
on each side the dark, umbrageous fo-
liage, unbroken by any clearing, lent to
the road solemnity, and to the air a re-
freshing coolness. About half a mile
from the house, and about halfway to
the mineral spring, we stopped at the
tree of which my wife had spoken, and
reaching up to the low-hanging boughs I
gathered a dozen of the fragrant white
flowers. When I resumed my seat in
the rockaway, Julius started the mare.
She went on for a few rods, until we
had reached the edge of a branch cross-
ing the road, when she stopped short.
" Why did you stop, Julius ? " I asked.
" I did n', suh," he replied. " 'T wuz
de mare stop'. G' 'long dere, Lucy !
W'at you mean by dis foolis'ness ? "
Julius jerked the reins and applied the
whip lightly, but the mare did not stir.
"Perhaps you had better get down
and lead her," I suggested. "If you
get her started, you can cross on the log
and keep your feet dry."
Julius alighted, took hold of the bri-
dle, and vainly essayed to make the mare
move. She planted her feet with even
more evident obstinacy.
" I don't know what to make of this,"
I said. " I have never known her to balk
before. Have you, Julius ? "
" No, suh," replied the old man, " I
nebber has. It 's a cu'ous thing ter me,
suh."
" What 's the best way to make her
go?"
" I 'spec's, suh, dat ef I 'd tu'n her
roun' she 'd go de udder way."
" But we want her to go this way."
" Well, suh, I low ef we des set heah
fo' er fibe minutes, she '11 sta't up by
herse'f."
" All right," I rejoined, " it is cooler
here than any place I have struck to-
day. We '11 let her stand for a while,
and see what she does."
We had sat in silence for a few min-
utes, when Julius suddenly ejaculated,
" Uh huh ! I knows w'y dis mare doan
go. It des flash 'cross my reccommem-
b'ance."
" Why is it, Julius ? " I inquired.
" Ca'se she sees Chloe."
" Where is Chloe ? " I demanded.
" Chloe 's done be'n dead dese fo'ty
years er mo'," the old man returned.
" Her ba'iit is settin' ober yander on de
udder side er de branch, unner dat wil-
ier tree, dis blessed minute."
" Why, Julius ! " said my wife, " do
you see the haunt ? "
" No 'm," he answered, shaking his
head, " I doan see 'er, but de mare sees
'er."
" How do you know ? " I inquired.
" Well, suh, dis yer is a gray hoss, en
dis yer is a Friday ; en a gray hoss kin
alluz see a ha'nt w'at walks on Friday."
" Who was Chloe ? " said Mabel.
" And why does Chloe's haunt walk ? "
asked my wife.
"It's all in de tale, ma'am," Julius
replied, with a deep sigh. " It 's all in
de tale."
"Tell us the tale," I said. "Per-
haps, by the time you get through, the
haunt will go away and the mare will
cross."
I was willing to humor the old man's
Hot-Foot Hannibal.
51
fancy. He had not told us a story for
some time ; and the dark and solemn
swamp around us ; the amber-colored
stream flowing silently and sluggishly
at our feet, like the waters of Lethe;
the heavy, aromatic scent of the bays,
faintly suggestive of funeral wreaths,
all made the place an ideal one for a
ghost story.
" Chloe," Julius began in a subdued
tone, " use' ter b'long ter ole Mars' Du-
gal' McAdoo my ole marster. She
wuz a lakly gal en a smart gal, en ole
mis' tuk her up ter de big house, en
1'arnt her ter wait on de w'ite folks,
'tel bimeby she come ter be mis's own
maid, en 'peared ter 'low she run de
house herse'f , ter heah her talk erbout it.
I wuz a young boy den, en use' ter wuk
about de stables, so I knowed ev'ythin'
dat wuz gwine on roun' de plantation.
" Well, one time Mars' Dugal' wanted
a house boy, en sont down ter de qua'-
ters f er hab Jeff en Hannibal come up
ter de big house nex' mawnin'. Ole
marster en ole mis' look' de two boys
ober, en 'sco'sed wid deyse'ves fer a lit-
tle w'ile, en den Mars' Dugal' sez, se-
zee:
" ' We laks Hannibal de bes', en we
gwine ter keep him. Heah, Hannibal,
you '11 wuk at de house fum now on.
En ef you 're a good nigger en min's yo'
bizness, I '11 gib you Chloe fer a wife
nex' spring. You other nigger, you
Jeff, you kin go back ter de qua'ters.
We ain' gwine ter need you.'
"Now Chloe had be'n standin' dere
behin' ole mis' dyoin' all er dis yer talk,
en Chloe made up her min' fum de ve'y
f us' minute she sot eyes on dem two dat
she did n' lak dat nigger Hannibal, en
wa'n't nebber gwine keer fer 'im, en she
wuz des ez sho' dat she lak Jeff, en wuz
gwine ter set sto' by 'im, whuther Mars'
Dugal' tuk ' im in de big house er no ;
en so co'se Chloe wuz monst'us sorry
w'en ole Mars' Dugal' tuk Hannibal en
sont Jeff back. So she slip' roun' de
house en waylaid Jeff on de way back
ter de qua'ters en tol' 'im not ter be
downhea'ted, fer she wuz gwine ter see
ef she could n' fin' some way er 'nuther
ter git rid er dat nigger Hannibal, en git
Jeff up ter de house in his place.
" De noo house boy kotch on monst'us
fas', en it wa'n't no time ha'dly befo'
Mars' Dugal' en ole mis' bofe 'mence'
ter 'low Hannibal wuz de bes' house boy
dey eber had. He wuz peart en soopl',
quick ez lightnin', en sha'p ez a razor.
But Chloe did n' lak his ways. He wuz
so sho' he wuz gwine ter git 'er in de
spring, dat he did n' 'pear ter 'low he
had ter do any co'tin', en w'en he 'd
run 'cross Chloe 'bout de house, he 'd
swell roun' 'er in a biggity way en say :
" ' Come heah en kiss me, honey.
You gwine ter be mine in de spring.
You doan 'pear ter be ez fon' er me ez
you oughter be.'
" Chloe did n' keer nuffin' fer Hanni-
bal, en had n' keered nuffin' fer 'im, en
she sot des ez much sto' by Jeff ez she
did de day she fus' laid eyes on 'im.
En de mo' fermilyus dis yer Hannibal
got, de mo' Chloe let her min' run on
Jeff, en one ebenin' she went down ter
de qua'ters en watch', 'tel she got a
chance fer ter talk wid 'im by hisse'f.
En she tol' Jeff fer ter go down en see
ole Aun' Peggy, de cunjuh-'oman down
by de WimTton Road, en ax her fer ter
gib 'im sump'n ter he'p git Hannibal
out'n de big house, so de w'ite folks 'u'd
sen' fer Jeff ag'in. En bein' ez Jeff
did n' hab nuffin' ter gib Aun' Peggy,
Chloe gun 'im a silber dollah en a silk
han'kercher fer ter pay her wid, fer Aun'
Peggy nebber lak ter wuk fer nobody fer
nuffin'.
" So Jeff slip' off down ter Aun' Peg-
gy's one night, en gun 'er de presents he
brung, en tol' 'er all 'bout 'im en Chloe
en Hannibal, en ax' 'er ter he'p 'im out.
Aun' Peggy tol' 'im she 'd wuk 'er roots,
en fer 'im ter come back de nex' night,
en she 'd tell 'im w'at she c'd do fer
m.
"So de nex' night Jeff went back, en
52
Hot-Foot Hannibal.
Aun* Peggy gun 'im a baby-doll, wid a
body made out'n a piece er co'n-stalk,
en wid splinters fer a'ms en legs, en a
head made out'n elderberry peth, en two
little red peppers fer feet.
" * Dis yer baby-doll,' sez she, * is Han-
nibal. Dis yer peth head is Hannibal's
head, en dese yer pepper feet is Hanni-
bal's feet. You take dis en hide it unner
de house, on de sill unner de do', whar
Hannibal '11 haf ter walk ober it ev'y day.
En ez long ez Hannibal comes anywhar
nigh dis baby-doll, he '11 be des lak it is
light-headed en hot-footed ; en ef dem
two things doan git 'im inter trouble
mighty soon, den I 'm no cunjuh-'oman.
But w'en you git Hannibal out'n de house,
en git all thoo wid dis baby-doll, you mus'
fetch it back ter me, fer it 's monst'us
powerful goopher, en is liable ter make
mo' trouble ef you leabe it layin' rounV
" Well, Jeff tuk de baby-doll, en slip'
up ter de big house, en whistle' ter Chloe,
en w'en she come out he tol' 'er w'at
ole Aun' Peggy had said. En Chloe
showed 'im how ter git unner de house,
en w'en he had put de cunjuh-doll on de
sill he went 'long back ter de qua'ters
en des waited.
"Nex' day, sho' 'nuff, de goopher
'mence' ter wuk. Hannibal sta'ted in
de house soon in de mawnin' wid a arm-
ful er wood ter make a fier, en he had
n' mo' d'n got 'cross de do'-sill befo' his
feet begun ter bu'n so dat he drap' de
armful er wood on de flo' en woke ole
mis' up an hour sooner 'n yuzhal, en co'se
ole mis' did n' lak dat, en spoke sha'p
erbout it.
"W'en dinner-time come, en Hanni-
bal wuz help'n' de cook kyar de dinner
f'm de kitchen inter de big house, en
wuz gittin' close ter de do' whar he had
ter go in, his feet sta'ted ter bu'n en his
head begun ter swim, en he let de big
dish er chicken en dumplin's fall right
down in de dirt, in de middle er de ya'd,
en de w'ite folks had ter make dey din-
gier dat day off'n col' ham en sweet per-
taters.
"De nex' mawnin' he overslep' his-
se'f, en got inter mo' trouble. Atter
breakfus', Mars' Dugal' sont 'im ober
ter Mars' Marrabo Utley's fer ter bor-
ry a monkey wrench. He oughter be'n
back in ha'f an hour, but he come pokin'
home 'bout dinner - time wid a screw-
driver stidder a monkey wrench. Mars'
Dugal' sont ernudder nigger back wid de
screw-driver, en Hannibal did n' git no
dinner. 'Long in de atternoon, ole mis'
sot Hannibal ter weedin' de flowers in
de front gyahden, en Hannibal dug up
all de bulbs ole mis' had sont erway fer,
en paid a lot er money fer, en tuk 'em
down ter de hawg-pen by de ba'nya'd,
en fed 'ern ter de hawgs. W'en ole mis'
come out in de cool er de ebenin', en seed
w'at Hannibal had done, she wuz mos'
crazy, en she wrote a note en sont Han-
nibal down ter de oberseah wid it.
" But w'at Hannibal got fum de ober-
seah did n' 'pear ter do no good. Ev'y
now en den 'is feet 'd 'mence ter tor-
ment 'im, en 'is min' Vd git all mix' up,
en his conduc' kep' gittin' wusser en
wusser, 'tel fin'ly de w'ite folks could n'
stan' it no longer, en Mars' Dugal' tuk
Hannibal back down ter de qua'ters.
" * Mr. Smif ,' sez Mars' Dugal' ter de
oberseah, ' dis yer nigger has tu'nt out
so triflin' yer lately, dat we can't keep
'im at de house no mo', en I 's fotch'
'im ter you ter be straighten' up. You 's
had 'casion ter deal wid 'im once, so he
knows w'at ter expec'. You des take 'im
in han', en lemme know how he tu'ns out.
En w'en de ban's comes in fum de fiel'
dis ebenin' you kin sen' dat yaller nigger
Jeff up ter de house. I '11 try 'im, en
see ef he 's any better 'n Hannibal.'
" So Jeff went up ter de big house,
en pleas' Mars' Dugal' en ole mis' en
de res' er de fambly so well dat dey all
got ter lakin' 'im f us'rate, en dey 'd 'a'
f ergot all 'bout Hannibal ef it had n'
be'n fer de bad repo'ts w'at come up
fum'de qua'ters 'bout 'im fer a mont' er
so. Fac' is dat Chloe en Jeff wuz so
int'rusted in one ernudder sence Jeff
Hot-Foot Hannibal.
53
be'n up ter de house, dat dey f ergot all
about takin' de baby-doll back ter Aun'
Peggy, en it kep' wukkin f er a -w'ile, en
makin' Harinibal's feet bu'n mo' er less,
'tel all de folks on de plantation got ter
callin' 'im Hot-Foot Hannibal. He kep'
gittin' mo' en mo' triflin', 'tel he got de
name er bein' de mos' no 'countes' nig-
ger on de plantation, en Mars' DugaP
had ter th'eaten ter sell 'im in de spring ;
w'en bimeby de goopher quit wukkin',
en Hannibal 'mence' ter pick up some en
make folks set a little mo' sto' by 'im.
" Now, dis yer Hannibal was a mon-
st'us sma't nigger, en w'en he got rid er
dem so' feet his min' kep' runnin' on 'is
udder troubles. Heah th'ee er fo' weeks
befo' he 'd had a' easy job, waitin' on
de w'ite folks, libbin off n de fat er de
Ian', en promus' de fines' gal on de plan-
tation fer a wife in de spring, en now
heah he wuz back in de co'nfiel', wid de
oberseah a-cussin' en a r'arin' ef he did
n' get a ha'd tas' done ; wid nuffin' but
co'n bread en bacon en merlasses ter
eat ; en all de fiel-han's makin' rema'ks,
en pokin' fun at 'im ca'se he be'n sont
back f um de big house ter de fiel'. En
de mo' Hannibal studied 'bout it de mo'
madder he got, 'tel he fin'ly swo' he wuz
gwine ter git eben wid Jeff en Chloe ef
it wuz de las' ac'.
" So Hannibal slipped 'way fum de
qua'ters one Sunday en hid in de co'n
up close ter de big house, 'tel he see
Chloe gwine down de road. He way-
laid her, en sezee :
" ' Hoddy, Chloe ? '
" ' I ain' got no time fer ter fool wid
fiel'-han's,' sez Chloe, tossin' her head ;
1 w'at you want wid me, Hot-Foot ? '
" ' I wants ter know how you en Jeff
is gittin' 'long.'
I 'lows dat 's none er yo' bizness,
igger. I doan see w'at 'casion any com-
lon fiel'-han' has got ter mix in wid de
'fairs er folks w'at libs in de big house.
But ef it '11 do you any good ter know,
mought say dat me en Jeff is gittin'
ig mighty well, en we gwine ter git
married in de spring, en you ain' gwine
ter be 'vited ter de weddin' nuttier.'
" ' No, no ! ' sezee, * I would n' 'spec'
ter be 'vited ter de weddin', a com-
mon, low-down fiel'-han' lak / is. But
I 's glad ter heah you en Jeff is gittin'
'long so well. I did n' knowed but w'at
he had 'mence' ter be a little ti'ed.'
" ' Ti'ed er me ? Dat's rediklus ! '
sez Chloe. ' Wy, dat nigger lubs me so
I b'liebe he 'd go th'oo fier en water fer
me. Dat nigger is des wrop' up in me.'
" ' Uh huh,' sez Hannibal, den I
reckon it mus' be some udder nigger
w'at meets a 'oman down by de crick in
de swamp ev'y Sunday ebenin', ter say
nuffin' 'bout two er th'ee times a week.'
" ' Yas, hit is ernudder nigger, en you
is a Hah w'en you say it wuz Jeff.'
" ' Mebbe I is a liah, en mebbe I ain'
got good eyes. But 'less'n I is a liah,
en 'less'n I am' got good eyes, Jeff is
gwine ter meet dat 'oman dis ebenin'
long 'bout eight o'clock right down dere
by de crick in de swamp 'bout halfway
betwix' dis plantation en Mars' Marrabo
Utley's.'
"Well, Chloe tol' Hannibal she did
n' b'liebe a wud he said, en call' 'im a
low-down nigger who wuz tryin' ter
slander Jeff 'ca'se he wuz mo' luckier 'n
he wuz. But all de same, she could n j
keep her min' fum runnin' on w'at Han-
nibal had said. She 'membered she 'd
beared one er de niggers say dey wuz a
gal ober at Mars' Marrabo Utley's plan-
tation w'at Jeff use' ter go wid some
befo' he got 'quainted wid Chloe. Den
she 'mence' ter figger back, en sho' 'nuff,
dey wuz two er th'ee times in de las'
week w'en she 'd be'n he'p'n' de ladies
wid dey dressin' en udder fixin's in de
ebenin', en Jeff mought 'a* gone down
ter de swamp widout her knowin' 'bout
it at all. En den she 'mence' ter 'mem-
ber little things w'at she had 11' tuk no
notice of befo', en w'at 'u'd make it
'pear lak Jeff had sump'n on his min'.
" Chloe set a monst'us heap er sto' by
Jeff, en would 'a' done mos' anythin'
54
Hot-Foot Hannibal.
fer 'im, so long ez he stuck ter her. But
Chloe wuz a mighty jealous 'oman, en
w'iles she did n' b'liebe w'at Hannibal
said, she seed how it could 'a' be'n so,
en she 'termine' fer ter fin' out fer her-
se'f whuther it wuz so er no.
" Now, Chloe had n' seed Jeff all day,
fer Mars' Dugal' had sont Jeff ober ter
his daughter's house, young Mis' Ma'-
g'ret's, w'at libbed 'bout fo' miles fum
Mars' Dugal's, en Jeff wuz n' 'spected
home 'tel ebenin'. But des atter supper
wuz ober, en w'iles de ladies wuz settin'
out on de piazzer, Chloe slip' off fum de
house en run down de road, dis yer
same road we come ; en w'en she got
mos' ter de crick dis yer same crick
right bef o' us she kin' er kep' in de
bushes at de side er de road, 'tel fin'ly
she seed Jeff settin' on de back on de
udder side er de crick, right under
dat ole wilier tree droopin' ober de watah
yander. En ev'y now en den he 'd git
up en look up de road to'ds Mars' Mar-
rabo's on de udder side er de swamp.
" Fus' Chloe felt lak she 'd go right
ober de crick en gib Jeff a piece er her
min'. Den she 'lowed she better be sho'
befo' she done anythin'. So she helt
herse'f in de bes' she could, gittin' mad-
der en madder ev'y minute, 'tel bimeby
she seed a 'oman comin' down de road on
de udder side fum to'ds Mars' Marrabo
Utley's plantation. En w'en she seed
Jeff jump up en run to'ds dat 'oman, en
th'ow his a'ms roun' her neck, po' Chloe
did n' stop ter see no mo', but des tu'nt
roun' en run up ter de house, en rush' up
on de piazzer, en up en tol' Mars' Dugal'
en ole mis' all 'bout de baby-doll, en all
'bout Jeff gittin' de goopher fum Aun'
Peggy, en 'bout w'at de goopher had done
ter Hannibal.
" Mars' Dugal' wuz monst'us mad.
He did n' let on at fus' lak he b'liebed
Chloe, but w'en she tuk en showed 'im
whar ter fin' de baby-doll, Mars' Dugal'
tu'nt w'ite ez chalk.
" ' Wat debil's wuk is dis ? ' sezee.
* No wonder de po' nigger's feet eetched.
Sump'n got ter be done ter 1'arn dat ole
witch ter keep her han's off'n my nig-
gers. En ez fer dis yer Jeff, I 'm gwine
ter do des w'at I promus', so de darkies
on dis plantation '11 know I means w'at
I sez.'
"Fer Mars' Dugal' had warned de
han's befo' 'bout foolin' wid cunju'ation ;
f ac', he had los' one er two niggers hisse'f
fum dey bein' goophered, en he would
'a' had ole Aun' Peggy whip' long ago,
on'y Aun' Peggy wuz a free 'oman, en
he wuz 'feard she 'd cunjuh him. En
w'iles Mars' Dugal' say he did n' b'liebe
in cunj'in' en sich, he 'peared ter 'low it
wuz bes' ter be on de safe side, en let
Aun' Peggy alone.
" So Mars' Dugal' done des ez he say.
Ef ole mis' had ple'd fer Jeff he mought
'a' kep' 'im. But ole mis' had n' got
ober losin' dem bulbs yit, en she nebber
said a wud. Mars' Dugal' tuk Jeff ter
town nex' day en' sol' 'im ter a spekila-
ter, who sta'ted down de ribber wid 'im
nex' mawnin' on a steamboat, fer ter
take 'im ter Alabama.
" Now, w'en Chloe tol' ole Mars' Du-
gal' 'bout dis yer baby-doll en dis udder
goopher, she had n' ha'dly 'lowed Mars'
Dugal' would sell Jeff down Souf.
Howsomeber, she wuz so mad wid Jeff
dat she 'suaded herse'f she did n' keer ;
en so she hilt her head up en went roun'
lookin' lak she wuz rale glad 'bout it.
But one day she wuz walkin' down de
road, w'en who sh'd come 'long but dis
yer Hannibal.
" W'en Hannibal seed 'er he bus' out
laffin' fittin' fer ter kill : < Yah, yah,
yah ! ho, ho, ho ! ha, ha, ha ! Oh, hoi'
me, honey, hoi' me, er I '11 laf myse'f ter
def. I ain' nebber laf so much sence I
be'n bawn.'
" ' W'at you laffin' at, Hot-Foot ? '
" ' Yah, yah, yah ! W'at I Uffin' at ?
W'y, I 's laffin' at myse'f, tooby sho',
laffin' ter think w'at a fine 'oman I
made.'
" Chloe tu'nt pale, en her hea't come
up in her mouf.
Hot-Foot Hannibal.
55
" ' Wat you mean, nigger ? ' sez she,
ketchin' holt er a bush by de road fer
ter stiddy herse'f. * Wat you mean by
de kin' er 'oman you made ? '
" Wat do I mean ? I means dat I
got squared up wid you fer treatin' me
de way you done, en I got eben wid dat
yaller nigger Jeff fer cuttin' me out.
Now, he 's gwine ter know w'at it is ter
eat co'n bread en merlasses once mo',
en wuk fum daylight ter da'k, en ter
hab a oberseah dribin' 'im fum one day's
een' ter de udder. I means dat I sont
wud ter Jeff dat Sunday dat you wuz
gwine ter be ober ter Mars' Marrabo's
visitin' dat ebenin', en you want 'im
ter meet you down by de crick on de
way home en go de rest er de road wid
you. En den I put on a frock en a sun-
bonnet en fix' myse'f up ter look lak a
'oman ; en w'en Jeff seed me comin' he
run ter meet me, en you seed 'im, fer
I had be'n watchin' in de bushes befo'
en 'skivered you comin' down de road.
En now I reckon you en Jeff bofe
knows w'at it means ter mess wid a nig-
ger lak me.'
" Po' Chloe had n' beared mo' d'n half
er de las' part er w'at Hannibal said,
but she had beared 'miff to 1'arn dat dis
nigger had fooled her en Jeff, en dat po'
Jeff had n' done nuffin', en dat fer lov-
in' her too much en goin' ter meet her
she had cause' 'im ter be sol' erway whar
she 'd nebber, nebber see 'im no mo'.
De sun mought shine by day, de moon by
night, de flowers mought bloom, en de
mawkin'-birds mought sing, but po' Jeff
wuz done los' ter her fereber en f ereber.
" Hannibal had n' mo' d'n finish' w'at
he had ter say, w'en Chloe's knees gun
'way unner her, en she fell down in de
road, en lay dere half a' hour er so befo'
ic come to. W'en she did, she crep' up
de house des ez pale ez a ghos'. En
fer a mont' er so she crawled roun' de
>use, en 'peared ter be so po'ly dat
tars' Dugal' sont fer a doctor; en de
itor kep' on axin' her questions 'tel he
>un' she wuz des pinin' erway fer Jeff.
" Wen he tol' Mars' Dugal', Mars'
Dugal' lafft, en said he 'd fix dat. She
could hab de noo house boy fer a bus-
ban'. But ole mis' say, no, Chloe ain' dat
kinder gal, en dat Mars' Dugal' should
buy Jeff back.
" So Mars' Dugal' writ a letter ter
dis yer spekilater down ter WimTton,
en tol' ef he ain' done sol' dat nigger
Souf w'at he bought fum 'im, he 'd lak
ter buy 'm back ag'in. Chloe 'mence'
ter pick up a little w'en ole mis' tol' her
'bout dis letter. Howsomeber, bimeby
Mars' Dugal' got a' answer fum de spe-
kilater, who said he wuz monst'us sorry,
but Jeff had fell ove'boa'd er jumped
off'n de steamboat on de way ter Wim'-
1'ton, en got drownded, en co'se he could
n' sell 'im back, much ez he 'd lak ter
'bleedge Mars' Dugal'.
"Well, atter Chloe beared dis she
pu'tended ter do her wuk, en ole mis'
wa'n't much mo' use ter nobody. She
put up wid her, en bed de doctor gib
her medicine, en let 'er go ter de circus,
en all so'ts er things fer ter take her
min' off'n her troubles. But dey did n'
none un 'em do no good. Chloe got ter
slippin' down here in de ebenin' des lak
she 'uz comin' ter meet Jeff, en she 'd
set dere unner dat wilier tree on de
udder side, en wait fer 'im, night atter
night. Bimeby she got so bad de w'ite
folks sont her ober ter young Mis' Ma'-
g'ret's fer ter gib her a change ; but she
runned erway de f us' night, en w'en dey
looked fer 'er nex' mawnin' dey foun'
her co'pse layin' in de branch yander,
right 'cross fum whar we 're settin'
now.
" Eber sence den," said Julius in con-
clusion, " Chloe's ha'nt comes eve'y eben-
in' en sets down unner dat wilier tree en
waits fer Jeff, er e'se walks up en down
de road yander, lookin' en lookin', en*
waitin' en waitin', fer her sweethea't w'at
ain' nebber, nebber come back ter her
no mo'."
There was silence when the old man
had finished, and I am sure I saw a tear
56
Hot-Foot Hannibal.
in my wife's eye, and more than one in
Mabel's.
" I think, Julius," said my wife after
a moment, " that you may turn the mare
around and go by the long road."
The old man obeyed with alacrity, and
I noticed no reluctance on the mare's
part.
" You are not afraid of Chloe's haunt,
are you ? " I asked jocularly.
My mood was not responded to, and
neither of the ladies smiled.
"Oh no," said Annie, "but I've
changed my mind. I prefer the other
route."
When we hkd reached the main road
and had proceeded along it for a short
distance, we met a cart driven by a young
negro, and on the cart were a trunk and
a valise. We recognized the man as Mal-
colm Murchison's servant, and drew up a
moment to speak to him.
" Who 's going away, Marshall ? " I
inquired.
" Young Mistah Ma'colm gwine 'way
on de boat ter Noo Yo'k dis ebenin',
suh, en I 'm takin' his things down ter
de wharf, suh."
This was news to me, and I heard it
with regret. My wife looked sorry, too,
and I could see that Mabel was trying
hard to hide her concern.
" He 's comin' 'long behin', suh, en I
'spec's you '11 meet 'im up de road a
piece. He 's gwine ter walk down ez
fur ez Mistah Jim Williams's, en take
de buggy fum dere ter town. He 'spec's
ter be gone a long time, suh, en say prob-
'ly he ain' nebber comin' back."
The man drove on. There were a
few words exchanged in an undertone
between my wife and Mabel, which I
did not catch. Then Annie said : " Ju-
lius, you may stop the rockaway a mo-
ment. There are some trumpet-flowers
by the road there that I want. Will you
get them for me, John ? "
I sprang into the underbrush, and soon
returned with a great bunch of scarlet
blossoms.
" Where is Mabel ? " I asked, noting
her absence.
" She has walked on ahead. We shall
overtake her in a few minutes."
The carriage had gone only a short
distance when my wife discovered that
she had dropped her fan.
" I had it where we were stopping.
Julius, will you go back and get it for
me?"
Julius got down and went back for
the fan. He was an unconscionably long
time finding it. After we got started
again we had gone only a little way, when
we saw Mabel and young Murchison
coming toward us. They were walking
arm in arm, and their faces were aglow
with the light of love.
I do not know whether or not Julius
had a previous understanding with Mal-
colm Murchison by which he was to
drive us round by the long road that
day, nor do I know exactly what motive
influenced the old man's exertions in
the matter. He was fond of Mabel,
but I was old enough, and knew Julius
well enough, to be skeptical of his mo-
tives. It is certain that a most excel-
lent understanding existed between him
and Murchison after the reconciliation,
and that when the young people set up
housekeeping over at the old Murchison
place Julius had an opportunity to en-
ter their service. For some reason or
other, however, he preferred to remain
with us. The mare, I might add, was
never known to balk again.
Charles W. Chesnutt.
Autumn in Franconia.
57
AUTUMN IN FRANCONIA.
FIVE or six hours of pleasant railway
travel, up the course of one river valley
after another, the Merrimac, the Pem-
igewasset, the Baker, the Connecticut,
and finally the Ammonoosuc, not to
forget the best hour of all, on the shores
of Lake Winnipisaukee, the spacious
blue water now lying full in the sun,
now half concealed by a fringe of woods,
with mountains and hills, Chocorua, Pau-
gus, and the rest, shifting their places
beyond it, appearing and disappearing
as the train follows the winding track,
five or six hours of this delightful
panoramic journey, and we leave the
cars at Littleton. Then a few miles in
a carriage up a long, steep hill through
a glorious autumn - scented forest, the
horses pausing for breath as one water-
bar after another is surmounted, and we
are at the height of land, where two or
three highland farmers have cleared
some rocky acres, built houses and paint-
ed them, and planted gardens and or-
chards. As we reach this happy clear-
ing all the mountains stand facing us on
the horizon, and below, between us and
Lafayette, lies the valley of Franconia,
toward which, again through stretches
of forest, we rapidly descend. At the
bottom of the way Gale River comes
dancing to meet us, babbling among its
boulders, more boulders than water at
this end of the summer heats, in its
cheerful uphill progress. Its uphill pro-
gress, I say, and repeat it ; and if any
reader disputes the word, then he has
never been there and seen the water for
himself, or else he is an unfortunate who
has lost his child's heart (without which
there is no kingdom of heaven for a man),
and no longer lives by faith in his own
senses. On the spot I have called the
attention of many to it, and they have
every one agreed with me. Mountain
rivers have attributes of their own ; or,
possibly, the mountains themselves lay
some spell upon the running water or
upon the beholder's eyesight. Be that
as it may, Lafayette all the while draws
nearer and nearer, we going one way
and Gale River the other, until, after
leaving the village houses behind us, we
alight almost at its base. Solemn and
magnificent, it is yet most companionable,
standing thus in front of one's door, the
first thing to be looked at in the morning,
and the last at night.
The last thing to be thought of at
night is the weather, the weather and
what goes with it and depends upon it,
the question of the next day's pro-
gramme. In a hill country meteorolo-
gical prognostications are proverbially
difficult ; but we have learned to " hit it
right " once in a while ; and, right or
wrong, we never omit our evening fore-
cast. " It looks like a fair day to-mor-
row," says one. "Well," answers the
other, with no thought of discourtesy in
the use of the subjunctive particle, " if it
is, what say you to walking to Bethle-
hem by the way of Wallace Hill, and
taking in Mount Agassiz on our return
after dinner ? " Or the prophet speaks
more doubtfully, and the other says,
" Oh well, if it is cloudy and threaten-
ing, we will go the Landaff Valley round,
and see what birds are in the larch swamp.
If it seems to have set in for a steady
rain, we can try the Butter Hill road."
And so it goes. In Franconia it must
be a very bad half day indeed when we
fail to stretch our legs with a five or six
mile jaunt. I speak of those of us who
foot it. The more ease-loving, or less
uneasy members of the party, who keep
their carriage, are naturally less inde-
pendent of outside conditions. When
it rains they amuse themselves indoors ;
58
Autumn in Franconia.
a pitch of sensibleness which the rest of
us may sometimes regard with a shade
of envy, perhaps, though we have never
admitted as much to each other, much
less to any one else. To plod through
the mud is more exhilarating than to sit
before a fire ; and we leave the question
of reasonableness and animal comfort on
one side. Time is short, and we decline
to waste it on theoretical considerations.
Our company, as I say, is divided:
carriage people and pedestrians, we may
call them ; or, if you like, drivers and
footmen. The walkers are now no more
than the others. Formerly till this pre-
sent autumn they were three. Now,
alas, one of them walks no longer on
earth. The hills that knew him so well
know him no more. The asters and
goldenrods bloom, but he comes not to
gather them. The maples redden, but
he comes not to see them. Yet in a
better and truer sense he is with us
still ; for we remember him, and contin-
ually talk of him. If we pass a sphag-
num bog, we think how at this point
he used to turn aside and put a few
mosses into his box. Some professor in
Germany, or a scholar in New Haven,
had asked him to collect additional spe-
cimens. In those days of his sphagnum
absorption we called him sometimes the
" sphagnostic."
If we come down a certain steep pitch
in the road from Garnet Hill, we remind
each other that here he always stopped
to look for Aster Lindleyanus, telling
us meanwhile how problematical the
identity of the plant really was. Pro-
fessor So-and-So had pronounced it
Lindleyanus, but Doctor Somebody-Else
believed it to be only an odd form of a
commoner species. In the Wallace Hill
woods, I remember how we spent an af-
ternoon there, he and I, only two years
ago, searching for an orchid which just
then had come newly under discussion
among botanists, and how pleased he
was when for once my eyes were luckier
than his. If we are on the Landaff
road, my companion asks, " Do you re-
member the Sunday noon when we went
home and told E that this wood
was full of his rare willow ? And how
he posted over here by himself, directly
after dinner, to see it? And how he
said, in a tone of whimsical entreaty,
' Please don't find it anywhere else ; we
must n't let it become too common ' ? "
Oh yes, I remember ; and my companion
knows he has no need to remind me of
it ; but he loves to talk of the absent,
and he knows I love to hear him.
That willow I can never see anywhere
without thinking of the man who first
told me about it. Whether I pass the
single small specimen between Franco-
nia and the Profile House, so close upon
the highway that the road-menders are
continually cutting it back, or the one
on the Bethlehem road, or the great clus-
ter of stems on Wallace Hill, it will al-
ways be his willow.
And indeed this whole beautiful hill
country is his. How happy he was in
it! I used sometimes to talk to him
about the glories of our Southern moun-
tains, Tennessee, North Carolina, Vir-
ginia ; but he was never to be enticed
away even in thought. " I think I shall
never go out of New England again,"
he would answer, with a smile ; and he
never did, though in his youth he had
traveled more widely than I am ever
likely to do. The very roadsides here
must miss him, and wonder why he no
longer passes, with his botanical box slung
over his shoulder and an opera-glass in
his hand, equally ready for a plant
or a bird. He was always looking for
something, and always finding it. With
his happiness, his goodness, his gentle
dignity, his philosophic temper, his
knowledge of his own mind, his love of
all things beautiful, he has made Fran-
conia a dear place for all of us who knew
him here.
To me, as to all of us, it is dear also
for its own sake. This season I re-
turned to it alone, with no walking
Autumn in Franconia.
59
mate, I mean to say. He was to join
me later, but for eight or ten days I was
to follow the road by myself. At night
I must make my own forecast of the
weather and lay out my own morrow.
The first day was one of the good
ones, fair and still. As I came out upon
the piazza before breakfast and looked
up at Lafayette, a solitary vireo was
phrasing sweetly from the bushes on one
side of the house, and two or three ves-
per sparrows were remembering the sum-
mer from the open fields on the other
side. It was the 22d of September, and
by this time the birds knew how to ap-
preciate a day of brightness and warmth.
Seeing them in such a mood, I deter-
mined to spend the forenoon in their
society. I would take the road to Sin-
clair's Mills, a woodsy jaunt, yet not
too much in the forest, always birdy from
one end to the other.
" This is living ! " I found myself re-
peating aloud, as I went up the longish
hill to the plateau above Gale River, on
the Bethlehem road. " This is living ! "
No more books, no more manuscripts,
my own or other people's, no more
errands to the city. How good the air
was ! How glorious the mountains, un-
clouded, but hazy ! How fragrant the
ripening herbage in the shelter of the
woods ! an odor caught for an instant,
and then gone again ; something that
came of itself, not to be detected, much
less traced to its source, by any effort or
waiting. The forests were still green,
I had to look closely to find here and
there the first touch of red or yellow ;
but the flowering season was mostly
over, a few ragged asters and golden-
rods being the chief brighteners of the
wayside. About the sunnier patches of
them, about the asters especially, insects
were hovering, still drinking honey be-
fore it should be too late : yellow but-
terflies, bumble-bees (of some northern
kind, apparently, marked with orange,
and not so large as our common Massa-
chusetts fellow), with swarms of smaller
creatures of many sorts. If I stopped
to attend to it, each aster bunch was a
world by itself. And more than once I
did stop. There was no haste ; I had
chosen my route partly with a view to
just such idling ; and the birds were,
and were likely to be, nothing but old
favorites. And they proved to be not
many, after all. The best of them were
the winter wrens, which I thought I had
never seen more numerous ; every one
fretting, tut, tut, in their characteristic
manner, without a note of song.
On my way back, the sun being high-
er, there were many butterflies in the
road, flat on the sand, with wings out-
spread. If ever there is comfort in the
world, the butterfly feels it at such times.
Here and there half a dozen or more of
yellow ones would be huddled about a
damp spot. There were mourning-cloaks,
also, and many small angle-wings, some
species of Grapta, I knew not which, of
a peculiarly bright red. Once or twice,
wishing a name for them, I essayed to
catch a specimen under my hat ; but it
seemed a small business, at which I was
only half ashamed to find myself grown
inexpert.
The forenoon was not without its
tragedy, nevertheless. As I came out
into the open, on my return from the
river woods toward the Bethlehem road,
a carriage stopped across the field ; a
man jumped out, gun in hand, ran up
to an unoccupied house standing there
by itself, with a tract of low meadow
behind it, peeped cautiously round the
corner, lifted his gun, leveled it upon
something with the quickness of a prac-
ticed marksman, and fired. Then down
the grassy slope he went on the run out
of sight, and in a minute reappeared,
holding a crow by its claw. He took
the trophy into the carriage with him,
two ladies and a second man occupy-
ing the other seats, and as I emerged
from the pine wood, fifteen minutes af-
terward, I found it lying in the middle
of the road. Its shining feathers would
60
Autumn in Franconia.
fly no more ; but its death had bright-
ened the day of some of the lords and
ladies of creation. What happier fate
could a crow ask for ?
One of my first desires, this time
(there is always something in particular
on my mind when I go to Franconia),
was to revisit Lonesome Lake, a roman-
tic sheet of water lying deep in the wil-
derness on the back side of Mount Can-
non, at an elevation of perhaps twenty-
eight hundred feet, or something less
than a thousand feet above the level of
Profile Notch. One of its two owners,
fortunately, is of our Franconia com-
pany ; and when I spoke of my intention
of visiting it again, he bade me drive up
with his man, who would be going that
way within a day or two. Late as the
season was getting, he still went up to
the lake once or twice a week, it ap-
peared, keeping watch over the cabin,
boat-house, and so forth. The plan
suited my convenience perfectly. We
drove to the foot of the bridle path, off
the Notch road ; the man put a saddle
on the horse and rode up, and I followed
on foot.
The climb is longer or shorter, as the
climber may elect. A pedestrian would
do it in thirty minutes, or a little less,
I suppose ; a nature-loving stroller may
profitably be two hours about it. There
must be at least a hundred trees along
the path, which a sensitive man might
be glad to stop and commune with : an-
cient birches, beeches, and spruces, any
one of which, if it could talk, or rather
if we had ears to hear it, would tell us
things not to be read in any book. Hun-
dreds of years many of the spruces must
have stood there. Some of them, in all
likelihood, were of a good height long be-
fore any white man set foot on this con-
tinent. Many of them were already old
before they ever saw a paleface. What
dwarfs and weaklings these restless crea-
tures are, that once in a while come puff-
ing up the hillside, halting every few
minutes to get their breath and stare
foolishly about ! What murderer's curse
is on them, that they have no home, no
abiding-place, where they can stay and
get their growth ?
It is a precious and solemn stillness
that falls upon a man in these lofty
woods. Across the narrow pass, as he
looks through the branches, are the long,
rugged upper slopes of Lafayette, torn
with slides and gashed into deep ravines.
Far over his head soar the trees, tall,
branchless trunks pushing upward and
upward, seeking the sun. In their leafy
tops the wind murmurs, and here and
there a bird is stirring. Now a chicka-
dee lisps, or a nuthatch calls to his fel-
low. Out of the tangled, round-leaved
hobble-bushes underneath an occasional
robin may start with a quick note of
surprise, or a flock of white-throats or
snowbirds will fly up one by one to gaze
at the intruder. In one place I hear
the faint smooth - voiced signals of a
group of Swain son thrushes and the
chuck of a hermit. A few siskins (rarer
than usual this year, it seems to me)
pass overhead, sounding their curious,
long-drawn whistle, as if they were blow-
ing through a fine-toothed comb. Fur-
ther up, I stand still at the tapping of a
woodpecker just before me. Yes, there
he is, on a dead spruce. A sapsucker, I
call him at the first glance. But I raise
my glass. No, it is not a sapsucker, but
a bird of one of the three-toed species ; a
male, for I see his yellow crown-patch.
His back is black. And now, of a sud-
den, a second one joins him. I am in
great luck. This is a bird I have never
seen before except once, and that many
years ago on Mount Washington, in
Tuckerman's Ravine. The pair are gone
too soon, and, patiently as I linger about
the spot, I see no more of them. A pity
they could not have broken silence. It
is little we know of a bird or of a man
till we hear him speak.
At the lake there are certain to be
numbers of birds ; not water birds, for
the most part, though I steal forward
Autumn in Franconia.
61
quietly at the last, hoping to surprise a
duck or two, or a few sandpipers, as
sometimes I have done, but birds of
the woods. The water makes a break
in the wilderness, a natural rendez-
vous, as we may say ; it lets in the sun,
also, and attracts insects ; and birds of
many kinds seem to enjoy its neighbor-
hood. I do not wonder. To-day I no-
tice first a large flock of white-throats,
and a smaller flock of cedar-birds. The
latter, when I first discover them, are
in the conical tops of the tall spruces,
whence they rise into the air, one after
another, with a peculiar motion, as if a
hand had tossed them aloft. They are
catching insects, a business at which no
bird can be more graceful, I think,
though some may have been at it longer
and more exclusively. Their behavior
is suggestive of play rather than of a se-
rious occupation. Near the white-throats
are snowbirds, and in the firs by the
lakeside chickadees are stirring, among
which, to my great satisfaction, I pre-
sently hear a few Hudsonian voices.
Sick-a-day-day, they call, and soon a lit-
tle brown-headed fellow is directly at
my elbow. I stretch out my hand, and
chirp encouragingly. He comes within
three or four feet of it, and looks and
looks at me, but is not to be coaxed
nearer. Sick-a-day-day-day, he calls
again (" I don't like strangers," he means
to tell me), and away he flits. He is
almost always here, and right glad I am
to see him on my annual visit. I have
never been favored with a sight of him
further south.
The lake is like a mirror, and I sit in
the boat with the sun on my back (as
comfortable as a butterfly), listening and
looking. What else can I do ? I have
pulled out far enough to bring the top
of Lafayette into view above the trees,
and have put down the oars. The birds
are mostly invisible. Chickadees can be
heard talking among themselves, a flick-
er calls wicker, wicker, whatever that
means, and once a kingfisher springs his
rattle. Red squirrels seem to be ubiqui-
tous, full of sauciness and chatter. How
very often their clocks need winding !
A few big dragon-flies are still shooting
over the water. But the best thing of
all is the place itself : the solitude, the
brooding sky (the lake's own, it seems
to be), the solemn mountain top, the en-
circling forest, the musical woodsy still-
ness. The rowan trees were never so
bright with berries. Here and there one
still holds full of green leaves, with the
ripe red clusters shining everywhere
among them.
After luncheon I must sit for a while
in the forest itself. Every breath in
the treetops, unfelt at my level, brings
down a sprinkling of yellow birch leaves,
each with a faint rustle, like a whispered
good-by, as it strikes against the twigs
in its fall. Every one preaches its ser-
mon, and I know the text, " We all do
fade." May the rest of us be as happy
as the leaves, and fade only when the
time is ripe. A nuthatch, busy with his
day's work, passes near me. Small as
he is, I hear his wing-beats. A squirrel
jumps upon the very log on which I am
seated, but is off in a jiffy on catching
sight of so unexpected a neighbor. So
short a log is not big enough for two of
us, he thinks. By and by I hear a bird
stirring on a branch overhead, and look
up to find him a red-eyed vireo. One of
the belated, he must be, according to my
almanac. He peers down at me with in-
quisitive, sidelong glances. A man !
in such a place ! and sitting still ! I
like to believe that he, as well as I, feels a
pleasurable surprise at the unlooked-for
encounter. We call him the preacher,
but he is not sermonizing to-day, perhaps
because the falling leaves have taken the
words out of his mouth.
It is one of the best things about a
place like this that it gives a man a
most unusual feeling of remoteness and
isolation. To be here is not the same
as to be in some equally wild and silent
spot nearer to human habitations. The
62
Autumn in Franconia.
sense of the climb we have made, of the
wilderness we have traversed, still folds
us about. The fever and the fret, so
constant with us as to be mostly unreal-
ized or taken for the normal state of
man, are for the moment gone, and
peace settles upon the heart. For my-
self, at least, there is an unspeakable
sweetness in such an hour. I could stay
here forever, I think, till I became a tree.
That feeling I have often had, a state
of ravishment, a kind of absorption into
the life of things about me. It will not
last, and I know it will not ; but it is like
heaven, for the time it is on me, a fore-
taste, perhaps, of the true Nirvana.
Yet to - day so self - contradictory
a creature is man there were some
things I missed. The dreamer was still
a hobbyist, and the hobbyist had been
in the Lonesome Lake woods before ; and
he wondered what had become of the
crossbills. The common red ones were
always here, I should have said, and on
more than one visit I had found the
rarer and lovelier white-winged species.
Now, in all the forest chorus, not a cross-
bill's note was audible.
One day, bright like this, I was sit-
ting at luncheon on the sunny stoop of
the cabin, facing the water, when I
caught a sudden glimpse of a white-wing,
as I felt sure, about some small decay-
ing gray logs on the edge of the lake
just before me, the remains of a disused
landing. The next moment the bird
dropped out of sight between two of
them. I sat motionless, glass in hand,
and eyes fixed (so I could almost have
made oath) upon the spot where he had
disappeared. I fancied he was at his
bath. Minute after minute elapsed.
There was no sign of him, and at last I
left my seat and made my way stealthily
down to the shore. Nothing rose. I
tramped over the logs, with no result.
It was like magic, the work of some
evil spirit. I began almost to believe
that my eyes had been made the fools
of the other senses. If I had seen a
bird there, where in the name of reason
could it have gone ? It could not have
dropped into the water, seeking winter
quarters in the mud at the bottom, ac-
cording to the notions of our old-time
ornithologists !
Half an hour afterward, having fin-
ished my luncheon, I went into the woods
along the path ; and there, presently, I
discovered a mixed flock of crossbills,
red ones and white-wings, feeding
so quietly that till now I had not sus-
pected their presence. My waterside
bird was doubtless among them; and
doubtless my eyes had not been fixed
upon the place of his disappearance quite
so uninterruptedly as I had imagined.
It was not the first time that such a
thing had happened to me. How fre-
quently have we all seen a bird dart
into a bit of cover, and never come out !
If we are watchful and clever, we are
not the only ones.
Luck has no little to do with a bird-
lover's success or failure in any particu-
lar walk. If we go and go, patience
will have its wages ; but if we can go
but once or twice, we must take what
Fortune sends, be it little or much. So
it had been with me and the three-toed
woodpeckers, that morning. I had
chanced to arrive at that precise point in
the path just at the moment when they
chanced to alight upon that dead spruce,
one tree among a million. What had
been there ten minutes before, and what
came ten minutes after, I shall never
know. So it was again on the descent,
which I protracted as much as possible,
for love of the woods and for the hope of
what I might find in them. I was per-
haps halfway down when I heard thrush
calls near by: the whistle of an olive-
back and the chuck of a hermit, both
strongly characteristic, slight as they
seem. I halted, of course, and on the
instant some large bird flew past me and
perched in full sight, only a few rods
away. There he sat facing me, a barred
owl, his black eyes staring straight into
Autumn in Franconia.
63
mine. How big and solemn they looked !
Never tell me that the barred owl cannot
see by daylight.
The thrushes had followed him. It
was he, and not a human intruder, to
whom they had been addressing them-
selves. Soon the owl flew a little fur-
ther away (it was wonderful how large
he looked in the air), the thrushes still
after him ; and in a few minutes more
he took wing again. This time several
robins joined the hermit and the olive-
back, and all hands disappeared up the
mountain side. Probably the pursuers
were largely reinforced as the chase pro-
ceeded, and I imagined the big fellow
pretty thoroughly mobbed before he got
safely away. Every small bird has his
opinion of an owl.
What interested me as much as any-
thing connected with the whole affair
was the fact that the olive-back, even in
his excitement, made use of nothing but
his mellow staccato whistle, such as he
employs against the most inoffensive of
chance human disturbers. Like the
chickadee, and perhaps some other birds,
he is musical, and not over-emphatic,
even in his anger.
Again and again I rested to admire the
glory of Mount Lafayette, which loomed
more grandly than ever, I was ready
to declare, seen thus partially and from
this point of vantage. Twice, at least,
I had been on its summit in such a fall
day, once on the 1st of October, and
again, the year afterward, on a date
two days earlier. That October day
was one of the fairest I ever knew, both
in itself (and perfect weather is a rare
thing, try as we may to speak nothing
but good of the doings of Providence)
and in the pleasure it brought me.
For the next year's ascent, which I re-
member more in detail, we chose a bro-
ther Franconian and myself a morn-
ing when the tops of the mountains, as
seen from the valley lands, were white
with frost or snow. We wished to find
out for ourselves which it was, and just
how the mountain looked under such win-
try conditions.
The spectacle would have repaid us
for a harder climb. A cold northwest
wind (it was still blowing) had swept
over the summit and coated everything
it struck, foliage and rocks alike, with a
thick frost (half an inch or more in
depiii, if my memory is to be trusted),
white as snow, but almost as hard as
ice. The effect was strangely beautiful.
A dwarf fir tree, for instance, would be
snow white on one side and bright green
on the other. As we looked along the
sharp ridge running to the South Peak,
so called (the very ridge at the face of
which I was now gazing from the Lone-
some Lake path), one slope was white,
the other green. Summer and winter
were divided by an inch.
We nestled in the shelter of the rocks,
on the south side of the summit, court-
ing the sun and avoiding the wind, and
lay there for two hours, exulting in the
prospect, and between times nibbling our
luncheon, which latter we " topped off "
with a famous dessert of berries, gathered
on the spot : three sorts of blueberries,
and, for a sour, the mountain cranberry.
The blueberries were Vaccinium uligi-
nosum, V. ccespitosum, and V. Pennsyl-
vanicum (there is no doing without the
Latin names), their comparative abun-
dance being in the order given. The
first two were really plentiful. All of
them, of course, grew on dwarf bushes,
matting the ground between the boulders.
At that exposed height not even a blue-
berry bush ventures to stand upright.
One of them, V. caespitosum, was both
a surprise and a luxury, the small ber-
ries having a most deliciously rich fruity
flavor, like the choicest of bananas !
Probably no botanical writer has ever
mentioned the point, and I have great
satisfaction in supplying the deficiency,
apprehending no rush of epicures to the
place in consequence. About the fact
itself there can be no manner of doubt.
My companion fully agreed with me,
64
Autumn in Franconia.
and he is not only a botanist of inter-
national repute, but a most capable gas-
tronomer. Much the poorest berry of the
three was the Pennsylvanian, the com-
mon low blueberry of Massachusetts.
" Strawberry huckleberry " it used to be
called in my day by Old Colony children,
with a double disregard of scientific pro-
prieties. Even thus late in the season
the Greenland sandwort was in perfect-
ly fresh bloom ; but the high cold wind
made it a poor "bird day," though I re-
member a white-throated sparrow sing-
ing cheerily near Eagle Lake, and a large
hdwk or eagle floating high over the sum-
mit. At the sight my fellow traveler
broke out,
" My heart leaps up when I behold
An eagle in the sky."
On that point, as concerning the fine
qualities of the cespitose blueberry, we
were fully agreed.
Even in Franconia, however, most of
our days are spent, not in mountain
paths, but in the valley and lower hill
roads. We keep out of the mountains,
partly because we love to look at them,
and partly, perhaps, because the paths
to their summits have seemed to fall out
of repair, and even to become steeper,
with the lapse of years. One of my
good trips, this autumn, was over the
road toward Littleton, and then back
in the direction of Bethlehem as far as
the end of the Indian Brook road. That,
as I planned it, would be no more than
six or seven miles, at the most, and there
I was to be met by the driving members
of the club, who would bring me home
for the midday meal, an altogether
comfortable arrangement. It is good to
have time to spare, so that one can dally
along, fearful only of arriving at the end
of the way too soon. Such was now my
favored condition, and I made the most
of it. If I crossed a brook, I stayed
awhile to listen to it and moralize its
song. If a flock of bluebirds and spar-
rows were twittering about a farmer's
barn, I lingered a little to watch their
doings. When a white - crowned spar-
row or a partridge showed itself in the
road in advance of me, that was reason
enough for another halt. It is a pretty
picture : a partridge caught unexpected-
ly in the open, its ruff erect, and its tail,
fully spread, snapping nervously with
every quick, furtive step. And the fine
old trees in the Littleton hill woods were
of themselves sufficient, on a warm day
like this, to detain any one who was nei-
ther a worldling nor a man sent for the
doctor. They detained me, at all events ;
and very glad I was to sit down more
than once for a good season with them.
And so the hours passed. At the top
of the road, in the cleaving by the farms,
I met a pale, straight-backed young fel-
low under a military hat. " You look
like a man from Cuba or from Chick-
am auga," I ventured to say. " Chick-
amauga," he answered laconically, and
marched on. Whether it was typhoid
fever or simple " malaria " that had
whitened his face there was no chance
to inquire. He was munching an apple,
which at that moment was also my own
occupation. I had just stopped under
a promising-looking tree, whose generous
branches spilled their crop over the road-
side wall, excellent " common fruit,"
as Franconians say, mellow, but with a
lively, ungrafted tang. Here in this
sunny stretch of road were more of my
small Grapta butterflies, and presently I
came upon a splendid tortoise-shell ( Va-
nessa Milberti). That I would certain-
ly have captured had I been armed with
a net. I had seen two like it the day
before, to the surprise of my friends the
carriage people, ardent entomological col-
lectors both of them. They had found
not a single specimen the whole season
through. " There are some advantages
in beating out the miles on foot," I said
to myself. I have never seen this strik-
ingly handsome butterfly in Massachu-
setts, as I once did its rival in beauty,
the banded purple (Arthemis) ; and even
here in the hill country it is never so
Autumn in Franconia*
65
common as to lose that precious bloom
which rarity puts upon whatever it
touches.
As I turned down the Bethlehem road,
the valley and hill prospects on the left
became increasingly beautiful. Here I
passed hermit thrushes (it was good to
see them already so numerous again, af-
ter the destruction that had wasted them
a few winters ago), a catbird or two, and
a few ruby-crowned kinglets, some of
them singing, and before long found
myself within the limits of a rich man's
red farm ; fences, houses, barns, poultry
coops, and the rest, all painted of the
same deep color, as if to say, " All this
is mine." I remembered the estate well,
and have never grudged the owner of it
his lordly possessions. I enjoy them,
also, in my own way. He keeps his roads
in apple - pie order, without meddling
with their natural beauty (I wish our
Massachusetts " highway surveyors " all
worked under his orders, or were en-
dowed with his taste), and is at pains to
save his woods from the hands of the
spoilero " Please do not peel bark from
the birch trees," so the signs read ; and
I say Amen. He has splendid flower
gardens, too, and plants them well out
upon the wayside for all men to enjoy.
Long may it be before his soul is required
of him.
By this time I was in the very pret-
tiest of the red -farm woods. Hermit
thrushes were there, also, standing up-
right in the middle of the road, and in
the forest hylas were peeping, one of
them a real champion for the loudness
of his tone. How full of glory the place
was, with the sunlight sifting through
the bright leaves and flickering upon the
shining birch trunks ! If I were an ar-
tist. I think I would paint wood interiors.
My forenoon's walk was ended. An-
other turn in the road, and I saw the
carriage before me, the driver minding
the horses, and the passengers' seat va-
cant. The entomologists had gone into
the woods looking for specimens, and
VOL. LXXXIH. NO. 495. 5
there I joined them. They were in search
of beetles, they said, and had no objec-
tion to my assistance ; I had better look
for decaying toadstools. This was easy
work, I thought ; but, as is always the
way with my efforts at insect collecting,
I could find nothing to the purpose. The
best I could do was to bring mushrooms
full of maggots (larvae, the carrier of
the cyanide and alcohol bottles called
them), and what was desired was the
beetles which the larvae turned into. Once
I announced a small spider, but the bot-
tle-holder said. No, it was not a spider,
but a mite ; and there was no disputing
an expert, who had published a list of
Franconia spiders, one hundred and
forty -nine species! (She had wished
very much for one more name, she told
me, but her friend and assistant had re-
marked that the odd number would look
more honest ! ) However, it is a poor sort
of man who cannot enjoy the sight of an-
other's learning, and the exposure of his
own ignorance. It was worth something
to see a first-rate, thoroughly equipped
" insectarian " at work and to hear her
talk. I should have been proud even to
hold one of her smaller phials, but they
were all adjusted beyond the need, or
even the comfortable possibility, of such
assistance. There was nothing for it but
to play the looker-on and listener. In
that part I hope I was less of a failure.
The enthusiastic pursuit of special
knowledge, persisted in year after year,
is a phenomenon as well worth study as
the song and nesting habits of a thrush
or a sparrow ; and I gladly put myself
to school, not only this forenoon, but as
often as I found the opportunity. One
day my mentor told me that she hoped
she had discovered a new flea ! She
kept, as I knew, a couple of pet deer-
mice, and it seemed that some almost
microscopic fleas had left them for a
bunch of cotton wherein the mice were
accustomed to roll themselves up in the
daytime. These minute creatures the
entomologist had pounced upon, clapped
Autumn in Franconia.
into a bottle, and sent off straightway to
the American flea specialist, who lived
somewhere in Alabama. In a few days
she should hear from him, and perhaps,
if the species were undescribed, there
would be a flea named in her honor. 1
Distinctions of that nature are almost
every-day matters with her. How many
species already bear her name she has
never told me. I suspect they are so
numerous and so frequent that she her-
self can hardly keep track of them.
Think of the pleasure of walking about
the earth and being able to say, as an
insect chirps, " Listen ! that is one of my
species, named after me, you know."
Such specific honors, I say, are common
in her case, common almost to satiety.
But to have a genus named for her,
that was glory of a different rank, glory
that can never fall to the same person
but once ; for generic names are unique.
Once given, they are patented, as it were.
They can never be used again for ge-
nera, that is in any branch of natural
science. To our Franconia entomologist
this honor came, by what seemed a poetic
justice, in the Lepidoptera, the order in
which she began her researches. Hers
is a genus of moths. I trust they are not
of the kind that " corrupt."
Thinking how above measure I should
be exalted in such circumstances, I am
surprised that she wears her laurels so
meekly. Not that she affects to conceal
her gratification ; she is as happ}' over
her genus, perhaps, as over the new edi-
tion de luxe of her most famous story ;
1 The species was not new. A Maine collec-
tor had anticipated her, I believe. Whether
for an entomologist may be also a novel-
ist, if she has a mind to be, as Charles
Lamb would have said ; but she knows
how to carry it off lightly. She and the
botanist of the party, my " walking
mate," who, I am proud to say, is simi-
larly distinguished, often laugh together
about their generic namesakes (his is of
the large and noble Composites family) ;
and then, sometimes, the lady will turn
to me.
"It is too bad you can never have
a genus," she will say in her bantering
tone ; " the name is already taken up,
you know."
" Yes, indeed, I know it," I answer her.
An older member of the family, a th
cousin, carried off the prize many years
ago, and the rest of us are left to get on
as best we can, without the hope of such
dignities. When I was in Florida I took
pains to see the tree, the family ever-
green, we may call it. Though it is said
to have an ill smell, it is handsome, and
we count it an honor.
" But then, perhaps you would never
have had a genus named for you, any-
how," the entomologist continues, still
bent upon mischief.
And there we leave the matter. Let
the shoemaker stick to his last. Some
of us were not born to shine at badinage,
or as collectors of beetles. For myself,
in this bright September weather I have
no ambitions. It is enough, I think, to
be a follower of the road, breathing the
breath of life and seeing the beauty of
the world.
Bradford Torrey.
his name was given to the flea I did not learn
or have forgotten.
Psychology and Mysticism.
PSYCHOLOGY AND MYSTICISM.
MYSTICISM that is, the belief in su-
pernatural connections in the physical
and psychical worlds has always been
an interesting object of observation for
the psychologist. When the human
mind believes that it has reached the
realm unseen, psychology can analyze its
inner experiences and follow up the de-
vious paths from empirical knowledge to
the knowing of the mysterious Unknow-
able. From this point of view, psycho-
logy finds a wonderful field of work in
the mystical systems from the earliest
Hindoo speculation to the spiritualistic
doctrines of to-day ; and its interest in
mysticism is the deeper and more spon-
taneous, the more complicated the mo-
tives which push the soul beyond the
limits of natural insight. Religious emo-
tion and hysterical rapture, mysterious
fears and superstitious habits, pathologi-
cal disturbances and surprising experi-
ences, abnormal credulity and dissatis-
faction with science, and very many oth-
er true and half true impulses come in
question. Even the pseudo-mystic, who
deceives the world because he knows that
the world wishes to be deceived, becomes
an attractive object for psychological
analysis ; fanaticism regarding the church
and greed for bread and butter, hysteri-
cal pleasure in irritating tricks and sen-
suous pleasure in power over others, are
here among the most characteristic fea-
tures. What a difference between the
nepplatonistic philosopher, who sinks into
the Absolute and finds the supernatural
reality by his feeling of unity with God,
and the modern member of a Society
for Psychical Research, who discovers
the supernatural world by his mathemat-
ical calculations on the probable error
in telepathic answers about playing-
cards ! What a difference between the
mediaeval monk, who becomes convinced
of the mystical sphere because the Vir-
gin appears to him in the clouds, and the
modern scholar, who is converted because
a pathological woman is able to chat
about his personal secrets at the rate of
twenty francs a sitting ! Yet psycholo-
gy recognizes the common features and
understands the mental laws which make
mysticism a never failing element of the
social consciousness ; the wilder its ec-
centricities, the more interesting the psy-
chological material.
But the claims of mysticism suggest
to the psychologist another attitude less
peaceable than that of the observer, the
attitude of a rival. If mystics believed
only that heavy chairs sometimes fly
through the air, that invisible bells ring,
and that objects disappear into the fourth
dimension, they would have to fight it
out with the physicists, but psycholo-
gy would not interfere. If, inspired by
occult advisers, they proposed a new
metaphysical theory of the ultimate sub-
stratum of the physical universe, the
philosophers might stand up as indig-
nant competitors, but the psychologists,
again, would have nothing to do with it.
The physicians may dispute with the
mystics whether the waters of Lourdes
are helpful, whether the comets are
causes of pestilence, and whether men
die on account of being thirteenth at ta-
ble. There is, perhaps, not a single sci-
ence, from geometry to theology, which
has not its private conflicts with the mys-
tical doctrines ; but psychology has no
reason to enter the quarrel so long as
the mystic does not undertake to answer
psychological questions. In this field,
however, mysticism has never shown too
much modesty. It has at all times, by
preference, rioted in the proclamation of
mental facts which did not fit into the
descriptions and explanations of a sober
empirical psychology. If mysticism is
right with its old claims, psychology, even
68
Psychology and Mysticism.
with its newest discoveries, is wrong ;
and thus arises the question, What has
the psychologist to say of the claims of
mysticism concerning mental processes
and the laws of mental action ?
These claims have been different at
different periods and in different nations,
and are still so divergent that no scien-
tist can contend more sharply with the
mystical creeds than they contend with
one another in the different sets to-day.
The telepathists annihilate the theoso-
phists, and the spiritualists belittle the
telepathists ; and when the Christian sci-
entists and metaphysical healers on the
one side, the mind curers and faith curers
on the other side, have spoken of each
other, there remain few abusive words
at the disposal of us outsiders. The
average mystic of to-day is a man of
high logical ambitions. He looks with
contempt on the gypsy who reads your
character from the grounds in a coffee-
cup, and smiles over the astrological be-
lief that the position of the stars in the
hour of your birth has decided your suc-
cess in love. The medical remedies
which have to be cooked at midnight at
the churchyard gate are in discredit ;
and as we live in an enlightened age,
it even appears doubtful whether the
witches of early time were really under
Satanic influences, as their witchcraft
can now be " explained " by the tele-
pathic action of mediums, by malicious
spirits and materializations. The re-
quirements of mysticism thus shrink to
the following main demands. First,
the human mind must sometimes be
able to perceive in an incomprehensible
way the ideas and thoughts of others.
By gradual approaches, this telepathic
talent seems also connected with the
power to have knowledge of distant
physical occurrences ; and if our conces-
sions have reached this point, we ought
not to strain at the little addendum, the
vision of the future. In all cases of this
kind the exceptional talents of the soul
are receptive and passive. A second
group of mystical powers may be formed
by the corresponding active influences.
In an inconceivable way, it is assumed,
the human mind can control the thoughts
and actions of others ; and here, again,
small steps lead soon to greater and
greater mysteries. The mental influence
may reach not only the soul, but also the
body of the other person, and may restore
his disturbed health ; even a child may
produce such metaphysical healing of
consumption and heart trouble, cancer
and broken legs. The mind which by
" love " brings together the fragments of
a neighbor's broken bones ought surely
to have no serious difficulties with the
movements of inorganic bodies : at the
bidding of such a mind, tables fly to the
ceiling, and a little stick in the hands of
a weak woman cannot be moved by the
strongest man. A third group refers to
the functions of a deeper self, which is
usually hidden under our regular per-
sonality. In the most different trance
states, in crystal vision and automatic
writing, this mysterious self appears, and
remembers all that we have forgotten,
knows many things which we never
knew, writes and acts without our con-
trol, and shows connections which go far
beyond our powers, and mostly even be-
yond our tastes. Nearly related to these
facts is a fourth circle of mystical doc-
trines, which deal with the psychical
deeds of the human spirit after the earth-
ly death. According to these doctrines,
the spirits are ready to enter into com-
munication with living men by the help
of mediums, with or without materiali-
zation, by noises or by table tilting, by
slate drawing, and recently even by type-
writing. This creed becomes, of course,
the starting point for many denomina-
tional divergences.
The most natural question is, How
far can the regular empirical psychology
acknowledge the claimed phenomena?
Where is the exact limit which the sci-
entific psychologist is unwilling to pass ?
He does not discredit perception of
Psychology and Mysticism.
voices from far distances if a telephone
is included, and he does not doubt that
one person may have influence over an-
other in a hundred ways. We must care-
fully consider where the mystery begins.
The attitude of common sense, however,
must not be allowed to dictate this line
of demarcation ; otherwise the psycho-
logist would be bound to denounce all
facts which are rare and surprising to
the naive consciousness, or incapable of
explanation to the dilettante. Let us
remember that it counts for little whe-
ther a fact occurs once a day or once in
a century, and that many facts of phy-
siological and pathological psychology
must appear to the naive mind much
more surprising and alarming than do
the pretensions of the spiritualist. It
seems much simpler and more natural
to grant that a little word or figure may
wander by mere thought transference
from one's mind into the mind of a by-
stander, than to believe in the startling
features of the more complicated cases
of hypnotism and somnambulism, hys-
teria and insanity, all of which find le-
gitimate place in the system of modern
psychology.
If we begin with the first two groups
of the claims of mystics, the passive
reception of outer psychical and physical
events, and the active influence upon
other souls and organisms, we can
easily state the general principle which
here controls the psychological attitude,
though it may often be far from easy to
follow up the principle in specific cases.
The psychologist insists that every per-
ception of occurrences outside of one's
own body and every influence beyond
one's own organism must be intermedi-
ated by an uninterrupted chain of phy-
sical processes. The justice of this ap-
parently arbitrary decision may be ex-
amined later ; at first we ask only for
its precise meaning and its consequences.
With regard to perception, the limit is
certainly sharply drawn, and yet it may
be often difficult to recognize it. We
perceive only objects which directly or
indirectly stimulate our physical sense
organs, and which stimulate them by
physical means. The perception of a
man's body is therefore the primary
process ; the perception of his thoughts
and feelings is secondary, as they must
be somehow physically expressed in or-
der to act as stimuli for the sense or-
gans.
In two directions the case may become
abnormal : the transmitter or the re-
ceiver may differ from the usual type
of communicating persons. The trans-
mitter himself, for instance, may not be
conscious that he expresses his ideas, or,
better, that his ideas discharge them-
selves in perceptible physical processes.
He may blush without knowing it, and
thus betray his inner shame ; or he may
contract the muscles which turn his body
toward the outer point he is thinking of ;
or his breathing or pulse may change
through his excitement over a question ;
and the receiver may be in a situation to
become aware of these unintended signals
of inner states. Here belongs the well-
known stage piece of muscle reading,
which is often carelessly confused with
real telepathy. It certainly is one of
the easily explicable forms of psycho-
physical communication. Here belong
as well all the slight hints by which ner-
vous persons make it possible again and
again for confessed impostors to play the
roles of successful mind readers. The
pseudo-mediums need only to seek for in-
formation in desultory chatting, which,
under the high tension of expectancy,
suffices to bring about all kinds of unin-
tended expressions which show the clever
juggler the way.
The receiver of the physical impres-
sions, also, may differ from the average.
We think primarily of the possibility
that the receiving instruments that is,
the sense organs or the sensory brain
parts and nerve paths may have be-
come abnormally sensitive, by training
or by pathological variations. Through
70
Psychology and Mysticism.
the touch sensation of his face the blind
man perceives distant obstacles in his
way, to which our untrained central sense
apparatus is unresponsive ; but that does
not conflict with the propositions of psy-
chology, and is not mystical. We know
that the threshold for just perceptible
sensations is often surprisingly lowered
for hypnotic and hysterical subjects, who
can thus perceive faint impressions and
signals which must escape the normal
consciousness. Even if a man were so
gifted as to discriminate smells like a
dog, or to see the ultra-violet rays, or to
perceive solids by the Roentgen rays, or
if he had a sense organ for electric cur-
rents more sensitive than the finest gal-
vanometer, the psychologist would have
no reason for skepticism so long as the
physical nature of the transmission from
the outer object to the brain is admitted.
Other variations in the receiver may be
determined by his state of attention. An
outer stimulus may reach his brain by
the door of his senses without producing
an apperceived idea at the moment, but
not without influence on his later feel-
ings and actions ; a molecular alteration
of the brain disposition may last and
work as after effect of the stimulation
without having attracted the attention at
all. This occurrence, also, which in nar-
row limits is familiar and usual enough,
may be pathologically exaggerated, and
may then, as for instance in hysterical
cases, produce surprising results, if the
subject shows undoubted knowledge of
facts which he could never have acquired
consciously ; but this, likewise, nowhere
transcends the psychological probabili-
ties.
Still more complicated, perhaps, are
the variations in the active power of the
mind, within the limits which psycholo-
gists willingly acknowledge, or at least
ought to acknowledge. Our thoughts and
volitions certainly have influence on other
minds ; we should not speak a word nor
write a line if we did not believe that.
But again we consider the psychical ef-
fects which we produce in others as in-
termediated by physical processes. We
stimulate the optic and acoustic and tac-
tual nerves of others with the purpose of
reaching their central nervous system,
and of producing there the ideas with
which we started. These ideas must
then work for themselves ; they stir up
their associations and awaken their in-
hibitions, but- the outsider cannot add
anything further. He can only commu-
nicate the ideas, find let them work in
the receiver from a psychological point
of view ; that is all the influence we
have on our fellow men.
There is one complication of this triv-
ial process of communication which seems
to touch the borderland of mysticism,
hypnotic suggestion. The hypnotized
subject must do whatever the hypnotizer
suggests to him. Here the will of one
mind seems to have an incomprehensible
influence over the other, and as if it
were only a short way from the hypnotic
rapport to the influences of mystical char-
acter ; that is, of a kind which excludes
the possibility of physical intermedia-
tion. The resemblance is deceptive, how-
ever ; even the most complicated case of
hypnotic influence is based only on ele-
mentary actions which occur every mo-
ment in our normal mental life. If we
want some one to do a thing, we com-
municate our wish to him, trusting that
the idea proposed will discharge itself
in the desired motor action. That cor-
responds fully to our general knowledge
that every sensory mental state is at the
same time the starting point of motor
impulses. If we say to our neighbor,
" Please pass me the cream," we take
for granted that the communicated idea
will discharge itself in the little action.
But if we say, " Please jump out of the
window," the result will not be the same.
The communicated idea by itself alone
would have the effect of producing the
action demanded, but it awakens by the
regular associative mechanism a set of
ideas on the folly of the demand and the
Psychology and Mysticism.
71
clanger of the undertaking, and all these
associations are starting points for an-
tagonistic impulses which are finally re-
inforced by the whole personality : the
proposed action is thus inhibited, and the
man does not jump. He would jump
if the antagonistic idea could be kept
down ; and in this case the foolish action
would be just as necessarily determined
by the conditions and just as natural as
the reasonable one. But we all know
that this power of ideas to overcome an-
tagonistic associations is quite a normal
thing, active in the most varying mea-
sure everywhere in our normal mental
life.
We call an idea which thus checks the
antagonistic one a suggestion, and we
may be sure that no education or art, no
politics or church life, would be possible
without such suggestions. The idea may
become a suggestion by the way in which
it is presented, but it may also acquire
this character by the disposition of the
receiver. We know there are stubborn
men who contradict every proposition,
and there are others who are open to
every new idea without inner resistance,
and ready to believe everything they
hear, or even everything they see in print.
They are thus more at the mercy of sug-
gestions ; we say they show greater sug-
gestibility. On the other hand, every
man's suggestibility is variable ; it is in-
creased by fear and other emotions, by
alcohol and other nervines, and under
special conditions it may reach a patho-
logical intensity. This abnormal degree
of suggestibility, in which the antagonis-
tic associations of the suggested ideas
are more or less completely inhibited, is
the mental state we call hypnotism. If
this state of increased suggestibility is
reached, the outer action which fulfills
the proposed suggestion becomes, through
the regular psychophysical mechanism,
unavoidable. The final results, to be sure,
may appear surprisingly different from
the normal actions of the personality,
but even the most absurd hypnotic ac-
tion is based on these simple psychologi-
cal principles. As, theoretically, every-
body can hypnotize everybody, it is obvi-
ous that no special mystical power need
be invoked at this point ; and even if we
induce the hypnotized subject to do a
criminal action, it is no mysterious pow-
er with which we overcome his honesty,
but a combination of processes which are
neither clearer nor more obscure than
normal attention and association. There
is not the slightest reason to consider
hypnotism, with all its ramifications, as
in any degree mystical because of its
weird and alarming results. We may
not understand every detail as yet, but
nothing need suggest any doubt that
other principles are involved than those
in daily mental activity. Hypnotism is
free from responsibility for mystical
theories. Mysticism, on the other hand,
cannot hope to pass through the entrance
door of science on account of its superfi-
cial similarity to some hypnotic cases.
Practically, the two may be mixed till
they are indistinguishable. In spiritual-
istic stances the plain hypnotic pheno-
mena are not seldom used to smooth the
way for telepathic mysticism, as criti-
cism of the latter will be less sharp if the
first part of the performance is undoubt-
edly reliable. If there is no physical
intermediation between the transmitter
and the receiver, thought transference
remains mystical, and whether the re-
ceiver is hypnotized or not has nothing
to do with the case. No change is in-
volved by the belief of the subject, no
matter how sincere, that he is under such
mystical influence from far distances.
Only a short time ago I had such a case
under my observation. There came to
me, late at night, a stranger, in wildest
despair, resolved to commit suicide that
night if I could not help him. He had
been a physician, but had given up his
practice because his brother, on the oth-
er side of the ocean, hated him and had
him under his telepathic influence, trou-
bling him from over the sea with voices
72
Psychology and Mysticism.
which mocked him and with impulses to
foolish actions. He had not slept nor
had he eaten anything for several days,
and the only chance for life he saw was
that a new hypnotic influence might over-
power the mystical hypnotic forces. I
soon found the source of his trouble.
In treating himself for a wound he had
misused cocaine in an absurd way, and
the hallucination of voices was the chief
symptom of his cocainism. These pro-
ducts of his poisoned brain had some-
times reference to his brother in Europe,
and thus the telepathic idea grew in him
and permeated his whole life. I hypno-
tized him, and suggested to him with
success to have sleep and food and a
smaller dose of cocaine. Then I hyp-
notized him daily for six weeks. After
ten days he gave up cocaine entirely, af-
ter three weeks the voices disappeared,
and after that the other symptoms faded
away. It was not, however, until the
end that the telepathic theory was ex-
ploded. Even when the voices had gone,
he felt for a while that his movements
were controlled from over the ocean ;
and after six weeks, when I had made
him quite well again, he laughed over
his telepathic absurdities, but assured me
that if these sensations came again he
should be unable, even in full health, to
resist the mystical interpretation, so viv-
idly had he felt the distant influences.
This case may bring us to another main
group of personal influences, the thera-
peutical ones. The man of common sense
is more suspicious of fraud in this field
than anywhere else, and yet the psycho-
logist must here concede as possible a
greater part of the claimed facts than in
the other domains of mysticism. He will
reject a good deal, it is true, and in ac-
knowledging the rest of the facts he will
not think of committing himself to the
theories ; yet he must feel sorry that
truth demands from him the acknowledg-
ment of anything, not because he thinks
himself bound to advertise the regular
practicing physician, but because he
knows how these facts carry with them
a flock of contagious confusing ideas.
Seen from the standpoint of the psycho-
logist, the line between the possible and
the mysterious healing influences of per-
sonality is fairly though not absolutely
sharp. We have seen that every normal
psychophysical state has the tendency to
go over into peripheral bodily processes.
We have so far noticed only the pro-
cesses in the voluntary muscles, the so-
called actions, and we have found that
there is no special power involved and
that no mystery need be invoked, but
that every idea discharges itself in an ac-
tion provided the antagonistic ideas are
checked. But the motor nerves and
muscular apparatus represent only a part
of the central and centrifugal system
which can be stimulated by sensory pro-
cesses. The researches of physiology
have fully proved that our involuntary
muscles and our blood-vessels, our glands
and our internal organs, are under the
influence of our central system. Our
whole body in every instant resounds in
every part to the variations of our brain
activity, and the normal functioning of
our organism depends in a large degree
on the right work of these central stimu-
lations. Are they absent or inhibited,
something must go wrong ; and if the cen-
tral stimulus can be enforced, if the an-
tagonistic inhibition can be checked, the
right tension and the normal functioning
must return as necessarily and as natu-
rally as the suggested action must occur
when the contradicting ideas are re-
moved. We have seen that hypnotism
is nothing but a psychophysical state of
increased suggestibility ; that is, a state
in which the suggested ideas find less re-
sistance than in normal life. If the hyp-
notized patient receives suggestions which
refer to those physiological functions
which are dependent upon the central
nervous system, the change and the read-
justment of the organic functions by the
removal of false inhibitions and by the
reinforcement of useful central stimula-
Psychology and Mysticism.
73
tions are certainly no more obscure than
the action of antipyrine and phenacetine.
Even that which may be still obscure in
the action of the suggestions can be only
a matter of details, not of principles.
There are two methods of suggestion
open : a more active and talkative way,
which turns the subject's attention to the
desired point by direct suggestions, and
a more passive and silent way, which at-
tempts a general quieting of the mind, in
which a new balance of impulses may be
inaugurated, and the desire for normal
functions may work itself up to increased
influence. Every good physician makes
use of these two means to increase the
effectiveness of his remedies. At the
right time, they are almost a substitute
for all other aid. and in the mystical ther-
apy of all periods through four thousand
years they have developed a high tech-
nique. To-day, the passive method of
indirect suggestion is the vehicle of the
Christian scientists and metaphysical
healers ; the active way of more direct
suggestion belongs to the mind curers
and mental healers.
Much of the success of both methods
depends, of course, upon the ability of
the transmitter to make the suggestions
effective. His personal appearance and
way of talking, his voice and tempera-
ment, must be persuasive, and his repu-
tation and authority must reinforce the
expectancy which prepares the inhibi-
tions. Teachers and lawyers and min-
isters strengthen their influence by these
silent servants of a dominant mind.
Many of these personal qualities can be
replaced, to be sure, by merely mechani-
cal tricks which can be imitated and
taught. Our mystical schools bring this
technique to external virtuosity. But
still more important are the antecedent
conditions in the mind of the patient.
Whoever has seen the patients in the
clinic of a famous hypnotist (half hyp-
notized as soon as they pass the door of
the hospital) knows how the fascination
of the attention by belief by any belief
works favorably for the increase of
suggestibility ; so that the smallest addi-
tional intruder, perhaps the sensation of
half-darkened lif^ht, of soft touch, of
muscle strain in the eyes, is sufficient to
bring about the new equilibrium of psy-
chophysical impulses. The most vulgar
and trivial belief will answer ; the most
absurd superstition can bring success, as
everything depends upon the intensity of
the subject's submission ; and the more
pitiable the intellectual powers of a crea-
ture, the greater may be his chance of a
cure by idiotic manipulations. To deny
this in the interest of science would be
unscientific.
The most deep-seated form of belief
is religious faith, and there cannot be
the slightest doubt that religious emo-
tion, from the lowest fetichism to the
highest protestantism, has always been
fertile soil for therapeutical suggestions.
What we have called the active method
appeals to the subjective faith with di-
rect words ; the passive method awakens
the same fascination indirectly, lulling
to sleep the antagonistic impulses by a
feeling that the mind of the transmitter
has reached by prayer and love a super-
natural unity with the mind of the pa-
tient. We must not forget that it is not
the solemn value of the religious revela-
tion, nor the ethical and metaphysical
bearing of its objects, which brings suc-
cess, but solely the depth of the emotion.
To murmur the Greek alphabet with the
touching intonation and gesture of sup-
plication is just as strengthening for the
health as the sublimest prayer; and for
the man who believes in the metaphysical
cure, it may be quite unimportant whe-
ther the love curer at his bedside thinks
of the psychical Absolute or of the spring
hat she will buy with the fee for her
metaphysical healing. From the psycho-
logical point of view, the direct method
of healing by faith and the indirect
method of healing by love are thus al-
most identical ; both are confined to the
narrow limits within which the nervous
74
Psychology and Mysticism.
system influences the pathological pro-
cesses ; but in these limits both have some
chances of a transitory success, and both
are liable to the same illusions on the
part of sincere healers and to the same
humbug on the part of impostors.
Our review has sought to examine
the two large groups of facts which
refer to the influence of mind on mind,
and to separate in both, in those of ac-
tive influence and in those of passive
reception, the psychological possibilities
from those claims which the psycholo-
gist at first rejects. There are two
groups more which we must sift, the
facts which lead to the theory of double
consciousness, and the spiritualistic facts
which refer to the communication of the
living with the souls of the dead. In the
former group there is little fault to be
found with the facts; only the theory
is misleading. In the latter group, on
the other hand, it may be difficult to
decide whether the claims for the facts
or the attempts at theories are the more
objectionable. The phenomena which
suggest that a deeper personality lies
hidden under the experiences of our sur-
face personality are to-day generally fa-
miliar and scientifically well studied.
Typical of these phenomena are the in-
teresting facts of automatic writing, apart
from the attempts to give them a spir-
itualistic interpretation. Our hands may
be brought to write truths of which we
are not conscious, and to answer ques-
tions which we do not perceive ; and
these writings which we do not control
may clearly belong to a special person-
ality, with its own memory and its own
wit and temper. Many similar facts
which do not necessarily point in the
same direction presuppose hysterical
disturbances. It is true that the idea
of a separated subject of consciousness
offers itself to a superficial view as the
simplest hypothesis, and the acceptance
of this hypothesis gives a foothold for
the most complicated mystical theories.
But there are two groups of facts which
we must keep in mind. First, we know
that all our complicated useful actions
which are acquired under the control
of the intellectual attention, as walking
and eating, speaking and reading and
writing, become slowly automatic, yet
nobody thinks of putting them under
the care of a deeper personality ; we
make the right movement in speaking
without consciously intending the spe-
cial tongue and lip movements, because
the lower nerve centres steadily un-
burden the higher ones, and more and
more easily transform the stimulus into
the useful motor discharge. Even in
the most complicated cases, therefore,
the unconscious production of appar-
ently chosen and adapted actions is no
proof whatever that the whole process
was not a merely physiological one.
Secondly, a manifoldness of psycholo-
gical personalities is in no way identical
with a plurality of subjects of conscious-
ness. Every one of us finds in his con-
sciousness a bundle of social personali-
ties. We are different men in the of-
fice and in the family circle, in the
political meeting and in the theatre ;
one does not care for the others, and
may even ignore them ; each has his
own memory connection and his own
impulses. But they do not represent
different subjects of consciousness, dif-
ferent groups of objects alternating in
the same subject. Of course these vari-
ous empirical personalities have always
some elements in common, by which we
can easily bridge over from one to the
other, and remember our office anger in
front of the stage of the theatre. No
change in principle occurs when, by an
abnormal brain process, these paths of
association and connection are blocked,
and one personality remains without re-
lations with .the other. In such a case
several personalities alternate, each con-
sisting of a set of associations and im-
pulses without remembrance of the oth-
ers. The student of hypnotism and hys-
teria is familiar with such phenomena.
Psychology and Mysticism.
75
These personalities alternate in conscious-
ness in the same way that groups of
ideas succeed one another ; but the sub-
ject which is the bearer of all these per-
sonalities remains always the same, and
the hypothesis that this subject itself
changes when the content of the social
personality changes is thus without sup-
port in the psychological interpretations
of the normal idea of personality. The
real source of these theories as to a deep-
er self and a double consciousness lies,
indeed, not in the psychological facts,
but in motives of a very different char-
acter. We shall turn presently to these
more hidden impulses, as they will show
us the real springs of mysticism ; but we
must first glance at our fourth and last
group of claims, the wonders of spirit-
ualism.
So long as we consider spiritualism
only from the point of view of its
agreement with the system of scientific
psychology, the discussion may be ex-
tremely short, for one sweeping word
is sufficient. There are no subtle dis-
criminations necessary, as in the other
fields : the psychologist rejects every-
thing without exception. We have here
not the slightest relation to philosophical
spiritualism, either to that of the Berke-
leyan type or to that of Fichte. We
are not on the height of philosophical
thinking, but on the low ground of ob-
servation and explanation of empirical
facts. The question is not whether the
substance of the real world is spiritual ;
it is only whether the departed spirits
enter into communication with living
men by mediums and by incarnation.
The scientist does not admit a compro-
mise : with regard to this he flatly denies
the possibility. Of course he does not
say that all the claims are founded on
fraud. He does not deny that sincere
persons have frequently believed, through
hallucinations, and still oftener through
illusions, that they saw the apparitions of
departed friends and heard their voices.
The psychologist has no dearth of ex-
planations for this product of the psycho-
physical mechanism. In the same way,
he need not doubt that many of the me-
diums really believe themselves to be
under the control of departed souls ; for
this also exactly fits many well-known
facts of nervous disturbance. But the
facts as they are claimed do not exist,
and never will exist, and no debate makes
the situation better.
Our short survey of the wide domain
of mysticism is finished. We have seen
what part of its claims can be acknow-
ledged by psychology, and what must
be rejected. We have seen that many
of those occurrences which appear mys-
terious and uncanny to the naive mind
are easily understood from a scientific
point of view, and are often separated by
an impassable chasm from happenings
which on the surface look quite similar.
We have seen especially that hypnotism
and hysteria, muscle reading and hyper-
SBsthesia, alternation of personality and
the therapeutic influence of psychophy-
sical inhibitions, hallucinations and illu-
sions, and other mental states which psy-
chology understands just as well as it
does the normal associations and feel-
ings, explain many of the observed events,
and bring them from the domain of mys-
ticism into the sphere of causally neces-
sary processes. And yet all this is only
a preamble for our real discussion. We
have given decisions, but not arguments ;
we have shown that psychology is able
to explain many of the facts, but we have
not shown as yet why we have the right
to reject other so-called facts and to deny
their possibility ; and everything must at
last depend upon this right alone.
The modern mystic, if he is ready to
follow us thus far, would not find the
slightest argument against his position in
any of our preceding points. He would
say : " I accept your psychophysical ex-
planations for the facts which you ac-
knowledge ; with regard to the others,
I see only that you are unable to under-
stand them, but that gives you no right
Psychology and Mysticism.
to deny them. There are many facts
which are still puzzles for science. His-
tory must make us modest, showing that
again and again the truth was at first rid-
iculed and the deeper insight derided.
These very phenomena of hypnotism and
automatism and hysteria were denied in
their reality only a few generations ago.
Science must give everything fair play,
and a refusal even to examine the facts
is unworthy of real science. It is nar-
rowness and stubbornness to reject a fact
because it does not n't into the scientific
system of to-day, instead of striving to-
ward the better system of to-morrow,
which will have room for all the pheno-
mena ; and this the more if these facts
are of vast importance, involving the
immortality and the absolute unity of all
minds, the spiritual harmony of the uni-
verse, and the very deepest powers of
man."
This is the old text, indeed, preached
from so often, and sometimes in so bril-
liant and fascinating a style that even the
best men lowered the sword. Yet it is
wrong and dangerous from beginning to
end, and has endlessly more harm in it
than a superficial view reveals, as it is in
its last consequences not only the death
of real science, but worse, the death
of real idealism.
First a word about the so-called facts.
Our newspapers, magazines, and books
are full to overflowing of the reports of
happenings which no science can ex-
plain, and which may overwhelm the
uncritical mind by their sheer bulk. But
whoever stops to think for a moment how
the psychological conditions favor and
almost enforce the weedlike growth of
mysterious stories will at least agree that
a live criticism must sift the tales, even
if they are backed by the authority of a
most trustworthy sailor or a most excel-
lent servant girl. If the glaring light
of criticism is thrown on this twilight
literature, the effect is often surprising.
Some of the " facts " prove to be simply
untrue, having grown up through gossip
and desire for excitement, through fear
and curiosity, through misunderstand-
ings and imagination. Another set of
the " facts " turns out to be true, but not
mysterious ; being merely a checkered
field of abnormal mental phenomena,
such as hypnotism, somnambulism, hys-
teria, insanity, hyperassthesia, automatic
action, and so forth. Another large
group is based on conscious or uncon-
scious fraud, from the mildest form down
through a long scale to the boldest spirit-
ualistic forgery. If we take away these
three large groups, there is a remainder
which may deserve discussion as to its
interpretation. Here belong the chance
occurrences which appear alarmingly sur-
prising if taken in isolation, but quite
natural if considered as members of a
long series, giving account of all the cases
in which the surprising coincidences did
not occur. The recent statistics of ap-
paritions and hallucinations show clearly
the difficulty of finding always the right
basis for such calculation of mathemat-
ical probabilities. Here belong, further,
the illusions of memory, by which present
experiences are projected into the past,
or past experiences are transformed by
present sensations ; the surprising coinci-
dences illustrated by recent experiments,
which are produced by the concordance
of associations and other similarities of
mental dispositions ; and the illusions of
perception which allow us to hear and
see whatever we expect or whatever is
suggested to us.
If we are ready to make full use
of every means of possible explanation,
there remains hardly an instance where
it is impossible to tear aside the veil of
mystery, and to explain psychologically
either the occurrences of the facts them-
selves, or the development of the errone-
ous report about them. Even when long
series of careful experiments on thought
transference and similar problems were
made, the cautious papers discreetly re-
ported in most cases, not that a proof
was furnished, but only that the evidence
Psychology and Mysticism.
77
seemed to point in a certain direction.
And even the most ardent believer in
telepathy, Mr. Podmore, concedes that
" each particular case is susceptible of
more or less adequate explanation by
some well-known cause." Mr. Podmore
considers it absurd to accumulate the
strained and complicated explanations
which thus become necessary, instead of
accepting the simple wholesale interpre-
tation that telepathy took place. But
with the same right we might say that
in an endless number of instances the
lowest animals and plants rise from inor-
ganic substances ; each case taken sepa-
rately could be explained by biologists
from procreation, but since such expla-
nation would involve an accumulation of
complicated theories about the conditions
of life for the lowest animals, it would
be much simpler to believe in generatio
equiuoca.
Our presupposition was that a large
proportion of the claims are false. Even
the champions of mysticism are to-day
ready to admit that the temptations and
chances for deception are discouragingly
numerous. Not only is there an abun-
dance of money-making schemes which
fit well the natural credulity and sug-
gestibility of the public at large. Some
lie and cheat merely for art's sake, get-
ting pleasure from the fact that their
fiction becomes real through the belief
that it awakes, and some do the same
merely in boyish trickery. Some elabo-
rate their inventions to make themselves
interesting, and some feast in the power
they thus gain over men. Some begin
by consciously embellishing the slender
facts, and end with a sincere belief in
their own superstructure; and others,
through hysterical excitement, are un-
aware of their own cheating. Add to
these causes the incorrectness with which
most men observe and report on mat-
ters in which their feelings are interest-
ed, and the miserable lack of the feel-
ing of responsibility with which average
men and average papers put forth their
wild tales. Consider how again and again
the honored leaders of mystical move-
ments have been unmasked as cheap im-
postors and their admired wonders re-
cognized as vulgar tricks, how telepathic
performances have been reduced to a
simple signaling by breathing or noises,
and how seldom disbelievers have inter-
rupted a materialization stance without
putting their hands on a provision of
beards and draperies. Think of all this,
and the supposed facts dwindle more and
more.
At this point of the discussion the
friends of mysticism like to go over to a
more personal attack. They say, " How
do you dare to presuppose credulity and
suggestibility in the observer, and intend-
ed or unintended tricks and dishonesty
in the performer, when you have never
taken part in such experiments, and
when some brilliant scholars have exam-
ined them and found no fraud ? " To
such personal reproach I answer with
personal facts. It is true, I have never
taken part in a telepathic experiment or
in a spiritualistic stance. It is not a
nervous dislike of abnormalities which
has kept me away, as I have devoted
much time to the study of hypnotism and
insanity. The experiences of some of
my friends, however, made me cautious
from the beginning; they had spent
much energy and time and money on
such mysteries, and had come to the
conviction that all was humbug. Once,
I confess, I wavered in my decision. I
received a telegram from two famous
telepathists in Europe, asking me to come
immediately to a small town where they
had discovered a medium of extraordi-
nary powers. It required fifteen hours'
traveling, and I hesitated ; but the report
was so inspiring that I finally packed my
trunks. Just then came a second mes-
sage with the laconic words, " All fraud."
Since that time I do not take the trouble
to pack. I wait quietly for the second
message.
Why do I avoid these stances ? It ia
78
not because I ana afraid that they would
shake my theoretical views and convince
me of mysticism, but because I consider
it undignified to visit such performances,
as one attends a variety show, for amuse-
ment only, without attempting to explain
them, and because I know that I should
be the last man to see through the scheme
and discover the trick. I should cer-
tainly have been deceived by Madame
Blavatsky, the theosophist, and by Miss
Paladino, the medium. I am only a
psychologist, not a detective. More than
that, by my whole training I am abso-
lutely spoiled for the business of the de-
tective. The names of great scientists,
like Zoellner, Richet, Crookes, and many
others, do not impose on me in the least ;
for their daily work in scientific labora-
tories was a continuous training of an
instinctive confidence in the honesty of
their cooperators. I do not know an-
other profession in which the suspicion
of constant fraud becomes so systemati-
cally inhibited as it does in that of the
scientist. He ought to be at once dis-
missed from the jury, and a prestidigita-
tor substituted. Whether I personally
take part in such meetings or not is,
therefore, without any consequences ; I
take it for granted from the start that
wherever there was fraud in the play, I
should have been cheated like my bre-
thren. The only thing that the other
side can reasonably demand from us is
that we be fully acquainted with their
claims and with the evidence they furnish
in their writings. I confess I have not
had quite a good conscience in this re-
spect ; I had not really studied all the
recorded Phantasms of the Living and
all the Proceedings of the Societies for
Psychical Research, and I am afraid I
had forgotten to cut the leaves of some of
the occult magazines on my own shelves.
Now, however, my conscience is fully
disburdened. I used or ought I to
say, misused ? my last summer vaca-
tion in working through more than a
hundred volumes of the so-called evi-
Psychology and Mysticism.
dence. I passed through a whole series
of feelings. Indeed, I had at first a feel-
ing of mysterious excitement from all
those uncanny stories, but that changed
into a deep sesthetical and ethical dis-
gust, which flattened finally into the feel-
ing that there was about me an endless
desert of absolute stupidity. I, for one,
am to-day far more skeptical than before
I was driven to examine the evidence ;
I have studied the proofs, and now feel
sure of what before I only suspected,
that they do not prove anything ; and if
we condemn science on such testimony,
we do worse than those who condemned
the witches and vampires.
In short, I believe that the facts, if
they are examined critically, are never
incapable of a scientific explanation;
and yet even this is not the central point
of the question. I must deny that the
battle is waged over the facts which sci-
ence understands and those which it
does not understand. No scientist in the
world feels uncomfortable over the con-
fession that there are many endlessly
many things in the world which we
do not know ; no sane man dreams that
the last day of scientific progress has yet
come, and that every problem has been
solved. On the contrary, the springs
of scientific enthusiasm lie in the con-
viction that we stand only at the be-
ginning of knowledge, and that every
day may unveil new elements of the uni-
verse. Even physiological psychology,
which seems so conceited in the face of
mysticism, admits how meagre is the
knowledge it has so far gleaned. Almost
every important question of our science is
still unsettled, and yet that has never dis-
couraged us in our work. The physicist
and the astronomer, the chemist and the
botanist, the physiologist and the psycho-
logist, work steadily, with the conviction
that there are many facts which they do
not know, like the Roentgen rays ten
years ago, and that many facts are not
fully understood, like the Roentgen rays
at present. If the mystical facts were
Psychology and Mysticism.
79
merely processes which we do not under-
stand to-day, but which we may under-
stand to-morrow, there would not be the
slightest occasion for a serious dispute.
But the situation is very different. The
antithesis is not between the facts we can
explain and the facts we cannot explain,
and for which we seek an explanation
of the same order. No ; it is between
the facts which are now explicable by
causal laws, or may be so in any possi-
ble future, and those facts which are
acknowledged as in principle outside of
the necessary causal connections, and
bound together by their values for our
personal feelings instead of by mechan-
ical laws. As Professor James puts it
excellently : It is the difference between
the personal emotional and the imper-
sonal mechanical thinking, between the
romantic and the rationalistic views of
the world. Here lies the root of the
problem, and here centres our whole in-
terest. Indeed, all that is claimed by the
mystic as such means, not that the cau-
sal connections of the world found so far
are still incomplete and must be supple-
mented by others, but that the blanks in
the causal connections allow us glimpses
of another world behind, an uncausal
emotional world which shines through
the vulgar world of mechanics.
If the astronomer calculated the move-
ment of a star from the causally working
forces, he might come to the hypothesis
that there are centres of attraction exist-
ing which we have not yet discovered : it
was thus Leverrier discovered Neptune.
But his boldest theories operate only with
quantities of the same order, with sub-
stances and forces which come under the
categories of the mechanical world. If,
on the other hand, he accepted some emo-
tional view, perhaps the aesthetical one,
that the star followed this curve because
it is more beautiful, as indeed an older
astronomy did ; or the ethical one, that
this movement of the star occurred be-
cause it served to make the moral pro-
gress of men possible, while the causal
movement would have thrown the earth
into the sun ; or the religious one, that
the angels chose to pull the star this way
rather than that; or the poetical one,
that the star was obliged to move just
so in order to delight the heart on a
clear evening by its sparkling, in none
of these cases would he be doubtful whe-
ther his hypothesis were good or bad ;
he would be sure that it was not an as-
tronomical hypothesis at all. He would
not search with the telescope to find out
whether or not his theory was confirmed
by new facts. No ; he would see that
his thought denied the possibility of as-
tronomy, and was a silly profanation of
ethics and religion at the same time.
The naturalist knows, if he understands
the philosophical basis of his work, and
is not merely a technical craftsman, that
natural science means, not a simple cast
and copy of the reality, but a special
transformation of reality, a conceptual
construction of unreal character in the
service of special logical purposes. The
naturalist does not think that bodies are
in reality made from atoms, and that
the movements of the stars are really
the products of all the elementary im-
pulses into which his calculation disin-
tegrates the causes. He knows that all
his elements, the elementary substances
and the elementary forces, are merely
conceptions worked out for the purpose
of representing the world as a causally
connected mechanism. The real world is
no mechanism, but a world of means and
aims, objects of our will and of our per-
sonal purposes. But one of these pur-
poses is to conceive the world as a mech-
anism, and so long as we work in the
service of this purpose we presuppose
that the world is a mechanism. In the
effort to represent the world as a causal
one that is, in our character as natu-
ralists we know only a causal world,
and no other. We may know little about
that postulated causal world, but we are
sure beforehand that whatever the future
may discover about it must belong to the.
80
causal system, or it is wrong. We are
free to choose the point of view, but when
we have chosen it we are bound by its
presuppositions. A naturalist who be-
gins to doubt whether the world is every-
where causal misunderstands his own aim
and gives up his only end.
These simple facts from the methodo-
logy of science repeat themselves exact-
ly, though in a more complicated form,
for psychology. Psychology, also, is
never a mere copy of the reality, but al-
ways a transformation in the service of
a special logical purpose. Our real in-
ner life is not a complex of elementary
sensations as psychology may see it : it
is a system of attitudes of will, which we
do not perceive as contents of conscious-
ness, but which we live through, and ob-
jects of will which are our means and
ends and values. It becomes a special
interest of the logical attitude of the will
to transform this real will system in con-
ceptual form into a causal system, too,
and, in the service of this end, to put
in the place of the teleological reality a
mechanical artificial construction. This
construction is psychology, and it is thus
clear that in the psychological system
itself every view which is not causal is
contradictory to the presuppositions, and
therefore scientifically untrue. Between
the mental facts, in so far as they are
considered as psychological phenomena,
there exists no other possible connection
than the causal one, though, to be sure,
this causal view has not the slightest
meaning for the inner reality, which
never consists of psychological pheno-
mena. This is the point which even
philosophers so easily overlook : as soon
as we speak of psychical objects, of
ideas and feelings and volitions, as con-
tents of consciousness, we speak of an
artificial transformation to which the
categories of real life no longer apply,
a transformation which lies in the direc-
tion of causal connection, and which has,
therefore, a right to existence only if the
right to extend the causal aspect of na-
Psychology and Mysticism.
tore to the inner life is acknowledged.
The personal, the emotional, the roman-
tic, in short the will view controls our
real life, but from that standpoint men-
tal life is never a psychical fact.
It is one of the greatest dangers of
our time that the naturalistic point of
view, which decomposes the world into
elements for the purpose of causal con-
nection, interferes with the volitional
point of view of the real life, which can
deal only with values, and not with ele-
ments. I have sought again and again to
point out this unfortunate situation, and
to show that history and practical life,
education and art, morality and religion,
have nothing to do with these psycholo-
gical constructions, and that the catego-
ries of psychology must not intrude into
their teleological realms. But that does
not blind me to the fact that exactly the
opposite transgression of boundaries is
going on all the time, too. If the world
of values is intruded into the causal
world, if the categories which belong to
reality are forced on the system of trans-
formation which was framed in the ser-
vice of causality, we get a cheap mix-
ture which satisfies neither the one aim
nor the other. Just this is the effort of
mysticism. It is the personal, emotional
view applied, not to the world of reality,
where it fits, but to the physical and
psychical worlds, both of which are con-
structed by the human logical will for
the purpose of an impersonal, unemo-
tional causal system. But to mix values
with laws destroys not only the causal
links, but also the values. The ideals
of ethics and religion, instead of grow-
ing in the world of volitional relations,
are now projected into the atomistic
structure, and thus become dependent
upon its nature. Intended to fill there
the blanks in the causal system, they
find their right of existence only where
ignorance of nature leaves such blanks,
and must tremble at every step of pro-
gress science makes. It is bad enough
when the psychological categories are
Psychology and Mysticism.
81
wrongly pushed into ethics by the over-
extension of psychology, but it is still
more absurd when ethics leaves its home
in the real world and creeps over to the
field of psychology, satish'ed with the
few places to which science has not yet
acquired a clear title. Our ethics and
religion may thus be shaken to-morrow
by any new result of laboratory research,
and must be supported to-day by the tele-
pathic performances of hysteric women.
Our belief in immortality must rest on
the gossip which departed spirits utter
in dark rooms through the mouths of
hypnotized business mediums, and our
deepest personality comes to light when
we scribble disconnected phrases in au-
tomatic writing. Is life then really still
worth living ?
We must here throw more light on
some details which may be difficult to
understand. We have said that the
claims of mysticism impose the emotion-
al teleological categories upon the psy-
chological facts ; that is, upon construc-
tions which are formed for the purpose
of the mechanical categories only. It
may not be at once evident how this is
true for special propositions of a mysti-
cal nature. Of course we cannot develop
here the presuppositions of psychology ;
a few words to show the nature of the
problems must be sufficient. Psychology
tries to consider the mental life as a sys-
tem of perceivable objects which are ne-
cessarily determined ; every transforma-
tion which is serviceable for this purpose
is psychologically true. If the mental
facts are thought as determining one an-
other, we must presuppose that they have
characteristics to which this effective in-
fluence attaches. These characteristics
are called their elements, and therefore,
for psychologists, the mental life consists
of elements. The psychical material is
different from the physical by the pre-
supposition that it exists for one subject
only. It is therefore not communica-
ble ; since incommunicable, it is not de-
terminable by communicable units, and
VOL. Lxxxin. NO. 495. 6
hence is not measurable, not quantita-
tive, but only qualitative. Consequently,
it is incapable of entering into a, mathe-
matical equation, and is unfit to play
the role of determinable causes and ef-
fects. Before psychical elements can be
transformed into a system of causes and
effects a further transformation must be
made ; they must be thought as amalga-
mated with physical processes which ex-
ist for many, and which are measurable,
and therefore capable of forming a ne-
cessary causal system. The psychical
facts are thus thought as accompaniments
of physical processes, and in their ap-
pearance and disappearance fully deter-
mined by the physical events. There is
no materialistic harm in this doctrine, as
it aims at no reference to reality, but
is merely a construction for a special
purpose ; within its sphere, however,
there cannot be any exception. If the
psychical facts are thought as accompa-
niments of the physical processes, they
must be projected into the physical world,
and must accept its forms of existence,
space and time. The real inner life in
its teleological reality is spaceless and
timeless, it knows space and time only
as forms of its objects ; the psycholo-
gical phenomena themselves enter into
space and time as soon as they are con-
nected with the physical phenomena.
They are now psychophysical elements
which can determine one another only
by the causal relations of the physical
substratum. The working hypothesis of
modern psychology that every mental
state is a complex of psychical elements,
of which each is the accompaniment of
a physical process in time and space, and
influences others or is influenced by oth-
ers merely through the medium of phy-
sical processes is then not an arbitrary
theory. It is the necessary outcome of
the presuppositions which the human
will has freely chosen for its logical pur-
poses, and to which it is bound by its
own decision.
From this point a full light of expla-
82
Psychology and Mysticism.
nation falls upon all our earlier decisions.
We rejected every claimed fact in which
the psychological facts were without a
physical substratum, as in the case of
departed spirits and those in which psy-
chical facts influenced one another with-
out physical intermediation, as in tele-
pathy. If mental life is taken in its
reality, it must not be considered as
composed of elements, ideas, and feel-
ings, but must be taken as a whole ;
then it is not in bodily personalities, not
in space and not in time, in short, is
not a psychological fact at all. But if
we take it as psychological fact in hu-
man bodies and in time, it must be
* thought in accordance with the psycho-
logical presuppositions, as bound to the
physical events, communicated by their
intermediation and disappearing at their
destruction. Where these conditions
are in part wanting, psychology declines
to accept the propositions as truths, and
demands a further transformation of the
facts till the demands of psychology are
satisfied. Mysticism, however, prefers an
easier way. Wherever the conditions of
psychological truth are absent, and, ow-
ing to the lack of physical substrata or
of physical mediation, the psychical facts
are disconnected or unexplained in their
existence, there mysticism imports the
teleological links of the prepsychological
real world, and gives the illusion that the
psychical facts have been thus explained
and connected.
Perhaps most instructive in this respect
are those claims of mysticism which re-
fer to the healing influences of men, be-
cause here it appears most clearly that
it is not the facts, but only the points
of view, which constitute the mysticism.
The facts from which these claims arise
the psychologist does not deny at all ;
as we have seen, he takes them for grant-
ed. But he explains them by sugges-
tion and other familiar laws of mental
action, and thus links the psychical phe-
nomena by an uninterrupted chain of
physical processes. The mystic, on the
other hand, brings the same facts under
the categories which belong to the world
of values : prayer has now a healing in-
fluence, not because it is perceived by the
senses of the patient, and works through
association some inhibitory changes in
his brain, but because prayer is ethical-
ly and religiously valuable. Not its
physiological accompaniments which pro-
duce psychophysical effects, but its good-
ness and piety secure success, and, con-
versely, the illness which is cured by the
prayer must be a symptom of moral and
religious obliquity. The causal concep-
tion of a disturbance of physiological
functions is thus transmuted into the eth-
ical conception of sin. Exactly the same
psychophysical facts, the prayer of the
transmitter and the feeling of improve-
ment in the receiver, are in this case,
then, connected by the mystic and the
scientist in different ways, without any
need on either side of a further trans-
formation of the facts. For the one, it
is the causal process that a suggestion
psychophysically overpowers nervous in-
hibition ; for the other, it is the victory
of sainthood over sin, by its religious
values. If the scientist maintains that
only the first is an explanatory connec-
tion, the second not, does he mean by
this that goodness has no power over
evil ? Certainly not ; he means some-
thing very different. Goodness and evil,
he thinks, are relations and attitudes of
will, which have their reality in being
willed and lived through. They are not
psychophysical facts, to be perceived as
taking time, and going on in space in a
special brain and nervous system. They
belong to the world of willing subjects,
not to the world of atomistic objects ;
they are primary, while suggestions and
inhibitions and all the other psycho-
physical objects are unreal derived con-
structions. If prayer and sin are taken
in their reality as we live through them,
then of course their meaning and their
value alone are in question, and it would
be absurd to apply to them the relations
Psychology and Mysticism.
of causal connection. As realities, they
are not brain processes ; us such, they do
not come in question as processes in time
and space ; as such, they are not trans-
muted into mere objects. If we take
them in their reality as will attitudes,
they have no relation to causality. If
we take them as psychological processes
which go on in time in physical person-
alities, then we have transformed them
in the service of causality, and have
pledged ourselves to the causal system.
An ethical connection of psychophysical
facts is a direct inner contradiction ; it
means applying the categories of will to
objects which we have taken away from
the will for the single purpose of putting
them into a system of will-less categories.
We might just as well demand that the
figures of a painting should talk and
move about.
Another case in which scientists and
mystics agree in regard to the facts is
that of double personality. The differ-
ence here, also, is only one of interpreta-
'tioii. We have seen that the psychologist
understands this class of facts as various
degrees of disaggregation of psychophy-
sical elements, whereas the mystic in-
troduces the ethical categories of differ-
ent responsibility and dignity. It is
otherwise with the telepathic or spirit-
ualistic claims : here there is no agree-
ment about the facts, and yet the prin-
ciple is the same as in the other cases.
The mystic applies the emotional per-
mal links in this case, also, not to the
lity, but to psychological facts in a
of transformation which the psy-
jhologist does not accept because they
not allow causal connection. The
psychologist calls the claimed facts un-
true, because the transformation of real-
ity is psychologically or physically true
>nly when it has reached that form in
which it fits into the causal system. It
is the aim of science to find the true
Facts, that is, to transform reality till
ends of causal ordering are attained ;
if they are not attained, the objects
have not become a part of the existing
psychological or physical world. An in-
finite number of facts appear to us in
disconnected form, but we ignore them ;
they remain only propositions ; they have
not existence, because they do not ful-
fill the conditions upon which, according
to the decision of the will which pro-
duces science, psychical or physical exist-
ence depends. That a fact is true in
the world of psychical facts means that
it is selected as fit for a special logical
purpose ; and if the telepathic facts, for
instance, are not suited to that purpose,
they are not true according to the only
consistent standard of truth. They must
become somehow otherwise ; that is, they
must be transformed until they can be
accepted as existing. The history of
science constantly demonstrates this ne-
cessity. It is absurd for the mystics to
claim the backing of history, because
it shows that many things are acknow-
ledged as true to-day which were not
believed in earlier times. The teaching
of history, on the contrary, annihilates
almost cruelly every claim of mysticism,
as, far from a later approval of mystical
wisdom, history has in every case re-
moulded the facts till they have become
causal ones. If the scientists of earlier
times disbelieved in phenomena as pro-
ducts of witchcraft, and believe to-day in
the same phenomena as products of hyp-
notic suggestion and hysteria, the mys-
tics are not victorious, but defeated. As
long as the ethical category of Satanic
influence was applied to the appearances
they were not true ; as soon as they were
brought under the causal categories they
were accepted as true, but they were then
no longer mystical, it was not witch-
craft any more.
This process of transformation goes on
steadily ; millions of propositions which
-life suggests remain untrue till they
are adjusted. Just this would be the
fate of the telepathic propositions : they
would remain below the threshold of the
world of empirical facts, if a mistaken
84
Psychology and Mysticism.
emotional attitude did not awaken the
illusion that there exists here a connec-
tion capable of satisfying the demand
for explanation. The personal impor-
tance then links what ought to be linked
by impersonal causality. A feeling of
depression in the psychophysical organ-
ism and the death of a friend a thou-
sand miles distant have for us no causal
connection, but an emotional one. The
two events have no relation in the sphere
of objects ; they are connected only in the
sphere of will acts ; and the link is not
the goodness, as in the case of healing
by prayer, but the emotional importance
of the death for the friend's feeling atti-
tude. By this will connection the two
phenomena are selected and linked to-
gether, and offer themselves as one fact,
while without that emotional unity they
would remain disconnected, and there-
fore in this combination they would not
be accepted in the sphere of empirical
facts.
Does the scientist maintain, in his op-
position to telepathy, that in reality men-
tal communication between subjects is
possible only by physical intermedia-
tion ? Decidedly not. If I talk with
others whom I wish to convince, there
is no physical process in question ; mind
reaches mind, thought reaches thought ;
but in this aspect thoughts are not psy-
chophysical phenomena in space and time,
but attitudes and propositions in the
sphere of the will. If we take our men-
tal life in its felt reality, then the emo-
tional conviction that no physical wall
intervenes between mind and mind is
the only correct one ; it would be even
meaningless to look for physical connec-
tion. But if we transform the reality
into psychological objects in time and in
bodies, then we are bound by the aim of
the transformation, and we can acknow-
ledge their connection as true only if it
is a mechanical one.
Finally, the ethical demand for im-
mortality, when applied to the artificial
construction of psychology instead of to
the real life, brings out the most repul-
sive claim of mysticism, spiritualism.
The ethical belief in immortality means
that we as subjects of will are immortal ;
that is, that we are not reached by death.
For the philosophical mind which sees
the difference between reality and psy-
chological transformation, immortality
is certain ; for him, the denial of immor-
tality would be even quite meaningless.
Death is a biological phenomenon in the
world of objects in time ; how then can
death reach a reality which is not an ob-
ject, but an attitude, and therefore nei-
ther in time nor in space ? Our real in-
ner subjective life has its felt validity,
not in time, but beyond time ; it is eter-
nal. We have seen why the purpose of
psychology demands that this non-local
and non-temporal subjectivity shall be
transformed into a psychical object, and
as such projected into the space and time
filling organism. By that demand the
mental life itself becomes a process in
time ; and if the ethical demand for im-
mortality is now transplanted into this
circle of constructed phenomena, there
must result a clash between psychology
and human emotion. Conceiving men-
tal life as a process in time was done
merely for the purpose of representing
it as the accompaniment of physical
phenomena, and now to demand that it
should go on in time after the destruction
of this physical substratum is absurd.
In so far as we think mental life as an ar-
tificial psychological process in time, in so
far we can think it only as part of a psy-
chophysical phenomenon, and thus never
without a body, disappearing when the
body ceases to function. To the ethical
idealist this impossibility of the psycholo-
gical immortality is a revelation ; for such
pseudo-immortality could satisfy only the
low and vulgar instincts of man, and not
his ethical feelings. Only to a cheap cu-
riosity can it appear desirable that the
inner life viewed as a series of psycho-
logical facts shall go on and on, that we
may be able to see what is to happen in
Psychology and Mysticism.
85
a thousand or in a million years. Life
seen from a psychological point of view
as a mere chain of psychological pheno-
mena is utterly worthless. It would be
intolerable for seventy years ; who would
desire it for seventy million years ? Mul-
tiplication by zero always leads back to
naught. And even if we perceive all
the facts of the universe for all time to
come, is that of any value ? We should
shiver at the thought of knowing all that
is printed in one year, or all that men
of a single town feel passing through
their minds ; how intolerable the thought
of knowing even all that is and that will
be! It is like the thought of endless-
necs in space : if we were to grow end-
lessly tall, so that we became large like
the universe, reaching with our arms to
the stars, physically almighty, would our
life be more worth living, would it be
better or nobler or more beautiful ? No ;
extension in space and time has not the
slightest ethical value, for it necessarily
refers only to those objects which exist
in space or time, and all our real values
lie beyond it. The mortality of the
psychological phenomena and the im-
mortality of our real inner life belong
necessarily together, and the claim that
the deceased spirits go on with psycho-
logical existence is therefore not only a
denial of the purposes for which the
idea of psychological existence is con-
structed, but also a violation of the ethi-
cal belief in immortality.
Here, then, as everywhere, mysticism
means nothing else than the attempt to
force the emotional categories on an un-
real construction, whose only presuppo-
sition was that it had to be constructed
as an unemotional objective mechanism.
The result is a miserable changeling,
which satisfies neither the one side nor
the other. If mysticism is not content-
ed with the childish or hysteric plea-
sure of throwing obstacles in the way of
advancing science, it can have, indeed,
little satisfaction from its own crippled
products. Thousands and thousands of
spirits have appeared ; the ghosts of the
greatest men have said their say, and
yet the substance of it has been always
the absurdest silliness. Not one inspir-
ing thought has yet been transmitted by
this mystical way ; only the most vulgar
trivialities. It has never helped to find
the truth; it has never brought forth
anything but nervous fear and supersti-
tion.
We have the truth of life. Its reali-
ties are subjective acts, linked together
by the categories of personality, giving
us values and ideals, harmony and unity
and immortality. But we have, as one
of the duties of life, the search for the
truth of science which transforms reali-
ty in order to construct an impersonal
system, and gives us causal explanation
and order. If we force the system of
science upon the real life, claiming that
our life is really a psychophysical phe-
nomenon, we are under the illusion of
psychologism. If, on the other hand,
we force the views of the real life, the
personal categories, upon the scientific
psychophysical phenomena, we are un-
der the illusion of mysticism. The re-
sult in both cases is the same. We lose
the truth of life and the truth of sci-
ence. The real world loses its values,
and the scientific world loses its order ;
they flow together in a new world con-
trolled by inanity and trickery, unwor-
thy of our scientific interests and unfit
for our ethical ideals.
Hugo Munsterberg.
The Twenty-First Man.
THE TWENTY-FIRST MAN.
THORPE BEECKMAN sat in a hansom
cab, watch in hand. When at last the
cab turned off Fifth Avenue into one of
the upper Fiftieths, and stopped before
a large, brilliantly lighted house, Mr.
Beeckman gave a sigh of relief. He did
not wish to begin his career in New York
society, after his seven years' absence,
by being late at his first dinner party.
"You did it with two minutes to
spare," he said to the driver as he jumped
from the cab, and, thrusting a bill into
the man's hand, he ran without a mo-
ment's delay up the canopied stone steps.
"That dude's in a hurry!" called
an urchin from the crowd that pressed
around the awning. " He 's got no use
for change."
" Hurry up, Al-ger-non, or you '11 be
in the soup," drawled a girl.
" I 'm pretty close to being late for it,
which is worse," he smiled to himself, as
he gave his hat and coat to a tall foot-
man in silk stockings, and followed an-
other up the wide white marble stair-
case. The great hall above, with its pil-
lars and statuary, opened into a vista of
dazzling rooms, whence came the sound
of laughter and talk. From a balcony
above floated down the strains of the
Hungarian orchestra.
" This seems more like London than
New York," Beeckman thought, as he
looked about him. " I had no idea
Mrs. Thornton was such a tremendous
swell." Then his name was announced.
He stood for an instant at the doorway
of the drawing-room, looking for his
hostess. A tall and extremely hand-
some young woman, with a blaze of dia-
monds in her dark hair, stepped from the
little group near the door and advanced a
step toward him with outstretched hand.
" Ah, Mr. Bateman," she said, with a
gentle cordiality, " I have been looking
for you. My mother is very sorry not
to be able to welcome you herself, but
she was badly frightened in a runaway
accident this afternoon, and has been
obliged to intrust her guests to my ten-
der mercies."
Beeckman expressed a becoming re-
gret at the accident.
" I am Mrs. Burke Heatherfield, you
know, the daughter of the house," she
added, with a smile, " and I have heard
very pleasant things of you from my mo-
ther. I am not sure that you know every
one here to-night, I confess I don't
myself ; but there is one good friend of
yours, Miss Muriel Dean, and I am go-
ing to ask you to take her in to dinner."
Beeckman was puzzled. " A clear
case of mistaken identity," he said to
himself ; but before he could reply, Mrs.
Heatherfield had turned to a pretty, ra-
ther audacious - looking girl who stood
near her.
" Muriel," she said, " here is Mr. Bate-
man waiting to hear the denouement of
your yesterday's escapade. Be careful
what you tell him, though, for he may
put the whole thing into one of his clever
stories." Another guest was announced,
and she turned away.
Miss Dean looked at Thorpe Beeck-
man and smiled mischievously. " My
cousin has certainly put her little tag on
the wrong man," she said, evidently re-
lishing the situation.
" She has simply put it on a Beeck-
man instead of a Bateman. It is merely
the difference of a syllable," he replied.
She laughed. " That is a rather neat
way of introducing yourself, Mr. Beeck-
man, though I don't as a rule approve of
puns."
" The lowest form of wit," he admitted.
" The trouble is, the other man is sure
to corne, and as he also has been told
that he is to take me in to dinner there
might be complications."
The Twenty-First Man.
87
"If I am offered as a substitute, I
promise not to put you into a clever story.
I can assure you that you would be en-
tirely safe in my hands," he rejoined.
" But the other man is Frederick
Waring Bateman, the novelist," she said
triumphantly.
Beeckman bowed. " I acknowledge
my utter insignificance. I must go at
once and confess it to Mrs. Heather-
field."
" If she were any one but herself, she
would be quite distracted this evening.
She was summoned home from Lake-
wood late this afternoon to act as hostess
at this dinner of her mother's, and she
found aunt Margaret too upset even to
tell her who had been asked. And now,
as a climax, Lord Burnside, who is to be
lion of the evening, is desperately late.
If any of us get taken in to dinner, it
will be surprising."
Beeckman glanced from his lively
companion to Mrs. Heatherfield's beau-
tiful, serene face. Just then Mr. Bate-
man's name was announced. An ex-
pression of surprise, or perhaps of per-
plexity, passed over the face of the young
hostess; but in an instant it was gone,
and she greeted the newcomer with sweet
graciousness. Then her eyes wandered
for a moment to Beeckman.
" Evidently there is a hitch some-
where," he said to himself. Then an
awful thought came to him. " By Jove !
I believe I 'm an extra man, and she is
wondering what to do with me. I wish
I could spare her this awkward moment
by flying up the chimney."
Mr. Bateman had turned from Mrs.
Heatherfield to Miss Dean, with whom
he began a lively conversation. Just
then the butler handed Mrs. Heather-
field a note. She read it hastily ; then
irning to the knot of people gathered
rat her said serenely, " This seems to
a day of accidents. Lord Burnside
sprained his ankle on the golf links this
afternoon and will not be able to be here."
" She is magnificent," thought Beeck-
man, as he watched ^er, "a thorough-
bred, if ever I saw one ; and for all her
' poise, I don't believe she 's over twenty-
two. Strange that Mrs. Thornton never
mentioned her to me by her married
name." He approached her.
"Mrs. Heatherfield," he said, I
fear you mistook me for a more distin-
guished guest when you assigned me to
take Miss Dean in to dinner. I am not
Mr. Bateman, the novelist. I am Thorpe
Beeckman, a painter."
Mrs. Heatherfield raised her long-
lashed hazel eyes and regarded him with
that direct gaze which one associates with
childhood. Then she smiled radiantly.
" Will you forgive my mistake, Mr.
Beeckman, the artist, and will you take
me in to dinner ? "
He bowed and offered her his arm.
" With such royal compensation, I can
bear even the imputation of writing clever
stories."
" She is perfect," he added to himself.
" Ninety-nine women in a hundred would
have attempted impossible explanations,
and spoiled the situation."
As they led the way down the stairs
to the dining-room, Muriel Dean said to
Mr. Bateman, " In point of looks, Mr.
Beeckman is a magnificent substitute
for poor wabbly little Lord Burnside ;
but what I don't understand is whom
he would have taken in if Burnside
had n't sprained his ankle at the last
minute, or where he would have sat,
for that matter, for there are just twenty
covers."
While the guests were seating them-
selves Beeckman's eyes wandered about
the superb room, his critical taste keenly
appreciative of its beauty. There were
great pictures on the wainscoted walls,
a Gainsborough, a Veronese, and a splen-
did Rembrandt ; there were richly carved
Renaissance sideboards, old tapestries,
old silver. In the centre of this rich
setting, the table, with its banks of crim-
son roses and its weight of shining glass
and silver, glowed and glittered in the
88
The Twenty-First Man.
light of countless shaded candles. There
was not a false note anywhere.
" The late lamented Mr. Thornton
must have been an artist," Beeckman
decided. " All this is a perfectly appro-
priate setting for that imperial girl ; but
I can't reconcile it with the thought of
fat, jolly, bourgeoise little Mrs. Thorn-
ton."
Thorpe Beeckman found himself next
to Miss Dean. She chattered to him
vivaciously for a few moments.
"You have your right label now, I
see," she said, laughing, "and it has
drawn a higher prize than the other."
"A double prize," he rejoined lightly,
" since, after all, I am placed next you."
She turned her head to answer a sal-
ly of Mr. Bateman's, and Beeckman,
with a feeling of relief, turned to look
at his beautiful neighbor. She seemed
lovelier than ever, with the soft light of
the candles falling on her face and white
shoulders, and gleaming on the diamonds
in her hair.
" Mr. Beeckman, won't you help me
out ? " The clear, low voice, with its
perfect modulations, fell like a benison
on his ear. "Mr. Morley and I are
discussing that beautiful portrait of Miss
Grace Markham that was on exhibition
at the Durand-Ruel gallery last spring.
Mr. Morley says that it was by Constant,
but I am quite sure that Mr. Beeckman
was the artist." She looked directly at
him and smiled interrogatively.
" Mr. Morley pays a very high com-
pliment to a modest young painter," he
replied. " I fear Constant would hardly
be flattered at the imputation."
She turned to Mr. Movley with a lit-
tle gesture of triumph. "I have the
double pleasure of presenting the artist
himself to you and of proving myself
right, all in the same breath," she said,
with the slow, alluring smile that Beeck-
man found himself waiting for.
When she turned again to Beeckman,
their talk grew animated. She seemed
to know all his favorite haunts.
" And do you remember the narrow
lane behind the cathedral at Avalon,
where the old sacristan lives in a queer
fragment of a house covered with Pro-
vence roses ? roses like this," and she
touched the crimson rose that glowed
against the whiteness of her breast, its
petals fluttering softly with her breathing.
"Indeed I do," he rejoined eagerly,
bending slightly toward her. " Your
rose has the same languorous fragrance.
Old Pierre was a good friend of mine. I
have a sketch of him and of his house
that I hope you will let me show you
some day. But you must have been a
long time in Southern France, to become
so familiar with all these out-of-the-way
corners."
" Yes, we lived there for more than a
year while my husband was ill," she said
simply. " Mr. Heatherfield died there."
Beeckman found himself starting in-
voluntarily. , She was a widow, then. It
was utterly absurd for him to be glad of
it, but he could not deny the little thrill
of pleasure that shot through him. How
fresh her appreciations were, how sim-
ple and direct her way of looking at
things ! With all her poise and brilliance
she was unconventional at heart. He
even told himself that she would make
an adorable Bohemian. When Mrs.
Heatherfield gave the signal and the
ladies rose, Beeckman was amazed.
" This is the shortest long dinner I
have ever known ! " he exclaimed, and
so earnestly that she smiled again.
Just before he left the house, that
evening, Mrs. Heatherfield said to him,
" By the way, what do you think of Bon-
nat's portrait of my mother ? "
Beeckman's eyes followed her ges-
ture, and he stood looking confusedly
at a fine, broadly handled portrait of a
distinguished-looking woman with snow-
white hair. Mr. Morley joined them.
He was an old gentleman and garrulous.
"I call Mrs. Van Arminge stjll the
handsomest woman in New York, bar
none but her daughter."
The Twenty-First Man.
89
Beeckman distinctly felt himself grow
cold, then hot. At last a numb feeling
came over him. Mrs. Van Arminge !
He had heard the name many times that
evening ; he had seen it often in the news-
papers, as who had not? He looked at
the handsome, unfamiliar face in the pic-
ture.
" Yes, it 's well worth your study,
Mr. Beeckman," Mr. Morley was say-
ing. " You young fellows can't do bet-
ter than follow such a master hand.
What breadth ! What color ! "
" Do you think it a good likeness ? "
Mrs. Heatherfield's low voice questioned.
"It is a very fine piece of work,"
Beeckman murmured weakly, " su-
perbly painted ! "
When he said good-night, Mrs. Hea-
therfield raised the long curled lashes
from her wide hazel eyes and gave him
one of her direct looks.
" I am at home on Thursdays," she
said, " and perhaps we may arrange for
the visit to your studio after mother is
well. Good-night."
As Beeckman walked down the steps
he took a card out of his overcoat pocket
and read it :
" Mrs. Ezra Thornton requests the
pleasure of Mr. Beeckman's company
at dinner on Thursday evening, March
the third, at eight o'clock.
"17 Fifty th Street, West."
He looked up at the great doorway.
In the wrought ironwork of the lunette
was the number " 19."
Thorpe Beeckman groaned. " If it had
been any one else, I could have endured
it," he said. But to have intruded into
her home, claimed her hospitality under
false pretenses, caused her embarrass-
ment, thrust himself upon her acquaint-
ance, how could he ever look at her
again ? He smiled grimly. She would
probably take good care never to give
him another opportunity. Even if she
accepted his explanation, how flat and
ridiculous he would appear in her eyes !
Perhaps Mrs. Van Arminge would say
he had planned the whole thing, and
would count the spoons.
Strange to say, he felt but slight com-
punction at the thought of his empty
place at Mrs. Thornton's dinner table.
He decided that he must write to Mrs.
Heatlierfield before she had had time to
talk the dinner over with her mother. It
was after three o'clock when he finally
mailed his letters. He was still young.
A few days after this, he received a
note that sent the blood to his face.
" MY DEAR ME. BEECKMAN, " My
mother and I will be at home, as usual,
on Thursday, and we shall hope to see
you then. Our old friend Mrs. Thorn-
ton will act as mistress of ceremonies.
Cordially yours,
GWENDOLEN HEATHERFIELD."
A year later, Thorpe Beeckman and
his beautiful wife made a little pilgrim-
age to the house of the sacristan, behind
the ancient cathedral at Avalon. Old
Pierre was not at home, and the quiet
lane was deserted. Gwendolen Beeck-
man stood under the rose arbor, the pet-
als of the crimson Provence roses falling
on her upturned face. She was tall, but
her husband was taller, and he bent his
head a little in order to look into her
smiling eyes.
" I was wondering," he said, " whether
I first fell in love with you when you
told me I might take you in to dinner,
or whether it happened when you touched
that red rose in your gown and talked
about old Pierre. I believe I waited
till then," he added meditatively, pick-
ing a rose and tucking it into her dress.
" That was the human touch ; you had
seemed so much of a calm goddess be-
fore."
Gwendolen laughed. " A terribly
frightened goddess when she discovered
that there was a twenty-first man. I be-
lieve I fell in love with you when I found
you were only twentieth, after all."
Madge Sutherland Clarke,
90
A Mother of Martyrs.
A MOTHER OF MARTYRS.
You would see only a small knot of
people, say twenty; perhaps a flourish
of wooden clubs in the air. Then the
mob would move on, leaving the body
of a dead Armenian behind. This was
massacre. Not a sound signified the
horrible business afoot. The shops
were closed as if for a holiday ; people,
men and women, evidently all Turks,
were quietly moving about the streets.
The stillness of it seemed to me the
most appalling part. One soon grew
hardened to the sight of dead men.
One came to expect that venerable Ule-
inas and ascetic young Sof tas, on their
way from mosque to mosque, would
kick the mangled bodies which blocked
their paths, and curse them for dogs of
Armenian traitors. The pools of blood
in the streets, in some places actually
dripping and trickling downhill, came
in time, after you had stepped over and
around a hundred of them, to remind
you of some early visit to a slaughter
house. Animal blood all seems the
same: it was hard to realize that this
had run in human veins.
Looking back upon those three terri-
ble days in Constantinople, in August,
1896, when from seven to ten thousand
Armenians were killed, it is difficult to
believe that such things actually occurred.
The first news of the outbreak came most
unexpectedly. It found the diplomatic
colony in the enjoyment of one of their
delightful summers at Therapia. Both
threats and entreaties had been received
at the embassies from the Armenian re-
volutionary societies ; but these had come
to be so usual that they were not no-
ticed, so many threats had remained
unfulfilled. Perhaps the culminating
event of that season at this Oriental
Newport was the very pretty bal poudre
that was given at the British Embassy
by the charg d'affaires and his attrac-
tive American wife en the evening of
August 25th. As our party separated
in the early morning of the 26th, not one
of us dreamed of what the day would
bring. The passing of ten hours found
some members of the party prisoners
in the Imperial Ottoman Bank, at the
mercy of a band of determined Arme-
nian revolutionists, who threatened to
blow up themselves and their prisoners
with hundreds of pounds of dynamite.
It found the rest of us hurrying, fright-
ened, up and down the city, doing what-
ever we could to save them. It found
the women weeping and terror-stricken,
huddled together in small groups for
comfort and consolation.
I did not go down to the city that
morning. In the summer season, the
presence of one of the members of the
force in the American Legation each
day was all that was necessary. As it
happened to be the turn of Riddle, my
colleague, the minister and I remained
at Therapia, busily engaged with Wash-
ington correspondence. We had no news
from town until about four o'clock in
the afternoon ; then one by one horri-
fied messengers began to arrive. The
first only knew that a general massacre
was on ; that the streets were filled with
dead Armenians, and that bombs were
being exploded all over town, especially
wherever a squad of Turkish soldiery
attempted to pass. Later came news
of the taking of the great bank. Of
course we had no details until days af-
terwards ; at first we heard only that
the bank was held by a band of twenty-
five revolutionists, who threatened to
blow it up with all of the two hundi
employees inside, unless the Sultan pi
mised immediate compliance with their
demands. These called for the improve-
ment of the political status of his Arm(
nian subjects. Afterward we heard how
A Mother of Martyrs.
91
two strange Armenians had come to the
receiving teller of the bank that morning
and announced that, as agents of a silver
mine in the interior, they wished to de-
posit a lot of silver bullion. This was
a common occurrence, and they were told
to bring in the bricks. What seemed
to be the ordinary hama"ls (porters) of
the streets were given free admittance
with the bags of supposed bullion on
their backs. Then came the sudden
killing of the two great Croatian por-
ters, who stood in red and gold liveries
at the door, and huge iron doors were
swiftly closed and barred. In full pos-
session of the bank, the alleged miners an-
nounced their terms to the frightened di-
rectors present, and sent out one of them
as a messenger to the palace, bearing
their demand and the fierce threat ac-
companying it. This was Wednesday
afternoon. That night no one slept.
Diplomatic launches were going up and
down the Bosphorus all night. The
ambassadors were sending their drago-
mans first to the bank, to parley with
the revolutionists, and then to the palace,
to insist there that immediate steps be
taken for the release of the unfortunate
men in the bank, and that a stop be put
to the prevalent wholesale murder. Nat-
urally, the women relatives of the direc-
tors and clerks in the bank were nearly
distracted with fear. We caught our-
selves listening for the sound of a great
explosion. It was nearly day when
[aximoff, the famous first dragoman of
the Russian Embassy, brought the Sul-
tan's promise of immunity to the revo-
bionists, as well as the immediate pro-
lamation of the political reforms, if
icy would give up the bank. Sur-
indering, as they said, not to save
leir wretched lives, but to secure the
sired irade (proclamation), they were
iken, carefully guarded, to the French
inch in the Golden Horn, and carried
>ut to the private yacht of Sir Edgar
Vincent, governor-general of the bank,
anchored in the Sea of Marmora, to
await there the coming of an outbound
passenger boat which would take them
to Marseilles. In this way the am-
bassadors secured their first point. The
bank employees, save the poor doorkeep-
ers who had been killed at first, came
out uninjured, and told us wonderful
tales of their fifteen hours' imprison-
ment. During that time a continual
fusillade went on between the soldiers
surrounding the bank without and the
Armenians within. One of the band
accidentally dropped a piece of dynamite,
and was torn to pieces in the explosion
which followed. He died after hours
of stoic suffering, refusing all aid of-
fered him by the clerks : he was glad,
he said, to die for his country.
Next day we were early in town. In
the clear August sunlight the outlook
was ghastly. We stopped by the bullet-
battered bank, on our way to the Lega-
tion. We saw pools of blood dotting
the cobble pavement, and lines of sol-
diers standing silently about. We were
just concluding that the massacre had
stopped when a rattle of shots attracted
our attention to a side street, where a
crowd of rough-looking Turks were ga-
thered before a barred and barricaded
house. We passed several similar scenes,
all of them in front of Armenian houses.
The shots came from the owners, who
were vainly trying to defend them-
selves against the rapacious mob. The
stolid Turkish soldiers, standing about
meanwhile, acted as if they were whol-
ly unconscious of what was going on.
The only moving vehicles in the empty
streets were carts and carriages loaded
down with dead men, the bodies piled
in any fashion, arms and legs hang-
ing out, on their way to the ceme-
teries. There was prompt system evi-
dent in every direction. The dead were
being taken out of sight almost before
they grew cold ; the battered Armenian
shops were being closed up with rough
boards ; lines of patrol were established
in all of the principal streets. Every-
92
A Mother of Martyrs.
thing was done save the one thing essen-
tial : no one raised his hand to save an
Armenian life. Wherever two Turks,
or even one, met a luckless Armenian
or ferreted out his hiding-place, they beat
him over the head with the wooden clubs
which all the Turks carried, and an Ar-
menian never attempted to resist. With
a submission that was wonderful, he
bowed his head to the blows. Only
when he was in his home, barricaded,
and felt that he could kill several Turk-
ish soldiers, did he ever make any show
of resistance.
When we reached the Legation, we
heard unnumbered stories of the day
and night before. Many people, among
them rich Armenian bankers and mer-
chants, were gathered there for protec-
tion, and each had some terrible personal
experience to relate. Most of them had
lost relatives, and all had lost friends.
Lemme, our second dragoman, who lived
over in Psamatia, the Armenian quarter
of Stamboul, told of the awful butchery
going on there, because the place was
known as a hotbed of revolution. Many
of the revolutionists were armed with
dynamite, and were throwing bombs
wherever Turkish soldiers tried to arrest
them. He told how one band barricaded
itself in a church, and kept off the sol-
diers for hours. Finally, by promising
to surrender, they tempted the soldiers
in, until the church was filled ; then, ex-
ploding a great amount of powder and
dynamite, they killed themselves and
their enemies. Of course many of the
stories were exaggerated. One, subse-
quently verified, was of ten Turks who,
armed with wooden clubs, entered the
general railway station in Stamboul and
killed thirteen Armenians, who were
working with iron crowbars upon the
track. It was in a discussion that arose
over this incident that I heard one of
the most prominent of the Armenian
bankers of the city say to the minister,
who could not understand the sheeplike
submission of a whole race to death, that
every Armenian was ready to die, if as-
sured that his death would arouse Eu-
rope to the extermination of the Turk.
We had often heard this threat of na-
tional suicide, but could never before
believe it. A letter from the venerable
missionary, Dr. Cyrus Hamlin, published
in our Red Book for 1895, quoted it as
coming from a leader of the revolution.
Only after this experience was its appall-
ing truth forced upon us.
As it was well established that the
murderers were seeking none but Arme-
nians, and were offering not the slightest
injury to other Christians, we were also
convinced of what it has been so hard
for the Western world to understand.
This is that these massacres were in no
sense religious, but were wholly political.
They had no connection with the Moslem
church, except in so far as all political
movements have their centre in the priest-
hood. Armenians were killed because
the Turks were convinced that they were
conspiring against the holy government ;
and they were permitted to be killed
because that same holy government did
not dare to add to its well-established
unpopularity by interfering with its in-
furiated subjects. Undoubtedly the
priesthood had much to do with inciting
the murderers.
Thursday afternoon, convinced of the
safety of all other Christians, Riddle
and I, accompanied by Cabell, a young
Virginian, a chance tourist in Constanti-
nople, took a long walk, wholly undefend-
ed and unarmed, over into Stamboul,
where we knew the massacre was still
unrestrained. Here again we saw the
silent groups and the dead bodies they
left behind when they moved on. We
also saw, to be perfectly just, bands of
cavalry in the open places, dispersing
the mobs with riding-whips. But never
a Turkish soldier dared to fire on a ruf-
fian. And the soldiers seemed totally
blind to many murders that went on in
the smaller side streets.
Thursday night the killing continued
A Mother of Martyrs.
93
so, also, all night long, the rattle of the
death carts through the streets carrying
the dead to the burying trenches. Not
until Friday night did the continual pres-
sure of the ambassadors force the gov-
ernment to issue orders to the soldiers
to fire on all mobs. Then the massa-
cre came promptly to an end. A visit
made on Saturday morning to the Ar-
menian cemetery at Chichli gave the
best idea of the awful extent of the dead-
ly work. Here the American and the
Belgian ministers estimated that they
saw from fifteen hundred to two thou-
sand bodies, laid out in long lines, await-
ing the completion of the trenches. Many
of them had been lying in the hot sun
since Wednesday, and were so swollen
that their arms and legs were thrust up
stark and stiff into the air.
Is it to be wondered at that, after this
experience, ordinary stories of suffering
and death seemed trivial, and only the
extraordinary moved us to attention?
For weeks there was a constant stream
of petitioners to the American Legation
asking for protection and aid to leave
the country. Since we had been directed
by the government to give aid to all who
could prove their American citizenship
(many Armenians have secured naturali-
zation from us, only to return home to
live), as well as to the women relatives
of Armenian citizens in America, the
idea got abroad that we were befriending
the whole race. Therefore hundreds
who could establish no claim upon us
were turned away, weeping and bitter.
Every morning there were sure to be
groups of them sitting about the hall of
the Legation, awaiting the arrival of the
minister. They all came to be of the
same type, and to attract little of our
attention.
One afternoon, on coming in from
luncheon, I saw sitting just outside the
minister's room, where so often I had
seen the black-draped figures, widowed
or childless, a large woman with a mark-
edly strong face. She was not bowed
down in grief, as many of them had been,
but sat straight up, looking ahead as if
she saw nothing of the passing visitors.
If there was some ideal of incarnate mo-
therhood about her, there was also a firm
expression of self-reliance. Her story,
I felt, would not be of the usual tearful
type. Her clear eyes were of a sort that
yields few tears. As she waited for an
audience I watched her, convinced that
hers would be no ordinary story.
I spoke to Lemme about her. Lemme
knew all the prominent Armenians in
town. " Oh yes," he said, " that is
old Madame Manelian. I would, have
sworn that she was mixed up in the
troubles in some way. She is a very
famous character in Psamatia, and I
heard the other day that all three of
her sons were killed in the massacre.
Her father was Agop Agopian, one of
the best known Armenians in this coun-
try under the reign of Abdul Medjid.
He was one of the Sultan's secretaries,
and for a long time one of those favor-
ites such as we still have, and who, as
you know, are often the real power.
He once saved the Sultan's life, when
a young officer, for some grievance, at-
tacked his Majesty. Agopian snatched
a gun and killed the youngster. He
grew old and rich and, it was said, very
corrupt in the service. His daughter,
the lady there in the hall, married Ma-
nelian, a professor in the military school
near St. Sofia. At the time of the de-
position of Murad in '76 Manelian was
charged with fomenting a conspiracy
among the students, and was sent to die
at work on the fortifications somewhere
on the frontier. Ever since then Ma-
dame Manelian has been very bitter,
and does not hesitate to call down curses
on the head of the present Sultan open-
ly and everywhere. I wonder the au-
thorities have not laid hands on her
long before this."
This determined me to hear her story,
and when I spoke to her she replied, as
do most Armenians, in bad Levantine
94
A Mother of Martyrs.
French. Fortunately a prominent Ar-
menian came in for a visit to the min-
ister just at this time, and she was en-
abled to tell her story fluently in her
own language, which he interpreted, as
she went slowly along, in perfect Eng-
lish. It was written down that night
into a long memorandum, and I am
therefore able to give it here almost in
her own language :
" I come to ask your Excellency to
be so graciously kind as to assist me, as
you have assisted so many of my poor
people, to leave this burial ground of
our race. If I were a man I would
stay here and fight for my rights. But
I am only a poor woman, sixty years
old. I have given my husband and my
sons to the cause, and what more can a
woman give ? The police know me and
watch me, but they do not dare to hurt
me. The bloody monster of Yildiz,
base as he is, will not allow them to
touch me. He remembers what his fa-
ther, Abdul Medjtd, owed to my father
Agopian. He would have arrested me,
but he is superstitious and therefore
frightened. My father saved his father's
life ; he fears that he would lose his own
if I were harmed. I am safe. But my
strength is almost gone ; I have no fur-
ther sons to urge against him ; my days
are almost run, and I would die in peace.
My only remaining child, a daughter, is
married and living in Bucharest ; I come,
therefore, to your Excellency, to ask your
protection in leaving, and a small assist-
ance which will enable me to reach Rou-
mania."
Questioned as to what claim she had
upon the United States, she knew of
none. She understood that we were
giving assistance to all Armenians who
wished to leave. Assured that this was
a mistake, she seemed very much dis-
appointed, though she gave no sign of
the tearful pleading usual at this point.
But in his kindness the minister pro-
mised to use his good offices for her,
and to do what he could, unofficially,
to assist her departure. Then, because
he was anxious to gather all the infor-
mation possible concerning the massa-
cres, he asked her of her experience.
Very slowly and calmly, with but slight
punctuation of sighs, she told this re-
markable story :
" I had no cause to raise my sons to
love the Sultan. Their poor father was
sent to cruel imprisonment and a slow
death, only because he was a friend of
the brave, good Murad, whose place this
usurper now holds. They knew his his-
tory. But to save them I sent them
away as soon as they had been properly
educated. Serkis, the elder, went to
Athens, where he followed his father's
profession and taught. Hagop went
first to Marseilles, then to Paris, and
finally to Berne, where he was actively
engaged in furthering the work of the
revolutionary committee. But this, I
assure your Excellency, was against my
advice. Only Mardiros, their milk bro-
ther, the child of my sister, who died in
giving him birth, remained with me. My
daughter Anna was married two years
ago. Almost before I knew it my boys
became very much involved and very
enthusiastic in the Huntchagist cause.
The government knew it. The police
came to see me and questioned me about
them. They followed Mardiros, but he,
poor boy, knew nothing of the cause un-
til my sons returned.
"I was ignorant of their plans until
one night in July they knocked at my
door. I should never have known them,
they were so grown and changed. Both
had heavy beards, and their oldest friends
passed them in the street unnoticed. We
sat that whole night through talking of
their plans. They had returned for a
grand demonstration in favor of the re-
forms. Mardiros was soon their en-
thusiastic companion. He helped to
conceal their presence ; and he gave
it out among the neighbors that I had
taken in two of his companions of the
Regie [tobacco monopoly] to board.
A Mother of Martyrs.
95
We thought we had completely deceived
the police. Serkis and Hagop came and
went undisturbed for a month. They*
were so brave and so unselfish. My
pride in them was very great. I knew
the whole plan. I had helped with my
own hands to store the explosives in
the cellar of my own house. They
went out each night to meetings of the
revolutionists, and spent the day in the
manufacture of bombs, which Hagop
had learned in Switzerland, and which
he soon taught to Serkis and Mardiros.
They planned that one band, as has
come to pass, should seize the bank in
Galata. Another, on the same day, was
to occupy the great building of the ad-
ministration of the Ottoman debt in
Stamboul. In this last party were my
boys. I saw them go forth on the
morning of the day, and kissed them
good-by as proudly as if they went to
battle. I had well nursed my hatred
through the long years ; I almost wished,
old woman that I am, to go with them.
Then I waited.
" Now that I see more clearly than I
did through the youthful enthusiasm of
my boys' eyes, I believe that we are
not a fit people for self-government.
Long submission has propagated in us
all the meaner vices, and the virtues have
had little nourishment. I have long
known we are a race despised by the
rorld. My boys knew it also. They
Id me how the people in other coun-
ies judge Armenians ; but they were
led with enthusiasm to prove their
ivery and their honor, and I shared
their ardor. Now I have greater
faith in the judgment of the world. In
spite of the long cruelty of the Turks
my people as a race, in spite of what
re have all suffered as individuals un-
ler the present reign, there were actual-
Armenians so base that for a little of
ie Sultan's gold they betrayed their
pothers. Some there were who, attend-
ig all of the meetings, promptly made
to the authorities all that passed.
The government knew of the whole
plan days before it came to be carried
out. They could have prevented the
whole demonstration. But it pleased
them to permit the attack on the bank
to be made, in order to justify in the
eyes of the world a wholesale massacre.
And they have well succeeded.
"It happened that one of the chief
traitors was to lead the attack on the
debt building. He failed to appear at
the proper time, and sent messengers
postponing the attack and deceiving my
boys, who were there ready. Then
came the news, like lightning, of the
taking of the bank. My boys hurried
home and thought themselves still safe.
They little knew, as I know now, that
the police, thanks to their traitorous col-
leagues, had been watching them for
days. On the evening of Wednesday
one of the chief police of Psamatia, at
the head of a squad of soldiers, came
to my house and demanded my sons.
By this time the killing was well on in
the streets, and all of our houses were
closed. I opened a window in the up-
per story and denied that my sons were
in the country. He replied that I was
lying, and then began to tell me how
long they had been there, what they
had been doing, and even where they
had been in the morning. The boys,
who were listening behind me, knew then
that some one had proven traitor. I
still denied their pre'sence. Then the
officer ordered the men to batter in the
door. They struck it not more than
once, when Serkis seized some bombs
which were under the divan and began
to let them fall among the soldiers.
Two, I think, were killed. But as they
began to shoot I could no longer watch
them. I ran to aid Mardiros in bring-
ing the bombs from the cellar into the
second story. Before we had carried
them all upstairs the soldiers came back
reinforced and the battle began again.
One of their bullets made a fine hole for
me to look through. How I rejoiced to
96
A Mother of Martyrs.
see the bragging police officer, who was
directing the attack, die ! Three times
during the night they returned, and
each time went back carrying their dead
with them. None of us spoke a word.
We all remained at our posts without
food and without drink. We saw them
kill the neighbors. They even set fire
to the near-by houses in the hope of
reaching ours. But, for a time at least,
God was with us and the houses would
not burn. Though none of us said a
word of it during all that night and the
next morning, we all seemed to know
what was to be done. I have often won-
dered how the same idea came into the
minds of all three of my boys, though
there had been no plans for this circum-
stance beforehand. Meanwhile we all
worked with a will, repulsing each at-
tack as it was made, and killing I should
say at least ten soldiers and wounding
as many more. Turks are brave. They
never fear death. When I was not
watching I was distributing the ammuni-
tion in three little piles behind each of
my boys. I also watched for an attack
on the back door. It never came. We
had but to open the wooden shutter for
a moment whenever the soldiers tried to
enter the door and let the bombs fall.
The noise was so great as completely to
deafen me. I remember wondering why
the last made so little noise. There was
a deep pit dug in front of the house
where the bombs had fallen.
"It was just at sunset on Thursday
when the last attack was made. I had
not thought of the time when our am-
munition would give out, but the boys
had. They did not tell me, perhaps
thinking that I would oppose them. I
was trying to count the dead from the
last bomb when I heard a different and
a nearer report in the room. My first-
born, Serkis, had shot himself in the
temple. Then I saw to my horror that
all of the ammunition was gone. I
heard the blows of the soldiers raining
k upon the door, as I ran to pick up my
dying son. I had not noticed that Ha-
gop had taken the pistol from his hand
until another shot in the room took my
eyes from Serkis. Hagop lay at my
feet. He died immediately. None of
us said a word. The blows came thick-
er and thicker upon the door below, but
it was strong. I saw little Mardiros
take the pistol out of Hagop's hand, and
I did not try to stop him. He looked
straight at me and smiled as he pressed
the barrel against his temple. I did not
seem to hear the sound of the shot that
killed him, for there was a great crash-
ing noise made by the falling in of the
door. I heard them entering below
with loud hurrahs and curses. Serkis'
head was in my lap. As I heard them
searching downstairs, I put out all my
strength and drew my other dead babies
to me, and, leaning my back against the
wall, pillowed their heads in my lap. I
was smoothing their hair with my fin-
gers when the soldiers entered the room.
It was nearly dark, and one held a light-
ed torch. Five or six of them came,
but somehow they all stopped as soon as
they saw us. They stood there for some
time looking at me, saying nothing, and
I spoke not to them, but I smoothed
the hair of my boys. Then one said,
' Leave the old she-dog alone with her
dead puppies.' And they went away."
We all sat for some minutes in silence
after the story was told. The desolate
mother had the same clear look in her
eyes, wherein was never a tear. She
scarcely breathed a sigh, but the inter-
preter was weeping softly, weeping, I
suppose, over this fine remaining monu-
ment of his degenerate race. And surely
such a one should leaven a multitude
despised !
Chalmers Roberts.
Salutation.
97
SALUTATION.
To NICHOLAS II.
1898.
SALUTE the soul that dares, though royal born,
Become knight errant of the hope forlorn ;
Disdain the sneer that curls the curving lip,
Arrest a world's doubt by the sceptre tip.
As sure as crawling slug within the wood,
The lowest reading of the highest mood.
As surely as the skies the caverns crown,
The noble deed shall live the base thought down.
As certain as the dawn to stir the dark,
The arrow of the age flies to its mark.
Dividing years and years to be shall know
Whose was the hand that held and bent the bow.
Now, then, and ever well the great law wears :
All souls high-born salute the soul that dares.
Mighty the voices of powers
Pent in the prisoned world;
Mighty the forces of nations,
Peoples on peoples hurled.
Strong are the hands of the masters
Moulding the minds of men;
Gray is the wisdom of statecraft,
Old is the poisoned pen.
Mightier the cry of the human
Wakening from his sleep ;
Mightier the woe of the ages
Wailing up from the deep.
Stronger the ache of the yearning
Arms that were torn apart;
Wiser the science of loving,
Older the smitten heart.
Policy, thronecraft, and deathcraft,
Cursed and choked with blood ;
Codes and traditions, delusions,
Evil intent for good,
Great was your day. But there cometh
Greater than that, or this.
Lean on the strength of the State, where
Peace the archangel is.
VOL. LXXXIII. NO. 495. 7
98 Salutation.
Deep is the truth as mid-ether,
Fixed as the suns above;
Laurels of death bud no roses
Of joy and of gentle love.
Challenge the drum-throbs to tell it!
Bugles, oh, sing it wild !
Worth the world, dear are the kisses
Of wife and of clinging child.
Spirits of men who have yielded
Hopes of their youth and prime;
Scorning for flag and for country
Dreams and the deeds of time,
An army invincible marcheth,
Moveth with soundless tramp,
Glittering, and serried, and awful,
Out of an unknown camp.
" Where are the visions we died for ?
Gone with the gift of breath;
Dim as the standards we followed.
Grant us the rights of death !
Blood-bought the protest we enter ;
Crimson, our brief is unfurled.
Who hears the vanished complainants
Hushed in the courts of the world ?
" Nay ! Add no more to our legions !
Piteous their number rolls.
Ghosts of the slaughtered quintillions,
Countless the sum of our souls.
We, doomed by a brutal beast doctrine
Blind from its hated birth,
Arraign it ! arraign it ! appealing
Up from the courts of the earth."
But vaster another pale army,
Fearful their ranks appear ;
Sweeping on, sacred, resistless,
The broken of heart draw near.
Phalanxes terrible, gentle,
Crying with outstretched hands:
" Alas, for the anguish of women,
Wide as the seas and sands !
" Sobs of the wife, of the mother,
Moans of the widowed maid ;
Our soldiers did sleep in their trenches.
We have lived on," they said.
A Negro Schoolmaster in the New South. \
"Ancient our suit is. Present it.
Who rights us, desolate ?
Man's is the crime : we arraign him.
God's is the bar: we wait."
Compassionate of soul! Fused from an iron race,
Elect of heaven and thine own heart, sustain the case.
Peace, conquering, warred with war within thy regal veins ;
The bounding artery of mercy strong remains.
Be blest! For grateful tears of living and of dead
Shall melt and mist into a fainbow round thy head.
Crown of the Romanoffs on colder brows has shone;
But this, of all thy House, thou proudly wear'st alone.
Elizabeth Stuart Phelps.
A NEGRO SCHOOLMASTER IN THE NEW SOUTH.
ONCE upon a time I taught school in
the hills of Tennessee, where the broad
dark vale of the Mississippi begins to
roll and crumple to greet the Allegha-
nies. I was a Fisk student then, and
all Fisk men think that Tennessee be-
yond the Veil is theirs alone, and in
vacation time they sally forth in lusty
bands to meet the county school commis-
sioners. Young and happy, I too went,
and I shall not soon forget that summer,
ten years ago.
First, there was a teachers' Institute at
the county-seat ; and there distinguished
guests of the superintendent taught the
teachers fractions and spelling and other
mysteries, white teachers in the morn-
ing, Negroes at night. A picnic now
and then, and a supper, and the rough
world was softened by laughter and song.
I remember how But I wander.
There came a day when all the teach-
ers left the Institute, and began the hunt
for schools. I learn from hearsay (for
my mother was mortally afraid of fire-
arms) that the hunting of ducks and
bears and men is wonderfully interest-
ing, but I am sure that the man who
has never hunted a country school has
something to learn of the pleasures of
the chase. I see now the white, hot
roads lazily rise and fall and wind be-
fore me under the burning July sun ; I
feel the deep weariness of heart and
limb, as ten, eight, six miles stretch re-
lentlessly ahead ; I feel my heart sink
heavily as I hear again and again, " Got
a teacher ? Yes." So I walked on and
on, horses were too expensive, until
I had wandered beyond railways, beyond
stage lines, to a land of " varmints " and
rattlesnakes, where the coming of a
stranger was an event, and men lived
and died in the shadow of one blue hill.
Sprinkled over hill and dale lay cab-
ins and farmhouses, shut out from the
world by the forests and the rolling
hills toward the east. There I found at
last a little school. Josie told me of it ;
she was a thin, homely girl of twenty,
with a dark brown face and thick, hard
hair. I had crossed the stream at Wa-
tertown, and rested under the great wil-
lows ; then I had gone to the little cabin
in the lot where Josie was resting on her
way to town. The gaunt farmer made
me welcome, and Josie, hearing my er-
rand, told me anxiously that they want-
ed a school over the hill ; that but once
since the war had a teacher been there ;
100
A Negro Schoolmaster in the New South.
that she herself longed to learn, and
thus she ran on, talking fast and loud,
with much earnestness and energy.
Next morning I crossed the tall round
hill, lingered to look at the blue and
yellow mountains stretching toward the
Carolinas ; then I plunged into the wood,
and came out at Josie's home. It was
a dull frame cottage with four rooms,
perched just below the brow of the hill,
amid peach trees. The father was a
quiet, simple soul, calmly ignorant, with
no touch of vulgarity. The mother was
different, strong, bustling, and ener-
getic, with a quick, restless tongue, and
an ambition to live " like folks." There
was a crowd of children. Two boys
had gone away. There remained two
growing girls ; a shy midget of eight ;
John, tall, awkward, and eighteen ; Jim,
younger, quicker, and better looking ; and
two babies of indefinite age. Then there
was Josie herself. She seemed to be the
centre of the family : always busy at
service or at home, or berry-picking ; a
little nervous and inclined to scold, like
her mother, yet faithful, too, like her
father. She had about her a certain
fineness, the shadow of an unconscious
moral heroism that would willingly give
all of life to make life broader, deeper,
and fuller for her and hers. I saw
much of this family afterward, and grew
to love them for their honest efforts to
be decent and comfortable, and for
their knowledge of their own ignorance.
There was with them no affectation.
The mother would scold the father for
being so " easy ; " Josie would roundly
rate the boys for carelessness ; and all
knew that it was a hard thing to dig a
living out of a rocky side hill.
I secured the school. I remember the
day I rode horseback out to the com-
missioner's house, with a pleasant young
white fellow, who wanted the white
school. The road ran down the bed of
a stream ; the sun laughed and the wa-
ter jingled, and we rode on. " Come
in," said the commissioner, "come in.
Have a seat. Yes, that certificate will
do. Stay to dinner. What do you want
a month ? " Oh, thought I, this is lucky ;
but even then fell the awful shadow of
the Veil, for they ate first, then I
alone.
The schoolhouse was a log hut, where
Colonel Wheeler used to shelter his corn.
It sat in a lot behind a rail fence and
thorn bushes, near the sweetest of springs.
There was an entrance where a door
once was, and within, a massive rick-
ety fireplace ; great chinks between the
logs served as windows. Furniture was
scarce. A pale blackboard crouched in
the corner. My desk was made of three
boards, reinforced at critical points, and
my chair, borrowed from the landlady,
had to be returned every night. Seats
for the children, these puzzled me
much. I was haunted by a New Eng-
land vision of neat little desks and chairs,
but, alas, the reality was rough plank
benches without backs, and at times with-
out legs. They had the one virtue of
making naps dangerous, possibly fatal,
for the floor was not to be trusted.
It was a hot morning late in July when
the school opened. I trembled when I
heard the patter of little feet down the
dusty road, and saw the growing row of
dark solemn faces and bright eager eyes
facing me. First came Josie and her
brothers and sisters. The longing to
know, to be a student in the great school
at Nashville, hovered like a star above
this child woman amid her work and
worry, and she studied doggedly. There
were the Dowells from their farm over
toward Alexandria : Fanny, with her
smooth black face and wondering eyes ;
Martha, brown and dull ; the pretty girl
wife of a brother, and the younger brood.
There were the Burkes, two brown and
yellow lads, and a tiny haughty-eyed
girl. Fat Reuben's little chubby girl
came, with golden face and old gold hair,
faithful and solemn. 'Theme was
hand early, a jolly, ugly, good-he*
girl, who slyly dipped snuff and looki
A Negro Schoolmaster in the New South.
101
after her little bow-legged brother.
When her mother could spare her, 'Tildy
came, a midnight beauty, with starry
eyes and tapering limbs ; and her brother,
correspondingly homely. And then the
big boys : the hulking Lawrences ; the
lazy Neills, unfathered sons of mother
and daughter ; Hickman, with a stoop in
his shoulders ; and the rest.
There they sat, nearly thirty of them,
on the rough benches, their faces shad-
ing from a pale cream to a deep brown,
the little feet bare and swinging, the
eyes full of expectation, with here and
there a twinkle of mischief, and the
hands grasping Webster's blue -back
spelling-book. I loved my school, and
the fine faith the children had in the wis-
dom of their teacher was truly marvel-
ous. We read and spelled together,
wrote a little, picked flowers, sang, and
listened to stories of the world beyond
the hill. At times the school would
dwindle away, and I would start out. I
would visit Mun Eddings, who lived in
two very dirty rooms, and ask why little
Lugene, whose flaming face seemed ever
ablaze with the dark red hair uncombed,
was absent all last week, or why I missed
so often the inimitable rags of Mack
and Ed. Then the father, who worked
Colonel Wheeler's farm on shares, would
tell me how the crops needed the boys ;
and the thin, slovenly mother, whose
face was pretty when washed, assured
me that Lugene must mind the baby.
" But we '11 start them again next week."
When the Lawrences stopped, I knew
that the doubts of the old folks about
book-learning had conquered again, and
so, toiling up the hill, and getting as far
into the cabin as possible, I put Cicero
pro Archia Poeta into the simplest Eng-
lish with local applications, and usually
convinced them for a week or so.
On Friday nights I often went home
with some of the children ; sometimes
to Doc Burke's farm. He was a great,
loud, thin Black, ever working, and try-
ing to buy the seventy-five acres of hill
and dale where he lived ; but people
said that he would surely fail, and the
" white folks would get it all." His
wife was a magnificent Amazon, with
saffron face and shining hair, uncorset-
ed and barefooted, and the children
were strong and beautiful. They lived
in a one-and-a-half-room cabin in the
hollow of the farm, near the spring. The
front room was full of great fat white
beds, scrupulously neat ; and there were
bad chromos on the walls, and a tired
centre-table. In the tiny back kitchen
I was often invited to " take out and
help " myself to fried chicken and wheat
biscuit, "meat" and corn pone, string
beans and berries. At first I used to be
a little alarmed at the approach of bed-
time in the one lone bedroom, but em-
barrassment was very deftly avoided.
First, all the children nodded and slept,
and were stowed away in one great pile
of goose feathers ; next, the mother and
the father discreetly slipped away to the
kitchen while I went to bed ; then, blow-
ing out the dim light, they retired in
the dark. In the morning all were up
and away before I thought of awaking.
Across the road, where fat Reuben lived,
they all went outdoors while the teacher
retired, because they did not boast the
luxury of a kitchen.
I liked to stay with the Dowells, for
they had four rooms and plenty of good
country fare. Uncle Bird had a small,
rough farm, all woods and hills, miles
from the big road ; but he was full of
tales, he preached now and then,
and with his children, berries, horses,
and wheat he was happy and prosper-
ous. Often, to keep the peace, I must go
where life was less lovely ; for instance,
'Tildy's mother was incorrigibly dirty,
Reuben's larder was limited seriously,
and herds of untamed bedbugs wan-
dered over the Eddingses' beds. Best
of all I loved to go to Josie's, and sit
on the porch, eating peaches, while the
mother bustled and talked : how Josie
had bought the sewing-machine ; how
102
A Negro Schoolmaster in the New South.
Josie worked at service in winter, but
that four dollars a month was " mighty
little" wages; how Josie longed to go
away to school, but that it "looked
like " they never could get far enough
ahead to let her ; how the crops failed
and the well was yet unfinished; and,
finally, how " mean " some of the white
folks were.
For two summers I lived in this little
world ; it was dull and humdrum. The
girls looked at the hill in wistful long-
ing, and the boys fretted, and haunted
Alexandria. Alexandria was " town,"
a straggling, lazy village of houses,
churches, and shops, and an aristocracy
of Toms, Dicks, and Captains. Cud-
dled on the hill to the north was the vil-
lage of the colored folks, who lived in
three or four room unpainted cottages,
some neat and homelike, and some dir-
ty. The dwellings were scattered rather
aimlessly, but they centred about the twin
temples of the hamlet, the Methodist
and the Hard - Shell Baptist churches.
These, in turn, leaned gingerly on a sad-
colored schoolhouse. Hither my little
world wended its crooked way on Sun-
day to meet other worlds, and gossip,
and wonder, and make the weekly sacri-
fice with frenzied priest at the altar of
the " old-time religion." Then the soft
melody and mighty cadences of Negro
song fluttered and thundered.
I have called my tiny community a
world, and so its isolation made it ; and
yet there was among us but a half-
awakened common consciousness, sprung
from common joy and grief, at burial,
birth, or wedding ; from a common
hardship in poverty, 'poor land, and low
wages ; and, above all, from the sight
of the Veil that hung between us and
Opportunity. All this caused us to think
some thoughts together ; but these, when
ripe for speech, were spoken in various
languages. Those whose eyes thirty
and more years before had seen "the
glory of the coming of the Lord " saw
in every present hindrance or help a
dark fatalism bound to bring all things
right in His own good time. The mass
of those to whom slavery was a dim re-
collection of childhood found the world
a puzzling thing : it asked little of them,
and they answered with little, and yet it
ridiculed their offering. Such a paradox
they could not understand, and therefore
sank in to listless indifference, or shiftless-
ness, or reckless bravado. There were,
however, some such as Josie, Jim, and
Ben, they to whom War, Hell, and
Slavery were but childhood tales, whose
young appetites had been whetted to an
edge by school and story and half-awak-
ened thought. Ill could they be content,
born without and beyond the World.
And their weak wings beat against their
barriers, barriers of caste, of youth,
of life ; at last, in dangerous moments,
against everything that opposed even a
whim.
The ten years that follow youth, the
years when first the realization comes
that life is leading somewhere, these
were the years that passed after I left
my little school. When they were past,
I came by chance once more to the walls
of Fisk University, to the halls of the
chapel of melody. As I lingered there
in the joy and pain of meeting old school
friends, there swept over me a sudden
longing to pass again beyond the blue
hill, and to see the homes and the school
of other days, and to learn how life had
gone with my school-children ; and I
went.
Josie was dead, and the gray-haired
mother said simply, "We 've had a
heap of trouble since you 've been away."
I had feared for Jim. With a cultured
parentage and a social caste to uphold
him, he might have made a venturesome
merchant or a West Point cadet. But
here he was, angry with life and reckless ;
and when Farmer Durham charged him
with stealing wheat, the old man had to
ride fast to escape the stones which the
furious fool hurled after him. They told
A Negro Schoolmaster in the New South.
103
Jim to run away ; but he would not run,
and the constable came that afternoon.
It grieved Josie, and great awkward
John walked nine miles every day to
see his little brother through the bars
of Lebanon jail. At last the two came
back together in the dark night. The
mother cooked supper, and Josie emp-
tied her purse, and the boys stole away.
Josie grew thin and silent, yet worked
the more. The hill became steep for
the quiet old father, and with the boys
away there was little to do in the valley.
Josie helped them sell the old farm,
and they moved nearer town. Brother
Dennis, the carpenter, built a new house
with six rooms; Josie toiled a year in
Nashville, and brought back ninety dol-
lars to furnish the house and change it
to a home.
When the spring came, and the birds
twittered, and the stream ran proud and
full, little sister Lizzie, bold and thought-
less, flushed with the passion of youth,
bestowed herself on the tempter, and
brought home a nameless child. Josie
shivered, and worked on, with the vision
of schooldays all fled, with a face wan
and tired, worked until, on a sum-
mer's day, some one married another ;
then Josie crept to her mother like a hurt
child, and slept and sleeps.
I paused to scent the breeze as I en-
tered the valley. The Lawrences have
gone ; father and son forever, and the
other son lazily digs in the earth to live.
A new young widow rents out their
cabin to fat Reuben. Reuben is a Bap-
tist preacher now, but I fear as lazy as
ever, though his cabin has three rooms ;
and little Ella has grown into a bouncing
woman, and is ploughing corn on the hot
hillside. There are babies a plenty, and
one half-witted girl. Across the valley
is a house I did not know before, and
there I found, rocking one baby and ex-
pecting another, one of my schoolgirls,
a daughter of Uncle Bird Dowell. She
looked somewhat worried with her new
duties, but soon bristled into pride over
her neat cabin, and the tale of her thrifty
husband, the horse and cow, and the farm
they were planning to buy.
My log schoolhouse was gone. In its
place stood Progress, and Progress, I
understand, is necessarily ugly. The
crazy foundation stones still marked the
former site of my poor little cabin, and
not far away, on six weary boulders,
perched a jaunty board house, perhaps
twenty by thirty feet, with three windows
and a door that locked. Some of the
window glass was broken, and part of
an old iron stove lay mournfully under
the house. I peeped through the win-
dow half reverently, and found things
that were more familiar. The black-
board had grown by about two feet,
and the seats were still without backs.
The county owns the lot now, I hear,
and every year there is a session of
school. As I sat by the spring and
looked on the Old and the New I felt
glad, very glad, and yet
After two long drinks I started on.
There was the great double log house on
the corner. I remembered the broken,
blighted family that used to live there.
The strong, hard face of the mother, with
its wilderness of hair, rose before me.
She had driven her husband away, and
while I taught school a strange man
lived there, big and jovial, and people
talked. I felt sure that Ben and 'Tildy
would come to naught from such a home.
But this is an odd world ; for Ben is a
busy farmer in Smith County, " doing
well, too," they say, and he had cared
for little 'Tildy until last spring, when
a lover married her. A hard life the lad
had led, toiling for meat, and laughed
at because he was homely and crooked.
There was Sam Carlon, an impudent
old skinflint, who had definite notions
about niggers, and hired Ben a summer
and would not pay him. Then the hun-
gry boy gathered his sacks together, and
in broad daylight went into Carlon's
corn ; and when the hard-fisted farmer
set upon him, the angry boy flew at him
104
A Negro Schoolmaster in the New South.
like a beast. Doc Burke saved a mur-
der and a lynching that day.
The story reminded me again of the
Burkes, and an impatience seized me to
know who won in the battle, Doc or the
seventy-five acres. For it is a hard thing
to make a farm out of nothing, even in
fifteen years. So I hurried on, thinking
of the Burkes. They used to have a cer-
tain magnificent barbarism about them
that I liked. They were never vulgar,
never immoral, but rather rough and
primitive, with an unconventionality that
spent itself in loud guffaws, slaps on the
back, and naps in the corner. I hurried
by the cottage of the misborn Neill boys.
It was empty, and they were grown into
fat, lazy farm hands. I saw the home
of the Hickmans, but Albert, with his
stooping shoulders, had passed from the
world. Then I came to the Burkes' gate
and peered through ; the inclosure looked
rough and untrimmed, and yet there
were the same fences around the old
farm save to the left, where lay twenty-
five other acres. And lo ! the cabin in
the hollow had climbed the hill and swol-
len to a half-finished six-room cottage.
The Burkes held a hundred acres, but
they were still in debt. Indeed, the
gaunt father who toiled night and day
would scarcely be happy out of debt,
being so used to it. Some day he must
stop, for his massive frame is showing
decline. The mother wore shoes, but
the lionlike physique of other days was
broken. The children had grown up.
Rob, the image of his father, was loud
and rough with laughter. Birdie, my
school baby of six, had grown to a pic-
ture of maiden beauty, tall and tawny.
" Edgar is gone," said the mother, with
head half bowed, " gone to work in
Nashville ; he and his father could n't
agree."
Little Doc, the boy born since the time
of my school, took me horseback down
the creek next morning toward Farmer
Dowell's. The road and the stream
were battling for mastery, and the stream
had the better of it. We splashed and
waded, and the merry boy, perched be-
hind me, chattered and laughed. He
showed me where Simon Thompson had
bought a bit of ground and a home ; but
his daughter Lana, a plump, brown, slow
girl, was not there. She had married a
man and a farm twenty miles away. We
wound on down the stream till we came
to a gate that I did not recognize, but
the boy insisted that it was " Uncle
Bird's." The farm was fat with the
growing crop. In that little valley was a
strange stillness as I rode up ; for death
and marriage had stolen youth, and left
age and childhood there. We sat and
talked that night, after the chores were
done. Uncle Bird was grayer, and his
eyes did not see so well, but he was still
jovial. We talked of the acres bought,
one hundred and twenty-five, of the
new guest chamber added, of Martha's
marrying. Then we talked of death:
Fanny and Fred were gone ; a shadow
hung over the other daughter, and when
it lifted she was to go to Nashville to
school. At last we spoke of the neigh-
bors, and as night fell Uncle Bird told
me how, on a night like that, 'Thenie
came wandering back to her home over
yonder, to escape the blows of her hus-
band. And next morning she died in the
home that her little bow-legged brother,
working and saving, had bought for their
widowed mother.
My journey was done, and behind me
lay hill and dale, and Life and Death.
How shall man measure Progress there
where the dark-faced Josie lies ? How
many heartfuls of sorrow shall balance
a bushel of wheat ? How hard a thing
is life to the lowly, and yet how human
and real ! And all this life and love
and strife and failure, is it the twilight
of nightfall or the flush of some faint-
dawning day ?
Thus sadly musing, I rode to Nash-
ville in the Jim Crow car.
W. E. Burghardt Du Bois.
The Autobiography of a Revolutionist.
105
THE AUTOBIOGRAPHY OF A REVOLUTIONIST.
THE CORPS OF PAGES.
IV.
THE years 1857-61 were years of rich
growth in the intellectual forces of Rus-
sia. All that had been whispered for
the last decade, in the secrecy of friend-
ly meetings, by the generation represent-
ed in Russian literature by Turgudneff,
Tolstoy, HeVzen, Bakiinin, Ogardff, Ra-
velin, DostoeVsky, Grigordvich, Ostrdv-
sky, and Nekra'soff, began now to leak
out in the press. Censorship was still
very rigorous ; but what could not be
said openly in political articles was
smuggled in under the form of novels,
humorous sketches, or veiled comments
on west European events, and every one
read between the lines and understood.
Having no acquaintances at St. Peters-
burg apart from the school and a narrow
circle of relatives, I stood outside the rad-
ical movement of those years, miles,
in fact, away from it. And yet, this was,
perhaps, the main feature of the move-
ment, that it had the power to pene-
trate into so " well meaning " a school as
our corps was, and to find an echo in such
a circle as that of my Moscow relatives.
I used at that time to spend my Sun-
days and holidays at the house of my
aunt, mentioned in a previous chapter
under the name of Princess Mirski.
Prince Mirski thought only of extraor-
dinary lunches and dinners, while his
wife and their young daughter led a
very gay life. My cousin was a beauti-
ful girl of nineteen, of a most amiable
disposition, and nearly all her male cou-
sins were madly in love with her. She,
in turn, fell in love with one of them,
and wanted to marry him. But to marry
a cousin is considered a great sin by the
Russian Church, and the old princess
tried in vain to obtain a special permis-
sion from the high ecclesiastical dignita-
ries. Now she brought her daughter to
St. Petersburg, hoping that she might
choose among her many admirers a more
suitable husband than her own cousin.
It was labor lost, I must add ; but their
fashionable apartment was full of bril-
liant young men from the Guards and
from the diplomatic service.
Such a house would be the last to be
thought of in connection with revolution-
ary ideas ; and yet it was in that house
that I made my first acquaintance with
the revolutionary literature of the times.
The great refugee, Hdrzen, had just be-
gun to issue at London his review, The
Polar Star, which made a commotion in
Russia, even in the palace circles, and
was widely circulated secretly at St.
Petersburg. My cousin got it in some
way, and we used to read it together.
Her heart revolted against the obstacles
which were put in the way of her hap-
piness, and her mind was the more open
to the powerful criticisms which the
great writer launched against the Rus-
sian autocracy and all the rotten system
of misgovernment. With a feeling near
to worship I used to look on the medal-
lion which was printed on the paper
cover of The Polar Star, and which re-
presented the noble heads of the five
" Decembrists " whom Nicholas I. had
hanged after the rebellion of December
14, 1825, Bestiizheff, Kahdvskiy,
Pe'stel, Ryle'eff, and Muravidv-Apdstol.
The beauty of the style of Hdrzen,
of whom Turgue'neff has truly said that
he wrote in tears and blood, and that
no other Russian had ever so written,
the breadth of his ideas, and his deep
love of Russia took possession of me, and
I used to read and re-read those pages,
even more full of heart than of brain.
106
The Autobiography of a Revolutionist.
In 1859, or early in 1860, I began to
edit my first revolutionary paper. At
that age, what could I be but a constitu-
tionalist ? and my paper advocated the
necessity of a constitution for Russia. I
wrote about the foolish expenses of the
court, the sums of money which were
spent at Nice to keep quite a squadron
of the navy in attendance on the dowa-
ger Empress, who died in 1860 ; I men-
tioned the misdeeds of the functionaries
which I continually heard spoken of, and
I urged the necessity of constitutional
rule. I wrote three copies of my paper,
and slipped them into the desks of three
comrades of the higher forms, who, I
thought, might be interested in public
affairs. I asked my readers to put their
remarks behind the Scotch grandfather
clock in our library.
With a throbbing heart, I went next
day to see if there was something for me
behind the clock. Two notes were there,
indeed. Two comrades wrote that they
fully sympathized with my paper, and
only advised me not to risk too much.
I wrote my second number, still more
vigorously insisting upon the necessity
of uniting all forces in the name of lib-
erty. But this time there was no reply
behind the clock. Instead the two com-
rades came to me.
" We are sure," they said, " that it is
you who edit the paper, and we want to
talk about it. We are quite agreed with
you, and we are here to say, ' Let us be
friends.' Your paper has done its work,
it has brought us together ; but there
is no need to continue it. In all the
school there are only two more who
would take any interest in such matters,
while if it becomes known that there is
a paper of this kind the consequences
will be terrible for all of us. Let us
constitute a circle and talk about every-
thing ; perhaps we shall put something
into the heads of a few others."
This was so sensible that I had to
agree, and we sealed our union by a
hearty shaking of hands. From that
time we three became firm friends, and
used to read a great deal together and
discuss all sorts of things.
The abolition of serfdom was the ques-
tion which then engrossed the attention
of all thinking men.
The revolution of 1848 had had its
distant echo in the hearts of the Rus-
sian peasant folk, and from the year
1850 the insurrections of revolted serfs
began to take serious proportions. When
the Crimean war broke out, and militia
was levied all over Russia, these revolts
spread with a violence never before heard
of. Several serf-owners were killed by
their serfs, and the peasant uprisings be-
came so serious that whole regiments,
with artillery, were sent to quell them,
whereas in former times small detach-
ments of soldiers would have been suffi-
cient to terrorize the peasants into obe-
dience.
These outbreaks on the one side, and
the profound aversion to serfdom which
had grown up in the generation which
came to the front with the advent of Al-
exander II. to the throne, rendered the
emancipation of the peasants more and
more imperative. The Emperor, him-
self averse to serfdom, and supported,
or rather influenced, in his own family
by his wife, his brother Constantine, and
the Grand Duchess Helene PaVlovna,
took the first steps in that direction.
His intention was that the initiative of
the reform should come from the nobil-
ity, the serf-owners themselves. But in
no province of Russia could the nobil-
ity be induced to send a petition to the
Tsar to that effect. In March, 1856, he
himself addressed the Moscow nobility
on the necessity of such a step ; but a
stubborn silence was all their reply to his
speech, so that Alexander II., growing
quite angry, concluded with those mem-
orable words of He'rzen : " It is better,
gentlemen, that it should come from
above than to wait till it comes from be-
neath." Even these words had no effect,
The Autobiography of a Revolutionist.
107
and it was to the provinces of Old Po-
land, Grddno, Wilno, and Kdvno,
where Napoleon I. had abolished serf-
dom (on paper) in 1812, that recourse
was had. The governor-general of those
provinces, Nazimoff, managed to obtain
the desired address from the Polish no-
bility. In November, 1857, the famous
" rescript " to the governor-general of
the Lithuanian provinces, announcing
the intention of the Emperor to abolish
serfdom, was launched, and we read,
with tears in our eyes, the beautiful ar-
ticle of He'rzen, " Thou hast conquered,
Galilean," in which the refugees at Lon-
don declared that they would no more
look upon Alexander II. as an enemy,
but would support him in the great work
of emancipation.
The attitude of the peasants was ex-
traordinary. No sooner had the news
spread that the long-sighed-f or liberation
was coming than the insurrections near-
ly stopped. The peasants waited now,
and during a journey which Alexander
made in Middle Russia they flocked
around him as he passed, beseeching
him to grant them liberty, a petition,
however, which Alexander received with
great repugnance. It is most remark-
able so strong is the force of tradi-
tion that the rumor went among the
peasants that it was Napoleon III. who
had required of the Tsar, in the treaty of
peace, that the peasants should be freed.
I frequently heard this rumor ; and on
the very eve of the emancipation they
seemed to doubt that it would be done
without pressure from abroad. " Nothing
will be done unless Garibaldi comes,"
was the reply which a peasant made at
St. Petersburg to a comrade of mine who
talked to him about " freedom coming."
But after these moments of general
rejoicing years of incertitude and dis-
quiet followed. Specially appointed
committees in the provinces and at St.
Petersburg discussed the proposed lib-
eration of the serfs, but the intentions
of Alexander II. seemed unsettled. A
check was continually put upon the press,
in order to prevent it from discussing
details. Sinister rumors circulated at
St. Petersburg and reached our corps.
There was no lack of young men
amongst the nobility who earnestly
worked for a frank abolition of the old
servitude ; but the serfdom party drew
closer and closer round the Emperor,
and got power over his mind. They
whispered into his ears that, the day
serfdom was abolished, the peasants
would begin to kill the landlords whole-
sale, and Russia would witness a new
Pugachdff uprising, far more terrible
than that of 1773. Alexander, who was
a man of weak character and not over-
courageous, he always lived in the
fear of sharing the fate of Louis XVI.,
only too readily lent his ear to such
predictions. But the huge machine for
working out the emancipation law had
been set to work. The committees had
their sittings ; scores of schemes of eman-
cipation, addressed to the Emperor, cir-
culated in manuscript or were printed at
London. He'rzen, seconded by Turgue'-
neff, who kept him well informed about
all that was going on in government cir-
cles, presented in his Bell and Polar Star
the details of the various schemes, and
ChernysheVsky in the Contemporary.
The Slavophiles, especially Aks^koff and
Belydefl:, had taken advantage of the first
moments of relative freedom allowed
the press to give the matter a wide pub-
licity in Russia, and to discuss the fea-
tures of the emancipation with a thor-
ough understanding of its technical as-
pects. All intellectual St. Petersburg
was with He'rzen, and particularly with
ChernysheVsky, and I remember how the
officers of the Horse Guards, whom I saw
on Sundays, after the church parade, at
the home of my cousin (Dmitri NikoUe-
vich Kropdtkin, who was aide-de-camp
of that regiment and aide-de-camp of
the Emperor), used to side withCherny-
sheVsky, the leader of the most advanced
party in the emancipation struggle. The
108
The Autobiography of a Revolutionist.
whole disposition of St. Petersburg, in
the drawing-rooms and in the street, was
such that it was impossible to go back.
The liberation of the serfs had to be ac-
complished ; and another important point
was won, the liberated serfs would re-
ceive, besides their homesteads, the land
that they had hitherto cultivated for
themselves.
However, the party of the old nobili-
ty were not discouraged. They centred
their efforts on obtaining a postponement
of the reform, on reducing the size of
the allotments, and on imposing upon the
emancipated serfs so high a redemption
tax for the land that it would render
their economical freedom illusory ; and
in this they fully succeeded. Alexander
II. dismissed the real soul of the whole
business, Nicholas Milutin (brother of
the minister of war), saying to him, "I
am so sorry to part with you, but I must :
the nobility describe you as one of the
Reds." The first committees, which had
worked out the scheme of emancipation,
were dismissed, too, and new committees
revised the whole work in the interest of
the serf-owners ; the press was muzzled
once more.
Things assumed a very gloomy aspect.
The question whether the liberation
would take place at all was now asked.
I feverishly followed the struggle, and
every Sunday, when my comrades re-
turned from their homes, I asked them
what their parents said. By the end of
1860 the news became worse and worse.
" The Valrieff party has taken the up-
per hand." " They intend to revise the
whole work." "The relatives of the
Princess X. [a friend of the Tsar] work
hard upon him." " The liberation will
be postponed: they fear a revolution."
In January, 1861, slightly better ru-
mors began to circulate, and it was gen-
erally hoped that something would be
heard of the emancipation on the day of
the Emperor's accession to the throne,
the 19th of February.
The 19th came, but it brought no-
thing with it. I was on that day at the
palace. There was no grand levee, only
a small one ; and pages of the second
form were sent to such levees in order
to get accustomed to the palace ways.
It was my turn that day ; and as I was
seeing off one of the grand duchesses
who came to the palace to assist at the
mass, her husband did not appear, and
I went to fetch him. He was called out
of the Emperor's study, and I told him,
in a half jocose way, of the perplexity
of his wife, without having the slightest
suspicion of the important matters that
may have been talked of in the study at
that time. Apart from a few of the in-
itiated, no one in the palace suspected
that the manifesto had been signed on
the 19th of February, and was kept back
for a fortnight only because the next Sun-
day, the 26th, was the beginning of the
carnival week, and it was feared that,
owing to the drinking which goes on in
the villages during the carnival, peasant
insurrections might break out. Even the
carnival fair, which used to be held at St.
Petersburg, on the square near the win-
ter palace, was removed that year to an-
other square, from fear of a popular in-
surrection in the capital ; and most ter-
rible instructions had been issued to the
army as to the ways of repressing pea-
sant uprisings.
A fortnight later, on the last Sunday
of the carnival (March 5, or rather
March 17, new style), I was at the corps,
having to take part in the military pa-
rade at the riding-school. I was still
in bed, when my soldier servant, Iv^noff,
dashed in with the tea tray, exclaiming,
" Prince, freedom ! The manifesto is
posted on the Gostinoi Dvor " (the shops
opposite the corps).
" Did you see it yourself ? "
"Yes. People stand round; one reads,
the others listen. It is freedom ! "
In a couple of minutes I was dressed,
and out. A comrade was coming in.
" Kropdtkin, freedom ! " he shouted.
The Autobiography of a Revolutionist.
109
"Here is the manifesto. My uncle
learned last night that it would be read at
the early mass at the Isaac Cathedral ; so
we went. There were not many people
there ; peasants only. The manifesto
was read and distributed after the mass.
When I came out of the church, two pea-
sants, who stood in the gateway, said to
me in such a droll way, ' Well, sir ? now
gone ? ' " And he mimicked how they
had shown him the way out. Years of
expectation were in that gesture of send-
ing away the master.
I read and re-read the manifesto. It
was written in an elevated style by the old
Metropolitan of Moscow, Philarete, but
with a useless mixture of Russian and
Old Slavonian which obscured the sense.
It was liberty ; but it was not liberty yet,
the peasants having to remain serfs for
two years more, till the 19th of Febru-
ary, 1863. Despite all that, one thing
was evident : serfdom was abolished, and
the liberated serfs would get the land
and their homesteads. They would have
to pay for it, but the old stain of slavery
was removed. They would be slaves no
more ; the reaction had not got the up-
per hand.
We went to the parade ; and when all
the military performances were over,
Alexander II. , remaining on horseback,
loudly called out, "The gentlemen of-
ficers to me ! " They gathered round
him, and he began, in a loud voice, a
speech about the great event of the day.
" The gentlemen officers . . . the re-
presentatives of the nobility in the army "
these scraps of sentences reached our
ears " an end has been put to centu-
ries of injustice ... I expect sacrifices
from the nobility ... the loyal nobility
will gather round the throne "... and
so on. Enthusiastic hurrahs resounded
amongst the officers as he ended, and all
at once against all discipline the
hurrahs broke out from the ranks of the
military schools and the soldiers.
We ran rather than marched back on
our way to the corps, hurrying to be in
time for the Italian opera, of which the
last performance in the season was to be
given that afternoon ; some manifestation
was sure to take place then. Our mili-
tary attire was flung off with great haste,
and several of us dashed, lightfooted, to
the sixth-story gallery. The house was
crowded.
During the first entr'acte the smoking-
room of the opera filled with excited
youth, who all talked to one another,
whether acquainted or not. We planned
at once to return to the hall, and to sing,
with the whole public in a mass choir, the
hymn God Save the Tsar.
Sounds of music reached our ears, and
we all hurried back to the hall. The
band of the opera was already playing the
hymn, which was drowned immediately
in enthusiastic hurrahs coming from all
parts of the hall. I saw Bave'ri, the con-
ductor of the band, waving his stick, but
not a sound could be heard from the pow-
erful band. Then Bave'ri stopped, but
the hurrahs continued. I saw the stick
waved again in the air ; I saw the fiddle
bows moving, and musicians blowing the
brass instruments, but again the sound of
voices overwhelmed the band. Bave'ri
began conducting the hymn once more,
and it was only by the end of that third
repetition that isolated sounds of the
brass instruments pierced through the
clamor of human voices.
The same enthusiasm was in the streets.
Crowds of peasants and educated men
stood in front of the palace, shouting
hurrahs, and the Tsar could not appear
without being followed by demonstrative
crowds running after his carriage. He'r-
zen was right when, two years later, as
Alexander was drowning the Polish in-
surrection in blood, and " Muravi6ff the
Hanger " was strangling it on the scaf-
fold, he wrote, " Alexander NikoUevich,
why did you not die on that day ? Your
name would have been transmitted in
history as that of a hero."
Where were the uprisings which had
110
The Autobiography of a Revolutionist.
been predicted by the champions of sla-
very ? Conditions more indefinite than
those which had been created by Polo-
zhe'nie (the emancipation law) could not
have been invented. If anything could
have provoked revolts, it was precisely
the perplexing vagueness of the condi-
tions created by the new law. And yet,
except in two places where there were
insurrections, and a very few other spots
where small disturbances, entirely due
to misunderstandings and immediately
appeased, took place, Russia remained
quiet, more quiet than ever. With
their usual good sense, the peasants had
understood that serfdom was done away
with, that " freedom had come," and
they accepted the conditions imposed
upon them, although these conditions
were very heavy.
I was in Nikolskoye in August, 1861,
and again in the summer of 1862, and I
was struck with the quiet, intelligent way
in which the peasants had accepted the
new conditions. They knew perfectly
well how difficult it would be to pay the
redemption tax for the land, which was
in reality an indemnity to the nobles in
lieu of the obligations of serfdom. But
they so much valued the abolition of their
personal enslavement that they accepted
the ruinous charges not without mur-
muring, but as a hard necessity the
moment that personal freedom was ob-
tained. For the first months they kept
two holidays a week, saying that it was
a sin to work on Friday ; but when the
summer came they resumed work with
even more energy than before.
When I saw our Nikolskoye peasants,
fifteen months after the liberation, I could
not but admire them. Their inborn good
nature and softness remained with them,
but all traces of servility had disappeared.
They talked to their masters as equals
talk to equals, as if they never had stood
in different relations. Besides, such men
came out from among them as could
make a stand for their rights. The Po-
lozhe'nie was a large and difficult book,
which it took me a good deal of time to
understand ; but when Vasili Iva"noff, the
elder of Nikolskoye, came one day to ask
me to explain to him some obscurity in
it, I saw that he, who was not even a
fluent reader, had admirably found his
way amongst the intricacies of the chap-
ters and paragraphs of the law.
The " household people " that is,
the servants came out the worst of all.
They got no land, and would hardly have
known what to do with it if they had.
They got freedom, and nothing besides.
In our neighborhood nearly all of them
left their masters ; none, for example,
remained in the household of my father.
They went in search of positions else-
where, and a number of them found em-
ployment at once with the merchant class,
who were proud of having the coachman
of Prince So and So, or the cook of Gen-
eral So and So. Those who knew a trade
found work in the towns : for instance,
my father's band remained a band, and
made a good living at Kaluga, retaining
amiable relations with us. But those
who had no trade had hard times before
them ; and yet, the majority preferred to
live anyhow, rather than remain with
their old masters.
As to the landlords, while the larger
ones made all possible efforts at St.
Petersburg to reintroduce the old condi-
tions under one name or another (they
succeeded in them to some extent under
Alexander III.), by far the greater num-
ber submitted to the abolition of serfdom
as to a sort of necessary calamity. The
young generation gave to Russia that re-
markable staff of " peace mediators " and
justices of the peace who contributed so
much to the peaceful issue of the emanci-
pation. As to the old generation, most
of them had already discounted the con-
siderable sums of money they were to
receive from the peasants for the land
which was granted to the liberated serfs,
and was valued much above its market
price ; they made schemes as to how they
would squander that money in the re-
The Autobiography of a Revolutionist.
Ill
staurants of the capitals, or at the green
tables in gambling. And they did squan-
der it, almost all of them, as soon as they
got it.
For many landlords, the liberation of
the serfs was an excellent money trans-
action. Thus, land which my father, in
anticipation of the emancipation, sold in
parcels at the rate of eleven rubles the
Russian acre, was now estimated at for-
ty rubles in the peasants' allotments,
that is, three and a half times above its
market value, and this was the rule in
all our neighborhood; while in my fa-
ther's TamboV estate, on the prairies, the
mir that is, the village community
rented all his land for twelve years, at a
price which represented twice as much
as he used to get from that land by cul-
tivating it with servile labor.
Eleven years after that memorable
time I came to the Tambdv estate, which
I had inherited from my father. I
stayed there for a few weeks, and on
the evening of my departure our village
priest an intelligent man of independ-
ent opinions, such as one meets occasion-
ally in our southern provinces went
out for a walk round the village. The
sunset was glorious ; a balmy air came
from the prairies. He found a mid-
dle-aged peasant Antdn Savelieff
sitting on a small eminence outside the
village and reading a book of psalms.
The peasant hardly knew how to spell,
in Old Slavonic, and often he would read
a book from the last page, turning the
pages backward ; it was the process of
reading which he liked most, and then
a word would strike him, and its repeti-
tion pleased him. He was reading now
a psalm of which each verse began with
the word " rejoice."
" What are you reading ? " he was
asked.
" Well, father, I will tell you," was
his reply. " Fourteen years ago the old
prince came here. It was in the winter.
I had just returned home, quite frozen.
snowstorm was raging. I had scarcely
begun undressing, when we heard a
knock at the window : it was the elder,
who was shouting, ' Go to the prince !
He wants you ! ' We all my wife and
our children were thunderstricken.
' What can he want of you ? ' my wife
cried in alarm. I signed myself with
the cross and went ; the snowstorm al-
most blinded me as I crossed the bridge.
Well, it ended all right. The old prince
was taking his afternoon sleep, and when
he woke up he asked me if I knew plas-
tering work, and only told me, ' Come
to-morrow to repair the plaster in that
room.' So I went home quite happy,
and when I came to the bridge I found
my wife standing there. She had stood
there all the time in the snowstorm, with
the baby in her arms, waiting for me.
1 What has happened, Savelich ? ' she
cried. ' Well,' I said, * no harm ; he
only asked me to make some repairs.'
That, father, was under the old prince.
And now, the young prince came here
the other day. I went to see him, and
found him in the garden, at the tea table,
in the shadow of the house ; you, father,
sat with him, and the elder of the canton,
with his mayor's chain upon his breast.
' Will you have tea, Savelich ? ' he asks
me. 'Take a chair. Petr Grig<5rieff,'
he says that to the old one, * give
us one more chair.' And Petr Grig<5-
rieff you know what a terror for us
he was when he was the manager of the
old prince brought the chair, and we
all sat round the tea table, talking, and
he poured tea for all of us. Well, now,
father, the evening is so beautiful, the
balm comes from the prairies, and I sit
and read, * Rejoice ! Rejoice ! ' !
This is what the abolition of serfdom
meant for the peasants.
v.
In June, 1861, I was nominated ser-
geant of the corps of pages. Some of
our officers, I must say, did not like the
idea of it, saying that there would be no
" discipline " with me acting as a ser-
112
The Autobiography of a Revolutionist.
geant; but it could not be helped; it
was usually tbe first pupil of the upper
form who was nominated sergeant, and
I had been at the top of our form for
several years in succession. This ap-
pointment was considered very enviable,
not only because the sergeant occupied
a privileged position in the school and
was treated like an officer, but espe-
cially because he was also the page de
chambre of the Emperor for the time
being; and to be personally known to
the Emperor was of course considered as
a stepping-stone to further distinctions.
The most important point to me was,
however, that it freed me from all
the drudgery of the inner service of
the school, which fell on the pages de
chambre, and that I should have for my
studies a separate room where I could
isolate myself from the bustle of the
school. True, there was also an impor-
tant drawback to it : I had always found
it tedious to pace up and down, many
times a day, the whole length of our
rooms, and used therefore to run the
distance full speed, which was severe-
ly prohibited; and now I should have
to walk very solemnly, with the service
book under my arm, instead of running !
A consultation was even held among a
few friends of mine upon this serious
matter, and it was decided that from
time to time I could still find opportuni-
ties to take my favorite runs ; as to my
relations with all the others, it depended
upon myself to put them on a new com-
rade-like footing, and I did so.
The pages de chambre had to be at
the palace frequently., in attendance at
the great and small levees, the balls, the
receptions, the gala dinners, and so on.
During Christmas, New Year, and Eas-
ter weeks we were summoned to the
palace almost every day, and sometimes
twice a day. Moreover, in my military
capacity of sergeant I had to report to
the Emperor every Sunday, at the pa-
rade in the riding-school, that " all was
well at the company of the corps of
pages,
even when one third of the
school was ill of some contagious disease.
" Shall I not report to-day that all is not
quite well ? " I asked the colonel on this
occasion. " God bless you," was his re-
ply, " you ought to say so only if there
were an insurrection ! "
Court life has undoubtedly much that
is picturesque about it. With its ele-
gant refinement of manners, superfi-
cial though it may be, its strict eti-
quette, and its brilliant surroundings, it
is certainly meant to be impressive. A
great levee is a fine pageant, and even
the simple reception of a few ladies by
the Empress becomes quite different
from a common call, when it takes place
in a richly decorated drawing-room
of the palace, the guests ushered by
chamberlains in gold-embroidered uni-
forms, the hostess followed by brilliant-
ly dressed pages and a suite of ladies,
and everything conducted with striking
solemnity. To be an actor in the court
ceremonies, in attendance upon the chief
personages, offered something more than
the mere interest of curiosity for a boy
of my age. Besides, I then looked upon
Alexander II. as a sort of hero ; a man
who attached no importance to the court
ceremonies, but who, at this period of
his reign, began his working day at six
in the morning, and was engaged in a
hard struggle with a powerful reaction-
ary party in order to carry through a
series of reforms, in which the abolition
of serfdom was only the first step.
But gradually, as I saw more of the
spectacular side of court life, and caught
now and then a glimpse of what was
going on behind the scenes, I realize(
not only the futility of these shows ai
the things they were intended to coi
ceal, but also that these small things
much absorbed the court as to prevei
consideration of matters of far great
importance. The realities were oft
lost in the acting. And then froi
Alexander II. himself slowly faded tl
aureole with which my imagination
The Autobiography of a Revolutionist.
113
surrounded him ; so that by the end of
the year, even if at the outset I had
cherished some illusions as to useful ac-
tivity in the spheres nearest to the palace,
I should have retained none.
On every important holiday, as also
on the birthdays and name days of the
Emperor and Empress, on the corona-
tion day, and on other similar occasions,
a great levee was held at the palace.
Thousands of generals and officers of
all ranks, down to that of captain, as
well as the high functionaries of the
civil service, were arranged in lines in
the immense halls of the palace, to bow
at the passage of the Emperor and his
family, as they solemnly proceeded to
the church. All the members of the
imperial family came on those days to
the palace, meeting together in a draw-
ing-room and merrily chatting till the
moment arrived for putting on the mask
of solemnity. Then the column was
formed. The Emperor, giving his hand
to the Empress, opened the march. He
was followed by his page de chambre,
and he in turn by the general aide-de-
camp, the aide-de-camp on duty that
day, and the minister of the imperial
household ; while the Empress, or rather
the immense train of her dress, was at-
tended by her two pages de chambre,
who had to support the train at the
turnings and to spread it out again in
all its beauty. The heir apparent, who
was a young man of eighteen, and all
the other grand dukes and duchesses
came next, in the order of their right
of succession to the throne, each of
the grand duchesses followed by her
page de chambre ; then there was a long
procession of the ladies in attendance,
old and young, all wearing the so-called
Russian costume, that is, an evening
dress which was supposed to resemble
the costume worn by the women of Old
Russia.
As the procession passed, I could see
how each of the eldest military and civil
functionaries, before making his bow,
VOL. LXXXIII. NO. 495. 8
would try to catch the eye of the Em-
peror, and if he had his bow acknow-
ledged by a smiling look of the Tsar,
or by a hardly perceptible nod of the
head, or perchance by a word or two,
he would look round upon his neigh-
bors, full of pride, in the expectation of
their congratulations.
From the church the procession re-
turned in the same way, and then every
one hurried back to his own affairs.
Apart from a few devotees and some
young ladies, not one in ten present at
these levees regarded them otherwise
than as a tedious duty.
Twice or thrice during the winter
great balls were given at the palace,
and thousands of people were invited
to them. After the Emperor had opened
the dances with a polonaise, full liberty
was left to every one to enjoy the time as
he liked. There was plenty of room in
the immense brightly illuminated halls,
where young girls were easily lost to the
watchful eyes of their parents and aunts,
and many thoroughly enjoyed the dances
and the supper, during which the young
people managed often to be left to them-
selves.
My duties at these balls were rather
difficult. Alexander II. did not dance,
nor did he sit down, but he moved all
the time amongst his guests, his page
de chambre having to follow him at a
distance, so as to be within easy call,
and yet not inconveniently near. This
combination of presence with absence
was not easy to attain, nor did the Em-
peror require it: he would have pre-
ferred to be left entirely to himself ;
but such was the tradition, and he had
to submit to it. The worst was when
he entered a dense crowd of ladies who
stood round the circle in which the
grand dukes danced, and slowly circu-
lated among them. It was not at all
easy to make a way through this living
garden which opened to give passage
to the Emperor, but closed in imme-
diately behind him. Instead of dan-
114
The Autobiography of a Revolutionist.
cing themselves, hundreds of ladies and
girls stood there, closely packed, each
in the expectation that one of the grand
dukes would perhaps notice her and in-
vite her to dance a waltz or a polka.
Such was the influence of the court
upon St. Petersburg society that if one
of the grand dukes cast his eye upon
a girl, her parents would do all in their
power to make their child fall madly in
love with the great personage, even
though they knew well that no mar-
riage could result from it, the Rus-
sian grand dukes not being allowed to
marry " subjects " of the Tsar. The
conversations which I once heard in a
" respectable " family, connected with
the court, after the heir apparent had
danced twice or thrice with a girl of
seventeen, and the hopes which were
expressed by her parents surpassed all
that I could possibly have imagined.
Every time that we were at the palace
we had lunch or dinner there, and the
footmen would whisper to us bits of
news from the scandalous chronicle of
the place, whether we cared for it or
not. They knew everything that was
going on in the different palaces, that
was their domain. For truth's sake, I
must say that during the year which I
speak of, that sort of chronicle was not
as rich in events as it became in the
seventies. The brothers of the Tsar
were only recently married, and his
sons were all very young. But the re-
lations of the Emperor himself with the
Princess X., whom Turgudneff has so
admirably depicted in Smoke under the
name of Irene, were even more freely
spoken of by the servants than by St.
Petersburg society. One day, however,
when we entered the room where we
used to dress, we were told, "The X.
has to-day got her dismissal, a com-
plete one this time." Half an hour later,
we saw the lady in question coming to
assist at mass, with eyes swollen from
weeping, and swallowing her tears dur-
ing the mass, while the other ladies
managed so to stand at a distance from
her as to put her in evidence. The foot-
men were already informed about the
incident, and commented upon it in their
own way. There was something truly
repulsive in the talk of these men, who
the day before would have crouched
down before the same lady.
The system of espionage which is ex-
ercised in the palace, especially around
the Emperor himself, would seem almost
incredible to the uninitiated. The fol-
lowing incident will give some idea of it.
One of the grand dukes received a severe
lesson from a St. Petersburg gentleman.
The latter had forbidden the grand duke
his house, but, returning home unex-
pectedly, he found him in his drawing-
room, and rushed upon him with his
lifted stick. The young man dashed
down the staircase, and was already
jumping into his carriage when the pur-
suer caught him, and dealt him a blow
with his stick. The policeman who stood
at the door saw the adventure and ran to
report it to the chief of the police, Gen-
eral Tre'poff, who, in his turn, jumped
into his carriage and hastened to the Em-
peror, to be the first to report the " sad
incident." The Emperor summoned the
grand duke and had a talk with him.
A couple of days later, an old function-
ary who belonged to the Third Section
of the Emperor's Chancery, that is,
to the state police, and who was a
friend at the house of one of my com-
rades, related the whole conversation.
" The Emperor," he informed us, " was
very angry, and said to the grand duke
in conclusion, * You should know better
how to manage your little affairs.' " He
was asked, of course, how he could know
anything about a private conversation,
but the reply was very characteristic :
" The words and the opinions of his Ma-
jesty must be known to our department.
How otherwise could such a delicate in-
stitution as the state police be managed ?
Be sure that the Emperor is the most
The Autobiography of a Revolutionist.
115
closely watched person in all St. Peters-
burg."
There was no boasting in these words.
Every minister, every governor-general,
before entering the Emperor's study with
his reports, had a talk with the private
valet of the Emperor, to know what was
the mood of the master that day ; and,
according to that 'mood, he either laid
before him some knotty affair, or let
it lie at the bottom of his portfolio in
hope of a more lucky day. The gov-
ernor-general of East Siberia, when he
came to St. Petersburg, always sent his
private aide-de-camp with a handsome
gift to the private valet of the Em-
peror. "There are days," he used to
say, " when the Emperor would get into
a rage, and order a searching inquest
upon every one and myself, if I should
lay before him on such a day certain
reports ; whereas there are other days
when all will go off quite smoothly. A
precious man that valet is." To know
from day to day the frame of mind of
the Emperor was a substantial part of
the art of retaining a high position an
art which later on Count Shuvaloff and
General Tre'poff understood to perfec-
tion ; also Count Ignatieff, who, I sup-
pose from what I saw of him, possessed
that art even without the help of the
valet.
At the beginning of my service I felt
a great admiration for Alexander II.,
the liberator of the serfs. Imagination
often carries a boy beyond the realities
of the moment, and my frame of mind
at that time was such that if an attempt
had been made in my presence upon the
Tsar, I should have covered him with
my body. One day, at the beginning
of January, 1862, I saw him leave the
procession and rapidly walk alone to-
ward the halls where parts of all the
regiments of the St. Petersburg gar-
rison were aligned for a parade. This
parade usually took place outdoors, but
this year, on account of the frost, it was
held indoors, and Alexander II., who
generally galloped at full speed in front
of the troops at the reviews, had now to
march in front of the regiments. I knew
that my court duties ended as soon as
the Emperor appeared in his capacity of
military commander of the troops, and
that I had to follow him to this spot,
but no further. Looking round, I saw
that he was quite alone. The two aides-
de-camp had disappeared, and there was
with him not a single man of his suite.
" I will not leave him alone ! " I said to
myself, and followed him.
Whether Alexander II. was in a great
hurry that day, or had other reasons
to wish that the review should be over
as soon as possible, I cannot say, but
he dashed in front of the troops, and
marched along their rows at such a speed,
making such big and rapid steps, he
was very tall, that I had the greatest
difficulty in following him at my most
rapid pace, and in places had almost to
run in order to keep close behind him.
He hurried as if he ran away from a
danger. His excitement communicated
itself to me, and every moment I was
ready to jump in front of him, regretting
only that I had on my ordnance sword
and not my own sword, with a Toledo
blade, which pierced copper and was a
far better weapon. It was only after he
had passed in front of the last battalion
that he slackened his pace, and, on en-
tering another hall, looked round, to meet
my eyes glittering with the excitement
of that mad march. The younger aide-
de-camp was running at full speed, two
halls behind. I was prepared to get a
severe scolding, instead of which the Em-
peror said to me, perhaps betraying his
own inner thoughts : "You here ? Brave
boy ! " and as he slowly walked away
he turned into space his problematic,
absent-minded look, which I had begun
often to notice.
Such was then the frame of my mind.
However, various small incidents, as well
as the reactionary character which the
116
The Autobiography of a Revolutionist.
policy of Alexander II. was decidedly
taking, instilled more and more doubts
into my heart. Every year, on Janu-
ary 6, a half Christian and half pagan
ceremony of sanctifying the waters is
performed in Russia. It is also per-
formed at the palace. A pavilion is built
on the Neva River, opposite the palace,
and the imperial family, headed by the
clergy, proceed from the palace, across
the superb quay, to the pavilion, where a
Te Deum is sung and the cross is plunged
into the water of the river. Thousands
of people stand on the quay and on the
ice of the Neva to witness the ceremony
from a distance. All have to stand bare-
headed during the service. On one oc-
casion, as the frost was rather sharp, an
old general had put on a wig, and in the
hurry of drawing on his cape, his wig
had been dislodged and now lay across
his head, without his noticing it. The
Grand Duke Constantine, having caught
sight of it, laughed the whole time the Te
Deum was being sung, with the younger
grand dukes, looking in the direction of
the unhappy general, who smiled stupid-
ly without knowing why he was the cause
of so much hilarity. Constantine finally
whispered to the Emperor, who also
looked at the general and laughed.
A few minutes later, as the procession
once more crossed the quay, on its way
back to the palace, an old peasant, bare-
headed too, pushed himself through the
double hedge of soldiers who lined the
path of the procession, and fell on his
knees just at the feet of the Emperor,
holding out a petition, and crying with
tears in his eyes, " Father, defend us ! "
Ages of oppression of the Russian pea-
santry was in this exclamation ; but Al-
exander II., who a few minutes before
laughed during the church service at a
wig lying the wrong way, now passed
by the peasant without taking the slight-
est notice of him. I was close behind
him, and only saw in him a shudder of
fear at the sudden appearance of the
peasant, after which he went on without
deigning even to cast a glance on the hu-
man figure at his feet. I looked round.
The aides-de-camp were not there ; the
Grand Duke Constantine, who followed,
took no more notice of the peasant than
his brother did ; there was nobody even
to take the petition, so that I took it, al-
though I knew that I should get a scold-
ing for doing so. It was not my business
to receive petitions, but I remembered
what it must have cost the peasant be-
fore he could make his way to the capi-
tal, and then through the lines of police
and soldiers who surrounded the pro-
cession. Like all peasants who hand pe-
titions to the Tsar, he was going to be
put under arrest, for no one knows how
long.
On the day of the emancipation of
the serfs, Alexander II. was worshiped
at St. Petersburg ; but it is most re-
markable that, apart from that moment
of general enthusiasm, he had not the
love of the city. His brother Nicholas
no one could say why was at least
very popular among the small trades-
people and the cabmen ; but neither
Alexander II., nor his brother Constan-
tine, the leader of the reform party, nor
his third brother, Michael, had won the
hearts of any class of people in St. Peters-
burg. Alexander II. had retained too
much of the despotic character of his fa-
ther, which pierced now and then through
his usually good-natured manners. He
easily lost his temper, and often treated
his courtiers in the most contemptuous
way. He was not what one would de-
scribe as a truly reliable man, either in
his policy or in his personal sympathies,
and he was vindictive. I doubt whether
he was sincerely attached to any one.
Some of the men in his nearest sur-
roundings were of the worst description,
Count Adlerberg, for instance, who
made him pay over and over again his
enormous debts, and others renowned for
their colossal thefts. From the begin-
ning of 1862 he commenced to show
The Autobiography of a Revolutionist.
117
himself capable of reviving the worst
practices of his father's reign. It was
known that he still wanted to carry
through a series of important reforms
in the judicial organization and in the
army ; that the terrible corporal punish-
ments were about to be abolished, and
that a sort of local self - government,
and perhaps a constitution of some sort,
would be granted. But the slightest
disturbance was repressed under his or-
ders with a stern severity : he took each
movement as a personal offense, so that
at any moment one might expect from
him the most reactionary measures. The
disorders which broke out at the uni-
versities of St. Petersburg, Moscow, and
Kaza"n, in October, 1861, were repressed
with a growing strictness. The Univer-
sity of St. Petersburg was closed, and al-
though free courses were opened by most
of the professors at the Town Hall, they
also were soon closed. Immediately
after the abolition of serfdom, a great
movement began for the opening of Sun-
day-schools; they were opened every-
where by private persons and corpora-
tions, all the teachers being volunteers,
and the peasants and workers, old and
young, flocked to these schools. Officers,
students, even a few pages, became teach-
ers ; and such excellent methods were
worked out that (Russian having a pho-
netic spelling) we succeeded in teaching
a peasant to read in nine or ten lessons.
But suddenly all Sunday - schools, in
which the mass of the peasantry would
have learned to read in a few years, with-
out any expenditure by the state, were
closed. In Poland, where a series of
patriotic manifestations had begun, the
Cossacks were sent out to disperse the
schools with their whips, and to arrest
hundreds of people in the churches with
their usual brutality. Men were shot
in the streets of Warsaw by the end of
1861, and for the suppression of the few
peasant insurrections which broke out,
the horrible flogging through the double
line of soldiers that favorite punish-
ment of Nicholas I. was applied. The
despot that Alexander II. became in the
years 1870 - 81 was foreshadowed in
1862.
Of all the imperial family, undoubted-
ly the most sympathetic was the Empress
Marie Alexdndrovna. She was sincere,
and when she said something pleasant
she meant it. The way in which she
once thanked me for a little courtesy (it
was after her reception of the ambassa-
dor of the United States, who had just
come to St. Petersburg) deeply impressed
me : it was not the way of a lady spoiled
by courtesies, as an empress is supposed
to be. She certainly was not happy in
her home life ; nor was she liked by the
ladies of the court, who found her too
severe, and could not understand why
she should take so much to heart the
etourderies of her husband. It is now
known that she played a by no means
unimportant part in bringing about the
abolition of serfdom. But at that time
her influence in this direction seems to
have been little known, the Grand Duke
Constantine and the Grand Duchess He'-
lene Pa"vlovna, who was the main sup-
port of Nicholas Milutin at the court,
being considered the two leaders of the
reform party in the palace spheres. The
Empress was better known for the deci-
sive part she had taken in the creation
of girls' gymnasia (high schools), which
received from the outset a high standard
of organization and a truly democratic
character. Her friendly relations with
Ushinsky, a great pedagogist, saved him
from sharing the fate of all men of mark
of that time, that is, exile.
Being very well educated herself,
Marie Alexa"ndrovna did her best to
give a good education to her eldest son.
The best men in all branches of know-
ledge were sought as teachers, and she
even invited for that purpose Kavelin,
although she knew well his friendly rela-
tions with He'rzen. When he mentioned
to her that friendship, she replied that
she had no grudge against He'rzen, ex-
118
The Autobiography of a Revolutionist.
cept for his violent language about the
Empress dowager.
The heir apparent was extremely
handsome, perhaps, even too feminine-
ly handsome. He was not proud in the
least, and during the levees he used to
chatter in the most comradelike way
with the pages de chambre. (I even re-
member, at the reception of the diplo-
matic corps on New Year's Day, trying
to make him appreciate the simplicity
of the uniform of the ambassador of the
United States as compared with the par-
rot-colored uniforms of the other ambas-
sadors.) However, those who knew him
well described him as profoundly ego-
istic, a man absolutely incapable of con-
tracting an attachment to any one. This
feature was prominent in him, even more
than it was in his father. All the pains
taken by his mother were of no avail.
In August, 1861, his examinations, which
were made in the presence of his father,
proved to be a dead failure, and I re-
member Alexander II., at a parade of
which tbe heir apparent was the com-
mander, and during which he made some
mistake, loudly shouting out, so that
every one would hear it, " Even that you
could not learn ! " He died, as is known,
at the age of twenty-one, from some dis-
ease of the spinal cord.
His brother, Alexander, who became
the heir apparent in 1865, and later on
was Alexander III., was a decided con-
trast to Nicholas Alexa*ndrovich. He re-
minded me so much of Paul L, by his face,
his figure, and his contemplation of his
own grandeur, that I used to say, " If he
ever reigns, he will be another Paul I. in
the Gdtchina palace, and will have the
same end as his great-grandfather had
at the hands of his own courtiers." He
obstinately refused to learn. It was ru-
mored that Alexander II., having had
so many difficulties with his brother
Constantino, who was better educated
than himself, adopted the policy of con-
centrating all his attention on the heir
apparent, and neglecting the education
of his other sons ; however, I doubt if
such was the case : Alexander Alexdn-
drovich must have been averse to any
education from childhood ; in fact, his
spelling, which I saw in the telegrams
he addressed to his bride at Copenhagen,
was unimaginably bad. I cannot render
here his Russian spelling, but in French
he wrote, " Ecri a oncle a propos parade
. . . les nouvelles sont mauvaisent," and
so on.
He is said to have improved in his
manners toward the end of his life, but
in 1870, and also much later, he was a
true descendant of Paul I. I knew at
St. Petersburg an officer, of Swedish
origin (from Finland), who had been sent
to the United States to order rifles for
the Russian army. On his return he had
to report about his mission to Alexander
Alexdndrovich, who had been appointed
to superintend the re-arming of the army.
During this interview, the Tsarevich,
giving full vent to his violent temper, be-
gan to scold the officer, who probably re-
plied hastily, whereupon the prince fell
into a real fit of rage, insulting the offi-
cer in bad language. The officer, who
belonged to that type of very loyal but
self-respecting men who are frequently
met with amongst the Swedish nobility
in Russia, left at once, and wrote a let-
ter in which he asked the heir apparent
to apologize within twenty -four hours,
adding that if the apology did not come
he would shoot himself. It was a sort
of Japanese duel. Alexander Alexa*n-
drovich sent no excuses, and the officer
kept his word. I saw him at the house
of a warm friend of mine, his intimate
friend, when he was expecting every
minute to receive the apology. Next
morning he was dead. The Tsar was
very angry with his son, and ordered
him to follow the hearse of the officer
to the grave. But even this terrible les-
son did not cure the young man of his
Romanoff haughtiness and impetuosity.
P. Kropotkin.
The Actor of To-Day.
119
THE ACTOR OF TO-DAY.
WHEN the controlling parts of theatre
audiences were educated, when compa-
nies were permanent and actors outcasts,
the art of acting wore a different aspect
from that it wears to-day. The philistine
who once condemned the playhouses now
chooses the plays ; the control of our
theatres by speculators suits the tenden-
cies of a mercenary age ; and our play-
ers now mingle with the society which
dictates the dramas in which they must
appear. This degeneration of the thea-
tre has lessened the actor's chance of
fame. We know players of the past,
because at that day writers of genius
haunted the theatres and left pictures of
their favorites. Depending on such an
audience, the actors appeared in plays
of merit, and gained a glory from the
genius of a Ben Jonson or a Congreve.
When Colley Gibber was maltreating
Richard III. and King John, no less a
man than Henry Fielding led the attack
on him, and Alexander Pope embalmed
him in satire. What genius of to-day
cares enough for the stage to lift his pen
against a manager's improvements of
Sheridan or Wycherley? "As Shake-
speare is already good enough for Peo-
ple of Taste," says Fielding to Gibber,
"he must be altered to the palates of
those who have none ; arid if you will
grant that, who can be properer to alter
him for the worse ? " What writer will
give us a Partridge or Booth or Irving,
preserve Ellen Terry and Modjeska in
the letters of an Elia, or with the expe-
rience of Lewes tell of Richard Mans-
field's satirical comedy and his queer
conception of tragedy ?
An actor's name, it is plain, cannot
survive unless he appears in plays which
live. Miss Elizabeth Robins will be
known after the names of most of the
successful actresses of to-day are forgot-
ten, because she is one of the leaders in
the introduction of Ibsen to England.
On the other hand, actors who get news-
paper space, but no attention in lasting
dramatic records, will be in oblivion be-
fore they are dead. Has anybody stopped
to draw the connection between the sud-
den step to a higher plane of reputation,
taken by Forbes Robertson lately, and
his assumption of Shakespearean roles ?
In some ways Mr. Mansfield surpasses
all our other actors, but as his greatest
successes have not been in the highest
roles which he has assumed, his name
will not be what, even despite the deser-
tion of the theatre by the intelligent, it
might have been if his success had been
won in Richard and Shylock. The liv-
ing American actress whose reputation is
firmest is Ada Rehan, and she will be
known, not because she has exploited her
individuality in weak farce, but because
she has done Katharine well. Garrick,
who played worthless tragedies of the
hour, has his fame linked with the name
of Shakespeare, so closely, indeed, that
his monument in Westminster Abbey
bears the epitaph which the kindly Lamb
thinks a desecration of the poet :
" To paint fair Nature, by divine command,
Her magic pencil in his glowing 1 hand,
A Shakespeare rose ; then, to expand his
fame
Wide o'er the breathing world, a Garrick
came.
Though sunk in death the forms the Poet
drew,
The Actor's genius made them breathe
anew ;
Though like the bard himself, in night they
lay,
Immortal Garrick called them back to-day.
And till Eternity with power sublime
Shall mark the mortal hour of hoary Time,
Shakespeare and Garrick like twin stars shall
shine
And earth irradiate with a beam divine."
Lamb argues, like many before him,
that the poet does everything for the
120
The Actor of To-Day.
actor, who usually returns evil for good.
Still, the dramatist lives upon the stage,
and however a poetic conception may
lose by embodiment in common flesh, it
gains hearers and sometimes meanings.
We do not care to see Lear now, but we
saw his majesty in Edwin Booth ; and
for what Booth gave Shakespeare the
poet returned him the actor's highest
glory. The most famous players who
have spoken the English tongue are
known in the creations of our great
dramatists, as Talma and Rachel are
connected with the highest tragedy of
France ; and, among living actors, Bern-
hardt, Salvini, Coquelin, Mounet-Sully,
Irving, all have mounted the ladder on
great plays, whatever pandering some
have done after the battle has been won.
If Re'jane were measured by her tal-
ent, she would deserve a position of
which inferior plays have deprived her ;
and Eleanora Duse has been held in
check by mediocre roles, to the diminu-
tion of her proper fame. Many weaker
actors, restive in empty pieces, chafe in
vain, and still others, mistaking notoriety
for fame, rest in unsuspecting compla-
cency.
So out of vogue is the classic drama
in America that in theatrical circles it is
frequently called " the legitimate," to
distinguish it from contemporary plays,
although the regular theatres are distin-
guished from the variety houses by the
same word. Old plays are given oftener
in our smaller towns, where the public
is contented with feeble companies and
bare scenery ; for great dramas now pay
only when they are cheaply produced, or
when they are played by great actors.
That the gain from keeping worthy
dramas alive by cheap productions is
not unmixed may be indicated by this
signed statement of a variety actor : " I
would attempt Shakespeare to-morrow,
only I 'm afraid that the newspapers
would ' roast ' me. They seem to be
prejudiced against a vaudeville actor
essaying tragic roles ; but time may over-
come that, as I think the day is not far
distant when it will be a common occur-
rence to see Julius Caesar or Hamlet
played by variety actors at continuous
performances. I am busily engaged at
present reconstructing Shakespeare's
plays, as there are lots of lines in them
that I do not like, and I think by care-
ful pruning and rewriting I can improve
on them so as to make them acceptable
to a vaudeville audience. Don't mis-
construe me when I say that I will im-
prove Shakespeare. I do not mean in
its entirety, as I believe there are lots
of lines in Shakespeare's plays that
should not be touched ; but if they don't
suit me, I will be forced to change
them."
American stars who do play " the le-
gitimate " now have wretched compa-
nies, partly from economy, partly be-
cause there is so little opportunity for
the actor to learn to represent idealized
characters. The only theatre of promi-
nence where great plays are given, usu-
ally desecrating them, offers one of the
worst schools of acting, proving that the
presentation of the best dramas may
work harm unless there is some compre-
hension of their meaning. Look at the
Daly performance of The School for
Scandal. Sheridan wrote his comedy
for a company of players, and Lady
Teazle is a part no more " fat," probably
less fat, than others in the play, since
Sheridan, in giving an admirably bal-
anced dramatic action, entirely over-
looked the necessity of glorifying one
actor. There was, therefore, nothing
open to Mr. Daly but to supply Sheri-
dan's oversight, which he did with as-
tounding frankness. The orchestra
played when Miss Rehan went off the
stage ; she took away a speech belong-
ing to Charles Surface, in order to have
the last chance at the audience. In dia-
logues where six or eight persons are
of equal importance she sat at the side
while the others talked, and when it was
her turn for a word she walked out into
The Actor of To-Day.
121
the centre, all the others faded off, and
the word was spoken. Again and again
in several scenes was every bit of art
sacrificed to the desire to force this ac-
tress into the middle of the stage. It
followed, of course, that her delivery
must match this factitious eminence, and
she said a simple line with an air which
would have made Hamlet dizzy : " Speak
the speech, I pray you, as I pronounced
it to you, trippingly on the tongue ; but
if you mouth it, as many of your play-
ers do, I had as lief the town-crier spoke
my lines. Nor do not saw the air too
much with your hand, thus." Miss Re-
han has unusual gifts, but it is worse
than futile to force a whole play to be
nothing but background. Some of the
grossest instances are in the scenes be-
tween Sir Peter and Lady Teazle. When
Miss Rehan spoke, Mr. Varrey obedi-
ently pretended he was dead. When he
spoke, Miss Rehan went over to an inter-
polated musical instrument and pounded
for the attention of the audience. She
gave an imitation of a trotting horse in
one place, and went through another
variety turn in imitation of a peculiar
mode of speech.
"Suit the action to the word, the
word to the action, with this special
observance, that you o'erstep not the
modesty of nature ; for anything so over-
done is from the purpose of playing,
whose end, both at the first and now,
was, and is, to hold, as 't were, the
mirror up to nature ; to show virtue her
own feature, scorn her own image, and
the very age and body of the time his
form and pressure. Now, this overdone,
or come tardy off, though it make the
unskilful laugh, cannot but make the
judicious grieve." The action at Daly's
has nothing whatever to do with the
words or with the modesty of nature.
The actors simply walk up and down the
stage, saw the air with their hands,
shrug their shoulders and snicker, to
supply the place of acting their parts.
Everything they do sticks out. They
cannot seem to hold any effect by legiti-
mate means. If they sat in the German
theatre every night for a month, they
might guess that there can never be
good acting where every player is try-
ing to kill every effect except his own
and Miss Rehan's.
" And let those that play your clowns
speak no more than is set down for
them ; for there be of them that will
themselves laugh, to set on some quan-
tity of barren spectators to laugh too ;
though in the meantime, some necessary
question of the play be then to be con-
sidered ; that 's villainous, and shows a
most pitiful ambition in the fool that
uses it." What Hamlet means by that,
as applied to this playhouse, is that the
hundreds of interpolated exclamations
and laughs, repetitions by the whole as-
semblage of what one actor says, whether
it is " never ! " shouted fifty times, or
" you ! you ! " forty times, or " did " and
" did n't " one hundred times, and all
the silly skipping about and laughing
that accompany them, add nothing to the
value of the play.
On the other hand, the few things
which happen to be given with an ap-
proach to comprehension at that theatre
stand beautifully above the rubbish of
the day. In Twelfth Night, the present
company is charming in spite of silly
alterations in the text, because each ac-
tor happens to fall into a r6le where his
faults are checked and his merits ac-
centuated.
Love for Love was played last year
in New York, after a few ignored pro-
tests at rehearsals, as if it were a farce
of action and bustling situation. The
butchery of the text was less deadly
than the loss of the dialogue (which is
everything in Congreve) in running
about, gesticulating, and hasty delivery,
in an attempt to make the play go, like
one of the things which contemporary
actors understand. The audience ap-
plauded vigorously in the wrong places ;
that is, whenever the acting succeeded
122
The Actor of To-Day.
in making them feel as if they were at
a modern play. They ruined a good
artificial thing to make a poor natural
thing. The critics represented the ideas
of the actors and the audience when they
said that the performance was " clever,"
but the play altogether out of date.
Romantic melodrama is usually played
well by our leading companies, and what
we sometimes do as well as need be de-
sired is restrained realism, such as Rich-
ard Mansfield uses in Mr. Shaw's plays
and William Gillette in his own. Mr.
Mansfield thinks Shakespeare and even
Racine should be played just like Shaw ;
but then Mr. Mansfield could not earn
Goethe's praise of a certain actor, that
he knew how to make the artificial nat-
ural, and the natural artificial. The cur-
rent emphasis on naturalness is eradicat-
ing faults of over-emphasis, as Garrick
killed the absurdities of the older tra-
gedy, and the excessive elaboration of
the last generation comedians is also
being properly killed, so that Lessing's
ideal, to be slow without seeming slow,
is often reached by our best actors. But
the realism in acting which fits so well
into Magda, Secret Service, or Arms and
the Man is a dangerous method to apply
to other grades of art. Observe various
famous performances of Camille, and es-
pecially see how inferior our greatest
realistic actress, Duse, is to our greatest
flamboyant actress. A player of the ideal
school would be equally out of harmony.
This play is not primarily a character
study, but a series of the most skillful
theatrical climaxes ever put together by
any member of the family of Scribe.
Obviously, the kind of art which is the
best thing in the world to correct our
present taste is better suited to the ele-
vated, idealized drama than to a piece
half realistic, half sentimental and wholly
theatrical. In a tragedy full of a beau-
ty so richly selected that men turn to
it for centuries, to escape the unsifted
world of reality, a competent, refined
art like Modjeska's, for instance, even
where it does not scale all the heights,
lets the magic beauty shine out better
than an art more powerful, but less true
to the best tradition, or, in other words,
to those eternally just conventions on
which the tragedy itself is founded. On
the other hand, La Dame aux Came'lias
offers a tour de force to an art which is
classic and pure rather than flamboyant
and romantic. That is why Bernhardt
is the best of Marguerite Gautiers. Duse
puts some of the purest pathos seen in
our day into this drama ; smaller ac-
tresses, as Hading, Nethersole, Clara
Morris, put each her own element ; but
Bernhardt alone takes it for what it is,
suits the method to the work, and leads
the artificial theatrical effectiveness of
the situations to a height reached by
none of the others.
In such acting as Mr. Gillette's Captain
Thome, combining coolness, humor, effi-
ciency, and half-cynical seriousness into
a typical American character, the realis-
tic tendency shows at its best, fitting the
play, but it would be inadequate for tra-
gedy or for large comedy. It suits plays
of exciting situations, and it suits farce,
by the relief into which it throws the ab-
surdity. Its method of handling senti-
ment is illustrated in Captain Thome's
speech to his sweetheart : " I 'd like to
say one thing it 's my last chance
Perhaps you won't mind. You '11 forget
me, of course, that 's right, that 's
best ; I hope you will ! But if memory
should ever throw my shadow across
your path again, perhaps you '11 remem-
ber this, too : We can't all die a sol-
dier's death, in the roar and glory of bat-
tle, our friends around us, under the flag
we love, no, not all. Some of us have
orders for another kind of work de-
sperate, dare-devil work the hazardous
schemes of the Secret Service ! We fight
our battles alone no comrades to cheer
us on ten thousand to one against us
death at every turn ! If we win, we
may escape with our lives ; if we lose,
dragged out and butchered like dogs
The Actor of To-Day.
123
no soldier's grave not even a trench
with the rest of the boys alone, de-
spised, forgotten! These were my or-
ders, Miss Varney. This is the death
I die to-night and I am not ashamed
of it."
Our best plays and our best actors
rely on this absence of rhetoric, or this
subdued rhetoric, whether it bo in a war
play or whether the heroism and pathos
are mingled in the homely scenes of
Shore Acres. In Mr. Mansfield and
Mr. Drew, each first in his line, this re-
liance on suggestion rather than full or
over execution is seen. In spite of its
frequent excellence, this style is never
the highest, because of its insufficiency
in the greatest plays. Although those
actors have fewer faults than Ada Rehaii
and Sir Henry Irving, these finished re-
alists cannot be identified with perma-
nent characters ; for an artist is measured
by his highest reach, and it is the char-
acters which make the actor, as it is his
characters, and the plot which is part
of them, which make the dramatist.
Therefore, although in such plays as
Secret Service, Margaret Fleming, and
The Devil's Disciple we have seen the
most original recent development of the
histrionic art, it is worth while to re-
member that for a greater play we should
need a greater style.
In farce acting we do well, naturally,
because we are a broadly humorous race ;
and it is likely that when our farces cut
deeper into life our players will be found
to equal them. At the other extreme is
growing up a style of acting in a kind
of drama which promises nothing. In
melodrama and farce, in cynical comedy
and barn-storming classics, it is possible
to discover the wheat in the chaff, but
in the modern society play there is little
but emptiness. Histrionic talent here
reaches its lowest ebb, while manners
and appearances take its place. In the
leading roles the requisite is that the
actor look like a gentleman or a lady, at
home in the best society, distinguished,
correct, elegant. As no actor can be
great whose most remarkable gift is
gentility, this species of play tends to
subordinate the strong roles, and bring
the young hero with many lines even
more to the front. Stars have always
adored Hamlet because the role is so
long, as they have detested Twelfth
Night for the opposite reason, and now
circumstances emphasize this tendency.
The best parts in our watery society
plays are usually the villains', but there
are few of our actors who do not prefer
the heroes'. While on the Continent the
repertory theatres make us familiar with
great actors in small parts, here the more
prominent an actor is, the further below
his dignity is any role which lacks the
conventional length and central position ;
and this conception is often strongest in
the society play heroes, whom natural
selection makes at once handsome and
stupid. In a great play the company
would be cast according to its genius, and
in the realistic society play according to
its looks. In real acting fitness is deter-
mined by a combination of physical and
intellectual gifts. Edwin Booth probably
could not play Sir Toby, though he
ranged from Romeo to Lear. Ellen Ter-
ry, whose Lady Macbeth is not tragic,
fills such different roles as Portia and
Marguerite, Beatrice and Olivia, charac-
ters so diverse that no woman could re-
present them if she were merely herself.
Ellen Terry is a new creature in each,
born of the power she has of yielding to
the role and feeling its simple elements.
Portia takes hold of her and , she lives
it, and she enters a new world when she
is Olivia.
Of course, ever since the first woman
stepped upon the stage, beauty has been
on the average a necessary gift of the
actress, as facial magnetism has been, in
both sexes, since masks were discarded.
Beauty and magnetic features are allied
to the charm of great art, while clothes
and suggestions of society are not. Each
theatre has its standards of personal
124
The Actor of To-Day.
beauty. In one large American play-
house, an actress, however fair, can
hardly have the leading role unless her
feminine proportions are ample, since
to the patrons physical flatness in a hero-
ine is an absurdity, while in the theatre
across the street womanly heroism is
slim. Dramatists give comeliness in
woman a conspicuous part in their sto-
ries ; it has its artistic bearing on the
stage, but nevertheless it has its dangers
for acting, and where personal beauty
and histrionic art come in conflict, each
should have a fair hearing. A little
gain in beauty is not sufficient to excuse
a large loss in art ; but neither, perhaps,
is a little gain in art an excuse for a
great sacrifice of beauty.
At bottom, the majority of Anglo-
Saxons, especially of that part of them
represented by the voyagers on board the
Mayflower, find something unrighteous
in the bestowal of any of the prizes of
life on mere comeliness. It is right to
put as much emphasis on the beauty of
the Hermes of Praxiteles or the Ma-
donnas of Titian as we wish to, because
they are art, and it is moral to think
highly of the qualities of the artist and
to encourage them ; but to praise, in a
man or a woman, what he or she deserves
no credit for possessing savors of wick-
edness. So deep-seated is this feeling,
so evenly distributed through the differ-
ent strata of society, that at a variety
show, although people often go mainly
to see a pretty soubrette, they praise
only the performers who do their acts
with skill ; and in the Broadway theatres,
though the shrewd managers fill their
casts with beauties, disingenuous persons,
who have been lured to the theatres
largely by personal charm, go away and
give all the credit to something which
can be praised with no offense to the
moral instincts. Practically it is not
difficult to strike a just balance between
physical advantages, training, and talent,
when intelligent people are the judges.
Audiences at the Come'die Francaise
and the subsidized German theatres prize
beauty, especially in woman, but they
demand of the players sufficient talent
to satisfy the intellectual exactions of
their roles.
Whatever calls attention to the ac-
tor's personality, to the exclusion of his
talent, gives prominence to the players
at the expense of the play. In Athens,
where, if we are to believe our scholars,
taste was high, the actor was esteemed,
as he is to-day in Paris, but only if he
satisfied the critical instinct of an au-
dience which knew the play by heart.
Natural magnetism or social ease could
not then atone for faulty delivery. Popu-
larity is now frequently gained by actors
outside the theatre ; more than it could
be before society was so glad to receive
presentable players, most of whom are
only too ready to respond. Men and
women who stand on a pedestal nightly,
heroes and heroines in the light of po-
etry and romance, have always attracted
outsiders, but the influence of social at-
tentions on the actor, as far as it goes, is
usually bad. Players got what was best
when their relations to the world were
mainly love affairs, or friendships with
playwrights. This may be a slight thing,
but it is distinct. There is a maxim on
the stage that severe love experiences
are the best training. Whatever makes
the profession more respectable is in
danger of injuring it by substituting an
undramatic life for one containing none
of the emotions which the actor needs.
Mr. Henry James has told a story in which
an old couple, of unmistakable gentility,
think they can make a success on the
stage by playing the " real thing," be-
cause they are it ; but the moral of the
story is that they fail to play it, just be-
cause they are it. The actor is a person
whose almost unconscious imagination
swings with equal freedom through the
life of the peasant and the life of the
prince. That loyalty to himself as a per-
son, the product of a fixed environment,
that " self-respect " which marks the
The Actor of To-Day.
125
aristocrat, would be his death warrant.
Eleanora Duse is great as the lady and
as the virtuous peasant, for she is not
bound by any caste ; but she is poor as
Marguerite Gautier, because she is limit-
ed by her moral taste, where Bernhardt,
for instance, is not. It is therefore
natural, also, that she failed in roles
where Rdjane succeeded. Her refine-
ment is her artistic shortcoming, which
shuts her from vast fields of human na-
ture. If Shakespeare had kept the deli-
cacy of Ophelia when he drew Dame
Quickly, or the austerity of Henry V.
when he created Bardolph, Pistol, and
Nym, he would never have been the real
thing in his deep and universal sense.
Instead of rejoicing that the barriers be-
tween the stage and society are being re-
moved, should we not mildly bemoan it ?
In one of his rehearsals Voltaire said
that an actress should have something
of the devil in her. Refinement is a
far second to fire, and even stage refine-
ment is not given by the possession of
the real thing. It is not conversational
intelligence that an actor needs, but
rapid instinct, professionally trained, a
sensitiveness altogether unrelated to ac-
tual life. We do not need Goldsmith's
testimony to believe that Garrick seemed
affected off the stage, any more than we
need a multitude of stories to prove that
Sarah Bernhardt in private lacks the
simplicity which we associate with social
breeding. Many of the most refined
players are failures. Rachel could do
the queen out of the theatre as well as
within, but was equally ready to take
another role when some of the guests
had departed. The stage demands over-
expression of everything, and our society
demands under-expression. There is
still force in Diderot's contention that
in order to take all characters well, a
man should himself have none.
The rule of the business manager, and
the consequent prevalence of the long
run, is one of the hardest obstacles to-
day, especially in the path of younger
actors. Although the commercial mana-
gers are largely responsible for the length
to which plays run, good and bad, the
fault is less theirs than a part of our
money-loving time. To be sure, three
centuries ago Ben Jonson said, in re-
ference to the theatre, "This is the
money-got, mechanic age ; " but the love
of wealth pervades all classes in Amer-
ica more than it has done in any other
country at any time. Augustin Daly is
almost a solitary example of an Ameri-
can manager who changes his plays fre-
quently at the immediate sacrifice of re-
ceipts. The figures of Joseph Jefferson,
Denman Thompson, and James A.
Herne, all artists, remind us that actors
are often as willing as managers to bend
everything to income. So far has the
system been carried, combined with the
habit of choosing bad plays for new pro-
ductions, that a student of our stage
actually has to find most of his interest
in benefits and occasional performances.
Last year, for instance. Julia Arthur, one
of the strongest younger players, devoted
her entire season to a philistine pseudo-
literary drama, and her gifts were shown
at their best only in a one-act piece at a
couple of benefits ; but this year she has
been bold enough to insist on a worthy
repertory. It was at a benefit that Da-
vid Bispham, one of our singers, proved
himself a powerful actor ; at a benefit
that our most delicate comedienne tested
a play which has since run in two coun-
tries, with the result of forcing the man-
agers to give Annie Russell a better op-
portunity ; and at a similar performance
that a promising young actress, Julie
Opp, did her best work in an idyllic po-
etic comedy ; to say nothing of such sin-
gle performances as Miss Robins's Hed-
da Gabler and the late Mr. Henley's
John Gabriel Borkman. The point is
clear enough, that many actors who have
talent, and the desire to use it worthily,
are driven to obscure opportunities, with
much labor and unfavorable conditions,
because the regular theatres offer so few
126
The Actor of To-Day.
artistic plays. No wonder, therefore,
that so often an actor who has chafed
for years in an empty minor role rushes
from that misfortune into the grave of
the minor star.
If, however, the conditions for the ac-
tor are in some ways to be regretted, it
is only from the aesthetic standpoint, for
in pleasure and comfort his estate has
improved indeed, not only since the days
when even the law was against him, but
within the memory of the living. While
knighthood and social glamour are given
alike to the talented and the common-
place, never before could so much money
be gained on the stage with so little
talent. A larger salary can now be
reached by a mediocre actor after a few
years than once went to the greatest;
and room is made for many more than
could formerly exist, because of the mul-
titude of companies. Imagining an ideal
theatre, He'delin, selected by Cardinal
Richelieu to write about " the whole art
of the stage," thought that three compa-
nies would suffice for Paris. How many
would satisfy that city to-day ? The
severity of natural education was excel-
lent for the fittest, but our more lenient
standards are certainly a comfort to the
others. In this contrast between mate-
rial and artistic conditions the actor but
shares our civilization, whej-e not only a
larger share of the world's goods goes to
the poor, but a greater power over the
course of thought is given to the igno-
rant. As hundreds of writers are com-
fortable where formerly the literary gen-
ius starved, so the average actor's lot is
higher at the cost of obscuring the ex-
ceptional artist. An enormous and in-
discriminate public demands an- art dif-
ferent from that which springs out of
one more select, aesthetics losing to the
gain of ethics. The family, so flourish-
ing a portion of modern progress, takes
in the playhouse the place of the wits
and the fashionable ladies who wore
masks or needed none, and children's
day, which comes occasionally at the
Frangais, is with us always, while the
virtuous dull, to whom the theatre used
to spell damnation, now outnumber all.
The most influential living critic of the
drama tells us that even in the foremost
theatre the modern world has seen the
comedies of Moliere are now played
badly.
If democratic changes have made per-
fection in the histrionic art more diffi-
cult, they have not rendered futile an at-
tempt at improvement. Concentration
in permanent companies in big cities is
needed as a basis for training. A few
actors are born great, but most of them,
like Rachel, have gifts which ripen only
by strict cultivation. For the leading
role in Zaire Voltaire selected an ama-
teur, and Colley Gibber's eighteen-year-
old wife made her ddbut in the part at
the first English performance ; but al-
though an untrained person may occa-
sionally fit ideally into a part, or even
step at once into many roles, the domi-
nating rule is the reverse. In its first
year the cast of Secret Service contained
one of our most experienced soubrettes,
but she was replaced by a young woman
who was exactly the kind of girl Mr.
Gillette had described : with the result
that the part, which had been fascinat-
ing, became empty and affected. Since
the only means of raising the general
level of acting is by correct training, the
first consideration is the establishment
of permanent companies with high stan-
dards, which will select from the army
of young people now going on the stage
those who are more interested in the
artistic than in the commercial results,
and gifted with talent. Preferring ar-
tistic to vulgar success, they would like-
wise live among persons of intelligence,
especially in their own and allied arts.
In the last analysis everything hinges
upon the play. Once bring it about that
a few city theatres produce regular
dramas demanded by the highest portion
of the community, and good acting will
follow as soon as intelligent people have
Some Novels of the Year.
127
again formed the theatre-going habit.
The best average acting in any Ameri-
can playhouse is seen at the one which
gives, in German, more classics than
any of our English-speaking companies.
These two facts are inseparable. What-
ever may be true for the actor dominated
by income, and caring as much for one
audience as another, for the player who
measures his progress by the perfection
of his talent the play is the thing. An
actor may be cast almost anywhere in
Twelfth Night, and know that if he can-
not do great work, the fault is not in the
role. Not Viola, the Duke, and Malvo-
lio alone, but Andrew Aguecheek, Maria,
the clown, even Sebastian and Antonio,
every part except Fabian, is so pro-
foundly conceived that it will hold the
genius of a great actor ; and in this re-
gard Twelfth Night is but an example
of the truth that in a great play, which
is composed of deeply created characters,
however few their lines, lies the artistic
salvation of actors, great and small.
What should be sought by our player of
ideals is an entrance to some company
where there are frequent changes of bill,
made necessary by a regular clientele,
and a line of plays in which he will be
sure of finding in his part not a wooden
image accompanied by minute stage di-
rections about his clothes, but the out-
lines of a solid and typical human being,
whom it is his privilege, by the power
of instinctive sympathy, to re-create.
Norman Hapgood.
SOME NOVELS OF THE YEAR.
IN Helbeck of Bannisdale Mrs. Hum-
phry Ward gives fresh proof of her
great skill as a spiritual historian. The
hereditary English Catholic, of high de-
scent, heroic sacrifices, and unassailable
faith, patient of misconception, proud of
his very disabilities, and already, by vir-
tue of his position and circumstances,
half detached from the world and its
ambitions, is always a romantic and
moving figure ; one whose picturesque
points have been many times seized and
utilized for mere effect by the ordinary
novelist. But Mrs. Ward is not an or-
dinary novelist. Heaven forbid ! She
is impelled by the gravest purpose, re-
strained by the most delicate scruples ;
always intensely serious, often resolutely,
not to say ruthlessly didactic. She can-
not help knowing that she has rare gifts
as a story-teller ; but " gifts must prove
their use." To employ this one for
mere purposes of diversion or beguile-
ment would seem to its possessor a sin.
A mind so earnest must needs feel
keenly. the fascination exercised by the
sincere devotee of whatever persuasion,
and will readily comprehend a part, at
least, of the pietist's motives. But over
and above that reluctant sympathy, which
is sometimes considered a hopeful sign
of " prevenient grace," but is really, for
the most part, a matter of temperament,
Mrs. Ward has had, for one outside the
Roman communion, exceptional oppor-
tunities to observe, and aids toward un-
derstanding, the curiously remote and
baffling inner life of the Roman Catho-
lic mystic. She was born into the Ox-
ford movement; if not in the hour of
utmost stress, at least while the sea of
theological wrath was yet working wild-
ly after the unprecedented storm. Her
grandfather, the famous head master of
Rugby, had died in early manhood, with
his armor on, fighting stoutly for the
cause of English evangelicalism against
the silver-tongued champion of the faith
delivered to the saints. Her distin-
guished father, the second Thomas Ar-
128
Some Novels of the Year.
nold, was a Roman convert. Her more
distinguished uncle, and the more imme-
diate guide and arbiter of her own vivid
intellectual life, Matthew Arnold, was
pleading, while she grew up, with equal
pungency and persuasiveness, for Hellen-
ism as against Hebraism, for literature
as against dogma, for the humanities
generally as against the pieties. Rent
by a sharply divided personal loyalty,
Mrs. Ward, nevertheless, came before
the world as Matthew Arnold's disciple,
and in her first big work, Robert Els-
mere, she solemnly dedicated her very
eminent analytic and dramatic power to
the propaganda of a blameless and bene-
ficent agnosticism. It would not quite
do. Even in this her formal and consci-
entious confession of unf aith the preach-
er's own smothered misgiving makes it-
self felt ; her obstinate suspicion, after
all, of some supernatural and superra-
tional verity. She is moved, in spite of
herself, to offer a slight constructive com-
promise ; to suggest a sort of mawkish
travesty of worship, almost pitiable in
its futility as compared with the all but
virile strength and grasp of the rest of
the book. The story of Robert and
Catherine ought at least to have been
fortifying and composing. It is, in fact,
unrelieved and heart-dissolving tragedy.
This undertone of irrepressible dis-
sent from the deliberate pulpit utterance
grows louder in David Grieve, which has
passages and scenes of great beauty, es-
pecially in the earlier part, but is, never-
theless, the least consistent and convin-
cing, the least successful as a romance
notwithstanding its wealth of lurid inci-
dent, of all Mrs. Ward's longer tales.
In Marcella and in Sir George Tres-
sady we find her trying to set the im-
portunate religious question aside for a
time, and concentrating her attention
rather upon social and political problems.
She suddenly discovers that she has a
mission to the most privileged class of
her compatriots no less than to the
struggling majority and the wholly " dis-
inherited." Her ethical scheme must
be comprehensive enough to embrace
them all; and no sooner has she set
about studying, patiently and methodi-
cally, as her own thoroughgoing habits
of mind require, the evolution of what is,
upon the whole, the best if not the most
brilliant aristocracy the world has ever
seen, than she finds herself irresistibly
enamored of that shining class, its tra-
ditions, in the main so brave and whole-
some, the ample and ordered splendor
of its highly organized daily existence,
the immense distinction of some of its
individual types. " The world and the
things of the world," how fascinating
they are, after all ! How is it possible
not to " love " things which are so allur-
ing? What place is it permissible to
give them in an ideal scheme, a proper-
ly altruistic and entirely righteous theory
of human living ?
Hitherto ever since she took her
well-earned place as one of the leading
writers and moralists of the day Mrs.
Ward has always made the mistake of
trying to put too much into each of her
pictures ; to set her camera so as to take
in her entire generation, and show her
puppets not only in their action upon
one another, but in their relations to the
cosmos. Her heroic determination to
be not merely truthful, but universal, to
spare no pains and slight no corner of
her spacious work, has been crowned with
a kind of success. She has overcome
a good many technical difficulties, and
achieved in a single decade a really vast
amount of admirable work. But she has
done so at a palpable cost to herself of
straining and exhausting effort, which
has often reacted in deep weariness even
upon her most sympathetic readers.
This time she has happily condescend-
ed to a subject, grave indeed, but well
within her power, familiarized by
painful experience rather than by ob-
servation and study. Her voice, always
cultured, and certainly not shrill at any
time, drops to a quiet note of personal
Some Novels of the Year.
129
confidence, with an effect, from the out-
set, of welcome relaxation and unwont-
ed charm. The story of Helbeck of Ban-
nisdale is very simple. The characters
introduced are few, and all, including
that of the provoguante and passionate
little heroine, strictly subordinated to the
majestic central figure. The incidents
are sufficiently probable ; the unfolding
of the sad intrigue natural, and one may
say inevitable. The scenery, beautifully
sketched in as background, but never ob-
truded, is that austere and noble West-
moreland landscape which has fed the
inspiration and wrought itself into the
meditative life of three generations of
Arnolds. The heroine, Laura Fountain,
is not exactly a stranger to the reader.
She is Rose again ; she is Marcella amid
new and exceptionally difficult surround-
ings ; the airy, starry blossom of a tem-
pestuous period and a more or less un-
wholesome soil ; the bright, eager, blame-
less girl, overrationalized, if not in any
true sense of the term overeducated ;
pathetically incapable of intellectual or
spiritual self-guidance, yet early thrust
by the general movement of her time far
beyond the possibility of blind obedience
or simple, trustful self-surrender.
When she and Helbeck are thrown
intimately together among the solemn
hills, members for a time of the same
recluse and self-denying household, the
rigid yet generous and tender ascetic and
the wayward, mutinous little heretic love
as naturally as if they had been alone
in the primeval garden. The situation
is romantic, but the treatment is not at
all so. The reverse of the saint's golden
medal, the infinite puerilities of Cath-
lic practice, the wily ways of Catholic
mselors, the spiritual indignities per-
itually offered to her most loyal sub-
its by the great secular Church, the
notification and penury, mental as well
physical, enjoined and uncomplain-
igly accepted, all these things, and
le sickening repulsion they excite in
le child of a humanist and freethinker,
VOL. LXXXIII. NO. 495. 9
the girl bred in virtuous and mildly ra-
tionalistic English Cambridge, are por-
trayed in cold blood and with unflinch-
ing realism.
How can these two walk together,
with such abysses of conscience between
them ? No outward mandate interdicts
their union. The Church herself, with
that awful sagacity of hers, stands silent,
and forbids no banns. She will not risk
straining the self-devotion of the gallant
son who has already given her almost
his all. Helbeck, on his part, is too
truly chivalrous, to constrain, if lie could,
his darling's soul. He will not wrestle
with this fragile and suffering flesh and
blood ; only with principalities and pow-
ers for her, by the age-honored meth-
ods of penance, vow, and unwearying
secret prayer. The loving, clinging, yet
untamable sprite feels her light wings
caught by invisible threads, makes a
frantic effort, and, with sore laceration,
frees herself once, only to flutter straight
back into the snare, and instantly to re-
alize that escape is no longer possible for
her, save by the last exit.
The story, which is essentially that
of Robert and Catherine reversed, could
not have ended happily. The circum-
stances of the last scene -are perhaps a
trifle too melodramatic. Laura, we feel,
was exactly the girl to have destroyed
herself on a desperate impulse, but never
to have written a long letter the night
before, announcing her intention to do so.
But the flaw is a slight one, and Hel-
beck of Bannisdale remains, to our
thinking, Mrs. Ward's highest artistic
achievement ; while its hero, with his
noble and fatal single-mindedness, his
spiritual grandeur, and his exasperating
limitations, is beyond comparison her
most veracious and masterly portrait.
In so far, however, as the book may
have been meant for a polemical tract
or a plea in behalf of private judgment,
it is worse than ineffective or better
than its intent according to the reader's
point of view. The intermittent shud-
130
Some Novels of the Year.
der which agitates these pathetic pages
constitutes in itself a singular witness to
the intact ascendency over the forlorn hu-
man soul possibly in a peculiar man-
ner over the feminine soul of the one
enduring ecclesiastical organization. A
fresh wave of reaction toward divinely
constituted authority seems to be rising,
possibly, this time, a tidal one. Here
and there, the world over, lips opened to
curse are trembling into blessing. The
Zeitgeist which led the revolutionary cho-
rus so lustily in Matthew Arnold's hey-
day has taken to the practice of plain
song ; and we feel, whether she herself
quite apprehended its outcome or no, that
Mrs. Ward's latest and in some ways
most affecting book ranges her definitive-
ly with Tolstoy and Maeterlinck, Vogue'
and Huysmans, and all the rest of the
rather strangely assorted company who
go to swell the denomination of the New
Mystics.
But the tendency novel, even in the
tempered form presented by Helbeck of
Bannisdale, is, for the moment, quite out
of literary fashion ; and the cleverest
masculine pens of the day are engaged,
almost without exception, on the side of
sheer romanticism. The search for mo-
tive has given place to the search for ad-
venture, and tumultuous incident leaves
no room for subtle analysis. The change
is, upon the whole, a healthy and a happy
one. It is interesting, too, because it
seems to have foreshadowed, and has al-
ready, perhaps, done something to pro-
mote, the new era of violent activity,
which the civilized world will apparently
enter at the beginning of the century.
With cannon or whatever deadlier ma-
chine may soon have superseded cannon
thundering all round the globe at once,
abstract speculation and meditative intro-
spection will necessarily be much inter-
rupted, and a host of morbid fancies and
low-lying spiritual vapors will be lifted
by a natural law and harmlessly dis-
pelled. This new period of storm and
stress will also pass. Another race will
be, and other palms will be won by the
weapon which is, perhaps, mightier than
the sword. But meanwhile the leaders
of the romantic revolt in fiction will have
done their part in sounding the immedi-
ate call to arms.
Mr. Marion Crawford is one of the
foremost of these leaders, and in Corle-
one, the latest novel of the Saracinesca
series, he has given us a romance hardly
less fascinating than the best of its pre-
decessors, and one whose technical quali-
ties it would be difficult to overpraise.
He adds to the gift -rare enough at
all times of a powerful and poetic im-
agination an excellent method, great care
for detail, and the ease that comes of long
practice in the arrangement of a plot.
There is not much danger that a man
thus equipped will " overwrite " himself
while his prime lasts, even though he
may not, and certainly will not, always
write as well as he can. All the great
masters of romantic as distinguished
from analytic or didactic fiction Du-
mas, Scott, Shakespeare himself have
written with great rapidity during their
culminating period ; and the more tales
of modern Italian life, of the quality of
Don Orsino and Corleone, Mr. Crawford
can produce in a given time, the better
surely for the entertainment, and, indi-
rectly, also for the enlightenment of the
world.
He should stick resolutely to his Ital-
ian themes, however, and not be seduced
by others less congenial and less thor-
oughly mastered ; least of all, we are
tempted to say, by American themes.
He knows more of Italy and the Italians
of to-day than any other noted writer
now living who is not of Italian lineage.
Ouida might be an exception, if her fierce
personal prejudices and unbridled pas-
sion for the sensational did not give an
air of unreality to her strongest pages.
Mr. Crawford is certainly better informed
than Zola, or Paul Bourget, or that de-
tached and tender pessimist Rene' Ba-
zin. He is more to be depended on, now
Some Novels of the Year.
131
that Bonghi is no more, than the clever-
est of the contemporary Italian writers
themselves ; taking a broader view, and
suggesting, to the reflective reader, a
fairer judgment of the social and politi-
cal woes which afflict the devoted penin-
sula just now, than either Fogazzaro or
Serao, powerful writers though they both
are, and sincere patriots. And it so hap-
pens, in the curious arrangement of this
world's affairs, that it still matters about
as much to civilized humanity as it has
done at any time during the last twenty-
five hundred years, how Italy fares and
what her fate is to be. Allowance must
of course be made for the sable color of
Mr. Crawford's politics ; that is to say,
for his strong Catholic and conservative
sympathies. He always vindicates the
moral empire of the Church, the regu-
lating and restraining influence exercised
in the main by the priest over natures
not very open to merely philosophic and
doctrinaire considerations ; arid he has
done no more than justice to the higher
type of the Italian secular clergy in the
noble portraits of Don Teodoro in Taqui-
sara, and Don Ippolito in Corleone. Mr.
Crawford is most at home, no doubt, in
those two extremes of society where the
most picturesque figures are naturally to
be found, with the old nobility and the
sadly overburdened peasantry. The men
who are actually wrestling as best they
can with the desperate difficulties of the
moment, for some of which they are
themselves responsible, but for others not,
the suddenly enfranchised middle class
from which the great mass of parliamen-
tary deputies and government impiegati
are taken, Mr. Crawford views at a great-
er distance and from a different angle.
But to them, also, he makes earnest if
intermittent efforts to be just ; and he
has felt and fathomed, as few outsiders
have ever done, the peculiar subtlety and
complexity of the Italian character ; the
indelible color imparted by deeply ab-
sorbed and half forgotten tradition ; the
infinite sophistication of the ancient race,
rooted in the immemorially occupied
soil ; the enormous moral range of which
it is capable, from heights of magnanim-
ity hardly touched elsewhere to inscru-
table depths of baseness, and a calm and
in some sort naif capacity for the most
atrocious crime.
Sicily, where the scene of Corleone is
laid, is Italy intensified, and the moral
contrasts we have noted are well exem-
plified when certain members of Mr.
Crawford's ideal Italian race, the Sara-
cinesca, with whose fine patrician qual-
ities we have long been familiar, are
brought into direct contact with what is
confessedly "the worst blood in Italy,"
that of the Corleone family, and with
the organized brigandage of the Mafia.
The story of such a struggle must needs
be melodramatic ; but it is melodramatic
with a method and meaning, and it is
admirably constructed as well as charm-
ingly told. Certain episodes, especially
that of the deadly chase of the brothers
Tagliuca over the desert wastes and
wooded spurs of ^Etna, are so related as
to make the pulses of the most jaded
novel-reader beat high. A singularly
pure and ardent love story is inwoven
with the fierce intrigue ; and the final
surprise, which resolves so many doubts
and removes so many difficulties, is a
surprise indeed, and is managed with
consummate skill.
Riding close after Mr. Crawford, and
well up toward the head of the gal-
lant company of romanticists, comes Dr.
S. Weir Mitchell with his Adventures
of Franois, a brilliant little book. If
any ambitious young writer, quite un-
known to fame, had made his first lit-
erary appearance when Dr. Mitchell be-
gan writing fiction, less than a score of
years ago, and had gone on gaining, as
constantly as he has done, both in depth
of human insight and in dramatic and de-
lineative skill, the fact would have been
remarkable. But when a man already
eminent in science and in the practice
of an absorbing profession takes up one
132
Some Novels of the Year.
of the lesser arts by the way, and light-
ly masters it, we recognize a larger and
more versatile genius.
No doubt it is an advantage though
not commonly considered essential v to
have known something of life by actual
experience before attempting to depict
it ; but si jeunesse savait, si vieillesse
pouvait the man who knows the world
well is too apt to have lost his own keen
interest in it. No touch of languor or
disenchantment, however, mars the spir-
ited effect of this rapid narrative. Most
of us have probably felt, if not said, at
one time or another, that we know all
we want or deem it good to know con-
cerning the hideous details of that last
judgment of a social order, the great
French Revolution. Its further use, in
fiction at least, we should have consid-
ered more than questionable. Yet Dr.
Mitchell has snatched his hero from
the very lowest of the strata flung out-
ward by the great upheaval, has given
him a fresh, vivid, consistent, and really
captivating personality, and led him
through a series of haps and mishaps
wondrous, but not improbable, because no-
thing was so at that time to a natural
and satisfactory end. The author ad-
mits, with excellent grace, in the passage
where the Marquis de Ste. Luce likens
Francois to the immortal Chicot, his own
special obligations to the prince of French
story-tellers ; and indeed, the resem-
blances, personal and moral, between
the chivalrous thief and the astute fool
of Henry II. could have escaped no
reader properly steeped in his Dumas
pere. But the most ardent disciple of
that joyous cult will be the first to ac-
knowledge that its modern minister is
an independent and a worthy one. Dr.
Mitchell is too experienced a physician
of the mind, and too thoroughly of his
own age, after all, not to have struck now
and then a deeper note than his great
master was wont to touch ; and he has
dallied a little, in passing, though never
so as to impede the action of his tale,
with the inevitable psychological pro-
blem presented by the character and
destiny of a waif like Francois. That
light-hearted hero is permitted to state
his own case, near the peaceful end of
his checkered career, and he does it in
these artless terms :
" I am now old. I suppose, from
what I am told, that I was wicked when
I was young. But if one cannot see
that he was a sinner, what then ? The
good God who made me knows that I
was a little Ishmaelite cast adrift in the
streets to feed as I might. I defend
not myself. I blame not the chances of
life, nor yet the education which fate
gave me. It was made to tempt one in
need of food and shelter. 'T is a great
thing to be able to laugh easily and
often, and this good gift I had ; and so,
whether in safety or in peril, whether
homeless or housed, I have gone through
life merry. I had thought more, says
M. le Cure*, if I had been less light of
heart. But thus was I made, and, after
all, it has its good side."
A word must be said for the excep-
tional beauty and fitness of the illustra-
tions, by Castaigne, to The Adventures
of Frangois. The recreant choir boy,
absorbed in the copy of Horace which
he had picked up in the Luxembourg
Gardens, and relishing so keenly the lines
he can but half construe, while his de-
lightful dog Toto leans against his shoul-
der with a broad smile of canine sympa-
thy and confidence, is so drawn that we
know not which more to admire, the
fancy of the novelist or the skill of the
draughtsman. The whole scene which
describes the first meeting of Francois
with the dazzling old nobleman whose
fate was so strangely mixed up with
his own is a novel and charming one ;
but why are we never told what be-
came, after Robespierre's fall, of that
finished and most agreeable reprobate,
the Marquis de Ste. Luce ? It is not a
new type, certainly, but it is admirably
presented here. And one more griev-
Some Novels of the Year.
133
ance we have against Dr. Mitchell: it
seems to us that Toto was needlessly
sacrificed. His death was nobly avenged,
indeed ; still we remain inconsolable.
He who had escaped the chances of the
Terror and the travesty of the guillo-
tine might so well have subsisted royal-
ly on the rats in the Paris Catacombs,
and passed away long afterward, by a
wheezy euthanasy, at the fireside which
sheltered the ranged and reclaimed
Francois.
Two more recruits to the stout army
of romanticists a Scotchman and an
American appear in the persons of Mr.
John Buchan, author of John Barnet of
Barnes, and Miss Mary Johnston, author
of Prisoners of Hope, a Tale of Colonial
Virginia. Mr. Bnchan, though his pages
bristle with dialect, is no kail-yard chron-
icler. He is the earnest pupil of Ste-
venson, and has written a sound, manly,
and well-knit narrative of seventeenth-
century adventure. The freshest por-
tions of it are those which describe the
hero's student life in Leyden ; it is only
when we take to the moors, and lie in hid-
ing with the Covenanters, that too close a
comparison is invited with the inimitable
master, and we sigh for "the touch of
a vanished hand." John Barnet was
for Church and King, and though falsely
denounced by private enemies for plot-
ting against the Stuart line, he was no
little loath, at first, to owe his life, when
a fugitive, to Covenanting protection.
Yet a great admiration for many of
these hunted men grew upon him, when
he had lived for a few days among
them. " Truly," he says, " my thoughts
on things were changing. Here was I,
in the very stronghold of the fanatics,
and in the two chief the old man
and Master Lockhart I found a rea-
sonable mind and lofty purpose. And
thus I have ever found it : that the bet-
ter sort of the Covenanters were the very
cream of Scots gentlefolk, and 't was only
in the canaille that the gloomy passion
of fanatics was to be found." There is
a ring about this which vividly recalls
that most touching, but, alas, unfulfilled
aspiration of Stevenson's :
"Might it be given me to behold you again in
dying,
Hills of home ! and hear again the call
About the graves of the martyrs, the peewits
crying,
And hear no more at all."
The author of Prisoners of Hope,
an excellent title by the way, if she has
a less disciplined pen than Mr. Buchan,
has more originality and a far more ac-
tive imagination. The scene of the story
is laid in Virginia, at the time of the
formidable rebellion under Sir William
Berkeley; and Miss Johnston has not
only studied her period thoroughly, but
she shows a remarkable grasp of an
obscure and intricate political situation.
The various elements of discontent which
were working at that critical time, and
which, in their explosion, had so nearly
rent the young commonwealth asunder
and detached her from the mother coun-
try a century before the times were ripe,
are nonchalantly enumerated at the open-
ing of the narrative by brave old Colo-
nel Verney, tobacco king and stanch
Cavalier :
" It 's this d d Oliverian element
among them ! You see, ever since his
Majesty's blessed restoration, gang after
gang of rebels have been sent us, In-
dependents, Muggletonians, Fifth Mon-
archy men, dour Scotch Whigamores,
dangerous fanatics all ! Many are Nase-
l>y or Worcester rogues, Ironsides who
worship the memory of that devil's lieu-
tenant, Oliver. All have the gift of the
gab. We disperse them as much as
possibly, not allowing above five or six
to any one plantation, we of the Coun-
cil realizing that they form a dangerous
leaven. Should there be trouble,
which Heaven forbid ! they would be
the instigators. . . . Then there are
their fellow criminals, the highwaymen,
forgers, cutpurses, and bullies, of whom
we relieve his Majesty's government.
134
Some Novels of the Year.
They are few in number, but each is a
very plague spot, infecting hon ester men.
The slaves always excepting the Span-
ish and Portuguese mulattoes from the
Indies, who are devils incarnate have
not brain enough to conspire. But in
the actual event of a rising they would
be fiends unchained."
These types are all clearly distin-
guished and ably represented in Miss
Johnston's virile pages, and there is
one chapter The Hut on the Marsh
which describes a cautious meeting of
the conspirators for the discussion of
their plans with positively amazing
power.
The hero of the story, Godfrey Land-
less, belongs to a class whose tragic fate
has invited more than one novelist of
late, and notably the highly correct and
careful author of King Noanett. Land-
less was a convict who had been sold
into semi-slavery ; consigned with other
malefactors to Colonel Verney, and sent
to work out his sentence on the Virginia
plantations. But he was a gentleman
none the less, the son of a gallant officer
in the -army of the Commonwealth who
had been killed at Worcester, and he
suffered, of course, under a false accusa-
tion. A bitter sense of his own wrongs
leads him to cast in his lot with the re-
bels, but he is revolted by the project of
inciting the slaves to rebellion ; and
when, in due course of time and by the
inevitable law of romantic tendency, he
has fallen in love with his master's
daughter, his position becomes in the
highest degree perplexing and perilous.
The lady, the fair, disdainful Patricia,
is being wooed at the same time by her
cousin, Sir Charles Carew, a dandy and
a gallant of the court of Charles II., who
had come to the colony prepared to mend
his wasted fortunes with the patrimony
of the rich planter's daughter, and then
honestly fallen a victim to her unex-
pected charm. The mortal enmity be-
tween these two so unequally equipped
suitors adds one more sensational ingre-
dient to this highly wrought, yet upon
the whole admirably constructed story,
and no faithful novel-reader will need to
be told which of the rivals ultimately
prevails with Patricia.
The book is brim full of fire and move-
ment, and the interest marvelously sus-
tained. Its main fault is the very hope-
ful and curable, but in these days most
uncommon one of exuberance. It is
too highly colored. Surely life was not
quite so elaborately fastuous as here re-
presented, even among the most pro-
sperous of the Virginia tobacco growers
before 1700 ! And as for Patricia's ex-
travagance in dress, we can think of no
parallel to the "yards upon yards of
Venice point " lavished upon one only
of the many imported gowns of this co-
lonial belle, save in the historic ward-
robe of England's virgin queen or the
reckless outfit of Ouida's early hero-
ines.
But superfluity can always be pruned,
while indigence is fatal. Miss John-
ston has both power and passion, and
these, after all, are the main essentials
for the highest achievement in fiction.
Curiously enough, while her fancy is thus
riotous, her style is not intemperate, and
her touch in delineating scenery is deli-
cate and absolutely just. Her landscape
backgrounds are exquisite, and the de-
scription of the old Verney mansion is a
gem of picturesque writing and a mar-
vel of local color.
If there should ever be a sequel to
Prisoners of Hope, and it is so unnat-
ural for the hero to have been aban-
doned, on the last page of his eventful
history, to a lingering death in the for-
est that we are half inclined to expect
one, it is safe to prophesy that it will
be a more symmetrical, if not a more
striking book than this.
From the strenuous appeal made to
the reason by novels with a pronounced
purpose, and to the feelings by tales of
thrilling adventure, we turn with an in-
voluntary sense of relief to the latest
Some Novels of the Year.
135
book by that rather new writer who
chooses to call himself Henry Seton
Merriman. For what we are about to
receive we are already grateful. We
are not sure of being edified, but we
know that we shall be well amused so
long as the story lasts, and perhaps
left with something to think about if
think we must after the volume is re-
gretfully closed.
It is not often that a considerable re-
putation is so quietly, negligently, one
might almost say disdainfully made as
that of the author of The Sowers, Flot-
sam, and In Kedar's Tents. It is a re-
putation of the second class, of course ;
but the front rank is not exactly crowd-
ed at present, and there is ample room
for this mordant and yet urbane annal-
ist, who is neither poet, prophet, accred-
ited artist, nor professed philanthropist,
but merely a clever and widely experi-
enced man of the world. We all know
how soothing in society if he be but
reasonably amiable is the companion-
ship of such a man, when one has been a
little too long importuned by the argu-
ments of the earnest and the appeals of
the inspired. It is much the same in
literature. Mr. Merriman as we are
bound to name him has perhaps been
a diplomatist. He seems equally at
home, at all events, in all the great
capitals of Europe, London, Paris,
Petersburg, Madrid, The Hague, and
he gives us a good variety of human
types, all drawn with the same light
and well-trained hand. He can bring
forth from the stores of his memory
plenty of sensational incident, but he
makes light, in a way, of this also,
and never needlessly agitates either him-
self or his reader. His epigrams are
abundant, but so modestly offered and
seemingly unstudied as to appear half
unconscious, the habit .merely of a
quick wit long associated with other
quick wits. Their presumed cynicism
is often curiously superficial, masking a
serious and by no means uncharitable
meaning. Take a handful gathered at
random from his last book, Roden's
Corner :
" Men who stand much upon their dig-
nity have not, as a rule, much else to
stand upon."
" That dangerous industries exist we
all know and deplore. That the supply
of men and women ready to take em-
ployment in such industries is practi-
cally inexhaustible is a fact worth at
least a moment's attention."
" Sufficient for the social day is the
effort to avoid glancing at the cupboard
where our neighbor keeps his skele-
ton."
" She had that subtle air of self-re-
straint that marks those women whose
lives are passed in the society of men
inferior to themselves. Of course, all
women are, in a sense, doomed to this ! "
" Life should surely consist of seiz-
ing the fortunate, and fighting through
the ill moments else why should men
have heart and nerve? "
In his treatment of women Mr. Merri-
man comes rather nearer than good taste
permits to assuming the pose of a miso-
gynist ; yet here, too, he is always liable
to lapses into chivalry. The audacious
and slang-loving schoolgirl in Roden's
Corner is drawn with a touch so indul-
gent as to be almost tender, and en-
dowed with the finest of womanly pos-
sibilities ; and the author is very kind,
in the same book, to another well-in-
tentioned but rather foolish girl of the
period, the tale of whose final wooing
and winning is original enough for quo-
tation :
" Like many of her contemporaries,
Joan was troubled by an intense desire
to do her duty, coupled with an unfor-
tunate lack of duties to perform.
" ' I wish you would tell me what you
think/ she said.
" < Seems to me/ said White, < that
your duty is clear enough.'
"'Yes?'
" ' Yes. Drop the Malgamiters and
136
Some Novels of the Year.
the Haberdashers and all that, and
niarry me.'
" But Joan only shook her head sadly.
"'That cannot be my duty,' she
said.
" * Why ? 'Cause it is n't unpleasant
enough? '
" 'No,' answered Joan after a pause,
in the deepest earnestness, ' no, that 's
just it!'"
Roden's Corner was a financial, not a
rural one ; and the volume is more of a
tract than Mr. Merriman has permitted
himself hitherto, dealing quite explicit-
ly with the abuse of trusts and monopo-
lies, and all that may be suffered by the
victims of certain fashionable forms of
organized charity. It is the clever and
high-mettled dandy of the book who,
having been idly drawn into the nefari-
ous malgamite scheme, discerns and re-
volts at its iniquity, and finally exposes
and defeats it. " He belonged," the au-
thor says, " to a school and generation
which, with all its faults, has, at all
events, the redeeming quality of courage.
He had long learned to say the right
thing, which effectually teaches men to
do the right thing, also."
It will be seen that Mr. Merriman is
very fond of his hero, Tony Cornish,
whose features, for the rest, are not
quite unfamiliar; for he reminds us a
little of Rudolf, Rassendyll, and several
other modern favorites. But we are
more than willing to believe, in view of
the stormy times already sententiously
prophesied, that he represents not un-
fairly the very best kind of gilded youth,
both in England and in America.
The twelve stories which Mr. Rud-
yard Kipling has collected under the ap-
propriate title of The Day's Work com-
prise two of the very best which he has
written, The Bridge Builders and The
Brushwood Boy, first and last of the
series. In several of the others he in-
dulges his recent fancy for making an-
imals talk, as they used to do in the
fairy tales of our childhood, and also
for personifying those formidable natu-
ral forces which the modern man boasts
of having compelled to do his bidding,
but which often defy, and occasionally,
even yet, defeat and violently destroy
him.
But whether it is the horses on a Ver-
mont stock farm and the brave little
beasts of the polo field who hold lively
converse among themselves ; or the once
deified animals of the Ganges Valley who
revolt at a sacrilegious attempt to bridle
their sacred river ; or a mere miscella-
neous lot of locomotive engines compet-
ing for precedence, and yielding homage
at last to the record-breaking speed of
" No. .007," all these creatures, whe-
ther animate or inanimate, speak with
the voice of Rudyard Kipling, perorate
with his fiery eloquence, pound with
the hammer of his prejudice, and sting
with the whiplash of his merry wit.
Where else can we look for such intense
vitality and such impish variety ? Mr.
Kipling belongs to no school of novel-
ists, living or dead. He is a law unto
his extraordinary self, solitary and
universal. He is romantic, but not a ro-
manticist ; sentimental, but not a senti-
mentalist ; popular, though he would
spit upon the name of populist ; practi-
cal and scientific, as befits his epoch, but
not a realist ; Homeric, at times, but as-
suredly no epic bard ; patriotic in the
highest degree, but after a fashion never
observed in a British subject before.
He is unique and unclassifiable, because
he is of the future ; an inquisitive and
impetuous forerunner of that twentieth
century which will be in full swing by
the time he is as old as a man must
usually be before acquiring a solid re-
putation as a distinguished writer.
Two only of the dozen tales in this
volume deal, in any way, with that pas-
sion which has formed the staple of all
fiction hitherto ; but the love stories in
The Brushwood Boy and in William
the Conqueror (William was the ladye-
love, by the way) are both of marked
The Contributors' Club.
137
and memorable beauty ; fresh, delicate,
and thrilling as a skylark's lay. In
William the Conqueror, as well as in
The Bridge Builders and the very strik-
ing sketch called The Tombs of his
Ancestors, the scene is happily laid once
more in the ancient land of Mr. Kip-
ling's own birth ; and he returns to the
congenial theme, so dear to his own heart
always, and so affecting to every read-
er of our race, the simple heroism, the
unshrinking and unthinking spirit of self-
sacrifice, which characterizes the lives of
so many Englishmen and Englishwomen
in British India. There can be no bet-
ter reading just now than these plain
chronicles for our own young men and
maidens, who can learn from Mr. Kip-
ling's dramatic pages how nobly a na-
tion's most reckless pledges may be re-
deemed by her loyal children ; and the
crimes, and the yet more hapless blun-
ders, which too often accompany distant
conquest, may be amply expiated.
In A Walking Delegate, My Sunday
at Home, and the exceedingly clever
and diverting sketch entitled An Error
in the Fourth Dimension, Mr. Kipling
selects American subjects, and handles
them with admirable humor, but in a
spirit, it must be confessed, by no means
flattering, and hardly even friendly to
ourselves. We can well afford to wait,
however, until that gust of rather boyish
anger which found scathing expression
in the verses on the American spirit
shall have passed harmlessly by, and
may good-humoredly accept meanwhile.
and even enjoy a good laugh over the
very thinly disguised general admonition
which is delivered in almost unerring
dialect by the " ex-car-horse " Muldoon
in A Walking Delegate :
" America 's paved with the kind er
horse you are jist plain yaller-dog
horse, waiting ter be whipped inter
shape. We call 'em yearlings and colts
when they 're young. When they 're
aged we pound 'em in this pastur'.
Horse, sonny, is what you start from.
We know all about horse here, an' he
ain't any high-toned, pure-souled child
o' natur'. Horse, plain horse, same as
you, is chock-full o' tricks, an' mean-
nesses, an' cussednesses, an' shirkin's, an'
monkey-shines, which he 's took over
from his sire an' his dam, an' thickened
up with his own special fancy in the
way o' goin' crooked. Thet 's horse;
an' thet's about his dignity an' the
size of his soul 'fore he 's been broke
an' raw-hided a piece. . . . Don't you
try to back off acrost them rocks !
Wait where you are ! Ef I let my
Hambletonian temper git the better o'
me, I 'd frazzle you out finer than rye-
straw inside o' three minutes, you wo-
man-scarin', kid-killin', dash-breakin',un-
broke, unshod, ungaited, pastur '-hoggin',
saw-backed, shark-mouthed, hair-trunk,
thrown-in-in-a-trade son of a bronco an'
a sewing-machine ! "
Versatile as he is, Mr. Kipling could
never have achieved this last climax if
he had not served for a term of years
in the United States.
THE CONTRIBUTORS' CLUB.
THERE is registered somewhere in my and wearisome burden, and I seek relief
In the Conn- consc i usness a vow tnat I by casting it aside ; for, like the colored
dence of a will never be confidential ex- gentleman in the Passemala, I am some-
Br cept for the purpose of mis- times " afraid o' myse'f," but never
ling. But consistency is a pompous ashamed.
138
The Contributors' Club.
I have discovered my limitations, and
I have saved myself much worry and
torment by accepting them as final. I
can gain nothing but tribulation by cul-
tivating faculties that are not my own.
I cannot reach anything by running af-
ter it, but I find that many pleasant and
profitable things come to me here in my
corner.
Some wise man has promulgated an
eleventh commandment, " Thou shalt
not preach," which, interpreted, means,
" Thou shalt not instruct thy neighbor as
to what he should do." But the Preach-
er is always with us. Said one to me :
" Thou shalt parcel off thy day into
mathematical sections. So many hours
shalt thou abandon thyself to thought,
so many to writing ; a certain number
shalt thou devote to household duties,
to social enjoyment, to ministering to
thy afflicted fellow creatures." I listened
to the voice of the Preacher, and the re-
sult was stagnation all along the line of
" hours " and unspeakable bitterness of
spirit. In brutal revolt I turned to and
played solitaire during my "thinking
hour," and whist when I should have
been ministering to the afflicted. I scrib-
bled a little during my "social enjoy-
ment " period, and shattered the " house-
hold duties " into fragments of every
conceivable fraction of time, with which
I besprinkled the entire day as from a
pepper-box. In this way I succeeded in
reestablishing the harmonious discord
and confusion which had surrounded me
before I listened to the voice, and which
seems necessary to my physical and
mental well-being.
But there are many voices preaching.
Said another one to me : " Go forth and
gather wisdom in the intellectual atmo-
sphere of clubs, in those centres of
thought where questions are debated and
knowledge is disseminated." Once more
giving heed, I hurried to enroll myself
among the thinkers, and dispensers of
knowledge, and propounders of ques-
tions. And very much out of place did
I feel in these intellectual gatherings. I
escaped by some pretext, and regained
my corner, where no " questions " and
no fine language can reach me.
There is far too much gratuitous ad-
vice bandied about, regardless of person-
al aptitude and wholly confusing to the
individual point of view.
I had heard so often reiterated that
" genius is a capacity for taking pains "
that the axiom had become lodged in
my brain with the fixedness of a funda-
mental truth. I had never hoped or
aspired to be a genius. But one day
the thought occurred to me, " I will
take pains." Thereupon I proceeded
to lie awake at night plotting a tale that
should convince my limited circle of
readers that I could rise above the com-
monplace. As to choice of " time," the
present century offered too prosaic a
setting for a tale intended to stir the
heart and the imagination. I selected
the last century. It is true I know lit-
tle of the last century, and have a feeble
imagination. I read volumes bearing
upon the history of the times and people
that I proposed to manipulate, and pored
over folios depicting costumes and house-
hold utensils then in use, determined to
avoid inaccuracy. For the first time in
my life I took notes, copious notes,
and carried them bulging in my jacket
pockets, until I felt as if I were wearing
Zola's coat. I have never seen a crafts-
man at work upon a fine piece of mosaic,
but I fancy that he must handle the deli-
cate bits much as I handled the words in
that story, picking, selecting, grouping,
with an eye to color and to artistic effect,
never satisfied. The story completed,
I was very, very weary ; but I had the
satisfaction of feeling that for once in my
life I had worked hard, I had achieved
something great, I had taken pains.
But the story failed to arouse enthu-
siasm among the editors. It is at pre-
sent lying in my desk. Even my best
friend declined to listen to it, when I
offered to read it to her.
The Contributors' Club.
139
I am more than ever convinced that
a writer should be content to use his
own faculty, whether it be a faculty for
taking pains or a faculty for reaching
his effects by the most careless methods.
Every writer, I fancy, has his group of
readers who understand, who are in sym-
pathy with his thoughts or impressions
or whatever he gives them. And he who
is content to reach his own group, with-
out ambition to be heard beyond it, at-
tains, in my opinion, somewhat to the
dignity of a philosopher.
FROM the " vowe to God made he "
The God oi ^ * ne Ballad of Chevy Chase
Battles. down to the " Jehovah of the
Thunders " in Kipling's hymn, the An-
glo-Saxon, or more properly the Anglo-
Norman, whenever he has felt the stir
of coming battle has felt at the same time
the call of a very stern, a very simple,
and a very primitive religious sentiment.
Satirists of alien nationality have not
been slow to observe this. They have
depicted the Englishman overrunning the
wilderness, with the Bible in one hand
and the sword in the other, and they
have maligned the American as a hypo-
crite who lifted to heaven a hand drip-
ping with the slaughter of less powerful
races. The Anglo-Norman conscience
itself has proved tender at times, and
the God of Battles has been invoked
from within against the manifest ten-
dencies of the race as well as in their
behalf. This conscience is never at ease
unless it finds a case made out for it of
battling for right and humanity, if not
for the God of Battles himself.
But we are told in these latter days
that the Anglo-Norman has undergone
a revolution. He has cast aside the tra-
ditions of a thousand years, it is said,
and has new words to express his con-
victions as to the truths of life and
death. Accordingly, he has found, or
must find, new cries to animate him in
his devotion to what he deems the cause
of progress and humanity.
There have been varied suggestions
as to what might take the place of Him
whom Kipling calls Jehovah of the Thun-
ders, provided we satisfied ourselves that
He no longer existed. The difficulty
with most of these suggestions is that
they do not adapt themselves to poetry.
The Unknowable, Abstract Humanity,
and so forth, none of these seems to
work well in metre, either long, short,
or peculiar. That is no argument
against the use in prose of these substi-
tutes for an historic tradition. It shows
only that when the cloud of war rose,
the United States were unready in oth-
er respects besides those indicated in
appropriation bills and proclamations.
The curious thing in that American
war verse which found its way in trick-
ling stanzas down the columns of news-
papers was the apparent self-conscious-
ness with which it evaded all the diffi-
culties that real poetry would have faced
with deadly resolution. The real poet
would have said to himself, " There is a
way to say these thoughts which I have
in my heart, if they are true ; " and he
would have broken his heart rather than
fail to find the new manner of utterance.
But the verse-makers did nothing in this
earnest spirit. They ignored the God
of Battles to a degree positively startling
in the history of English literature, and
they put nothing in his place. If there
were exceptions to this rule in current
literature, they were few ; though it
must be acknowledged that a republica-
tion of The Battle Hymn of the Repub-
lic awoke languid echoes. The only
fervent reminiscence of the poets and
this was shared by the populace
showed itself in lurid allusions to the
place which Falstaff said he always
thought on when he looked at Bardolph's
nose.
Thus it remained a question whether
the actual roar of cannon would arouse
in the bards the old Anglo-Norman sen-
timent, or bring new thoughts to their
lips. Later evidence goes to show that
the time-honored phrases are the final
140
The Contributors' Club.
resort. The other day, a few stanzas,
not otherwise remarkable, flashed forth
with that stern and ancient name, the
God of Battles. They were apparently
a woman's verses, and there was more
in them of the sacrifice and misery than
the triumph and glory of war. But God
was there, compassionate to the strick-
en, unpitying to the stubborn foe,
the same God whom the Anglo-Norman
has always called upon when he felt a
need beyond the powers of his own self-
reliance. Since then we have seen a
number of hymns and apostrophes in
the old fashion. But we await the poet
who thinks himself capable of putting
modern beliefs into stirring verse.
WE have no spare chamber. I have
.. _, , been troubled about it for a
TllG F&5S1HE
of the Spare long while. Yesterday it oc-
Chamber.
curred to me that the Browns
have no spare chamber, either, nor the
Robinsons, nor the Stuyvesants, and I
am more troubled than ever.
The decadence of the spare chamber
strikes deep. It is the concrete differ-
ence between past and present. The
spare chamber meant a room in the
house set apart from common life, dedi-
cated to the higher nature. The family
might have only three chambers : one
of these was sacred. The feather bed
rose plump and impregnable in its re-
cesses. The green paper shades shut
out all but a chink of light, the cane-
seat chairs stood stiff against the wall,
and clean straw rustled under the taut
"store carpet." The stimulus to the
imagination alone was worth three times
the amount of cubic space the spare
chamber occupied. You tiptoed in. Mo-
ther's best bonnet lay on the middle of
the bed. Sometimes a huge loaf of fruit
cake sat elegantly in one of the chairs.
There was always something reserved
in the days of the spare chamber,
fruit cake and bonnets. People had best
clothes. They wore them on spare days.
Sunday was a spare day. You knew
that it was Sunday. Grandfather shaved.
(When grandfathers shave every day,
what is left for the seventh ?) There
was a hush about the house. As the day
wore on, it deepened; the whole farm
lay under its warm, sleepy spell, all
but the irrepressible hen. The cheerful
cackle lingers still, the most irreverent
thing in memory. She worked seven
days in the week, and talked about it.
The very silence waited to hear and con-
demn. Amid trolley cars, and bicycle
bells, and children playing, and the Sal-
vation Army drum, the cackle dies away
into a harmless whisper.
There was spare time then. People
made visits, not anxious, crowded, hur-
ried calls, but good old-fashioned visits.
The carryall was washed and oiled. Old
Flora was carefully combed and brushed
by grandfather, and then grandfather
was brushed and combed by grand-
mother. Aunt Clara packed the lunch-
eon in a big basket. There was always
a spare cricket to fit in front for small
folks, with a good view of Flora's haunches
going uphill, and a wide sweep of country
going down. The journey was leisure-
ly, but full of wild excitements. There
were the dangerous railroad crossings,
where grandfather always got out, rods
ahead, and walked cautiously across,
looking two ways at once. The rest of
us rode boldly over, with a fine feeling
of risk. Grandfather used to crack the
whip in defiance of danger. There were
the covered bridges, too. Old Flora's
hoofs echoed in them and repeated the
trampling of armies. The loose boards
rattling underneath held the child on the
cricket breathless. Times have changed.
Now we speed swiftly over gaudy open
bridges, and the legend "No faster than
a walk " looks grimly down from either
end.
We had a spare chamber at first.
When the baby came, we turned it into
a nursery. We cleared out a store-room
for the nurse, and used the little back-
room for a drying-room. Grandmother,
when her first baby came, took it into
The Contributors' Club.
141
her own bed. When another baby came
to crowd it out, there was the trundle-
bed that stood under the big bed all day,
and rolled out at night with a sleepy rum-
ble. And when more babies still came
to crowd the trundle-bed, the first baby,
a big boy, six years old now, had a bed
made for- him at the head of the back
stairs, or up garret, under the sloping
eaves. The rain lulled him to sleep, and
the snow drifted in sometimes. In the
spare chamber the big bed loomed un-
touched. It hovered in his dreams, a
presence not to be put by. The snow,
the rain, the stars, and the spare cham-
ber made a poet of him. We have no
poets now.
WIDE reading in current literature
Every Book w ^ snow " tnat r arely is a book
on its own printed which does not con-
Bottom. r .
tain at least one thought or
one aspect of thought worth remember-
ing. But it takes a wise man to find
the thought. What puzzles him in his
search for atoms of wisdom is that often
the book from which he got least is taken
up behind him with babbling approval.
Until he has learned by experience to
pay no attention to the shouting of the
multitude, he is often tempted to revise
his judgment. But he learns at last
that the noise, like the wag of a dog's
tail or the pecking of a bird, is mainly
due to reflex action. It interests him,
then, to learn the cause of the outcry.
He finds cases in which some intrinsic
quality of a book, irksome perhaps to
him, has attracted the public. In this
case, as one to whom nothing human is
foreign, he adds something to his know-
ledge of literary possibilities. But usual-
ly he discovers that what stirred the
imagination of the people was not with-
in the covers of the book.
The classic example of this sort of
thing not to make invidious remarks
about what happens under our noses
several times a year is Pomfret's
Choice, a poem which, so far as printed
testimony goes, has been read by only
two men of the present generation,
though it was preeminently the end-of-
the-century book in 1699. Observe that
the end of the century with its atten-
dant phenomena is no novelty in the his-
tory of literature. The Bishop of Lon-
don disapproved of Pomfret's Muse.
Pomfret's career as a clergyman was
blasted before it began, but his book sold
as if there were a lurking devil in its
innocuous pages. A smooth, easy, lan-
guid, shallow copy of verses became the
talk of a nation because a bishop sat down
on the author. History repeats itself.
Only a little while ago an American arch-
bishop performed a similar office for a
well-known recent novel.
All this having become a matter of
experience, and the world in general
being, like the men of Athens, diligent
in search of new things, why not try
systematically the plan of putting all
books on their individual merits without
reference to the author ? In more than
one sense of the word, a book is a living
organism with a span of active existence
more or less extended. A, sickly book
ought not to borrow vitality from a
strong book because it owes its being to
the same author; nor should a good
book be handicapped because it belongs
to an ignoble family.
The world does its part in trying to
discourage the majority of authors by
remunerating them scantily or not at all.
But an additional measure of some kind
is needed. Why not, then, enforce
anonymity by the gradual pressure of
an ethical reform in which the rights of
books shall be considered as those of
dumb brutes are now ? At present the
tendency seems to be toward an opinion
that anonymity is unjustifiable. This
seems to be an outcome worthy of an
age in which the gossipy commercial
traveler is the most conspicuous figure.
If literature is merely a trade or profes-
sion, notoriety is, of course, indispensa-
ble, and concealment is required only to
injure an enemy or a rival. But if lit-
142
The Contributors' Club.
erature in its highest forms, the only
forms worth studying, is an inspiration,
then it were well put on a level where
the arts of notoriety and mere self-seek-
ing cannot flourish. Anonymity, if it
became general, would stop the personal
allusions to authors which make the
cheapest kind of fame in these modern
days. It would obviate all that mass of
paragraphic information often called lit-
erary notes, and quite as often devoid of
anything literary ; it would destroy that
parasitic journalism which has grown
up on the vanity of authorship ; and it
would turn the vacuous curiosity of the
public back upon itself, where it belongs.
The public would then either read books
or not, as it chose ; but it would be forced
to talk more about literature, and less
about literary persons. The finest epi-
sode of literary history in the last hun-
dred years was the anonymity of Waver-
ley. People would, indeed, persistently
ask of a book that attracted them, " Who
wrote it ? " But they would look in the
book itself for an answer, something
which is not done uniformly now.
If the writer outlives anonymity, the
title of concealment becomes a term of
affection. Witness George Eliot. If it
veils a popular author to the threshold
of the tomb, it may be rent only to dis-
cover a life history touching in its com-
pleteness, which would have been blotted
by daily publicity. It may keep alive for
ages a vivid sense of the perils in which
humanity has established its rights, as the
fame of the Letters of Obscure Men has
done. It may even keep a worthless
book alive unnumbered centuries, and
this should be a solace to authors, if shut
out from ordinary commercial devices
for giving their books renown. Nobody
knows who wrote the Epistles of Pha-
laris; consequently, a library has been
written about them. If anybody knew
their author, nobody would think of read-
ing them again. An equally worthless
book of the last century, The Letters of
Junius, bids fair to have the same end-
less repute ; and there is an American
novel, published some years ago, which
promises to live in the well-kept mystery
of its origin.
Nobody knows better than the wise
man that he loves books which never
become popular, and that books which
become popular in spite of his praise are
subject to the same law of oblivion as
those are which succeed with the aid of
his disapproval. He is conscious that the
theme and the treatment of the theme are
the real issue, and that authors should
be considered only necessary instrumen-
talities. If a modern gossipmonger is
asked about a book, he can often answer
with anecdotes about the author. Sup-
pose we reform this and shut the fool's
mouth.
THE familiar fact that marriage is
run ' a roman "
Art! t '
and Mar- tic relationship may be the
reason of its amazing lack of
influence upon the work of the artist.
Possibly there is a surer reason, based
on the nature of men, whatever their oc-
cupation. From the testimony of time,
not less than from the myth of Adam,
it would seem that the imperious need
of men is, not to love, but to work ; that
they seek to express themselves, not in
romance, but in labor. The artist with
his heightened temperament is peculiarly
under the rule of this need of self-expres-
sion. More susceptible than other men,
perhaps, to the influence of the woman,
he is less in danger of her interference
with his life task. In this task are com-
bined at once his business and the food
for his idealism. His work is ultimate,
his temper of mind all-embracing, leav-
ing no margins of unfulfilled desire on
which to record whole epics of dissatis-
faction. If he love happily, his work
goes on apace ; if he do not love, it still
goes on. If he marry, he loves his wife
and is glad of her presence in the inter-
vals of rest between labor on novel or
portrait.
The matter as far as the man is con-
The Contributors' Club.
143
cerned ends here ; but the case of the
woman begins, and its end is lost in the
mists of the future. Nor can Nature
throw light ahead upon this dimness.
Concerning the domestic functions of
women her voice is heard around the
world, but in regard to their ambitions
alien to these functions she is as mute
as the Sphinx. Nothing can be expect-
ed from her toward the solution of a
problem that seems the peculiar product
of this century.
Except in the question of finance, a
man has never been obliged to consider
marriage in its relation to his art. On
the other hand, when a woman painter
or poet loves and marries she is con-
fronted with a problem of personality
that has to do with the very essence of
her relationship to the man. He be-
comes, to a greater or less degree, the
rival of her art. To review with Villon
the " dear, dead women " of many a
golden past, to study the women of the
present, is to feel, against one's will
perhaps, that the primal need of a wo-
man's nature is, not to work, but to love.
She must earn her bread in the service
pf love, as she has done in marriage for
a thousand generations.
Men are not, as a rule, rivals of those
occupations of women which do not
bring the aesthetic forces into play, which
do not demand an output of feeling.
A woman who keeps books or sells goods
may do her work heartily, but in the
majority of cases she looks forward to
marriage as a not unwelcome end to her
labors. She would be an unnatural wo-
man, indeed, who would prefer book-
eeping to marriage with a man she
ed. In the case of art it is different,
manding as art does the passion of its
evotee as well as the intellect. A man
satisfy these large demands because
he is by nature dedicated to labor. But
a woman, if she love her art, must ordi-
narily give up dreams of wifehood and
maternity and be content with her rich
shadows.
Her problem in this matter is essen-
tially modern. The nineteenth century
has brought forth a new type, a woman
highly organized, sensitive to beauty,
nervous to sublimity, and, sometimes, de-
void of humor. Her imperative need is
an outlet for her too abundant energy.
If she love very early, she marries as a
St. Theresa might marry, in tremulous
idealism, becomes a mother, lives for her
children, and is satisfied, if not actively
happy. If she do not marry, she is like-
ly to seek self-expression and happiness
in painting, in modeling, in novel-writ-
ing, in the so-called artistic career. Paris
and New York swarm with young wo-
men whose enthusiasm for their chosen
work is only another form of what might
have been maternal feeling. When to
this zeal is added the necessity for bread-
winning, the absorption becomes com-
plete. The more vital the hold that the
work takes upon a woman, the less like-
ly she is to marry. She becomes too
detached in spirit to attract men, or she
herself does not feel the need of love.
It makes no difference in the effect, that
only one in a thousand, perhaps, of these
enthusiasts is really gifted. The dream
and not the achievement changes the
course of life. It is not that this century
has produced more women of genius than
any other, but that it has produced more
women who find other outlets for their
feeling than marriage.
If, however, a man should stride across
the threshold of the woman's carefully
built house of art, she is at once obliged
to divide her allegiance, and confusion
ensues. If marriage result, the complex-
ity is so much increased that, after a
time, the woman may give up in weari-
ness the effort to be both an artist and
a woman, and, by sheer reaction, revel
in being a woman ; or else she may en-
deavor to keep up the dual life in the
time that she can spare from child-bear-
ing and the ordering of the house. She
may, indeed, sacrifice the domestic ideal
to what she considers higher obligations
144
The Contributors' Club.
than those of motherhood, but she is
not then on natural ground, and her
case is not the case of the normal wife.
When women have carried on their
mental labors within marriage, they have
had, as a rule, the concurrence of their
husbands ; or these husbands were them-
selves poets with impossible ideals of
life, as it may seem to the majority.
Mary Shelley lived an intellectual rather
than a domestic life, but to be married
to Shelley was a good deal like not be-
ing married at all. Elizabeth Barrett
Browning wrote some of her finest
poems as a wife, but she, too, was the
wife of a poet, and of a poet whose ideal
of women made them the supreme arti-
ficers of life. The rank and file of men,
however, cannot be poets ; and, to say the
least, it is not desirable that they should
be. The average man may be pardoned
for believing that his wife's domestic
virtues are of more consequence than
her ability to write sonnets. If she pos-
sess a strong interest which does not
concern her household or himself, he is
inclined to be jealous ; the men of this
generation, especially, have more cause
to be jealous of a woman's soul than of
her person. They are not always sure
of her spiritual allegiance. This part
of her nature may be least understood
by them ; and mystery is the mother of
resentment. In past centuries, when the
mass of women had not attained self-
consciousness, this cause for jealousy did
not exist ; but the women of the present
day are nothing if not self-conscious.
They have, perhaps, too great an inti-
macy with their own souls. Even a
French danseuse begins to feel that her
spirit may be of greater potency to
charm than mere prettiness of face ; she
is dimly divining the sensuousness of
the spirit. A moral gulf may be fixed
between her and the wife who seeks
some form of self-expression other than
the domestic, but they are alike baffling
to the lover and husband. Given these
conditions, it is difficult to foresee the
future of the woman artist in her rela-
tions to marriage. The question, after
all, will resolve itself finally into one
of happiness. The divine right of joy
is no longer disputed by the majority,
however wistful they may be in contem-
plation of their heritage. The woman
must decide, then, whether to pursue
her chosen art or to marry will make
her happier. In most cases she cannot
be both an artist and a wife. If she
do not marry, she misses the strange,
unspeakable joys of wifehood, with their
delicate margin of pain ; the rapture of
maternity; the wholesomeness of daily
living as the centre and inspiration of a
household. If she marry and put her
ambitions from her, she misses a rare
companionship with beautiful ghosts ; she
misses, it may be, the flavor of lonely
triumphs, the ennobling vision of the un-
attainable. She must choose between
two orders of experience as diverse as
the poles.
Presumably, that which is better
adapted to her nature will afford her
greater happiness. Goethe believed in
the Eternal Woman, but time plays
tricks with eternity, and the woman na-
ture itself might be changed by centuries
of training. As it is now, it seems that
the woman is happier if she marry. In
the long run, her idealism is more domes-
tic than aesthetic.
THE
ATLANTIC MONTHLY:
of Literature^ ^cience^ #rt 3 ana
VOL. LXXXIIL PEER UARY, 1899. No. CCCCXC VI.
THE COLONIAL EXPANSION OF THE UNITED STATES.
OUB country has been suddenly placed
in the position of a man who, intending
to make a small bid at a foreclosure
sale to protect the interest of a poor
neighbor, finds himself unexpectedly
the owner of a large estate subject to a
heavy mortgage. If the heritage rent
from Spain is princely, the questions it
entails are sorely perplexing ; and al-
though before we made the bid we talked
a great deal about the right of the poor
neighbor to manage his own property, we
have now discovered that the responsibil-
ity rests mainly upon us. In short, we
have taken the irrevocable step of extend-
ing our possessions beyond the sea, and
it is wise to consider soberly, without en-
thusiasm and without prejudice, the pro-
blems which that step involves.
It is commonly said that the recent
annexations mark a departure from our
traditional policy, in that they present
the first attempt the nation has made to
acquire colonies. The former half of this
statement is substantially correct ; for,
with the exception of Alaska, the lands
we have annexed have bordered upon
those we already possessed. Moreover,
they have been, for the most part, unin-
habited or very thinly peopled. The otb-
er half of the statement that we have
entered for the first time in the path of col-
onization cannot be accepted without
careful examination. The term " colo-
ny " is habitually used in a vague sense.
It brings to mind European possessions
in America, Asia, and Africa, and con-
jures up recollections of selfish oppres-
sion. In fact, for many Americans the
word has disagreeable associations with
which it has no necessary connection.
Properly speaking, a colony is a terri-
tory, not forming, for political purposes,
an integral part of the mother country,
but dependent upon her, and peopled in
part, at least, by her emigrants. If this
is true, there has never been a time, since
the adoption of the first ordinance for
the government of the Northwest Ter-
ritory in 1784, when the United States
has not had colonies. Nor is there any-
thing artificial or strained about this de-
finition. The very essence of a colony
lies in the fact that it is a new land, to
which citizens can go and carry with
them the protection of the parent state ;
and this has been eminently the case
in the territories of the United States.
They have been administered, it is true,
with a view to their becoming at the
earliest possible moment members of the
Union, with full equality of rights ; but
that is not inconsistent with their being
colonies in the strictest sense, so long as
they remained territories at all. Until
admitted as states, their position has not
differed in any essential particular from
that of the North American colonies of
England before the outbreak of the Re-
volution.
The extension of the boundaries of the
United States has been brought about
by every kind of process : by purchase,
as in the case of Louisiana with the land
then belonging to it, which stretched
from the Mississippi to the Rocky Moun-
146
The Colonial Expansion of the United States.
tains, and in the north all the way to
the Pacific, in the case, also, of Flor-
ida, of the Gadsden purchase, and of
Alaska ; by voluntary annexation, in the
case of Texas ; finally, by conquest, in
the case of California, together with
the country lying eastward to the Rio
Grande : and by far the greater part of
these acquisitions were for a time gov-
erned as territories or colonies.
The existence of vast regions in North
America uninhabited by civilized man
enabled our fathers to plant an ever ex-
tending series of new communities to
which the people of the older settlements
could emigrate without becoming foreign-
ers, and the process has added enormous-
ly to the prosperity of the nation. Un-
limited land, fit for agriculture, and to
be had almost for the asking, made it
possible for any man, by going West, to
earn a living ; and this, reacting upon the
more thickly settled parts of the coun-
try, relieved the pressure of competition
for work in spite of the constant stream
of immigration, kept up a high standard
of material comfort among the working
classes, and fostered enterprise, energy,
and self-reliance. After the great belt
of forest had been cleared and the open
prairie was reached, the conditions be-
came even more favorable ; for the ab-
sence of forests, the fertility of the virgin
soil, the advance in the use of agricul-
tural machinery, and the multiplication
of railroad lines enabled the Western
farmer to raise his crops at a cost that
insured him a profitable market in Eu-
rope. At the same time the rapid growth
of the country stimulated industry in the
East, and made it possible to maintain a
protective tariff, which was little felt by
the farmer, while it built up manufac-
tures. The progress of the people west-
ward at an ever increasing speed thus
developed and enriched all parts of the
nation, the old as well as the new.
Nor has the process of planting new
communities in the West been less suc-
cessful from a political than from an
economic point of view. With the ex-
ception of the troubles in Kansas during
the contest over slavery, a quarrel im-
ported from the older states, and the
disturbances in Utah, where polygamy
was a rock of offense, the United States
has had scarcely any friction with the
territories. The course of their govern-
ment has run smoothly ; and if the con-
ditions have been peculiarly favorable
and such as can never occur again, this
fact has not been the sole cause of suc-
cess. That the expansion to the Missis-
sippi and the plains beyond has been a
source of strength, that it has promoted
the welfare of the nation to an incalcu-
lable degree, no man will feel inclined
to deny. To realize this, one has only
to recall what the position of our country
would have been to-day if the ocean or
a foreign power had encompassed the
boundaries of the original thirteen states ;
if the Alleghanies had been our western
frontier. Since the Revolutionary War
the inhabitants of the United States have
increased twentyfold ; and of the pre-
sent population one half live in commu-
nities that have at some time been or-
ganized as territories, in other words,
that have been founded by the process of
colonization. It may safely be asserted,
therefore, that the United States has been
one of the greatest and most successful
colonizing powers the world has ever
known.
Like an engine on a down grade, a
nation that is bringing fresh fields under
cultivation can easily make rapid pro-
gress ; but a down grade cannot go on
forever, and vacant land cannot be of
indefinite extent. The conditions that
made possible the expansion of our peo-
ple westward at a furious and constant-
ly accelerated pace are surely, and not
very slowly, coming to an end. For
some time the Commissioner of Public
Lands has been repeating, and since 1890
in almost the same words, " that quite a
considerable portion of the vacant land
is embraced in the heavily timbered re-
The Colonial Expansion of the United States.
147
gions of the Southern States, the lake
region, the Pacific Coast, and the moun-
tainous and arid regions of the far West,
and that the portion of land cultivable
without clearing or irrigation is compara-
tively small. It is a reasonable conclu-
sion, however, that vast bodies of arid
lands will in time be reclaimed by irri-
gation, as the result of the efforts of the
government to construct storage basins
and ditches for the purpose, seconded, as
undoubtedly they will be, by private en-
terprise ; and that, as a consequence, the
rain areas of the West will be consider-
ably enlarged." Now, experts are by no
means all agreed in thinking that arid
lands can be permanently reclaimed by
means of irrigation ; but even if this is
feasible, the total cost to the community
of farming on such land is clearly far
larger than it is in the well-watered prai-
ries of Iowa. The same thing is true
in the states with an abundant rainfall,
where the most profitable land has been
taken up, and that which is left is less
fertile or less well situated. The time
has almost come when we shall no longer
be able to increase our grain crop by sim-
ply running a steam plough through un-
occupied square miles of rich virgin soil,
but must employ the more expensive pro-
cesses of higher cultivation oy irrigation.
Besides, we have reached this point at a
moment when the cost of the crop is of
vital importance, because our fields are
now obliged to compete with foreign lands
recently opened to cultivation. Some of
these countries are using modern agricul-
tural machinery ; they have the advan-
tage of cheaper labor ; and in the case
of Argentina, where the transportation
is all by water, the freight to the markets
of Europe is not so high. We have no
reason to expect, therefore, that the West-
ern movement will continue much longer
at the present rate. The United States
as a whole is capable, no doubt, of sup-
porting a far larger population than it
contains to-day, but the filling up of coun-
try already settled is a much slower pro-
cess than that of pushing into vacant
territories, and hence the rate of expan-
sion must inevitably be checked. One
often hears the question asked, " We
have been getting along exceedingly well ;
why cannot we keep on as we have been
going ? " The answer is that an engine
cannot keep on if there is no more track ;
or to make the simile a little closer, it
cannot continue at the old speed when
the down grade conies to an end. The
expansion into new regions, within the
old limits of the United States, must
cease, because there will be no new fer-
tile regions there ; and we shall be con-
fined to filling up what we have already
occupied.
If we look, then, at the past and the
future, the question is, not whether we
shall enter upon a career of colonization
or not, but whether we shall shift into
other channels the colonization which has
lasted as long as our national existence,
or whether we shall abandon it ; whether
we shall expand in other directions, or
cease to expand into new territory at all.
Although the acquisition of the Spanish
colonies was an accident, in the sense
that the war was not waged with any de-
liberate intention of expansion, yet the
question was sure to present itself in
some form before long ; and there can
be little doubt how it would have been
answered. The checking of expansion
by the occupation of all the best agricul-
tural land is certain to produce an eco-
nomic pressure in many ways. In the
first place, it must diminish the demand
for labor ; or rather, check the demand
that has hitherto increased with the sup-
ply. The Western land will not absorb
farm hands at the same rate as in the
past ; while in the East industry has de-
veloped so fast that the home market is
already fully stocked with most kinds of
manufactured goods, profits have fallen,
and there is little inducement for a large
increase of factories. In short, the de-
mand for labor must decrease as com-
pared with the supply, and hence wages
148
The Colonial Expansion of the United States.
must fall. Some of our manufactures
may, indeed, find a wider foreign mar-
ket, but this can hardly take place on a
large scale without a general decline of
wages to a point nearer the European
standard.
Moreover, and this would have still
greater weight in determining national
action, the filling up of the vacant land
must diminish the chance of employment
even faster for men who work with their
heads than for those who work with their
hands. Our public schools are often crit-
icised on the ground that the kind of
instruction they give is ill adapted for
training boys to be artisans. It is said
that it fills their heads with useless infor-
mation and gives them a distaste for man-
ual labor. No doubt this charge is not
entirely unfounded, but hitherto the con-
stantly swelling stream of immigrants
has supplied most of the laborers for the
rougher kinds of work, and the young
men educated here have found plenty
of room higher up the economic lad-
der. Throughout the North, the native-
born Americans have filled the profes-
sions, have been merchants, shopkeepers,
clerks, managers, and foremen. They
have been the captains, and, if I may
use the term, the non-commissioned offi-
cers of labor. Now, as immigration les-
sens with the filling up of the country,
the proportion of men who have obtained
a fair education cannot fail to be much
larger ; and thus the competition for the
work they are capable of doing must
become exceedingly sharp, as it is to-day
in France, for example, or in Germany.
That men of this stamp will tend to seek
their fortunes in other places where their
services are in demand cannot be doubt-
ed. It is also clear that, wherever they
go, they will claim the protection of our
government : and this class in the com-
munity is, after all, the main controlling
force in politics.
Finally, we must not forget that the
Anglo-Saxon race is expansive. While
the elaborate administrative systems of
Continental Europe tend to make men
dependent upon the government, the
common law develops self-reliance and
fits a man to cope alone with new con-
ditions. A colonist, to succeed, must be
allowed to make his own way as best
suits his surroundings, untrammeled by
administrative regulations ; and it is a
striking fact that German emigrants do
not flock to their own colonies. They
prefer to go to America or to an Eng-
lish colony, and thrive better there. The
habit of shifting for one's self is not
only a natural result of our institutions,
but has been deeply ingrained by the
Western movement of the population,
until the idea of bettering his prospects
by emigration comes naturally to every
American. That a tendency so firmly
rooted should die out as the country fills
up, that the custom of pushing into any
favorable opening should not operate be-
yond the present limits of the United
States, seems incredible. The rush for
the Klondike is enough to dispel such
an illusion. Now, if a large number of
American citizens were to pour into any
country where law and order are not ef-
fectually maintained, and where there is
no adequate security for the enforcement
of contracts, our government would cer-
tainly be called upon to interfere, and the
appeal would not long be made in vain.
It seems altogether probable, there-
fore, that if the war with Spain had not
broken out, the question of expansion
would have arisen in some concrete form
before many decades had passed, and
that it would ultimately have been an-
swered in the affirmative. The war has
forced the issue, prematurely, perhaps,
and rightly or wrongly, for good or for
evil, the die is cast. Hence it be-
hooves us to consider the causes of our
past success in expansion or colonization,
and see how far they are applicable to
our new possessions. Of these causes
two are preeminent : the territories have
been treated as infant states, subject to
tutelage only until they came of age ;
The Colonial Expansion of the United States.
149
and they have been managed unselfish-
ly. Let us examine each of these prin-
ciples separately, analyzing the condi-
tions on which it is based, as compared
with the state of affairs in the provinces
ceded by Spain.
With the exception of Alaska, which
can never contain a considerable civil-
ized population, and hence occupies an
anomalous position, the territories have
been dealt with on the same plan. They
have been admitted to the Union as
states, on a footing of equality with the
original members, as soon as their pop-
ulation was large enough to justify such
a step. To this rule there have been
only two exceptions. The admission of
Utah was delayed for a time by the ex-
istence of polygamy, which had to be
effectually rooted out before she could
be allowed to take her place in the na-
tion ; and New Mexico still remains un-
der a territorial government, although
her population is already greater than is
usually required for statehood, a large
part of the inhabitants being of Span-
ish race, and not sufficiently trained in
habits of self-government. Admission
as states has been the object constant-
ly in view in dealing with the territo-
ries; and while yet too small for that,
they have been prepared for it by ex-
tensive self-government. During what
might be called their babyhood, when
first created, or while still little more
than scattered clearings in the back-
woods, they were indeed governed solely
by officers appointed by the President. 1
But this stage was brief, and they were
early given an organization modeled on
that of the states. The territorial gov-
ernor had much the same powers as the
governor of a state ; the legislatures, af-
ter some early variations, soon settled
down to the fixed type of two houses,
both elected by the people on a suffrage
that widened contemporaneously with
1 See the article by Professor Boyd in The
Atlantic Monthly for December, 1898.
2 Max Ferrand in The Legislation of Con-
the lowering of the franchise in the
older states, until it became universal.
These bodies were given general legisla-
tive power, subject to restrictions in the
main similar to those embodied in the
state constitutions. In short, the form
of government resembled closely that of
a state, save that the United States ap-
pointed the governor and higher judges,
and reserved the power to annul laws
enacted by the territories and to legislate
for them in case of necessity. The sys-
tem of apprenticeship has proved so ef-
fective that " of the twenty-six territories
that have organized themselves as states,
there is not a single instance of one
having substantially altered the form of
government to which they were accus-
tomed." 2 Now, this policy in dealing
with the territories is based upon the
belief that their people have equal rights
with those of the states, which in turn
has its foundation in the theory that all
men are created equal ; nay, that all men
remain equal in spite of every difference
in education and environment. This has
become a political axiom in America ;
and an axiom has been defined as a
proposition which cannot be proved, but
which is universally accepted as true. It
may be of service to inquire what the
theory in question really signifies.
The doctrine of human equality has
two distinct meanings. One of them
refers to civil, the other to political
rights, and the two have no necessary
connection. The equality of all free'
men as regards civil rights is an essen-
tial principle of the common law. Its
foundations were laid by the Norman
and Angevin kings of England, and
found utterance in Magna Charta. It
is too deeply imbedded in the law to be
shaken, and it is now a part of the
creed of every civilized nation. With
the abolition of slavery it has become
of universal application, and it will, of
gress for the Government of the Organized Ter-
ritories of the United States, page 54. New-
ark, 1896.
150
The Colonial Expansion of the United States.
course, be applied to any people that
come under our control. It is this that
the signers of the Declaration of Inde-
pendence had in mind when they said,
"We hold these truths to be self-evi-
dent, that all men are created equal,
that they are endowed by their Creator
with certain unalienable Rights, that
among these are Life, Liberty, and the
pursuit of Happiness." They did not
mention the right to vote among the
natural rights of man, as in fact at this
time, and for half a generation later, by
far the greater part of the states limited
the suffrage to the owners of a certain
amount of property, and all the rest re-
quired the payment of a tax.
The theory that all men are equal
politically is quite a different matter.
There is no use in discussing whether it
is strictly true. No one ever thought
that. No one ever believed that a
worthless street loafer and Abraham
Lincoln were equally fit to be intrusted
with a share in the direction of public
affairs, or that they were political equals
in any sense. The question is whether
the theory is near enough to the truth
to be acted upon. At best it is an ap-
proximation, and many approximations
are sufficiently accurate for practical
purposes within certain limits. In build-
ing a house, ploughing a field, laying
out the streets of a city, or sailing a few
miles along the coast, for example, we
take no account of the earth's curvature,
but act as if it were flat ; and the error
is so very small that we are perfectly
justified in so doing. But if one were
to try to circumnavigate the globe on
that hypothesis, he would find himself
wrecked far away from his port of desti-
nation. In the same way, the theory that
all men are equal is accurate enough to
be applied where the inequalities are not
too great. This is true where the popu-
lation is tolerably homogeneous and po-
litical education is widely diffused, as in
the rural districts and smaller cities of
the Northern States; but in the large
cities, where the inequalities of social
condition are enormous, and where there
is a huge mass of foreigners untrained
in self-government, the Utopia foretold
by the prophets of democracy has not
been quite fulfilled. Tammany does not
altogether realize the dreams of Jeffer-
son.
The practical application of this the-
ory in the United States has had a curi-
ous history. It was not acted upon in
any state at the beginning of our national
existence, or for many years afterward.
In fact, the experiment of doing without
any tax or property qualification was
first tried by Kentucky and Vermont, on
their admission to the Union in 1791.
Within the next ten years two or three
of the old states abolished the property
qualification. In 1821 New York and
Massachusetts did the same, and the oth-
ers followed slowly ; so that by the time
of the civil war only two states required
the voters to own property, although half
a dozen more retained a provision for
the payment of a small tax. But even
so there was only a very partial applica-
tion of the theory, for it was not applied
to the Indians ; and indeed, to the pre-
sent day it has been quietly assumed that
so long as they remain in the tribal state
they are not men, within the meaning of
the theory, one of many illustrations
of the political good sense and bad logic
of the English-speaking race. The ne-
groes, also, were barred out originally
even in many of the free states. The
civil war and the emancipation of the
slaves aroused a more generous enthu-
siasm than ever for the equality of all
mankind. The negro was made a free
citizen, and why should he not enjoy
the franchise ? It was urged that with-
out the power to vote he would have no
means of protecting his rights effectual-
ly, and thus the fifteenth amendment to
the Constitution was adopted in 1870.
The theory of political equality had
now reached its highest point of devek
ment. Rhode Island alone clung for
The Colonial Expansion of the United States.
151
few years more, till 1888, to a property
qualification for voting, while a few oth-
er states required the payment of a small
tax, 1 and two the ability to read and
write. Except for the tribal Indians,
manhood suffrage had become almost
universal. But the tide had hardly
reached its height before it began to
ebb.
The equality of all the races of man-
kind had no sooner been settled forever
than it again unsettled. The first peo-
ple who were found to be without the
pale were the Chinese. The writer well
remembers how deeply he was shocked
at the violation of our fundamental doc-
trine by the proposal to forbid their
immigration. It seemed a mere selfish
attempt on the part of one class of immi-
grants to prevent competition by another;
but the argument that the Chinese could
never be assimilated, and hence would be
an injurious element in the community,
was sound, and resulted in the passage of
the exclusion act of 1882, which express-
ly forbade also the naturalization of any
members of that race. The courts had
already decided that the existing natu-
ralization laws, which spoke only of
" white persons " and " Africans," did
not include Chinese. Meanwhile, the
political position of the negroes had been
a constant source of trouble at the South.
As fast as the whites obtained control of
the states they began to suppress the
colored vote, first by violence, and later
by the milder process of fraudulent elec-
tions. This kindled indignation at the
North ; but by degrees men came to
doubt whether a decisive control of pub-
lic affairs could be wisely intrusted to
people who were not accustomed to self-
government, and until recently had not
even power to dispose of their own per-
sons. Finally, the states where the ne-
groes are most numerous have taken a
1 One of these, Massachusetts, ceased to re-
quire the payment of a poll tax in 1891, as it
did not act as a real restriction, but had be-
come simply a tax on the political parties.
more legal way of disfranchising them.
In 1890 Mississippi adopted a consti-
tution which provided that after 1892
no one should vote who was not able
to read the constitution, or to under-
stand it when read to him, and give a
reasonable interpretation thereof. The
intent is obvious. It is a simple matter
to offer to a white man a clause of the
document which any one can under-
stand, and to a negro a clause which
only a lawyer can explain ; and, in fact,
the Supreme Court of the state, in ex-
pounding this constitution, remarked
that " within the field of permissible ac-
tion under the limitations imposed by
the Federal Constitution, the convention
swept the circle of expedients to obstruct
the exercise of the franchise by the negro
race." 2 The provision was brought be-
fore the Supreme Court of the United
States, which decided last spring 8 that
it did not on its face deny or abridge
the right to vote on account of race,
color, or previous condition of servitude ,
and that the allegations that the law
was so administered as to discriminate
against the negro were not direct and
definite enough to justify holding it un-
constitutional. The court had difficulty
in distinguishing the case from some of
its earlier decisions, but it may be pre-
sumed that the validity of the provision
is definitely established. The decision
has not raised the storm of protest in
the North that would have followed it a
score of years ago, and this may be taken
as an indication that the country at large
has made up its mind that the fifteenth
amendment cannot be carried out strict-
ly. In 1895 South Carolina adopted a
constitution which contained a similar
clause, and also a provision that no man
can be registered as a voter after Jan-
uary 1, 1898, unless he can read and
write, or pays taxes on property assessed
2 Ratliff vs. Beal, 74 Miss. 247, 266.
8 William* vs. State of Mississippi.
152
The Colonial Expansion of the United States.
at three hundred dollars. In May last
Louisiana followed in the same path, but,
with a fine sense of humor, added that
these educational and property qualifi-
cations should not apply to any person
entitled to vote in 1867, or to his son or
grandson, a provision, however, that
might be set aside as unconstitutional
without marring the main end in view.
Thus the three states where the negroes
outnumber the whites have rid themselves
of the fifteenth amendment ; and so we
have reached the point that the theory
of universal political equality does not
apply to tribal Indians, to Chinese, or to
negroes under all conditions. 1 In short,
it seems to apply rigorously only to our
own race, and to those people whom we
can assimilate rapidly.
An examination of the doctrine of po-
litical equality throws light upon our
treatment of the territories, because it
explains why we have been able to re-
gard them as infant states, and to admit
them rapidly as full partners in the
Union. The application of the princi-
ple that their people had equal political
rights with those of the older parts of
the country has been justified by the
fact that the population of states and
territories has been substantially homo-
geneous. The approximation has been
sufficiently close to the fact for practical
purposes. The settlers in the West car-
ried with them the laws and customs of
the East, and the precious habit of self-
government. Mankind is prone to con-
struct absolute theories on limited expe-
rience, and this is, no doubt, the source
of the widespread popular belief that all
men are fitted to govern themselves.
But nothing could be further from the
truth. The art of self-government is
one of the most difficult to learn ; for it
requires a perpetual self-restraint on the
part of the whole people, which is not
really attained until it has become un-
1 Florida and Arkansas have recently re-
quired payment of a poll tax, no doubt for the
same purpose, and in 1897 Delaware required
conscious. The Anglo-Saxon race was
prepared for it by centuries of discipline
under the supremacy of law ; and men
will always take generations to acquire
it, unless they are immersed in, and as-
similated by, a mass of others already
accustomed to it. The vast numbers of
immigrants coming to America might
indeed have made the experiment a
failure here, had it not been that many
of them came from countries where
self-government was practiced, and the
rest were so distributed throughout the
land that, like recruits in a regiment,
they quickly learned the drill and took
their place in the ranks. Now, these
conditions are not true in our new pos-
sessions. No one of them has a popula-
tion homogeneous with our own, or the
experience of a long training in self-gov-
ernment. Every unprejudiced observer
must recognize that to let the Filipinos
rule themselves would be sheer cruelty
both to them and to the white men at
Manila. It would be nothing less than
abandoning the duty that we have under-
taken toward them. Even in case of
the people of Porto Rico, who stand on
an entirely different footing, self-govern-
ment must be gradual and tentative, if it
is to be a success. They must be trained
for it, as our forefathers were trained,
beginning with local government under
a strong judicial system, and the process
will necessarily be slow.
The condition of the Sandwich Islands
is peculiar ; for there a small fraction
of the population are Anglo-Saxon, and
perfectly familiar with self-government.
They form about five per cent of the in-
habitants, while of the remainder, fifteen
per cent are Portuguese, forty per cent
are Japanese or Chinese, nearly thirty
per cent are Kanakas, and eight per cent
more are partly of Kanaka blood. No
one proposes to treat all these as political
equals. On the contrary, the Hawaiian
ability to read and write instead of payment of
a tax.
The Colonial Expansion of the United States.
153
commissioners have recommended that
the islands be organized with a territo-
rial government, but that the Japanese
and Chinese shall not be made citizens at
all, and that the Kanakas and Portuguese
shall be virtually excluded from the suf-
frage by making the right to vote depend
upon ability to read and write English
and the payment of a tax. This is cer-
tainly no bigoted application of the doc-
trine that all men have an inherent right
to an equal share in the government of
their country, and yet it would be a
gross blunder to attempt to extend the
franchise to all this motley population.
Whether the presence of a governor ap-
pointed by the United States, with power
to enforce justice between the races, will
not be permanently necessary is a ques-
tion that will be referred to again, but
for our present purpose it is enough that
universal suffrage ought not to be set up
in Hawaii.
One element of our success in the
management of the territories their
treatment as infant states, with institu-
tions like our own and prospective equal-
ity of rights cannot therefore be ap-
plied to our new possessions ; and this
very fact ought to make us the more ear-
nest in using every other means at our
disposal.
The second great cause of our success
has been that we have treated the ter-
ritories unselfishly. The primary ob-
ject in dealing with the Western country
has never been the commercial profit of
the older states. The territories have
been permitted and assisted to develop
normally in the way that seemed to be
for their own best interests ; in the be-
lief, no doubt, that their development
would enrich the whole country, but
still with their domestic interests as the
primary aim. They have always enjoyed
perfect commercial equality with the
rest of the nation. Whether the protec-
tive tariff, for instance, was a benefit to
them or not, it was believed to be so by
its advocates, and was certainly not im-
posed with any idea of gain to the states
at the expense of the territories. This
principle of unselfish management can
be applied perfectly to our new posses-
sions, and to any others we may ever
acquire. The revolt of North America
taught England the lesson that colonies
cannot be a permanent source of wealth
and strength unless they are managed
with a single eye to their own welfare ;
and the subsequent experience of Euro-
pean nations has confirmed the princi-
ple, for it is one that is universally true.
We must treat fairly not only each of our
possessions as a whole, but also every race
that inhabits it. It would be clearly un-
wise to give over the government abso-
lutely to a small minority of American
settlers, and suffer them to deal with the
natives as they think best. It is notori-
ous that such a relation is always liable
to produce tyrannical abuse. The opin-
ion of the Americans must, of course, be
given grave consideration, but the United
States ought always to retain, in the
Sandwich Islands, for example, a gov-
ernor who can do justice to all the races.
Moreover, it is not enough that Con-
gress legislate unselfishly. The men sent
to conduct the administration must have
in view solely the welfare of the colo-
nies committed to their charge, and this
cannot be the case if they are appointed
for political motives. Political appoint-
ments are tolerable where the duties to
be performed can be understood by any
man of good capacity, and where the
people can and will criticise his acts ef-
fectively. In such a case the appoint-
ing power shrinks from selecting an ob-
viously unfit person, and the official him-
self is to some extent, at least, constrained
by public opinion. But political appoint-
ments would be ruinous where the pro-
blems are such that only a man thor-
oughly familiar with the subject can deal
with them, and where local criticism can
neither be intelligently made nor effec-
tively used. The condition of things
that has existed at times in the Indian
154
The Colonial Expansion of the United States.
Bureau and in Alaska furnishes painful
examples of this. Now, it will hardly
be denied that the Spanish colonies can-
not be well administered by us without a
full knowledge of their condition, and
it is clear how ineffective local criticism
is there. Their recent history is suffi-
cient evidence of this ; for it is safe to
assert that no Anglo-Saxon community
could have been treated by any rulers as
Spain treated Cuba. If our colonies are
to thrive and add to our own prosperity,
we must select only thoroughly trained
administrators, fit them for their work
by long experience, and retain them in
office irrespective of party. To do this,
it is necessary to create a permanent and
highly paid colonial administrative ser-
vice, which shall offer an honorable and
attractive career for young men of abili-
ty. It must be organized on the same
basis as the army and the navy, and
there can be no doubt that the wisest
course would be to base it upon an acad-
emy like the schools at West Point and
Annapolis. Each of these institutions
has produced a corps of men admirably
qualified for the work they have to do,
and the system has proved perfectly in
harmony with our form of government.
In fact, the rapid growth in America of
schools for educating lawyers, doctors,
and engineers shows that experts, with a
highly specialized training, are quite as
much in demand and hence quite as
much needed in a democracy as any-
where else.
The task of managing colonies out-
side the continental limits of the United
States is exposed to two dangers of an
opposite character. One is that of at-
tempting to apply theories of govern-
ment where they are not applicable ; the
other, that of taking a selfish view of the
relation. We must reject all a priori
political dogmas, and avoid premature
experiments in democracy ; and at the
same time we must not allow the colo-
nies to be considered a mere market for
our goods, a lucrative opening for a com-
mercial monopoly, or, a happy hunting-
ground for politicians. The success or
failure of our dependencies does not af-
fect them alone, or the Americans who
trade or dwell there. It will react pow-
erfully upon us ; and that is the reason
why colonial expansion fills many peo-
ple with alarm. Rome appointed her
provincial governors for short periods on
political grounds, and the result was that
they looked upon the office as a means
of personal profit. The Republic could
not stand the strain. It fell, and the
Emperors rose upon its ruins. England
governs her colonies by means of a per-
manent corps of trained administrators,
independent of party, and they have con-
tributed to her greatness without endan-
gering her institutions. If home politics
do not interfere with the colonies, they
will not harm home politics. Our de-
stiny is in our own hands, and our mea-
sure of political wisdom and virtue will
determine what we shall make of it.
A. Lawrence Lowell.
Talks to Teachers on Psychology.
155
TALKS TO TEACHERS ON PSYCHOLOGY.
PSYCHOLOGY AND THE TEACHING ART. 1
IN the general activity and uprising
of ideal interests which every one with
an eye for fact can discern all about
us in American life, there is perhaps
no more inspiring or promising feature
than the fermentation which for a dozen
years or more has been going on among
the teachers of our land, in whatever
sphere of education their functions may
lie. The renovation of nations begins
always at the top, amongst the reflective
members of the state, and spreads slow-
ly outward and downward. The teach-
ers of this country, one may say, have
its future in their hands. The earnest-
ness which they at present show in striv-
ing to enlighten and strengthen them-
selves is an index of the nation's proba-
bilities of advance in ideal directions.
The outward organization of education
which we have in our United States is
perhaps, on the whole, the best organi-
zation that exists in any country. The
state school-systems give a diversity and
flexibility, an opportunity for experi-
ment and keenness of competition, no-
where else to be found on such a scale.
The independence of so many of the
colleges and universities ; the give and
take of students and instructors between
them all ; their emulation and their hap-
py organic relations to the lower schools ;
the traditions of instruction in them,
evolved from the older American recita-
tion-method (and so avoiding on the one
hand the pure lecture-system prevalent
in Germany and Scotland, which consid-
1 The matter of this and of the ensuing pa-
pers, together with other similar matter, has
been delivered by me offhand for several years
past at various teachers' institutes and summer
schools. Since repetition stales at last, I have
decided to say good-by to it finally, by writing
ers too little the individual student, and
yet not involving the sacrifice of the in-
structor to the individual student, which
the English tutorial system would seem
too often to entail), all these things,
(to say nothing of that coeducation of
the sexes in whose benefits so many of
us heartily believe), all these things, I
say, are most happy features of our scho-
lastic life, and from them the most san-
guine auguries may be drawn.
Having so favorable an organization,
all we need is to impregnate it with gen-
iuses, to get superior men and women
working more and more abundantly in it
and for it and at it, and in a generation
or two America will lead the education
of the world. I must say that I look
forward with no little confidence to the
day when that shall be an accomplished
fact.
No one has profited more by the fer-
mentation of which I speak, in pedagogi-
cal circles, than we psychologists. The
desire of the school-teachers for com-
plete professional training, and their as-
piration toward the professional spirit
in their work, have led them more and
more to turn to us for light on funda-
mental principles. In these few hours
which we are to spend together, you look
to me, I am sure, for information con-
cerning the mind's operations, which may
enable you to labor more easily and ef-
fectively in the several schoolrooms over
which you preside.
Far be it from me to disclaim for psy-
chology all title to such hopes. Psycho-
logy ought certainly to give the teacher
radical help. And yet I confess that,
it down for the readers of The Atlantic. And
inasmuch as simplicity and practicality can be
its only possible merits, I have preserved in
the writing, as best harmonizing with these
characters, the original didactic and colloquial
form.
156
Talks to Teachers on Psychology.
acquainted as I am with the height of
some of your expectations, I feel a little
anxious lest, at the end of these simple
talks of mine, not a few of you may ex-
perience some disappointment at the net
results. In other words, I am not sure
that you may not now be indulging fan-
cies that are a shade exaggerated. That
would not be altogether astonishing, for
we have been having something like a
" boom " in psychology in this country.
Laboratories and professorships have
been founded, and reviews established.
The air has been full of rumors. The
editors of educational journals and ar-
rangers of conventions have had to be in-
dustrious and busy, and on a level with
the novelties of the day. Some of the
professors have not been unwilling to
cooperate, and I am not sure even that
the publishers have been entirely inert.
" The new psychology " has thus become
a term to conjure up portentous ideas
withal ; and you teachers, docile and re-
ceptive and aspiring, as many of you
are, have been plunged in an atmosphere
of vague talk about our science, which
to a great extent has been more mysti-
fying than enlightening. Altogether it
does seem as if there were a certain fa-
tality of mystification laid upon the
teachers of our day. The matter of their
profession, compact enough in itself, has
to be frothed up for them in journals and
institutes, till its outlines often threaten
to be lost in a kind of vast uncertainty.
Where the disciples are not independent
and critical-minded enough (and I think
that if you teachers in the earlier grades
have any defect, just the slightest
touch of a defect in the world, it is
that you are just a mite too docile), we
are pretty sure to miss accuracy and bal-
ance and measure in those who get a
license to lay down the law to them from
above.
As regards this subject of psychology,
now, I wish at the very threshold to do
what I can to dispel the mystification.
So I say at once that in my humble opin-
ion there is no " new psychology " worthy
of the name. There is nothing but the
old psychology which began in Locke's
time, plus a little brain and sense phy-
siology, and with the addition of a few
refinements' of introspective detail for
the most part without adaptation to the
teacher's use. It is only the fundamen-
tal conceptions of psychology which are
of real value to the teacher, and they
are far from new. I trust that you will
see better what I mean by this at the
end of all these talks.
I say, moreover, that you make a great,
a very great mistake if you think that
psychology, being the science of the
mind's laws, is something from which
you can deduce definite programmes and
schemes and methods of instruction for
immediate schoolroom use. Psychology
is a science, and teaching is an art ; and
sciences never generate arts directly out
of themselves. An intermediary inven-
tive mind must make the application,
by using its originality. The science of
logic never made a man reason rightly,
and the science of ethics (if there be
such a thing) never made a man behave
rightly. The most such sciences can do
is to help us to catch ourselves up and
check ourselves, if we start to reason or
to behave wrongly, and to criticise our-
selves more articulately after we have
made mistakes. A science only lays down
lines within which the rules of the art
must fall, laws which the follower of the
art must not transgress ; but what par-
ticular thing he shall positively do within
those lines is left exclusively to his own
genius. One genius will do his work
well and succeed in one way, whilst an-
other succeeds as well quite differently ;
yet neither will transgress the lines.
The art of teaching grew up in the
schoolroom, out of inventiveness and
sympathetic concrete observation. Even
where, as in the case of Herbart, the
advancer of the art was also a psycholo-
gist, the pedagogics and the psychology
ran side by side, and the former was not
Talks to Teachers on Psychology.
157
derived in any sense from the latter.
The two were congruent, but not subor-
dinate. And so everywhere, the teach-
ing must agree with the psychology, but
need not necessarily be the only kind of
teaching that would so agree, for many
diverse methods of teaching may equal-
ly follow psychological laws. To know
psychology, therefore, is absolutely no
guarantee that we shall be good teachers.
To advance to that result we must have
an additional endowment altogether, a
happy tact and ingenuity to tell us what
definite things to say and do. That in-
genuity in meeting and pursuing the pu-
pil, that tact for the concrete situation,
though they are the alpha and omega of
the teacher's art, are things to which psy-
chology cannot help us in the least.
The science of psychology, and what-
ever science of general pedagogics may
be based on it, are in fact much like the
science of war. Nothing is simpler
or more definite than the principles of
either. In war, all you have to do is to
work your enemy into a position from
which the natural obstacles prevent him
from escaping, if he tries to ; then to fall
on him in numbers superior to his own,
at a momept when you have led him to
think you far away ; and so, with a min-
imum of exposure of your own troops, to
hack his force to pieces, and take the re-
mainder prisoners. So, in teaching, you
must simply work your pupil into such
a state of interest in what you are going
to teach him that every other object of
attention is banished from his mind ;
then reveal it to him so impressively that
he will remember the occasion to his
dying day ; and finally fill him with de-
vouring curiosity to know what the next
steps in connection with the subject are.
There would be nothing but victories for
the masters of the science, either on the
battlefield or in the schoolroom, if they
did not both have to apply their principles
to an incalculable quantity in the shape
of the mind of their opponent. The mind
of your enemy, the pupil, is working away
from you as keenly and eagerly as is the
mind of the commander on the other side
from the scientific general. Just what
the enemy wants and thinks, and what
he knows and does not know, are as hard
things for the teacher as for the general
to find out. Divination and perception,
not psychological pedagogics or strategy,
are the only helpers here.
But if the use of psychological prin-
ciples thus be negative rather than posi-
tive, it does not follow that it may not be
a great use, all the same. It narrows the
path for experiments and trials : we know
in advance that certain methods will be
wrong, so our psychology saves us from
mistakes. It makes us, moreover, more
clear as to what we are about. It gives
us confidence in respect to any method
which we are using to know that it has
theory as well as practice at its back.
Most of all, it fructifies our independ-
ence, and it reanimates our interest, to
see our subject at two different angles
to get a stereoscopic view, so to speak,
of the youthful organism who is our en-
emy ; and whilst handling him with all
our concrete tact and divination, at the
same time to be able to represent to our-
selves the curious inner elements of his
mental machine. Such a complete know-
ledge as this of the pupil, at once intui-
tive and analytic, is surely the knowledge
at which every teacher ought to aim.
Fortunately for you teachers, the ele-
ments of the mental machine can be
clearly apprehended, and their workings
easily grasped. And as the most general
elements and workings are just those
parts of psychology which the teacher
finds most directly useful, it follows that
the amount of this science which is ne-
cessary to all teachers need not be very
great. Those who find themselves lov-
ing the subject may go as far as they
please, and become possibly none the
worse teachers for the fact, even though
in some of them one might apprehend a
little loss of balance from the tendency
observable in all of us to overemphasize
158
Talks to Teachers on Psychology.
special parts of a subject when we are
studying it intensely and abstractly. But
for the great majority of you a general
view is enough, provided it be a true one ;
and such a general view, one may say,
might almost be written on the palm of
one's hand.
Least of all need you, as teachers,
deem it part of your duty to become con-
tributors to psychological science, or to
make psychological observations in a me-
thodical or responsible manner. I fear
that some of the enthusiasts for child-
study have thrown a certain burden on
you in this way. By all means let child-
study go on, it is refreshing all our
sense of the child's life. There are teach-
ers who take a spontaneous delight in
filling syllabuses, inscribing observations,
compiling statistics, and computing the
per cent. Child-study will certainly en-
rich their lives. And if its results, as
treated statistically, would seem on the
whole to have but trifling value, yet the
anecdotes and observations of which it
in part consists do certainly acquaint us
more intimately with our pupils. Our
eyes and ears grow quickened to discern
in the child before us processes similar
to those we have read of as noted in the
children, processes of which we might
otherwise have remained inobservant.
But let the' rank and file of teachers be
passive readers, if they wish, and feel
free not to contribute to the accumula-
tion. Let not the prosecution of it be
preached and imposed on those to whom
it proves an exterminating bore, or who
in any way whatever miss in themselves
the appropriate vocation for it. I cannot
too strongly agree with my colleague,
Professor Miinsterberg, when he says that
the teacher's attitude toward the child,
being concrete and ethical, is positively
opposed to the psychological observer's,
which is abstract and analytic. Although
some of us may conjoin the attitudes suc-
cessfully, in most of us they must conflict.
The worst thing that can happen to a
good teacher is to get a bad conscience
I
about her profession because she feels
herself hopeless as a psychologist.
Our teachers are overworked already.
Every one who adds a jot or tittle of
unnecessary weight to their burden is a
foe of education. A bad conscience in-
creases the weight of every other burden ;
yet I know that child-study, and other
pieces of psychology as well, have been
productive of bad conscience in many
a really innocent pedagogic breast. I
should indeed be glad if this passing
word from me might tend to dispel such
a bad conscience, if any of you have it,
for it is certainly one of those fruits of
systematic mystification of which I have
already complained. The best teacher
may be the poorest contributor of child-
study material ; and the best contributor
may be the poorest teacher, no fact is
more palpable than this.
So much for what seems the reason-
able attitude of the teacher toward the
subject which is to occupy our attention.
THE STREAM OF CONSCIOUSNESS.
I said a few minutes ago that the most
general elements and workings of the
mind are all that the teacher absolutely
needs to be acquainted with for his pur-
poses. Now the immediate fact which
psychology, the science of mind, has to
study is also the most general fact. It
is the fact that in each of us, when awake
(and often when asleep), some kind of
consciousness is always going on. There
is a stream, a succession of states, or
waves, or fields (or of whatever you
please to call them), of knowledge, of
feeling, of desire, of deliberation, etc.,
that constantly pass and repass, and that
constitute our inner life. The existence
of this stream is the primal fact, the na-
ture and origin of it form the essential
problem, of our science. So far as we
class the states or fields of consciousness,
write down their several natures, analyze
their contents into elements, or trace
their habits of succession, we are on the
descriptive or analytic level. So far as
Talks to Teachers on Psychology.
159
we ask where they come from, or why
they are just what they are, we are on
the explanatory level.
In these talks with you, I shall entire-
ly neglect the questions that come up on
the explanatory level. It must be frank-
ly confessed that in no fundamental
sense do we know where our successive
fields of consciousness come from, or why
they have the precise inner constitution
which they do have. They certainly fol-
low or accompany our brain states ; but
if we ask just how the brain conditions
them, we have not the remotest inkling
of an answer to give. And on the other
hand, if we should say that they are due
to a spiritual being called our soul, which
reacts on our brain states by these pecu-
liar forms of spiritual energy, our words
would be familiar enough, it is true, but
I think you will agree that they would
offer little genuine explanatory meaning.
The truth is that we really do not know
the answers to the problems on the ex-
planatory level. I shall therefore dis-
miss them entirely, and turn to mere de-
scription. This state of things was what
I had in mind when, a moment ago, I said
there was no " new psychology " worthy
of the name.
We have thus fields of consciousness,
that is the first general fact ; and the
second general fact is that the concrete
fields are always complex. They con-
tain sensations of our bodies and of the
objects around us, memories of past ex-
periences and thoughts of distant things,
feelings of satisfaction and dissatisfac-
tion, desires and aversions, and other
emotional conditions, together with deter-
minations of the will, in every variety of
permutation and combination. In most
of our concrete states of consciousness
all these different classes of ingredients
are found simultaneously present to some
degree, though the relative proportion
they bear to one another is very shifting.
One state will seem to be composed of
hardly anything but sensations, another
of hardly anything but memories, etc.
But around the sensation, if one consid-
er carefully, there will always be some
fringe of thought or will, and around the
memory some margin or penumbra of
emotion or sensation.
In most of our fields of consciousness
there is a core of sensation that is very
pronounced. You, for example, now,
although you are also thinking and feel-
ing, are getting through your eyes sensa-
tions of my face and figure, and through
your ears sensations of my voice. The
sensations are the centre or focus, the
thoughts and feelings the margin, of
your actually present conscious field. On
the other hand, some object of thought,
some distant image, may have become
the focus of your mental attention even
whilst I am speaking, your mind, in
short, may have wandered from the lec-
ture ; and in that case, the sensations of
my face and voice, although not absolute-
ly vanishing from your conscious field,
may have taken up there a very faint
and marginal place. Again (to take an-
other sort of variation) , some feeling con-
nected with your own body may have
passed from a marginal to a focal place,
even whilst I speak.
The expressions " focal object " and
" marginal object," which we owe to Mr.
Lloyd Morgan, require, I think, no fur-
ther explanation. The distinction they
embody is a very important one, and they
are the first technical terms which I shall
ask you to remember.
In the successive mutations of our
fields of consciousness, the process by
which one dissolves into another is often
very gradual, and all sorts of inner re-
arrangements of contents occur. Some-
times the focus remains but little changed,
whilst the margin alters rapidly. Some-
times the focus alters, and the margin
stays. Sometimes focus and margin
change places. Sometimes, again, ab-
rupt alterations of the whole field occur.
There can seldom be a sharp description.
All we know is that, for the most part,
each field has a sort of practical unity
160
Talks to Teachers on Psychology.
for its possessor, and that from this prac-
tical point of view we can class a field
with other fields similar to it, by calling
it a state of emotion, of perplexity, of
sensation, of abstract thought, of volition,
and the like.
Vague and hazy as such an account
of our stream of consciousness may be,
it is at least secure from positive error,
and free from admixture of conjecture
or hypothesis. An influential school of
psychology, discontented with this hazi-
ness of outline, has tried to make things
appear more exact and scientific by mak-
ing the analysis more sharp. The vari-
ous fields of consciousness, according to
this school, result from a definite number
of perfectly definite elementary mental
states, mechanically associated into a mo-
saic or chemically combined. Accord-
ing to some thinkers, Spencer, for
example, or Taine. these resolve them-
selves at last into little elementary psy-
chic particles or atoms of " mind stuff,"
out of which all the more immediately
known mental states are said to be built
up. Locke introduced this theory in a
somewhat vague form. Simple " ideas "
of sensation and reflection, as he called
them, were for him the bricks of which
our mental architecture is built up. If
I ever have to refer to this theory again,
I shall refer to it as the theory of " ideas."
But I shall try to steer clear of it alto-
gether. Whether it be true or false, it
is at any rate purely conjectural; and
for your practical purposes as teachers,
the more unpretending conception of the
stream of consciousness, with its waves
or fields incessantly changing, will amply
suffice.
THE CHILD AS A BEHAVING ORGANISM.
I wish now to continue the description
of the peculiarities of the stream of con-
sciousness by asking whether we can in
any intelligible way assign its functions.
It has two functions that are obvious :
it leads to knowledge, and it leads to ac-
tion.
And can we say which of these func-
tions is the more essential ?
An old historic divergence of opinion
comes in here. Popular belief has al-
ways tended to estimate the worth of a
man's mental processes by their effects
upon his practical life. But philosophers
have usually cherished a different view.
" Man's supreme glory," they have said,
" is to be a rational being, to know
absolute and eternal and universal truth.
The uses of his intellect for practical
affairs are therefore subordinate matters.
' The theoretic life ' is his soul's genuine
concern." Nothing can be more dif-
ferent in its results for our personal at-
titude than to take sides with one or the
other of these views, and emphasize the
practical or the theoretical ideal. In the
one case, abstraction from the emotions
and passions and withdrawal from the
strife of human affairs would be not only
pardonable, but praiseworthy ; and all
that makes for quiet and contemplation
should be regarded as conducive to the
highest human perfection. In the oth-
er, the man of contemplation would be
treated as only half a human being, pas-
sion and practical resource would become
once more glories of our race, a concrete
victory over this earth's outward powers
of darkness would appear an equivalent
for any amount of passive spiritual cul-
ture, and conduct would remain as the
test of every education worthy of the
name.
It is impossible to disguise the fact
that in the psychology of our own day
the emphasis is transferred from the
mind's purely rational function, where
Plato and Aristotle and what one may
call the whole classic tradition in phi-
losophy had placed it, to the so long
neglected practical side. The theory of
evolution is mainly responsible for this.
Man, we now have reason to believe, has
been evolved from infra-human ancestors,
in whom pure reason hardly existed, if
at all, and whose mind, so far as it can
have had any function, would appear to
Talks to Teachers on Psychology.
161
have been an organ for adapting their
movements to the impressions received
from the environment, so as to escape
the better from destruction. Conscious-
ness would thus seem in the first instance
to be nothing but a sort of superadded
biological perfection, useless unless it
prompted to useful conduct, and inexpli-
cable apart from that consideration.
Deep in our own nature the biological
foundations of our consciousness persist,
undisguised and undiminished. Our sen-
sations are here to attract us or to deter
us, our memories to warn or encourage us,
our feelings to impel and our thoughts
to restrain our behavior, so that, on the
whole, we may prosper and our days be
long in the land. Whatever of trans-
mundane metaphysical insight or of prac-
tically inapplicable a3sthetic perception
or ethical sentiment we may carry in our
interiors might at this rate be regarded
as so much inessential superfoatation, part
of the incidental excess of function that
necessarily accompanies the working of
every complex machine.
I shall ask you now not meaning at
all thereby to close the theoretic question,
but merely because it seems to me the
point of view likely to be of greatest prac-
tical use to you as teachers to adopt
with me, in this course of lectures, the
biological conception, as thus expressed,
and to lay your own emphasis on the fact
that man, whatever else he may be, is
essentially and primordially a practical
being, whose mind is given him to aid in
adapting him to this terrestrial environ-
ment.
The reasons for which I do this can
be simply stated.
First, human and animal psychology
thereby become less discontinuous. I
know that to some of you this will hard-
ly seem an attractive reason, but there
are others whom it will affect.
Second, mental action is conditioned
by brain action, and runs parallel there-
with. But the brain, so far as we uii-
VOL. LXXXI1J. NO. 496. 11
derstand it, is given us for practical be-
havior. Every current that runs into it
from skin or eye or ear runs out again
into muscles, glands, or viscera, and
helps to adapt the animal to the environ-
ment from which the current came. It
therefore generalizes and simplifies our
view to treat the brain life and the men-
tal life as having one fundamental kind
of purpose.
Third, those very functions of the
mind that do not refer directly to the
environment, the ethical Utopias, aesthetic
visions, insights into eternal truth, and
fanciful logical combinations, could never
be carried on at all, unless the mind
that produced them also produced more
practically useful products. The latter
are thus the more essential, or at least
more fundamental, results.
Fourth, the inessential u unpractical "
activities are themselves far more con-
nected with our behavior and our adapta-
tion to the environment than at first sight
might appear. No truth, however ab-
stract, is ever perceived, that will not
probably at some time influence our earth-
ly action. You must remember that when
I talk of action here, I mean action in
the widest sense. I mean speech, I mean
writing, I mean yeses and noes, and ten-
dencies " from " things arid tendencies
u toward " things, and emotional deter-
minations ; and I mean them in the fu-
ture as well as in the immediate present.
As I talk here, and you listen, it might
seem as if no action followed. You
might call it a purely theoretic process,
with no practical result. But it must
have a practical result. It cannot take
place at all and leave your conduct un-
affected. If not to-day, then on some far
future day, you will answer some ques-
tion differently by reason of what you
are thinking now. Some of you will be
led by my words into new veins of in-
quiry, into reading special books. These
will develop your opinion, whether for
or against. That opinion will in turn
be expressed, will receive criticism from
162 In the Trenches.
others in your environment, and will af- sisted essentially in training the pupil
feet your standing in their eyes. We to behavior ; taking behavior, not in the
cannot escape our destiny, which is prac- narrow sense of his manners, but in the
tical ; and even our most theoretic facul- very widest possible sense, as including
ties contribute to its working out. every possible sort of fit reaction on the
circumstances into which he may find
These few reasons will perhaps smooth himself brought by the vicissitudes of
the way for you to my conclusion. As life. The reaction may often be a neg-
teachers, I sincerely think it will be an ative reaction. Not to speak, not to
amply sufficient conception for you to move, is one of the most important of
adopt, of the youthful psychological phe- our duties, in certain practical emergen-
nomena handed over to your inspection, cies. " Thou shalt refrain, renounce,
if you consider them from the point of abstain ! " This often requires a great
view of their relation to the future con- effort of will power, and, physiologically
duct of their possessor. You should re- considered, is just as positive a nerve
gard your professional task as if it con- function as is motor discharge.
William James.
IN THE TRENCHES.
WE lay among the rifle-pits, above our low heads streaming
Bullets, like sleet, with now and then, near by, the vicious screaming
Of shells that made us hold our breath, till each had burst and blasted
Its ghastly circle, hid in smoke here, there and while it lasted,
That murderous fume and fusillade, our hearts were in our throats ;
For hell let loose about us raged, and in those muddy moats
The rain that fell was shot and shell, the plash it made was red,
And all about the long redoubt was garrisoned with dead.
Upon my right a veteran in rasping whispers swore ;
Upon my left an Irish lad breathed Ave Marys o'er.
And I ? Well, well, I won't aver my lips no murmur made ;
A prayer, long silent, half forgot, stirred them ; but something stayed
The sacred words ; I locked my lips. " No, no, ah no ! " I thought :
" Not now ! I '11 wait, nor sue for what, unharmed, I left unsought !
Not so I '11 pray, let come what may ! " I held my heart and lips,
And, nerved afresh, I gripped my rifle-stock when something clips
Smartly my temple (that long lock conceals the bullet's mark),
And, sharply stinging, with ears loud-ringing, I dropped into the dark.
When I awoke, the sultry smoke was gone, and over me,
Faint as a cloud against the air, a sweet face tenderly,
A mother-woman's face, was bending, in the evening beam
That touched her good gray hair to gold with eyes that made me seem,
'Mid all the fever's burning, wholly safe since they were there.
Well oddly sir, in that dim peace, I let my lips breathe prayer.
F. Whitmore.
The Subtle Problems of Charity.
163
THE SUBTLE PROBLEMS OF CHARITY.
PROBABLY there is no relation in life
which our democracy is changing more
rapidly than the charitable relation,
that relation which obtains between bene-
factor and beneficiary ; at the same time,
there is no point of contact in our modern
experience which reveals more clearly the
lack of that equality which democracy
implies. We have reached the moment
when democracy has made such inroads
upon this relationship that the compla-
cency of the old-fashioned charitable man
is gone forever ; while the very need and
existence of charity deny us the consola-
tion and freedom which democracy will
at last give.
We find in ourselves the longing for
a wider union than that of family or
class, and we say that we have come to
include all men in our hopes ; but we
fail to realize that all men are hoping,
and are part of the same movement of
which we are a part. Many of the dif-
ficulties in philanthropy come from an
unconscious division of the world into the
philanthropists and those to be helped.
It is an assumption of two classes, and
against this class assumption our demo-
cratic training revolts as soon as we be-
gin to act upon it.
The trouble is that the ethics of none
of us are clearly defined, and we are
continually obliged to act in circles of
habit based upon convictions which we
no longer hold. Thus, our estimate of
the effect of environment and social con-
ditions has doubtless shifted faster than
our methods of administering charity
have changed. Formerly when it was
believed that poverty was synonymous
with vice and laziness, and that the pro-
>erous man was the righteous man, char-
was administered harshly with a good
mscience ; for the charitable agent real-
blamed the individual for his pover-
, and the very fact of his own supe-
rior prosperity gave him a certain con-
sciousness of superior morality. Since
then we have learned to measure by other
standards, and the money-earning capa-
city, while still rewarded out of all pro-
portion to any other, is not respected as
exclusively as it was ; and its possession
is by no means assumed to imply the
possession of the highest moral qualities.
We have learned to judge men in gen-
eral by their social virtues as well as by
their business capacity, by their devotion
to intellectual and disinterested aims, and
by their public spirit, and we naturally
resent being obliged to judge certain in-
dividuals solely upon the industrial side
for no other reason than that they are
poor. Our democratic instinct constant-
ly takes alarm at this consciousness of
two standards.
Of the various struggles which a de-
cade of residence in a settlement implies,
none have made a more definite impres-
sion on my mind than the incredibly pain-
ful difficulties which involve both giver
and recipient when one person asks char-
itable aid of another.
An attempt is made in this paper to
show what are some of the perplexities
which harass the mind of the charity
worker ; to trace them to ethical sur-
vivals which are held not only by the
benefactor, but by the recipients of chari-
ty as well ; and to suggest wherein these
very perplexities may possibly be pro-
phetic.
It is easy to see that one of the root
difficulties in the charitable relationship
lies in the fact that the only families who
apply for aid to the charitable agencies
are those who have come to grief on the
industrial side ; it may be through sick-
ness, through loss of work, or for other
guiltless and inevitable reasons, but the
fact remains that they are industrially
ailing, and must be bolstered and helped
164
The Subtle Problems of Charity.
into industrial health. The charity vis-
itor, let us assume, is a young college wo-
man, well-bred and open-minded. When
she visits the family assigned to her, she
is embarrassed to find herself obliged to
lay all the stress of her teaching and ad-
vice upon the industrial virtues, and to
treat the members of the family almost
exclusively as factors in the industrial
system. She insists that they must work
and be self-supporting; that the most
dangerous of all situations is idleness ;
that seeking one's own pleasure, while
ignoring claims and responsibilities, is the
most ignoble of actions. The members
of her assigned family may have charms
and virtues, they may possibly be kind
and affectionate and considerate of one
another, generous to their friends; but
it is her business to stick to the industrial
side. As she daily holds up these stan-
dards, it often occurs to the mind of the
sensitive visitor, whose conscience has
been made tender by much talk of bro-
therhood and equality which she has
heard at college, that she has no right to
say these things ; that she herself has
never been self-supporting ; that, what-
ever her virtues may be, they are not the
industrial virtues ; that her untrained
hands are no more fitted to cope with
actual conditions than are those of her
broken-down family.
The grandmother of the charity visitor
could have done the industrial preaching
very well, because she did have the in-
dustrial virtues ; if not skillful in weav-
ing and spinning, she was yet mistress of
other housewifely accomplishments. In a
generation our experiences have changed
our views with them ; while we still
keep on in the old methods, which could
be applied when our consciences were in
line with them, but which are daily be-
coming more difficult as we divide up into
people who work with their hands and
those who do not ; and the charity visitor,
belonging to the latter class, is perplexed
by recognitions and suggestions which
the situation forces upon her. Our de-
mocracy has taught us to apply our moral
teaching all around, and the moralist is
rapidly becoming so sensitive that when
his life does not exemplify his ethical
convictions, he finds it difficult to preach.
Added to this is a consciousness in the
mind of the visitor of a genuine misun-
derstanding of her motives by the reci-
pients of her charity and by their neigh-
bors. Let us take a neighborhood of
poor people, and test their ethical stan-
dards by those of the charity visitor, who
comes with the best desire in the world
to help them out of their distresses. A
most striking incongruity, at once appar-
ent, is the difference between the emo-
tional kindness with which relief is given
by one poor neighbor to another poor
neighbor, and the guarded care with
which relief is given by a charity visitor
to a charity recipient. The neighbor-
hood mind is immediately confronted not
only by the difference of method, but also
by an absolute clashing of two ethical
standards.
A very little familiarity with the poor
districts of any city is sufficient to show
how primitive and frontier-like are the
neighborly relations. There is the great-
est willingness to lend or borrow any-
thing, and each resident of a given tene-
ment house knows the most intimate fam-
ily affairs of all the others. The fact that
the economic condition of all alike is on
a most precarious level makes the ready
outflow of sympathy and material as-
sistance the most natural thing in the
world. There are numberless instances
of heroic self-sacrifice quite unknown in
the circles where greater economic ad-
vantages make that kind of intimate
knowledge of one's neighbors impossible.
An Irish family, in which the man has
lost his place, and the woman is strug-
gling to eke out the scanty savings by
day work, will take in a widow and her
five children who have been turned into
the street, without a moment's reflection
upon the physical discomforts involved.
The most maligned landlady is usually
The Subtle Problems of Charity.
165
ready to lend a scuttleful of coal to a
suffering tenant, or to share her supper.
A woman for whom the writer had long
tried in vain to find work failed to appear
at the appointed time when a situation
was found at last. Upon investigation it
transpired that a neighbor further down
the street was taken ill ; that the chil-
dren ran for the family friend, who went,
of course ; saying simply, when reasons
for her failure to come to work were de-
manded, " It broke me heart to leave the
place, but what could I do ? "
Another woman, whose husband was
sent up to the city prison for the maxi-
mum term, just three months before the
birth of her child, having gradually sold
her supply of household furniture, found
herself penniless. She sought refuge
with a friend whom she supposed to be
living in three rooms in another part of
the town. When she arrived, however,
she discovered that her friend's husband
had been out of work so long that they
had been reduced to living in one room.
The friend at once took her in, and the
friend's husband was obliged to sleep
upon a bench in the park every night for
a week ; which he did uncomplaining-
ly, if not cheerfully. Fortunately it was
summer, " and it only rained one night."
The writer could not discover from the
young mother that she had any special
claim upon the " friend " beyond the fact
that they had formerly worked together
in the same factory. The husband she
had never seen until the night of her
arrival, when he at once went forth in
search of a midwife who would consent
to come upon his promise of future pay-
ment.
The evolutionists tell us that the in-
stinct to pity, the impulse to aid his fel-
lows, served man at a very early period
a rude rule of right and wrong.
There is no doubt that this rude rule
still holds among many people with whom
charitable agencies are brought into con-
tact, and that their ideas of right and
wrong are quite honestly outraged by the
methods of these agencies. When they
see the delay and caution with which re-
lief is given, these do not appear to them
conscientious scruples, but the cold and
calculating action of the selfish man. This
is not the aid that they are accustomed
to receive from their neighbors, and they
do not understand why the impulse which
drives people to be good to the poor should
be so severely supervised. They feel, re-
motely, that the charity visitor is moved
by motives that are alien and unreal ;
they may be superior motives, but they
are " ag'in' nature." They cannot com-
prehend why a person whose intellectual
perceptions are stronger than his natural
impulses should go into charity work at
all. The only man they are accustomed
to see whose intellectual perceptions are
stronger than his tenderness of heart is
the selfish and avaricious man, who is
frankly " on the make." If the charity
visitor is such a person, why does she pre-
tend to like the poor ? Why does she
not go into business at once ? We may
say, of course, that it is a primitive view
of life which thus confuses intellectuality
and business ability, but it is a view quite
honestly held by many poor people who
are obliged to receive charity from time
to time. In moments of indignation they
have been known to say, " What do you
want, anyway ? If you have nothing to
give us, why not let us alone, and stop
your questionings and investigations ? "
This indignation, which is for the most
part taciturn, and a certain kindly con-
tempt for her abilities often puzzle the
charity visitor. The latter may be ex-
plained by the standard of worldly suc-
cess which the visited families hold. In
the minds of the poor success does not
ordinarily go with charity and kind-heart-
edness, but rather with the opposite qual-
ities. The rich landlord is he who col-
lects with sternness ; who accepts no ex-
cuse, and will have his own. There are
moments of irritation and of real bitter-
ness against him, but there is admiration,
because he is rich and successful. The
166
The Subtle Problems of Charity.
good-natured landlord, he who pities and
spares his poverty-pressed tenants, is sel-
dom rich. He often lives in the back of
his house, which he has owned for a long
time, perhaps has inherited ; but he has
been able to accumulate little. He com-
mands the genuine love and devotion of
many a poor soul, but he is treated with
a certain lack of respect. In one sense
he is a failure, so long have we all been
accustomed to estimate success by ma-
terial returns. The charity visitor, just
because she is a person who concerns
herself with the poor, receives a touch of
this good-natured and kindly contempt,
sometimes real affection, but little genu-
ine respect. The poor are accustomed
to help one another, and to respond ac-
cording to their kindliness ; but when it
comes to worldly judgment, they are still
in that stage where they use industrial
success as the sole standard. In the case
of the charity visitor, they are deprived
of both standards ; she has neither natu-
ral kindness nor dazzling riches ; and
they find it of course utterly impossible to
judge of the motive of organized charity.
Doubtless we all find something dis-
tasteful in the juxtaposition of the two
words " organized " and " charity."
The idea of organizing an emotion is in
itself repelling, even to those of us who
feel most sorely the need of more order
in altruistic effort and see the end to be
desired. We say in defense that we are
striving to turn this emotion into a mo-
tive : that pity is capricious, and not to
be depended on ; that we mean to give
it the dignity of conscious duty. But at
bottom we distrust a little a scheme
which substitutes a theory of social con-
duct for the natural promptings of the
heart, and we ourselves feel the com-
plexity of the situation. The poor man
who has fallen into distress, when he first
asks aid, instinctively expects tenderness,
consideration, and forgiveness. If it is
the first time, it has taken him long to
make up his mind to the step. He comes
somewhat bruised and battered, and in-
stead of being met by warmth of heart
and sympathy he is at once chilled by
an investigation and an intimation that
he ought to work. He does not see
that he is being dealt with as a child
of defective will is cared for by a stern
parent. There have been no years of
previous intercourse and established rela-
tion, as between parents and children.
He feels only the postponement or refu-
sal, which he considers harsh. He does
not " live to thank his parents for it," as
the disciplined child is reported to do,
but cherishes a hardness of heart to his
grave. The only really popular charity
is that of visiting nurses, who carry about
with them a professional training, which
may easily be interpreted into sympathy
and kindness, in their ministration to ob-
vious needs without investigation.
The state of mind which an investiga-
tion arouses on both sides is most un-
fortunate ; but the perplexity and clash-
ing of different standards, with the con-
sequent misunderstandings, are not so
bad as the moral deterioration which is
almost sure to follow.
When the agent or visitor appears
among the poor, and they discover that
under certain conditions food and rent
and medical aid are dispensed from some
unknown source, every man, woman, and
child is quick to learn what the con-
ditions may be, and to follow them.
Though in their eyes a glass of beer is
quite right and proper when taken as
any self-respecting man should take it ;
though they know that cleanliness is an
expensive virtue which can be expected
of few ; though they realize that saving
is well-nigh impossible when but a few
cents can be laid by at a time ; though
their feeling for the church may be some-
thing quite elusive of definition and quite
apart from daily living, to the visitor
they gravely laud temperance and clean-
liness and thrift and religious observance.
The deception doubtless arises from a
wondering inability to understand the
ethical ideals which can require such im-
The Subtle Problems of Charity.
167
possible virtues, combined with a tradi-
tion that charity visitors do require them,
and from an innocent desire to please.
It is easy to trace the development of the
mental suggestions thus received.
The most serious effect upon the in-
dividual comes when dependence upon
the charitable society is substituted for
the natural outgoing of human love and
sympathy, which, happily, we all possess
in some degree. The spontaneous im-
pulse to sit up all night with a neighbor's
sick child is turned into righteous indig-
nation against the district nurse because
she goes home at six o'clock. Or the
kindness which would have prompted a
quick purchase of much needed medicine
is transformed into a voluble scoring of
the dispensary, because it gives prescrip-
tions, and not drugs ; and " who can get
well on a piece of paper ? "
If a poor woman knows that her
neighbor next door has no shoes, she is
quite willing to lend her own, that her
neighbor may go decently to mass or to
work ; for she knows the smallest item
about the scanty wardrobe, and cheer-
fully helps out. When the charity visit-
or comes in, all the neighbors are baffled
as to what her circumstances may be.
They know she does not need a new pair
of shoes, and rather suspect that she has
a dozen pairs at home ; which indeed
she sometimes has. They imagine un-
told stores which they may call upon, and
her most generous gift is considered nig-
gardly, compared with what she might
do. She ought to get new shoes for the
family all round ; " she sees well enough
that they need them." It is no more
than the neighbor herself would do. The
charity visitor has broken through the
natural rule of giving, which, in a primi-
tive society, is bounded only by the need
of the recipient and the resources of the
giver ; and she gets herself into untold
trouble when she is judged by the ethics
of that primitive society.
The neighborhood understands the
selfish rich people who stay in their own
part of the town, where all their associ-
ates have shoes and other things. Such
people do not bother themselves about
the poor ; they are like the rich landlords
of the neighborhood experience. But
this lady visitor, who pretends to be good
to the poor, and certainly does talk as
though she were kind-hearted, what does
she come for, if she does not intend to
give them things which so plainly are
needed ? The visitor says, sometimes,
that in holding her poor family so hard
to a standard of thrift she is really break-
ing down a rule of higher living which
they formerly possessed; that saving,
which seems quite commendable in a
comfortable part of the town, appears al-
most criminal in a poorer quarter, where
the next-door neighbor needs food, even
if the children of the family do not.
She feels the sordidness of constantly
being obliged to urge the industrial view
of life. The benevolent individual of
fifty years ago honestly believed that in-
dustry and self-denial in youth would
result in comfortable possessions for old
age. It was, indeed, the method he had
practiced in his own youth, and by which
he had probably obtained whatever for-
tune he possessed. He therefore re-
proved the poor family for indulging
their children, urged them to work long
hours, and was utterly untouched by
many scruples which afflict the contem-
porary charity visitor. She says some-
times : " Why must I talk always on get-
ting work and saving money, the things
I know nothing about ? If it were any-
thing else I had to urge, I could do it ;
anything like Latin prose, which I had
worried through myself, would not be so
hard." But she finds it difficult to con-
nect the experiences of her youth with
the experiences of the visited family.
Because of this diversity in experi-
ence the visitor is continually surprised
to find that the safest platitudes may be
challenged. She refers quite naturally
to the " horrors of the saloon," and dis-
covers that the head of her* visited family,
168
The Subtle Problems of Charity.
who knows the saloons very well, does
not connect them with " horrors " at all.
He remembers all the kindnesses he has
received there, the free lunch and treating
which go on, even when a man is out of
work and not able to pay up ; the poor
fellows who are allowed to sit in their
warmth when every other door is closed
to them ; the loan of five dollars he got
there, when the charity visitor was miles
away, and he was threatened with evic-
tion. He may listen politely to her re-
ference to horrors, but considers it only
" temperance talk."
The same thing happens when she
urges upon him a spirit of independence,
and is perhaps foolish enough to say that
" every American man can find work and
is bound to support his family." She
soon discovers that the workingman, in
the city at least, is utterly dependent for
the tenure of his position upon the good
will of his foreman, upon the business
prosperity of the firm, or the good health
of the head of it ; and that, once work
is lost, it may take months to secure an-
other place. There is no use in talking
independence to a man when he is going
to stand in a row, hat in hand, before an
office desk, in the hope of getting a posi-
tion. The visitor is shocked when she
finds herself recommending to the head
of her visited family, whom she has sent
to a business friend of hers to find work,
not to be too outspoken when he goes to
the place, and not to tell that he has had
no experience in that line unless he is
asked. She has in fact come around to
the view which has long been his.
The charity visitor may blame the
women for lack of gentleness toward
their children, for being hasty and rude
to them, until she learns to reflect that
the standard of breeding is not that of
gentleness toward the children so much
as the observance of certain conventions,
such as the punctilious wearing of mourn-
ing garments after the death of a child.
The standard of gentleness each mother
has to work out largely by herself, as-
sisted only by the occasional shamefaced
remark of a neighbor, that "they do
better when you are not too hard on
them ; " but the wearing of mourning
garments is sustained by the definitely
expressed sentiment of every woman in
the street. The mother would have to
bear social blame, a certain social ostra-
cism, if she failed to comply with that
requirement. It is not comfortable to
outrage the conventions of those among
whom we live, and if our social life be
a narrow one, it is still more difficult.
The visitor may choke a little when she
sees the lessened supply of food and the
scanty clothing provided for the remain-
ing children, in order that one may be
conventionally mourned. But she does
not talk so strongly against it as she
would have done during her first month
of experience with the family since be-
reaved.
The subject of clothes, indeed, per-
plexes the visitor constantly, and the re-
sult of her reflections may be summed
up something in this wise : The girl who
has a definite social standing, who has
been to a fashionable school or to a col-
lege, whose family live in a house seen
and known by all her friends and asso-
ciates, can afford to be very simple or
even shabby as to her clothes, if she
likes. But the working girl, whose fam-
ily lives in a tenement or moves from
one small apartment to another, who has
little social standing, and has to make
her own place, knows full well how much
habit and style of dress have to do with
her position. Her income goes into her
clothing out of all proportion to that
which she spends upon other things.
But if social advancement is her aim,
it is the most sensible thing which she
can do. She is judged largely by her
clothes. Her house-furnishing with its
pitiful little decorations, her scanty sup-
ply of books, are never seen by the peo-
ple whose social opinions she most
values. Her clothes are her background,
and from them she is largely judged. It
The Subtle Problems of Charity.
169
is due to this fact that girls' clubs suc-
ceed best in the business part of a town,
where " working girls " and " young la-
dies " meet upon an equal footing, and
where the clothes superficially look very
much alike. Bright and ambitious girls
will come to these down-town clubs to
eat lunch and rest at noon, to study all
sorts of subjects and listen to lectures,
when they might hesitate a long time
about joining a club identified with their
own neighborhood, where they would be
judged not solely on their personal merits
and the unconscious social standing af-
forded to good clothes, but by other sur-
roundings which are not nearly up to
these. For the same reason, girls' clubs
are infinitely more difficult to organize
in little towns and villages, where every
one knows every one else, just how the
front parlor is furnished, and the amount
of mortgage there is upon the house.
These facts get in the way of a clear and
unbiased judgment ; they impede the de-
mocratic relationship, and add to the self-
consciousness of all concerned. Every
one who has had to do with down-town
girls' clubs has had the experience of go-
ing into the home of some bright, well-
dressed girl, to discover it uncomfortable
and perhaps wretched, and to find the
girl afterwards carefully avoiding her,
although she may not have been at home
when the call was made, and the visitor
may have carried herself with the ut-
most courtesy throughout. In some very
successful down-town clubs the home ad-
dress is not given at all, and only the
"business address" is required. Have
we worked out our democracy in regard
to clothes farther than in regard to any-
thing else ?
The charity visitor has been rightly
brought up to consider it vulgar to spend
much money upon clothes, to care so
much for "appearances." She realizes
dimly that the care for personal decora-
tion over that for one's home or habitat
is in some way primitive and undevel-
oped ; but she is silenced by its obvious
need- She also catches a hint of the
fact that the disproportionate expendi-
ture of the poor in the matter of clothes
is largely due to the exclusiveness of the
rich, who hide from them the interior of
their houses and their more subtle plea-
sures, while of necessity exhibiting their
street clothes and their street manners.
Every one who goes shopping at the same
time with the richest woman in town may
see her clothes, but only those invited to
her receptions see the Corot on her walls
or the bindings in her library. The poor
naturally try to bridge the difference by
reproducing the street clothes which they
have seen ; they therefore imitate, some-
times in more showy and often in more
trying colors, in cheap and flimsy ma-
terial, in poor shoes and flippant hats, the
extreme fashion of the well-to-do. They
are striving to conform to a common
standard which their democratic train-
ing presupposes belongs to us all. The
charity visitor may regret that the Ital-
ian peasant woman has laid aside her
picturesque kerchief, and substituted a
cheap street hat. But it is easy to re-
cognize the first attempt toward demo-
cratic expression.
The charity visitor is still more per-
plexed when she comes to consider such
problems as those of early marriage and
child labor ; for she cannot deal with
them according to economic theories, or
according to the conventions which have
regulated her own life. She finds both of
these fairly upset by her intimate know-
ledge of the situation, and her sympathy
for those into whose lives she has gained
a curious insight. She discovers how in-
corrigibly bourgeois her standards have
been, and it takes but a little time to reach
the conclusion that she cannot insist so
strenuously upon the conventions of her
own class, which fail to fit the bigger,
more emotional, and freer lives of work-
ing people. The charity visitor holds
well-grounded views upon the impru-
dence of early marriages ; quite natural-
ly, because she comes from a family and
170
The Subtle Problems of Charity.
circle of professional and business people.
A professional man is scarcely equipped
and started in his profession before he
is thirty ; a business man, if he is on the
road to success, is much nearer prosper-
ity at thirty-five than at twenty-five, and
it is therefore wise for these men not to
marry in the twenties. But this does
not apply to the workingman. In many
trades he is laid upon the shelf at thir-
ty-five, and in nearly all trades he re-
ceives the largest wages of his life be-
tween twenty and thirty. If the young
workingman has all his wages too long
to himself, he will probably establish
habits of personal comfort which he
cannot keep up when he has to divide
with a family, habits which, perhaps,
he can never overcome.
The sense of prudence, the necessity
for saving, can never come to a primi-
tive, emotional man with the force of a
conviction, but the necessity of provid-
ing for his children is a powerful incen-
tive. He naturally regards his children
as his savings-bank ; he expects them to
care for him when he gets old, and in
some trades old age comes very early.
A Jewish tailor was quite lately sent to
the Cook County poorhouse, paralyzed
beyond recovery at the age of thirty-
five. Had his little boy of nine been a
few years older, the father might have
been spared this sorrow of public chari-
ty. He was, in fact, better able to sup-
port a family when he was twenty than
when he was thirty-five, for his wages had
steadily become less* as the years went
on. Another tailor whom I know, a So-
cialist, always speaks of saving as a bour-
geois virtue, one quite impossible to the
genuine workingman. He supports a
family, consisting of himself, a wife and
three children, and his parents, on eight
dollars a week. He insists that it would
be criminal not to expend every penny
of this amount upon food and shelter,
and he expects his children later to take
care of him.
This economic pressure also accounts
for the tendency to put children to
work over-young, and thus cripple their
chances for individual development and
usefulness, and with the avaricious parent
it often leads to exploitation. " I have
fed her for fourteen year ; now she can
help me pay my mortgage," is not an
unusual reply, when a hard-working fa-
ther is expostulated with because he
would take his bright daughter out of
school and put her into a factory. It
has long been a common error for the
charity visitor, who is strongly urging
her family toward self-support, to sug-
gest, or at least connive, that the children
be put to work early, although she has
not the excuse that the parents have. It
is so easy, after one has been taking the
industrial view for a long time, to forget
the larger and more social claim ; to urge
that the boy go to work and support his
parents, who are receiving charitable aid.
The visitor does not realize what a cruel
advantage the person who distributes
charity has, when she gives advice. The
manager in a huge mercantile establish-
ment employing many children was able
to show, during a child-labor investiga-
tion, that the only children under four-
teen years of age in his employ were
protege's, urged upon him by philanthrop-
ic ladies, who were not only acquaint-
ances of his, but valued patrons of the
establishment. It is not that the char-
ity visitor of an earlier day was less wise
than other people, but she fixed her mind
so long upon the industrial lameness of
her family that she was eager to seize
any crutch, however weak, which might
enable them to get on. She failed to see
that the boy who attempts prematurely to
support his widowed mother may lower
wages, add an illiterate member to the
community, and arrest the development
of a capable workingman. Just as she
has failed to see that the rules which ob-
tain in regard to the age of marriage
in her own family may not apply to the
workingman, so also she fails to under-
stand that the present conditions of em-
The Subtle Problems of Charity.
171
ployment surrounding a factory child are
totally unlike those which obtained dur-
ing the energetic youth of her father.
Is it too much to hope that the insight
which the contemporary visitor is gain-
ing may save the administration of char-
ity from certain reproaches which it has
well deserved ?
This never ending question of the
means of subsistence not only oppresses
the child who is prematurely put to work,
but almost crushes a sensitive child
through his affectionate sympathy. The
writer knows a little Italian lad of six,
to whom the problems of food, clothing,
and shelter have become so immediate
and pressing that, although an imagina-
tive child, he is unable to see life from
any other standpoint. In his mind the
goblin or bugaboo of the more fortunate
child has come to be the need of coal,
which caused his father hysterical and
demonstrative grief when it carried off
his mother's inherited linen, the mosaic
of St. Joseph, and, worst of all, his own
rubber-boots. He once came to a party
at Hull House, and was interested in no-
thing save a gas-stove in the kitchen.
He became excited over the discovery
that fire could be produced without fuel.
" I will tell my father of this stove. You
buy no coal ; you need only a match.
Anybody will give you a match." He
was taken to visit at a country house,
and at once inquired how much rent was
paid for it. On being told carelessly by
his hostess that they paid no rent for that
house, he came back quite wild with in-
terest that the problem was solved. " Me
and my father will go to the country.
You get a big house, all warm, without
rent." Nothing else in the country in-
terested him but the subject of rent, and
he talked of that with an exclusiveness
worthy of a single-taxer.
The struggle for existence, which is
so much harsher among people near the
edge of pauperism, sometimes leaves
ugly marks on character, and the char-
ity visitor finds the indirect results most
mystifying. Parents who work hard
and anticipate an old age when they can
no longer earn, take care that their chil-
dren shall expect to divide their wages
with them from the very first. Such a
parent, when successful, seizes the im-
mature nervous system of the child and
hypnotizes it, so to speak, into a habit of
obedience, that the nerves and will may
not depart from this control when the
child is older. The charity visitor, whose
family relation is lifted quite out of this,
does not in the least understand the indus-
trial foundation in this family despotism.
The head of a kindergarten training
class once addressed a club of working-
women, and spoke of the despotism
which is often established over little
children. She said that the so-called
determination to break a child's will
many times arose from a lust of domin-
ion, and she urged the ideal relationship
founded upon love and confidence. But
many of the women were puzzled. One
of them remarked to the writer, as she
came out of the club-room, " If you did
not keep control over them from the
time they were little, you would never
get their wages when they were grown
up." Another one said, " Ah, of course,
she [meaning the speaker] does n't have
to depend upon her children's wages.
She can afford to be lax with them, be-
cause, even if they don't give money to
her, she can get along without it."
There are an impressive number of
children who uncomplainingly hand over
their weekly wages to their parents, some-
times receiving back ten cents or a quar-
ter for spending-money, but quite as often
nothing at all ; and the writer knows one
daughter of twenty-five who for six years
has received two cents a week from the
constantly falling wages which she earns
in a large factory. Is it habit or virtue
which holds her steady in this course ?
If love and tenderness had been sub-
stituted for parental despotism, would
the mother have had enough affection,
enough power of expression, to hold her
172
The Subtle Problems of Charity.
daughter's sense of money obligation
through all these years? This young
woman, who spends her paltry two cents
on chewing-gum, and goes plainly clad
in clothes of her mother's choosing, while
many of her friends spend their entire
wages on clothes which factory girls love
so well, must be held by some powerful
force.
It is these subtle and elusive problems
which, after all, the charity visitor finds
most harassing. The head of a family
she is visiting is a man who has become
blacklisted in a strike. He is not a very
good workman, and this, added to his
reputation as an agitator, keeps him out
of work for a long time. The fatal re-
sult of being long out of work follows.
He becomes less and less eager for it,
and " gets a job " less and less frequent-
ly. In order to keep up his self-respect,
and still more to keep his wife's respect
for him, he yields to the little self - de-
ception that this prolonged idleness is
due to his having been blacklisted, and
he gradually becomes a martyr. Deep
down in his heart, perhaps But who
knows what may be deep down in his
heart ? Whatever may be in his wife's,
she does not show for an instant that she
thinks he has grown lazy, and accustomed
to see her earn, by sewing and cleaning,
most of the scanty income for the family.
The charity visitor does see this, and she
also sees that the other men who were in
the strike have gone back to work. She
further knows, by inquiry and a little
experience, that the man is not skillful.
She cannot, however, call him lazy and
good-for-nothing, and denounce him as
worthless, because of certain intellectu-
al conceptions at which she has arrived.
She sees other workmen come to him
for shrewd advice ; she knows that he
spends many more hours in the public
library, reading good books, than the
average workman has time to do. He
has formed no bad habits, and has yield-
ed only to those subtle temptations to-
ward a life of leisure which come to the
intellectual man. He lacks the qualifi-
cations which would induce his union to
engage him as a secretary or an organ-
izer, but he is a constant speaker at work-
ingmen's meetings, and takes a high moral
attitude to the questions discussed there.
He contributes a kind of intellectuality to
his friends, and he has undoubted social
value. The neighborhood women con-
fide to the charity visitor their sympathy
with his wife, because she has to work so
hard, and because her husband does not
" provide." Their remarks are sharp-
ened by a certain resentment toward the
superiority of the husband's education
and gentle manners.
The charity visitor is ashamed to take
this narrow point of view, for she knows
that it is not altogether fair. She is re-
minded of a college friend of hers, who
told her that she was not going to allow
her literary husband to write unworthy
pot-boilers, for the sake of earning a liv-
ing. " I insist that we shall live within
my own income ; that he shall not pub-
lish until he is ready, and can give his
genuine message." The charity visitor
recalls what she has heard of another ac-
quaintance, who urged her husband to
decline a lucrative position as a railroad
attorney, because she wished him to be
free to take municipal positions and han-
dle public questions without the inevit-
able suspicion which attaches itself in a
corrupt city to a corporation attorney.
The action of these two women had
seemed noble to her, but they merely
lived on lesser incomes. In the case of
the workingman's wife, she faced living
on no income at all, or on the precarious
income which she might be able to get
together. She sees that this third wo-
man has made the greatest sacrifice, and
she is utterly unwilling to condemn her
while praising the friends of her own
social position. She realizes, of course,
that the situation is changed, by the
fact that the third family need charity,
while the other two do not ; but, after
all, they have not asked for it, and their
The Subtle Problems of Charity.
173
plight was only discovered through an
accident to one of the children. The
charity visitor has been taught that her
mission is to preserve the finest traits to
be found in h&r visited family, and she
shrinks from the thought of convincing
the wife that her husband is worthless,
and she suspects that she might turn all
this beautiful devotion into complaining
drudgery. To be sure, she could give up
visiting the family altogether, but she has
become much interested in the progress
of the crippled child, who eagerly antici-
pates her visits, and she also suspects that
she will never know many finer women
than the mother. She is unwilling, there-
fore, to give up the friendship, and goes
on, bearing her perplexities as best she
may.
The first impulse of our charity visit-
or is to be somewhat severe with her
shiftless family for spending money on
pleasures and indulging their children
out of all proportion to their means.
The poor family which receives beans
and coal from the county, and pays for
a bicycle on the installment plan, is not
unknown to any of us. But as the
growth of juvenile crime becomes grad-
ually understood, and as the danger of
giving no legitimate and organized plea-
sure to the child becomes clearer, we re-
member that primitive man had games
long before he cared for a house or for
regular meals. There are certain boys
in many city neighborhoods who form
themselves into little gangs with leaders
somewhat more intrepid than the rest.
Their favorite performance is to break
into an untenanted house, to knock off
the faucets and cut the lead pipe, which
they sell to the nearest junk dealer. With
the money thus procured they buy beer,
which they drink in little freebooters'
roups sitting in an alley. From begin-
dng to end they have the excitement
of knowing that they may be seen and
lught by the " coppers," and at times
ley are quite breathless with suspense.
In motive and execution it is not the least
unlike the practice of country boys who
go forth in squads to set traps for rabbits
or to round up a coon. It is character-
ized by a pure spirit of adventure, and
the vicious training really begins when
they are arrested, or when an older boy
undertakes to guide them into further
excitements. From the very beginning
the most enticing and exciting experi-
ences which they have seen have been
connected with crime. The policeman
embodies all the majesty of successful law
and established government in his brass
buttons and dazzlingly equipped patrol
wagon. The boy who has been arrested
comes back more or less a hero, with a
tale to tell of the interior recesses of the
mysterious police station. The earliest
public excitement the child remembers
is divided between the rattling fire-en-
gines, " the time there was a fire in the
next block," and the patrol wagon " the
time the drunkest lady in our street was
arrested." In the first year of their set-
tlement the Hull House residents took
fifty kindergarten children to Lincoln
Park, only to be grieved by their apa-
thetic interest in trees and flowers. On
the return an omnibusful of tired and
sleepy children were galvanized into sud-
den life because a patrol wagon rattled
by. Eager little heads popped out of
the windows full of questioning. " Was
it a man or a woman ? " " How many
policemen inside ? " and eager little
tongues began to tell experiences of ar-
rests which baby eyes had witnessed.
The excitement of a chase, the chances
of competition, and the love of a fight
are all centred in the outward display of
crime. The parent who receives char-
itable aid, and yet provides pleasures
for his child and is willing to indulge
him in his play, is blindly doing one of
the wisest things possible; and no one
is more eager for playgrounds and va-
cation schools than the charity visitor
whose experience has brought her to this
point of view.
The charity visitor has her own ideas
174
The Subtle Problems of Charity.
concerning the administration of justice.
To her mind, the courts can do no wrong.
To be sure she has never come in con-
tact with them, and she is shocked as
she gradually discovers that the courts
are used for justice or revenge exactly
according to the ethical development of
the plaintiff. Almost the only court
which the very poor use, certainly the
only one to which they voluntarily ap-
peal, is the police court ; and they hasten
to that often, not in order to secure jus-
tice, but for the much more primitive
desire for revenge. The penalties for
swearing out a warrant if the arrested
person fails to be proved guilty are so in-
adequate that they are practically never
enforced ; hence there is no restraint to
the impulse against fulfilling the threats
of " 1 11 have you arrested," and " I '11
take the law to you," which are such quick
and common retorts in neighborhood
quarrels.
An old lady takes care of her five
grandchildren, three of them headstrong
boys with whom she has no end of trou-
ble. Her only sources of revenue are
the precarious earnings of the two older
boys and the rent of two thirds of a
house, which she owns and partly occu-
pies. She is an affectionate and devoted
grandmother, but she balances her over-
indulgence by administering an occasion-
al good scolding to her children and her
tenants. One day she met one of her
former tenants upon the street, a well-
dressed, prosperous young matron, who
had left her house owing her ten dollars
for rent. The good clothes of the delin-
quent tenant offered a sharp contrast to
the shabby attire of the landlady. She
asked for her back rent gently enough
at first, but the conversation fast grew
acrid and stormy. The tenant refused
point blank to pay up, and that evening,
at nine o'clock, after the defeated land-
lady had told the tale to her sympathiz-
ing family, and they were already in bed,
an officer came with a warrant to arrest
the head of the house for disorderly con-
duct and to carry her off to the near-
est police station. Fortunately, the good
Irish heart of the officer was touched
by the piteous plight of the old lady of
seventy-eight, and he contented himself
with her promise to appear before the
police justice the next morning at ten
o'clock. She came to Hull House early
in the morning in a pathetic and bewil-
dered state of mind, that she who had
avoided a police court all her life, and
had held it up as an awful warning to
her grandsons, should now be brought
there herself because she had tried to col-
lect the rent justly due her. She went to
the police court accompanied by two of
her Hull House friends. During the ear-
lier stages of the trial they kept in the
background, and were chagrined to find
that the old lady appeared very badly.
The sight of her triumphant and pro-
sperous tenant brought forth a volley of
shrill invective. The tenant was filled
with reasonable excuses and surrounded
by several witnesses. She had meant to
pay up as soon as her husband received
his month's wages, and had repeatedly
told the old lady so. She was attacked
on the street in the presence of strangers,
and her character brought into question.
The prosperous plaintiff made so good
an impression that the judge was about
to dismiss the case with a stern repri-
mand to the landlady for losing her tem-
per and making a scene in the streets,
without any further investigation as to
her character or claims. One of her Hull
House friends was prompted by her long
acquaintance with the defendant to make
an appeal so eloquent that the judge grew
chivalric, and finally apologized to the
old lady for the annoyance caused her ;
and the light - minded although kind-
hearted tenant, touched in turn by his ex-
ample, borrowed ten dollars on the spot
from one of the swell witnesses whom
she had brought, and paid her back rent.
The desire to administer justice in the
case apparently never occurred to any-
body involved. It was a question of bad
The Subtle Problems of Charity.
175
manners and shrewish retort, eloquent
speaking and kind-hearted response, from
beginning to end. The desire for re-
venge was mollified, if not gratified, by
the arrest, and the complainant softened.
It would be easy to instance dozens of
similar cases.
The greatest difficulty is experienced
when the two standards come sharply to-
gether, and when an attempt is made at
understanding and explanation. The
difficulty of defining one's own ethical
standpoint is at times insurmountable. A
woman who had bought and sold school-
books stolen from the school fund, books
plainly marked with a red stamp, came
to Hull House one morning in great dis-
tress because she had been arrested, and
begged a resident " to speak to the judge."
She gave as a reason the fact that the
House had known her for six years, and
had once been very good to her when
her little girl was buried. The resident
more than suspected that her visitor knew
the schoolbooks were stolen, when buying
them, and any attempt to talk upon that
subject was evidently considered very
rude. The visitor wished to avoid a trial,
and manifestly saw no reason why the
House should not help her. The alder-
man was out of town, so she could not
go to him. After a long conversation
the visitor entirely failed to get another
point of view, and went away grieved
and disappointed at a refusal, thinking
the resident simply disobliging, won-
dering, no doubt, why such a mean wo-
man had once been good to her ; leaving
the resident, on the other hand, utterly
baffled, and in the state of mind she should
have been in had she brutally insisted
that a little child should lift weights too
heavy for its undeveloped muscles.
Such a situation brings out the impos-
sibility of substituting a higher ethical
standard for a lower one without the in-
termediate stages of growth ; but it is not
as painful as that illustrated by the fol-
lowing example, where the highest ethi-
cal standard yet attained by the charity-
recipients is broken down, and the sub-
stituted one is not in the least under-
stood :
A certain charity visitor is peculiarly
appealed to by the weakness and pathos
of forlorn old age. She is responsible
for the well-being of perhaps a dozen
old women, to whom she sustains a sin-
cere and simple and almost filial rela-
tion. Some of them learn to take her
benefactions quite as if they came from
their own relatives, grumbling at all she
does, and scolding her with a family
freedom. One of these poor old women
was injured in a fire years ago. She has
but the fragment of a hand left, and is
grievously crippled in her feet. Through
years of pain she had become addicted
to opium, and when she first came under
the residents' care was held from the
poorhouse only by the awful thought that
she would there perish without her drug.
Five years of tender care have done won-
ders for her. She lives in two neat little
rooms, where with a thumb and two fin-
gers she makes innumerable quilts, which
she sells and gives away with the greatest
delight. Her opium is regulated to a set
amount taken each day, and she has been
drawn away from much drinking. She
is a voracious reader, and has her head
full of strange tales made up from books
and her own imagination. At one time
it seemed impossible to do anything for
her in Chicago, and she was kept for
two years in a suburb where the family
of the charity visitor lived, and where
she was nursed through several hazard-
ous illnesses. She now lives a better
life than she did, but she is still far from
being a model old woman. Her neigh-
bors are constantly shocked by the fact
that she is supported and comforted by
" a charity lady," while at the same
time she occasionally " rushes the growl-
er," scolding at the boys lest they jar
her in her tottering walk. The care of
her has broken through even that second
standard, which the neighborhood had
learned to recognize as the standard of
176
The Subtle Problems of Charity.
charitable societies, that only the " wor-
thy poor " are to be helped ; that tem-
perance and thrift are the virtues which
receive the plums of benevolence. The
old lady herself is conscious of this crit-
icism. Indeed, irate neighbors tell her
to her face that she does not in the least
deserve what she gets. In order to dis-
arm them, and at the same time to ex-
plain what would otherwise seem loving-
kindness so colossal as to be abnormal,
she tells them that during her sojourn in
the suburb she discovered an awful fam-
ily secret, a horrible scandal connected
with the long-suffering charity visitor ;
that it is in order to prevent the divulgence
of this that the ministrations are contin-
ued. Some of her perplexed neighbors
accept this explanation as simple and
offering a solution of a vexed problem.
Doubtless many of them have a glimpse
of the real state of affairs, of the love and
patience which minister to need irrespec-
tive of worth. But the standard is too
high for most of them, and it sometimes
seems unfortunate to break down the sec-
ond standard, which holds that people
who " rush the growler " are not worthy
of charity, and that there is a certain jus-
tice attained when they go to the poor-
house. It is doubtless dangerous to
break down this sense of justice, unless
the higher motive is made clear.
Just when our affection becomes large
and real enough to care for the unwor-
thy among the poor as we would care
for the unworthy among our own kin, is
a perplexing question. To say that it
should never be so is a comment upon
our democratic relations to them which
few of us would be willing to make.
Of what use is all this striving and per-
plexity ? Has the experience any value ?
It is obviously genuine, for it induces an
occasional charity visitor to live in a tene-
ment house as simply as the other tenants
do. It drives others to give up visiting
the poor altogether, because, they claim,
the situation is untenable unless the in-
dividual becomes a member of a sister-
hood which requires, as some of the Ro-
man Catholic sisterhoods do, that the
member first take the vows of obedience
and poverty, so that she can have nothing
to give save as it is first given to her,
and she is not thus harassed by a con-
stant attempt at adjustment. Both the
tenement house resident and the sister
assume to have put themselves upon the
industrial level of their neighbors. But
the young charity visitor who goes from
a family living upon a most precarious
industrial level to her own home in a pro-
sperous part of the city, if she is sensitive
at all, is never free from perplexities
which our growing democracy forces
upon her.
We sometimes say that our charity is
too scientific, but we should doubtless be
much more correct in our estimate if we
said that it is not scientific enough. We
dislike the entire arrangement of cards
alphabetically classified according to
streets and names of families, with the
unrelated and meaningless details at-
tached to them. Our feeling of revolt
is, probably, not unlike that which af-
flicted the students of botany and geo-
logy in the early part of this century,
when flowers were tabulated in alphabet-
ical order, when geology was taught
by colored charts and thin books. No
doubt the students, wearied to death,
many times said that it was all too sci-
entific, and were much perplexed and
worried when they found traces of struc-
ture and physiology which their so-called
scientific principles were totally unable
to account for. But all this happened
before science had become evolutionary
and scientific at all, before it had a
principle of life from within. The very
indications and discoveries which former-
ly perplexed, later illumined, and made
the study absorbing and vital. The dry-
as-dust student, who formerly excelled, is
now replaced by the man who possesses
insight as well as accuracy, who holds
his mind open to receive every sugges-
tion which growth implies. He can, how-
The Subtle Problems of Charity.
177
ever, no longer use as material the dried
plants of the herbariums, but is forced to
go to the spots in which plants are grow-
ing. Collecting data in sociology may
mean sorrow and perplexity and a pull
upon one's sympathies, just as truly as
collecting data in regard to the flora of
the equatorial regions means heat and
scratches and the test of one's endurance.
Human motives have been so long a mat-
ter of dogmatism that to act upon the
assumption that they are the result of
growth, and to study their status with an
open mind and a scientific conscience,
seems well-nigh impossible to us. A man
who would hesitate to pronounce an opin-
ion upon the stones lying by the wayside
because he has a suspicion that they are
" geological specimens," and his venera-
tion for science is such that he would not
venture to state to which period they be-
longed, will, without a moment's hesita-
tion, dogmatize about the delicate pro-
blems of human conduct, and will assert
that one man is a scoundrel and another
an honorable gentleman, without in the
least considering the ethical epochs to
which the two belong. He disregards the
temptations and environment to which
they have been subjected, and requires
the same human development of an Ital-
ian peasant and a New England scholar.
Is this again a mark of our democracy
or of our lack of science? We are sin-
gularly slow to apply the evolutionary
principle to human affairs in general,
although it is fast being applied to the
education of children. We are at last
learning to follow the development of
the child ; to expect certain traits under
certain conditions ; to adapt methods
and matter to his growing mind. No
" advanced educator " can allow himself
to be so absorbed in the question of what
a child ought to be as to exclude the dis-
covery of what he is. But, in our char-
itable efforts, we think much more of
what a man ought to be than of what
he is or of what he may become ; and
ruthlessly force our conventions and
VOL. LXXXIII. NO. 496. 12
standards upon him, with a sternness
which we would consider stupid, indeed,
did an educator use it in forcing his
mature intellectual convictions upon an
undeveloped mind.
Let us take the example of a timid
child, who cries when he is put to bed,
because he is afraid of the dark. The
" soft-hearted " parent stays with him
simply because he is sorry for him and
wants to comfort him. The scientifically
trained parent stays with him because
he realizes that the child is passing
through a phase of race development, in
which his imagination has the best of him.
It is impossible to reason him out of de-
monology, because his logical faculties
are not developed. After all, these two
parents, wide apart in point of view, act
much the same, and very differently from
the pseudo - scientific parent, who acts
from dogmatic conviction and is sure he
is right. He talks of developing his
child's self-respect and good sense, and
leaves him to cry himself to sleep, de-
manding powers of self-control and de-
velopment which the child does not pos-
sess. There is no doubt that our devel-
opment of charity methods has reached
this pseudo - scientific and stilted stage.
We have learned to condemn unthinking,
ill - regulated kind-heartedness, and we
take great pride in mere repression, much
as the stern parent tells the visitor below
how admirably he is rearing the child
who is hysterically crying upstairs, and
laying the foundation for future nervous
disorders. The pseudo-scientific spirit,
or rather the undeveloped stage of our
philanthropy, is, perhaps, most clearly
revealed in this tendency to lay stress on
negative action. " Don't give," " don't
break down self-respect," we are con-
stantly told. We distrust the human im-
pulse, and in its stead substitute dogmatic
rules for conduct. In spite of the proof
that the philanthropic Lord Shaftesbury
secured the passage of English factory
laws, that the charitable Octavia Hill lias
brought about the reform of the London
178
The Subtle Problems of Charity.
tenement houses, and of much similar
concurrent testimony, we do not yet real-
ly believe that pity and sympathy, even,
in point of fact quite as often precede
the effort toward social amelioration as
does the acceptance of a social dogma ;
we forget that the accumulation of know-
ledge and the holding of convictions must
finally result in the application of that
knowledge and those convictions to life
itself, and that the course which begins
by activity, and an appeal to the sympa-
thies so severe that all the knowledge in
the possession of the visitor is continually
applied, has reasonably a greater chance
for an ultimate comprehension.
For most of the years during a de-
cade of residence in a settlement, my
mind was sore and depressed over the
difficulties of the charitable relationship.
The incessant clashing of ethical stan-
dards, which had been honestly gained
from widely varying industrial experi-
ence, the misunderstandings inevitable
between people whose conventions and
mode of life had been so totally unlike,
made it seem reasonable to say that
nothing could be done until industrial
conditions were made absolutely demo-
cratic. The position of a settlement,
which attempts at one and the same
time to declare its belief in this even-
tual, industrial democracy, and to labor
toward that end, to maintain a stan-
dard of living, and to deal humanely and
simply with those in actual want, often
seems utterly untenable and preposterous.
Recently, however, there has come to
my mind the suggestion of a principle,
that while the painful condition of ad-
ministering charity is the inevitable dis-
comfort of a transition into a more de-
mocratic relation, the perplexing experi-
ences of the actual administration have
a genuine value of their own. The econ-
omist who treats the individual cases
as mere data, and the social reformer
who labors to make such cases impossible,
solely because of the appeal to his rea-
son, may have to share these perplexities
before they feel themselves within the
grasp of a principle of growth, working
outward from within ; before they can
gain the exhilaration and uplift which
come when the individual sympathy and
intelligence are caught into the forward,
intuitive movement of the mass. This
general movement is not without its in-
tellectual aspects, but it is seldom appre-
hended by the intellect alone. The so-
cial reformers who avoid the charitable
relationship with any of their fellow men
take a certain outside attitude toward
this movement. They may analyze it
and formulate it ; they may be most val-
uable and necessary, but they are not
essentially within it. The mass of men
seldom move together without an emo-
tional incentive, and the doctrinaire, in
his effort to keep his mind free from the
emotional quality, inevitably stands aside.
He avoids the perplexity, and at the same
time loses the vitality.
The Hebrew prophet made three re-
quirements from those who would join
the great forward-moving procession led
by Jehovah. " To love mercy," and at
the same time " to do justly," is the
difficult task. To fulfill the first require-
ment alone is to fall into the error of in-
discriminate giving, with all its disastrous
results ; to fulfill the second exclusively
is to obtain the stern policy of withhold-
ing, and it results in such a dreary lack
of sympathy and understanding that the
establishment of justice is impossible. It
may be that the combination of the two
can never be attained save as we fulfill
still the third requirement, " to walk hum-
bly with God/' which may mean to walk
for many dreary miles beside the lowli-
est of his creatures, not even in peace
of mind, that the companionship of the
humble is popularly supposed to give,
but rather with the pangs and misgivings
to which the poor human understanding
is subjected whenever it attempts to com-
prehend the meaning of life.
Jane Addams.
The Autobiography of a Revolutionist.
179
THE AUTOBIOGRAPHY OF A REVOLUTIONIST.
SIBERIA.
IN the middle of May, 1862, a few
weeks before our promotion, I was told
one day to make up the final list of the
regiments which each of us intended to
join. We had the choice of all the regi-
ments of the Guard, which we could enter
with the first officer's grade, and of the
army with the third grade of lieutenant.
I took a list of our form and went the
rounds of my comrades. Every one knew
well the regiment he was going to join,
most of them already wearing in the gar-
den the officer's cap of that regiment.
" Her Majesty's Cuirassiers," " The
Body Guard Preobrazhe'nsky," " The
Horse Guards," were the replies which
I inscribed.
"But you, Kropdtkin? The artil-
lery ? The Cossacks ? " I was asked on
all sides. I could not stand these ques-
tions, and at last, asking a comrade to
complete the list, I went to my room to
think once more over my final decision.
That I should not enter a regiment
of the Guard, and give my life to pa-
rades and court balls, I had settled long
ago. My dream was to enter the uni-
versity, to study, to live the student's
life. That meant, of course, to break en-
tirely with my father, whose ambitions
were quite different, and to rely for my
living upon what I might earn by means
of lessons. Thousands of Russian stu-
dents live in that way, and such a life
did not frighten me in the least. In a
few weeks I should have to leave the
school, to don my own clothes, to have
my own lodging, and I saw no possibili-
ty of providing even the little money
which would be required for the most
modest start. Then, failing the univer-
sity, I had often thought lately of enter-
ing the artillery academy. That would
free me for two years from the drudgery
of military service, and, besides the mil-
itary sciences, I could study mathemat-
ics and physics. But, with the wind of
reaction that was blowing, the officers
in the academies had been treated like
schoolboys ; a severe discipline was im
posed upon them, and in two cases they
had revolted and left in a body.
My thoughts went more and more to-
ward Siberia. The Amur region had
recently been annexed by Russia ; I had
read all about that Mississippi of the
East, the mountains it pierces, the sub-
tropical vegetation of its tributary, the
Usuri, and my thoughts went further,
to the tropical regions which Humboldt
had described, and to the great general-
izations of Ritter, which I delighted to
read. Besides, I reasoned, there is in
Siberia an immense field for the applica-
tion of the great reforms which have been
made or are coming : the workers must
be few there, and I shall find a field of
action to my tastes. The worst was that
I should have to separate from my bro-
ther Alexander ; but he had been com-
pelled to leave the University of Moscow
after the last disorders, and in a year
or two, I guessed (and guessed rightly),
in one way or another we should be to-
gether. There remained only the choice
of the regiment in the Amur region. The
Usuri attracted me most ; but, alas, there
was on the Usuri only one regiment, of
infantry Cossacks. A Cossack not on
horseback, that was too bad for the
boy that I still was, and I settled upon
" the mounted Cossacks of the Amur."
This I wrote on the list, to the great
consternation of all my comrades. " It
is so far," they said, while my friend
Daiiroft', seizing the Officers' Handbook,
180
The Autobiography of a Revolutionist.
read out of it, to the horror of all pre-
sent : " Uniform, black, with a plain red
collar without braids ; fur bonnet made
of dog's fur or any other fur ; trousers,
gray."
" Only look at that uniform ! " he ex-
claimed. " Bother the cap ! you can
wear one of wolf or bear fur ; but think
only of the trousers ! Gray, like a sol-
dier of the Train ! " The consternation
reached its climax after that reading.
I joked as best I could, and took the
list to the colonel.
" Kropdtkin, always with his jokes ! "
he cried. " Did I not tell you that the
list must be sent to the grand duke to-
day ? "
Astonishment was depicted on his face
when I told him that the list really showed
my intention.
However, all my decisions nearly van-
ished next day, when I saw the way in
which Klasdvsky took my decision. He
had hoped to see me in the university,
and had given me lessons in Latin and
Greek for that purpose. I did not dare
to tell him what prevented me from en-
tering the university : I knew that if I
told him the truth he would offer to share
with me the little that he had.
Then my father telegraphed to the
director that he forbade my going to Si-
beria ; and the matter was reported to
the grand duke, who was the chief of the
military schools. I was called before
his assistant, and talked about the vege-
tation of the Amur and like things, be-
cause I had strong reasons for believ-
ing that if I said I wanted to go to the
university, and could not afford it, a
bursary would be offered to me by some
one of the imperial family, an offer
which by all means I wished to avoid.
It is impossible to say how all this
would have ended, but an event of much
'importance the great fire at St. Pe-
tersburg brought in an indirect way
a solution to my difficulties.
On the Monday after Trinity the
day of the Holy Ghost, which was that
year on May 26, Old Style a terrible
fire broke out in the so-called Apra"xin
Dvor. The Apra"xin Dvor was an im-
mense space, more than half a mile
square, which was entirely covered with
small shops, mere shanties of wood,
where all sorts of second and third hand
goods were sold. Old furniture and
bedding, second-hand dresses and books,
poured in from every quarter of the city,
and were stored in the small shanties,
in the passages between them, and even
on their roofs. This accumulation of
inflammable materials had at its back
the Ministry of the Interior and its ar-
chives, where all the documents concern-
ing the liberation of the serfs were kept ;
and in front of it, lined by a row of shops
built of stone, was the state bank. A
narrow lane, also bordered with stone
shops, separated it from a wing of the
Corps of Pages, which was occupied by
grocery and oil shops in its lower story,
and with the apartments of the officers
in its upper story. Almost opposite the
Ministry of the Interior, on the other side
of a canal, there were extensive timber
yards. This labyrinth of small shanties
and the timber yards opposite took fire
at the same time, at four o'clock in the
afternoon.
If there had been wind on that day,
half the city would have perished in the
flames, including the Bank, several Min-
istries, the Gostinoi Dvor (another great
block of shops on the Nevsky Perspec-
tive), the Corps of Pages, and the Na-
tional Library.
I was that afternoon at the Corps,
dining at the house of one of our offi-
cers, and we dashed to the spot as soon
as we noticed from the windows the first
clouds of smoke rising in our close neigh-
borhood. The sight was terrific. The
fire, truly like an immense snake, rattling
and whistling, threw itself in all direc-
tions, right and left, enveloped the shan-
ties, and suddenly rose in a huge column,
sending its whistling tongues to swallow
The Autobiography of a Revolutionist.
181
more shanties with their contents. Whirl-
winds of smoke and fire were formed;
and when the whirls of burning feathers
from the bedding shops began to sweep
the space, it became impossible to re-
main any longer inside the burning mar-
ket. The whole had to be abandoned.
The authorities had entirely lost their
heads. There was not, at that time, a
single steam fire engine in St. Peters-
burg, and it was workmen who suggest-
ed bringing one from the iron works
of Kolpino, situated twenty miles by
rail from the capital. When the engine
reached the railway station, it was the
people who dragged it to the conflagra-
tion. Of its four lines of hose, one was
damaged by an unknown hand, and the
other three were directed upon the Min-
istry of the Interior.
The grand dukes came to the spot and
went away again. Late in the evening,
when the Bank was out of danger, the
Emperor also made his appearance, and
said, what every one knew already, that
the Corps of Pages was now the key of the
battle, and must be saved by all means.
It was evident that if the Corps had
taken fire, half of the Nevsky Perspec-
tive would have been burned too.
It was the crowd, the people, who did
everything to prevent the fire from
spreading further and further. There
was a moment when the Bank was se-
riously menaced. The goods cleared
from the shops opposite were thrown
into the Saddvaya street, and lay in
great heaps upon the walls of the left
wing of the Bank. The articles which
covered the street itself continually took
fire, but the people, roasting there in an
almost unbearable heat, prevented the
fire from being communicated to the
piles on the other side. They swore at
all the authorities, seeing that there was
not a pump on the spot. " What are they
all doing at the Ministry, when the Bank
and the Foundlings' House are going to
irn ? They have all lost their heads ! "
We must hunt up the chief of police
and ask him to send a fire brigade here ! "
they cried. I knew the chief. General
Annenkoff, personally, as I had met him
several times at our sub-inspector's house,
and I volunteered to find him. I found
him, indeed, walking aimlessly in a street;
and when I reported to him the state of
affairs, incredible though it may seem, it
was to me, a boy, that he gave the order
to move one of the fire brigades from the
Ministry to the Bank. I exclaimed, of
course, that the men would never listen
to me, and asked for a written order ;
but he had not, or pretended not to have,
a scrap of paper, so that I asked one of
our officers, L. L. Gosse, to come with
me to transmit the order. We at last
prevailed upon one fire masfcer who
swore at all the world and at his chiefs
to move his brigade to the Bank.
The Ministry itself was not burning ;
it was the archives which took fire, and
many boys, chiefly cadets and pages,
carried bundles of papers out of the
burning building and loaded them into
cabs. Often a bundle would fall out,
and the wind, taking possession of its
leaves, would strew them about the
square. Through the smoke a sinister
fire could be seen raging in the timber
yards on the other side of the canal.
The narrow lane which separated the
Corps of Pages from the Apra*xin Dvor
was in a deplorable state. The shops
which lined it were full of brimstone,
oil, turpentine, and the like, and immense
tongues of fire of many hues, thrown out
by explosions, licked the roofs of the
wing of the Corps, which bordered the
lane on its other side. The windows
and the pilasters under the roof began
already to smoulder, while the pages and
some cadets, after having cleared the
lodgings, pumped water through a small
fire engine, which received at long inter-
vals scanty supplies from old-fashioned
barrels which had to be filled with ladles.
A couple of firemen who stood on the hot
roof continually shouted out, "Water!
Water ! " in tones which were simply
182
The Autobiography of a Revolutionist.
heart-rending. On all sides my com-
rades urged me, " Go and find some-
body, the governor, the grand duke,
any one, and tell them that without
water we shall have to abandon the Corps
to the fire." "Shall we not report to
our director ? " somebody would remark.
" Bother the whole lot ! you won't find
them with a lantern. Go and do it your-
self."
I went and found at last the governor-
general of St. Petersburg, Prince Suvd-
roff, in the court of the Bank. When
I reported to him the state of affairs,
his first question was, " Who has sent
you ? " " Nobody the comrades," was
my reply. "So you say the Corps is
going to burn?" "Yes." He started
at once, and seizing an empty hatbox
covered his head with it, and ran full
speed to the lane. Empty barrels, straw,
wooden boxes, and the like covered the
lane, between the flames of the oil shops
on the one side and the buildings of our
Corps, of which the window frames and
the pilasters were smouldering, on the
other side. Prince Suvdroff acted reso-
lutely. " There is a company of soldiers
in your garden," he said to me : " take
a detachment and clear that lane at
once. A hose from the steam engine will
be brought here immediately. Keep it
playing. I trust it to you personally."
It was not easy to move the soldiers
out of our garden. They had cleared the
barrels and boxes of their contents, and
with their pockets full of coffee, and with
conical lumps of sugar concealed in their
kepis, they were enjoying the warm night
under the trees, cracking nuts. No one
cared to move till an officer interfered.
The lane was cleared, and the pump
was kept pouring water. The comrades
were delighted, and every twenty min-
utes we relieved the men who directed
the jet of water, standing there in a
terrible scorching heat.
About three or four in the morning it
was evident that bounds had been put to
the fire ; the danger of its spreading to
the Corps was over, and after having
quenched our thirst with half a dozen
glasses of tea, in a small " white inn "
which happened to be open, we fell, half
dead from fatigue, on the first bed that
we found unoccupied in the hospital of
the Corps.
Next morning I met the Grand Duke
Michael, and accompanied him on his
round. The pages, with their faces quite
black from the smoke, with swollen eyes
and inflamed lids, some of them with
their hair burned, raised their heads
from the pillows. It was hard to recog-
nize them. They were proud, though,
of feeling that they had not been merely
" white hands," and had worked as hard
as any one else.
This visit of the grand duke settled
my difficulties. He asked me what fan-
cy of mine it was to go to the Amur,
whether I had friends there ; and
learning that I had no relatives in Sibe-
ria, and that the governor-general did
not know me, he exclaimed, " But how
are you going, then ? They may send
you to a lonely Cossack village. I had
better write about you to the governor-
general, to recommend you."
After such an offer I was sure that
my father's objections would be removed.
I could go to Siberia.
This great conflagration became a
turning point not only in the policy of
Alexander II., but also in the history of
Russia for that part of the century.
That it was not a mere accident was
self-evident. Trinity and the day of
the Holy Ghost are great holidays in
Russia, and there was nobody inside the
market except a few watchmen ; be-
sides, the Apra"xin market and the tim-
ber yards took fire at the same time, and
the conflagration at St. Petersburg was
followed by similar disasters in several
provincial towns. The fire was lit by
somebody, but by whom? This ques-
tion remains unanswered to the present
time.
The Autobiography of a Revolutionist.
183
Katkdff, the ex- Whig, who was in-
spired with personal hatred of HeVzen,
and especially of Bakiinin, with whom he
had once to fight a duel, on the very day
after the fire accused the Poles and the
Russian revolutionists of being the cause
of it ; and that opinion prevailed at St.
Petersburg and at Moscow.
Poland was preparing then for the
revolution which broke out in the follow-
ing January, and the secret revolution-
ary government had concluded an alli-
ance with the London refugees, and had
its men in the very heart of the St. Pe-
tersburg administration. Only a short
time after the conflagration occurred, the
lord lieutenant of Poland, Count Lil-
ders, was shot at by a Russian officer ;
and when the Grand Duke Constantine
was nominated in his place (with the
intention, it was said, of making Poland
a separate kingdom for Constantine), he
also was immediately shot at, on June
26. Similar attempts were made in
August against the Marquis Wielepol-
sky, the Polish leader of the pro-Rus-
sian Union party. Napoleon III. main-
tained then among the Poles the hope of
an armed intervention in favor of their
independence. In such conditions, judg-
ing from the ordinary narrow milita-
ry standpoint, to destroy the Bank of
Russia and several Ministries and to
spread a panic in the capital might have
been considered a. good plan of warfare;
but there never was the slightest scrap
of evidence forthcoming to support this
hypothesis.
On the other side, the advanced par-
ties in Russia saw that no hope could
any longer be placed in Alexander's
reformatory initiative: he was clearly
drifting into the reactionary camp. ' To
men of forethought it was evident that
the liberation of the serfs, under the
conditions of redemption which were
imposed upon them, meant their certain
ruin, and revolutionary proclamations
were issued in May, at St. Petersburg,
calling the people and the army to a
general revolt, while the educated
classes were asked to insist upon the
necessity of a national convention. Un-
der such circumstances, to disorganize
the machine of the government might
have entered into the plans of some re-
volutionists.
Finally, the indefinite character of the
emancipation had produced a great deal
of fermentation among the peasants, who
constitute a considerable part of the pop-
ulation in all Russian cities ; and through
all the history of Russia, every time such
a fermentation has begun it has resulted
in anonymous letters foretelling fires, and
eventually in incendiarism.
It was possible that the idea of setting
the Apr^xin market on fire might occur
to isolated men in the revolutionary camp ;
but neither the most searching inquiries
nor the wholesale arrests which began
all over Russia and Poland immediately
after the fire revealed the slightest indi-
cation in that direction. If anything of
the sort had been found, the reactionary
party would have made capital out of it.
Many reminiscences and volumes of cor-
respondence from those times have since
been published, but they contain no hint
whatever in support of this suspicion.
On the contrary, when similar confla-
grations broke out in several towns on
the Vdlga, and especially at Sara"toff, and
when Zhda"noff, a member of the Senate,
was sent by the Tsar to make a search-
ing inquiry, he returned with the firm
conviction that the conflagration at Sara"-
toff was the work of the reactionary party.
There was among that party a general
belief that it would be possible to induce
Alexander II. to postpone the final aboli-
tion of serfdom, which was to take place
on February 19, 1863. They knew the
weakness of his character, and immedi-
ately after the great fire at St. Peters-
burg they began a violent campaign for
postponement, and for the revision of
the emancipation law in its practical
applications. It was rumored in well-
informed lawyers' circles that Senator
184
The Autobiography of a Revolutionist.
Zhddnoff was really bringing in positive
proofs of the culpability of the reaction-
aries at Sara"toff; but he died on his
way back, and his portfolio disappeared ;
it has never been found.
Be it as it may, the Aprdxin fire had
the most deplorable consequences. After
it Alexander II. surrendered to the re-
actionaries, and what was still worse
the public opinion of that part of so-
ciety at St. Petersburg, and especially at
Moscow, which carried most weight with
the government suddenly threw off its
liberal garb, and turned against not only
the more advanced section of the reform
party, but even its moderate wing. A
few days after the conflagration, I went
on Sunday to see my cousin, the aide-de-
camp of the Emperor, in whose apart-
ment I had often seen the Horse Guard
officers in sympathy with Chernyshe'v-
sky, and who himself was an assiduous
reader of the Contemporary (the organ
of the advanced reform party). He
brought several numbers of the Contem-
porary, and, putting them on the table I
sat at, said to me, " Well, now, after this
I will have no more of that incendiary
stuff ; enough of it," and these words
expressed the opinion of " all St. Peters-
burg." It became improper to talk of
reforms. The whole atmosphere was
laden with a reactionary spirit. The
Contemporary and other similar reviews
were suppressed; the Sunday-schools
were prohibited under any aspect; whole-
sale arrests began. The capital was
placed under a state of siege.
A fortnight later, on June 13 (25),
the time which we pages and cadets had
so long looked for came at last. The
Emperor gave us a sort of military ex-
amination in all kinds of evolutions,
during which we commanded the com-
panies, and I paraded on a horse before
the battalion, and we were promoted
officers.
When the parade was over, Alexan-
der II. loudly called out, "The pro-
moted officers to me ! " and we gathered
round him. He remained on horseback.
Here I saw him in a quite new light.
The man who the next year appeared in
the role of a bloodthirsty and vindictive
crusher of the insurrection in Poland
rose now, full size, before my eyes, in
the speech he addressed to us.
He began in a quiet tone. " I con-
gratulate you : you are officers." He
spoke about military duty and loyalty as
they are usually spoken of on such occa-
sions. " But if any one of you," he went
on, distinctly shouting out every word,
his face suddenly contorted with anger,
" but if any one of you which God
preserve you from should under any
circumstances prove unloyal to the Tsar,
the throne, and the fatherland, know
I tell you that he will be treated
with all the se-ve-ri-ty of the laws, with-
out the slightest com-mi-se-ra-tion ! "
His voice failed ; his face was peevish,
full of that expression of blind rage
which I saw in my childhood on the
faces of landlords when they threat-
ened their serfs "to skin them under
the rods." He abruptly gave the spurs
to his horse, and rode out of our circle.
Next morning, the 14th of June, by or-
der of the Emperor, three officers were
shot at Mddlin in Poland, and one sol-
dier, Szur by name, was killed under
the rods.
" Reaction, full speed backwards," I
said to myself as we made our way back
to the Corps.
I saw Alexander II. once more be-
fore leaving St. Petersburg. Some days
after our promotion, all the newly pro-
moted officers were at the palace, to be
presented to him. My more than mod-
est uniform, with its prominent gray
trousers, attracted universal attention,
and every moment I had to satisfy the
curiosity of officers of all ranks, who
came to ask me what was the uniform
that I wore. The Amiir Cossacks being
then the youngest regiment of the Rus-
The Autobiography of a Revolutionist.
185
sian army, I stood somewhere near the
end of the hundreds of officers who were
present. Alexander II. found me, and
asked, " So you go to Siberia ? Did
your father consent to it, after all ? " I
answered in the affirmative. " Are you
not afraid to go so far ? " I hotly re-
plied, " No, I want to work. There must
be so much to do in Siberia to apply
the great reforms which are going to be
made." He looked straight at me ; he
became pensive ; at last he said, " Well,
go"; one can be useful everywhere ; " and
his face took on such an expression of fa-
tigue, such a character of complete sur-
render, that I thought at once, " He is a
used-up man ; he is going to give it all
up."
St. Petersburg had assumed a gloomy
aspect. Soldiers marched in the streets,
Cossack patrols rode round the palace,
the fortress was filled with prisoners.
Wherever I went I saw the same thing,
the triumph of the reaction. I left
St. Petersburg without regret.
I went every day to the Cossack ad-
ministration to ask them to make haste
and deliver me my papers, and as soon
as they were ready I hurried to Mos-
cow to join my brother Alexander.
II.
The five years that I spent in Siberia
were for me a genuine education in life
and human character. I was brought
into contact with men of all descriptions :
the best and the worst ; those who stood
at the top of society and those who vege-
tated at the very bottom, the tramps
and the so-called incorrigible criminals.
I had ample opportunities to watch the
ways and habits of the peasants in their
daily life, and still more opportunities to
appreciate how little the state adminis-
tration could give to them, even though
it was animated by the very best inten-
tions. Finally, my extensive journeys,
during which I traveled over fifty thou-
id miles in carts, on board steamers,
boats, and especially on horseback,
had a wonderful effect in strengthening
my health. They also taught me how
little man really needs as soon as he
comes out of the enchanted circle of con-
ventional civilization. With a few pounds
of bread and a few ounces of tea in a
leather bag, a kettle and a hatchet hang-
ing at the side of the saddle, and under
the saddle a blanket, to be spread at the
camp fire upon a bed of freshly cut
spruce twigs, a man feels wonderfully in-
dependent, even amidst unknown moun-
tains thickly clothed with woods, and in
winter time. A book might be written
about this part of my life, but I must
rapidly glide over it here, there being
so much more to say about the later pe-
riods.
Siberia is not the land buried in snow
and peopled with exiles only, that it is
imagined to be, even by many Russians.
In its southern parts it is as rich in nat-
ural productions as are the southern
parts of Canada, which it resembles so
much in its physical aspects ; and beside
half a million of natives, it has a pop-
ulation of more than four millions as
thoroughly Russian as that to the north
of Moscow. In 1862 the upper adminis-
tration of Siberia was far more enlight-
ened and far better all round than that
of any province of Russia proper. For
several years the post of governor-gen-
eral of East Siberia had been occupied
by a remarkable personage, Count N. N.
Muravidff, who annexed the Amiir re-
gion to Russia almost against the will
of the St. Petersburg authorities, and
certainly without any help from them.
He was very intelligent, very active, ex-
tremely amiable, and desirous to work for
the good of the country. Like all men
of action of the governmental school, he
was a despot at the bottom of his heart ;
but he held advanced opinions, and a
democratic republic would not have quite
satisfied him. He had succeeded to a
great extent in getting rid of the old staff
of civil service officials, who considered
Siberia a camp to be plundered, and he
186
The Autobiography of a Revolutionist.
had gathered around him a number of
young officials, quite honest, and many
of them animated by the same excellent
intentions as himself. In his own study,
the young officers, with the exile Baktinin
among them (he escaped from Siberia
in the autumn of 1861), discussed the
chances of creating the United States
of Siberia, federated across the Pacific
Ocean with the United States of America.
When I came to Irkiitsk, the capital
of East Siberia, the wave of reaction
which I saw rising at St. Petersburg had
not yet reached these distant dominions.
I was very well received by the young
governor-general, Kors^koff, who had
just succeeded Muravi<5ff, and he told
me that he was delighted to have about
him men of liberal opinions. As to the
commander of the general staff, Kiikel,
a young general not yet thirty-five years
old, whose personal aide-de-camp I be-
came, he at once took me to a room
in his house, where I found, together with
the best Russian reviews, complete col-
lections of the London revolutionary edi-
tions of HeVzen. We were soon warm
friends.
General Kiikel temporarily occupied
at that time the post of governor of
Transbaikalia, and a few weeks later we
crossed the beautiful Lake Baikal and
went further east, to the little town of
Chita, the capital of the province. There
I had to give myself, heart and soul,
without loss of time, to the great reforms
which were then under discussion. The
St. Petersburg ministries had applied
to the local authorities, asking them to
work out schemes of complete reform in
the administration of the provinces, the
organization of the police, the tribunals,
the prisons, the system of exile, the self-
government of the townships, all on
broadly liberal bases laid down by the
Emperor in his manifestoes.
Kdkel, supported by an intelligent and
practical man, Colonel Pedashe'nko, and
a couple of well-meaning civil service
officials, worked all day long, and often
a good deal of the night. I became the
secretary of two committees, for the
reform of the prisons and the whole sys-
tem of exile, and for preparing a scheme
of municipal self-government, and I
set to work with all the enthusiasm of a
youth of nineteen years. I read much
about the historical development of these
institutions in Russia and their present
condition abroad, excellent works and
papers dealing with these subjects hav-
ing been published by the ministries of
the interior and of justice ; but what we
did in Transbaikalia was by no means
merely theoretical. I discussed first the
general outlines, and subsequently every
point of detail, with practical men, well
acquainted with the real needs and the
local possibilities ; and for that purpose
I met a considerable number of men
both in town and in the province. Then
the conclusions we arrived at were re-dis-
cussed with Kiikel and Pedashe'nko ; and
when I had put the results into a prelimi-
nary shape, every point was again very
thoroughly thrashed out in the commit-
tees. One of these committees, for pre-
paring the municipal government scheme,
was composed of citizens of Chit^, elected
by all the population, as freely as they
might have been elected in the United
States. In short, our work was very se-
rious ; and even now, looking back at
it through the perspective of so many
years, I can say in full confidence that
if municipal self-government had been
granted then, in the modest shape which
we gave to it, the towns of Siberia would
be very different from what they are.
But nothing came of it all, as will pre-
sently be seen.
There was no lack of other incidental
occupations. Money had to be found
for the support of charitable institutions ;
an- economic description of the province
had to be written in connection with a
local agricultural exhibition ; or some
serious inquest had to be made. " It is
a great epoch we live in ; work, my dear
The Autobiography of a Revolutionist.
187
friend ; remember that you are the secre-
tary of all existing and future commit-
tees," Kiikel would sometimes say to me,
and I worked with doubled energy.
There was in our province a " district
chief " that is, a police officer invested
with very wide and indeterminate rights
who was simply a disgrace. He
robbed the peasants and flogged them
right and left, even women, which was
against the law ; and when a criminal
affair fell into his hands, it might lie
there for months, men being kept in the
meantime in prison till they gave him a
bribe. Kukel would have dismissed this
man long before, but the governor-gen-
eral did not like the idea of it, because
he had strong protectors at St. Peters-
burg. After much hesitation, it was de-
cided at last that I should go to make
an investigation on the spot, and collect
evidence against the man. This was not
by any means easy, because the peasants,
terrorized by him, and well knowing an
old Russian saying, " God is far away,
while your chief is your next-door neigh-
bor," did not dare to testify. Even the
woman he had flogged was afraid at first
to make a written statement. It was only
after I had stayed a fortnight with the
peasants, and had won their confidence,
that the misdeeds of their chief could be
brought to light. I collected crushing
evidence, and the district chief was dis-
missed. We congratulated ourselves on
having got rid of such a pest. What was
my astonishment when, a few months
later, I learned that this same man had
been nominated to a higher post in Kam-
chatka! There he could plunder the
natives free of any control, and so he
did. A few years later he returned to
St. Petersburg a rich man. The articles
he occasionally contributes now to the
reactionary press are, I must say, full of
high " patriotic " spirit.
The .wave of reaction, as I have al-
ready said, had not then reached Siberia,
and the political exiles continued to be
treated with all possible leniency, as in
Muravidff's time. When, in 1861, the
poet Mikhalloff was condemned to hard
labor for a revolutionary proclamation
which he had issued, and was sent to
Siberia, the governor of the first Siberian
town on his way, Tobolsk, gave a dinner
in his honor, in which all the officials
took part. In Transbaikalia he was not
kept at hard labor, but was allowed offi-
cially to stay in the hospital prison of a
small mining village. His health being
very poor, he was dying from con-
sumption, and did actually die a few
months later, General Kiikel gave him
permission to stay in the house of his
brother, a mining engineer, who had
rented a gold mine from the Crown on
his account. Unofficially that was well
known all over Siberia. But one day we
learned from Irktitsk that, in conse-
quence of a secret denunciation, the gen-
eral of the gendarmes (state police) was
on his way to Chita", to make a severe
inquiry into the affair. An aide-de-camp
of the governor-general brought us the
news. I was dispatched in great haste
to warn Mikhalloff, and to tell him that
he must return at once to the hospital
prison, while the general of the gen-
darmes was kept at Chita\ As that gen-
tleman found himself every night the
winner of considerable sums of money
at the green table in Kiikel's house, he
soon decided not to exchange this plea-
sant pastime for a long journey to the
mines in a temperature which was then
a dozen degrees below the freezing point
of mercury, and eventually went back to
Irkutsk, quite satisfied with his lucrative
mission.
The storm, however, was coming nearer
and nearer, and it swept everything be-
fore it soon after the insurrection broke
out in. Poland.
in.
In January, 1863, Poland rose against
Russian rule. Insurrectionary bands
were formed, and a war began which
lasted for full eighteen months. The
London refugees had implored the Po-
188
The Autobiography of a Revolutionist.
lish revolutionary committees to post-
pone the movement. They foresaw that
it would be crushed, and would put to an
end the reform period in Russia. But it
could not be helped. The repression of
the nationalist manifestations which took
place at Warsaw in 1861, and the cruel,
quite unprovoked executions which fol-
lowed, exasperated the Poles. The die
was cast.
Never before had the Polish cause so
many sympathizers in Russia as at that
time. I do not speak of the revolution-
ists; but even among the more moder-
ate elements of Russian society it was
thought, and was openly said, that it
would be a benefit for Russia to have in
Poland a friendly neighbor instead of a
hostile subject. Poland will never lose
her national character, it is too strongly
developed ; she has, and will have, her
own literature, her own art and industry.
Russia can keep her in servitude only
by means of sheer force and oppression,
a condition of things which has hither-
to favored, and necessarily will favor,
oppression in Russia herself. Even the
peaceful Slavophiles were of that opin-
ion ; and while I was at school, St. Pe-
tersburg society greeted with full approv-
al the "dream" which the Slavophile
Iva"n Aksa"koff had the courage to print
in his paper, The Day. His dream was
that the Russian troops had evacuated
Poland, and he discussed the excellent
results which would follow.
When the revolution of 1863 broke
out, several Russian officers refused to
march against the Poles, while others
openly took their part, and died either
on the scaffold or on the battlefield.
Funds for the insurrection were collected
all over Russia, quite openly in Sibe-
ria, and in the Russian universities
the students equipped those of their com-
rades who were going to join the revolu-
tionists.
Then, amidst this effervescence, the
news spread over Russia that, during the
night of January 10, bands of insur-
gents had fallen upon the soldiers who
were cantoned in the villages, and had
murdered them in their beds, although
on the very eve of that day the relations
of the troops with the Poles seemed to
be quite friendly. There was some ex-
aggeration in the report, but unfortunate-
ly there was also truth in it, and the
impression it produced in Russia was
most disastrous. The old antipathies
between the two nations, so akin in their
origins, but so different in their national
characters, woke once more.
Gradually the bad feeling faded away
to some extent. The gallant fight of the
always brave sons of Poland, and the
indomitable energy with which they re-
sisted a formidable army, won sympathy
for that heroic nation. But it became
known that the Polish revolutionary com-
mittee, in its demand for the reestablish-
ment of Poland with its old frontiers,
included the Little Russian or Ukrainian
provinces, the Greek Orthodox popula-
tion of which hated the Poles, and had
maintained terrible wars of extermina-
tion against them. Moreover, Napoleon
III. began to menace Russia with a
new war, a vain menace, which did
more harm to the Poles than all other
things put together. And finally, the
radical elements of Russia saw with re-
gret that now the purely nationalist ele-
ments of Poland had got the upper hand,
the revolutionary government did not
care in the least to grant the land to the
serfs, a blunder of which the Russian
government did not fail to take advan-
tage, in order to appear in the position
of protector of the peasants against their
Polish landlords. " Go to Poland ; ap-
ply there your Red programme against
the Polish landlords," Alexander II.
said to Nicholas Mihitin ; and Mihitin,
with Prince Cherka"ssky and many others,
really did his best to take the land from
the landlords and give it to the pea-
sants.
The disastrous consequences for Po-
land of this revolution are known ; they
The Autobiography of a Revolutionist.
189
belong to the domain of history. How
many thousand men perished in the bat-
tles, how many hundreds were hanged,
and how many scores of thousands were
transported to various provinces of Rus-
sia and Siberia is not yet fully known.
But even the official figures which were
printed in Russia a few years ago show
that in the Lithuanian provinces alone
not to speak of Poland proper that
terrible man, Mikhail Muravidff, to whom
the Russian government has just erected
a monument at Wilno, hanged by his
own authority 128 Poles, and transported
to Russia and Siberia 9423 men and wo-
men. Official lists, also published in
Russia, give 18,672 men and women ex-
iled to Siberia from Poland, of whom
10,407 were sent to East Siberia. I re-
member that the governor-general of
East Siberia mentioned to me the same
number, about 11,000 persons, sent to
hard labor or exile in his domains. I
saw them there, and witnessed their suf-
ferings. Altogether, something like 60,-
000 or 70,000 persons, if not more, were
torn out of Poland and transported to
different provinces of Russia, to the
Urals, to Caucasus, and to Siberia.
For Russia the consequences were
equally disastrous. The Polish insur-
rection was the definitive close of the
reform period. True, the law of pro-
vincial self-government (Zemstvos) and
the reform of the law courts were pro-
mulgated in 1864 and 1866 ; but both
were ready in 1862, and, moreover, at
the last moment Alexander II. gave
preference to the scheme of self-govern-
ment which had been prepared by the
reactionary party of Valiieff, as against
the scheme that had been prepared by
Nicholas Milritin ; and immediately after
the promulgation of both reforms, their
importance was reduced, and in some
cases destroyed, by the enactment of a
number of by-laws.
Worst of all, public opinion itself took
a further step backward. The hero of
the hour was Katkdff, the leader of the
serfdom party, who appeared now as a
Russian " patriot," and carried with him
most of the St. Petersburg and Moscow
society. After that time, those who
dared to speak of reforms were at once
classed by Katkdff as " traitors to Rus-
sia."
The wave of reaction soon reached our
remote province. One day in March a
paper was brought by a special messen-
ger from Irkutsk. It intimated to Gen-
eral Kiikel that he was at once to leave
the post of governor of Transbaikalia
and go to Irkiitsk, waiting there for
further orders, and that he was not to
reassume the post of commander of the
general staff.
Why? What did that mean? There
was not a word of explanation. Even
the governor-general, a personal friend
of Kiikel, had not run the risk of add-
ing a single word to the mysterious or-
der. Did it mean that Kiikel was go-
ing to be taken between two gendarmes
to St. Petersburg, and immured in that
huge stone coffin, the fortress of St. Pe-
ter and St. Paul ? All was possible.
Later on we learned that such was in-
deed the intention ; and so it would have
been done but for the energetic inter-
vention of Count Nicholas Muravidff,
"the conqueror of the Amiir," who per-
sonally implored the Tsar that Kiikel
should be spared that fate.
Our parting with Kiikel and his
charming family was like a funeral.
My heart was very heavy. I not only
lost in him a dear personal friend, but I
felt also that this parting was the burial
of a whole epoch, full of long-cherished
hopes, " full of illusions," as it be-
came the fashion to say.
So it was. A new governor came,
a good-natured, " leave - me - in - peace "
man. With renewed energy I com-
pleted my plans of reform, seeing that
there was no time to lose. The govern-
or made a few objections here and there
for formality's sake, but finally signed
190
The Autobiography of a Revolutionist.
the schemes, and they were sent to
headquarters. But at St. Petersburg
reforms were no longer wanted. There
our projects lie buried still, with hun-
dreds of similar ones from all parts of
Russia. A few " improved " prisons,
even more terrible than the old unim-
proved ones, have been built in the cap-
itals, to be shown during prison con-
gresses to distinguished foreigners ; but
the remainder, and the whole system of
exile, were found by George Kennan in
1886 in exactly the same state in which
I left them in 1862. Only now, after
thirty-five years have passed away, the
authorities are introducing the reformed
tribunals and a parody of self-govern-
ment in Siberia, and committees have
been nominated again to inquire into the
system of exile.
When Kennan came back to London
from his journey to Siberia, he man-
aged, on the very next day after his ar-
rival in London, to hunt up Stepnidk,
ChaykoVsky, myself, and another Rus-
sian refugee. In the evening we all
met at Kennan's room in a small hotel
near Charing Cross. We saw him for
the first time, and having no excess of
confidence in enterprising Englishmen
who had previously undertaken to learn
all about the Siberian prisons without
even learning a word of Russian, we be-
gan to cross-examine Kennan. To our
astonishment, he not only spoke excellent
Russian, but he knew everything worth
knowing about Siberia. One or anoth-
er of us had been acquainted with the
greater proportion of all political ex-
iles in Siberia, and we besieged Ken-
nan with questions : " Where is So and
So ? Is he married ? Is he happy in
his marriage ? Does he still keep fresh
in spirit ? " It was soon evident that
Kennan knew all about every one of
them.
When this questioning was over, and
we were preparing to leave, I asked,
" Do you know, Mr. Kennan, if they
have built a watchtower for the fire
brigade at Chita" ? " Stepnia"k looked
at me, as if to reproach me for abus-
ing Kennan's good will. Kennan, how-
ever, began to laugh, and I soon joined
him. Amidst our hearty laughter we
tossed each other questions and answers :
" Why, do you know about that ? "
" And you too ? " " Built ? " " Yes,
double estimates ! " and so on, till at
last Stepnia"k interfered, and in his most
severely good - natured way objected :
" Tell us at least what you are laughing
about." Whereupon Kennan told the
story of that watchtower which his
readers must remember. In 1859 the
Chit people wanted to build a watch-
tower, and collected the money for it ;
but their estimates had to be sent to St.
Petersburg. So they went to the minis-
try of the interior ; but when they came
back, two years later, duly approved, all
the prices for timber and work had gone
up in that rising young town. This was
in 1862, while I was at Chit. New
estimates were made and sent to St. Pe-
tersburg, and the story was repeated for
full twenty-five years, till at last the
Chita" people, losing patience, put in
their estimates prices nearly double the
real ones. These fantastic estimates
were solemnly considered at St. Peters-
burg, and approved. This is how Chita"
got its watchtower.
It has often been said that Alexander
II. committed a great fault, and brought
about his own ruin, by raising so many
hopes which later on he did not satisfy.
It is seen from what I have just said
and the story of little Chita" was the
story of all Russia that he did worse
than that. It was not merely that he
raised hopes. Yielding for a moment
to the current of public opinion around
him, he induced men all over Russia to
set to work, to issue from the domain
of mere hopes and dreams, and to touch
with the finger the reforms that were
required. He made them realize what
could be done immediately, and how
easy it was to do it ; he induced them
The Autobiography of a Revolutionist.
191
to sacrifice of their ideals what could
not be immediately realized, and to de-
mand only what was practically possible
at the time. And when they had framed
their ideas, and had shaped them into
laws which merely required his signa-
ture to become realities, then he refused
that signature. No reactionist could
raise, or ever has raised, his voice to as-
sert that what was left the unreformed
tribunals, the absence of municipal gov-
ernment, or the system of exile was
good and was worth maintaining : no
one has dared to say that. And yet,
owing to the fear of doing anything, all
was left as it was ; for thirty-five years
those who ventured to mention the ne-
cessity of a change were treated as " sus-
pects ; " and institutions unanimously re-
cognized as bad were permitted to con-
tinue in existence only that nothing more
might be heard of that abhorred word
" reform."
IV.
Seeing that there was nothing more
to be done in the direction of reform, I
tried to do what seemed to be possible
under the existing circumstances, only
to become convinced of the absolute
uselessness of such efforts. In my new
capacity of attache* to the governor-gen-
eral for Cossack affairs, I made, for in-
stance, a most thorough investigation of
the economical conditions of the Usuri*
Cossacks, whose crops used to be lost
every year, so that the government had
every winter to feed them in order to
save them from famine. When I re-
turned from the Usuri with my report,
I received congratulations on all sides,
I was promoted, I got special rewards.
All the measures I recommended were
accepted, and special grants of money
were given for aiding the emigration of
some and for supplying cattle to others,
as I had suggested. But the practical
realization of the measures went into the
hands of some old drunkard, who would
squander the money and pitilessly flog
the unfortunate Cossacks for the pur-
pose of converting them into good agri-
culturalists. So it went in all directions,
beginning with the winter palace at St.
Petersburg, and ending with the Usuri
and Kamchatka.
Gradually I turned my energy more
and more toward scientific exploration.
In 1864 I went with twelve unarmed
trading Cossacks to discover a direct
communication across the great Khin-
gn, through northern Manchuria, be-
tween -Transbaikalia and the middle
Amur. In the treaty with China only
merchants were mentioned, so I bought
quantities of various goods and went
disguised as a merchant. The governor-
general delivered me a passport u to the
Irkutsk second guild merchant, Peter
Alexe'iev, and his companions," and
warned me that if the Chinese arrested
me and took me to Pekin, and thence
across the Gobi to the Russian frontier,
in a cage, on a camel's back, was
their way of conveying prisoners, I
must not betray him by naming myself.
The temptation of visiting a country
which no European had ever seen was
so great that I accepted all the condi-
tions. We discovered the route and
many interesting things besides, as for
instance the tertiary volcanoes of the
Uyun Holdontsi. We were thus the
pioneers of the Manchurian railway. I
cannot say that I was a sharp trades-
man, for I once persisted (in broken
Chinese) in asking thirty-five rubles for
a watch, when the Chinese buyer had
already offered me forty-five ; but the
Cossacks traded all right, and the expe-
dition covered its expenses.
The same summer I went up the Sun-
gar! with Colonel Tchernya"ieff's expe-
dition, on board the first steamer which
touched the waters of the great river of
Manchuria, and we reached the capital
of Manchuria, Kirin. The next year I
explored the western Saydns, where I
came upon another important volcanic
region on the Chinese frontier. Finally,
192
The Autobiography of a Revolutionist.
in 1866, I undertook a long journey
to discover a direct communication be-
tween the gold mines of northern Sibe-
ria (on the Vitfm and the Oldkma) and
Transbaikalia. For many years the
members of the Siberian expedition had
tried to find such a passage, and had en-
deavored to cross the terrible mountain
region, which consists of a series of the
wildest stony parallel ridges ; but when
they reached that region, coming from
the south, and saw before them these
dreary mountains spreading for hun-
dreds of miles northward, all of them,
save one who was killed by natives, re-
turned southward. It so happened that
while I was preparing for the expedi-
tion, I was shown a map which a native
had traced with his knife on a piece of
bark. This little map a splendid spe-
cimen, by the way, of the usefulness of
the geometrical sense in the lowest
stages of civilization, and one which
would consequently interest A. R. Wal-
lace so struck me by its seeming truth
to nature that I fully trusted to it, and
began my journey from the north, fol-
lowing the indications of the map. This
time the passage was found. For three
months we wandered in the almost to-
tally uninhabited mountain deserts and
over the marshy plateau, till at last we
reached our destination, Chita\ I am
told that this passage is now of value
for bringing cattle from the south to the
gold mines; as for me, the journey
helped me immensely afterward in find-
ing the key to the structure of the moun-
tains and plateaus of Siberia but I
am not writing a book of travel, and
must stop.
The years that I spent in Siberia
taught me many lessons which I could
hardly have learned elsewhere. I be-
gan to understand not only men and hu-
man character, but also the inner springs
of the life of human society. The con-
structive work of the unknown masses,
which so seldom finds any mention in
books, and the importance of that con-
structive work in the growth of forms of
society, appeared before my eyes in its
full import. To witness, for instance,
the ways in which the communities of
Dukhobdrtsy (brothers of those who are
now going to settle in Canada, and who
find such a hearty support in the United
States) migrated to the Amdr region,
to see the immense advantages which
they got from their semi-communistic
brotherly organization, and to realize
what a wonderful success their coloniza-
tion was, amidst all the failures of state
colonization, was learning something
which cannot be learned from books.
Again, to live with natives, to see at
work all the complex forms of social or-
ganization which they have elaborated
far away from the influence of any civ-
ilization, was, as it were, to store up
floods of light which illuminated my sub-
sequent reading. The part which the
unknown masses play in the accomplish-
ment of all important historical events,
and even in war, became evident to me
from direct observation, and I came to
hold ideas similar to those which Tolstoy
expresses concerning the leaders and the
masses in his monumental work, War
and Peace.
Having been brought up in a serf-
owner's family, I entered active life, like
all young men of my time, with a great
deal of confidence in the necessity of
commanding, ordering, scolding, punish-
ing, and the like. But when, at an early
stage, I had to manage serious enterprises
and to deal with men, and when each
mistake would lead at once to heavy con-
sequences, I began to appreciate the dif-
ference between acting on the principle
of command and discipline and acting
on the principle of common understand-
ing. The former works admirably in a
military parade, but it is worth nothing
where real life is concerned, and the aim
can be achieved only through the severe
effort of many converging wills. Al-
though I did not then formulate my ob-
The Autobiography of a Revolutionist.
193
serrations in terms borrowed from party
struggles, I may say now that I lost in
Siberia whatever faith in state discipline
I had cherished before.
At the age of from nineteen to twenty-
five I had to work out important schemes
of reform, to deal with hundreds of men
in bringing barges down the Amiir, to
take command one day of a steamer
whose captain fell ill, to prepare and to
make risky expeditions with ridiculously
small means, and so on ; and if all these
things ended more or less successfully,
I account for it only by the fact that
I soon understood that in serious work
commanding and discipline are of little
avail. Men of initiative are required
everywhere ; but once the impulse has
been given, the enterprise must be con-
ducted, especially in Russia, not in mili-
tary fashion, but in a sort of communal
way, by means of common understand-
ing. I wish that all framers of plans of
state discipline might first pass through
the school of real life : we should then
hear far less than at present of schemes
of military and pyramidal organization
of society.
Life in Siberia became less and less
attractive, although my brother Alexan-
der had joined me in 1864 at Irkutsk,
where he commanded a squadron of Cos-
sacks. We were happy to be together ;
we read a great deal, and discussed all
the philosophical, scientific, and sociolo-
gical questions of the day ; but we both
longed after intellectual life, and there
was none in Siberia. The occasional pas-
sage through Irkutsk of Raphael Pum-
VOL. LXXXIII. NO. 496. . 13
pelly or of Adolph Bastian the only
two men of science who visited our cap-
ital during my stay there was quite
an event for both of us. The scientific
and political life of Western Europe, of
which we heard through the papers, at-
tracted us, and the return to Russia was
the subject to which we continually came
back in our conversations. Finally, the
insurrection of the Polish exiles in 1866
opened our eyes to the false position we
both occupied as officers of the Russian,
army.
I was far away, in the Vitim Moun-
tains, when the Polish exiles, who were
employed in piercing a new road in the
cliffs round Lake Baikal, made a desper-
ate attempt to break their chains and to
force their way to China across Mon-
golia; but my brother was at Irkutsk,
and his squadron was dispatched against
the insurgents. Happily, the command-
er of the regiment to which my brother
belonged knew him well, and, under
some pretext, he ordered another officer
to take command of the mobilized part
of the squadron. Otherwise, Alexander,
of course, would have refused to march ;
and such a refusal meant a sentence of
death, or, in the most favorable case, de-
gradation. If I had been at Irkutsk, I
should have done the same.
We decided then to leave the military
service and to return to Russia. This
was not an easy matter, especially as
Alexander had married in Siberia ; but
at last all was arranged, and early in
1867 we were on our way to St. Peters-
burg.
P. Kropotkin.
194
Farewell Letters of the Guillotined.
FAREWELL LETTERS OF THE GUILLOTINED.
ONE of the most revolting yet least
known features of the Reign of Terror
in Paris was the suppression of many
hundreds of letters addressed by or to
prisoners. The detention of Marie An-
toinette's touching letter to her sister-in-
law, Princess Elisabeth, which was not
recovered and published till twenty years
afterward, was no isolated act of bar-
barity. Fouquier - Tinville, the public
prosecutor at the Revolutionary tribunal,
dealt in the same way with a multitude
of epistles written at the Conciergerie
and other prisons. Some of these con-
tained requests for the supply of necessa-
ries or comforts, others for the dispatch
of testimonies which might perhaps have
saved their writers from the scaffold.
No matter ; they were ruthlessly flung
among his files of papers, which now
fill two hundred cardboard boxes at the
National Archives in Paris. By far the
most pathetic of these intercepted doc-
uments are letters addressed by con-
demned prisoners to their families or
friends. Written on sheets or scraps
of paper of every variety of form and
quality, the ink now faded, they cannot
be handled without emotion. They have
never before been published, and possi-
bly descendants now living may learn for
the first time from this article what were
the last lines penned by their unfortu-
nate ancestors. Victor Hugo in his Der-
nier Jour d'un Condamne* drew on his
powerful imagination, but here we have
the genuine outpourings of the heart on
the approach of death. We can realize
the Terror more vividly when we read,
still more when we handle, these tragi-
cal farewells. Resignation, as will be
seen, is the dominant note; but not all
of the victims possessed equal fortitude
at the thought of leaving wives and chil-
dren, perhaps in penury, and one writer
tells us that his letter was watered with
tears. Forgiveness of enemies is also
frequently expressed; only in one in-
stance is there a breath of malediction.
Some of the victims enjoyed religious
consolations ; others felt merely a possi-
bility of a future state with the renewal
of family ties. We can fancy the pris-
oners employing their few remaining
moments in these assurances of affec-
tion ; sympathizing fellow captives, per-
haps, standing round who knew not how
soon their own turn might come. Death
would have had an additional sting had
they known that these harrowing fare-
wells, cynically scanned by the brutal
Fouquier, would be tossed aside, to lie
neglected for a century.
I retain the second person singular,
wherever used ; for the French still em-
ploy it in addressing near relations or
intimate friends as well as in invoking
the Deity. This distinction we have
unhappily lost ; for by the beginning of
the sixteenth century thou had become
contumelious. " I thou thee, thou trai-
tor," said Coke to the unfortunate Ra-
leigh, and George Fox could not succeed
in restoring it. The French Jacobins
were equally unsuccessful in attempting
to make tutoiement universal, though
among Paris cabmen it still lingers.
It is difficult to give the exact equi-
valent of terms of endearment. Liter-
ally translated, some would seem more
effusive than they really are (for words
by wear often lose much of their origi-
nal force), while others would appear
cold. Mon cher ami, ma chere amie,
for instance, mean much more than
"my dear friend." It is a common
form of address between husband and
wife, and I have usually rendered it by
"dearest." If, nevertheless, some ex-
pressions are too gushing for Anglo-Sax-
on tastes, we must make allowance for
national temperament, and for the high
Farewell Letters of the Guillotined.
195
pitch to which emotions had been worked
up by the Revolution.
I give the letters in chronological or-
der, not merely because any other ar-
rangement would be arbitrary, but be-
cause it is necessary to bear in mind the
successive stages of the Terror. The
victims were at first entirely or mostly
Royalists ; for the Revolution began by
devouring its enemies, but it ended, as
Vergniaud foreboded, by devouring, like
Saturn, its own children. The later suf-
ferers were Republicans, as stanch Re-
publicans as their persecutors, and were
slaughtered for a simple nuance or
through private spite. They were exe-
cuted as federalists ; ultimately, indeed,
there were also He'bertists, butchered be-
cause they were too violent, but none of
them seem to have written farewell let-
ters. In politics, therefore, the letters
show what musicians term a crescendo,
while in religion they exhibit just the
reverse, the decline or eclipse of faith,
yet no actual materialism. Subject to
exceptions, moreover, the social status of
the victims steadily lowers. We have,
it is true, an aristocrat like Victor de
Broglie, but among the later victims we
find small tradesmen, wineshop-keepers,
and men in still humbler positions, which
would account for their rude penman-
ship and orthography.
But the letters may now speak for
themselves.
Louis Alexandre Beaulieu, aged thir-
ty-six, was a tradesman, who had been
commissioned by Mauny, a retired dra-
goon officer, to procure gold and silver,
an illegal transaction, concealed in his
itter under the terms red and white
rine, which meant yellow and white
)ins. Both Beaulieu and Mauny were
executed May 10, 1793.
TO CITIZEN BEAULIEU FBEVAL, BUE TIBOTONI,
NO. 27.
Adieu, my friend. Thy consolation
should be found in reason and philoso-
phy. [Here he repeats some of the ex-
pressions in his second letter.] Remove
from your mind this sad event, and re-
member only our days of intimacy. I
might have been taken from you by ill-
ness or accident, and in time of war one
is too happy in escaping. I might have
had the misfortune of succumbing. Look
at the event in this light. Adieu. I em-
brace thee thousands of times. Console
all my friends. Speak to them of my
friendship.
Your brother and friend,
L. A. BEAULIEU.
Inclosed are a letter and a watch key,
which thou wilt deliver to the same de-
stination.
ii.
TO CITOYENNE BECAGNY, RUE LIBERTE, 27,
TO WHOM I BEG YOU TO HAND THE WATCH
KEY.
My dear and kind friend, I embrace
you for the last time. Accept all my
gratitude for the trouble and vexations
which I have caused you, and forgive
them. I fear lest your interests should
suffer from the 2000 f . which you lately
sent me, and for which you have no re-
ceipt. I wish this to serve for one. I
owe you also several sums on current
account which may amount to 400 f. or
500 f . I acknowledge the debt. Kindly
express my thanks to MM. Collot, Juli-
anne, and Alexandre. I have not time
to say more, as I did not begin to write
till eight in the morning. I embrace you
thousands of times, and am always to
the last moment your ever sincere friend,
L. A. BEAULIEU.
in.
Be consoled, my very good lady and
dear friend, be consoled, I entreat you.
I have a calmness and firmness of mind
which are a great help to me at this mo-
ment. The greatest chagrin which I
feel is the causing you chagrin. It is
this which makes me beg you, as the
last favor, to console yourself. Take
196
Farewell Letters of the Guillotined.
care of yourself. You owe this to those
of whom you are the mainstay. Share
my adieux with the good and dear Ade-
laide. I might have been taken from
you by illness or accident. Farewell.
I embrace you from the bottom of my
heart. I expected to have plenty of
time to write to you. Adieu once more.
Your friend,
L. A. BEAULIEU.
Once more adieu. I love you ever
with all my heart.
Francoise Desilles, aged twenty-four,
wife of Desclos de la Fauchais, a naval
officer who had emigrated, was one of
twelve Bretons executed on June 18,
1793, for the conspiracy headed by the
Marquis de la Rouerie. An insurrec-
tion in favor of monarchy had been con-
certed, but was revealed by a pretended
sympathizer.
IV.
18th June, 1793.
My lot is cast, dearest. Do not be
grieved, but view the event with as much
tranquillity as I do. It is not without
regret that I quit an existence which
promised me happy days. I have one
favor to ask. You know what is the
fate of my unfortunate children. Be a
mother to them, dearest ; let them find
in you an affectionate and beloved mo-
ther. I am convinced of the zeal with
which you will be their mother. Adieu,
dear. I will not further prolong the
time that I am spending in conversing
with you. I have to approach the Su-
preme Being, at whose feet I cast my-
self. The resignation given me by the
sweet persuasion that He will forgive me
gives me joy. Speak of me to my chil-
dren, but repel all bitterness. My trials
are coming to an end, but yours will last.
Adieu, dear. Cherish my memory, but
do not lament my fate.
DESILLES DE LA FAUCHAIS.
I beg you, dear, to arrange with my
sisters the education of my children.
They have no resource but you three,
and it is to you three that I confide them
to serve them as mother.
Jean Baptiste Georges Fontevieux, a
native of Zweibriicken, a retired officer,
aged thirty-four, was another of the
Breton conspirators, living at St. Brieuc.
He employed his last moments in writing
to his wife, father, mother, sister, his
notary, a friend, and the second letter
that follows, addressed to three fellow
prisoners at the Abbaye. He also wrote
to the Convention for a respite, that he
might adduce evidence to exculpate him ;
for the alleged conspiracy, he said, was
imaginary. All these letters are written
in a plain, firm hand. Could he have
known that they would not be forwarded,
death would have had an additional bit-
terness.
v.
TO CTTOYENNE CAMBRY, HUE DE LA REVOLU-
TION, NO. 28, NEAR THE CI-DEVANT PJLACB
LOUIS XV., PARIS.
I approach, my friend, the terrible
moment when I am to appear before the
Supreme Being. I behold its coming
without alarm. I may say with Essex,
" C'est le crime qui fait la lionte,
Ce n'est pas l'4chafaud." l
Thou knowest the purity of the senti-
ments which have always animated me.
Without lacking modesty, I may say I
have done all the good in my power. I
have done ill to none. I regret my
friends. I was attached to earth only by
their affection, and I do not feel misfor-
tune except on their account. I thank
thee for the testimonies of friendship
and consolation which thou hast furnished
me, and the touching attentions which
thou hast lavished on me during m}' cap-
tivity. I would fain testify my warm
and affectionate gratitude. We shall be
reunited sooner or later. The scythe of
Time visits all heads, it levels all. I pity
my judges. I forgive them with all my
1 From a drama by Thomas Corneille. The
proper reading- is, " Le crime fait la lionte, et
non pas 1'dchafaud."
Farewell Letters of the Guillotined.
197
heart. I beg thee to console thyself. I
conjure thee in the name of the warmest
affection to preserve thy life. If ever
thou chancest to think of me, remember
that, as I die innocent, I am bound to be
happy. I have not shed a tear for my-
self, but I have wept over the painful
situation of my friends. It is they who
are to be pitied, not I. Adieu, kind and
affectionate friend ; I embrace thee with
all my heart. If thou shouldst see my
uncle, cheer him up ; help him to bear the
misfortunes attaching to human exist-
ence. Tell him that I loved him, love him
still, and shall love him beyond the tomb.
FONTEVIEUX.
VI.
18th June, 1793.
I have been this morning, dear com-
panions in misfortune, condemned to
death by the Revolutionary tribunal. The
interest which you have shown me and
your desire to learn the judgment from
my own lips induce me to inform you of
it. Alas, you were far from thinking
it would be this. May you fare better.
Adieu, my friends. I am, and soon shall
be, perfectly tranquil.
FONTEVIEUX.
Nicolas Bernard Grout de la Motte,
aged fifty, naval officer, was another of
the Breton conspirators.
vn.
TO CITIZEN FOUQOIER-TINVTLLE.
18th June, 1793.
Citizen, I beg you to allow my ring
and a case with portraits of my late wife
and of my daughter to be restored to two
young children whom I leave here. It
is a small favor which I ask you, and it
will be a portion of my property which
could not be of any use to the nation. 1
These young children are at St. Malo.
. . . Will you allow my linen to be given
to the citizen gendarme ?
GROUT DE LA MOTTE.
1 All the property of guillotined persons was
confiscated.
Three quarto pages are so closely
filled by the following letter as to leave
no room for the signature, but the ad-
dress shows the writer to have been
Georges Julien Jean Vincent, aged forty-
eight, broker and interpreter at St. Malo,
also one of the Breton conspirators.
vm.
TO CTTOYENNE BINEL VINCENT, RUE DE TOU-
LOUSE, ST. MALO.
18th June, 1793.
There are decrees of Divine Provi-
dence, my beloved, kind, and affection-
ate friend, which, however terrible to
bear, we ought to accept and submit to
without a murmur. Thou knowest bet-
ter than I, and I have no need to re-
mind thee, all that religion commands
thee, and all the consolations which it
can give thee. Alas, what a terrible
blow I am about to inflict on thy tender
and generous heart, and how my poor
and beloved children are about to be
grieved ! But, my dearest, collect all
your strength. Pray do not be cast down
by misfortune. My innocence and honor
should help you to bear your misfortune.
God had joined us together. I pos-
sessed an affectionate and virtuous wife
who was my comfort. Perhaps, alas, I
was too proud of the happiness which I
possessed, and God's will deprives me
of it. Worthy and affectionate wife, if
I ever vexed thee I beg thee to forgive
me. I shall die worthy of thy love, and
if after this unfortunate life we can still
preserve some recollection of persons
who have been dear to us in this world,
I shall carry beyond the tomb the deep
affection which I have devoted to thee
as well as to my dear children. Oh,
affectionate and beloved wife, if ever I
have been dear to thee, I conjure thee
by all our affection to continue living ;
our beloved children have so much need
of thee. Embrace them very affection-
ately for me. Tell them all the affec-
tion which I have always had for them.
Tell them that if my death unhappily
198
Farewell Letters of the Guillotined.
deprives them not only of the most af-
fectionate father, but of the little pro-
perty which they might claim, I die in-
nocent and leave them honor, the most
precious property ; and not only that, but
they can hold their heads erect in such
a fashion as to make their father's death
a glory as an innocent victim of the law.
Beware, my dearest, lest sorrow for my
death should render them ungrateful to-
ward their country. It is not the coun-
try that is the cause of the misfortunes
which overwhelm us. Men are liable to
error, and at a moment when passions
blind us innocence is often mistaken for
guilt. As good and faithful Christians,
we must know how to bear the blows
which befall us and adore the divine
hand whkih overwhelms us. Oh, my
dear children, console your worthy and
affectionate mother, and by your assidui-
ty in obeying her counsels, as well as in
fulfilling the duties of your religion, be
the consolation of her agony. I embrace
thee, my dear good Republican friends.
I pray God for you, and thou, dear and
affectionate wife, receive my last kisses
and adieux. Remember me only to be-
seech God to pardon my sins and have
pity on my soul. I cannot say more.
Words fail me at this sad and cruel mo-
ment, in which, however, I do not regret
life except for the pain which my death
is about to inflict on thy heart. But, my
dearest, do not give way to grief. Re-
spect the decrees of Divine Providence.
We were not fated to remain forever on
this poor earth, and we certainly knew
when we married that death would part
us. God has fixed the moment and
manner. Let us therefore submit with-
out a murmur to His will. Adieu, dear
and worthy spouse. Adieu, loving and
beloved children. Receive my affection-
ate kisses, and heaven grant that you
may be more fortunate than your un-
fortunate father, who dies innocent and
without self-reproach.
There is no signature to the follow-
ing letter, but the writer was probably
Michel Julien Picot-Lemoelan, still an-
other of the Breton conspirators.
TO CITIZEN VENDEL, MAISON DE LA TRINITE*,
FOUGERES.
18 June [1793].
I shall be near the Eternal, my friend,
when you receive this letter. I hope the
forgiveness of my enemies will procure
that of my faults, my crimes, toward
Him ; for the frequent f orgetfulness of
His benefits is doubtless one which could
not be too dearly expiated, and the sac-
rifice of some years is not a great thing
for him who knows how to estimate life
at its true value. The sentence of death
could not trouble me, for all the tribula-
tions that I have experienced since my
arrest have sufficiently disgusted me with
life. . . . Adieu, my poor friend. Do
not forget me. I die with confidence,
and almost with joy. At what a grand
banquet I shall be present this evening !
My beloved, I shall await you. Your
virtues call you thither. I had no cause
for self-reproach toward men. I have
never had any sentiments but those of
humanity. I sincerely desire the hap-
piness of those who conduct me to the
tomb, but toward God, my friend, I was
not so guiltless. I loved Him, but I served
Him ill. I trust He will forgive me. Let
not my friends weep over my happiness.
We shall soon meet again. Convey my
respects to them. Adieu, my unfortu-
nate friend. I have taken every possible
precaution to forward you the remainder
of the assignats which you lent me.
Antoine Joseph Gorsas, aged forty,
as deputy and journalist, took a promi-
nent part in the Revolution. He was
among the forty-one Girondin deputies,
prosecuted in 1793, and attempted a
Girondin rising at Caen and Bordeaux.
Imprudently returning to Paris, he was
discovered, arrested, and, being an out-
law, executed on simple proof of identity.
1
Farewell Letters of the Guillotined.
199
There is nothing to show that Fouquier
carried out these last wishes.
TO CITIZEN FOUQUIER-TINVILLE.
7 October [1793].
Before dying, I desire that my credit-
ors whose bills are unsettled should not
be losers. I declare that I owe [three
debts mentioned]. I recommend this
note to the citizen public accuser. I beg
him in the name of justice to pay these
sums. 1 My hope that he will be good
enough to do it will be a feeling of grati-
tude which I shall take away with me.
My unfortunate family is prosecuted.
If I had committed crimes, let me alone
bear the responsibility. My family is
not guilty. Will not my death satisfy
public justice ? I end by affirming that
never have I betrayed my country, and
that my last wishes are for its happiness
and for its enjoyment of rest and hap-
piness after so many long agitations.
A. J. GORSAS.
P. S. I may have other debts of which
I am ignorant. I acknowledge them
also.
Olympe de Gouges, born at Montau-
ban in 1748, is believed to have been
the daughter of the Marquis Franc de
Pompignan, a versifier. Her mother,
Olympe or Olinde Mousset, was the wife
of Pierre Gouze, a butcher. After a
marriage with a man named Aubry,
which soon ended in a separation, Olympe
went up to Paris, and, though never able
to spell or to write a decent hand, pub-
lished several plays. She threw herself
with ardor into the Revolution, was a
strenuous advocate of woman's rights,
and offered to defend Louis XVI. in or-
der to prove, not his innocence, but his
imbecility. Her tirades at last led to
her arrest, and after seven months' im-
prisonment she was tried, and guillotined
on the 3d of November, 1793. Her son,
1 Of course out of the money left by the
writer.
to whom she addressed this ill-written
and ill-spelled letter, on being dismissed
from the army, wrote to the Convention
to repudiate all sympathy with his mo-
ther's opinions. The only excuse for
his act is that he cannot have known of
her having written this letter to him,
nor of a letter to the Convention entreat-
ing news of him.
XI.
TO CITIZEN DE GOUGE, GENERAL OFFICER IN
THE ARMY OF THE RHINE.
I die, my dear son, a victim of my
idolatry of justice and of the people.
Its enemies, under the specious mask
of republicanism, have conducted me
without remorse to the scaffold. After
seven months of captivity I was trans-
ferred to a maison de sante, 1 where I
was as free as in my own house. I might
have escaped. My enemies and execu-
tioners are aware of this, but, convinced
that all the ill will concerted to ruin me
could not succeed in reproaching me
with a single act contrary to the Revo-
lution, I myself asked for trial. Could I
believe that unmuzzled tigers would them-
selves be judges, against the law, against
that popular assembly which will soon
reproach them with my death ? The in-
dictment was delivered to me three days
before my trial. The law entitled me
to counsel. All the persons of my ac-
quaintance have been intercepted. I was
as it were in solitary confinement, not
being even able to speak to the concierge.
The law also entitled me to select my
jurors. The list of them was announced
to me at midnight, and next morning at
seven o'clock I was taken to the tribunal,
ill and weak, and without having the art
of speaking in public. Resembling Jean
Jacques [Rousseau] in his virtues, I felt
all my insufficiency. I asked for the
counsel whom I had chosen. I was told
he was not present or had refused to un-
dertake my cause. Failing him, I asked
1 A private hospital.
200
Farewell Letters of the Guillotined.
for another. I was told I was quite able
to defend myself. Without doubt I have
enough force to defend my innocence,
which is self-evident to all spectators.
It was impossible to dispute all the ser-
vices and benefits which I have ren-
dered to the people. Twenty times I
made my executioners turn pale, not
knowing how to answer me. At every
sentence which showed my innocence and
their bad faith . . . They pronounced
my doom for fear of exposure of the in-
iquity of which the world has not had
sufficient examples. Adieu, my son, I
shall be no more when thou receivest
this letter. ... I die, my son, my dear
son, I die innocent. All the laws have
been violated against the most virtuous
woman of her age. [She then tells him
where to find the pawn ticket for her
jewels.]
OLYMPE DEGOUGE.
Marie Madeleine Coutelet, aged thirty-
two, was forewoman at the flax-spinning
factory established in the Jacobin Mon-
astery in July, 1790, to give employ-
ment to women and girls. Her sister,
who occupied the room above her, having
been denounced as corresponding with
emigres, the commissaries sent with a
search warrant went by mistake to Made-
leine's room. She informed them of their
blunder, but invited them to search her
apartment. They found a letter addressed
to her aunt at Rheims, but never posted,
expressing sympathy for the Queen. Her
explanation was that though really a
" patriot " she wrote the letter in joke,
to mystify a friend to whom alone she
showed it. She was condemned 14 bru-
maire. Her sister, Marie Louise Neuv-
e*glise, shared the same fate 4 flore*al.
XII.
I discharge my last duty. You know
that the law has judged me. They have
found crime in innocence, and it is thus
that they sentence me to die. I hope
that you will be consoled. It is the last
favor which I ask. I die with the puri-
ty of soul of those who die with joy.
Adieu. Receive my last embrace. It
is that of the most affectionate daughter
and most attached sister. I regard this
day as the finest that I have been granted
by the Supreme Being. Live and think
of me. Rejoice at the bliss which awaits
me. I embrace my friends (amies), and
am grateful to those who gave testimony
for me. Adieu for the last time. May
your children be happy. It is my last
wish. COUTELET.
Gabriel Nicolas Francois Boisguyon,
aged thirty-five, adjutant-general, admit-
ted having gone to the Girondin gather-
ing at Caen, but denied having offered to
join the Girondin forces. IJe was tried
and executed along with Girey-Dupre*,
who on his way to the scaffold sung his
own verses, afterward styled the Chant
des Girondins, the refrain of which was,
" Mourons pour la patrie,
C'est le sort le plus beau, le plus digne d' en-
vie."
XIII.
TO CITIZEN FREMONT, DRUGGIST, CHATEAU-
DUN.
CONCIERGERIE, 2frimaire, year 2.
Citizen, I was yesterday at four in the
afternoon condemned to death, and in
two hours I shall be no more. I beg you
to inform my mother, taking all the
precautions necessary for rendering the
news less overwhelming. Send some
one to her gently to apprise her, so that
she may not receive the information by
letter, and may not have under her eyes
a monument \_sic~] reminding her of my
last moments. Assure her of all my
affection, and of my hope that she may
find in her virtues the consolation which
she will need. [Some business directions
follow.]
BOISGUYON.
Gabriel Wormestelle, aged forty-three,
the writer of this ill-spelled but firmly
written letter, was a member of the Gi-
Farewell Letters of the Guillotined.
201
ronde popular commission, which tried to
resist the measures enforced on the Con-
vention by the Paris mob. Having been
consequently outlawed, he was executed
without trial, on simple proof of identity.
xrv.
TO CTTOYENNE WOBMESTELLE, RUE DU TEM-
PLE, NO. 1, BORDEAUX.
12frimaire (2 November), 1793.
These are the last lines which my
hand will trace. In a few hours I shall
be no more. I am condemned to death.
Well, wife whom I have always loved,
I die full of affection for thee. I do not
bid thee forget me. I know thy belle
dme, thy affectionate heart. No, thou
wilt never forget me. But live for
our poor children. Remind them of
me. Let me serve as their example.
Let them be better than I. Rear them
in the practice of virtue. My property
is confiscated. It is so small that it will
be no great loss for them. Bring them
up to like work. Transfer to them all
the affection which thou hadst for me.
Adieu, a thousand times adieu. Dry
thy tears, and think only of our children.
WORMESTELLE.
Antoine Pierre Le'on Dufrene, aged
thirty-two, doctor, had recently arrived
from St. Domingo. He wrote to his
friends there that in exchanging that
island, with its negro risings, for Paris,
he had gone from Scylla to Charybdis,
and in one letter he said, " It is impos-
sible to say or write anything without
risk of the guillotine." Again he said,
" There would be many things to tell you
of the present state of France, but I
shall not venture on anything, and you
will guess the reason. However nice
the guillotine when you accommodate
yourself to it, and whatever the courage
thus far shown by the heroes of this Re-
volutionary invention, I have no mind
to try it." But the unfortunate man
had committed himself by these inter-
cepted letters. The letter to Le Four-
dray is the only farewell utterance re-
sembling a malediction which I have met
with.
xv.
Receive, oh adorable spouse, the last
wishes of thy poor husband. He was
not so good as thou art. . . . Write to
me once more, that I may carry to the
tomb a line from thy chaste hand. I
end. My tears water my letter. Calm
thine. Send me 15 f. I have handed
60 f. to Jaline, which he will doubtless
deliver to thee. Thank him for me, as
well as all my friends. ... I shall be
at the Conciergerie till ten or eleven to-
morrow morning. Adieu, adieu, adieu,
and forever adieu for eternity.
Thy husband,
DUFRENE.
13 frimaire.
[Inclosure.]
TO CITIZEN LE FOURDRAY, COMMISSARY OF
MARINE, CHERBOURG.
Receive, wretch, my eternal adieu. I
do not know whether thou didst it pur-
posely. Although I know that thou art
a scoundrel, I cannot bring myself to
think thee so malicious. All that I can
say to thee is that the letters which I
had confided to thee have conducted me
to the scaffold. If it was through mal-
ice, thy turn will soon come. Adieu.
DUFRENE.
13 frimaire, 1793.
Guillaume Leonard, omitted in M.
Wallon's Histoire du Tribunal ReVolu-
tionnaire, was a wineshop-keeper at Paris,
condemned for uttering forged assignats.
TO CITOYENNE LEONARD, WINESELLER, PARIS.
My dearest, I bid thee farewell with
tears in my eyes. I am condemned to
die to-morrow, and I die innocently, with-
out having ever committed any crime.
I forgive thee all that there has been
of contention with thy parents, and I
hope with confidence that thou wilt do
the same. Write immediately to my
202
Farewell Letters of the Guillotined.
parents, and inform them that I die for
our country in the company of wretches,
yet without having been criminal. I
have riot in all my life committed any
crime. I embrace thee with tears in my
eyes, and shall be thy husband to my
last hour. Thou knowest that I owe 5 f .
to Citizen Maudit, who lent it me on the
day of my arrest. Do not be ashamed
to announce my death to my parents. I
have known how to live, and I shall know
how to die. Adieu, dearest, and for the
last time I write to thee, and am
Thy husband,
LEONARD.
PARIS, 19 frimaire, year 2 of the French
Republic, and Vive la Re"publique !
Charles Antoine Pinard, tailor, was
executed as a fraudulent army contrac-
tor.
XVII.
TO CITOYENNE PREVOST, RUE DE L'ORATOIRE,
141.
19 frimaire, year 2.
My dearest, when thou receivest this
letter thy bon ami will be no more. I
should have preferred death in fighting
for the defense of the country, but this
has not been allowed me. I undergo
my fate, and I carry to the tomb the
tranquillity of a conscience without re-
proach. Be ever faithful, my dearest,
to what thou hast promised me. Spare
thyself for thy own sake, and for the in-
fant whom thou bearest in thy bosom.
Girl or boy, bring it up in the principles
of the Republic. Be always prudent
and virtuous, the same as thou hast ever
been. Farewell : thy image is before my
heart ; let mine be before thine. Never
forget thy friend. Spare thyself, and
tell thy son or daughter that its father
died like a true Republican. Embrace
my parents. I love them ever.
PINARD.
Antoine Demachy, grocer, and com-
missary of one of the Paris sections,
was condemned 26 frimaire, year 2, for
complicity with fraudulent army con-
tractors.
xvm.
TO CITIZEN DEMACHY, GROCER, RUE ST. JAC-
QUES, PARIS.
Brother, I write you this at the mo-
ment when I am about to end my days.
I hope that my example may serve you
as a guide in this Revolution. Here he
mentions two debts.] I embrace you,
and wish you all possible happiness.
DEMACHY.
The following letter was written by
the notorious rouS, the Due de Lauzun,
whose posthumous memoirs, although
disavowed by his family, were genuine.
He assisted in the war of American in-
dependence, but though an old courtier
accepted the Republic, and served in the
army in Vende'e. He disliked, however,
the Jacobin officers placed under him, and
quarreled with Rossignol. He was de-
prived of his command July 11, 1793,
and put on trial 9 ventose, with ten wit-
nesses against and four for him. The
case not being concluded on the 9th, the
court sat again on the 10th, though de*-
cadi was usually a dies non. On leav-
ing for the scaffold he said to his fellow
prisoners, "I am starting on the long
journey." He pressed a glass of wine
on the executioner, saying, " You must
need nerve in your business."
xix.
TO CITIZEN GONTAUT.
I am condemned. I shall die to-mor-
row in the sentiments of religion, of
which my dear papa has set me the ex-
ample, and which are worthy of him.
My long agony derived much consola-
tion from the certainty that my dear
papa will not give way to grief of any
kind. ... I have two Englishwomen
who have been with me twenty years,
and who have been detained as prisoners
since the decree on foreigners. 1 I was
1 On the seizure of Toulon, all the English
in France were arrested as hostages.
Farewell Letters of the Guillotined.
203
their only resource. I commend them
to the succour and extreme kindness of
my dear papa, whom I love. I respect
and embrace him for the last time with
all my heart.
BIBON.
Jean Baptiste Louis Courtonnel, aged
thirty-six, innkeeper, was convicted of
supplying inferior hay as an army con-
tractor. He explained that a few bun-
dles might inadvertently have been of
poor quality.
xx.
TO CITOYENNE COURTONNEL, AUBEBGISTE,
BEAUMONT LE ROGER, EURE.
CONCIERGERIE, 7 pluvidse.
Receive, my dearest, my last adieux.
I am about to die, full of affection for
thee and our dear children. My ene-
mies have succeeded in getting me con-
victed. Thou knowest my innocence.
Adieu forever. I am full of regret at
quitting thee, but I shall bear my fate
with calmness up to the last moment.
Embrace my children for me, and re-
mind them of their father. Let them
cherish his memory, without being un-
reasonably affected by his death. . . .
I recommend thee to do exactly all
that I mentioned in my previous letter
for thy good, and in order to extricate
thyself from the enmity of those who
have caused my death.
J. B. COURTONNEL.
Jean Baptiste Emanuel Rouettiers,
aged forty-five, had been a groom in
waiting to Louis XVI.
I approach the fatal end, my dear wife
and children. I embrace you affection-
ately with all my heart, which still beats
and will beat to the last breath for you.
Ever love one another, all three. Be
happy for one another, and do not for-
get thy husband and father,
ROUETTIERS.
12 pluvidse, 11.30.
Jeanne Rouettiers de la Chauvinerie,
wife of the Marquis de Charras, aged
forty-one, was condemned for corre-
sponding with e'migre' relatives.
TO CITIZEN CHARRAS AND HIS THREE CHIL-
DREN, ASNIERES.
Adieu, my dear husband ; my poor
children, adieu. Receive the last em-
braces of your affectionate wife and mo-
ther. All that I will add is that my
heart in everything is yours. I ap-
proach the fatal moment. Never for-
get me. I ask my poor children that my
last words be ever preserved by them.
Adieu. I send you my last breath. I
recommend you all to her who loves you,
your aunt and sister. Adieu.
FEMME CHARRAS.
12 pluvidse.
Guillaume Martin, a doctor, aged six-
ty-five, was one of seventeen inhabit-
ants of Coulommiers condemned 15
pluviose for " a conspiracy to make
Seine-et-Marne a second Vendee." The
description of death as a long journey,
used also by the Due de Biron, was prob-
ably a reminiscence of Rabelais' reputed
deathbed remark, " Grease my boots for
a long journey."
XXIII. '
TO CITOYENNE DUFRENE, COULOMMIERS.
Adieu, my dearest. I am very sorry
for the pain which I have caused thee.
It must be hoped that this will last only
for a time. I wish you every kind of
happiness, as also my friend Dufrene,
who will prove to you that he loved me
by loving and respecting you, and con-
forming to your will. I am soon going
to start on a long journey. My last
breath but one will be for Dufrene and
for you, and my last will be for my
God, who, I hope, in his mercy will re-
ceive me, and in whom I put my trust.
Adieu, all my friends and neighbors.
MARTIN.
204
Farewell Letters of the Guillotined.
Pray daily for me and for your fa-
ther, if God allows me the grace of re-
joining him in eternity.
Alexandre Pierre Cauchois, aged
twenty-eight, architect, was condemned
22 ventose for saying that one tyrant,
meaning a king, was better than five
hundred, meaning the Convention. He
was, however, a Republican. On ascend-
ing the scaffold he exclaimed, " Sons
of the fatherland, you will avenge my
death ! " But the spectators waved their
hats and cried, " Vive la Rdpublique ! "
XXIV.
TO CITOYENNE CAUCHOIS.
All is over. For having honestly loved
liberty and having been unable to keep
silence in the presence of the wicked,
I am sacrificed. A putrid fever would
have done the same. If any conscious-
ness is retained after death, my feeling
will be for you and for my country. In
spite of their injustice toward me, I
persist in thinking that men are stupid
rather than wicked. I should have
liked to lose my life in the cause of lib-
erty, but I fear my death will merely
cement the public slavery. I leave you
more unfortunate than myself, and my
only regret is to add to your misfor-
tunes. Adieu.
CAUCHOIS.
Pierre Jean Sourdille - Laval, aged
thirty, barrister, was a prominent Giron-
din at Laval. The italics are mine.
xxv.
TO CITOYENNE SOURDILLE LAVATELLE,
LAVAL, MAYENNE.
22 ventose.
Adieu, kind and affectionate wife,
and adieu forever. It is two o'clock,
and I hope at three to be on my way to
the place de la Revolution. 1 You see,
my dearest, that by four o'clock I shall
1 Where the guillotine then stood ; now the
place de la Concorde.
be happier, or at least not so unhappy
as thou. Thou art the only person who
made me cling to life. I defended my-
self with courage and firmness. I shall
show this up to the last moment, and I
shall have, I hope, the death of an hon-
est man. . . . / have swallowed thy
ring. It was bound never to quit me.
Adieu, my dearest. I send thee a thou-
sand kisses.
SOURDILLE.
Martin Blanchet, aged forty-three,
kept a wineshop. When a captain in
the National Guard, in August, 1792,
it is alleged that he refused to join
in the attack upon the Tuileries. His
letter is ill written and ill spelled. It
will be noticed that he addresses his
wife as " widow."
XXVI.
A LA CITOYENNE VEUVE BLANCHET, MAR-
CHANDE DE VINS, FAUBOURG POISSONNIERE,
18, PARIS.
Adieu, rny wife, my children, forever
and ever beloved. I beg thee, wife, tell
my children often that I loved them.
Adieu, wife and children. I am about
to draw the curtain of life. All you,
my friends, comfort my wife and chil-
dren. This is what I ask of you. Adieu,
, adieu, [he names two friends],
and all who sympathize with my misfor-
tunes. Embrace my little children. I
end my days to-day.
BLANCHET.
Judged criminally, 23 ventose, 1794.
I embrace my wife and children.
[On the outside page.] Adieu, Tri-
potin, my friend. Wife, adieu, and chil-
dren, adieu for life. Preserve the
papers of my trial for my children.
Adieu forever.
BLANCHET.
Francois Nicolas Du Biez, alias Di-
gnancourt, a clerk to the Paris municipal-
ity, was condemned for uttering forged
assignats.
Farewell Letters of the Guillotined.
205
XXVII.
My dear love and faithful wife, I
take advantage of this moment when
my courage does not abandon me, to re-
peat to thee my last farewell. Receive
it with equal courage and affection.
Embrace frequently thy dear child, who
is also mine. Bring him up in true re-
publican principles. It is the wish of the
people, it is the wish of the sovereign
[that is, people]. Remind him fre-
quently that he had a father who dearly
loved him, and tell him how much I
loved him. Thou knowest it, dearest.
Tell him that his unfortunate father
had no cause for self-reproach, and that
he dies with the tranquillity inspired by
innocence. The scaffold does not dis-
honor, but only the crime. Tell my
friend the captain that I die with all
the esteem for him which he has in-
spired in me. Embrace thy mother for
me, and tell her not to forget me. It is
nine o'clock. I have perhaps still two
hours to live. I shall employ them in
thinking of thee. Adieu, dearest ; adieu,
my child ; adieu to thy mother, whom I
much esteem. Take courage, and do
not give way to grief. I am thy dear
and faithful spouse, the unfortunate
Du BIEZ.
4 germinal, nine o'clock in the morn-
ing, year 2 of the French Republic,
one and indivisible.
Claire Madeleine Lambertye de Ville-
main, aged forty-one, wife of a former
secretary to the king, corresponded with
her e'migre' brothers, and concealed the
plate of the Polignac family, her kins-
men, to save it from confiscation. She
denied having sent money to her bro-
thers, and having known that some plate
belonging to the Due d'Artois (the fu-
ture Charles X.) was with that of the
Polignacs. Condemned, 7 germinal.
xxvm.
TO CITOYENNE LAMBERTYE.
Weep not for your daughter, dear
mamma. She dies worthy of you. She
has loved you to her last breath. Live
and take care of yourself and pray for
me. Adieu. My last breaths are for
you.
LAMBERTYE DE VILLEMAIN.
Jean Valery Harel, aged thirty, of
Alencon, a cotton manufacturer, was ac-
cused of sending money to an e'migre*.
XXIX.
CONCIERGERIE, 9 germinal.
To MY WIFE :
Behold, my dearest, my last moments.
I have been condemned to death by the
Revolutionary tribunal. I am innocent
of what I am accused of, but no matter,
it is settled, and at least I die well, rest
assured. Be consoled. This is the only
happiness I can hope for during the
brief moments remaining to me. My
sister-in-law Houdouard, to whom this
letter is addressed, will hand you my
portrait, taken here. It is not very
good, because I had to start for trial
just when the painter was taking it.
This testimony of my remembrance will
be a sure guarantee to you of that affec-
tion which I have ever cherished for
thee, and which will not end, but which
I shall gladly carry away with me.
HAREL LE JEUNE.
There are also a few lines to his sis-
ter, and to his sister-in-law and her hus-
band, begging them to break the news
to his wife and to be kind to her.
Jean Claude Ge'ant, aged forty-one,
was a member of the administration of
the Moselle, which, apprehensive of di-
plomatic difficulties with the prince of
Nassau-Saarbriick, suspended the confis-
cation of an abbey belonging to him.
For this act of disobedience he and ten
colleagues were executed.
Human nature is nothing. Man ap-
206
Farewell Letters of the Guillotined.
pears for an instant, and his soul flies
away to the bosom of his Creator. I
go there to prepare thy place. Live for
our dear children. I join my ancestors
and thine.
Thy unfortunate husband,
GEANT.
17 floreal.
Delphin Legardeur, aged fifty -two,
cloth manufacturer at Sedan, was one
of twenty-five municipal councilors and
notables executed for resistance to the
Jacobins.
XXXI.
I offer thee, my dear son, my last
adieux. I commend thy mother to thee.
Although the youngest, I hope that thou
wilt set a good example to thy brothers,
and that you will all continue to do your
best to defend the Republic.
LEGARDEUR.
15 prairial, year 2.
Charles Louis Victor de Broglie, aged
thirty-seven, son of Marshal de Broglie,
had been an army officer. He was a
member and one of the presidents of the
National Assembly. Hesitating to re-
cognize the fall of the monarchy, he was
deprived of his military command, but
eventually accepted the Republic, and
returning to Paris joined the National
Guard, till reinstated in the army. His
being the son of an e'migre' was really
his sole offense. This touching letter,
written on a scrap of coarse paper, was
addressed to his wife, then a prisoner
at Vesoul. I had the satisfaction of ac-
quainting the Due de Broglie, the states-
man and Academician, with the existence
and whereabouts of this, his grandfa-
ther's last letter. One of the children
spoken of married Madame de StaeTs
daughter.
XXXII.
Liberty. Equality.
CONCIERGEBIB, 7 messidor.
I have been since yesterday at the
Conciergerie, my dear Sophie. I ain
about to mount to the Revolutionary tri-
bunal with the purity of conscience and
calmness which inspire the courageous
man. Whatever the result, it will be
prompt. Bear it with firmness. Take
care of thyself for our children, whom I
load, like thee, with kisses, tears, and
regrets. Never forget thy poor hus-
band,
VICTOR BROGLIE.
Jean Jacques Joseph Mousnier, aged
thirty-eight, a lawyer, was one of thirty-
eight prisoners condemned for the pre-
tended plot at the Luxembourg. His
anxiety for his guillotine toilet is charac-
teristic.
TO CITIZEN ROYER, PAINTER, RUE HELVETIUS,
57.
CONCIERGERIE, 20 messidor.
Republic, one and indivisible.
I am anxious, comrade, to thank thee
for the kindness which thou hast lav-
ished on me during my fatal detention,
for I have only twenty-four hours left.
To all appearances, I shall be guillo-
tined to-morrow, though the most inno-
cent man in the world. Send me a shirt,
pocket handkerchief, and a pair of stock-
ings. The rest of my wardrobe will be
an installment of what will be due to thee
when the nation, my heir, relieves thee
of the charge of my effects. Claim thine
own at the Luxembourg. Adieu. My
last compliments to thy wife and neigh-
bors. Adieu forever.
MOUSNIER.
Send me also the shabby coat which
I lately sent thee with my overcoat.
There will be fifty sous for the com-
missionnaire who brings me the receipt.
The guillotining went on for three
weeks more, and the suppression of let-
ters continued to the end, but I have
not met with any later farewell utter-
ance.
J. G. Alger.
Autumn in Franconia.
207
AUTUMN IN FRANCONIA.
n.
THAT afternoon I took the Landaff
Valley round, down the village street
nearly to the junction of Gale River
and Ham Branch, then up the Ham
Branch (or Landaff) Valley to a cross-
road on the left, and so back to the road
from the Profile Notch, and by that home
again. The jaunt, which is one of our
Franconia favorites, is peculiar for being
substantially level ; with no more uphill
and downhill than would be included in
a walk of the same distance perhaps
six miles almost anywhere in south-
ern New England.
The first thing a man is likely to notice
as he passes the last of the village houses,
and finds himself skirting the bank of
Ham Branch (which looks to be near-
ly or quite as full as the river into which
it empties itself), is the color of the wa-
ter. Gale River is fresh from the hills,
and ripples over its stony bed as clear
as crystal. The branch, on the contrary,
has been flowing for some time through
a flat meadowy valley, where it has
taken on a rich earthy hue, to which it
might be natural to apply a less honor-
able sounding word, perhaps, if it were
a question of some neutral stream, in
whose character and reputation I felt
no personal, friendly interest.
Just as I came to it, that afternoon,
I saw to my surprise a white admiral
butterfly sunning itself upon an alder
leaf. I hope the reader knows the
species, Limenitis Arthemis, some-
times called the banded purple, one of
the prettiest and showiest of New Eng-
land insects, four black or blackish wings
crossed by a broad white band. It was
much out of season now, I felt sure,
both from what my entomological friends
had told me, and from my own recollec-
tions of previous years, and I was seized
with a foolish desire to capture it as a
sort of trophy. It lay just beyond my
reach, and I disturbed it, in hopes it
would settle nearer the ground. Twice
it disappointed me. Then I threw a
stick toward it, aiming not wisely but
too well, and this time startled it so bad-
ly that it rose straight into the air, sailed
across the stream, and came to rest far
up in a tall elm. " You were never cut
out for a collector of insects," I said to
myself, recalling my experience of the
forenoon ; but I was glad to have seen
the creature, the first one for several
years, and went on my way as happy
as a child in thinking of it. In the sec-
ond half of a man's century he may be
thankful for almost anything that, for the
time being, lifts twoscore of years off his
back. The best part of most of us, I
think, is the boy that was born with us.
So far I am a Wordsworthian :
" And I could wish my days to be
Bound each to each by natural piety."
A little way up the valley we come to
an ancient mill and a bridge ; a new
bridge it is now, but I remember an
old one, and a fright that I once had
upon it. With a fellow itinerant a
learned man, whose life was valuable
I stopped here to rest of a summer noon,
and my companion, with an eye to shady
comfort, clambered over the edge of the
bridge and out upon a joist which pro-
jected over the stream. There he sat
down with his back against a pillar and
his legs stretched before him on the
joist. He has a theory, concerning which
I have heard him discourse more than
once, something in his own attitude
suggesting the theme, that when a
man, after walking, " puts his feet up,"
he is acting not merely upon a natural
impulse, but in accordance with a sound
physiological principle ; and in accord-
ance with that principle he was acting
208
Autumn in Franconia.
now, as well as the circumstances of the
case would permit. We chatted awhile ;
then he fell silent ; and after a time I
turned my head, and saw him clean
gone in a doze. The seat was barely
wide enough to hold him. What if he
should move in his sleep, or start up
suddenly on being awakened ? I looked
at the rocks below, and shivered. I
dared not disturb him, and could only
sit in a kind of stupid terror and wait
for him to open his eyes. Happily his
nap did not last long, and came to a
quiet termination ; so that the cause of
science suffered no loss that day ; but I
can never go by the place without think-
ing of what might have happened.
Here, likewise, on an autumnal fore-
noon, two or three years ago, I had an-
other memorable experience ; nothing
less (nothing more, the reader may say)
than the song of a hermit thrush. It
was in the season after bluebirds and
hermits had been killed in such dread-
ful numbers (almost exterminated, we
thought then) by cold and snow at the
South. I had scarcely seen a hermit all
the year, and was approaching the bridge,
of a pleasant late September morning,
when I heard a thrush's voice. I stopped
instantly. The note was repeated ; and
there the bird stood in a low roadside
tree ; the next minute he began singing
in a kind of reminiscential half-voice,
the soul of a year's music distilled in a
few drops of sound, such as birds of
many kinds so frequently drop into in
the fall. That, too, I am sure to remem-
ber as often as I pass this way.
In truth, all my Franconia rambles (I
am tempted to write the name in three
syllables, as I sometimes speak it, follow-
ing the example of Fishin' Jimmy and
other local worthies), all my " Fran-
cony " rambles, I say, are by this time
full of these miserly delights. It is
really a gain, perhaps, that I make the
round of them but once a year. Some
things are wisely kept choice.
" Therefore are feasts so solemn and so rare."
To get all the goodness out of a piece
of country, return to it again and again,
till every corner of it is alive with mem-
ories ; but do not see it too often, nor
make your stay in it too long. The her-
mit thrush's voice is all the sweeter be-
cause he is a hermit.
This afternoon I do not cross the
bridge, but keep to the valley road,
which soon runs for some distance along
the edge of a hackmatack swamp ; full
of graceful, pencil-tipped, feathery trees,
with here and there a dead one, on pur-
pose for woodpeckers and hawks. A
hairy woodpecker is on one of them at
this moment, now hammering the trunk
with his powerful beak (hammer and
chisel in one), now lifting up his voice
in a way to be heard for half a mile.
To judge from his ordinary tone and man-
ner, Dryobates villosus has no need to
cultivate decision of character. Every
word is peremptory, and every action
speaks of energy and a mind made up.
In this larch swamp, though I have
never really explored it, I have seen,
first and last, a good many things. Here
grows much of the pear-leaved willow
(Salix balsamifera). I notice a few
bushes even now as I pass, the reddish
twigs each with a tuft of yellowing, red-
stemmed leaves at the tip. Here, one
June, a Tennessee warbler sang to me ;
and there are only two other places in
the world in which I have been thus fa-
vored. Here, a little farther up the
valley, on a rainy September fore-
noon, I once sat for an hour in the midst
of as pretty a flock of birds as a man
could wish to see : south-going travelers
of many sorts, whom the fortunes of the
road had thrown together. Here they
were, lying by for a day's rest in this fa-
vorable spot ; flitting to and fro, chirp-
ing, singing, feeding, playfully quarrel-
ing, as if life, even in rainy weather
and in migration time, were all a plea-
sure trip. It was a sight to cure low
spirits. I sat on the hay just within the
open side of a barn which stands here
Autumn in Franconia.
209
in the woods, quite by itself, and watched
them till I almost felt myself of their
company. I have forgotten their names,
though I listed them carefully enough,
beyond a doubt, but it will be long be-
fore I forget my delight in the birds
themselves. Ours may be an evil world,
as the pessimists and the preachers find
so much comfort in maintaining, but
there is one thing to be said in its fa-
vor : its happy days are the longest re-
membered. The pain I suffered years
ago I cannot any longer make real to
myself, even if I would, but the joys of
that time are still almost as good as new,
when occasion calls them up. Some
of them, indeed, seem to have sweet-
ened with age. This is especially the
case, I think, with simple and natural
pleasures ; which may be considered as
a good reason why every man should be,
if he can, a lover of nature, a sym-
pathizer, that is to say, with the life of
the world about him. The less artificial
our joys, the more likelihood of their
staying by us.
Not to blink at the truth, neverthe-
less, I must add a circumstance which,
till this moment, I had clean forgotten.
I was still watching the birds, with per-
haps a dozen species in sight close at
hand, when suddenly I observed a some-
thing come over them, and on the in-
stant a large hawk skimmed the tops of
the trees. In one second every bird was
gone, vanished, as if at the touch of
a necromancer's wand. I did not see
them fly ; there was no rush of wings ;
but the place was empty ; and though I
waited for them, they did not reappear.
Two or three, indeed, I may have seen
afterward, but the flock was gone. My
holiday, at all events, or that part of
it, was done, shadowed by a hawk's
wing. Undoubtedly a few minutes of
safety put the birds all in comfortable
spirits again, however ; and anyhow, it
bears out my theory of remembered hap-
piness, that this less cheerful part of
the story had so completely passed out
VOL. LXXXIII. NO. 496. 14
of mind. Memory, like a sundial, had
marked only the bright hour.
Beyond this lonely barn the soil of
the valley becomes drier and sandier.
Here are two or three houses, with broad
hay fields about them, in which live,
many vesper sparrows. No doubt they
have lived here longer than any of their
present human neighbors. Even now
they flit along the wayside in advance
of the foot-passenger, running a space,
after their manner, and anon taking wing
to alight upon a fence rail. Their year
is done, but they linger still a few days,
out of love for the ancestral fields, or, it
may be, in dread of the long journey,
from which some of them will pretty cer-
tainly never come back.
All the way up the road, though no
mention has been made of it, my eyes
have been upon the low, bright-colored
hills beyond the river, sugar-maple
orchards all in yellow and red, a gor-
geous display, or upon the mountains
in front, Kinsman and the more distant
Moosilauke. The green meadow is a
good place in which to look for marsh
hawks, as well as of great use as a
foreground, and the hill woods be-
yond are the resort of pileated woodpeck-
ers. I have often seen and heard them
here, but there is no sign of them to-day.
Though these fine birds are generally
described one book following another,
after the usual fashion as frequenters
of the wilderness, and though it is true
that they have forsaken the more thick-
ly settled parts of the country, I think
I have never once seen them in the
depths of the forest. To the best of my
recollection none of our Franconia men
have ever reported them from Mount
Lafayette or from the Lonesome Lake
region. On the other hand, we meet
them with greater or less regularity in
the more open valley woods, often di-
rectly upon the roadside ; not only in the
Landaff Valley, but on the outskirts of
the village toward Littleton and on the
Bethlehem road. In this latter place I
210
Autumn in Franconia.
remember seeing a fellow prancing about
the trunk of a small orchard tree within
twenty rods of a house ; and not so very
infrequently, especially in the rum-cher-
ry season, they make their appearance
in the immediate vicinity of the hotel ;
for they, like some of their relatives,
notably the sapsucker, are true cherry-
birds. In Vermont, too, I have found
their freshly cut " peck-holes " on the
very skirts of the village. And at the
South, so far as I have been able to ob-
serve, the story is the same. About
Natural Bridge, Virginia, for example,
a loosely settled country, with plenty of
woodland but no extensive forests, the
birds were constantly in evidence. In
short, untamable as they look, and little
as they may like a town, they seem to
find themselves best off, as birds in gen-
eral do, on the borders of civilization.
They have something of Thoreau's mind,
we may say : lovers of the wild, they
are yet not quite at home in the wilder-
ness, and prefer the woodman's path to
the logger's.
Not far ahead, on the other side of
the way, to return to the Landaff
Valley, is a red maple grove, more
brilliant even than the sugar orchards.
It ripens its leaves earlier than they, as
we have always noticed, and is already
past the acme of its annual splendor ;
so that some of the trees have a pecu-
liarly delicate and lovely purplish tint,
a real bloom, never seen, I think, ex-
cept on the red maple, and there only
after the leaves have begun to curl and
fade. Opposite it (after whistling in
vain for a dog with whom, in years past,
I have been accustomed to be friendly
at one of the houses he must be dead,
or gone, or grown reserved with age),
I take the crossroad before mentioned ;
and now, face to face with Lafayette, I
stop under a favorite pine tree to enjoy
the prospect and the stillness : no sound
but the chirping of crickets, the peeping
of hylas, and the hardly less musical
hammering of a distant carpenter.
Along the wayside are many gray
birches (of the kind called white birches
in Massachusetts, the kind from which
Yankee schoolboys snatch a fearful joy
by "swinging off" their tops), the only
ones I remember about Franconia ; for
which reason I sometimes call the road
Gray Birch Road ; and just beyond them
I stop again. Here is a bit for a painter :
a lovely vista, such as makes a man wish
for a brush and the skill to use it. The
road dips into a little hollow, turns gently,
and passes out of sight within the shadow
of a wood. And above the overarching
trees rises the pyramidal mass of Mount
Cannon, its middle part set with dark
evergreens, which are flanked on either
side with broad patches of light yellow,
poplars or birches. The sun is get-
ting down, and its level rays flood the
whole mountain forest with light.
Into the shadow I go, following the
road, and after a turn or two come out
at a small clearing and a house. " Rocky
Farm," we might name it ; for the land
is sprinkled over with huge boulders, as
if giants had been at play here. Who-
ever settled the place first must have
chosen the site for its outlook rather
than for any hope of its fertility. I sit
down on one of the stones and take my
fill of the mountain glory : Garfield,
Lafayette, Cannon, Kinsman, Moosi-
lauke, a grand horizonf ul. Cannon
is almost within reach of the hand, as it
looks ; but the arm might need to be
two miles long.
Just here the road makes a sudden
bend, passes again into light woods, and
presently emerges upon a little knoll
overlooking the upper Franconia mead-
ows. This is the noblest prospect of
the afternoon, and late as the hour is
growing I must lean against the fence
rail for there is a house at this point
also and gaze upon it. The green
meadow is spread at my feet, flaming
maple woods range themselves beyond
it, and behind them, close at hand, loom
the sombre mountains. I had forgotten
Autumn in Franconia.
211
that this part of the road was so " view-
ly," to borrow a local word, and am
thankful to have reached it at so favor-
able a moment. Now the shadow of
the low hills at my back overspreads the
valley, while the upper world beyond
is aglow with light and color.
It is five o'clock, and I must be getting
homeward. Down at the valley level
the evening chill strikes me, after the
exceptional warmth of the day, and by
the time Tucker Brook is crossed the
bare summit of Lafayette is of a deep
rosy purple, the rest of the world sun-
less. The day is over, and the remain-
ing miles are taken somewhat hurriedly,
although I stop below the Profile House
farm to look for a fresh bunch of dumb
foxglove, not easy to find in the open
at this late date, many as the plants
are, and at one or two other places
to pluck a tempting maple twig. Sated
with the magnificence of autumnal for-
ests, hill after hill splashed with color, the
eye loves to withdraw itself now and
then to rest upon the perfection of a
blossom or a leaf. Wagonloads of tour-
ists come down the Notch road, the usu-
al nightly procession, some silent, some
boisterously singing. Among the most
distressing of all the noises that human
beings make is this vulgar shouting of
" sacred music " along the public high-
way. This time the hymn is Jerusa-
lem the Golden, after the upper notes
of which an unhappy female voice is
vainly reaching, like a boy who has lost
his wind in shinning up a tree, and with
his last gasping effort still finds the low-
est branch just beyond the clutch of his
fingers.
" I know not, oh, I know not,"
I hear her shriek, and then a lucky turn
in the road takes her out of hearing,
and I listen again to the still small voice
of the brook, which, whether it " knows "
' or not, has the grace to make no fuss
about it.
Let that one human discord be for-
gotten. It had been a glorious day;
few lovelier were ever made : a day with-
out a cloud (literally), and almost with-
out a breath ; a day to walk, and a day
to sit still ; a long feast of beauty ; and
withal, it had for me a perfect conclu-
sion, as if Nature herself were setting a
benediction upon the hours. As I neared
the end of my jaunt, the hotel already
in sight, Venus in all her splendor hung
low in the west, the full moon was show-
ing its rim above the trees in the east,
and at the same moment a vesper spar-
row somewhere in the darkening fields
broke out with its evening song. Five
or six times it sang, and then fell silent.
It was enough. The beauty of the day
was complete.
The next day, October 1, was no less
delightful : mild, still, and cloudless ;
so that it was pleasant to lounge upon
the piazza in the early morning, looking
at Lafayette, good business of itself,
and listening to the warble of a blue-
bird, the soft chips of myrtle warblers,
or the distant gobbling of a turkey down
at one of the river farms ; while now
and then a farmer drove past from his
morning errand at the creamery, with
one or two tall milk-cans standing be-
hind him in the open, one-seated car-
riage. If you see a man on foot as far
from the village as this, you may set
him down, in ornithological language, as
a summer resident or a transient visitor.
Franconians, to the manner born, are
otherwise minded, and will " hitch up "
for a quarter of a mile.
As I take the Notch road after break-
fast the temperature is summer-like, and
the foliage, I think, must have reached
its brightest. Above the Profile House
farm, on the edge of the golf links, where
the whole Franconia Valley lies exposed,
I seat myself on the wall, inside the nat-
ural hedge that borders the highway, to
admire the scene : a long verdant mead-
ow, flanked by low hills covered, mile
after mile, with vivid reds and yellows ;
splendor beyond words ; a pageant glori-
ous to behold, but happily of brief dura-
212
Autumn in Franconia.
tion. Human senses would weary of it,
though the eye loves color as the palate
loves spices and sweets, or, by force of
looking at it, would lose all delicacy of
perception and taste.
Even yet the world, viewe.d in broad
spaces, wears a clean, fresh aspect ; but
near at hand the herbage and shrubbery
are all in the sere and yellow leaf. So
I am saying to myself when I start at
the sound of a Hudsonian chickadee's
nasal voice speaking straight into my ear.
The saucy chit has dropped into the low
poplar sapling over my head, and sur-
prised at what he discovers underneath
lets fall a hasty Sick-a-day-day. His
dress, like his voice, compares unfavor-
ably with that of his cousin, our familiar
blackcap. In fact, I might say of him,
with his dirty brown headdress, what I
was thinking of the roadside vegetation :
he looks dingy, out of condition, frayed,
discolored, belated, frost-bitten. But I
am delighted to see him, for the first
time at any such level as this, and
thank my stars that I sat down to rest
and cool off on this hard but convenient
boulder.
A chipmunk thinks I have sat here
long enough, and feels no bashfulness
about telling me so. Why should he ?
Frankness is esteemed a point of good
manners in all natural society. A man
shoots down the hill behind me on a
bicycle, coasting like the wind, and an-
other, driving up, salutes him by name,
and then turns to cry after him in a
ringing voice, " How be ye ? " The em-
phatic verb bespeaks a real solicitude on
the questioner's part ; but he is half a
mile too late ; he might as well have
shouted to the man in the moon. Pre-
sently two men in a buggy come up the
road, talking in breezy up-country fashion
about some one whose name they use
freely, a name well known hereabout,
and with whom they appear to have
business relations. " He got up this
morning like a thousand of
brick," one of them says. A disagreeable
person to work for, I should suppose.
And all the while a child behind the
hedge is taking notes. Queer things we
could print, if it were allowable to report
verbatim.
When this free-spoken pair is far
enough in the lead I go back to the road
again, traveling slowly and keeping to
the shady side, with my coat on my arm.
As the climb grows steeper the weather
grows more and more like August ; and
hark ! a cicada is shrilling in one of the
forest trees, a long-drawn, heat-laden,
midsummer cry. I will tell the entomo-
logist about it, I promise myself. The
circumstance must be very unusual, and
cannot fail to interest her. (But she
takes it as a matter of course. It is hard
to bring news to a specialist.)
So I go on, up Hardscrabble and Lit-
tle Hardscrabble, stopping like a short-
winded horse at every water-bar, and
thankful for every bird-note that calls
me to a halt between times. An orni-
thological preoccupation is a capital re-
source when the road is getting the bet-
ter of you. The brook likewise must be
minded, and some of the more memor-
able of the wayside trees. A mountain
road has one decided and inalienable ad-
vantage, I remark inwardly : the most
perversely opinionated highway surveyor
in the world cannot straighten it. How
fast the leaves are falling, though the
air scarcely stirs among them. In some
places I walk through a real shower of
gold. Theirs is an easy death. And
how many times I have been up and
down this road ! Summer and autumn
I have traveled it. And in what pleasant
company ! Now I am alone ; but then,
the solitude itself is an excellent com-
panionship. We are having a pretty
good time of it, I think, the trees, the
brook, the winding road, the yellow
birch leaves, and the human pilgrim, who
feels himself one with them all. I hope
they would not disown a poor relation.
It is ten o'clock. Slowly as I hav<
come, not a wagonload of tourists has
Autumn in Franconia.
213
caught up with me; and at the Bald
Mountain path I leave the highway, hav-
ing a sudden notion to go to Echo Lake
by the way of Artist's Bluff, so called,
a rocky cliff that rises abruptly from the
lower end of the lake. The trail con-
ducts me through a veritable fernery, one
long slope being thickly set with per-
fectly fresh shield - ferns, Aspidium
spinulosum and perhaps A. dilatatum,
though I do not concern myself to be
sure of it. From the bluff the lake is at
my feet, but what mostly fills my eye is
the woods on the lower side of Mount
Cannon. There is no language to ex-
press the kind of pleasure I take in
them : so soft, so bright, so various in
their hues, dark green, light green,
russet, yellow, red, all drowned in sun-
shine, yet veiled perceptibly with haze
even at this slight distance. If there is
anything in nature more exquisitely, rav-
ishingly beautiful than an old mountain-
side forest looked at from above, I do
not know where to find it.
Down at the lakeside there is beauty
of another kind: the level blue water,
the clean gray shallows about its margin,
the reflections of bright mountains
Eagle Cliff and Mount Cannon in its
face, and soaring into the sky, on either
side and in front, the mountains them-
selves. And how softly the ground is
matted under the shrubbery and trees :
twin -flower, partridge berry, creeping
snowberry, gold-thread, oxalis, dwarf
cornel, checkerberry, trailing arbutus.
The very names ought to be a means of
grace to the pen that writes them.
White-throats and a single winter
wren scold at me behind my back as I
sit on a spruce log, but for some reason
there are few birds here to-day. The
fact is exceptional. As a rule, I have
found the bushes populous, and once, I
remember, not many days later than
this, there were fox sparrows with the
rest. I am hoping some time to find a
stray phalarope swimming in the lake.
That would be a sight worth seeing. The
lake itself is always here, at any rate,
especially now that the summer people
are gone ; and if the wind is right and
the sun out, so that a man can sit still
with comfort (to-day my coat is super-
fluous), the absence of other things does
not greatly matter.
This clean waterside must have many
four-footed visitors, particularly in the
twilight and after dark. Deer and bears
are common inhabitants of the mountain
woods ; but for my eyes there are no-
thing but squirrels, with once in a long
while ti piece of wilder game. Twice
only, in Franconia, have I come within
sight of a fox. Once I was alone, in the
wood-road to Sinclair's Mills. I round-
ed a curve, and there the fellow stood in
the middle of the way smelling at some-
thing in the rut. After a bit (my glass
had covered him instantly) he raised his
head and looked down the road in a di-
rection opposite to mine. Then he turned,
saw me, started slightly, stood quite still
for a fraction of a minute (I wondered
why), and vanished in the woods, his
white brush waving me farewell. He
was gone so instantaneously that it was
hard to believe he had really been there.
That was a pretty good look (at a
fox), but far less satisfying than the oth-
er of my Franconia experiences. With
two friends I had come down through
the forest from the Notch railroad by a
rather blind loggers' trail, heading for
a pair of abandoned farms, grassy fields
in which it is needful to give heed to
one's steps for fear of bear-traps. As
we emerged into the first clearing a fox
was not more than five or six rods be-
fore us, feeding in the grass. Her eyes
were on her work, the wind was in our
favor, and notwithstanding two of us
were almost wholly exposed, we stood
there on the edge of the forest for the
better part of half an hour, glasses up,
passing comments upon her behavior.
Evidently she was lunching upon in-
sects, grasshoppers or crickets, I sup-
pose, and so taken up was she with this
214
Autumn in Franconia.
agreeable employment that she walked
directly toward us and passed within ten
yards of our position, stopping every
few steps for a fresh capture. The sun-
light, which shone squarely in her face,
seemed to affect her unpleasantly ; at all
events she blinked a good deal. Her
manner of stepping about, her motions
in catching her prey. driving her nose
deep into the grass and pushing it home,
and in short her whole behavior, were
more catlike than doglike, or so we all
thought. Plainly she had no idea of ab-
breviating her repast, nor did she betray
the slightest grain of suspiciousness or
wariness, never once casting an eye about
in search of possible enemies. A dog in
his own dooryard could not have seemed
less apprehensive of danger. As often as
she approached the surrounding wood she
turned and hunted back across the field.
We might have played the spy upon her
indefinitely ; but it was always the same
thing over again, and by and by, when
she passed for a little out of sight be-
hind a tuft of bushes, we followed, care-
less of the result, and, as it seemed, got
into her wind. She started on the in-
stant, ran gracefully up a little incline,
still in the grass land, turned for the
first time to look at us, and disappeared
in the forest. A pretty creature she
surely was, and from all we saw of her
she might have been accounted a very
useful farm-hand ; but perhaps, as farm-
ers sometimes say of unprofitable cattle,
she would soon have " eaten her head
off " in the poultry yard. She was not
fearless, like a woodchuck that once
walked up to me and smelled of my
boot, as I stood still in the road near
the Crawford House, but simply off
her guard ; and our finding her in such
a mood was simply a bit of good luck.
Some day, possibly, we shall catch a
weasel asleep.
In a vacation season, like our annual
fortnight in New Hampshire, there is
no predicting which jaunt, if any, will
turn out superior to all the rest. It may
be a longer and comparatively newer
one (although in Franconia we find few
new ones now, partly because we no
longer seek them the old is better, we
are apt to say when any innovation is
suggested) ; or, thanks to something in
the day or something in the mood, it
may be one of the shortest and most
familiar. And when it is over, there
may be a sweetness in the memory, but
little to talk about ; little " incident," as
editors say, little that goes naturally into
a notebook. In other words, the best
walk, for us, is the one in which we are
happiest, the one in which we feel the
most, not of necessity the one in which
we see the most ; or, to put it differently
still, the one in which we do see the
most, but with
" that inward eye
Which is the bliss of solitude."
Whatever we may call ourselves at
home, among the mountains we are lov-
ers of pleasure. Our day's work is to
be happy. We take our text from the
good Longfellow, as theologians take
theirs from Scripture :
" Enjoyment, and not sorrow, is our destined
end."
We are not anxious to learn anything ;
our thoughts run not upon wisdom ; if
we take note of a plant or a bird, it is
rather for the fun of it than for any
scholarly purpose. We are boys out of
school. I speak of myself and of the
man I have called my walking mate.
The two collectors of insects, of course,
are more serious -minded. "No day
without a beetle," is their motto, and
their absorption, even in Franconia, is
in adding to the world's stock of know-
ledge. Let them be respected accord-
ingly. Our creed is more frankly he-
donistic ; and their virtue I am free
to confess it shines the brighter for
the contrast.
This year, nevertheless, old Franconia
had for us, also, one most welcome novel-
ty, the story of which I have kept, like
the good wine, a pretty small glassful,
Autumn in Franconia.
215
I am aware, for the end of the feast.
I had never enjoyed the old things bet-
ter. Eight or nine years ago, writing
in this magazine of June in Fran-
conia, I expressed a fear that our de-
light in the beauty of nature might grow
to be less keenly felt with advancing
age ; that we might ultimately be driven
to a more scientific use of the outward
world, putting the exercise of curiosity,
what we call somewhat loftily the ac-
quisition of knowledge, in the place of
rapturous contemplation. So it may yet
fall out, to be sure, since age is still ad-
vancing, but as far as present indications
go, nothing of the sort seems at all im-
minent. I begin to believe, in fact,
that things will turn the other way ; that
curiosity will rather lose its edge, and
the power of beauty strike deeper and
deeper home. So may it be ! Then we
shall not be dead while we live. Sure
I am that the glory of mountains, the
splendor of autumnal forests, the sweet-
ness of valley prospects, were never more
rapturously felt by me than during the
season just ended. And still, as I start-
ed just now to say, I had special joy this
year in a new specimen, an additional
bird for my memory and notebook.
The forenoon of September 26, my
fourth day, I spent on Garnet Hill.
The grand circuit of that hill is one of
the best esteemed of our longer expedi-
tions. Formerly we did it always be-
tween breakfast and dinner, having to
speed the pace a little uncomfortably
for the last four or five miles ; but times
have begun to alter with us, or perhaps
we have profited by experience ; for the
last few years, at any rate, we have
made the trip an all-day affair, dining
on Sunset Hill, and loitering down
through the Landaff Valley with a
side excursion, it may be, to fill up the
hours in the afternoon. This trip,
being, as I say, one of those we most
set by, I was determined to hold in re-
serve against the arrival of my fellow
foot-traveler ; but there is also a plea-
sant shorter course, not round the hill,
but, so to speak, over one side of it : out
by the way of what I call High Bridge
Road (never having heard any name for
it), arid back by the road hardly more
than a lane for much of its length
which traverses the hill diagonally on its
northeastern slope, and joins the regular
Sugar Hill highway a little below the
Franconia Inn.
I left the Littleton road for the road
to the Streeter neighborhood, crossed
Gale River by a bridge pitched with
much labor at a great height above it (a
good indication of the swelling to which
mountain streams are subject), passed
two or three retired valley farms (where
were eight or ten sleek young calves,
one of which, rather to my surprise, ate
from my hand a sprig of mint as if she
liked the savor of it), and then began
a long, steep climb. For much of the
distance the road narrow and very
little traveled is lined with dense al-
der and willow thickets, excellent cover
for birds. It was partly with this place
in my eye that I had chosen my route,
remembering an hour of much interest
here some years ago with a large flock
of migrants. To-day, as it happened,
the bushes were comparatively birdless.
White-throats and snowbirds were pre-
sent, of course, and ruby-crowned king-
lets, with a solitary vireo or two, but no-
thing out of the ordinary. The prospect,
however, without being magnificent or
for Franconia extensive, was full
of attractiveness. Gale River hastening
through a gorge overhung with forest,
directly on my right, Streeter Pond far-
ther away (two deer had been shot be-
side it that morning, as I learned before
night, news of that degree of impor-
tance travels fast), and the gay-colored
hills toward Littleton and Bethlehem,
maple grove on maple grove, with all
their banners flying, these made a de-
lightsome panorama, shifting with every
twist in the road and with every rod of
the ascent ; so that I had excuse more
216
Autumn in Franconia.
than sufficient for continually stopping
to breathe and face about. In one place
I remarked a goodly bed of coltsfoot
leaves, noticeable for their angular shape
as well as for their peculiar shade of
green. I wished for a blossom. If the
dandelion sometimes anticipates the sea-
son, why not the coltsfoot ? But I
found no sign of flower or bud. Prob-
ably the plant is of a less impatient hab-
it ; but I have seen it so seldom that all
my ideas about it are no better than guess-
work. Along the wayside was maiden-
hair fern, also, which I do not come upon
any too often in this mountain country.
Midway of the hill stands a solitary
house, where I found my approach spied
upon through a crack between the cur-
tain and the sash of what seemed to be
a parlor window ; a flattering attention
which, after the manner of high public
functionaries, I took as a tribute not to
myself, but to the role I was playing.
No doubt travelers on foot are rare on
that difficult, out-of-the-way road, and
the walker rather than the man was what
filled my lady's eye ; unless, as may easi-
ly have been true, she was expecting to
see a peddler's pack. At this point the
road crooks a sharp elbow, and hence-
forth passes through cultivated country,
orchards and ploughed land, grass
fields and pasturage ; still without houses,
however, and having a pleasant natural
hedgerow of trees and shrubbery. In
one of the orchards was a great congre-
gation of sparrows and myrtle warblers,
with sapsuckers, flickers, downy wood-
peckers, solitary vireos, and I forget what
else, though I sat on the wall for some
time refreshing myself with their cheer-
ful society. I agreed with them that life
was still a good thing.
Then came my novelty. I was but a
little way past this aviary of an apple
orchard when I approached a pile of
brush, dry branches which had been
heaped against the roadside bank some
years ago, and up through which bushes
and weeds were growing. My eyes
sought it instinctively, and at the same
moment a bird moved inside. A spar-
row, alone ; a. sparrow, and a new one !
" A Lincoln finch ! " I thought ; and just
then the creature turned, and I saw his
forward parts : a streaked breast with a
bright, well-defined buff band across it,
as if the streaks had been marked in
first and then a wash of yellowish had
been laid on over them. Yes, a Lincoln
finch ! He was out of sight almost be-
fore I saw him, however, and after a bit
of feverish waiting I squeaked. He did
not come up to look at me, as I hoped
he would do, but the sudden noise star-
tled him, and he moved slightly, enough
so that my eye again found him. This
time, also, I saw his head and his breast,
and then he was lost again. Again I
waited. Then I squeaked, waited, and
squeaked again, louder and longer than
before. No answer, and no sign of move-
ment. You might have sworn there was
no bird there ; and perhaps you would not
have perjured yourself ; for presently I
stepped up to the brush-heap and tram-
pled it over, and still there was no sign
of life. Above the brush was a low
stone wall, and beyond that a bare
ploughed field. How the fellow had
slipped away there was no telling. And
that was the end of the story. But I
had seen him, and he was a Lincoln
finch. It was a shabby interview he
had granted me, after keeping me waiting
for almost twenty years ; but then, I re-
peated for my comfort, I had seen him.
He was less confusingly like a song
sparrow than I had been prepared to
find him. His general color (one of a
bird's best marks in life, hard as it may
be to derive an exact idea of it from
printed descriptions), gray with a green-
ish tinge, a little suggestive of Hens-
low's bunting, as it struck me, this, I
thought, supposing it to be constant,
ought to catch the eye at a glance.
Henceforth I should know what to look
for, and might expect better luck ; al-
though, if this particular bird's beha-
Autumn in Franconia.
217
vior was to be taken as a criterion, the
books had been quite within the mark
in emphasizing the sly and elusive habit
of the species, and the consequent diffi-
culty of prolonged and satisfactory ob-
servation of it.
The Lincoln finch, or Lincoln sparrow,
the reader should know, is a congener of
the song sparrow and the swamp spar-
row, a native mostly of the far north,
and while common enough as a migrant
in many parts of the United States, is, or
is generally supposed to be, something
of a rarity in the Eastern States.
Meanwhile, having beaten the brush
over, and looked up the roadside and
down the roadside and over the wall, I
went on my way, stopping once for a
feast of blackberries, as many and as
good as a man could ask for, long, slen-
der, sweet, and dead ripe ; and at the
top of the road I cut across a hayfield
to the lane before mentioned, that should
take me back to the Sugar Hill high-
way. Now the prospects were in front
of me, there was no more steepness of
grade, I had seen Tom Lincoln's finch, 1
and the day was brighter than ever.
Every sparrow that stirred I must put
my glass on ; but not one was of the
right complexion.
Then, in a sugar grove not far from
the Franconia Inn, I found myself all
at once in the midst of one of those
traveling flocks that make so delightful
a break in a bird-lover's day. I was in
the midst of it, I say ; but the real fact
was that the birds were passing through
the grove between me and the sky. For
the time being the branches were astir
with wings. Such minutes are exciting.
" Now or never," a man says to himself.
Every second is precious. At this pre-
cise moment a warbler is above your
head, far up in the topmost bough per-
haps, half hidden by a leaf. If you miss
him, he is gone forever. If you make
" I named it Tom's Finch," says Audubon,
" in honor of our friend Lincoln, who was a
great favorite among us."
him out, well and good ; he may be a
rarity, a prize long waited for ; or, quite
as likely, while busy with him you may
let a ten times rarer one pass along un-
noticed. In this game, as in any other,
a man must run his chances ; though
there is skill as well as luck in it, without
doubt, and one player will take a trick
or two more than another, with the same
hand.
In the present instance, so far as my
canvass showed, the " wave " was made
up of myrtle warblers, blackpolls, bay-
breasts, black-throated greens, a chest-
nut-side, a Maryland yellow-throat, red-
eyed vireos, solitary vireos, one or more
scarlet tanagers (in undress, of course,
and pretty late by my reckoning), ruby-
crowned kinglets, chickadees, winter
wrens, goldfinches, song sparrows, and
flickers. The last three or four species,
it is probable enough, were in the grove
only by accident, and are hardly to be
counted as part of the south-bound cara-
van. Several of the species were in good
force, and doubtless some species eluded
me altogether. No man can look all ways
at once ; and in autumn the eyes must
do not only their own work, but that of
the ears as well.
All the while the birds hastened on,
flitting from tree to tree, feeding a min-
ute and then away, following the stream.
I was especially glad of the baybreasts,
of which there were two at least, both
very distinctly marked, though in no-
thing like their spring plumage. I saw
only one other specimen this fall, but the
name is usually in my autumnal Fran-
conia list. The chestnut - side, on the
other hand, was the first one I had ever
found here at this season, and was cor-
respondingly welcome.
After all, a catalogue of names gives
but a meagre idea of such a flock, ex-
cept to those who have seen similar ones,
and amused themselves with them in a
similar manner. But I had had the fun,
whether I can make any one else appre-
ciate it or not, and between it and my
218
Autumn in Franconia.
joy over the Lincoln finch I went home
in high feather.
Five days longer I followed the road
alone. Every time a sparrow darted
into the bushes too quickly for me to
name him, I thought of Melospiza lin-
colni. Once, indeed, on the Bethlehem
road, I believed that I really saw a bird
of that species ; but it was in the act of
disappearing, and no amount of pains
or patience or no amount that I had
to spare could procure me a second
glimpse.
On the sixth day came my friend, the
second foot-passenger, and was told of
my good fortune ; and together we be-
gan forthwith to walk and look at
sparrows. This, also, was vain, until
the morning of October 4. I was out
first. A robin was cackling from a tall
treetop, as I stepped upon the piazza, and
a song sparrow sang from a cluster of
bushes across the way. Other birds were
there, and I went over to have a look
at them : two or three white-throats, as
many song sparrows, and a white-crown.
Then by squeaking I called into sight
two swamp sparrows (migrants newly
come, they must be, to be found in such
a place), and directly afterward up
hopped a small grayish sparrow, seen at
a glance to be like my bird of nine days
before, like him in looks, but not in
behavior. He conducted himself in the
most accommodating manner, was full
of curiosity, not in the least shy, and
afforded me every opportunity to look
him over to my heart's content.
In the midst of it all I heard my
comrade's footfall on the piazza, and
gave him a whistle. He came at once,
wading through the wet grass in his
slippers. He knew from my attitude
so he firmly declared afterward that
it was a Lincoln finch I was gazing at !
And just as he drew near, the sparrow,
sitting in full view and facing us, in a
way to show off his peculiar marks to the
best advantage, uttered a single cheep,
thoroughly distinctive, or at least quite
unlike any sparrow's note with which I
am familiar ; as characteristic, I should
say, as the song sparrow's tut. Then
he dropped to the ground. " Yes, I
saw him, and heard the note," my com-
panion said ; and he hastened into the
house for his boots and his opera-glass.
In a few minutes he was back again,
fully equipped, and we set ourselves to
coax the fellow into making another dis-
play of himself. Sure enough, he re-
sponded almost immediately, and we had
another satisfying observation of him,
though this time he kept silence. I was
especially interested to find, what I had
on general considerations suspected, that
Lincoln finches were like other members
of their family. Take them right (by
themselves, and without startling them
to begin with), and they could be as com-
plaisant as one could desire, no matter
how timid and elusive they might be un-
der different conditions. Our bird was
certainly a jewel. For a while he pleased
us by perching side by side with a song
sparrow. " You see how much smaller
I am," he might have been saying ; " you
may know me partly by that."
And we fancied we should know him
thereafter ; but a novice's knowledge is
only a novice's, as we were to be freshly
reminded that very day. Our jaunt was
round Garnet Hill, the all-day expedi-
tion before referred to. I will not re-
hearse the story of it ; but while we were
on the farther side of the hill, somewhere
in Lisbon, we found the roadsides swarm-
ing with sparrows, a mixed flock,
song sparrows, field sparrows, chippers,
and white-crowns. Among them one of
us by and by detected a grayish, smallish
bird, and we began hunting him, from
bush to bush and from one side of the
road to the other, carrying on all the
while an eager debate as to his identity.
Now we were sure of him, and now every-
thing was unsettled. His breast was
streaked and had a yellow band across
it. His color and size were right, as
well as we could say, so decidedly so
Reminiscences of Julia Ward Howe.
219
that there was no difficulty whatever in
picking him out at a glance after losing
him in a flying bunch ; but some of his
motions were pretty song-sparrow-like,
and what my fellow observer was most
staggered by, he showed a blotch, a run-
ning together of the dark streaks, in the
middle of the breast, a point very
characteristic of the song sparrow, but
not mentioned in book descriptions of
Melospiza lincolni. So we chased him
and discussed him (that was the time
for a gun, the professional will say), till
he got away from us for good.
Was he a Lincoln finch ? Who knows ?
We left the question open. But I be-
lieve he was. The main reason, not to
say the only one, for our uncertainty was
the pectoral blotch ; and that, I have since
learned, is often seen in specimens of
Melospiza lincolni. Why the manuals
make no reference to it I cannot tell ; as
I cannot tell why they omit the same
point in describing the savanna sparrow.
In scientific books, as in " popular "
magazine articles, many things must no
doubt be passed over for lack of room.
In any case, it is not the worst misfor-
tune that could befall us to have some
things left for our own finding out.
And after all, the question was not of
supreme importance. Though I was de-
lighted to have seen a new bird, and
doubly delighted to have seen it in Fran-
conia, the great joy of my visit was not
in any such fragment of knowledge, but
in that bright and glorious world ; moun-
tains and valleys beautiful in themselves,
and endeared by the memory of happy
days among them. Sometimes I wonder
whether the pleasures of memory may
not be worth the price of growing old.
Bradford Torrey.
REMINISCENCES OF JULIA WARD HOWE.
III. MARRIAGE AND TOUR IN EUROPE.
THE years of mourning for my father
and beloved brother being at an end,
and the sister next to me being now of
an age to make her dbut in society, I
began with her a season of visiting, dan-
cing, and so on. My sister was very
handsome, and we were both welcome
guests at fashionable entertainments. I
was passionately fond of music, and
scarcely less so of dancing, and the his-
tory of the next two winters, if written,
would chronicle a series of balls, con-
certs, and dinners.
I did not abandon either my studies or
my hope of contributing to the literature
of my generation. Hours were not then
unreasonably late. Dancing-parties usu-
ally broke up soon after one o'clock, and
left me fresh enough to enjoy the next
day's study.
We saw many literary people, and
some of the scientists with whom my
brother had become acquainted while in
Europe. Among the former was John
L. O'Sullivan, the accomplished editor of
The Democratic Review. When the poet
Dana visited our city he always called
upon us, and we sometimes had the plea-
sure of seeing with him his intimate
friend William Cullen Bryant, who very
rarely appeared in general society.
Among our scientific guests, I espe-
cially remember an English gentleman
who was in those days a distinguished
mathematician, and who has since be-
come very eminent. He was of the He-
brew race, and had fallen violently in
love with a beautiful Jewish heiress,
well known in New York. His wooing
was not fortunate, and the extravagance
220
Reminiscences of Julia Ward Howe.
of his indignation at its result was both
pathetic and laughable. He once con-
fided to me his intention of paying his
addresses to the lady's young niece.
" And Miss shall become our aunt
Hannah ! " he said, with extreme bitter-
ness. I exhorted him to calm himself by
devotion to his scientific pursuits ; but he
replied, " Something better than mathe-
matics has waked up here ! " pointing to
his heart. He wrote many verses, which
he read aloud to our sympathizing circle.
I recall from these a distich of some
merit. Speaking of his fancied wrongs,
and warning his fair antagonist to be-
ware of the revenge which he might take,
he wrote :
" Wine gushes from the trampled grape,
Iron 's branded into steel."
In the end, he returned to the science
which had been his first love, and which
rewarded his devotion with wide reputa-
tion.
These years glided by with fairylike
swiftness. They were passed by my sis-
ters and myself under my brother's roof,
where the beloved uncle also made his
home with as so long as we were together.
I have dwelt a good deal on the circum-
stances and surroundings of my early life
in my native city. If the state of things
here described had continued, I should
probably have remained a frequenter of
fashionable society, a musical amateur,
and a dilettante in literature.
Quite other experiences were in store
for me. I became engaged to Dr. Howe
during a visit to Boston, in the winter
of 1842-43, and was married to him on
the 23d of April of the latter year. A
week later we sailed for Europe, in one
of the small Cunard steamers of that
time, taking with us my youngest sister,
Annie Ward, whose state of health gave
us some uneasiness. My husband's inti-
mate friend, Horace Mann, and his bride,
Mary Peabody, sailed with us. During
the first two days of the voyage I was
stupefied by seasickness, and even forgot
that my sister was on board the steamer.
We went on shore, however, for a walk
at Halifax, and from that time forth
were quite able-bodied sea-goers.
On the day before that of our land-
ing an unusually good dinner was served,
and, according to the custom that then
prevailed, champagne was furnished gra-
tis, in order that all who dined together
might drink the Queen's health. This
favorite toast was proposed, and was re-
sponded to by a number of % rather flat
speeches. The health of the captain of
our steamer was also given, and some
others which I cannot now recall. This
proceeding amused me so much that I
busied myself the next day with prepar-
ing for a mock celebration in the ladies'
cabin. The meeting was well attended.
I opened with a song in honor of Mrs.
Bean, our kind and efficient stewardess :
God save our Mrs. Bean,
Best woman ever seen,
God save Mrs. Bean !
God bless her gown and cap,
Pour guineas in her lap,
Keep her from all mishap,
God save Mrs. Bean !
The company were invited to join in
singing these lines, which were, of course,
a take-off on " God save our gracious
Queen." I can still see in my mind's
eye dear old Madam Sedgwick, mo-
ther of the well-known jurist, Theodore
Sedgwick, lifting her quavering, high
voice to aid in the singing.
Mrs. Bean was rather taken aback by
the unexpected homage rendered her.
We all called out, " Speech ! speech ! "
Whereupon she curtsied and said, " Good
ladies makes good stewardesses, that 's
all I can say," which was very well in
its way.
Rev. Jacob Abbott was one of our fel-
low passengers, and had been much in
our cabin, where he busied himself in
compounding various " soft drinks " for
convalescent lady friends. His health
was accordingly proposed, with the fol-
lowing stanza :
Reminiscences of Julia Ward Howe.
221
Dr. Abbott in our cabin,
Mixing of a soda powder,
How he ground it,
How did pound it,
While the tempest threatened louder !
I next gave the cow's health ; where-
upon a lady passenger, with a Scotch ac-
cent, protested. " I don't want to drink
her health at V. I think she 's the poor-
est coo I ever heard of."
Liverpool did not long detain our
party, though we remained there long
enough to receive a visit from the head of
the Rathburn family, a man prominent
in business and in philanthropy. Ar-
riving in London, we found comfortable
lodgings in Upper Baker Street, and
busied ourselves with the delivery of our
many letters of introduction.
The Rev. Sydney Smith was one of
the first to honor our introduction with
a call. His reputation as a wit was al-
ready world-wide, and he was certainly
one of the idols of London society. In
appearance he was hardly prepossessing.
He was short and squat of figure, with
a rubicund countenance redeemed by a
pair of twinkling eyes. When we first
saw him, my husband was suffering from
the result of a trifling accident. Mr.
Smith said, u Dr. Howe, I must send
you my gouty crutches." My husband
demurred at this, and begged Mr. Smith
not to give himself that trouble. He in-
sisted, however, and the crutches were
sent. Dr. Howe, had really no need of
them, and I laughed with him at their
disproportion to his height, which would
in any case have made it impossible for
him to use them. The loan was pre-
sently returned with thanks, but scarce-
ly soon enough ; for Sydney Smith, who
had lost heavily by American invest-
ments, published in one of the London
papers a letter reflecting severely upon
the failure of some of our Western States
to pay their debts. The letter concluded
with these words : " And now, an Amer-
ican, present at this time in London, has
deprived me of my last means of sup-
port." We questioned a little whether
the loan had not been made for the sake
of the pleasantry.
In the course of the visit already re-
ferred to, Mr. Smith promised that we
should receive cards for an entertainment
which his daughter, Mrs. Holland, was
about to give. The cards were received,
and we presented ourselves at the party.
Among the persons there introduced to
us was Madame Van der Wyer, wife of
the Belgian minister, and daughter of
Joshua Bates, formerly of Massachusetts,
and in after years the founder of the
Public Library of Boston, in which
one hall bears his name. Mr. Van der
Wyer, we were told, was on very friend-
ly terms with the Prince Consort, and
his wife was often invited by the Queen.
The historian Grote and his wife also
made our acquaintance. I remember her
appearance rather particularly, because
it was, and was allowed to be, somewhat
grotesque. She was very tall, and stout
in proportion, and was dressed on this oc-
casion in a dark green or blue silk, with
a necklace of pearls about her throat.
I gathered from what I heard that hers
was one of the marked personalities of
that time in London society.
At this party, Sydney Smith was con-
stantly the centre of a group of admir-
ing friends. When we first entered the
rooms he said to us, " I am so busy to-
night that I can do nothing for you."
Later in the evening he found time to
seek me out. "Mrs. Howe," said he,
" this is a rput. I like routs. Do you
have routs in America ? "
" We have parties like this in Ameri-
ca," I replied, " but we do not call them
routs."
" What do you call them, then ? "
" We call them receptions."
This seemed to amuse him, and he re-
marked to some one who stood near us,
u Mrs. Howe says that in America they
call routs re-cep-tions."
He asked what I had seen in London,
so far. I answered that I had recently
222
Reminiscences of Julia Ward Howe.
visited the House of Lords. Whereupon
he remarked, "Mrs. Howe, your Eng-
lish is excellent. I have only heard you
make one mispronunciation. You have
just said ' House of Lords/ We say
* House of Lards.' " Some one near by
said, " Oli yes, the House is always ad-
dressed as ' My Luds and Gentlemen.' "
When I repeated this to Horace Mann,
it so vexed his gentle spirit as to cause
him to exclaim, " House of Lords ! You
ought to have said House of Devils ! "
I have made several visits in London
since that time, one quite recently, and
I have observed that people now speak
of receptions, and not of routs. I believe,
also, that the pronunciation insisted upon
by Sydney Smith has become a thing of
the past.
I think that Mrs. Sydney Smith must
have called or have left a card at our
lodgings, for I distinctly remember a
morning call which I made at her house.
The great wit was at home, as was also
his only surviving son. Mrs. Smith re-
ceived me very pleasantly. She seemed
a grave and silent woman, presenting in
this respect a striking contrast to her hus-
band. I knew but little of the political
opinions of the latter, and innocently
inquired whether he and Mrs. Smith
went sometimes to court. The question
amused him. He said to his wife, " My
dear, Mrs. Howe wishes to know whether
you and I go to court." To me he said,
" No, madam. That is a luxury which
I deny myself."
I last saw Sydney Smith at an even-
ing party, at which, as usual, he was sur-
rounded by friends. An amiable young
American was present, apropos of whom
I heard Mr. Smith say, " I think I shall
go over to America, and settle in Boston.
Perkins here says that he '11 patronize
me."
Thomas Carlyle was also one of our
earliest visitors. Some time before leav-
ing home, Dr. Howe had received from
him a letter expressing his great inter-
est in the story of Laura Bridgman as
narrated by Charles Dickens. In this
letter he mentioned Laura's childlike
question, " Do horses sit up late ? " In the
course of his conversation he referred to
the question again, laughing heartily.
He invited us to take tea with him on the
following Sunday. When the day ar-
rived, my husband was kept at home by
a severe headache, but Mr. and Mrs.
Mann, my sister, and I drove out to
Chelsea, where Mr. Carlyle resided at
that time. In receiving us he apolo-
gized for his wife, who was also suffer-
ing from headache and could not ap-
pear. In her absence, I was requested
to pour tea. Our host partook of it co-
piously, in all the strength of the tea-
pot. As I filled and refilled his cup, I
thought 'that his chronic dyspepsia was
not to be wondered at. The repast was
a simple one. It consisted of a plate
of toast and two small dishes of stewed
fruit, which he offered us with the words,
" Perhaps ye can eat some of this. I
never eat these things myself,"
The conversation was mostly a mono-
logue. Mr. Carlyle spoke with a strong
Scotch accent, and his talk sounded to
me like pages of his writings. He had
recently been annoyed by some move-
ment tending to the disestablishment of
the Scottish Church. Apropos of this
he said, " That auld Kirk of Scotland !
To think that a man like Johnny Gra-
ham should be able to wipe it out with
a flirt of his pen ! " Charles Sumner
was spoken of, and Mr. Carlyle said,
" Oh yes ; Mr. Sumner was a vera dull
man, but he did not offend people, and
he got on in society here."
Carlyle's hair was dark, shaggy, and
rather unkempt ; his complexion was sal-
low, with a slight glow of red on the
cheek ; his eye was full of fire. As we
drove back to town, Mr. Mann expressed
great disappointment. He did not feel,
he said, that we had seen the real Car-
lyle at all. I insisted that we had.
Soon after our arrival in London a
gentleman called upon us whom the ser-
Reminiscences of Julia Ward Howe.
223
vant announced as Mr. Mills. It hap-
pened that I did not examine the card
which was brought in at the same time.
Dr. Howe was not within, and in his
absence I entertained the unknown
guest to the best of my ability. He
spoke of Longfellow's volume of poems
on slavery, then a recent publication,
saying that he admired them. Our talk
turning upon poetry in general, I re-
marked that Wordsworth appeared to
be the only poet of eminence left in
England. Before taking leave of me,
the visitor named a certain day on which
he requested that we would come to
breakfast at his house. Forgetful of the
card, I asked, "Where?" He said,
" You will find my address on my card.
I am Mr. Milnes." On looking at the
card I found that this was Richard
Monckton Milnes, afterward known as
Lord Houghton. I was somewhat cha-
grined at remembering the remark I had
made in connection with Wordsworth.
He probably supposed that I was igno-
rant of his literary rank, but I was not,
as his poems, though never very popular,
were already well known in America.
The breakfast to which Mr. Milnes
had invited us proved most pleasant.
Our host had recently traveled in tbe
East, and had brought home a prayer
carpet, which we admired. His sister,
Lady Galway, presided at table with
much grace.
We also breakfasted one day at the
house of Sir Robert Harry Inglis, long
a leading conservative member of the
House of Commons. Punch once said
of him :
" The Inglis thinks the world grows worse,
And always wears a rose."
And this flower, which always adorned
his buttonhole, seemed to match well
with his benevolent and somewhat rubi-
cund countenance. At the breakfast of
which I speak, he cut the loaf with his
own hands, saying to each guest, " Will
you have a slice or a hunch ? " and
cutting a slice from one end or a hunch
from the other, according to the prefer-
ence expressed.
These breakfasts were not luncheons
in disguise. They were given at ten, or
even at half past nine o'clock. The meal
usually consisted of fish, cutlets, eggs,
cold bread and toast, with tea and coffee.
I remember that at Samuel Rogers's
plover's eggs were served. We also
dined one evening with Mr. Rogers, and
met among the guests Mr. Dickens and
Lady B., one of the beautiful Sheridan
sisters. A gentleman sat next me at
table, whose name I did not catch. I
had heard much of the works of art
to be seen in Mr. Rogers's house, and
so took occasion to ask him whether
he knew anything about pictures. He
smiled, and answered, " Well, yes." I
then begged him to explain to me some
of those which hung upon the walls,
which he did with much good nature.
Presently some one at the table ad-
dressed him as " Mr. Landseer," and I
became aware that I was sitting next to
the celebrated painter of animals. His
fine face had already attracted me. I
apologized for the question which I had
asked, and which had somewhat amused
him.
Mr. Rogers, indeed, possessed some
paintings of great value, one a genuine
Raphael, if I mistake not. He had also
many objects of virtu. On one occa-
sion he showed us some autograph let-
ters of Lord Byron, with whom he had
been well acquainted. He read a pas-
sage from one of these, in which Lord
Byron, after speaking of the ancient cus-
tom of the Doge taking the Adriatic to
wife, wrote, " I wish the Adriatic would
take my wife."
In after years I was sometimes ques-
tioned as to what had most impressed
me during my first visit in London. I
replied unhesitatingly, " The clever peo-
ple collected there." The moment, in-
deed, was fortunate. We had come
well provided with letters of introduc-
tion. Besides this, my husband was at
224
Reminiscences of Julia Ward Howe.
the time a first-class lion, and this merit
avails more in England than any other,
and more there than elsewhere. Mr.
Sumner had given us a letter to the
Marquis of Lansdowne, which the latter
honored by a call, and further by send-
ing us cards for a musical evening at
Lansdowne House. Lord Lansdowne
was a gracious host ; his lady was more
formal in manner. Their music-room
was oblong in shape, and the guests were
seated along the wall on either side.
Before the performance began I noticed
a movement among those present, the
cause of which became evident when
the Duchess of Gloucester appeared,
leaning on the arm of the master of the
house. She was attired, or, as news-
papers put it, " gowned," in black, wear-
ing white plumes in her headdress, and
with bare neck and arms, according to
the imperative fashion of the time. She
was well advanced in years, and had
probably never been remarked for good
looks, but was said to be beloved by the
Queen and by many friends.
The programme of the entertainment
was one which, to-day would seem ra-
ther commonplace, though the perform-
ers were not so. At the conclusion
of it we adjourned to the supper-room,
which afforded us a better opportunity
of observing the distinguished company.
My husband was soon engaged in con-
versation with the Hon. Mrs. Norton,
who was then very handsome. Her eyes
were dark, and full of expression. Her
dress was unusually de'collete', but by
Americans most of the ladies present
would have been considered extreme in
this respect. Court mourning had re-
cently been ordered for the Duke of
Sussex, uncle to the Queen, and many
black dresses were worn. My memory,
nevertheless, tells me that the great
Duchess of Sutherland wore a dress of
pink moire. Her brother, Lord Mor-
peth, was also among the guests.
Somewhat later in the season we were
invited to dine at Lansdowne House.
Of those whom we met, I remember only
Lord Morpeth. I had some conversa-
tion with the daughter of the house,
Lady Louisa Fitzmaurice, who was
pleasing, but not pretty. I was asked
at this dinner whether I should object
to sitting next to a colored person in a
box at the opera. Were I asked this
question to-day, I should reply that this
would depend upon the character and
cleanliness of the colored person, much
as one would say in the case of a white
man or woman.
Among the well-remembered glories
of that summer the new delight of the
drama holds an important place. I had
been denied this pleasure in my girlhood,
and my enjoyment of it at this time was
fresh and intense. Among the atten-
tions lavished upon us during that Lon-
don season were frequent offers of a box
at Covent Garden or " Her Majesty's."
These were never declined. I recall
first a performance by Macready as
Claude Melnotte in Bulwer's Lady of
Lyons. I saw Grisi in the great role
of Semiramide, and with her Brambilla,
a famous contralto, and Fornasari, a
basso whom I had longed to hear in the
operas given in New York. I also saw
Mademoiselle Persian! in Linda di Cha-
mounix and Lucia di Lammermoor. All
of these artists gave me unmitigated de-
light, but the crowning ecstasy I found
in the ballet. Fanny Elssler and Cerito
were both upon the stage. The former
had lost a little of her prestige, but Cerito,
an Italian, was then in her first bloom,
and wonderfully graceful. Of her per-
formance my sister said to me, " It seems
to make us better to see anything so
beautiful." This remark recalls the oft-
quoted dialogue between Margaret Ful-
ler and Emerson apropos of Fanny
Elssler's dancing :
" Margaret, this is poetry."
" Waldo, this is religion."
I remember, years after this time, a
talk with Theodore Parker, in which I
suggested that the best stage dancing
Reminiscences of Julia Ward Howe.
225
gives us the classic in a fluent form,
with the illumination of life and per-
sonality. I cannot recall, in the dances
which I saw during that season, any-
thing which appeared to me sensual or
even sensuous. It was rather the very
ecstasy and embodiment of grace.
A ball at Almack's certainly deserves
mention in these pages, the place itself
belonging to the history of the London
world of fashion. The one of which I
now speak was given in aid of the Polish
refugees who were then in London. The
price of admission to this sacred pre-
cinct would have been extravagant for
us, but cards for it were sent us by some
hospitable friend. The same attention
was shown to Mr. and Mrs. Mann, who,
with us, presented themselves at the
rooms on the appointed evening.
We found them spacious enough, but
with no splendor or beauty of decoration.
A space at the upper end of the ball-
room was marked off by rail or ribbon,
I cannot remember which. While we
were wondering what this should mean,
a brilliant procession made its appear-
ance, led by the Duchess of Sutherland
in historic costume. She was followed
by a number of persons of high rank,
among whom I recognized her lovely
daughters, Lady Elizabeth Leveson-
Gower and Lady Evelyn. These young
ladies and several others were attired in
Polish costume, to wit, polonaises of
light blue silk, and short white skirts
which showed the prettiest little red
boots imaginable. This high and mighty
company took possession of the space
mentioned above, where they proceeded
to dance a quadrille in rather solemn
state. The company outside this limit
stood and looked on. Among the groups
taking part in this state quadrille was
one characterized by the dress worn at
court presentations : the ladies in pink
and blue brocades, with plumes and lap-
pets ; the gentlemen in breeches and silk
stockings, with swords, and all with
powdered hair.
VOL. LXXXIII. NO. 496. 15
I first met the Duchess of Sutherland
at a dinner given in our honor by Lord
Morpeth's parents, the Earl and Countess
of Carlisle. The Great Duchess, as the
Duchess of Sutherland was often called,
was still very handsome, though already
the mother of grown-up children. At
one time she was Mistress of the Robes,
but I am not sure whether she held this
office at the time of which I speak. Her
relations with the palace were said to
be very intimate and friendly. In the
picture of the Queen's Coronation, so
well known to us by engravings, she is
one of the most striking figures.
I remember a pleasantry about this
family which was current in London so-
ciety in the season of which I write. Syd-
ney Smith pretended to have dreamed
that Lord Morpeth had brought back a
black wife from America, and that his
mother, on seeing her, had said, " She
is not so very black." Lady Carlisle
was proverbial for her kindliness and
good temper, and it was upon this point
that the humor of the story turned.
The scenes just described still remain
quite vivid in my memory, but it would
be difficult for me to recount the visits
made in those days by my husband and
Horace Mann to public institutions of
all kinds. I did indeed accompany the
two philanthropists in some of their ex-
cursions, which included schools, work-
houses, prisons, and asylums for the in-
sane. I recall a day when we went, in
company with Charles Dickens and his
wife, to visit the old prison of Bridewell.
We found the treadmill in operation.
Every now and then a man would give
out, and would be allowed to leave the
ungrateful work. The midday meal of
bread and soup was served to the pris-
oners. To one or two, as a punishment
for some misdemeanor, bread alone was
given. Charles Dickens looked on, and
presently said to Dr. Howe, " My God !
if a woman thinks her son may come to
this, I don't blame her if she strangles
him in infancy."
226
Reminiscences of Julia Ward Howe.
At Newgate prison we were shown
the fetters of Jack Sheppard and those of
Dick Turpin. While we were on the
premises the van arrived with fresh
prisoners, and one of the officials ap-
peared to jest with a young woman who
had just been brought in, and who, it
seemed, was already well known to the
officers of justice. Dr. Howe did not
fail to notice this with disapprobation.
At one of the charity schools which
we visited, Mr. Mann asked whether
corporal punishment was used. " Com-
monly, only this," said the master, call-
ing up a little girl, and snapping a bit of
india rubber upon her neck in a manner
which caused her to cry out. I need not
say that the two gentlemen were indig-
nant at this unprovoked infliction.
In strong contrast to old-time Bride-
well appeared the model prison of Pen-
ton ville, which we visited one day in
company with Lord Morpeth and the
Duke of Richmond. The system there
was one of solitary confinement, much
approved, if I remember rightly, by " my
lord duke," who interested himself in
showing us how perfectly it was carried
out. Neither at meals nor at prayers
could any prisoner see or be seen by a
fellow prisoner. The open yard was di-
vided by brick walls into compartments,
in each of which a single felon, hooded,
took his melancholy exercise. The pris-
on was extremely neat. Dr. Howe at
the time approved of the solitary disci-
pline. I am not sure whether he ever
came to think differently about it.
At a dinner at Charles Dickens's we
met his intimate friend John Forster, a
lawyer of some note, later known as the
author of a biography of Dickens. When
we arrived, Mr. Forster was amusing
himself with a small spaniel which had
been sent to Mr. Dickens by an admiring
friend, who desired that the dog might
bear the name of Boz. Somewhat impa-
tient of such tributes, Mr. Dickens had
named it Snittel Timbury. Of the din-
ner, I remember only that it was of the
best so far as concerns food, and that
later in the evening we listened to some
comic songs.
Mr. Forster invited us to dine at his
chambers in the Inns of Court. Mr. and
Mrs. Dickens were of the party, and also
the painter Maclise, whose work was then
highly spoken of. After dinner, while
we were taking coffee in the sitting-room,
I had occasion to speak to my husband,
and addressed him as " darling." There-
upon Dickens slid down to the floor, and,
lying on his back, held up one of his
small feet, quivering with pretended emo-
tion. "Did she call him 'darling'?"
he cried.
I was sorry indeed when the time came
for us to leave London, and the more
as one of the pleasures there promised
us had been that of a breakfast with
Charles Buller. Mr. Buller was the only
person who at that time spoke to me of
Thomas Carlyle, already so great a ce-
lebrity in America. He expressed great
regard for Carlyle, who, he said, had
formerly been his tutor. I was sorry to
find in papers of Carlyle's recently pub-
lished a rather ungracious mention of
this brilliant young man, whose early
death was much regretted in English
society.
From England we passed on to Wales,
Scotland, and Ireland. Of my visit to
Scotland, never repeated, I recall with in-
terest Holyrood Palace, where the blood
stain of Rizzio's murder was still point-
ed out on the floor, the grave of Sir Wal-
ter Scott at Abbotsford, and Stirling Cas-
tle, where, if I mistake not, the regalia
of Robert Bruce was shown us. We
passed a Sunday at Melrose, and attend-
ed an open-air service in the ruins of the
ancient abbey. We saw little of Edin-
burgh besides its buildings, the society
people of the place being mostly in villeg-
giatura.
Of greater interest was our tour in
Ireland. Lord Morpeth had given us
some introductions to friends in Dublin.
At the same time, he had written Mr.
^Reminiscences of Julia Ward Howe.
227
Sumner that he hoped that Dr. Howe
would not in any way become conspicu-
ous as a friend to the Repeal measures
which were then much in the public
mind. This Repeal portended nothing
less than the disruption of the existing
political union between Ireland and Eng-
land. The Dublin Corn Exchange was
the place in which Repeal'meetings were
usually held. We attended one of these.
O'Connell was the principal speaker of
the occasion. I remember his appear-
ance well, but can recall nothing of his
address. He was tall, blond, and florid,
with remarkable vivacity of speech and of
expression. His popularity was certainly
very great. While he was speaking, a
gentleman entered and approached him.
"How d'ye do, Tom Steele ? " said
O'Connell, shaking hands with the new-
comer. The audience applauded loudly,
Steele being an intimate friend and ally
of O'Connell, and, like him, an earnest
partisan of Repeal.
Mr. George Ticknor, of Boston, had
given us a letter to Miss Edgeworth, who
resided at some distance from the city
of Dublin. From her we soon received
an invitation to luncheon, of which we
gladly availed ourselves. Our hostess
met us with a warm welcome. She had
had some correspondence with Dr. Howe,
and seemed much pleased to make his
acquaintance. I remember her as a lit-
tle old lady, with an old-fashioned cap
and curls. She was very vivacious, and
had much to say to Dr. Howe about
Laura Bridgman. He in turn asked
what she thought of the Repeal move-
ment. She said in reply, " I don't un-
derstand what O'Connell really means."
We met on this occasion a half-brother
and a half - sister of Miss Edgeworth,
much younger than herself. I thought
that they must be twins, so closely did
they resemble each other in appearance.
At parting, Miss Edgeworth gave each
of us an etching of Irish peasants, the
work of a friend of hers. On the one
which she gave to my husband she wrote,
" From a lover of truth to a lover of
truth."
After leaving Dublin, we traveled
north as far as the Giant's Causeway.
The state of the country was very for-
lorn. The peasantry lived in wretched
hovels of one or two rooms, the floor of
mud, the pig taking his ease within doors,
and the chickens roosting above the fire-
place. Beggars were seen everywhere,
and of the most persistent sort. In places
where we stopped for the night accom-
modations were usually far from satisfac-
tory. The safest dishes to order were
stirabout and potatoes.
My husband had received an urgent
invitation from an Irish nobleman, Lord
Walcourt, to visit him at his estate,
which was in the south of Ireland. We
found Lord Walcourt living very simply,
with two young daughters and a baby
son. Dr. Howe and our host had much
talk together concerning socialistic and
other reforms. My sister and I found
his housekeeping rather meagre. He
was evidently a whole-souled man, but
we learned later on that he was consid-
ered very eccentric.
A visit to the poet Wordsworth was
one of the brilliant visions that floated
before my eyes at this time. Mr. Tick-
nor had kindly furnished us with an in-
troduction to the great man, who was
then at the height of his popularity. To
criticise Wordsworth or to praise Byron
was equally unpardonable in the London
of that time, when London was, what it
has ceased to be, the heart and centre of
the literary world. Of our journey to
the lake country I can now recall little,
save that its last stage, a drive of ten or
more miles from the railway station to
the poet's village, was rendered comfort-
less by constant showers, and by an ill-
broken horse which more than once
threatened mischief. Arrived at the inn,
my husband called at the Wordsworth
residence, and left there his card and
the letter of introduction. In return a
note was soon sent, inviting us to take tea
228
Reminiscences of Julia Ward Howe.
that evening with Mr. and Mrs. Words-
worth.
Our visit was a disappointing one.
The widowed daughter of our host had
lost heavily by the failure of certain
American securities. These losses formed
the sole topic of conversation not only
between Wordsworth and Dr. Howe,
but also between the ladies of the fam-
ily, my sister, and myself. The tea to
which we had been bidden was simply
a cup of tea, served without a table. We
bore the harassing conversation as long
as we could. The only remark of Words-
worth's which I brought away was this :
" The misfortune of Ireland is that it
was only a partially conquered country."
When we took leave, the poet expressed
his willingness to serve us during our
stay in his neighborhood. We left it,
however, on the following morning, with-
out seeing him or his again.
A little akin to this experience was
that of a visit to the Bank of England,
made at the invitation of one of its offi-
cers whom I had known and entertained
in America. Another of the functiona-
ries of the bank volunteered his services
as a cicerone. We paid for this by lis-
tening to many uncivil pleasantries re-
garding the financial condition of our
own country. I still remember the in-
solent sneer with which this gentleman
said, " By the bye, have you sold the
Bank of the United States yet? " He
was presumably ignorant of the real his-
tory of the bank, which had long ceased
to be a government institution, President
Jackson having annulled its charter and
removed the government deposits.
I mention these incidents because they
were the only exceptions to the uniform
kindness with which we were generally
received, and to the homage paid to my
husband as one of the most illustrious
of modern philanthropists.
Berlin would have been the next im-
portant stop in our journey but for an
impediment which we had hardly an-
ticipated In the days of the French
revolution of 1830, the Poles had made
one of their oft-repeated struggles to
regain national independence. General
Lafayette was much interested in this
movement, and at his request Dr. Howe
undertook to convey to some of the Po-
lish chiefs funds sent for their aid by
parties in the United States. He suc-
ceeded in accomplishing this errand, but
was arrested on the very night of his ar-
rival in Berlin. He now applied for per-
mission to revisit the kingdom of Prussia,
but this was refused him. We managed,
nevertheless, to see something of the
Rhine, and journeyed through Switzer-
land and the Austrian Tyrol to Vienna,
where we remained for some weeks. We
here made the acquaintance of Madame
von Walther and her daughter Theresa,
afterward known as Madame Pulszky,
the wife of one of Louis Kossuth's most
valued friends.
Arriving in Milan, we presented a let-
ter of introduction from Miss Catharine
Sedgwick to Count Gonfalonieri, after
Silvio Pellico the most distinguished of
the Italian patriots who underwent im-
prisonment in the Austrian fortress of
Spielberg. His life had been spared
only through the passionate pleading of
his wife, who traveled day and night to
throw herself at the feet of the Empress,
imploring the commutation of the death
sentence pronounced against her hus-
band. This heroic woman did not long
survive the granting of her prayer. She
died while her husband was still in pris-
on ; but the men who had been his com-
panions in misfortune so revered her
memory as always to lift their hats when
they passed near her grave. Years had
elapsed since the events of which I speak,
and the count had married a second
wife, a lively and attractive person, from
whom, as from the count, we received
many kind attentions.
Dr. Howe was at this time called to
Paris by some special business, and I
remained a month in Milan with my
sister. We greatly enjoyed the beauty
Reminiscences of Julia Ward Howe.
229
of the cathedral and the hospitality of
our new friends. Among these were the
Marchese Arconati and his wife, a lady
of much distinction, and in after years
a friend of Margaret Fuller.
Some delightful entertainments were
given us by these and other friends, and
I remember with pleasure an expedition
to Monza, where the iron crown of the
Lombard kingdom is shown. Napoleon
is said to have placed it on his head while
he was still First Consul. Apropos of
this, we saw in one of the Milanese man-
sions a seat on which Napoleon had once
sat, and which, in commemoration of this,
bore the inscription, "Egli ci ha dato
1' unione." (He gave us unity.) Alas !
this precious boon was only secured to
Italy many years later, and after much
shedding of blood.
Several of the former captives of
Spielberg were living in Milan at this
time. Of these I may mention Castiglia
and the advocate Borsieri. Two others,
Foresti and Albinola, I had often seen
in New York, where they lived for many
years, beloved and respected. In all of
them, a perfectly childish delight in liv-
ing seemed to make amends for the long
and dreary years spent in prison. Every
pulse beat of freedom was a joy to them.
Yet the iron had entered deeply into their
souls. Natural leaders and men of pro-
mise, they had been taken out of the world
of active life in the very flower of their
youth and strength. The fortress in
which they were confined was gloomy and
desolate. For many months no books
were allowed them, and in the end only
books of religion, so called. They had
begged for employment, and were given
wool to knit stockings, and dirty linen
rags to scrape for lint, with the sarcastic
remark that to people of their benevolent
disposition such work as this last should
be most congenial. The time, they said,
appeared endless in passing, but little
when past, no events having diversified
its dull blankness.
When I listened to the conversation
of these men, and saw Italy so bound
hand and foot .by Austrian and other
tyrants, I felt only the hopeless chaos
of the political outlook. Where should
freedom come from ? The logical bond
of imprisonment seemed complete. It
was sealed with four impregnable for-
tresses, and the great spiritual tyranny
sat enthroned in the centre, and had its
response in every other despotic centre
of the globe. I almost ask to-day, " By
what miracle was the great structure over-
thrown ? " But the remembrance of this
miracle forbids me to despair of any
great deliverance, however desired and
delayed. He who maketh the wrath of
man to serve him can make liberty blos-
som out of the very rod that the tyrant
wields.
The emotions with which people in
general approach the historic sites of the
world have been so often described as
to make it needless for me to dwell upon
my own. But I will mention the thrill
of wonder which overcame me as we
drove over the Campagna and caught
the first glimpse of St. Peter's dome.
Was it possible ? Had I lived to come
within sight of the great city, Mistress
of the World ? Like much else in my
journeying, this appeared to me like
something seen in a dream, scarcely to
be apprehended by the bodily senses.
The Rome that I then saw was medi-
aeval in its aspect. A great gloom and
*silence hung over it. Coining to establish
ourselves for the winter, we felt the
pressure of many discomforts, especially
that of the imperfect heating of houses.
Our first quarters were in Torlonia's pal-
ace on the Piazza di Spagna. My hus-
band found these gloomy and sunless,
and was soon attracted by a small but
comfortable apartment in Via San Nicola-
da Tolentino, where we remained during
a part of the winter.
Dr. Howe went out early one morning,
and did not return until late in the even-
ing. Had I known at the time the rea-
son of his absence, I should have felt
230
Reminiscences of Julia Ward Howe.
great anxiety. He had gone to the post
office, but in doing so had passed some
spot at which a sentry was stationed.
He happened to be absorbed in his own
thoughts, and did not notice the warning
given. The sentry seized him, and Dr.
Howe began to beat him over the head.
A crowd soon gathered, and my husband
was arrested and taken to the guard-
house. The situation was a grave one,
but the doctor immediately sent for the
American consul, George Washington
Greene. With the aid of this friendly
official the necessary formalities were
gone through with, and the prisoner was
liberated.
The consul just mentioned was a cou-
sin of my father, and a grandson of the
famous General Nathanael Greene of
the Revolution. He was much at home
in Roman society, and through him we
had access to the principal houses in
which were given the great entertain-
ments of the season.
The first of these that I attended ap-
peared to me a melancholy failure, judg-
ing by our American ideas of a pleasant
evening party. The great ladies sat
very quietly in the salon of reception,
and the gentlemen spoke to them in an
undertone. There was none of the joy-
ous effusion with which even a " few
friends " meet on similar occasions in
Boston or New York. Exceeding stiff-
ness was obviously the " good form " of
the occasion.
A ball given by the banker prince,
Torlonia, presented a more animated
scene. The beautiful princess of the
house, then in the bloom of her youth,
was conspicuous among the dancers.
Her fair head was encircled by a fine
tiara of diamonds. I thought her quite
as beautiful on another occasion, when
she wore a simple gown of e'en! silk, with
a necklace of carved coral beads. This
was at a reception given at the charity
school of San Michele, where a play was
performed by the pupils of the institu-
tion. The theme of the drama was the
worship of the golden calf by the Israel-
ites, and the overthrow of the idol by
Moses.
The industrial school of San Michele,
like every other institution in the Rome
of that time, was entirely under ecclesi-
astical control. If I remember rightly,
Monsignore Morecchini had to do with
its management.
This interesting man stood, at the time,
at the head of the administration of pub-
lic charities. He called one day at our
lodgings, and I had the pleasure of lis-
tening to a long conversation between
him and my husband, regarding chiefly
the theme in which both gentlemen were
most deeply interested, the education of
the working classes. I was present, some
time later, at a meeting of the Academy
of St. Luke, at which the same monsi-
gnore made an address of some length,
and with his own hands distributed the
medals awarded to successful artists.
One of these was given to an Italian
lady, who appeared in the black costume
and lace veil which are still de rigueur
at all functions of the papal court. I
remember that the monsignore delivered
his address with a sort of rhythmic in-
toning, not unlike the singsong of the
Quaker preaching of fifty years ago.
To another monsignore, Baggs by
name, and Bishop of Pella, we owed
our presentation to Pope Gregory XVI.,
the immediate predecessor of Pope Pius
IX. Our cousin and consul, George W.
Greene, went with us to the reception
accorded us. Papal etiquette was not
rigorous in those days. It only required
that we should make three genuflections
as we approached the spot where the Pope
stood, and three more in retiring, as from
a royal presence, without turning our
backs. Monsignore Baggs, after present-
ing my husband, said to him, " Dr. Howe,
you should tell his Holiness about the lit-
tle blind girl [Laura Bridgman] who
you educated." The Pope remarked
he had been assured that the blind were
able to distinguish colors by the touch.
Reminiscences of Julia Ward Howe.
231
Dr. Howe said that he did not believe
this. His opinion was that if a blind
person could distinguish a stuff of any
particular color, it must be through some
effect of the dye upon the texture of the
cloth. The audience concluded, the Pope
obligingly turned his back upon us, as
if to examine something lying on the
table which stood behind him, and thus
spared us the inconvenience of curtsying
and retiring backward.
The experience of our winter in Rome
could not be repeated at this stage of
the world. The Rome of fifty-five years
ago was altogether mediaeval in its as-
pect. The great inclosure within its
walls was but sparsely inhabited. Con-
vent gardens, and even villas of the no-
bility, occupied much space.
The city attracted mostly art students
and lovers of art. The studios of paint-
ers and sculptors were much visited, and
wealthy amateurs gave orders for many
costly works of art. Such glimpses as
were afforded of Roman society had no
great attraction other than that of novel-
ty for persons accustomed to reasonable
society elsewhere. The strangeness of
titles, the gtitter of jewels, amused for a
time the traveler, who was nevertheless
glad to return to a world in which cere-
mony was less dominant and absolute.
Among the frequent visitors at our
rooms were the sculptor Crawford, and
Luther Terry and James E. Freeman,
well known then and since as painters of
merit. Between the first named of these
and the elder of my two sisters an at-
tachment sprang up, which culminated
in marriage.
The months slipped away very rapid-
ly, and the early spring brought the dear
gift of another life to gladden and en-
large our own. My dearest, eldest child
was born at Palazzetto Torlonia, on the
12th of March, 1844. At my request,
the name of Julia Romana was given to
her. As an infant she possessed remark-
able beauty, and her radiant little face
appeared to me to reflect the lovely forms
and faces which I had so earnestly con-
templated before her birth. The gal-
leries v/ere indeed to me at once a dream
and a revelation. My mind had been able
to anticipate something of the achieve-
ments of human thought, but of the pa-
tient work of the artist I had not had
the smallest conception.
One day we visited the catacombs of
St. Calixtus with a party of friends,
among whom was the then celebrated
Padre Machi, an ecclesiastic who was
considered a supreme authority in this
department of historic research.
Among the wonderful sights of that
winter, I recall an evening visit to the
sculpture gallery of the Vatican, when
the statues were shown us by torchlight.
I had not as yet made acquaintance with
those marble shapes, which were ren-
dered so lifelike by the artful illumina-
tion that when I saw them afterward in
the daylight it seemed to me that they
had died.
My husband had desired to visit the
Castle of St. Angelo, which was then not
only a fortress, but also a prison for po-
litical offenders. As he passed through
one of the corridors, a young man from
an inner room or cell rushed out and ad-
dressed him, apparently in great distress
of mind. He cried, "For the love of
God, sir, try to help me ! I was taken
from my home a fortnight since, I know
not why, and was brought here, where
I am detained, utterly ignorant of the
grounds of my arrest and imprisonment."
This incident disturbed my husband very
much. Of course, he could do nothing
to aid the unfortunate man.
We were invited, one evening, to at-
tend what the Romans still call an acca-
demia, a sort of literary club or asso-
ciation. It was held in what appeared
to be a public hall, with a platform on
which were seated those about to take
part in the exercises of the evening.
Among these were two cardinals, one of
whom read aloud some Greek verses, the
other a Latin discourse, both of which
232
Reminiscences of Julia Ward Howe.
were applauded. After or before these,
I cannot remember which, came a reci-
tation from a once famous improvisatrice,
Rosa Taddei. She is mentioned by Sis-
mondi in one of 'his works as a young
person of wonderful genius. She was
now a woman of middle age, wearing a
sober gown and cap. The poem which
she read was on the happiness to be de-
rived from a family of adopted children.
I remember its conclusion. He who
should give himself to the care of other
people's children would be entitled to
say:
" Formal questa famiglia
Sol colla mia virtu."
"I built myself this family wholly by
my own merit."
The performances concluded with a
satirical poem given by a layman, and
describing the indignation roused in an
elegant ecclesiastic by the visit of a man
in poor and shabby clothes. His com-
plaint is answered by a friend, who re-
marks :
" La vostra eecellenza
Vorrebbe tutti i poverelli ricchi."
" Your Excellency would have every poor
fellow rich."
The presence of the celebrated phre-
nologist George Combe in Rome at this
time added much to Dr. Howe's enjoy-
ment of the winter, and to mine. His
wife was a daughter of the great actress
Mrs. Siddons, and was a person of ex-
cellent mind and manners. I remem-
ber that Fanny Kemble, who was a cou-
sin of Mrs. Combe, once related the
following anecdote to Dr. Howe and
me :
" Cecilia [Mrs. Combe] had grown up
in her mother's shadow, for Mrs. Sid-
dons was to the last such a social idol as
to absorb the notice of people wherever
she went, leaving little attention to be
bestowed upon her daughter. This was
rather calculated to sour the daughter's
disposition, and naturally had that ef-
fect." Mrs. Kemble then spoke of a
visit which she had made at her cousin's
house after her marriage to Mr. Combe.
In taking leave, she could not refrain
from exclaiming, " Oh, Cecilia, how you
have improved ! " to which Mrs. Combe
replied, "Who could help improving
when living with perfection ? "
Dr. Howe and Mr. Combe sometimes
visited the galleries in company, viewing
the works therein contained in the light
of their favorite theory. I remember
having gone with them through the great
sculpture hall of the Vatican, listening
with edification to their instructive con-
versation. They stood for some time
before the well-known head of Zeus, the
contour and features of which appeared
to them quite orthodox, according to the
standard of phrenology.
When, in the spring of 1844, I left
Rome, in company with my husband, my
sisters, and my baby, it seemed like re-
turning to the living world after a long
separation from it. In spite of all the
attractions of the ancient city, I was glad
to stand once more face to face with the
belongings of my own time.
We journeyed first to Naples, which I
saw with delight, thence by steamer to
Marseilles, and by river boat and dili-
gence to Paris.
My husband's love of the unusual
must, I think, have prompted him to se-
cure passage for our party on board the
little steamer which carried us well on
our way to Paris. Its small cabin was
without sleeping accommodations of any
kind. As the boat always remained in
some port overnight, Dr. Howe found it
possible to hire mattresses for us, which,
alas, were taken away at daybreak, when
our journey was resumed.
We made some stay in Paris, of which
city I have chronicled elsewhere my
first impressions. Among these was the
pain of hearing a lecture by Philarete
Chasles, in which he spoke most dispar-
agingly of American literature, and of
our country in general. He said that
we had contributed nothing of value
to the world of letters. Yet we had
Reminiscences of Julia Ward Howe.
233
already given it some of the writings of
Irving, Hawthorne, Emerson, Longfel-
low, Bryant, and Poe. It is true that
these authors were little, if at all, known
in France at that time, but the speaker,
proposing to instruct the public, ought to
have informed himself concerning that
whereof he assumed to speak with know-
ledge.
Dr. Howe attended one of the official
receptions of M. Guizot, who was Prime
Minister at this time. I tried to per-
suade him to wear his Greek decorations,
but he refused to do so.
Our second visit to England, in the
autumn of the year 1844, on the way
back to our own country, was less bril-
liant and novel than our first, but scarcely
less in interest. We had received several
invitations from friends at their coun-
try residences, and these opened to us
the most delightful aspect of English
hospitality. The English are nowhere
so much at home as in the country,
and they willingly make their visitors at
home also.
Our first visit was at Atherstone, then
the residence of Charles Holt Brace-
bridge, one of the best specimens of an
English country gentleman of the old
school. His wife was a very accomplished
gentlewoman, skillful alike with pencil
and with needle, and possessed of much
literary culture. Mrs. Bracebridge told
us a good deal about Florence Night-
ingale, then twenty-four years old, and
already considered a person of remark-
able character. Our hosts had been in
Athens, and sympathized with my hus-
band in his views regarding the Greeks.
They were also familiar with the further
East, and had brought cedars from Mount
Lebanon, and Arab horses from I know
not where.
Atherstone was not far from Coventry.
Mr. Bracebridge claimed descent from
Lady Godiva, and informed me that a
descendant of Peeping Tom of Coventry
was still to be found in that place. He
himself was lord of the manor, but had
neither son nor daughter to succeed him.
He told me some rather weird stories,
one of which was that he had once waked
in the night to see a female figure seat-
ed by his fireside. I believe the ghost
was that of an old retainer of the fam-
ily, or possibly an ancestress. An old
prophecy also had been fulfilled with re-
gard to his property. This was that
when a certain piece of land should pass
from the possession of the family, a
small island on the estate would cease to
exist. The property was sold, and the
island somehow became attached to the
mainland, and as an island ceased to
exist.
Mrs. Bracebridge had spoken to me
of Florence Nightingale as a young per-
son likely to make an exceptional record
in the course of her life. Her mother,
she said, rather feared this, and would
have preferred the usual conventional
life for her daughter. The father was
a pronounced Liberal, and a Unitarian.
While we were still at Atherstone, we
received an invitation to pass a few days
with the Nightingale family at Emblee,
and betook ourselves thither. We found
a fine mansion of Elizabethan architec-
ture, and a cordial reception. The fam-
ily consisted of father and mother and
two daughters, both born during their
parents' residence in Italy, and respec-
tively christened Parthenope and Flor-
ence. Parthenope was the elder ; she
was not handsome, but was piquant and
entertaining. Florence was rather ele-
gant than beautiful; she was tall and
graceful of figure, her countenance mo-
bile and expressive, her conversation
most interesting. Having heard much
of Dr. Howe as a philanthropist, she re-
solved to consult him upon a matter
which she already had at heart. She ac-
cordingly requested him one day to meet
her on the following morning, before the
hour for the family breakfast. He did
so, and she opened the way to the desired
conference by saying, " Dr. Howe, if I
should determine to study nursing, and
234
Reminiscences of Julia Ward Howe.
to devote my life to that profession, do
you think that it would be a dreadful
thing ? "
" By no means," replied my husband.
" I think that it would be a very good
thing."
So much and no more of the conver-
sation Dr. Howe repeated to me. We
soon heard that Miss Florence was de-
voting herself to the study of her predi-
lection ; and when, years after this time,
the war of the Crimea broke out, we
were among the few who were not as-
tonished at the undertaking which made
her name world famous.
Just before our final embarkation for
America, we passed a few days with the
same friends at Lea Hurst, a pretty coun-
try seat near Malvern. There we met
the well-known historian Henry Hallam,
doubly celebrated as the father of Ten-
nyson's lamented Arthur. Martin Chuz-
zlewit had recently appeared, and I
remember that Mr. Hallam read aloud
with much amusement the famous tran-
scendental episode beginning, "To be
introduced to a Pogram by a Hominy."
Mr. Hallam asked me whether talk of
this sort was ever heard in transcen-
dental circles in the United States, and
I was obliged to confess that the carica-
ture was not altogether without founda-
tion.
Soon after reaching London for the
second time, we were invited to visit
Dr. and Mrs. Fowler at Salisbury. The
doctor was much interested in anthro-
pology and kindred topics, and my hus-
band found in him a congenial friend.
The house was a modest one, but the
housekeeping was generous and tasteful.
As Salisbury was a cathedral town, the
prominent people of the place naturally
belonged to the Anglican Church. At
the Fowlers' hospitable board we met
the bishop, the dean, the rector, and the
curate.
Bishop Denison, at the time of our
visit, was still saddened by the loss of
a beloved wife. He invited us to a
dinner, at which his sister, Miss Deni-
son, presided. The dean and his wife
were present, the Fowlers, and one or
two other guests. To my surprise, the
bishop gave me his arm and conducted
me to the table, where he seated me on
his right.
We left Salisbury with regret, Dr.
Fowler giving Dr. Howe a parting in-
junction to visit Rotherhithe workhouse,
where he himself had seen an old wo-
man who was blind, deaf, and crippled.
My husband made this visit, and wrote
to Dr. Fowler an account of it which he
read to me before sending it. In the
mischief of which T was then full to
overflowing, I wrote a humorous trav-
esty of Dr. Howe's letter in rhyme, but
when I showed it to him, I was grieved
to see how much he seemed pained at
my frivolity.
Dear sir, I went south
As far as Portsmouth,
And found a most charming old woman,
Delightfully void
Of all that 's enjoyed
By the animal vaguely called human.
She has but one jaw,
Has teeth like a saw,
Her ears and her eyes I delight in :
The one could not hear
Tho' a cannon were near,
The others are holes with no sight in.
Her cinciput lies
Just over her eyes,
Not far from the bone parietal ;
The crown of her head,
Be it vulgarly said,
Is shaped like the back of a beetle.
Destructiveness great
Combines with conceit
In the form of this wonderful noddle,
But benevlence, you know,
And a large philopro
Give a great inclination to coddle.
And so on.
During our visit to Atherstone we be-
came acquainted witli Mr. Arthur Mills,
a young lawyer, nephew to Mrs. Brace-
bridge. He was one of those persons
who conceal a quick sense of humor be-
The Queen's Twin.
235
neath an exterior of imperturbable grav-
ity. He did smile, however, on one
occasion when, as we were all seated in
the Bracebridge library, my beautiful
sister suddenly appeared, arrayed in his
gown and wig, which she had persuaded
one of the company to borrow surrep-
titiously. Mr. Mills had long had it in
mind to visit the United States, and he
now took the opportunity of accompany-
ing us on our homeward voyage. He
was at once adopted into the intimacy
of the family, and I gave expression
to the common good will in a mock
heroic poem, the Millsiad, with the com-
position of which I beguiled some of the
tedious hours passed at sea. The stan-
zas were written in pencil on the blank
leaves of our new friend's diary. The
original copy is still preserved among
his family archives. , The poem began
with the following invocation :
My bosom thrills
At the bare thought of the illustrious Mills,
That man of eyes and nose,
Of legs and arms, of fingers and of toes !
Goeth he not, armed with axe,
To lands devoid of tax ?
Trees shall he cut down,
And forests own ?
Tame cataracts with a frown ?
Grin all the fish from Mississippi River ?
To the impressions of the West,
Mills ! unfold thy valorous breast ;
Let thine eye hover,
O mirthful rover,
O'er haystacks gigantesque, and fields of clover.
Turn all the sense thou hast
From the impassioned Past,
Let thy small heart dilate
In the vast portents of a nation's fate !
Julia Ward Howe.
THE QUEEN'S TWIN.
I.
THE coast of Maine was in former
years brought so near to foreign shores
by its busy fleet of ships that among the
older men and women one still finds a
surprising proportion of travelers. Each
seaward stretching headland with its
high-set houses, each island of a single
farm, has sent its spies to view many a
land of Eshcol. One may see plain, con-
tented old faces at the windows, whose
eyes have looked at far-away ports, and
known the splendors of the Eastern
world. They shame the easy voyager
of the North Atlantic and the Mediter-
ranean : they have rounded the Cape of
Good Hope and braved the angry seas
of Cape Horn in small wooden ships ;
they have brought up their hardy boys
and girls on narrow decks ; they were
among the last of the Northmen's chil-
dren to go adventuring to unknown
shores. More than this one cannot give
to a young state for its enlightenment.
The sea captains and the captains' wives
of Maine knew something of the wide
world, and never mistook their native
parishes for the whole instead of a part
thereof ; they knew not only Thomas-
ton and Castine and Portland, but Lon-
don and Bristol and Bordeaux, and the
strange-mannered harbors of the China
Sea.
One September day, when I was near-
ly at the end of a summer spent in a
village called Dunnet Landing, on the
Maine coast, my friend Mrs. Todd, in
whose house I lived, came home from a
long, solitary stroll in the wild pastures,
with an eager look, as if she were just
starting on a hopeful quest instead of
returning. She brought a little basket
with blackberries enough for supper,
and held it toward me so that I could
236
The Queen's Twin.
see that there were also some late and
surprising raspberries sprinkled on top,
but she made no comment upon her way-
faring. I could tell plainly that she had
something very important to say.
" You have n't brought home a leaf of
anything ? " I ventured to this practiced
herb-gatherer. " You were saying yes-
terday that the witch-hazel might be in
bloom."
" I dare say, dear," she answered in
a lofty manner. " I ain't goin' to say it
was n't ; I ain't much concerned either
way 'bout the facts o' witch-hazel. Truth
is, I 've been off visitin' ; there 's an old
Indian footpath leadin' over towards the
Back Shore, through the great heron
swamp, that anybody can't travel over
all summer. You have to seize your
time some day just now, while the low-
ground 's summer-dried as it is to-day,
and before the fall rains set in. I never
thought of it till I was out o' sight o'
home, and I says to myself, ' To-day 's
the day certain ! ' and stepped along
smart as I could. Yes ; I 've been vis-
itin'. I did get into one spot that was
wet underfoot before I noticed ; you
wait till I get me a pair o' dry woolen
stockin's, in case of cold, and I '11 come
an' tell ye."
Mrs. Todd disappeared, I could see
that something had deeply interested her.
She might have fallen in with either
the sea serpent or the lost tribes of Is-
rael, such was her air of mystery and
satisfaction. She had been away since
just before mid-morning, and as I sat
waiting by my window I saw the last
red glow of autumn sunshine flare along
the gray rocks of the shore and leave
them cold again, and touch the far sails
of some coastwise schooners so that they
stood like golden houses on the sea.
I was left to wonder longer than I
liked. Mrs. Todd was making an even-
ing fire and putting things in train for
supper ; presently she returned, still look-
ing warm and cheerful after her long
walk.
" There 's a beautiful view from a hill
over where I 've been," she told me ;
" yes, there 's a beautiful prospect of
land and sea. You would n't discern
the hill from any distance, but 't is the
pretty situation of it that counts. I sat
there a long spell, and I did wish for
you. No, I did n't know a word about
goin' when I set out this mornin'." (As
if I had openly reproached her !) "I
only felt one o' them travelin' fits corn-
in' on, an' I ketched up my little basket ;
I did n't know but I might turn and
come back, time for dinner. I thought
it wise to set out your luncheon for you
in case I did n't. Hope you had all you
wanted ; yes, I hope you had enough ? "
" Oh yes, indeed ! " said I. My land-
lady was always peculiarly bountiful in
her supplies when she left me to fare
for myself, as if she made a sort of peace-
offering or affectionate apology.
"You know that hill with the old
house right on top, over beyond the
heron swamp ? You '11 excuse me for
explaining" Mrs. Todd began, " but you
ain't so apt to strike inland as you be to
go right alongshore. You know that hill ;
there 's a path leadin' right over to it
that you have to look sharp to find now-
adays. It belonged to the up-country
Indians when they had to make a carry
to the Landing here, to get to the out'
islands. I Ve heard the old folks say
that there used to be a place across a
ledge where they 'd worn a deep track
with their moccasin feet, but I never
could find it. 'Tis so overgrown in
some places that you keep losin' the
path in the bushes, and findin' it as you
can, but it runs pretty straight consider-
in' the lay o' the land, and I keep my
eye on the sun and the moss that grows
one side o' the tree trunks. Some brook 's
been choked up, and the swamp 's bigger
than it used to be. Yes ; I did get in
deep enough, one place ! "
I showed the solicitude that I felt.
Mrs. Todd was no longer young, and, in
spite of her strong great frame and spir-
The Queen's Twin.
237
ited behavior, I knew that certain ills
were apt to seize upon her, and would
some day end by leaving her lame and
ailing.
" Don't you go to worryin' about me,"
she insisted. " Settin' still 's the only way
the Evil One '11 ever get the upper hand
o' me. Keep me movin' enough, an'
I 'm twenty year old summer an' winter
both. I don't know why 't is, but I 've
never happened to mention the one I 've
been to see. I don't know why I never
happened to speak the name of Abby
Martin, for I often give her a thought ;
but 't is a dreadful out-o'-the-way place
where she lives, and I have n't seen her
myself for three or four years. She 's a
real good, interesting woman, and we 're
well acquainted ; she 's nigher mother's
age than mine, but she 's very young-
feeling. She made ine a nice cup o'
tea, and I don't know but I should have
stopped all night if I could have got
word to you not to worry."
Then there was a serious silence be-
fore Mrs. Todd spoke again to make a
formal announcement.
" She is the Queen's Twin," and Mrs.
Todd looked steadily to see how I might
bear the great surprise.
" The Queen's Twin ? " I repeated.
" Yes ; she 's come to feel a real inter-
est in the Queen, and anybody can see
how natural 't is. They were born the
very same day, and you would be as-
tonished to see what a number o' other
things have corresponded. She was
speaking o' some o' the facts to me to-
day, an' you 'd think she 'd never done
nothing but read history. I see how
earnest she was about it as I never did
before. I 've often and often heard her
allude to the facts ; but now she 's got to
be old, and the hurry 's all over with her
work, she 's come to live a good deal in
her thoughts, as folks often do, and I
tell you 't is a sight o' company for her.
If you want to hear about Queen Victo-
ria, why, Mis' Abby Martin '11 tell you
everything. And the prospect from that
hill I spoke of is as beautiful as any-
thing in this world; 'tis worth while
your goin' over to see her, just for that."
"When can you go again?" I de-
manded eagerly.
" I should say to-morrow," answered
Mrs. Todd, " yes, I should say to-mor-
row ; but I expect 't would be better to
take one day to rest, in between. I con-
sidered that question as I was comin'
home, but I hurried so that there wa'n't
much time to think. It 's a dreadful
long way to go with a horse. You have
to go 'most as far as the old Bowden
place, an' turn off to the left, a master
long, rough road ; an' then you have to
turn right round as soon as you get
there, if you mean to get home before
nine o'clock at night. But to strike
across country from here, there 's plenty
o' time in the shortest day, and you can
have a good hour or two's visit besides.
'T ain't but a very few miles, and it 's
pretty all the way along. There used
to be a few good families over there, but
they 've died and scattered, so now she 's
far from neighbors. There, she really
cried, she was so glad to see anybody
comin'. You '11 be amused to hear her
talk about the Queen, but I thought
twice or three times, as I set there, 't was
about all the company she 'd got."
" Could we go day after to-morrow ? "
I asked.
" 'T would suit me exactly," said Mrs.
Todd.
II.
One can never be so certain of good
New England weather as in the days
when a long easterly storm has blown
away the warm late-summer mists, and
cooled the air so that however bright the
sunshine is by day, the nights come near-
er and nearer to frostiness. There was
a cold freshness in the morning air when
Mrs. Todd and I locked the house door
behind us ; we took the key of the fields
into our own hands that day, and put
238
The Queen's Twin.
out across country as one puts out to sea.
When we reached the top of the ridge
behind the town, it seemed as if we had
anxiously passed the harbor bar, and
were comfortably in open sea at last.
"There, now ! " proclaimed Mrs. Todd,
taking a long breath. " Now I do feel
safe. It 's just the weather that 's liable
to bring somebody to spend the day.
I 've had a feeling of Mis' Elder Caplin
from North Point bein' close upon me
ever since I waked up this mornin', an'
I did n't want to be hampered with our
present plans. She 's a great hand to
visit ; she '11 be spendin' the day some-
where from now till Thanksgivin' ; but
there 's plenty o' places at the Landin'
where she goes, an' if I ain't there she '11
just select another. I thought mother
might be in, too, 't is so pleasant ; but I
run up the road to look off this mornin'
before you was awake, and there was no
sign o' the boat. If they had n't start-
ed by that time, they would n't start
just as the tide is now ; besides, I see a
lot o' mackerelmen headin' Green Island
way, and they '11 detain William. No,
we 're safe now ; an' if mother should be
comin' in to-morrow, we '11 have all this
to tell her. She an' Mis' Abby Martin 's
very old friends."
We were walking down the long pas-
ture slopes, toward the dark woods and
thickets of the low ground. They
stretched away northward like an un-
broken wilderness ; the early mists still
dulled much of the color, and made the
uplands beyond look like a very far-off
country.
" It ain't so far as it looks from here,"
said my companion reassuringly ; " but
we 've got no time to spare, either," and
she hurried on, leading the way with a
fine sort of spirit in her step. Present-
ly we struck into the old Indian foot-
path, which could be plainly seen across
the long-unploughed turf of the pastures,
and followed it among the thick, low-
growing spruces. There the ground was
smooth and brown underfoot, and the
thin - stemmed trees held a dark and
shadowy roof overhead. We walked a
long way without speaking ; sometimes
we had to push aside the branches, and
sometimes we walked in a broad aisle
where the trees were larger. It was a
solitary wood, birdless and beastless ;
there was not even a rabbit to be seen,
or a crow high in air to break the silence.
" I don't believe the Queen ever saw
such a lonesome trail as this," said Mrs.
Todd, as if she followed the thoughts that
were in my mind. Our visit to Mrs. Abby
Martin seemed in some strange way to
concern the high affairs of royalty. I
had just been thinking of English land-
scapes, and of the solemn hills of Scot-
land with their lonely cottages and stone-
walled sheepfolds, and the wandering
flocks on high cloudy pastures. I had
often been struck by the quick interest
and familiar allusion to certain members
of the royal house which one found in
distant neighborhoods of New England.
Whether some old instincts of personal
loyalty have survived all changes of time
and national vicissitudes, or whether it is
only that the Queen's own character and
disposition have won friends for her so
far away, it is impossible to tell. But to
hear of a twin sister was the most sur-
prising proof of intimacy of all, and I
must confess that there was something
remarkably exciting to the imagination
in my morning walk. To think of being
presented at Court in the usual way was,
for the moment, quite commonplace.
III.
Mrs. Todd was swinging her basket to
and fro like a schoolgirl as she walked,
and at this moment it slipped from her
hand and rolled lightly along the ground.
I picked it up and gave it to her, where-
upon she lifted the cover and looked in
with anxiety.
"'Tis only a few little things, but I
don't want to lose 'em," she explained
The Queerfs Twin.
239
humbly. " 'T was lucky you took the
other basket if I was goin' to roll it
round. Mis' Abby Martin complained
o' lacking some pretty pink silk to finish
one o' her little frames, an' I thought
I 'd carry her some, and I had a bunch
o' gold thread that had been in a box o'
mine this twenty year. I never was one
to do much fancy work, but we 're all
liable to be swept away by fashion. And
then there 's a small packet o' very choice
herbs that I gave a good deal of atten-
tion to ; they '11 smarten her up, and
give her the best of appetites, come
spring. She was tellin' me that spring
weather is very wiltin' an' tryin' to her,
and she was beginnin' to dread it al-
ready. Mother 's just the same way. If
I could prevail on mother to take some
o' these remedies in good season, 't would
make a world o' difference ; but she gets
all downhill before I have a chance to
hear of it, and then William comes in to
tell me, sighin' and bewailin' how feeble
mother is. ' Why can't you remember
'bout them good herbs that I never let
her be without ? ' I say to him, he does
provoke me so ; and then off he goes,
sulky enough, down to his boat. Next
thing I know, she comes in to go to
meetin', wantin' to speak to everybody
and feelin' like a girl. Mis' Martin's
case is very much the same, but she 's
nobody to watch her. William 's kind
o' slow-moulded, but there, any Wil-
liam 's better than none when you get
to be Mis' Martin's age."
" Had n't she any children ? " I asked.
" Quite a number," replied Mrs. Todd
grandly ; " but some are gone, and the
rest are married and settled. She never
was a great hand to go about visitin'. I
don't know but Mis' Martin might be
called a little peculiar. Even her own
folks has to make company of her : she
never slips in and lives right along with
the rest as if 't was at home, even in her
own children's houses. I heard one o'
her sons' wives say once she 'd much
rather have the Queen to spend the day,
if she could choose between the two ; but
I never thought Abby was so difficult as
that. I used to love to have her come.
She may have been sort o' ceremonious,
but very pleasant and sprightly if you
had sense enough to treat her her own
way. I always think she 'd know just
how to live with great folks, and feel easi-
er 'long of them an' their ways. Her
son's wife's a great driver with farm
work, boards a great tableful o' men in
hayin'-time, an' feels right in her ele-
ment. I don't say but she 's a good
woman an' smart, but sort o' rough.
Anybody that 's gentle-mannered an' pre-
cise like Mis' Martin would be a sort o'
restraint.
" There 's all sorts o' folks in the coun-
try, same 's there is in the city," con-
cluded Mrs. Todd gravely, and I as
gravely agreed. The thick woods were
behind us now, and the sun was shining
clear overhead ; the morning mists were
gone, and a faint blue haze softened the
distance ; as we climbed the hill where
we were to see the view it seemed like
a summer day. There was an old house
on the height, facing southward ; a mere
forsaken shell of an old house with empty
windows that looked like blind eyes.
The frost-bitten grass grew close about it
like brown fur, and there was a single
crooked bough of lilac holding its green
leaves close by the door.
" We '11 just have a good piece of
bread an' butter now," said the com-
mander of the expedition, "and then
we '11 hang up the basket on some peg
inside the house, out o' the way o' the
sheep, and have a han'some entertain-
ment as we 're comin' back. She '11 be
all through her little dinner when we
get there, Mis' Martin will ; but she '11
want to make us some tea, an' we must
have our visit, an' be startin' back pret-
ty soon after two. I don't want to cross
all that low ground again after it 's be-
gun to grow chilly. An' it looks to me
as if the clouds might begin to gather
late in the afternoon."
240
The Queen's Twin.
Before us lay a splendid world of sea
and shore. The autumn colors bright-
ened the landscape already ; here and
there at the edge of a dark tract of
pointed firs stood a row of bright swamp
maples like scarlet flowers. The blue
sea and the great tide inlets were un-
troubled by the lightest winds.
" Poor land, this is," sighed Mrs.
Todd, as we sat down to rest on the worn
doorstep. " I 've known three good hard-
workin' families that come here full o'
hope an' pride, and tried to make some-
thin' o' this farm, but it beat 'em all.
There 's one small field that 's excellent
for potatoes if you let half of it rest
every year, but the land 's always hun-
gry. Now you see them little peaked-
topped spruces an' fir balsams comin'
up over the hill all green an' hearty;
they 've got it all their own way ! Seems
sometimes as if wild natur' got jealous
over a certain spot, and wanted to do
just as she 'd a mind to. You '11 see
here ; she '11 do her own ploughin' an'
harrowin' with frost an' wet, an' plant
just what she wants, and wait for her
own crops. Man can't do nothin' with
it, try as he may. I tell you, those little
trees means business ! "
I looked down the slope, and felt as if
we ourselves were likely to be surround-
ed and overcome if we lingered too long.
There was a vigor of growth, a persist-
ence and savagery about the sturdy lit-
tle trees, that put weak human nature at
complete defiance. One felt a sudden
pity for the men and women who had
been worsted after a long fight in that
lonely place ; one felt a sudden fear of
the unconquerable immediate forces of
nature, as acute as the irresistible mo-
ment of a thunderstorm.
" I can recollect the time when folks
were shy o' those woods we just come
through," said Mrs. Todd seriously.
" The men folks themselves never 'd
venture into 'em alone ; if their cattle
got strayed, they 'd collect whoever they
could get and start off all together.
They said a person was liable to get be-
wildered in there alone, and in old times
folks had been lost. I expect there was
considerable fear left over from the old
Indian times and the poor days o' witch-
craft ; anyway, I 've seen bold men act
kind o' timid. Some women o' the Asa
Bowden family went out one afternoon
berryin', when I was a girl, and got lost,
and was out all night ; they found 'em
middle o' the mornin' next day, not half
a mile from home, scared 'most to death,
an' sayin' they 'd heard wolves and other
beasts sufficient for a caravan. Poor
creatur's, they 'd strayed at last into a
kind of low place amongst some alders,
an' one of 'em was so overset she never
got over it, an' went off in a sort o' slow
decline. 'T was like them victims that
drowns in a foot o' water, but their
minds did suffer dreadful. Some folks
is born afraid of the woods and all wild
places, but I must say they 've always
been like home to me."
I glanced at the resolute, confident
face of my companion. Life was very
strong in her, as if some force of nature
were personified in this simple-hearted
woman, and gave her cousinship to the
ancient deities. She might have walked
the primeval fields of Sicily ; her strong
gingham skirts might at that very mo-
ment bend the slender stalks of aspho-
del, and be fragrant with trodden thyme,
instead of the brown wind-brushed grass
of New England and frost-bitten golden-
rod. She was a great soul, was Mrs.
Todd, and I her humble follower, as we
went our way to visit the Queen's Twin,
leaving the bright view of the sea be-
hind us, and descending to a lower coun-
tryside through the 'dry pastures and
fields.
The farms all wore a look of gather-
ing age, though the settlement was, after
all, so young. The fences were already
fragile, and it seemed as if the first im-
pulse of agriculture had soon spent it-
self without hope of renewal. The bet-
ter houses were always those that had
The Queen's Twin.
241
some hold upon the riches of the sea ; a
house that could not harbor a fishing
boat in some neighboring inlet was far
from being sure of every-day comforts.
The land alone was not enough to live
upon in that stony region ; it belonged
by right to the forest, and to the forest it
fast returned. From the top of the hill
where we had been sitting we had seen
prosperity in the dim distance, where
the land was good and the sun shone
upon fat barns, and where warm-look-
ing houses with three or four chimneys
apiece stood high on their solid ridge
above the bay.
As we drew nearer to Mrs. Martin's,
it was sad to see what poor bushy fields,
what thin and empty dwelling - places,
had been left by those who had chosen
this disappointing part of the northern
country for their home. We crossed
the last field and came into a narrow
rain-washed road, and Mrs. Todd looked
eager and expectant, and said that we
were almost at our journey's end.
"I do hope Mis' Martin '11 ask you
into her best room, where she keeps all
the Queen's pictures. Yes, I think likely
she will ask you ; but 't ain't everybody
she deems worthy to visit 'em, I can tell
you ! " said Mrs. Todd warningly. " She
's been collectin' 'em an' cuttin' 'em out
o' newspapers an' magazines time out
o' mind ; and if she heard of anybody
sailin' for an English port, she 'd contrive
to get a little money to 'em and ask to
have the last likeness there was. She 's
'most covered her best-room wall now :
she keeps that room shut up sacred as a
meetin'-house ! ' I won't say but I have
my favorites amongst 'em,' she told me
t'other day, ' but they 're all beautiful to
me as they can be.' And she's made
some kind o' pretty little frames for 'em
all. You know there 's always a new
fashion o' frames comin' round : first
't was shellwork, and then 't was pine
cones, and bead work 's had its day, and
now she 's much concerned with perfo-
rated cardboard worked with silk. I tell
VOL. LXXXIII. NO. 496. 16
you, that best room 's a sight to see !
But you must n't look for anything ele-
gant," continued Mrs. Todd, after a mo-
ment's reflection. " Mis' Martin 's al-
ways been in very poor, strugglin' cir-
cumstances. She had ambition for her
children, though they took right after
their father an' had little for themselves ;
she wa'n't over an' above well married,
however kind she may see fit to speak.
She 's been patient an' hard-workin' all
her life, and always high above makin'
mean complaints of other folks. I ex-
pect all this business about the Queen has
buoyed her over many a shoal place in
life. Yes, you might say that Abby 'd
been a slave, but there ain't any slave
but has some freedom."
IV.
Presently I saw a low gray house
standing on a grassy bank close to the
road. The door was at the side, facing
us, and a tangle of snowberry bushes and
cinnamon roses grew to the level of the
window sills. On the doorstep stood a
bent-shouldered little old woman. There
was an air of welcome and of unmistak-
able dignity about her.
" She sees us coming ! " exclaimed Mrs.
Todd in an excited whisper. " There, I
told her I might be over this way again,
if the weather held good, and if I came
I 'd bring you. She said right off she 'd
take great pleasure in havin' a visit from
you. I was surprised ; she 's usually so
retirin'."
Even this reassurance did not quell a
faint apprehension on our part ; there
was something distinctly formal in the
occasion, and one felt that consciousness
of inadequacy which is never easy for
the humblest pride to bear. On the way
I had torn my dress in an unexpected
encounter with a little thorn bush ; I
could now imagine how it felt to be going
to Court and forgetting one's feathers or
Court train.
242
The Queen's Twin.
The Queen's Twin was oblivious of
such trifles; she stood waiting with a
calm look until we came near enough to
take her kind hand. She was a beauti-
ful old woman, with clear eyes and a
lovely quietness and genuineness of man-
ner ; there was not a trace of anything
pretentious about her, or high-flown, as
Mrs. Todd would say comprehensively.
Beauty in age is rare enough in women
who have spent their lives in the hard
work of a farmhouse; but autumn-like
and withered as this woman may have
looked, her features had kept, or rather
gained, a great refinement. She led
us into her old kitchen, and gave us
seats, and took one of the little straight-
backed chairs herself, and sat a short
distance away, as if she were giving au-
dience to an ambassador. It seemed as
if we should all be standing ; one could
not help feeling that the habits of her
life were more ceremonious, but that for
the moment she assumed the simplicities
of the occasion.
Mrs. Todd was always Mrs. Todd,
too great and self - possessed a soul for
any occasion to ruffle. I admired her
calmness, and presently the slow current
of neighborhood talk carried us easily
along ; we spoke of the weather and the
small adventures of the way, and then,
as if I were after all not a stranger, our
hostess turned almost affectionately to
speak to me.
" The weather will be growing dark
in London now. I expect that you 've
been in London, dear ? " she said.
" Oh yes," I answered. " Only last
year."
" It is a great many years since I was
there; along in the forties," said Mrs.
Martin. " 'T was the only voyage I
ever made. Most of my neighbors have
been great travelers. My brother was
master of a vessel, and his wife usually
sailed with him ; but that year she had a
young child more frail than the others,
and she dreaded the care of it at sea.
It happened that my brother got a
chance for my husband to go as super-
cargo, being a good accountant, and came
one day to urge him to take it. He was
very ill disposed to the sea, but he had
met with losses, and I saw my own op-
portunity and persuaded them both to let
me go too. In those days they did n't
object to a woman's being aboard to wash
and mend ; the voyages were sometimes
very long. And that was the way I come
to see the Queen."
Mrs. Martin was looking straight in
my eyes, to see if I showed any genuine
interest in the most interesting person
in the world.
" Oh, I am glad you saw the Queen,"
I hastened to say. " Mrs. Todd has told
me that you and she were born the very
same day."
" We were indeed, dear," said Mrs.
Martin, and she leaned back comforta-
bly and smiled as she had not smiled be-
fore. Mrs. Todd gave a satisfied nod
and glance, as if to say that things were
going on as well as possible in this anx-
ious moment.
" Yes," Mrs. Martin resumed, as she
drew her chair a little nearer, " 't was
a very remarkable thing : we were born
the same day, and at exactly the same
hour, after you allowed for all the dif-
ference in time. My father figured it
out sea - fashion. Her Royal Majesty
and I opened our eyes upon this world
together : say what you may, 't is a bond
between us."
Mrs. Todd assented with an air of
triumph, and untied her hat strings and
threw them back over her shoulders with
a gallant air.
" And I married a man by the name
of Albert, just the same as she did ; and
all by chance, for I did n't get the news
that she had an Albert, too, till a fort-
night afterward ; news was slower coin-
ing then than it is now. My first baby
was a girl, and I called her Victoria af-
ter my mate; but the next one was a
boy, and my husband wanted the right
to name him, and took his own name and
The Queen's Twin.
243
his brother Edward's ; and pretty soon I
saw in the paper that the little Prince
o' Wales had been christened just the
same. After that I made excuse to wait
till I knew what she 'd named her chil-
dren. I did n't want to break the chain,
so I had an Alfred and my darling
Alice that I lost long before she lost
hers, and there I stopped. If I 'd only
had a dear daughter to stay at home
with me, same 's her youngest one, I
should have been so thankful ! But if
only one of us could have a little Bea-
trice, I 'm glad 't was the Queen ; we 've
both seen trouble, but she 's had the
most care."
I asked Mrs. Martin if she lived alone
all the year, and was told that she did
except for a visit now and then from one
of her grandchildren, " the only one that
really likes to come an' stay quiet 'long
o' grandma. She always says, quick as
she 's through her schoolin' she 's goin'
to live with me all the time. But she 's
very pretty an' has taking ways," said
Mrs. Martin, looking both proud and
wistful, " so I can tell nothing at all
about it. Yes, I 've been alone most o'
the time since my Albert was taken
away, and that 's a great many years ;
he had a long time o' failing and sick-
ness first." (Mrs. Todd's foot gave an
impatient scuff on the floor.) " An' I 've
always lived right here. I ain't like the
Queen's Majesty, for this is the only pal-
ace I 've got," said the dear old thing,
smiling again. " I 'm glad of it, too. I
don't like changing about, an' our sta-
tions in life are set very different. I
don't require what the Queen does, but
sometimes I 've thought 't was left to
me to do the plain things she don't
have time for. I expect she 's a beauti-
ful housekeeper ; nobody could n't have
done better in her high place, and she 's
been as good a mother as she 's been a
queen."
" I guess she has, Abby," agreed Mrs.
Todd instantly. " How was it you hap-
pened to get such a good look at her ?
I meant to ask you again when I was
here t'other day."
" Our ship was layin' in the Thames,
right there above Wapping. We was
dischargin' cargo, arid under orders to
clear as quick as we could for Bordeaux
to take on an excellent freight o' French
goods," explained Mrs. Martin eagerly.
" I heard that the Queen was goin' to
a great review of her army, and would
drive out o' her Buckin'ham Palace about
ten o'clock in the mornin' ; and I run
aft to Albert, my husband, and brother
Horace where they was standin' together
by the hatchway, and told 'em they must
one of 'em take me. They laughed,
I was in such a hurry, and said they
could n't go ; and I found they meant it
and got sort of impatient when I begun
to talk, and I was 'most broken-hearted ;
't was 'most all the reason I had for
makin' that hard voyage. Albert could
n't help often reproachin' me, for he did
so resent the sea, an' I 'd known how
't would be before we sailed ; but I 'd
minded nothin' all the way till then, and
I just crep' back to my cabin an' begun
to cry. They was disappointed about
their ship's cook, an' I 'd cooked for
fo'c's'le an' cabin myself all the way
over ; 't was dreadful hard work, 'spe-
cially in rough weather ; we 'd had head
winds an' a six weeks' voyage. They 'd
acted sort of ashamed o' me when I pled
so to go ashore, an' that hurt my feelin's
most of all. But Albert come below
pretty soon. I 'd never given way so in
my life, an' he begun to act frightened,
and treated me gentle, just as he did
when we was goin' to be married ; an'
when I got over sobbin' he went on deck
an' saw Horace an' talked it over what
they could do ; they really had their duty
to the vessel, and could n't be spared that
day. Horace was real good when he un-
derstood everything, an' he come an' told
me I 'd more than worked my passage,
an' was goin' to do just as I liked now
we was in port. He 'd engaged a cook,
too, that was comin' aboard that mornin',
244
The Queen's Twin.
and he was goin' to send the ship's car-
penter with me, a nice fellow from up
Thomaston way ; he 'd gone to put on
his shore clothes as quick 's he could.
So then I got ready, and we started off
in the small boat and rowed up river.
I was afraid we were too late, but the
tide was setting up very strong, and we
landed an' left the boat to a keeper, and
I run all the way up those great streets
and across a park. 'T was a great day,
with sights o' folks everywhere, but 't was
just as if they was nothin' but wax im-
ages to me. I kep' askin' my way, an'
runnin' on, with the carpenter comin' af-
ter as best he could ; and just as I worked
to the front o' the crowd by the palace
the gates was flung open and out she
came, all prancin' horses and shinin'
gold, and in a beautiful carriage there
she sat : 't was a moment o' heaven to me.
I saw her plain, and she looked right
at me so pleasant and happy, just as if
she knew there was somethin' different
between us from other folks."
There was a moment when the Queen's
Twin could not go on, and neither of her
listeners could ask a question.
" Prince Albert was sitting right be-
side her in the carriage," she continued.
"Oh, he was a beautiful man. Yes,
dear, I saw 'em both together, just as I
see you now ; and then she was gone out
o' sight in another minute, and the com-
mon crowd was all spread over the place,
pushin' an' cheerin'. 'T was some kind
o' holiday, an' the carpenter and I got
separated, an' then I found him again
after I did n't think I should, an' he was
all for makin' a day of it and goin' to
show me all the sights, he 'd been in
London before ; but I did n't want no-
thin* else, an' we went back through the
streets down to the waterside an' took
the boat. I remember I mended an old
coat o' my Albert's as good as I could,
sittin' in the sun on the quarter deck all
that afternoon, and 't was all as if I was
livin' in a lovely dream. I don't know
how to explain it, but there has n't been
no friend I 've felt so near to me ever
since."
One could not say much, only listen.
Mrs. Todd put in a discerning question
now and then, and Mrs. Martin's eyes
shone brighter and brighter as she talked.
What a lovely gift of imagination and
true affection was in this fond old heart !
I looked about the plain New England
kitchen, with its wood-smoked walls, its
homely braided rugs on the worn floor,
and all its simple furnishings. The loud-
ticking clock seemed to encourage us to
speak. At the other side of the room
was an early newspaper portrait of Her
Majesty the Queen of Great Britain and
Ireland. On a shelf below were some
flowers in a little glass dish, as if they
were put before a shrine.
" If I could have had more to read,
I should have known 'most everything
about her," said Mrs. Martin wistfully.
" I Ve made the most of what I did
have, and thought it over and over till
it came clear. I sometimes seem to have
her all my own, as if we 'd lived right
together. I 've often walked out into the
woods alone and told her what my trou-
bles was, and it always seemed as if she
told me 't was all right, an' we must
have patience. I 've got her beautiful
book about the Highlands, 't was dear
Mis' Todd here that found out about her
printing it, and got a copy for me ; and
it 's been a treasure to my heart, just as
if 't was written right to me. I always
read it Sundays now for my Sunday
treat. Before that I used to have to
imagine a good deal ; but when I come
to read her book, I knew what I ex-
pected was all true. We do think alike
about so many things," said the Queen's
Twin, with affectionate certainty. " You
see, there is something between us, being
born just at the same time : 't is what
they call a birthright. She 's had great
tasks put upon her, being the Queen, an'
mine has been the humble lot ; but she 's
done the best she could, nobody can say
to the contrary, and there 's something
The Queen's Twin.
245
between us ; she 's been the great lesson
I 've had to live by. She 's been every-
thing to me. An' when she had her Jubi-
lee, oh, how my heart was with her ! "
" There, 't would n't play the part in
her life it has in mine," said Mrs. Mar-
tin generously, in answer to something
one of her listeners had said. " Some-
times I think, now she 's older, she might
like to know about us. When I think
how few old friends anybody has left at
our age, I suppose it may be just the
same with her as it is with me ; perhaps
she would like to know how we came
into life together. But I 've had a great
advantage in seeing her, an' I can al-
ways fancy her goin' on while she don't
know nothin' yet about me, except
she may feel my love stayin' her heart
sometimes, an' not know just where it
comes from. An' I dream about our
being together out in some pretty fields,
young as ever we was, and holdin' hands
as we walk along. I 'd like to know if
she ever has that dream, too. I used to
have days when I made believe she did
know, an' was comin' to see me," con-
fessed the speaker shyly, with a little
flush on her cheeks, " and I 'd plan what
I could have nice for supper ; and I was
n't goin' to let anybody know she was
here havin' a good rest, except I 'd wish
you, Almira Todd, or dear Mis' Blackett
would happen in, for you 'd know just
how to talk with her. You see, she likes
to be up in Scotland, right out in the
wild country, better than she does any-
where else."
" I 'd really love to take her out to
see mother at Green Island," said Mrs.
Todd, with a sudden impulse.
" Oh yes, I should love to have you,"
answered Mrs. Martin, and then she
began to speak in a lower tone. " One
day I got thinkin' so about my dear
Queen," she said, " an' livin' so in my
thoughts, that I went to work an' got all
ready for her, just as if she was really
comin'. I never told this to a livin' soul
before, but I feel you '11 understand. I
put my best fine sheets and blankets I
spun an' wove myself, on her bed, and
I picked some pretty flowers and put 'em
all round the house ; an' I worked as
hard an' happy as I could all day, and
had as nice a supper ready as I could
get, sort of tellin' myself a story all the
time. She was comin', an' I was goin'
to see her again, an' I kep' it up until
nightfall ; an' when I see the dark an' it
come to me I was all alone, the dream
left me, an' I sat down on the doorstep
an' felt all foolish an' tired. An' if you '11
believe it, I heard steps comin', an' an
old cousin o' mine come wanderin' along,
one I was apt to be shy of. She was n't
all there, as folks used to say, but harm-
less enough, and a kind of poor old talk-
ing body. An' I went right to meet her
when I first heard her call, 'stead o'
hidin', as I sometimes did, an' she come
in dreadful willin', an' we set down to
supper together ; 't was a supper I should
have had no heart to eat alone."
" I don't believe she ever had such a
splendid time in her life as she did then.
I heard her tell all about it afterward ! "
exclaimed Mrs. Todd compassionately.
" There, now I hear all this, it seems just
as if the Queen might have known, and
could n't come herself, so she sent that
poor old creatur' that was always in
need ! "
Mrs. Martin looked timidly at Mrs.
Todd, and then at me. " 'T was childish
o' me to go an' get supper," she con-
fessed.
" I guess you wa'n't the first one to
do that," said Mrs. Todd. " No, I guess
you wa'n't the first one who 's got supper
that way, Abby " and then for a mo-
ment she could say no more.
Mrs. Todd and Mrs. Martin had
moved their chairs a little, so that they
faced each other, and I, at one side,
could see them both.
" No, you never told me o' that before,
Abby," said Mrs. Todd gently. " Don't
it show that, for folks that have any
fancy in 'em, such beautiful dreams is
246
Gaspar of the Black Le Marchands.
the real part o' life ? But to most folks
the common things that happens outside
'em is all in all."
Mrs. Martin did not appear to under-
stand at first, strange to say, when the
secret of her heart was put into words ;
then a glow of pleasure and comprehen-
sion shone upon her face. " Why, I be-
lieve you 're right, Almira ! " she said,
and turned to me.
" Would n't you like to look at my
pictures of the Queen ? " she asked, and
we rose and went into the best room.
V.
The midday visit seemed very short.
September hours are brief to match the
shortening days. The great subject was
dismissed for a while after our visit to
the Queen's pictures, and my companions
spoke much of lesser persons until we
drank the cup of tea which Mrs. Todd
had foreseen. I happily remembered that
the Queen herself is said to like a proper
cup of tea, and this at once seemed to
make her Majesty kindly join so remote
and reverent a company.
Mrs. Martin's thin cheeks took on a
pretty color like a girl's. " Somehow, I
always have thought of her when I made
it extra good," she said. " I 've got a
real china cup that belonged to my
grandmother, and I believe I shall call it
hers now."
" Why don't you ? " responded Mrs.
Todd warmly, with a delightful smile.
Later they spoke of a promised visit
which was to be made in the Indian sum-
mer to the Landing and Green Island ;
but I observed that Mrs. Todd presented
the little parcel of dried herbs, with full
directions, for a cure-all in the spring,
as if there were no real chance of their
meeting again first. As we looked back
from the turn of the road the Queen's
Twin was still standing on the door-
step watching us away, and Mrs. Todd
stopped and stood still for a moment
before she waved her hand again.
" There 's one thing certain, dear,"
she said to me, with great discernment :
" it ain't as if we left her all alone ! "
Then we set out upon our long way
home, over the hill where we lingered
in the afternoon sunshine, and through
the dark woods across the heron swamp.
Sarah Orne Jewett.
GASPAR OF THE BLACK LE MARCHANDS.
THE very heart of the green Acadian
land was Grand Prd, village of apples
and willows. Behind it rose the long,
moderate slopes of Gaspereau Ridge,
blue-patched in summer with blossoming
flax fields, but in late autumn softly crim-
soned with the stalks of the ripening
buckwheat. Past the eastern skirt of
the village ebbed and flowed tumultu-
ously the yellow currents of Gaspereau
stream, filling with noise the red mud
chasm of their channel. In front lay
ou trolled the treasure of Grand Pr,
the fruitful marshes which her dyke-
builders had patiently reclaimed from
the sea. Beyond the marshes, gnawing
with sleepless depredation at the dykes,
rose and fell the huge gray tides of Mi-
nas, the unstable among .waters ; and
beyond Minas stood the looming pur-
ple bastion of Blomidon. West of the
village flourished a thick beech wood,
stretching over toward the mouth of the
river Habitants ; and there by the river,
part of Grand Prd, yet set apart from
her, was the little settlement of the Black
Le Marchands, with its barley and flax
fields hewn from the beech wood, its snug
Gaspar of the Black Le Marchands.
247
acreage of dyke marsh snatched from the
Habitants tide.
The Le Marchand men were dark,
even for Acadians. Unlike their fel-
lows, they were of Basque rather than
Normandy or Picardy blood. Swarthy
of skin, black-haired, black-bearded, and
with heavy coal-black eyebrows meet-
ing over the nose, they well deserved
their name "the Black Le Marchands."
Blackest of all, a Le Marchand of the
Le Marchands, was Gaspar, son of Pi-
erre, save that he went with cheek and
chin clean-shaven, and his eyes, instead
of being black, had the cool, invincible
hue of dark steel. The cottage next the
beech wood, just where the Grand Pre*
trail emerged, was Gaspar's, a low
white cottage, with widely overhanging
eaves, door and window frames stained
to a slate color with a wash of lime and
wood ash, and squat apple trees gathered
about it. Here, with his mother and his
boy brother Pierrot, lived Gaspar, and
kept, as it were, the gates of the Le Mar-
chands. Young though he was, but
two and twenty, his level eyes and vis-
ibly resolute mouth made him much of a
force among his kinsmen.
The red after light of autumn sun-
set, shooting low over the tide and the
marshes, poured into the west windows
of the cottage and dimmed the blaze on
the great kitchen hearth. The smooth
dark wood of the walls and the low ceil-
ing warmly reflected it. It lit the bunches
of herbs and strings of onions hanging
from the beams. .It played cheerily
over the polished crockery yellow and
brown and blue and gray on the
dresser shelves. It threw a pinkish flush
on the sanded floor, and on the well-
whitened table whereat sat Gaspar and
Pierrot. It laughed upon the happy,
expectant face of the boy, whose eyes
were intent on his mother, as she bent
her broad, homespun-clad form over the
pot swung in the fireplace ; but upon
Gaspar's face it only brought out the
lines of anxious annoyance.
There was no sound in the kitchen
but the crisp sputtering of the hot lard
in the pot. Mistress Le Marchand dex-
terously dipped out a dish of little brown
crescent-shaped cakes, steaming and sa-
vory to smell. Carrying them to the
dresser, she dusted them with powdered
maple sugar. There she left them, the
loadstone of Pierrot's eyes, while from
two covered dishes by the fire she fetched
a baked shad and a pile of hot barley
cakes. This portion of the meal was to
be dealt with before Pierrot should be
let loose upon the hot cookies. She
seated herself opposite her two sons, and
her round, hot, gentle face turned beam-
ing from one to the other ; but it grew
troubled at Gaspar's gloom.
" What is it ? " she asked in the old Nor-
mandy dialect which prevailed among the
Acadians.
" The Black Abbe* ! " answered Gas-
par sententiously, breaking his barley
cake into a bowl of milk.
" Well, and what of him, Gaspar ? "
inquired the dame mildly.
" Just this, mother," said the young
man, looking up, his black brows one
straight frown across his face : " he is
in Grand Pre, and on his way to see
me, according to what I have just heard
from yellow Ba'tiste at the ferry."
" But but what can the good father
want with you, my son ? " asked the
mother tremulously.
" You call him good to ward off his
evil, mother," replied Gaspar, with a
short laugh. " Well, it 's no harm to
try. But I fear he has heard I am not
hot enough against the English to suit
him. No knowing what he may have
heard. There is like to be trouble for
us out of this visit ! "
" Oh, don't anger him, my son ! "
pleaded his mother, growing white and
worried.
" Why are you not hot against the
English, Gaspar ? " asked Pierrot in a
tone of rebuke. " Are they not our en-
emies ? Have they not trampled us
248
Gaspar of the Black Le Marchands.
down, and torn us from our own king ?
Are we not French, Gaspar ? "
" You don't know what you are talk-
ing about, boy ! " retorted Gaspar, with
the wonted gentle patience of the elder
brother.
" Don't I ! " cried the lad indignant-
ly, his eyes flaming. " Oh, but when I
am old enough I won't stay here, grub-
grub-grubbing ; but I '11 go to Quebec
and fight for France, for King Louis,
and for the Golden Lilies."
A rare smile softened the harshness
of Gaspar's face.
" I spoke in haste, because I am trou-
bled," said he. " Only a brief while
back I thought as you do now, Pierrot ;
and I like your spirit, too. But look !
Years ago France sold us to the Eng-
lish, to purchase peace ! We belong to
England. These years she has ruled us
better than we were ever ruled before,
and we have prospered ; nevertheless, we
have been forever troublesome and a
thorn in her side."
" I should hope so ! " interrupted Pi-
errot scornfully.
" But she has been patient and never
punished us, and let us have our own
way ; and we have waxed fat under her
care. You and I, Pierrot, are born un-
der the English flag ! Consider that.
It is hard to see one's duty clearly.
Think of what the Black Abbe* has made
us do, things to make us ashamed of
the name of Frenchmen ! Think of the
massacre of sleeping women and children
at Dartmouth ! Think of the good and
brave Howe, murdered by La Game's
savages under a flag of truce ! "
The boy was taken aback for a mo-
ment ; then he cried passionately, " One
bad priest could not make me turn against
my country ! "
" I say, now, it is hard to know what
is our country," said Gaspar, earnest in
his argument. " We are born English,
some will say. Yet we are surely not
English. France we love, but she cast
us off, and now tries to make a cat's-paw
of us, or else forgets us and leaves us
to the mercies of Quebec. Oh, Quebec !
There 's rottenness for you. You don't
want to go there, Pierrot. There, New
France is being betrayed, murdered.
There, Bigot, the great thief, the prince
of cheats, fattens himself and his crew on
the people, and sucks his country's blood.
The people are crushed with wicked
taxes, Pierrot. They groan and starve
there. And then look at us, the English
ruling us, and plenty in our houses, and
no misery save what Quebec and the
Black Abb make for us. Look at it,
Pierrot. No, it is clear we have no coun-
try, we, save this good, kindly Acadian
land. Let us be true to Acadie."
The door behind the speaker opened
suddenly.
" A very proper sentiment, if proper-
ly understood, Gaspar Le Marchand,"
came a strident, authoritative voice, and
a lean figure in a black cassock upgirt
for marching strode into the room. The
face of the newcomer, though almost
grotesque by reason of its long, bulbous-
tipped nose, was never known to excite
derision. The chin and mouth were too
fanatically domineering, too much of
power spoke in the bitter, narrow-set,
piercing pale eyes, to make pleasantry
easy for the bravest.
Mistress Le Marchand sprang up in
a flutter, ran around the table, sank on
her knees, and besought a blessing.
Rather doubtfully, Pierrot followed his
mother's example. But Gaspar merely
arose, bowed respectfully, and asked the
visitor to be seated.
" I heard that you were on your way
hither, sir," said he, "and in part ex-
pected that you might honor us."
" A guilty conscience, I fear," replied
the grim priest, dismissing the woman
and the boy with a somewhat perfunc-
tory benediction. " I will not sit down
in your house, Gaspar Le Marchand, till
I know if it be the house of a loyal man."
" Be seated, then, Father La Game,"
said Gaspar, with a cool civility. " My
Gaspar of the Black Le Marchands.
249
conscience is at ease, I confessed to
good Father Fafard last Sunday ; and I
am a loyal man according to my lights."
La Game's lips became thin with an-
ger, and his voice took on a menacing
edge.
" Hark you ! " said he. " You speak
well of the English, and ill of the au-
thorities at Quebec. Is this true ? "
" Would you have me speak well of
Monsieur the Intendant, sir ? " asked
Gaspar, unsmiling, but with irony under
his tongue.
" Speak of him not at all, then,"
snapped La Game. " But what of the
other charge ? "
" I must confess, sir, I have remarked
upon the forbearance of these English,
and upon their moderate rule," answered
Gaspar firmly.
The Black Abbe* looked at him with
a long, silent scrutiny, under which Pi-
errot trembled and Mistress Le Mar-
chand began to sob. But Gaspar's black
brows took it serenely.
" So much an enemy may concede,"
said La Game at last, in a voice grown
smooth, as was ever his wont when most
dangerous. "But you are young, and
not yet quite resolute to follow the path
of duty, my son. I must strengthen you,
I perceive. You must choose here, now,
between France and England."
" Under what compulsion, sir ? " asked
Gaspar, very civilly, though a flush
glowed under the swart tan of his face.
"Do you need to ask, my young
friend ? " inquired La Game, almost ten-
derly, but still standing. " My faithful
Micmacs are with me. Remember how
difficult it is, at times, to restrain their
zeal for France, their rage against trai-
tors. Beaubassin, luckless village, de-
fied them and alas, Beaubassin is not !
This is a pleasant home of yours, my son.
It were pity, indeed, if they should turn
their zealous indignation against this
house. Yet a lesson would not be amiss
in these parts ! "
There was dead silence for a moment
in the room ; then Gaspar Le Marchand
laughed aloud. La Game eyed him with
angry amazement.
" I can see a corner," said Gaspar,
" when I am in it ! "
"What do you mean?" asked La
Game curtly. He liked not riddles
save of his own propounding.
" I had hoped but to till my fields here,
and not meddle," replied Gaspar, with an
air of resignation. " But since I must
choose, I have chosen. Even if I loved
the English, which I don't ; even if I
were cold toward France, which I am
not, my choice would be the same. I
am for France, sir." The Black Abbe*
sat down ; but Gaspar continued : "I
am for France, of a surety. Your arm,
Father La Game, is long and nimble.
The arm of the English governor at Hal-
ifax is not so long, and it moves very
slowly. Nevertheless, it may be long
enough to reach you, sir, some day. Re-
port says it gropes for you very zeal-
ously."
"You have chosen with discretion,"
said La Game ; " but the manner of your
choice is something lacking in the rever-
ence due to your superiors. It were well
to amend that, perhaps."
Gaspar promptly seated himself, and
fixed his cool gray eyes on the eyes of
the priest.
" Do not push me too hard," said he
significantly. " You have now my obe-
dience. Do not demand what it may
be difficult for me to give."
" You are right ! " exclaimed this
singular Churchman, springing up, and
speaking with evident sincerity. " Your
obedience is necessary for the cause ; your
reverence, that would be to me as a
man. Who am I that I should demand
it ? I am but the humble instrument."
His, eyes gleamed with a fanatical bril-
liancy. " But look you, Gaspar Le Mar-
chand," he went on, drawing himself up
and stretching out his arm solemnly,
" this land of Acadie shall again shine
among the rich jewels of the crown of
250
Gaspar of the Black Le Marchands.
France; and this hand of mine, mark
you, this hand of mine shall place it
there!"
With this he strode to the door, and a
look of deep relief came upon the coun-
tenances of his hearers. But at the door
he stopped. He turned. He came back
to the table. His whole demeanor had
changed. His mouth wore a smile of
caustic irony.
" I was forgetting," said he, " the chief
part of my purpose. Your conversion,
my son (upon which I had counted, in-
deed), was perhaps something sudden.
I will fortify you in it. You shall sig-
nally serve France, and that at once."
Gaspar bowed his readiness, betraying
neither anxiety nor reluctance. He was
not one to spoil a gift by grudging.
" A band of my faithful followers will
set out to-night for the Isthmus," con-
tinued La Game, scrutinizing Gaspar's
face. " They go on a grave enterprise,
of great moment to the fortunes of this
land, and they will be strengthened by
your presence. You shall go with them,
my son, that I may thereafter feel as-
sured of you."
" And the enterprise ? " asked Gaspar.
"There are some English settlers to
be discouraged," answered La Game
grimly. " You will know more when the
time comes, my son. You will clothe
yourself and paint yourself as an Indian,
of course. Be ready at moonrise."
" It is not war, this," protested the
young man.
" What have we to do with war ? "
sneered the visitor. " It is victory we
need ! Are you with us or against us,
Gaspar Le Marchand ? "
" I will be ready," replied Gaspar,
with indifference ; and the Black Abbs',
turning abruptly, departed without a
word.
" Eat your supper, Pierrot," ordered
Gaspar. " I have work for you." And
the boy, with a white and frightened face,
did as he was bidden. Gaspar went on
with his meal in silence, his black brows
lowering over his eyes. His mother sat
sobbing.
" Oh, my boy, my Gaspar, you will be
killed ! " she exclaimed brokenly, after
a few minutes.
" Nonsense, mother ! It 's not that,"
said the young man. " There 's no dan-
ger for me."
" What is it, then, Gaspar ? " she
asked, drying her eyes.
He looked at her in wonder.
"It means," he answered presently,
" that some harmless English settlers are
to be murdered in their beds by the Black
Abbe"s red devils, and that / am to take
a hand in it, in order that it may be im-
possible for me ever after to expect any
mercy from Halifax."
" Why do you go, then ? " demanded
the boy indignantly, his ardor for France
much diminished.
" Because," replied Gaspar, " rather
those strangers than my mother and my
brother. La Game and his power are
here. If I defied him, this house would
be ashes and you homeless, perhaps
worse, this very night. Slow, slow and
stupid are the English," he went on,
flaming into sudden anger. " Why do
they not shield those of us who wish to
live at peace and obey their laws ? We
are ground to dust between the upper
and the lower stone. Let them look to
themselves. Nevertheless, I will warn
them. Slip you out, now, Pierrot, down
back of the barn and into the cover of
the wood ; and run, run your best to
Father Fafard. Tell him to get word
to the English at Piziquid that a raid is
afoot against one of the English settle-
ments. Vite ! "
The boy, pleased at the weighty er-
rand, was off noiselessly in a moment,
despite his mother's tearful attempt to
stop him.
" He 's like a shadow. Don't be
afraid, mother," said the elder brother
reassuringly, hasting to finish his meal.
" Come and eat, for there 's much to be
done after."
Gaspar of the Black Le Marchands.
251
Late that night, when the moon, shape-
less and withering, crept up over the
fringed line of the beech woods, the
Black Abbe' came again to the door of
Gaspar's cottage. He was met in silence
by a painted, leathern-leggined young
warrior, whose steady eyes met his with
a cold, gray gleam. La Game was too
hot a fanatic, too dominant and domi-
neering, to be a discerner of men's
minds. He was satisfied with his taci-
turn consort.
" Come," he said, leading the way to
the river, where the canoes lay at the
brink of the full tide.
The night fell dark over the marshes
of Main-a-Dieu. The half dozen new
cottages of the English settlers showed
no glimmer of candlelight from their
windows. Secure in the neighborhood
of Fort Lawrence, not ten miles distant,
and happy in the fertility of their new
lands, proved by the rich harvest just
garnered, the settlers slept the sound
sleep of those who rise at dawn to work
with their hands.
The raiding party had made their
journey from Grand Prd, by canoe and
trail, in three days. Haste was not ur-
gent, or they might have done it in less
time. It wanted some hours of moon-
rise when they came upon the first rail
fence of the Main-a-Dieu fields.
Gaspar's heart sank as he perceived
that there had been no warning, that
Pierrot's errand to Father Fafard had
been in vain. A minute more and the
cabins were surrounded, with no sound
but here and there a hushed rustling,
like the wind among dead leaves. A dog
barked, but the bark ended abruptly in a
whining sob.
Then, in three or four places, little
flickers of flame appeared, punctuating
the dark. In a second the rolls of white
birch bark flared up vividly, and were
set to stack and barn. At the same in-
stant every door was beaten in, windows
went to pieces with a shivering crash,
and the cruel yell of the Micmacs, wolf-
ish, appalling, rose over the sudden
glare, wavered in long-drawn cadence,
and stopped. After what seemed to
Gaspar an interminably prolonged si-
lence, shrieks, oaths, and shouting broke
out within the cabins.
At first he had stood inactive, sick
with pity and impotence ; but at this
first sign of living humanity in the dark
cottages Gaspar made up his mind what
to do. The largest of the houses was
just before him. Springing through the
open door, he stumbled over two prone
and writhing figures in the passage. The
glare from the stacks showed him a
painted Micmac and a white man in his
shirt, locked in a death grip. This was
no affair of his. He slipped past, dart-
ed up a narrow stairway, and found him-
self before two doors, one open and one
shut. To the shut one he turned, with
a flash of thought that here, perhaps, he
might be in time.
The door was bolted, but snapped
open as his shoulder surged against it ;
and he paused upon the threshold.
The little room was brilliantly alight
from a blaze of hay just before the win-
dow. Against one wall was a low bed.
He had a vision of a young girl starting
up from the pillow, her great eyes wide
with fear, her face whitely gleaming from
a wild glory of red-gold hair. A cry
froze on her lips, and she clutched at
the blankets as if to try to hide some
small form that lay between her and the
wall.
At this moment, another door, oppo-
site to Gaspar, burst open, and a savage
darted in. His fierce black eyes fell on
the bed, and with a whoop he pounced
forward, scalping knife in hand. The
girl cowered, shuddering, and hid her
face.
But Gaspar was there as soon as the
savage. With his left hand he caught
the uplifted wrist, and the stroke never
fell. Under the raised arm his long knife
shot home to the hilt, driven hotly. The
252
Gaspar of the Black Le Marchands.
redskin dropped, with a deep, gasping
grunt.
Gaspar rolled the limp body under the
bed. The girl, who had looked up in
time to see the end of the swift encoun-
ter, was gazing at him in bewilderment.
" Quick, mademoiselle ! Get up !
Come ! There '11 be others here on the
instant ! " He ordered sharply, thrust-
ing into her hands a heavy woolen skirt
which lay on a chair near by.
She had her wits about her in a mo-
ment.
" No," she answered. " Save him if
you can ! " and pulling aside the cover-
ings she showed him a rosy child asleep
beside her.
Caspar's jaw set like iron.
" Jesu-Marie ! " he vowed between his
teeth, " I will save you both. But it will
be hard! Come! Come!" And has-
tily rolling the little one in the blanket,
he snatched him up and turned to the
door by which he had entered. The
girl, meanwhile, had slipped small white
feet into the shoes which lay by the bed,
thrown on the skirt deftly, flung a quilt
over her head and shoulders, and was at
his side without a further word. Even
in that desperate moment Gaspar gloried
in her self-control.
"How our women would have been
shrieking ! " he said to himself.
The bundle on his left arm began to
squirm awkwardly, and muffled cries
came from within it. He turned, and
thrust it into the girl's arms.
" Keep him quiet ! " he muttered,
though in truth there seemed little need
of silence, for the red night was one qua-
vering horror of yells, shrieks, and curses,
penetrated sharply with a musket shot
now and then. As the girl took the child
a brief lull in the uproar let her hear deep
groans from a neighboring room.
" Oh, that is my uncle's room ! " she
gasped, beginning to tremble violently,
and leaning against the wall. But in a
second she was firm again, and followed
steadily with the child in her arms.
At the foot of the stairs opened a
small, windowless closet ; and into this,
perceiving the approach of several sav-
ages by the front door, Gaspar pushed
his charges. He took his stand in the
entrance, leaning indifferently against
the doorpost. His musket, hitherto un-
used, its one charge guarded for a su-
preme emergency, rested in his left arm.
His right hand lay on the handle of his
sheathed knife.
" Huh ? " grunted the foremost sav-
age inquiringly, while the others passed
on. He peered over Gaspar's shoulder
into the thick shadows of the closet.
Then he attempted to push past, but the
young man's elbow, jerked forward un-
gently, balked him. The savage grunt-
ed again with resentment, and half raised
his hatchet ; but Gaspar's cold gaze made
him hesitate.
" My business, brother ! Go on ! " was
the curt command ; and after an angry
pause the redskin followed his fellows up
the stairs.
The moment he disappeared Gaspar
turned, clutched the girl's arm, and
dragged her at a run out of the door, into
the lurid street. There he paused ; and
they walked, as if there were no need of
haste, straight down the middle of the
street. A savage in the doorway oppo-
site eyed them curiously, but, not recog-
nizing Gaspar in his war paint, supposed
his brother savage knew his business.
Then three yelling redskins ran past,
hard on the heels of a half -naked and un-
armed white man, who fled with chalk
face and mad eyes of horror. As they
passed, one of the redskins aimed a slash
at the girl with his knife ; but his arm
was caught by Gaspar with a wrench that
nearly snapped it, and with a cry of pain
and astonishment he ran on, not stop-
ping to investigate the mystery.
A minute more and the fugitives found
themselves opposite a lane which led
down between some burning outbuildings
to a spur of thick woodland. Here they
turned ; but as they did so two savages
Gaspar of the Black Le Marchands.
253
stepped out from the nearest house, to
which they had set fire, and stood square-
ly in their path. Simultaneously they
caught at the bundle in the girl's arms.
But quick as a flash Gaspar swept her
behind him.
" Mine ! " said he curtly and coolly,
warning them off with a gesture. " Have
a care, brothers."
" Huh ! Chief Cope say no captives
this time ! " said one of the savages,
while the other stood irresolute.
" But /say captives," rejoined Gaspar
in a haughty voice. " If Chief Cope ob-
jects, he can talk to me by and by. I
am Gaspar Le Marchand, and am mind-
ing my business. Go you about yours,
brothers."
The two savages looked at each other,
and then at Gaspar's steady eyes con-
fronting them.
" We want our share, brother," grum-
bled the spokesman.
" You shall have that, the scalp
money ! " replied Gaspar, with a sneer.
" One livre tournois to each of you I
will pay. Come to me for it, at Grand
Pre*, when you will."
" How we know ? The French lie,
sometimes, eh what ? " objected the sav-
age.
" The Black Le Marchands don't lie,"
answered Gaspar sternly. " I will pay
you. Go ! "
And they went, judging this French-
man one ill to thwart. Gaspar fetched
a deep breath of relief as he led the girl
with her silent burden down the lane,
safe out of the glaring exposure of the
street. The heat was stifling as they
passed between the blazing sheds, but
he judged the worst of the peril was be-
hind him. From a noticeable change
in the character of the shouts and yells
which still rent the air, he knew that
certain supplies of potent New England
rum had been discovered, and that for a
time the raiders would have other things
than dry pursuit to think of.
But he congratulated himself too soon.
One pair of vindictive eyes, at least, had
seen him turn into the lane, and had been
concerned that Chief Cope's order, " All
scalps ; no captives," should be enforced.
The girl's quick ear caught a footfall
behind her. She glanced back, and sud-
den as light swung herself, with a warn-
ing cry, around in front of her protector.
Gaspar wheeled in his tracks and faced
a huge savage, whose knife dripped blood
still steaming.
For several seconds the two eyed each
other in silence. But Gaspar could not
waste time.
" I don't want to kill you ! " said he,
no longer cool and masterful, but begin-
ning to lose himself in rage. " Don't
interfere with me. Be off ! "
Losing control of himself, he lost con-
trol of his opponent.
" Ugh ! " snarled the savage. " Aca-
dian no good ! " and made a lightning
pass at him. But Gaspar had the eye
and hand which work quicker than the
brain can order them. Ere that stroke
formed itself he swerved lithely, and the
muzzle of his musket, shooting upward,
caught the redskin just below the chin.
His head and both hands flew up ; and
as he staggered backward Gaspar swung
the butt in a short circle so that it fetched
him terrifically in the ribs.
" That fellow will not trouble us any
further," he explained to the girl, as he
eyed the painted heap in the gutter.
Less than a minute more and they were
within the shadow of the ancient woods.
The girl sank, half fainting, at the foot
of a tree, but Gaspar pulled her to her
feet.
" No, no," he muttered sternly, " you
must not break down now ! You have
been wonderful, wonderfully brave and
strong, mademoiselle ; but you must keep
it up. We may be followed. We must
get away this instant ! "
" Yes, I will be strong. I will do any-
thing you bid me, sir," she answered,
leaning upon him for a moment, but still
firmly clutching the child, who mean-
254
Gaspar of the Black Le Marchands.
while had got his little yellow head from
the smother of blanket, and was watch-
ing Gaspar with round, blue, wondering
eyes.
" I '11 carry him now," said Gaspar ;
and the little fellow came to him readi-
ly, laughing, and rubbing the paint from
his cheek with delighted fingers.
" You take the musket," he continued.
" Could you use it at need, mademoiselle
or not madame ? "
" No, not madame," she answered, the
faintest color returning to her white
cheek. " He is my little cousin, alas,
an orphan now, as I have been since a
child like him ! But as for this," and
she examined the musket with a brave
face, " yes, I can use it, sir ; and will
fight beside you, if you will let me. But
how do you come to be among those
fiends, and painted as one of them ? Oh
no, why do I ask questions, instead
of just thanking God on my knees that
you were among them ! "
She knelt, but was up again ere Gas-
par could bid her take a more convenient
season for her devotions. Through the
woods they pressed breathlessly, till first
the babel behind them died out, and at
last the glare of the burning grew dim ;
and then, with the earliest rose of dawn,
they came out upon the marshes, and
saw, not half a league away, the low ram-
parts of Fort Lawrence.
As they journeyed, now at an easier
pace, Gaspar 's eyes could not keep them-
selves from the strangely clad but wholly
bewildering figure at his side. Her calm,
her marvelous courage, the confidence
of her white, fine-chiseled face, the won-
der of her hair aglow in the early light,
were a revelation of unguessed woman-
hood to him. His brain fumed with a
thousand plans, but his tongue was wise-
ly dumb.
At last they reached the foot of a gen-
tle slope, some half mile from the fort
gates ; and here Gaspar stopped.
" I will watch you safely in, made-
moiselle," said he, putting the child back
into her arms and taking his musket.
" But "
"My name is Ruth, sir," she inter-
rupted. " You have not asked it, but I
hope you will remember it a little while.
Ruth Allison, sir."
Gaspar's gray eyes flamed upon her,
and his speech grew stammering.
" Ruth I mean mademoiselle," he
cried "I will not go up to the fort
now, because I should be detained for
explanations, and I must make the ut-
most haste back to Grand Pre*. I must
get my house sold, and take my mother
and young brother to a place of safety,
before the Black Abbe gets wind of my
part in this night's work. Then I must
see you again, mademoiselle, to ask if
you if you and the little one who
seems to love me, I think are recov-
ered after these horrors. You will stay
here, will you not ? And I may come,
may I not ? "
" Surely, I should be grieved indeed
if your interest in those you have saved
were not enough to bring you, sir," she
answered simply. " And for your no-
ble courage, your splendid Oh, sir,
how can I find words for such gener-
osity ? God will surely reward you ! "
" I pray, mademoiselle," said Gaspar
in a low voice, turning to go, " that you
will not leave my reward altogether to
God."
Charles G. D. Roberts.
The Indian on the Reservation.
255
THE INDIAN ON THE RESERVATION.
WHEN an Indian tribe had given up
fighting, surrendered to the whites, and
taken up a reservation life, its position
was that of a group of men in the stone
age of development, suddenly brought
into contact with modern methods, and
required on the instant to renounce all
they had ever been taught and all they
had inherited ; to alter their practices
of life, their beliefs, and their ways of
thought; and to conform to manners
and ways representing the highest point
reached by civilization. It is beyond the
power of our imagination to grasp the
actual meaning to any people of such
a condition of things. History records
no similar case with which we can com-
pare it. And if it is hard for us to com-
prehend such a situation, what must it
have been for the savage to understand
it, and, still more, to act it out ?
On no two reservations was life pre-
cisely the same, yet on all of them it
was the same in this : that it was differ-
ent from old times ; that the people no
longer came and went at their own plea-
sure, but were confined by metes and
bounds, and were subject to the orders
of persons whom they themselves had
not chosen to obey as chiefs. With
the irksomeness of confinement came a
change in physical conditions and health.
The toils of the warpath and the hunt-
ing trail had ceased. Men who had
been active in all the ordinary pursuits
of their earlier life had now no occupa-
tion. They took no exercise, but sat
about grieving over the good old times
which were gone, and brooding over the
present.
Cut off from their old free life of
roving hunters, the Indians were forced
to endure an existence without interest
or occupation, and to see their people,
old and young, dying about them faster
than they had ever died in former days.
They saw before them no prospect save
of an indefinite continuance of the same
state of things. They had nothing to
look forward to nor anything to hope
for. They were like men sentenced to
life imprisonment, with blank walls all
about them, walls which they could
never hope to pass. Yet, as the years
went by, the Indians grew more or less
accustomed to these miseries and felt
them less acutely, though to the older
men and women memory still made life
a bitter thing. But the people came to
regard the hardships as unavoidable, and
accepted them with a sad stoicism as a
part of the new and incomprehensible
situation.
The Indians had been brought to a
reservation and were to be civilized. Let
us see how they were handled, what
sort of men were set to instruct these
grown-up children ; to persuade, to urge,
and to command them to do white men's
work ; to perform the difficult and deli-
cate task of changing wild savages and
roaming hunters to civilized laborers.
To be successful, such work calls for in-
finite patience and tact, together with
the constant realization that the tasks
required of these people are wholly new
and uncomprehencled by them. Before
they can perform them, they must under-
stand why and how their work is to be
done.
It is obvious that the Indians can be
taught the white man's ways only by
actual contact with white men, and that
this contact can be had only with those
living on the reservation to which the
Indians are confined. Such white men
are the employees of the Indian Bureau
and the missionaries.
The task of civilizing the Indians
really depends almost wholly upon the
agent who is set over them. He repre-
sents the Great Father; he alone has
256
The Indian on the Reservation.
authority. It is for him to explain to
them the benefits of toil, to reward the
industrious, to punish the refractory, to
encourage the unsuccessful, and to direct
the ambitious. He can lead the tribe
to see that work is necessary, and can
induce them to work ; or he can let the
Indians take their own way, and face
their problems without assistance. If
he has enthusiasm for his work and a
real desire to see the people advance, he
can infuse into them some part of his
own energy, and make them believe that
actual benefits to themselves and to their
children will follow their efforts.
An Indian agent has absolute control
of affairs on his reservation, subject
only to the approval of the Department
of the Interior at Washington, which
two or three times a year may send out
an inspector to look after him. His po-
sition is one of great responsibility, for
he has to administer a business repre-
senting each year from $50,000 to
$200,000. His power on the reserva-
tion is more nearly absolute than any-
thing else that we in this country know
of. He has not the authority to order
out his Indians to instant execution, but
in practice this is the only power that he
does not possess. Over property, liberty,
and the actions of every-day life he has
absolute authority. No Indian can re-
ceive food, no Indian can obtain a tool,
no Indian can live in his home, unless
the agent is willing. He holds in the
hollow of his hand the welfare of the
tribe and of each one of its individuals.
The man who bears these responsibil-
ities and is clothed with these powers
over his fellow men should be of high
character and good abilities, such a one
as would be chosen for the manager of
a considerable business. He should feel
the responsibility of his position, and not
be satisfied merely to get along as easily
as possible and to draw his salary regu-
larly. The good agent really stands in
the relation of a parent toward his In-
dians ; and as a father instructs, punishes,
and rewards his children, so the agent
should firmly, but kindly, govern the peo-
ple who are under him. They recognize
this relation, and often speak of the
agent as their father. In the ordinary
pursuits of life, a man qualified by train-
ing and temperament for such a place
would receive a good salary ; he ought
to receive it here, at least thrice the
pittance that is now paid to Indian
agents. Such a man ought to be re-
tained in office so long as he would re-
main, and should not be turned out with
the coming in of each new administra-
tion.
But the Indian service long consti-
tuted an important part of the spoils
which until recently belonged wholly to
the victors in the political contest. The
position of agent is still a part of these
spoils, and at present most of the of-
fices are portioned out to the Senators
and Congressmen of the various states.
There are a few army officers acting as
Indian agents, among whom there has
rarely been one who was incompetent,
but a large share of the civilian offi-
cials have been political appointees, minor
ward or county politicians who obtain
the office as a reward for vote-getting,
or else " good fellows " who have failed
in every business that they have under-
taken, and now fall back on this place for
a living. Men of this class cannot be
expected to care for their people ; often
they are concerned only for their pay
and their perquisites. Perhaps, in a
vague way, they advise the Indians " to
follow the white man's road," and then
leave them to find out for themselves
what that road is and whither it leads.
Some Indian agents are men of high
character, but none are well paid; for
they receive only from $1500 to $2000
per annum, small compensation for the
never ending worries and detail of their
position, to say nothing of the isolation
of life at an Indian agency. The un-
wisdom of paying so poorly men who
have such important work to do has long
The Indian on the Reservation.
257
been understood, and many years ago,
during President Grant's administration,
some of the religious denominations, to
which the control of the Indians had
been intrusted, chose as Indian agents
men fitted for the task, and themselves
added to the government salary a fur-
ther compensation from their own funds.
The position of Indian agent is one
full of annoyances, full of temptations.
He should be a man of patience and
shrewdness, kindly yet firm ; a man of
character, absolutely truthful. He must
be willing to make over and over again
the same elaborate explanations of the
simplest matters ; to resist attempts to
impose on or to frighten him ; to take a
decided stand and never recede from it ;
to incur the lasting hostility of the white
men, Indians, and men of mixed blood
who received special favors from the pre-
vious agent, and, who now expect the same
from him. Most agents appear to ima-
gine that their position is one which calls
especially for office work, and much of
their time, therefore, is spent in the of-
fice, overseeing the making out of pa-
pers ; giving out orders for flour, sugar,
coffee, sacks, and other things requested
by the Indians ; acting, in fact, much
like a retail country storekeeper. The
truth is that an agent should spend the
greater part of his time in the saddle
or in his wagon, traveling about among
his people ; learning the personality of
each ; finding out how each family lives,
what improvements the man has made
on his place, what property he has, how
he is taking care of it and what us.e he
is putting it to. The agent thus learns
what each man requires and how far he
is deserving. He also appears to his
Indians to be taking an active interest
in their welfare and to be more or less
in sympathy with them ; and there is no-
thing that an Indian appreciates more,
nothing which is to him a stronger incen-
tive to try to do well, than the exhibition
of such sympathy.
The agent is assisted by a force of
VOL. LXXXIII. NO. 496. 17
clerks, farmers, and other employees,
each of whom is brought into closest con-
tact with the Indians, and thus may wield
a tremendous influence for good or for
evil. These men, as a rule, take their
tone from the agent. If he is energetic
and enthusiastic, they follow his lead at
the pace he sets. If he is rough, brutal,
and profane in his dealing with the In-
dians, they are so too. If he is dishon-
est, they are dishonest. If he is weak,
a stronger man soon gains an ascendency
over him, and becomes practically the
ruling power on the reservation. Often
the clerks appear to regard it as an impo-
sition that they have to attend to the In-
dians' wants, and are harsh in their in-
tercourse with them, cursing them freely
and treating them with the greatest in-
dignity. Often, too, the agency farmers,
whose immediate duty it is to instruct
the people in the pursuits of civilization,
do anything rather than that. They
potter about the agency, or they are
stablemen, or they work in the black-
smith shop, or put up new buildings, or
paint and whitewash old ones, or spend
much of their time at the butchering
and the issue, do anything, in fact, ex-
cept to teach the Indians farming and
oversee their work.
The United States army has given
us by far the best class of men who have
ever held the position of Indian agents ;
they have usually had a training in mil-
itary business, and work on a system;
they have no private ends to serve, and
no affiliations with the white population
adjacent to the reservation. When de-
tailed to the service, they go to the posts
assigned them to do their duty as they
understand it ; that duty being to make
the Indians self-supporting and civilized,
to protect them from white aggression,
and, in general, to govern them accord-
ing to the principles of justice and right.
This view is different from that held by
the average Indian agent, and so the
work done by army officers is very dif-
ferent from that of most civilians, and
258
The Indian on the Reservation.
very much better. Among the civilians
are notable exceptions to the rule, a
few men who have done work that could
hardly have been excelled ; but for all
that such men are the exceptions; the
rule remains. Among the army officers,
on the other hand, a careless or incompe-
tent agent is rare.
First and last, much has been done
for the Indians by missionaries sent out
by the various denominations. Many
are earnest men who try hard to do their
whole duty by the Indians ; but as mis-
sionaries, after all, are only men, some of
them are careless, lazy, and inefficient,
while a considerable portion lack any
understanding of how to handle men.
Of the least efficient among them it may
be said that if they do no good, they at
least do little harm, while there are
many whose services to Christianity and
to civilization are very great. I have
in mind an army chaplain whose work
among some Indians who incidentally
came within the sphere of his influence
was so effective that it will never be for-
gotten by them. The man was a true
follower of the Master, and instead of
attempting at once to force upon the
Indians the acceptance of religious doc-
trines, he showed them only sympathy
and friendliness. When he had won
their good will, they readily gave ear to
the simple religious precepts that he
taught. Admirable missionary work is
done, too, by the Roman Catholic priests
and sisters who are stationed on many
of the Western reservations. They ac-
complish in a silent, unsuspected way a
great deal of good.
It may obviously be objected to all
purely religious work among the Indi-
ans that it is caring for the soul before
the body is cared for. It is hard for a
man to pray with a good heart when he
is hungry, nor is it easy to concentrate
the attention on the doctrine of the Trin-
ity when his little ones are crying for
food. Before the Indian can be Chris-
tianized he must be civilized and taught
how to earn his living; after he has
learned this lesson, and has acquired
some of the mental habits of civilized
people, the ground will have been pre-
pared for the sowing of the seeds of re-
ligion.
There is a practical form of missionary
work, seldom seen, which cannot be too
highly applauded. I have seen it prac-
ticed on the Blackfoot reservation by
the Rev. E. S. Dutcher. This good man
preaches on Sunday to those who come
to hear him in the little church which
his own hands built, and on other days
of the week he takes his tools for he
has learned the carpenter's trade and
goes about over the reservation, helping
the Indians to hang the doors and set the
window frames in their houses, or to set
the fence posts and stretch the wire for
their pasture fences. Often his wife goes
with him ; and while hje works out of
doors with the men, she is busy within,
teaching the women how to bake good
bread or make the family clothing. Mis-
sionary work such as this, where practi-
cal religion is made a part of the daily
life, and soul and mind and body are
cared for at once, accomplishes lasting
results.
For many years good people have
been endeavoring to devise plans which
should at once transform the Indian
from a rover and a warrior to a sedentary
laborer. Men of various trades and pro-
fessions, from the soldier to the theolo-
gian, have studied the Indian problem,
and many different methods have been
suggested for rendering the wild man
civilized and self-supporting. The, au-
thor of each has had most perfect con-
fidence that his remedy was the one cer-
tain to cure all ills brought to the In-
dians by contact with the white man.
Some of these projects have had fair
trial ; yet the progress of the race has
not been so rapid as to justify the faith
that any of these means of civilization
except when engineered with unusual
energy and wisdom would do the work
The Indian on the Reservation.
259
claimed for it, while in some cases the
experiments have brought disaster to the
Indians.
The sincerity and earnestness of a
majority of such philanthropists cannot
be doubted, but in all their reasoning
about Indians there has been one point
of weakness : they had no personal know-
ledge of the inner life of the people they
were trying to help. Their theories ap-
pear to have assumed that Indians are
precisely like white men, except that
their minds are blank and plastic, ready
to receive any impression that may be
inscribed on them. These friends of the
Indians had little acquaintance with In-
dian character ; they did not appreciate
the human nature of the people. They
did not know that their minds were al-
ready occupied by a multitude of notions
and beliefs that were firmly fixed there,
rooted and grounded by an inherit-
ance of a thousand years. Still less did
they comprehend the Indian's intense
conservatism, the tenacity with which he
clings to the beliefs which have been
handed down to him by uncounted gen-
erations.
The plans of the philanthropists who
were anxious to benefit the race were
based on the general proposition that all
Indians should become farmers. As
most civilized men earn their living by
tilling the soil, they took it for grant-
ed that the Indian could do the same,
and must become civilized in that way.
They were -profoundly ignorant of the
surroundings of the Indian and of the
land he dwelt in, and did not know that
over a very large part of the West no
crops can be grown unless the soil is
well irrigated. They seem to have im-
agined the great plains a fertile country
perhaps like the prairies of Illinois
where, if land were ploughed and
seed sown, bounteous harvests would be
sure to follow. They did not under-
stand that many of the Indian reserva-
tions consist of the most arid and barren
lands that the sun ever shone on, a
waterless, desolate, soul- withering region,
whose terrors are incomprehensible to
those who have never traveled over it.
They did not know that many of the reser-
vations are situated in the land of thirst,
where water is the one priceless thing,
and its lack the greatest horror. Many
years and much effort have therefore
been wasted in trying to teach the Indi-
ans how to raise crops in regions where
white farmers could not possibly make
a living ; yet, up to a short time ago, the
authorities, clinging to the antiquated
notions of those who would make all In-
dians agriculturists, continued to insist
that the Indians should sow in the de-
sert, even though they could never hope
to reap. Only within a few years has
it been learned that in a country adapt-
ed for stock-raising Indians should raise
stock, and in a farming country they
should farm. Yet ever since these tribes
have been known to us, the Pueblos and
others, who have always practiced irri-
gation, and the Navajoes, who have
long been herdsmen, have furnished ex-
amples of this adaptation to environment,
and have shown us that different peoples
should be treated according to the dif-
ferent conditions which surround them.
One civilizing idea has by this time
become impressed on all the Indians of
this country : they comprehend to - day
that they must work if they would live.
The time when food, a blanket, a gun,
and some ammunition satisfied the In-
dians' wants has gone, never to return.
Association with civilized people has
brought the need for the things of civili-
zation, which can only be had for money.
The Indians see that, under the new con-
ditions, money is as necessary to them as
it is to the white men. They recognize
that the government will not support them
forever. So they are intensely anxious
to work, to earn money. On many re-
servations they wear out the patience of
the agent by continually asking him for
work, when he has no work to give them.
On the reservation of the Northern
260
The Indian on the Reservation.
Cheyennes, for the last two or three
years, there has been an opportunity for
a few men to secure work as laborers on
the great irrigating ditch in course of
construction on the adjacent Crow re-
servation. So long as men were wanted
for this work, the Cheyenne agent was
kept busy giving out passes to his people
who wished to labor on the ditch. All
the able-bodied men in the tribe would
have gone, if there had been work for
all. On the Blackfoot reservation,
agents have told me of having fifteen or
twenty applications a day for the job of
going into the mountains to cut wood
and haul it away for fuel. The Indians
are ready to hire out to any one who will
pay them, and they will work as hard,
as long, and as faithfully as any labor-
ers. Usually, there is little or no work
to be had. Even the students who come
back from the Eastern boarding schools
equipped with knowledge of English and
a trade, and fitted for a place in the
blacksmith's or wheelwright's shop or for
a position as industrial teacher at the
agency day school, are only occasionally
employed about the agency in the various
positions which they might fill.
This, then, is one of the chief obstacles
to the Indian's progress, the difficulty of
earning a livelihood. After he has suc-
ceeded in doing this, he must learn how
to keep his money when he gets it, in
other words, the lesson of thrift. The
old-time Indian was hospitable, open-
handed, and generous, to the last degree.
The new Indian must learn to be close-
fisted. As he progresses toward self-
support, it is not very hard for him to
accumulate horses, cattle, tools, and fur-
niture ; but to deal with money merely as
money is as yet a very serious problem.
If he has money, it burns in his pocket,
and he feels that he must spend it. The
time will come when Indians will have
bank accounts, but that' time except
among the civilized tribes has not yet
been reached.
Under the most favorable circum-
stances with instruction and encour-
agement it is hard enough for the
Indian to change himself into a patient
laborer, willing to toil day after day at
his unpleasing task. Too often, in ad-
dition to the difficulties which are inevi-
table, his advancement is retarded or
stopped by his being robbed of his lands
by methods which he is powerless to re-
sist. The courts protect citizens ; but
the Indian is not a citizen, and nothing
protects him. Congress has the sole
power to order how he shall live, and
where. Most thoughtful people believe
that in the past the Indians have been
greatly wronged by the whites, but im-
agine that this is no longer the case. Let
us see.
The greatest corruption of our Indian
affairs took place not very long after the
close of the war of the Rebellion. In
those days, to be an Indian agent, trader,
or contractor was to be on a highroad
to fortune, if one made the most of his
advantages. The contracts for supplies
of every sort were in the hands of a
small group of men, who controlled them
all, and, what was more important, to a
great extent controlled the agents and
employees of the Indian Bureau, in the
field. Attacks on the Indian ring were
made from time to time with more or
less success, reforms in the service and
its methods were gradually introduced,
and the opportunities for robbery grew
less. The actual wholesale stealing of
the food and clothing provided by the
government has ceased, for the most part,
or has degenerated into petty pilfering.
Nevertheless, methods are still found
by which the money of the Indians may
be diverted from its proper objects to find
its way into the pockets of white men.
One of these is the hiring of unnecessary
attorneys for them. There are on file
before the Court of Claims in Washing-
ton many thousands of dollars' worth
of claims for alleged Indian depreda-
tions, and suits against various Indian
tribes and the United States are being
The Indian on the Reservation.
261
carried on before that court. These
suits are defended by the Attorney-Gen-
eral's office, and any judgment recovered
runs against both the Indian tribe and
the United States. If the tribe has no
money to pay a judgment rendered
against it, the United States must do so.
But of late years most of the treaties
made with Indians provide that none of
the money appropriated under the treaty
shall be used to pay depredation claims,
and the ratification by Congress of an
agreement of this nature puts the money
of the tribe out of the reach of the Court
of Claims, and so protects the Indians.
Moreover, under a ruling of the Interior
Department, made a number of years
ago, it was determined that no tribes,
except two, have any money available
for the payment of such claims, and this
ruling has hitherto been sustained. Nev-
ertheless, it is a form of legal industry
recognized in Washington, for a lawyer
to visit an agency and inform the chiefs
that claims amounting to many thousands
of dollars have been filed against the
tribe, and that they may have to pay
these claims. By alarming them about
the safety of their money, it is not diffi-
cult for the lawyer to induce them to
make a contract retaining him as their
attorney to defend the suits. Contracts
of this kind are invalid until approved by
the Secretary of the Interior, who is con-
stantly pestered by the lawyers and their
political friends to give his assent to
them. But since the Indians have no
funds which can be used to pay such
judgments rendered against them, since
the law specifically forbids the use of
their funds for such a purpose, and since,
therefore, they can have no money in-
terest whatever in the suits, it is mani-
festly a great wrong that these contracts
should be approved by the department,
and that the money appropriated for the
Indians' support should go to fill the
pockets of lawyers. Yet I have in mind
a single law firm in Washington which,
by its contracts with different tribes of
Indians, who are protected by their treaty
and so in no wise need attorneys, is likely
to receive this year over $8000, and
for doing nothing. There was absolute-
ly nothing for them to do. The defense
they pretended to give the Indian did
not require. There was nothing for them
to defend him against. The real defense
he needs is against the lawyers them-
selves. It is hardly necessary to add
that a large proportion of the depreda-
tion claims filed against the different
tribes are barefacedly fraudulent.
Indians are now subject to encroach-
ments, conducted, not by an Indian ring,
but by the government, which, in its ig-
norance, does injury to this race as se-
rious as ever was done by any group of
individuals. These encroachments are
begun by white people living near the
Indians, who covet the land possessed by
them, and usually secured to them by
pledges of the government's faith, and
who endeavor to gain possession of it by
lawful means ; that is, by inducing the
government to break that faith and vio-
late those pledges.
Wherever its reservation may be, an
Indian tribe is bitterly opposed by local
popular feeling. Its people are hated
because they are Indians, and envied
because they hold lands that white men
might own. In thought, if not in words,
its white neighbors say of a tribe, " Cut
it down ; why cumbereth it the ground ? "
Local prejudice and local greed combine
to force the Indians who have no re-
presentative in Congress from their
homes, where perhaps they may have
made some improvements, and to which
often they are deeply attached. The
people who wish them removed do not
care where they are taken, if only it is
away, somewhere else. Their object is
to secure the land which they hope to
have thrown open to settlement.
This is how the plan of expulsion is
carried out. A treaty having been made
with a tribe of Indians, a certain tract
of country is assigned to them as a per-
262
The Indian on the Reservation.
manent home. After a time the land
near them becomes settled, and the white
people crowd about the reservation. The
reservation may be good for something :
it may be imagined to contain mines of
coal or precious metals, or it may be a
good cattle range, or the land may have
valuable water on it. When this is the
case, the people living in the neighbor-
hood begin to urge upon their delegate,
or their Congressman, or their Senator,
the importance of moving the Indians,
and throwing open their reservation to
settlement. Both Senator and Congress-
man naturally wish to oblige their con-
stituents, and forthwith a bill is intro-
duced or a section is added to the In-
dian Appropriation Bill, providing for
the desired removal. Most members of
Congress, knowing nothing of the rights
or wrongs of the measure, take it for
granted that the local member must know
what ought to be done, and are very like-
ly to assent to it.
Less than ten years ago, I was pre-
sent on a reservation in the Indian Ter-
ritory when a commission was negotiat-
ing with the Indians to induce them to
take their lands in severalty, and to sell
the surplus. The commissioners made
no secret of the fact that the administra-
tion had urged them to carry through
the sale, because at the next election
they wished to go before the people with
the statement that they had thrown open
to settlement by the public a certain
number of acres of Indian reservations.
This statement would influence many
votes in the West ; it would be a good
political cry. The negotiations began,
and by persuasion, promises, and at last
by threats, about one third of the In-
dians were induced to sign the agree-
ment. After that signatures came in
very slowly. The commissioners hired
their interpreters to assist them to ob-
tain signers. The attorneys, who claimed
that they had been retained by the In-
dians to defend their rights, worked
hard to induce the people to sign. These
attorneys were working on a contingent
fee, " the usual ten per cent for col-
lection," and of course would receive
nothing unless the treaty went through
and the sale was made. Indians who
were corrupt were hired, I was told, to
vote more than once ; signing first the
name by which they went at the time,
then the name which they had borne
earlier in life, and later perhaps some
still earlier name. The names of absent
schoolboys were added to the list, on the
mere statement by some Indian that they
were in favor of the sale. So, by cajol-
ing, promising, bribing, browbeating,
bullying, and using illegal votes, the sale,
which was bitterly opposed by one half
the tribe, was at last carried through by
a bare majority.
Even to-day the same thing is going
on. Among the measures recently be-
fore Congress was one looking to the re-
moval of the Northern Cheyennes from
their present reservation in Montana to
" some other place." The territory oc-
cupied by these people, although very
small, is a fine stock range, which the
neighboring cattlemen long to possess
for their herds. Besides working with
might and main on their representatives
in Congress to secure the removal of
these Indians to another reservation,
these cattlemen endeavor to manufac-
ture a public sentiment against the In-
dians by continually sending out press
reports of the ill doings of the Northern
Cheyennes, and two or three times a
year Montana press dispatches to the
newspapers tell of threatened outbreaks
by these people. As a matter of fact,
the Indians are entirely well disposed,
but they realize that an attempt is being
made to take them away from their old
country, and are uneasy and fearful lest
it should succeed. Yet when these In-
dians surrendered, nearly twenty years
ago, General Miles, representing the gov-
ernment, solemnly promised them that
they should reside here on this piece of
land so long as they should be friendly
The Indian on the Reservation.
263
with the United States. This promise
was subsequently repeated by high offi-
cials in Washington ; yet to-day these
Cheyennes fear that they will be moved,
and are prevented from working on their
homes by the apprehension that as soon
as they accomplish anything these homes
will be taken from them. Several years'
work has been necessary to convince
the authorities at Washington that the
title of these Indians to their reservation
should be confirmed, and that the white
men settled on the reservation should be
moved away.
There is now in contemplation a mea-
sure to take from the Metlakahtla In-
dians of Alaska on the ground that
there are mines on it a large portion
of the island allotted to them by the gov-
ernment more than ten years ago. This
is a case of great hardship, that of a
tribe of Indians who, with the help of
one intelligent and devoted white friend,
have become civilized and self-support-
ing by their own exertions. They moved
from British to United States territory in
search of freedom, and in their new home
they have built a town, have a sawmill
and a salmon cannery, and govern them-
selves. They ask nothing from any one,
save the poor privilege of living undis-
turbed on the rock where they are set-
tled. But now it is proposed to take a
part of this away from them, and so to
deprive them of the water power which
runs their sawmill and their cannery, of
most of their timber land, and of the
stream which furnishes the salmon on
which they subsist.
Last spring, on the day of my arrival
at the Blackfoot agency I found there
two strange Indians, who told me that
they were Kutenais, living on the Flat-
head reservation ; that their chief had
heard that I was coming out to see the
Blackfeet, and that I was the man who
helped Indians, and therefore he had sent
them as messengers, on foot, across the
mountains, a distance of 150 miles, in
order that they might tell me of the hard
lot of the Kutenais, to see if I could not
help them. They said that there were
over eighty families of Kutenais living
near Dayton Creek, on Lake Macdonald ;
that they received no rations from the
government ; that they had been told to
take up farms on their reservation, and
had done so ; but that after they had built
their houses, fenced in their land, and
planted their little crops, the white peo-
ple had come to them and told them to
move away, that their homes were not
on the reservation and did not belong to
them. At first they had refused to move,
but at last, when the whites had said that
if they did not go the Great Father would
send troops to move them, they gave up
and went away. Now there is no place
left on their reservation where they can
farm, as all the country is rocky, timber-
covered mountains. The faith that had
led these men to take this long, toilsome
journey to tell me their story was pa-
thetic enough, and the sense of my utter
inability to help them was humiliating,
but there was nothing that I could do.
A search through the reports of the
Indian commissioner shows that these
Indians were recently ejected from lands
which they had occupied since 1855, on
account of a mistake made by a surveyor
in locating the boundaries of the reserva-
tion. The farms that they had striven
to cultivate proved to be without the
corrected boundary line, and as soon as
this was discovered the neighboring
whites insisted on the removal of the
Indians. As the land did actually lie
outside of the reservation, the Indians
of course had no claim to it, and were
forced to give it up. After this, in 1891,
the agent for the Kutenais, acting under
the Dawes Severalty Act, allotted to
eighteen of the Indians claims off the re-
servation and upon the land from which
they had been expelled. Of these claims,
three were allowed, while fifteen have
for seven years been suspended by the
Land Office. White people have settled
in the valley of Dayton Creek and built
264
The Indian on the Reservation.
their fences about the plots held by the
Indians, who have now no means of
reaching their claims except by trespass-
ing on the land occupied by the whites,
which they are warned not to do. With-
in the white men's fences can be seen
still standing the rotting rails and posts
of the inclosures built years ago by the
Indians when these claims were first al-
lotted to them, and they strove to work
as the white man works, and to improve
their little farms as he does his. No
wonder they are discouraged and hope-
less at the result of their efforts, and it is
hardly to be imagined that they will ever
again make any real effort to become
self-supporting so long as the memory of
this wrong remains. Some method of
repairing this injustice and of helping
these Indians ought to be found.
No argument is needed to prove the
discouraging effect on Indians or in-
deed on men of any race or color of
such uncertainty about their location. If
a white man were given the fairest tract
of wild land on the continent, with the
understanding that he might be ejected
from his tenancy at any moment, he
would have little motive to improve it,
and would put on it just as little labor as
he could get along with. Indians feel
and act in precisely the same way. Whe-
ther they are moved or not, the uncer-
tainty under which they live takes away
from them all motive for industry and
self-help.
Indians are perfectly capable of mak-
ing progress in the arts of civilization.
This is shown by what has been accom-
plished during the last nine years by the
Blackfoot Indians of northern Montana,
with whose affairs I have long been
closely familiar. A dozen years ago I
won their confidence and regard and
became deeply interested in them, and
ever since I have acted as their coun-
selor and next friend. To bring about
the results obtained, it has been necessary
to watch them carefully, to advise them
against the commission of follies, to per-
suade them to industry, to reprove them
for wrong-doing ; in fact, to try to teach
them to exercise what white men call
ordinary common sense in the affairs of
life, checking them or spurring them on
as circumstances required. When I first
knew the Blackfeet they were wild In-
dians, wearing blankets and robes, living
for the most part in lodges and on a re-
servation remote from railroad or civili-
zation. Except their ponies they had no
property. They had no desire to work,
nor any belief that it would be to their
advantage to do so.
The country which they inhabit lies on
the flanks of the Rocky Mountains, just
south of the parallel of forty-nine degrees,
at an elevation of 3000 or 4000 feet, and
is far too high, cold, and dry for the suc-
cessful practice of agriculture. For years
the Indian Bureau had been trying to in-
duce them to farm, but nothing had ever
been grown on the reservation except
an occasional crop of oats and potatoes.
The region, however, is an excellent cat-
tle range. In 1888 I determined that if
these Indians were ever to become self-
supporting it must be by cattle-raising,
and a statement of the conditions con-
vinced General Morgan, then Indian com-
missioner, that the experiment was worth
trying. My visits of the next two years
to the reservation were devoted to elabo-
rate explanations to the Indians of the
value to them of cattle ; of the impor-
tance of never killing them for food, and
of caring for them in winter, so that they
should live, do well, and breed. It was
explained that at the end of four years
those who followed the advice given
would have animals which they could
sell, and that the money received for the
beeves would be theirs to use as they
might please. The idea of having cattle
which they should own individually, and
not as a tribe, was wholly new to them ;
when it was understood it was very wel-
come, and the prospect created quite an
excitement in the community. A major-
ity of the men cut hay for the stock that
The, Indian on the Reservation.
265
was to come, and built sheds and shelters
to protect it from the winter's -Storms.
In 1890 about 1000 cattle were issued.
Some families received only a single cow,
others two, and others four or five. All
went well with them. The succeeding
winter was mild ; no cattle died, and the
calf crop was large. The people took
great pride in their new possessions, and
watched and tended them with much de-
votion. At intervals of a year or two
more and more cattle were issued to them,
until they had received about 10,000,
and in the year 1897 it was estimated
that, with the increase, the Blackf eet had
between 20,000 and 22,000 head of cat-
tle. Besides this, for three years past
they have sold a great deal of beef ; and
their faith in the promises made to them,
which led them for four years to refrain
from eating their cattle and to take good
care of them, has been abundantly justi-
fied. They have found a way by which
money can be earned, and have come to
understand that their future depends 011
their cattle and the care they take of
them. It must not be supposed that all
the men of the tribe have done equally
well. While many have been unfailingly
faithful, some have neglected their stock,
or traded it off, or let it wander away.
But, on the whole, they have done well,
wonderfully well for Indians, and have <
been as steadfast and industrious as white
men would have been.
The branding of the calves and the
round-ups have been in charge of the
agency employees, and this work has of-
ten been very much neglected. The In-
dians are not permitted to brand their
calves, and they have suffered heavy
losses by the failure of the government
employees to brand those born in the
fall of the year. These autumn calves,
having been weaned and separated from
the mothers, by spring become mavericks,
animals whose ownership is not known,
and so they are branded by any one who
may find them, chiefly by the half-breeds
and white men living on the reservation,
who are more familiar than are the In-
dians with the white cattleman's way of
accumulating a herd.
The years during which the Blackf eet
have had cattle have not been years
of ease and comfort. The people have
had their troubles and perplexities, but
the effort has been made to give them
aid and direction by letters, by frequent
visits, by consultations, by encourage-
ment and advice, and by praise or severe
reproof as either was needed. Often
from old White Calf, long the chief of
these people, a message is received some-
thing like this : " I want you to come to
us quickly. There are many things to
be talked over. We are blind once more.
We need you to open our eyes." Thus,
what the Blackfeet need, and all other
Indians with them, is, not the good will to
labor and to strive, but proper direction,
in order that they may labor and strive
effectively. They lack that discretion
and judgment in dealing with e very-day
matters which inheritance, training, and
experience have brought to most middle-
aged business men, and these must be ex-
ercised for them. The power to look at
things through the white man's eyes must
be supplied to them. They must be made
to share the wisdom of the white race.
If the Indian Bureau at Washington can
be induced to see that the Blackfeet cat-
tle are properly handled, the future is
assured ; but the Indian Bureau, being
really a clerical office for the transaction
of Indian business, often knows little
about the actual condition of the people.
The wish to better their present con-
dition is not peculiar to any particular
tribe nor to any section of country. If
they can be convinced that it will be for
their advantage, all Indians are ready
and willing to put forth effort ; but when
only failure rewards the work they per-
form, they become discouraged and think
that they can never succeed. The Indian
of to-day is living his life on the reserva-
tion, where he occupies a house and has
acquired a certain degree of self-control.
266
The Indian on the Reservation.
He is anxious to have a better living than
he gets now, and is willing to work hard
to secure it. He has given up many of
his old wild ways and beliefs. He is a
savage who has been more than half
tamed. Civilization has brought to this
Indian many hardships ; it has abridged
his liberty, has caused disease, has weak-
ened or broken down many of the fine
savage qualities that he once possessed,
and has introduced him to liquor. As
yet it has not brought him much that is
good except humility and some self-con-
trol. His rights are little safeguarded,
except so far as the Indian Rights Asso-
ciation can occasionally protect him. He
has been taught but little of the individ-
ual's responsibilities. He is sometimes
subjected to gross injustice.
His inability to speak our tongue or
to think our thoughts must always be
remembered in considering the Indian.
He is voiceless ; he is unable to claim
any rights for himself or to tell his side
of any story, for he has no method of
communicating with civilized people ex-
cept through an interpreter. He cannot
speak for himself, and he has no one to
speak for him, no one to advocate his
cause. Even the young men who have
been away to school and have learned
how to speak good English speak it as
a foreign tongue. They think in their
own language, and translate their Indian
thoughts into English, which is often not
to be understood without further expla-
nation. The Indian's psychological con-
dition is bewildered and confused. In-
heriting the beliefs of his people, devel-
oped through thousands of years, he is
suddenly told that all these beliefs are
false. His faith in his own creed is de-
stroyed ; but while we have taken from
him his old beliefs, we have not known
enough to give him new ones which he
can understand. Thus his mind is in a
whirl, and he feels that there is nothing
sure, nothing that he can depend on.
What the Indians require to-day is
something more than mere food and
clothing. The 
