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Full text of "The Atlantic"

HANDBOUND 
AT THE 



UNIVERSITY OF 
TORONTO PRESS 



THE 




ATLANTIC MONTHLY 



A MAGAZINE OF 



literature, Science, &rt, ana Clitics 



VOLUME LXXXYII 




BOSTON AND NEW YORK 

HOUGHTON, MIFFLTN AND COMPANY 

fte JSiber^ilie ^rc^^, Camfctitige 

1901 




COPYRIGHT, 1901, 
Br HOUGHTON, MIFFLIN AND COMPANY. 




The Rirfrride Prr.tx, artmbriflgr. Mast.. U. S. A. 
Electrotyped and Printed by H. O. Houghton & Company. 






CONTENTS. 



INDEX BY TITLES. 

PAGE 



American Literature, Three Centuries of, 
William Morton Payne 411 

American Prose Style, J. D. Logan . . . 689 

Animals in Literature, George S. Hell- 
man 391 

Anthracite Coal Crisis, The, Talcott Wil- 
liams 447 

At the End of the Trail, Maximilian Fos- 
ter 827 

Audrey, Mary Johnston 593, 746 



British Confederation, J. W. Root . 
Broken Wings, Katharine Head . . 



402 

849 



Century of American Diplomacy, A, S. M, 

Macvane 269 

Child in the Library, The, Edith Lanigan 122 
Confederacy, In the Last Days of the, 

Sara Matthews Handy 104 

Confessions of a Minister's Wife .... 202 

Criticism and ^Esthetics, Ethel D. Puffer 839 

Dante's Quest of Liberty, Charles A. Dins- 
more 515 

Democracy and Efficiency, Woodrow Wil- 
son 289 

Difficult Minute, The, R. E. Young . . 73 
Distinction of our Poetry, The, Josephine 

Dodge Daskam 696 

Dorr's, Mrs., Afterglow 419 

Dull Season in Politics, The 865 

Eleventh Hour, The, Basil King ... 253 
Empress Dowager, The, R. Van Bergen . 23 
England, A Letter from, jR. Brimley John- 
son 55 

Esmeralda Herders, The, Elia W. Peattie 111 
Essence of American Humor, The, Charles 

Johnston 195 

Fiction, New and Old 127 

Fields', Mrs., Orpheus 419 

Fountains and Streams of the Yosemite, 

John Muir 556 

Gap in Education, A, II. D. Sedgwick, 

Jr 68 

Germany, A Letter from, William C. 

Dreher 342 

Give the Country the Facts 424 



Great Preacher, The (Allen's Life and Let- 
ters of Phillips Brooks) 262 

Growth of Public Expenditures, The, 
Charles A. Conant 45 

Haworth Bronte, The 134 

Hermit's Notes on Thoreau, A, Paul E. 

More 857 

Household of a Russian Prince, The, Mary 

Louise Dunbar 566 

How to Write a Novel for the Masses, 

Charles Battell Loomis 421 

Huxley, Reminiscences of, John Fiske . . 275 

Italy, Two Books about, Harriet Waters 
Preston 271 

John Marshall, James Bradley Thayer . . 328 
Law- Abiding Citizens, William R. Lighten 783 

McKinley, Mr., as President, Henry B. F? 

Macfarland 299 

Mademoiselle Angele, Roy Rolfe Gilson . 398 
Making the Crowd Beautiful, Gerald Stan- 
ley Lee 240 

Mandell Creighton, Bishop of London, Ed- 
mund Gosse 677 

Max Miiller at Oxford 867 

Mifflin's The Fields of Dawn, and Later 

Sonnets 419 

Moody's The Masque of Judgment . . . 420 

Moosilauke, Bradford Torrey 667 

Mr. Hapgood's Gospel, Will Payne ... 706 
Mr. Smedley's Guest, E. S. Chamberlayne 213 
Municipal Reform, The Next Step in, Ed- 
win Burritt Smith 583 

My Cookery Books, Elizabeth Robins Pen- 

nell 789 

Napoleon, The Last Phase of, Gold win 

Smith 166 

New Industrial Revolution, The, Brooks 

Adams 157 

New York, A Plea for, J. K. Paulding . 172 

On the Road to Crowninshield, Dora 
Loomis Hastings 365 

Opportunity of the Small College, The, 
Herbert W. Horwill . 763 



iv 



Contents. 



Passing of Mother's Portrait, The, Eoswell 
Field 523 

Peabody's, Miss, Fortune and Men's Eyes 420 

Penelope's Irish Experiences, Kate Doug- 
las Wiggin 30, 223, 313, 485 

Phillips's Herod 421 

Pittsburg, A Glimpse of, William Lucien 
Scaife 83 

Politics and the Public Schools, G. W. An- 
derson 433 

Productive Scholarship in America, Hugo 
Mdnsterberg 615 

Professor's Chance, The, Robert Herrick . 723 

Recent Verse 419 

Reconstruction Period, The : 
The Reconstruction of the Southern 

States, Woodrow Wilson 1 

The Conditions of the Reconstruction 

Problem, Hilary A. Herbert .... 145 
The Freedmen's Bureau, W. E. Burg- 

hardt Du Bois .354 

Reconstruction in South Carolina, Daniel 

H. Chamberlain 473 

The Ku Klux Movement, William Gar- 

rott Brown 634 



Washington during Reconstruction, 

8. W. McCall 817 

Renaissance of the Tragic Stage, The, 

Martha Anstice Harris 533 

Rowland Robinson, Julia C. E. Dorr . . 117 

Stockton's Novels and Stories 136 

Teaching of English, The, Albert S. 

Cook 710 

Time -Spirit of the Twentieth Century, 

The, Elizabeth Bisland 15 

Tommy and Grizel 132 

Tory Lover, The, Sarah Orne Jewett 90, 180, 
373, 539, 645, 801 

Trusts and Public Policy, Charles J. Bul- 
lock 737 

Two Lives of Cromwell, Rollo Ogden . . 138 

Unfinished Portrait, An, Jennette Lee . . 577 

Ward's, Mrs., Later Novels 127 

Washington, The State of, W. D. Ly- 

man 505 

Weaker Sex, The, F. J. Stimson ... 456 

Wellington, Goldwin Smith 771 



INDEX BY AUTHORS. 



Adams, Brooks, The New Industrial Revo- 
lution 157 

Anderson, G. W., Politics and the Public 
Schools 433 

Bisland, Elizabeth, The Time-Spirit of the 
Twentieth Century 15 

Brown, Alice, The Final Quest .... 126 

Brown, William Garrott, The Ku Klux 
Movement 634 

Bullock, Charles J., Trusts and Public 
Policy 737 

Burroughs, John, The Trailing Arbu- 
tus 532 

Cawein, Madison, Rain in the Woods . . 782 
Chamberlain, Daniel H., Reconstruction in 

South Carolina 473 

Chamberlayne, E. -S.,Mr.Smedley's Guest 213 

Colton, Arthur, Victory 800 

Conant, Charles A., The Growth of Pub- 
lic Expenditures 45 

Cook, Albert S., The Teaching of Eng- 
lish 710 

Daskam, Josephine Dodge, The Distinction 
of our Poetry (!90 

Dinsmore, Charles A., Dante's Quest of 
Liberty 515 

Dorr, Julia C. E., Rowland Robinson . . 117 

Dreher, William C., A Letter from Ger- 
many 342 

Du Bois, W. E. Burghardt, The Freed- 
men's Bureau 354 

Dunbar, Mary Louise, The Household of 
a Russian Prince . r>r>; 



Field, Eoswell, The Passing of Mother's 

Portrait 523 

Fiske, John, Reminiscences of Huxley . . 275 
Fletcher, Jefferson, Sky-Children .... 125 
Foster, Maximilian, At the End of the 

Trail 827 

Foster, William Prescott, The Cities of the 

World 401 

Foster, William Prescott, The Phantom 

Army 631 

Gilson, Eoy Eolfe, Mademoiselle Ange"le . 398 
Gosse, Edmund, Mandell Creighton, Bish- 
op of London 677 

Handy, Sara Matthews, In the Last Days 

of the Confederacy 104 

Harris, Martha Anstice, The Renaissance 

of the Tragic Stage 533 

Hastings, Dora Loomis, On the Road to 

Crowninshield 365 

Head, Katharine, Broken Wings ... 849 
Hellman, George S., Animals in Literature 391 
Herbert, Hilary A., The Conditions of the 

Reconstruction Problem 145 

Herrick, Eobert, The Professor's Chance . 723 
Hor will, Herbert W., The Opportunity of 

the Small College 763 

Howe, M. A. De Wolfe, Fire of Apple-Wood 587 

Ingham, John Hall, Outlook 222 

Jewett, Sarah Orne, The Tory Lover 90, 180, 
:;":;, 539, 645, 801 

Johnson, E. Brimley, A Letter from Eng- 
land . 55 



Contents. 



Johnson, Robert Underwood, Love the Con- Payne, William Morton, Three Centuries 

queror came to Me 390 of American Literature 411 

Johnston, Charles, The Essence of Ameri- Peattie, Elia W., The Esmeralda Herd- 



can Humor 195 



Johnston, Mary, Audrey 593, 746 Pennell, Elizabeth Robins, My Cookery 



Johnstone, Henry, An April Sun-Picture . 588 Books 

Pollock, Frank Lillie, The Lost Trail . . 
848 Preston, Harriet Waters, Two Books 



111 

789 
722 

Kenyon, James B., The Jester 

King. Basil, The Eleventh Hour ... 253 about Italy 271 

Puffer, Ethel D., Criticism and .^Esthetics 839 

Lanigan, Edith, The Child in the Library 122 

Lee, Gerald Stanley, Making the Crowd Richardson, Grace, April's Return . . . 588 

Beautiful 240 Root, J. W., British Confederation ... 402 

Lee, Jennette, An Unfinished Portrait . . 577 

Lighton, William R., Law-Abiding Citi- Scaife, William Lucien, A Glimpse of 



783 

Logan, J. D., American Prose Style . . 689 
Loomis, Charles Battell, How to Write a 



Pittsburg ........... 83 

Sedgwick, H. D., Jr., A Gap in Educa- 
tion ............. 68 



Novel for the Masses 421 Smith, Edwin Burritt, The Next Step in 

Lyman, W. D., The State of Washing- Municipal Reform 583 

ton 505 Smith, Goldwin, The Last Phase of Napo- 
leon 166 

Me Arthur, Peter, Two Sonnets .... 864 Smith, Goldwin, Wellington 771 

McCall, S. W., Washington during Recon- Stimson, F. J., The Weaker Sex ... 456 

struetion 817 

Macfarland, Henry B. F., Mr. McKinley Thayer, James Bradley, John Marshall . 328 

as President 299 Thomas, Edith M., The Flutes of the God 352 

Macvane, S. M., A Century of American Torrey, Bradford, Moosilauke .... 667 

Diplomacy 269 

Moody, William Vaughn, On a Soldier 

Fallen in the Philippines 288 Van Dyke, Henry, Two Schools .... 

Moody, William Vaughn, The Brute . . 88 

More, Paul E., A Hermit's Notes on Tho- Webb, Charles Henry, An Age of Ink . . 

reau 857 Wiggin, Kate Douglas, Penelope's Irish 

Muir, John, Fountains and Streams of the Experiences ..... 30, 223, 313, 485 

Yosemite 556 Williams, Talcott, The Anthracite Coal 

Munsterberg, H ugo, Productive Scholarship Crisis 447 

in America 615 Wilson, Woodrow, Democracy and Effi- 
ciency 289 

Ogden, Rollo, Two Lives of Cromwell . . 138 Wilson, Woodrow, The Reconstruction of 

the Southern States 1 

Paulding, J. K., A Plea for New York . 172 

Payne, Will, Mr. Hapgood's Gospel . . 706 Young, R. E., The Difficult Minute . . 73 



Van Bergen, R., The Empress Dowager . 23 

. 566 



666 



Age of Ink, An, Charles Henry Webb . . 
April's Return, Grace Richardson . . . 
April Sun - Picture, An, Henry John- 
stone 



POETRY. 

666 Love the Conqueror came to Me, Robert 



588 



Underwood Johnson 



588 On a Soldier FaUen in the Philippines, 

William Vaughn Moody 



390 



Brute, The, William Vaughn Moody . . 88 Outlook, John Hall Ingham 222 



Cities of the World, The, William Prescott 
Foster 401 

Final Quest, The, Alice Brown .... 126 
Fire of Apple-Wood, M. A. De Wolfe 

Howe 

Flutes of the God, The, Edith M. Thomas 

Jester, The, James B. Kenyon .... 
Lost Trail, The, Frank Lillie Pollock . . 722 



Phantom Army, The, William Prescott 

Foster . . 631 



Rain in the Woods, Madison Cawein 



. 782 
. 125 



587 Sky-Children, Jefferson Fletcher . . 
352 

Trailing Arbutus, The, John Burroughs . 532 
848 Two Schools, Henry Van Dyke .... 566 

Two Sonnets, Peter Me Arthur 864 



Victory, Arthur Cotton 800 



vi Contents. 

CONTRIBUTORS' CLUB. 
Advantages of Trucking, The .... 734 Lady of the Past, A 880 

Back Number, A 143 Modern Astrology and Palmistry ... 736 

Booker Washington and Benjamin Franklin 882 Mrs. Fiske's Acting 591 

Breton Survival, A 878 My Friend Copperfield 873 

Broken Idol, A 426 

On Going a-Maying 732 

Cant in Criticism 142 On Knowing your Missionary 872 

Over a Copy of Keats 876 

Dilemma of the Modern Poet 144 

Parkman's Tenacity 429 

Fallow Field, The 590 

Rainy Sunday in Rome, A 429 

Good Fortune of Benjamin Harrison, The 871 

Sine Qua Non 143 

Harvard College and the Atlantic ... 875 

When I was a Boy 427 

Japanese Book-Lover, A 735 Women and Politics 589 



THE 



ATLANTIC MONTHLY: 
#iaga?tne of literature, Science, art, ann 

VOL. LXXXVII. JANUARY, 1901. No. DXIX. 



THE RECONSTRUCTION OF THE SOUTHERN STATES. 



IT is now full thirty years, and more, 
since the processes of Reconstruction 
were finished, and the southern states 
restored to their place in the Union. 
Those thirty years have counted for 
more than any other thirty in our his- 
tory, so great have been the speed and 
range of our development, so compre- 
hensive and irresistible has been the 
sweep of change amongst us. We have 
come out of the atmosphere of the six- 
ties. The time seems remote, historic, 
not of our day. We have dropped its 
thinking, lost its passion, forgot its anxi- 
eties, and should be ready to speak of it, 
not as partisans, but as historians. 

Most troublesome questions are thus 
handed over, sooner or later, to the his- 
torian. It is his vexation that they do 
not cease to be troublesome because they 
have been finished with by statesmen, 
and laid aside as practically settled. To 
him are left all the intellectual and moral 
difficulties, and the subtle, hazardous, 
responsible business of determining what 
was well done, what ill done ; where mo- 
tive ran clear and just, where clouded by 
passion, poisoned by personal ambition, 
or darkened by malevolence. More of 
the elements of every policy are visible 
to him than can have been visible to the 
actors on the scene itself ; but he cannot 
always be certain which they saw, which 
they did not see. He is deciding old 
questions in a new light. He is danger- 
ously cool in dealing with questions of 
passion ; too much informed about ques- 
tions which had, in fact, to be settled 



upon a momentary and first impression ; 
scrupulous in view of things' which hap- 
pened afterward, as well as of things 
which happened before the acts upon 
which he is sitting in judgment. It is 
a wonder that historians who take their 
business seriously can sleep at night. 

Reconstruction is still revolutionary 
matter. Those who delve in it find it 
like a banked fire, still hot and fiery 
within, for all it has lain under the ashes 
a whole generation ; and a thing to take 
fire from. It is hard to construct an ar- 
gument here which shall not be heated, 
a source of passion no less than of light. 
And then the test of the stuff must be so 
various. The American historian must 
be both constitutional lawyer and states- 
man in the judgments he utters ; and 
the American constitutional lawyer must 
always apply, not a single, but a double 
standard. He must insist on the plain, 
explicit command and letter of the law, 
and yet he must not be impracticable. In- 
stitutions must live and take their growth, 
and the laws which clothe them must be 
no strait- jacket, but rather living tissue, 
themselves containing the power of nor- 
mal growth and healthful expansion. 
The powers of government must make 
shift to live and adapt themselves to cir- 
cumstances : it would be the very nega- 
tion of wise conservatism to throttle them 
with definitions too precise and rigid. 

Such difficulties, however, are happily 
more formidable in the mass than in de- 
tail ; and even the period of Reconstruc- 
tion can now be judged fairly enough, 



The Reconstruction of the Southern States. 



with but a little tolerance, breadth, and 
moderation added to the just modicum 
of knowledge. Some things about it are 
very plain, among the rest, that it is 
a period too little studied as yet, and of 
capital importance in our constitutional 
history. Indeed, it is not too much to 
say that there crosses it, in full sight 
of every one who will look, a great rift, 
which breaks, and must always break, 
the continuity and harmony of our con- 
stitutional development. The national 
government which came out of Recon- 
struction was not the national govern- 
ment which went into it. The civil war 
had given leave to one set of revolution- 
ary forces ; Reconstruction gave leave 
to another still more formidable. The 
effects of the first were temporary, the 
inevitable accompaniments of civil war 
and armed violence ; the effects of the 
second were permanent, and struck to 
the very centre of our forms of govern- 
ment. Any narrative of the facts, how- 
ever brief, carries that conclusion upon 
its surface. 

The war had been fought to preserve 
the Union, to dislodge and drive out by 
force the doctrine of the right of seces- 
sion. The southern states could not le- 
gally leave the Union, such had been 
the doctrine of the victorious states 
whose armies won under Grant and 
Sherman, and the federal government 
had been able to prevent their leaving, 
in fact. In strict theory, though their 
people had been in revolt, under organi- 
zations which called themselves states, 
and which had thrown off all allegiance 
to the older Union and formed a new 
confederation of their own, Virginia, 
North Carolina, South Carolina, Florida, 
Georgia, Mississippi, Alabama, Louisi- 
ana, Texas, Arkansas, and Tennessee, 
the historic states once solemnly embod- 
ied in the Union, had never gone out 
of it, could never go out of it and re- 
main states. In fact, nevertheless, their 
representatives had withdrawn from the 
federal House and Senate ; their several 



governments, without change of form 
or personnel, had declared themselves 
no longer joined with the rest of the 
states in purpose or allegiance, had ar- 
ranged a new and separate partnership, 
and had for four years maintained an 
organized resistance to the armies of the 
Union which they had renounced. Now 
that their resistance had been overcome 
and their confederacy destroyed, how 
were they to be treated ? As if they 
had been all the while in the Union, 
whether they would or no, and were now 
at last simply brought to their senses 
again, to take up their old-time rights 
and duties intact, resume their familiar 
functions within the Union as if nothing 
had happened ? The theory of the case 
was tolerably clear ; and the Supreme 
Court of the United States presently 
supplied lawyers, if not statesmen, with 
a clear enough formulation of it. The 
Constitution, it said (for example, in the 
celebrated case of Texas vs. White, de- 
cided in 1868), had created an inde- 
structible Union of indestructible states. 
The eleven states which had attempted 
to secede had not been destroyed by their 
secession. Everything that they had 
done to bring about secession or main- 
tain resistance to the Union was abso- 
lutely null and void, and without legal 
effect ; but their laws passed for other 
purposes, even those passed while they 
were in fact maintaining their resolution 
of secession and defying the authority of 
the national government, were valid, and 
must be given effect to in respect of all 
the ordinary concerns of business, pro- 
perty, and personal obligation, just as if 
they had been passed in ordinary times 
and under ordinary circumstances. The 
states had lost no legitimate authority ; 
their acts were invalid only in respect of 
what they had never had the right to do. 
But it was infinitely hard to trans- 
late such principles into a practicable 
rule of statesmanship. It was as difficult 
and hazardous a matter to reinstate the 
states as it would have been had their 



The Reconstruction of the Southern States. 



3 



legal right to secede been first admitted, 
and then destroyed by the revolutionary 
force of arms. It became, whatever the 
theory, in fact a process of reconstruc- 
tion. Had Mr. Lincoln lived, perhaps 
the whole of the delicate business might 
have been carried through with dignity, 
good temper, and simplicity of method ; 
with all necessary concessions to pas- 
sion, with no pedantic insistence upon 
consistent and uniform rules, with sen- 
sible irregularities and compromises, and 
yet with a straightforward, frank, and 
open way of management which would 
have assisted to find for every influence 
its natural and legitimate and quieting 
effect. It was of the nature of Mr. 
Lincoln's mind to reduce complex situa- 
tions to their simples, to guide men with- 
out irritating them, to go forward and 
be practical without being radical, to 
serve as a genial force which supplied 
heat enough to keep action warm, and 
yet minimized the friction and eased the 
whole progress of affairs. 

It was characteristic of him that he 
had kept his own theory clear and un- 
confused throughout the whole struggle 
to bring the southern people back to 
their allegiance to the Union. He had 
never recognized any man who spoke or 
acted for the southern people in the 
matter of secession as the representative 
of any government whatever. It was, 
in his view, not the southern states 
which had taken up arms against the 
Union, but merely the people dwelling 
within them. State lines defined the 
territory within which rebellion had 
spread and men had organized under 
arms to destroy the Union ; but their 
organization had been effected without 
color of law ; that could not be a state, 
in any legal meaning of the term, which 
denied what was the indispensable pre- 
requisite of its every exercise of political 
functions, its membership in the Union. 
He was not fighting states, therefore, or 
a confederacy of states, but only a body 
of people who refused to act as states, 



and could not, if they would, form an- 
other Union. What he wished and strove 
for, without passion save for the accom- 
plishment of his purpose, without enmity 
against persons, and yet with burning 
hostility against what the southerners 
meant to do, was to bring the people of 
the southern states once more to submis- 
sion and allegiance ; to assist them, when 
subdued, to rehabilitate the states whose 
territory and resources, whose very or- 
ganization, they had used to effect a 
revolution ; to do whatever the circum- 
stances and his own powers, whether as 
President or merely as an influential 
man and earnest friend of peace, might 
render possible to put them back, de- 
feated, but not conquered or degraded, 
into the old-time hierarchy of the Union. 
There were difficulties and passions 
in the way which possibly even Mr. Lin- 
coln could not have forced within any 
plan of good will and simple restoration ; 
but he had made a hopeful beginning 
before he died. He had issued a pro- 
clamation of amnesty so early as 1863, 
offering pardon and restoration to civil 
rights to all who would abandon resist- 
ance to the authority of the Union, and 
take the oath of unreserved loyalty and 
submission which he prescribed ; and as 
the war drew to an end, and he saw the 
power of the Union steadily prevail, now 
here, now there, throughout an ever in- 
creasing area, he earnestly begged that 
those who had taken the oath and re- 
turned to their allegiance would unite in 
positive and concerted action, organize 
their states upon the old footing, and 
make ready for a full restoration of the 
old conditions. Let those who had taken 
the oath, and were ready to bind them- 
selves in all good faith to accept the acts 
and proclamations of the federal govern- 
ment in the matter of slavery, let all, 
in short, who were willing to accept the 
actual results of the war, organize them- 
selves and set up governments made con- 
formable to the new order of things, and 
he would recognize them as the people 



The Reconstruction of the Southern States. 



of the states within which they acted, 
ask Congress to admit their representa- 
tives, and aid them to gain in all respects 
full acknowledgment and enjoyment of 
statehood, even though the persons who 
thus acted were but a tenth part of the 
original voters of their states. He would 
not insist upon even so many as a tenth, 
if only he could get some body of loyal 
citizens to deal and cooperate with in 
this all-important matter upon which he 
had set his heart ; that the roster of the 
states might be complete again, and some 
healing process follow the bitter anguish 
of the war. 

Andrew Johnson promptly made up 
his mind, when summoned to the presi- 
dency, to carry out Mr. Lincoln's plan, 
practically without modification ; and he 
knew clearly what Mr. Lincoln's plan 
had been, for he himself had restored 
Tennessee upon that plan, as the Pre- 
sident's agent and representative. As 
military governor of the state, he had 
successfully organized a new government 
out of abundant material, for Tennessee 
was full of men who had had no sympa- 
thy with secession ; and the government 
which he had organized had gone into 
full and vigorous operation during that 
very spring which saw him become first 
Vice President, and then President. In 
Louisiana and Arkansas similar govern- 
ments had been set up even before Mr. 
Lincoln's death. Congress had not re- 
cognized them, indeed ; and it did not, 
until a year had gone by, recognize even 
Tennessee, though her case was the sim- 
plest of all. Within her borders the 
southern revolt had been, not solid and 
of a piece, but a thing of frayed edges 
and a very doubtful texture of opinion. 
But, though Congress doubted, the plan 
had at least proved practicable, and Mr. 
Johnson thought it also safe and direct. 

Mr. Johnson himself, unhappily, was 
not safe. He had been put on the same 
ticket with Mr. Lincoln upon grounds 
of expediency such as have too often 
created Vice Presidents of the United 



States. Like a great many other Ten- 
nesseeans, he had been stanch and un- 
wavering in his adherence to the Union, 
even after his state had cast the Union 
off ; but he was in all other respects a 
Democrat of the old order rather than a 
Republican of the new, and when he be- 
came President the rank and file of the 
Republicans in Congress looked upon him 
askance, as was natural. He himself saw 
to it, besides, that nobody should relish 
or trust him whom bad temper could alien- 
ate. He was self-willed, imperious, im- 
placable ; as headstrong and tempestuous 
as Jackson, without Jackson's power of 
attracting men, and making and holding 
parties. At first, knowing him a rad- 
ical by nature, some of the radical lead- 
ers in Congress had been inclined to 
trust him ; had even hailed his accession 
to the presidency with open satisfaction, 
having chafed under Lincoln's power to 
restrain them. " Johnson, we have faith 
in you ! " Senator Wade had exclaimed. 
" By the gods, there will be no trouble 
now in running the government ! " But 
Johnson was careful that there should be 
trouble. He was determined to lead as 
Lincoln had led, but without Lincoln's 
insight, skill, or sweetness of temper, 
by power and self-assertion rather than 
by persuasion and the slow arts of man- 
agement and patient accommodation ; 
and the houses came to an open breach 
with him almost at once. 

Moreover, there was one very serious 
and radical objection to Mr. Lincoln's 
plan for restoring the states, which would 
in all likelihood have forced even him 
to modify it in many essential particu- 
lars, if not to abandon it altogether. He 
had foreseen difficulties, himself, and had 
told Congress that his plan was meant to 
serve only as a suggestion, around which 
opinion might have an opportunity to 
form, and out of which some practicable 
method might be drawn. He had not 
meant to insist upon it, but only to try 
it. The main difficulty was that it did 
not meet the wishes of the congressional 



The Reconstruction of the Southern States. 



leaders with regard to the protection of 
the negroes in their new rights as free- 
men. The men whom Mr. Lincoln had 
called upon to reorganize the state gov- 
ernments of the South were, indeed, 
those who were readiest to accept the 
results of the war, in respect of the abo- 
lition of slavery as well as in all other 
matters. No doubt they were in the be- 
ginning men who had never felt any 
strong belief in the right of secession, 
men who had even withstood the pur- 
pose of secession as long as they could, 
and had wished all along to see the old 
Union restored. They were a minority 
now, and it might be pretty safely as- 
sumed that they had been a minority 
from the outset in all this fatal business. 
But they were white men, bred to all 
the opinions which necessarily went along 
with the existence and practice of slav- 
ery. They would certainly not wish to 
give the negroes political rights. They 
might be counted on, on the contrary, to 
keep them still as much as possible un- 
der restraint and tutelage. They would 
probably accept nothing but the form of 
freedom for the one-time slaves, and 
their rule would be doubly unpalatable 
to the men in the North who had gone 
all these weary years through, either in 
person or in heart, with the northern 
armies upon their mission of emancipa- 
tion. 

The actual course of events speedi- 
ly afforded means for justifying these 
apprehensions. Throughout 1865 Mr. 
Johnson pushed the presidential process 
of reconstruction successfully and rapid' 
ly forward. Provisional governors of 
his own appointment in the South saw 
to it that conventions were elected by 
the voters who had taken the oath pre- 
scribed in the amnesty proclamation, 
which Mr. Johnson had reissued, with 
little change either of form or of sub- 
stance ; those conventions proceeded at 
once to revise the state constitutions un- 
der the supervision of the provisional 
governors, who in their turn acted now 



and again under direct telegraphic in- 
structions from the President in Wash- 
ington ; the several ordinances of seces- 
sion were repealed, the war debts of the 
states were repudiated, and the legisla- 
tures set up under the new constitutions 
hastened to accept and ratify the Thir- 
teenth Amendment, abolishing slavery, 
as the President demanded. By Decem- 
ber of the very year of his inaugura- 
tion, every southern state except Florida 
and Texas had gone through the required 
process, and was once more, so far as the 
President was concerned, in its normal 
relations with the federal government. 
The federal courts resumed their ses- 
sions in the restored states, and the 
Supreme Court called up the southern 
cases from its docket. On December 18, 
1865, the Secretary of State formally 
proclaimed the Thirteenth Amendment 
ratified by the vote of twenty-seven states, 
and thereby legally embodied in the Con- 
stitution, though eight of the twenty-seven 
were states which the President had thus 
of his own motion reconstructed. With- 
out their votes the amendment would have 
lacked the constitutional three - fourths 
majority. 

The President had required nothing 
of the new states with regard to the suf- 
frage ; that was a matter, as he truly said, 
in respect of which the several states had 
" rightfully exercised " their free and 
independent choice " from the origin of 
the government to the present day ; " 
and of course they had no thought of 
admitting the negroes to the suffrage. 
Moreover, the new governments, once 
organized, fell more and more entirely 
into the hands of the very persons who 
had actively participated in secession. 
The President's proclamation of amnes- 
ty had, indeed, excepted certain classes 
of persons from the privilege of taking 
the oath which would make them voters 
again, under his arrangements for recon- 
struction : those who had taken a promi- 
nent official part in secession, or who had 
left the service of the United States for 



The Reconstruction of the Southern States. 



the service of the Confederate govern- 
ment. But a majority of the southern- 
ers were still at liberty to avail them- 
selves of the privilege of accepting the 
new order of things ; and it was to their 
interest to do so, in order that the new 
arrangements might be shaped as nearly 
as possible to their own liking. What 
was to their liking, however, proved as 
distasteful to Congress as had been ex- 
pected. The use they made of their re- 
stored power brought absolute shipwreck 
upon the President's plans, and radically 
altered the whole process of reconstruc- 
tion. 

An extraordinary and very perilous 
state of affairs had been created in the 
South by the sudden and absolute eman- 
cipation of the negroes, and it was not 
strange that the southern legislatures 
should deem it necessary to take extraor- 
dinary steps to guard against the mani- 
fest and pressing dangers which it en- 
tailed. Here was a vast " laboring, land- 
less, homeless class," once slaves, now 
free ; unpracticed in liberty, unschooled 
in self-control ; never sobered by the dis- 
cipline of self-support, never established 
in any habit of prudence ; excited by a 
freedom they did not understand, ex- 
alted by false hopes ; bewildered and 
without leaders, and yet insolent and 
aggressive ; sick of work, covetous of 
pleasure, a host of dusky children un- 
timely put out of school. In some of the 
states they outnumbered the whites, 
notably in Mississippi and South Caro- 
lina. They were a danger to themselves 
as well as to those whom they had once 
served, and now feared and suspected ; 
and the very legislatures which had ac- 
cepted the Thirteenth Amendment has- 
tened to pass laws which should put them 
under new restraints. Stringent regula- 
tions were adopted with regard to con- 
tracts for labor, and with regard to the 
prevention of vagrancy. Penalties were 
denounced against those who refused to 
work at the current rates of wages. 
Fines were imposed upon a great num- 



ber and variety of petty offenses, such as 
the new freemen were most likely to 
commit ; and it was provided that, in the 
(extremely probable) event of the non- 
payment of these fines, the culprits should 
be hired out to labor by judicial process. 
In some instances an elaborate system 
of compulsory apprenticeship was estab- 
lished for negroes under age, providing 
that they should be bound out to la- 
bor. In certain states the negroes were 
required to sign written contracts of la- 
bor, and were forbidden to do job work 
without first obtaining licenses from the 
police authorities of their places of re- 
sidence. Those who failed to obtain 
licenses were liable to the charge of 
vagrancy, and upon that charge could be 
arrested, fined, and put to compulsory 
labor. There was not everywhere the 
same rigor; but there was everywhere 
the same determination to hold the ne- 
groes very watchfully, and, if need were, 
very sternly, within bounds in the exer- 
cise of their unaccustomed freedom ; and 
in many cases the restraints imposed 
went the length of a veritable " involun- 
tary servitude." 

Congress had not waited to see these 
things done before attempting to help 
the negroes to make use of their free- 
dom, and self-defensive use of it, at 
that. By an act of March 3, 1865, it 
established, as a branch of the War De- 
partment, a Bureau of Refugees, Freed- 
men, and Abandoned Lands, which was 
authorized and empowered to assist the 
one-time slaves in finding means of sub- 
sistence, and in making good their new 
privileges and immunities as citizens. 
The officials of this bureau, with the 
War Department behind them, had gone 
the whole length of their extensive au- 
thority ; putting away from the outset all 
ideas of accommodation, and preferring 
the interests of their wards to the inter- 
ests of peaceable, wholesome, and heal- 
ing progress. No doubt that was inevi- 
table. What they did was but the final 
and direct application of the rigorous, 



The Reconstruction of the Southern States. 



unsentimental logic of events. The ne- 
groes, at any rate, had the full advan- 
tage of the federal power. A very active 
and officious branch of the War Depart- 
ment saw to it that the new disabilities 
which the southern legislatures sought to 
put upon them should as far as possible 
be rendered inoperative. 

That, however, did not suffice to sweet- 
en the temper of Congress. The fact 
remained that Mr. Johnson had rehabili- 
tated the governments of the southern 
states without asking the leave of the 
houses ; that the legislatures which he 
had authorized them to call together had 
sought, in the very same sessions in which 
they gave their assent to the emancipat- 
ing amendment, virtually to undo the 
work of emancipation, substituting a slav- 
ery of legal restraints and disabilities for 
a slavery of private ownership ; and that 
these same legislatures had sent men to 
Washington, to seek admission to the 
Senate, who were known, many of them, 
still openly to avow their unshaken be- 
lief in the right of secession. The south- 
ern voters, too, who had qualified by tak- 
ing the oath prescribed by the President's 
proclamation, had in most instances sent 
men similarly unconvinced to ask admis- 
sion to the House of Representatives. 
Here was indeed a surrender of all the 
advantages of the contest of arms, as it 
seemed to the radicals, very generous, 
no doubt, but done by a Tennesseean and 
a Democrat, who was evidently a little 
more than generous ; done, too, to exalt 
the Executive above Congress ; in any 
light, perilous and not to be tolerated. 
Even those who were not radicals wished 
that the restoration of the states, which 
all admitted to be necessary, had been 
effected in some other way, and safe- 
guarded against this manifest error, as 
all deemed it, of putting the negroes back 
into the hands of those who had been 
their masters, and would not now willing- 
ly consent to be their fellow citizens. 

Congress, accordingly, determined to 
take matters into its own hands. With 



the southern representatives excluded, 
there was a Republican majority in both 
houses strong enough to do what it 
pleased, even to the overriding, if neces- 
sary, of the President's vetoes. Upon 
assembling for their regular session in 
December, 1865, therefore, the House 
and Senate at once set up, by concurrent 
resolution, a joint committee of nine Re- 
presentatives and six Senators, which was 
instructed to inquire into all the condi- 
tions obtaining in the southern states, 
and, after sufficient inquiry, advise the 
houses upon the question whether, under 
the governments which Mr. Johnson had 
given them, those states were entitled 
to representation. To this committee, 
in other words, was intrusted the whole 
guidance of Congress in the all-impor- 
tant and delicate business of the full re- 
habilitation of the southern states as 
members of the Union. By February, 
1866, it had virtually been settled that 
the admission of their representatives 
to Congress should await the action of 
the reconstruction committee ; and that 
purpose was very consistently adhered 
to. An exception was made in the case 
of Tennessee, but in her case only. The 
houses presently agreed to be satisfied 
with her " reconstruction," and admitted 
her representatives to their seats in both 
House and Senate by an act of the 24th 
of July, 1865. But the other states 
were put off until the joint committee 
had forced them through a process of 
" Thorough," which began their recon- 
struction at the very beginning, again, 
and executed at every stage the methods 
preferred by the houses. The leader 
throughout the drastic business was Mr. 
Thaddeus Stevens, of Pennsylvania, the 
chairman of the committee, the leader 
of the House. He was foremost among 
the radicals, and drew a following about 
him, much as Stephen Douglas had at- 
tached thoroughgoing Democrats to him- 
self, in the old days when the legislative 
battles were being fought over the ex- 
tension of slavery into the territories, 



8 



The Reconstruction of the Southern States. 



by audacity, plain speaking, and the 
straightforward energy of unhesitating 
opinion. He gave directness and speed 
to all he proposed. He understood bet- 
ter than Douglas did the coarse work of 
hewing out practicable paths of action in 
the midst of opinions and interests at 
odds. He had no timidity, no scruples 
about keeping to constitutional lines of 
policy, no regard or thought for the sen- 
sibilities of the minority, being rough- 
hewn and without embarrassing sensi- 
bilities himself, an ideal radical for 
the service of the moment. 

Careful men, trained in the older ways 
of statesmanship and accustomed to read- 
ing the Constitution into all that they 
did, tried to form some consistent theory 
of constitutional right with regard to the 
way in which Congress ought to deal 
with this new and unprecedented situ- 
ation. The southern states were still 
" states " within the meaning of the 
Constitution as the Supreme Court had 
interpreted it. They were communities 
of free citizens ; each had kept its terri- 
torial boundaries unchanged, unmistak- 
able ; in each there was an organized 
government, " sanctioned and limited by 
a written constitution, and established 
by the consent of the governed." Their 
officers of government, like their people, 
had for a time, indeed, repudiated the 
authority of the federal government ; 
but they were now ready to acknowledge 
that authority again, and could resume 
their normal relations with the other 
states at a moment's notice, with all 
proper submission. Both Mr. Lincoln 
and Mr. Johnson had acted in part upon 
these assumptions. They had objected 
only that the governments actually in 
existence at the close of the war had 
been chosen by persons who were in fact 
insurgents, and that their officers had 
served to organize rebellion. Let those 
citizens of the South who had made sub- 
mission, and who had been pardoned un- 
der the President's proclamation, recon- 
stitute their governments, repudiating 



their old leaders, and the only taint upon 
their statehood would be removed : the 
Executive would recognize them as again 
normally constituted members of the 
Union. 

Not many members of Congress, how- 
ever, accepted this view. The Repub- 
lican party, it was true, had entered upon 
the war emphatically disavowing either 
wish or purpose to interfere with the con- 
stitutional rights of the states ; declar- 
ing its sole object to be the preservation 
of the Union, the denial of a single 
particular right which it could not but 
view as revolutionary. But war had 
brought many things in its train. The 
heat and struggle of those four tremen- 
dous years had burned and scarred the 
body of affairs with many an ineffaceable 
fact, which could not now be overlooked. 
Legally or illegally, as states or as bodies 
of individuals merely, the southern peo- 
ple had been at war with the Union ; the 
slaves had been freed by force of arms ; 
their freedom had now been incorporated 
in the supreme law of the land, and must 
be made good to them ; there was mani- 
fest danger that too liberal a theory of 
restoration would bring about an impos- 
sible tangle of principles, an intolerable 
contradiction between fact and fact. Mr. 
Sumner held that, by resisting the au- 
thority of the Union, of which they were 
members, the southern states had sim- 
ply committed suicide, destroying their 
own institutions along with their alle- 
giance to the federal government. They 
ceased to be states, he said, when they 
ceased to fulfill the duties imposed upon 
them by the fundamental law of the 
land. Others declined any such doc- 
trine. They adhered, with an instinct 
almost of affection, to the idea of a veri- 
table federal Union ; rejected Mr. Sum- 
ner's presupposition that the states were 
only subordinate parts of a consolidated 
national government ; and insisted that, 
whatever rights they had for a time for- 
feited, the southern states were at least 
not destroyed, but only estopped from ex- 



The Reconstruction of the Southern States. 



9 



ercising their ordinary functions within 
the Union, pending a readjustment. 

Theories made Mr. Stevens very im- 
patient. It made little difference with 
him whether the southern states had for- 
feited their rights by suicide, or tem- 
porary disorganization, or individual re- 
bellion. As a matter of fact, every de- 
partment of the federal government, the 
courts included, had declared the citi- 
zens of those states public enemies ; the 
Constitution itself had been for four 
years practically laid aside, so far as 
they were concerned, as a document of 
peace ; they had been overwhelmed by 
force, and were now held in subjection 
under military rule, like conquered pro- 
vinces. It was just as well, he thought, 
to act upon the facts, and let theories 
alone. It was enough that all Congress- 
men were agreed at any rate, all who 
were allowed a voice in the matter 
that it was properly the part of Con- 
gress, and not of the Executive, to bring 
order out of the chaos : to see that feder- 
al supremacy and federal law were made 
good in the South ; the legal changes 
brought about by the war forced upon 
its acceptance ; and the negroes secured 
in the enjoyment of the equality and 
even the privileges of citizens, in ac- 
cordance with the federal guarantee 
that there should be a republican form 
of government in every state, a gov- 
ernment founded upon the consent of 
a majority of its adult subjects. The 
essential point was that Congress, the 
lawmaking power, should be in control. 
The President had been too easy to sat- 
isfy, too prompt, and too lenient. Mr. 
Stevens consented once and again that 
the language of fine-drawn theories of 
constitutional right should be used in the 
reports of the joint Committee on Re- 
construction, in which he managed to be 
master ; but the motto of the committee 
in all practical matters was his motto 
of "Thorough," and its policy made 
Congress supreme. 

The year 1866 passed, with all things 



at sixes and sevens. So far as the Presi- 
dent was concerned, most of the southern 
states were already reconstructed, and 
had resumed their places in the Union. 
Their assent had made the Thirteenth 
Amendment a part of the Constitution. 
And yet Congress forbade the with- 
drawal of the troops, refused admit- 
tance to the southern representatives, 
and set aside southern laws through the 
action of the Freedmen's Bureau and the 
military authorities. By 1867 it had 
made up its mind what to do to bring 
the business to a conclusion. 1866 had 
at least cleared its mind and defined 
its purposes. Congress had still further 
tested and made proof of the temper of 
the South. In June it had adopted a 
Fourteenth Amendment, which secured 
to the blacks the status of citizens, both 
of the United States and of the several 
states of their residence, authorized a 
reduction in the representation in Con- 
gress of states which refused them the 
suffrage, excluded the more prominent 
servants of the Confederacy from fed- 
eral office until Congress should pardon 
them, and invalidated all debts or obli- 
gations " incurred in aid of insurrection 
or rebellion against the United States ; " 
and this amendment had been submitted 
to the vote of the states which Congress 
had refused to recognize as well as to the 
vote of those represented in the houses. 
Tennessee had promptly adopted it, and 
had been as promptly admitted to re- 
presentation. But the other southern 
states, as promptly as they could, had 
begun, one by one, to reject it. Their 
action confirmed the houses in their at- 
titude toward Reconstruction. 

Congressional views and purposes 
were cleared the while with regard to 
the President, also. He had not been 
firm ; he had been stubborn and bitter. 
He would yield nothing ; vetoed the 
measures upon which Congress was most 
steadfastly minded to insist ; alienated 
his very friends by attacking Congress 
in public with gross insult and abuse ; 



10 



The Reconstruction of the Southern States. 



and lost credit with everybody. It came 
to a direct issue, the President against 
Congress : they went to the country with 
their quarrel in the congressional elec- 
tions, which fell opportunely in the au- 
tumn of 1866, and the President lost 
utterly. Until then some had hesitated 
to override his vetoes, but after that no 
one hesitated. 1867 saw Congress go 
triumphantly forward with its policy of 
reconstruction ab initio. 

In July, 1866, it had overridden a 
veto to continue and enlarge the powers 
of the Freedmen's Bureau, in a bill 
which directed that public lands should 
be sold to the negroes upon easy terms, 
that the property of the Confederate 
government should be appropriated for 
their education, and that their new-made 
rights should be protected by military 
authority. In March, 1867, two acts, 
passed over the President's vetoes, in- 
stituted the new process of reconstruc- 
tion, followed and completed by another 
act in July of the same year. The 
southern states, with the exception, of 
course, of Tennessee, were grouped in 
five military districts, each of which was 
put under the command of a general of 
the United States. These commanders 
were made practically absolute rulers, 
until the task of reconstruction should 
be ended. It was declared by the Re- 
construction Acts that no other legal 
state governments existed in the ten 
states concerned. It was made the busi- 
ness of the district commanders to erect 
such governments as Congress pre- 
scribed. They were to enroll in each 
state, upon oath, all male citizens of 
one year's residence, not disqualified 
by reason of felony or excluded under 
the terms of the proposed Fourteenth 
Amendment, " of whatever race, color, 
or previous condition " they might be ; 
the persons thus registered were to 
choose constitutional conventions, confin- 
ing their choice of delegates to regis- 
tered voters like themselves ; these con- 
ventions were to be directed to frame 



state constitutions, which should extend 
the suffrage to all who had been per- 
mitted by the military authorities to en- 
roll for the purpose of taking part in 
the election of delegates; and the con- 
stitutions were to be submitted to the 
same body of voters for ratification. 
When Congress had approved the con- 
stitutions thus framed and accepted, and 
when the legislatures constituted under 
them had adopted the Fourteenth 
Amendment, the states thus reorganized 
were to be readmitted to representation 
in Congress, and in all respects fully re- 
instated as members of the Union ; but 
not before. Meanwhile, the civil gov- 
ernments already existing within them, 
though illegal, were to be permitted to 
stand ; but as " provisional only, and in 
all respects subject to the paramount au- 
thority of the United States at any time 
to abolish, control, or supersede the 
same." 

Such was the process which was rig- 
orously and consistently carried through 
during the memorable years 1867-70; 
and upon the states which proved most 
difficult and recalcitrant Congress did 
not hesitate from time to time to impose 
new conditions of recognition and rein- 
statement before an end was made. By 
the close of July, 1868, the reconstruc- 
tion and reinstatement of Arkansas, the 
two Carolinas, Florida, Alabama, and 
Louisiana had been completed. Vir- 
ginia, Mississippi, and Texas were 
obliged to wait until the opening of 1870, 
because their voters would not adopt the 
constitutions offered them by their re- 
constructing conventions ; and Georgia 
was held off a few months longer, be- 
cause she persisted in attempting to ex- 
clude negroes from the right to hold 
office. These four states, as a conse- 
quence, were obliged to accept, as a con- 
dition precedent to their reinstatement, 
not only the Fourteenth Amendment, 
but a Fifteenth also, which Congress 
had passed in February, 1869, and 
which forbade either the United States 



The Reconstruction of the Southern States. 



11 



or any state to withhold from any citi- 
zen the right to vote " on account of 
race, color, or previous condition of ser- 
vitude." The military commanders, 
meanwhile, used or withheld their hand 
of power according to their several tem- 
peraments. They could deal with the 
provisional civil governments as they 
pleased, could remove officials, annul 
laws, regulate administration, at will. 
Some were dictatorial and petty ; some 
were temperate and guarded in their 
use of authority, with a creditable in- 
stinct of statesmanship ; almost all were 
straightforward and executive, as might 
have been expected of soldiers. 

Whatever their mistakes or weaknesses 
of temper or of judgment, what followed 
the reconstruction they effected was in 
almost every instance much worse than 
what had had to be endured under mili- 
tary rule. The first practical result of 
reconstruction under the acts of 1867 was 
the disfranchisement, for several weary 
years, of the better whites, and the con- 
sequent giving over of the southern gov- 
ernments into the hands of the negroes. 
And yet not into their hands, after all. 
They were but children still ; and unscru- 
pulous men, " carpetbaggers," men not 
come to be citizens, but come upon an 
expedition of profit, come to make the 
name of Republican forever hateful in 
the South, came out of the North to 
use the negroes as tools for their own self- 
ish ends ; and succeeded, to the utmost 
fulfillment of their dreams. Negro ma- 
jorities for a little while filled the south- 
ern legislatures ; but they won no power 
or profit for themselves, beyond a pit- 
tance here and there for a bribe. Their 
leaders, strangers and adventurers, got 
the lucrative offices, the handling of the 
state moneys raised by loan, and of the 
taxes spent no one knew how. Here 
and there an able and upright man 
cleansed administration, checked corrup- 
tion, served them as a real friend and 
an honest leader ; but not for long. The 
negroes were exalted ; the states were 



misgoverned and looted in their name ; 
and a few men, not of their number, 
not really of their interest, went away 
with the gains. They were left to carry 
the discredit and reap the consequences 
of ruin, when at last the whites who 
were real citizens got control again. 

But that dark chapter of history is no 
part of our present story. We are here 
concerned, rather, with the far-reaching 
constitutional and political influences and 
results of Reconstruction. That it was a 
revolutionary process is written upon its 
face throughout ; but how deep did the 
revolution go ? What permanent marks 
has it left upon the great structure of 
government, federal, republican ; a part- 
nership of equal states, and yet a solidly 
coherent national power, which the fa- 
thers erected ? 

First of all, it is clear to every one 
who looks straight upon the facts, every 
veil of theory withdrawn, and the naked 
body of affairs uncovered to meet the 
direct question of the eye, that civil 
war discovered the foundations of our 
government to be in fact unwritten ; set 
deep in a sentiment which constitutions 
can neither originate nor limit. The 
law of the Constitution reigned until 
war came. Then the stage was cleared, 
and the forces of a mighty sentiment, 
hitherto unorganized, deployed upon it. 
A thing had happened for which the 
Constitution had made no provision. In 
the Constitution were written the rules 
by which the associated states should 
live in concert and union, with no word 
added touching days of discord or dis- 
ruption ; nothing about the use of force 
to keep or to break the authority or- 
dained in its quiet sentences, written, 
it would seem, for lawyers, not for sol- 
diers. When the war came, therefore, 
and questions were broached to which 
it gave no answer, the ultimate founda- 
tion of the structure was laid bare : phy- 
sical force, sustained by the stern loves 
and rooted predilections of masses of 
men, the strong ingrained prejudices 



12 



The Reconstruction of the Southern States. 



which are the fibre of every system of 
government. What gave the war its 
passion, its hot energy as of a tragedy 
from end to end, was that in it senti- 
ment met sentiment, conviction convic- 
tion. It was the sentiment, not of all, 
but of the efficient majority, the convic- 
tion of the major part, that won. A 
minority, eager and absolute in another 
conviction, devoted to the utmost pitch 
of self-sacrifice to an opposite and in- 
compatible ideal, was crushed and over- 
whelmed. It was that which gave an 
epic breadth and majesty to the awful 
clash between bodies of men in all things 
else of one strain and breeding ; it was 
that which brought the bitterness of 
death upon the side which lost, and the 
dangerous intoxication of an absolute 
triumph upon the side which won. But 
it unmistakably uncovered the founda- 
tions of force upon which the Union 
rested. 

It did more. The sentiment of union 
and nationality, never before aroused to 
full consciousness or knowledge of its 
own thought and aspirations, was hence- 
forth a new thing, aggressive and aware 
of a sort of conquest. It had seen its 
legions and felt its might in the field. 
It saw the very Constitution, for whose 
maintenance and defense it had acquired 
the discipline of arms, itself subordinat- 
ed for a time to the practical emergencies 
of war, in order that the triumph might 
be the more unimpeded and complete ; 
and it naturally deemed nationality hence- 
forth a thing above law. As much as 
possible, so far as could be without 
serious embarrassment, the forms of 
the fundamental law had indeed been 
respected and observed ; but wherever 
the law clogged or did not suffice, it had 
been laid aside and ignored. It was so 
much the easier, therefore, to heed its 
restrictions lightly, when the war was 
orer, and it became necessary to force 
the southern states to accept the new 
model. The real revolution was not so 
much in the form as in the spirit of af- 



fairs. The spirit and temper and meth- 
od of a federal Union had given place, 
now that all the spaces of the air had 
been swept and changed by the merciless 
winds of war, to a spirit which was con- 
sciously national and of a new age. 

It was this spirit which brushed the- 
ories and technicalities aside, and im- 
pressed its touch of revolution on the 
law itself. And not only upon the law, 
but also upon the processes of lawmak- 
ing, and upon the relative positions of 
the President and Congress in the gen- 
eral constitutional scheme of the govern- 
ment, seeming to change its very adminis- 
trative structure. While the war lasted 
the President had been master ; the war 
ended, and Mr. Lincoln gone, Congress 
pushed its way to the front, and began 
to transmute fact into law, law into fact. 
In some matters it treated all the states 
alike. The Thirteenth, Fourteenth, and 
Fifteenth amendments bound all the 
states at once, North and West as well 
as South. But that was, after all, a mere 
equality of form. The amendments were 
aimed, of course, at the states which had 
had slaves and had attempted secession, 
and did not materially affect any others. 
The votes which incorporated them in 
the Constitution were voluntary on the 
part of the states whose institutions they 
did not affect, involuntary on the part 
of the states whose institutions they revo- 
lutionized. These states were then un- 
der military rule. Congress had declared 
their whole political organization to be 
illegal ; had excluded their representa- 
tives from their seats in the houses ; and 
yet demanded that they assent, as states, 
to the amendment of the Constitution 
as a condition precedent to their rein- 
statement in the Union ! No anomaly 
or contradiction of lawyers' terms was 
suffered to stand in the way of the su- 
premacy of the lawmaking branch of 
the general government. The Consti- 
tution knew no such process as this of 
Reconstruction, and could furnish no 
rules for it. Two years and a half be- 



The Reconstruction of the Southern States. 



13 



fore the Fifteenth Amendment was adopt- 
ed by Congress, three years and a half 
before it was put in force by its adop- 
tion by the states, Congress had by mere 
act forced the southern states, by the 
hands of military governors, to put the 
negroes upon the roll of their voters. 
It had dictated to them a radical revi- 
sion of their constitutions, whose items 
should be framed to meet the views of 
the houses rather than the views of 
their own electors. It had pulled about 
and rearranged what local institutions it 
saw fit, and then had obliged the com- 
munities affected to accept its alterations 
as the price of their reinstatement as 
self-governing bodies politic within the 
Union. 

It may be that much, if not all, of 
this would have been inevitable under 
any leadership, the temper of the times 
and the posture of affairs being what 
they were ; and it is certain that it was 
inevitable under the actual circumstances 
of leadership then existing at Washing- 
ton. But to assess that matter is to 
reckon with causes. For the moment 
we are concerned only with consequences, 
and are neither justifying nor con- 
demning, but only comprehending. The 
courts of the United States have held 
that the southern states never were out 
of the Union ; and yet they have justi- 
fied the action of Congress throughout 
the process of Reconstruction, on the 
ground that it was no more than a pro- 
per performance by Congress of a le- 
gal duty, under the clause of the Consti- 
tution which guarantees to every state 
a republican form of government. It 
was making the southern governments 
republican by securing full standing and 
legislative representation as citizens for 
the negroes. But Congress went be- 
yond that. It not only dictated to the 
states it was reconstructing what their 
suffrage should be ; it also required that 
they should never afterward narrow 
that suffrage. It required of Virginia, 
Texas, and Mississippi that they should 



accord to the negroes not only the right 
to vote, but also the right to hold politi- 
cal office ; and that they should grant to 
all their citizens equal school privileges, 
and never afterward abridge them. So 
far as the right to vote was concerned, 
the Fifteenth Amendment subsequently 
imposed the same disability with regard 
to withholding the suffrage upon all the 
states alike ; but the southern states were 
also forbidden by mere federal statute to 
restrict it on any other ground ; and in 
the cases of Virginia, Mississippi, and 
Texas Congress assumed the right, which 
the Constitution nowhere accorded it, to 
regulate admission to political office and 
the privileges of public education. 

South Carolina and Mississippi, Lou- 
isiana and North Carolina, have since 
changed the basis of their suffrage, not- 
withstanding ; Virginia and Mississippi 
and Texas might now, no doubt, reor- 
ganize their educational system as they 
pleased, without endangering their status 
in the Union, or even meeting rebuke at 
the hands of the federal courts. The 
temper of the times has changed ; the 
federal structure has settled to a nor- 
mal balance of parts and functions again ; 
and the states are in fact unfettered ex- 
cept by the terms of the Constitution it- 
self. It is marvelous what healing and 
oblivion peace has wrought, how the 
traces of Reconstruction have worn away. 
But a certain deep effect abides. It is 
within, not upon the surface. It is of 
the spirit, not of the body. A revolu- 
tion was carried through when war was 
done which may be better comprehended 
if likened to England's subtle making 
over, that memorable year 1688. Though 
she punctiliously kept to the forms of 
her law, England then dismissed a king 
almost as, in later years, she would have 
dismissed a minister ; though she pre- 
served the procedure of her constitution 
intact, she in fact gave a final touch of 
change to its spirit. She struck irre- 
sponsible power away, and made her 
government once for all a constitutional 



14 



The Reconstruction of the Southern States. 



government. The change had been in- 
sensibly a-making for many a long age ; 
but now it was accomplished consciously 
and at a stroke. Her constitution, fin- 
ished, was not what it had been until 
this last stroke was given, when si- 
lent forces had at last found sudden 
voice, and the culminating change was 
deliberately made. 

Nearly the same can be said of the 
effect of the war and of the reconstruc- 
tion of the southern states upon our 
own government. It was a revolution 
of consciousness, of mind and pur- 
pose. A government which had been 
in its spirit federal became, almost of a 
sudden, national in temper and point of 
view. The national spirit had long been 
a-making. Many a silent force, which 
grew quite unobserved, from genera- 
tion to generation, in pervasiveness and 
might, in quiet times of wholesome peace 
and mere increase of nature, had been 
breeding these thoughts which now 
sprang so vividly into consciousness. 
The very growth of the nation, the very 
lapse of time and uninterrupted habit of 
united action, the mere mixture and 
movement and distribution of popula- 
tions, the mere accretions of policy, the 
mere consolidation of interests, had been 
building and strengthening new tissue of 
nationality the years through, and draw- 
ing links stronger than links of steel 
round about the invisible body of com- 
mon thought and purpose which is the 
substance of nations. When the great 
crisis of secession came, men knew at 
once how their spirits were ruled, men of 
the South as well as men of the North, 
in what institutions and conceptions of 
government their blood was fixed to run ; 
and a great and instant readjustment 
took place, which was for the South, the 
minority, practically the readjustment of 
conquest and fundamental reconstruc- 
tion, but which was for the North, the 
region which had been transformed, no- 
thing more than an awakening. 

It cannot be said that the forms of the 



Constitution were observed in this quick 
change as the forms of the English con- 
stitution had been observed when the 
Stuarts were finally shown the door. 
There were no forms for such a business. 
For several years, therefore, Congress 
was permitted to do by statute what, 
under the long-practiced conceptions of 
our federal law, could properly be done 
only by constitutional amendment. The 
necessity for that gone by, it was suf- 
fered to embody what it had already 
enacted and put into force as law into 
the Constitution, not by the free will of 
the country at large, but by the compul- 
sions of mere force exercised upon a mi- 
nority whose assent was necessary to the 
formal completion of its policy. The re- 
sult restored, practically entire, the forms 
of the Constitution ; but not before new 
methods and irregular, the methods of 
majorities, but not the methods of law, 
had been openly learned and practiced, 
and learned in a way not likely to be 
forgot. Changes of law in the end gave 
authentic body to many of the most sig- 
nificant changes of thought which had 
come, with its new consciousness, to the 
nation. A citizenship of the United 
States was created ; additional private 
civil rights were taken within the juris- 
diction of the general government ; addi- 
tional prohibitions were put upon the 
states ; the suffrage was in a measure 
made subject to national regulation. But 
the real change was the change of air, 
a change of conception with regard to 
the power of Congress, the guiding and 
compulsive efficacy of national legisla- 
tion, the relation of the life of the land 
to the supremacy of the national law- 
making body. All policy thenceforth 
wore a different aspect. ' 

We realize it now, in the presence of 
novel enterprises, at the threshold of an 
unlooked-for future. It is evident that 
empire is an affair of strong govern- 
ment, and not of the nice and somewhat 
artificial poise or of the delicate compro- 
mises of structure and authority charac- 






The Time-Spirit of the Twentieth Century. 



15 



teristic of a mere federal partnership. 
Undoubtedly, the impulse of expansion 
is the natural and wholesome impulse 
which comes with a consciousness of 
matured strength ; but it is also a direct 
result of that national spirit which the 
war between the states cried so wide 
awake, and to which the processes of 
Reconstruction gave the subtle assur- 
ance of practically unimpeded sway and 
a free choice of means. The revolution 



lies there, as natural as it was remarka- 
ble and full of prophecy. It is this which 
makes the whole period of Reconstruc- 
tion so peculiarly worthy of our study. 
Every step of the policy, every feature 
of the time, which wrought this subtle 
transformation, should receive our care- 
ful scrutiny. We are now far enough 
removed from the time to make that 
scrutiny both close and dispassionate. 
A new age gives it a new significance. 
Woodrow Wilson. 



THE TIME-SPIRIT OF THE TWENTIETH CENTURY. 



HAD we the faculty of the Greeks for 
embodying our perceptions of life in 
beautiful or terrifying myths, we should 
probably possess some legend of a 
Sphinx who lay across the path of en- 
trance into life, and forced each genera- 
tion to answer her conundrum of the cor- 
rect formula for the search of the high- 
est human good. In the legend, each 
generation would cast aside with con- 
tempt its predecessor's efforts at the so- 
lution of the enigma, and enter gayly 
upon the task of demonstrating the trium- 
phant wisdom of its guess at the world- 
old problems. 

It was after some such fashion as this 
that the last century nineteenth of its 
era came into being. Flushed, happy, 
confident, it came an army with banners ; 
every standard having blazoned upon it 
in letters of gold the magic device, " Lib- 
erty, Equality, Fraternity." Here was 
a potent formula indeed ! 

How we hustled the poor painted, for- 
mal, withered old eighteenth century out 
at the nether gate ! smashing its idols, 
toppling over its altars, tearing down its 
tarnished hangings of royalty from the 
walls, and bundling its poor antiquated 
furniture of authority out of the window. 
All doors were flung wide ; the barriers 
of caste, class, sex, religion, race, were 



burst open, and light poured in. The 
gloomy Ghettos were emptied of their 
silent, stubborn, cringing population, 
forged by the hammer of Christian hate 
through two thousand years into a race 
as keen, compact, and flexible as steel. 
The slave stood up free of bonds ; half 
exultant, half frightened, at the liberty 
that brought with it responsibilities 
heavier and more inexorable than the 
old shackles. Woman caught her breath 
and lifted up her arms. The old super- 
stitious Asiatic curse fixed upon her by 
the Church was scornfully laughed away. 
She was as free as the Roman woman 
again, free to be proud of her sex, free 
to wed where she chose, free to claim 
as her own the child for whom she had 
travailed to give it life. 

A vast bonfire was made of the stake, 
the wheel, the gyve ; of crowns, of or- 
ders, of robes of state. All wrongs 
were to be righted, all oppressions re- 
dressed, all inequalities leveled, all cru- 
elties forbidden. Men shuddered when 
they thought of the cruelties of the past, 
shuddered when they talked of the ex- 
ecution of Galas. Such a crime would 
never be possible in this new golden age. 
Only of oppression and cruelty was vice 
bred. Given perfect liberty and perfect 
justice, the warring world would become 



16 



The Time- Spirit of the Twentieth Century. 



Arcadia once more. Lions, if not hunt- 
ed, if judiciously trained by the constant 
instilling of virtuous maxims, would ac- 
quire a perfect disgust for mutton ; and 
lambs would consequently lie down be- 
side them, would grow as courageous and 
self-reliant as wolves. 

What a beautiful time it was, those 
first thrilling days of the new era ! How 
the spirit dilates in contemplating it, 
even now ! The heart beat with the no- 
ble new emotions, the cheek flushed, the 
eye glistened with sensibility's ready 
tear. It was so pleasant to be good, to 
be kind, to be just ; to feel that even 
the bonds of nationality were cast aside, 
and that all mankind were brothers, 
striving only for preeminence in virtue. 
The heart could hardly hold without de- 
licious pain this broad flood of universal 
human-kindness. 

It was then that Anarcharsis Clootz 
presented to the National Assembly his 
famous " deputation of mankind." 

" On the 19th evening of June, 1790, 
the sun's slant rays lighted a spectacle 
such as our foolish little planet has not 
often to show. Anarcharsis Clootz en- 
tering the august Salle de Manege with 
the human species at his heels. Swedes, 
Spaniards, Polacks, Turks, Chaldeans, 
Greeks, dwellers in Mesopotamia, come 
to claim place in the grand Federation, 
having an undoubted interest in it. ... 
In the meantime we invite them to the 
honors of the sitting, honneur de la se- 
ance. A long-flowing Turk, for rejoin- 
der, bows with Eastern solemnity, and 
utters articulate sounds; but, owing to 
his imperfect knowledge of the French 
dialect, his words are like spilt water ; 
the thought he had in him remains con- 
jectural to this day. ... To such things 
does the august National Assembly ever 
and anon cheerfully listen, suspending 
its regenerative labors." 

It was at this time that big words be- 
ginning with capital letters made their 
appearance, and were taken very seri- 
ously. One talked of the Good, the 



True, the Beautiful, and the Ideal, and 
felt one's bosom splendidly inflated by 
these capitalized mouthf uls. There were 
other nice phrases much affected at the 
time, the Parliament of Man, the 
Federation of the World, la Re'publique 
de Genre Humain. The new generation 
was intoxicated with its new theory of 
life, with its own admirable sentiments. 

Discrepancies existed, no doubt. The 
fine theories were not always put into 
complete practice. While the glittering 
phrases of the Declaration of Independ- 
ence were declaring all men free and 
equal, some million of slaves were help- 
ing to develop the new country with 
their enforced labor. The original own- 
ers of the soil were being mercilessly 
hunted like vermin, and the women of 
America had scarcely more legal claim 
to their property, their children, or their 
own persons than had the negro slaves. 
Nor did the framers of the Declaration 
show any undue haste in setting about 
abolishing these anomalies. The Nation- 
al Assembly of France decreed liberty, 
equality, and fraternity to all men, and 
hurried to cut off the heads and confis- 
cate the property of all those equal bro- 
thers who took the liberty of differing 
with them. 

But it was a poor nature that would 
boggle at a few inconsistencies, would 
quench this fresh enthusiasm with carp- 
ing criticism. After all, mere facts were 
unimportant. Given the proper emo- 
tion, the lofty sentiment of liberty and 
goodness, the rest would come right of 
itself. 

It was a period of upheaval, of polit- 
ical and social chaos. A new heaven 
and a new earth so they believed 
were to be created by this virile young 
generation, which had rid itself of the 
useless lumber of the past. Emotion 
displayed itself in a thousand forms : 
in iconoclastic rages against wrong, 
rages which could be exhausted only by 
the destruction of customs, laws, and 
religions that had bound the western 




The Time- Spirit of the Twentieth Century. 



17 



world for two thousand years ; in san- 
guinary furies against oppression which 
were to be satiated only by seas of blood. 
It showed itself in floods of sympathy 
for the weak that swept away weak and 
strong together in equal ruin. It was de- 
monstrated in convulsions of philanthro- 
py so violent that a man might not refuse 
the offered brotherhood and kindness 
save at the price of his life. 

The cold dictates of the head were 
ignored. The heart was the only guide. 

Who can wonder that, driven by this 
wind of feeling and with the rudder 
thrown overboard, the ship pursued an 
erratic and contradictory course ? 

From this point of view, one is no 
longer astounded at the lack of consist- 
ency of the Declaration des Droits de 
rHomme that declared : " All men are 
born and continue free and equal in 
rights ; " " Society is an association of 
men to preserve the rights of man ; " 
" Freedom of speech is one of the most 
precious of rights." Nor yet that France, 
crying aloud these noble phrases, slaugh- 
tered the most silent and humble who 
were supposed to maintain even secret 
thoughts opposed to the opinions of the 
majority. It is no longer surprising to 
read the generous sentiments of our own 
Declaration, and to remember the perse- 
cutions, confiscations, and burnings that 
drove thirty thousand of those not in 
sympathy with the Revolution over the 
borders of the New England states into 
Canada, and hunted a multitude from the 
South into Spanish Louisiana. One is 
no longer amazed to hear de Tocqueville 
declare that in no place had he found so 
little independence of thought as in this 
country during the early years of the re- 
public. The revolutionary sentimental- 
ist by the word " liberty " meant only lib- 
erty to think as he himself did. All the 
history of man is a record that there is 
nothing crueler than a tender heart un- 
governed by a cooler head. It is in this 
same spirit that the inquisitor, yearning 
in noble anguish over souls, burns the re- 

VOL. LXXXVII. NO. 519. 2 



calcitrant. It is plain to him that such 
as are so gross and vicious as to refuse 
to fall in with his admirable intentions 
for their eternal welfare can be worthy 
of nothing gentler than fire. 

But, whatever the discrepancies might 
be, the state of feeling was, of course, 
vastly more wholesome, more promising, 
than the dry formalism, the frivolous 
cynicism, which it had annihilated, and 
out of which it had been bred. 

The delicate, fastidious, selfish for- 
malists of the eighteenth century were 
naturally aghast at the generation to 
which they had given birth. It was as 
if an elderly dainty cat had been deliv- 
ered of a blundering, slobbering mastiff 
puppy, a beast which was to tear its dis- 
gusted arid terrified parent in pieces. 
No doubt they asked themselves in hor- 
ror, " When did we generate this wild 
animal, that sheds ridiculous tears even 
while drinking our blood ? " not seeing 
that the creature was the natural child, 
the natural reaction from the selfish 
shortsightedness of " Que ne mangent-ils 
de la brioche ? " from the frigid sneer of 
" Apres nous le deluge." 

The torrent of emotionalism to which 
the early part of the nineteenth century 
gave itself up is amazing to our colder 
time. It manifested itself not only in 
its public policy, in its schemes of uni- 
versal regeneration ; it was also visible in 
its whole attitude toward life. 

Madame Necker could so ill bear 
the thought of her friend Moulton's de- 
parture, after a short visit, that he was 
obliged to leave secretly and without a 
farewell. She fainted when she learned 
the truth, and says : " I gave myself up 
to all the bitterness of grief. The most 
gloomy ideas presented themselves to 
my desolate heart, and torrents of tears 
could not diminish the weight that 
seemed to suffocate me." And all this 
despair over the departure of an amiable 
old gentleman from Paris to Geneva ! 

This young emotionalism had no re- 
serves. The most secret sentiments of 



18 



The Time- Spirit of the Twentieth Century. 



the heart were openly displayed, dis- 
cussed. Tears were always flowing. 
Nothing was too sacred for verbal ex- 
pression. The people of that day wrote 
out their prayers, formal compositions 
of exquisite sentiments, and handed 
them about among their friends, as Ital- 
ian gentlemen did sonnets in the quattro- 
cento. On every anniversary or special 
occasion they penned lengthy epistles, 
full of high-sounding phrases and invo- 
cations to friends living under the same 
roof, who received these letters next 
morning with the breakfast tray, and 
shed delicious tears over them into their 
chocolate. 

A " delicate female " was a creature 
so finely constituted that the slightest 
shock caused hysterics or a swoon, and 
it was useless to hope for her recovery 
until the person guilty of the blow to 
her sensitiveness had shed the salt mois- 
ture of repentance upon her cold and 
lifeless hand, and had wildly adjured 
her to " live ; " after which her friends 
of the same sex ? themselves tremulous 
and much shaken by the mere sight of 
such sensibility, " recovered her with an 
exhibition of lavender water," or with 
some of those cordials which they all 
carried in their capacious pockets for 
just such exigencies. Nor did the deli- 
cate female monopolize all the delicacy 
and emotionalism. The " man of feel- 
ing " was her fitting mate, and the manly 
tear was as fluent and frequent as the 
drop in Beauty's eye. Swooning was 
not so much in his line ; there was, per- 
haps, less competition for the privilege 
of supporting his languishing frame, but 
a mortal paleness was no stranger to his 
sensitive countenance, his features con- 
tracted in agony over the smallest an- 
noyance, and he had an ominous fashion 
of rushing madly from the presence of 
the fair one in a way that left all his 
female relatives panting with appre- 
hension, though long experience might 
have taught them that nothing serious 
ever came of it. 



Thus the nineteenth century entered 
upon its experiment with the eternal 
verities, beginning gloriously ; palpitat- 
ing with generous emotion ; ready with 
its " blazing ubiquities " to light the way 
to the millennium. The truth had been 
discovered, and needed but to be thor- 
oughly applied to insure perfect happi- 
ness. A few adherents of the old order 
clung to their traditions, but by 1840 
the tide of liberalism had risen to flood. 
The minority were overawed and dumb. 
To suggest doubts of the impeccable 
ideals of democracy was to awaken only 
contempt, as if one were to dispute the 
theory of gravity. It was chose jugee. 
It did not admit of question. The theory, 
having swept away all opposition, had 
free play for the creation of Arcadias. 
Alas ! in a very similar fashion, in the 
eighteenth period of our era, had au- 
thority cleared the ground. It had 
burned, hanged, shut up in Bastilles, all 
cavilers ; and just as the scheme had a 
chance to work, it crumbled suddenly to 
pieces in the blood arid smoke of revo- 
lutions. Democracy, from the very na- 
ture of its principles, had no fear of a 
like tragedy ; but it had decreed liberty, 
and liberty began to be taken to doubt 
its conclusions. Voices arose here and 
there bewailing the lentils and the flesh- 
pots of the ruined house of bondage. 
Democracy had brought much good, 
that was not denied. But what had it 
done with the old dear things it had 
swept away ? the sweet loyalties that 
bound server to served ; the tender 
lights of faith ; the mutual warm ties of 
that enormous social and political edifice 
reared by feudalism, which hid black 
dungeons and noisome cloacae, perhaps, 
but which was rich with beauty and glori- 
ous with romance. The ugly rectangular 
wholesome edifice which democracy had 
substituted as a dwelling for the soul of 
man, with its crude, fierce lights, left 
many homesick for the past, with its in- 
conveniences, its ruined beauties, and its 
hoary charm. 



The Time-Spirit of the Twentieth Century. 



19 



These plaints were swelled, too, by the 
hard, unsentimental voice of Science, 
who began to demonstrate the fallacies 
of the heart's ardent reasoning. De- 
mocracy had decreed with thunderous 
finality that the feeble should be by law 
placed in eternal equality with the strong, 
and this was announced as the evident 
intention of beneficent Nature. Science 
relentlessly showed that Nature was not 
beneficent, and even undertook to prove 
that she was a heartless snob ; that to 
"Nature's darling, the Strong," she 
ruthlessly sacrificed multitudes of the fee- 
ble. Science tore away the veil through 
which sentiment had seen the peaceful 
fields, and showed the faint-flushed or- 
chard blossoms, the delicate springing 
grass, the insects floating on the perfumed 
breeze, the birds singing the praise of 
Nature's God, all, all engaged in a 
fierce battle for existence ; trampling on 
the weak, snatching at food and place, 
brutally crushing the feeble. 

Democracy had made itself the cham- 
pion of the humble, and had cursed the 
greedy and powerful. Science proved 
that not the meek and the unaggressive 
were the fittest and noblest, as was shown 
by their failing to survive in that terri- 
ble struggle for life, of which the human 
mele'e was but an articulate expression. 

The conviction that humanity had once 
known perfect equality, that freedom 
had been filched by the unscrupulous, 
was shown to be quite unfounded. Rous- 
seau's Contrat Social was made ridicu- 
lous by Darwin's Descent of Man. All 
research tended to prove that from the 
earliest Pliocene it was not the weak 
nor the humble, but he who 

" Stole the steadiest canoe, 
Eat the quarry others slew, 
Died, and took the finest grave," 

who had founded families, developed 
races, brought order out of chaos, had 
made civilizations possible, had ordained 
peace and security, and had been the 
force of upward evolution. It was thus 
that the freedom which the heart had 



given to the head was used to prove how 
fallible that generous heart was. 

Then out of all of this new knowledge, 
this groping regret, there arose with ex- 
cursions and alarums one of democracy's 
most trenchant foes, Carlyle ; the first 
who dared frankly to impeach the new 
ruler, to question his decrees. Through 
all his vocif erousness ; through all his 
droning tautology, his buzzing, banging, 
and butting among phrases, like an an- 
gry cockchafer ; through the general 
egregiousness of his intolerable style, 
there rang out clear once again the paean 
of the strong. Here was no talk of the 
rights of man. His right, as of old, was 
to do his duty and walk in the fear of 
the Lord. 

" A king or leader in all bodies of 
men there must be," he says. " Be their 
work what it may, there is one man 
here who by character, faculty, and po- 
sition is fittest of all to do it." 

For the aggregate wisdom of the mul- 
titude, to which democracy pinned its 
faith, he had only scorn : 

" To find a Parliament more and 
more the expression of the people could, 
unless the people chanced to be wise, give 
no satisfaction. . . . But to find some sort 
of King made in the image of God who 
could a little achieve for the people, if 
not their spoken wishes, yet their dumb 
wants, and what they would at last find 
to be their instinctive will, which is a 
far different matter usually in this bab- 
bling world of ours," that was the 
thing to be desired. " He who is to 
be my ruler, whose will is higher than 
my will, was chosen for me by heaven. 
Neither, except in obedience to the hea- 
ven-chosen, is freedom so much as con- 
ceivable." 

Here was the old doctrine of divine 
right come to life again, and masquerad- 
ing in democratic garments. 

The democratic theory did not fall 
into ruins even at the blast of Carlyle's 
stertorous trumpet, but the serious-mind- 
ed of his day were deeply stirred by the 



20 



The Time-Spirit of the Twentieth Century. 



seer's scornful words, more especially 
since that comfortable middle-class pros- 
perity and content, to which the demo- 
crat pointed as the best testimony to the 
virtue of his doctrines, was being attacked 
at the same time from another quarter. 
Not only did Carlyle contemptuously 
declare that this bourgeois prosperity 
was a thing unimportant, almost con- 
temptible, but the proletarian a new 
factor in the argument began to mut- 
ter and growl that he had not had his 
proper share in it, and that he found it as 
oppressive and unjust as he had found 
the arrogant prosperity of the nobles. 

That old man vociferous has long 
since passed to where, beyond these 
voices, there is peace ; but the obscure 
muttering of the man in the street, which 
was once but a vague undertone, has 
grown to an open menace. We of the 
middle classes who threw off the yoke 
of the aristocracy clamored just such 
impeachments, a century back. We are 
amazed to hear them now turned against 
ourselves. To us this seems an admira- 
ble world that we have made ; orderly, 
peaceable, prosperous. We see no fault 
in it. It has not worked out, perhaps, 
on as generous lines as we had planned, 
but, on the whole, each man gets, we 
think, his deserts. 

We begin to ask ourselves, wonder- 
ingly, if that aristocrat of the eighteenth 
century may not have seen his world 
in the same way. He paid no taxes, 
but he considered that he did his just 
share of work for the body politic ; he 
fought, he legislated, he administered. 
Perhaps it seemed a good world to him, 
well arranged. Perhaps he was as 
honestly indignant at our protests as we 
are at those of our accusers to-day. We 
thought ourselves intolerably oppressed 
by his expenditure of the money we 
earned, by his monopoly of place and 
power ; but we argue in our turn that, as 
we are the brains of the new civiliza- 
tion, we should have all the consequent 
privileges. What, we ask ourselves, do 



these mad creatures (who are very well 
treated) mean by their talk of slavery, 
of wage slavery ? How can there be 
right or reason in their contention that 
the laborer rather than the capitalist 
should have the profit of labor ? Does 
not the capitalist, as did the noble, gov- 
ern, administer, defend ? 

Attacked, abused, execrated, we be- 
gin to sympathize with those dead no- 
bles, who were perhaps as honest, as 
well meaning, as we feel ourselves to be ; 
who were as annoyed, as disgusted, as 
little convinced, by our arguments as we 
are by those which accuse us in our turn 
of being greedy, idle feeders upon the 
sweat of others. Perhaps to them the 
established order of things seemed as just 
and eternal as it does to us. We begin 
to understand, we begin to sympathize 
with, the dead aristocrats. 

For one hundred years, now, demo- 
cracy has been dominant, has had a free 
hand for the full application of its hy- 
potheses of life. It is well to brush aside 
conventionalities and cant, and reckon 
up the results of this century-long reign 
of liberty, equality, and fraternity. 

The millennium still remains a mirage 
upon the horizon of hope. Many abuses 
have been swept away, but power still 
uses its strength to brush the feeble from 
its path and grasp the things to be de- 
sired. Out of the triumphant bour- 
geoisie has grown a class as proud and 
strong as the aristocracy it supplanted. 
It has wealth, luxury, and power, such 
as the nobles never dreamed of. The 
lettres de cachet are no longer in use, 
and tax farmers are mere tradition ; but 
financiers, by a stroke of the pen, can 
levy a tax upon the whole land whose 
results make the horde of Fouquet ab- 
surd, and the payers of the impost are as 
helpless as any inmate of the cells of the 
He Sainte Marguerite. Capital organ- 
izes itself into incredibly potent aggrega- 
tions, and labor in its turn has built up a 
despotism far reaching and unescapable 
as the Lex Romanorum, such as the work- 



The Time- Spirit of the Twentieth Century. 



man under the old regime would never 
have tolerated. The two are arrayed 
against each other "in struggles of ever 
increasing intensity. 

After a hundred years of acceptance 
of the principle of the brotherhood of 
man, all nations are exaggerating their 
barriers and differences. The Celt re- 
vives and renews his hatred of the Sax- 
on. In Ireland and in Wales the abo- 
riginal tongues and literatures are being 
disinterred and taught, as a means of 
loosening the corporate nationalism of 
the British Isles. The Bretons protest 
against the appellation of Frenchmen. 
Hungary has repudiated the German 
language, and the Hungarians, Czechs, 
and Bohemians, held together by the 
bond of Austrian government, are res- 
tive and mutually repellent. The Em- 
pire of Spain has fallen into jealous and 
unsympathetic fragments. The conti- 
nent of Europe is dominated by two au- 
tocratic sovereigns, who overawe their 
neighbors by the consistent and contin- 
uous policy possible only to a despotism. 
France and the republics of South 
America are the prey of a military clique 
and a horde of adventurers who only al- 
ternate dictators. The armaments of the 
world are so prodigious that each nation 
fears to use its dangerous weapon. The 
barriers of increasing tariffs wall peoples 
apart. The great nations are dividing 
the weak ones as lions do their prey. 
Universal fraternity has become the dim- 
mest of dreams. 

And America ! America, the supreme 
demonstration and embodiment of the 
democratic ideal, what of her ? Amer- 
ica has embarked upon imperial wars, 
refuses sanctuary to the poor as inadmis- 
sible paupers, and laughs at the claim 
to brotherhood or citizenship of any man 
with a yellow skin. 

That Church which, by the very na- 
ture of her being, is most opposed to lib- 
erty of thought or conscience is more 
powerful than ever, and sees a great 
body of Protestants ardently repudiating 



its protests against arbitrary religious 
government, and earnestly endeavoring 
to assimilate its beliefs and rule to her 
ancient example. The Ghetto is open, 
but the Jew is still hated and oppressed. 
A Calas is no longer sacrificed to bigoted 
churchmen, but an intolerant Catholic 
nation makes possible an affaire Drey- 
fus. After a century of democracy, 
Zola is called upon to take up once again 
the protests of Voltaire. 

Thus time has one by one burst and 
scattered the iridescent bubbles of demo- 
cracy's sentimental hopes. 

What wonder is it, then, that so sig- 
nificant a change has taken place in our 
attitude toward ourselves ? We, who be- 
lieved ourselves the regenerators of the 
world, are now humbler of mood. Man, 
who spelled himself with reverent large 
letters, who pictured a universe created 
solely for his needs, who imagined a 
Deity flattered by his homage and 
wounded by his disrespect, who had but 
to observe a respectable code of morals 
to be received into eternal happiness 
with all the august honors due a conde- 
scending monarch, has fallen to the hu- 
mility of such admissions as these : 

" What a monstrous spectre is this 
man, the disease of the agglutinated dust, 
lifting alternate feet or lying drugged 
with slumber ; killing, feeding, growing, 
bringing forth small copies of himself ; 
grown up with hair like grass, fitted 
with eyes that glitter in his face ; a thing 
to set children screaming ! . . . Poor 
soul, here for so little, cast among so 
many hardships, filled with desires so in- 
commensurate and so inconsistent ; sav- 
agely surrounded, savagely descended, 
irremediably condemned to prey upon 
his fellow lives ; . . . infinitely childish, 
often admirably valiant, often touch- 
ingly kind ; sitting down to debate of 
right or wrong and the attributes of the 
deity ; rising up to battle for an egg or 
die for an idea. ... To touch the heart 
of his mystery we find in him one 
thought, strange to the point of lunacy, 



22 



The Time- Spirit of the Twentieth Century. 



the thought of duty, the thought of 
something owing to himself, to his neigh- 
bor, to his God ; an ideal of decency to 
which he would rise if possible ; a limit 
of shame below which, if it be possible, 
he will not stoop. . . . Not in man alone, 
but we trace it in dogs and cats whom 
we know fairly well, and doubtless some 
similar point of honor sways the ele- 
phant, the oyster, and the louse, of whom 
we know so little." 

Alas, poor Yorick ! how a century of 
self-contemplation has humbled him ! 

It is thus the successors of Rousseau, 
of Chateaubriand, of the believers in the 
perfectibility of man, speak, saying 
calmly, " The Empire of this world be- 
longs to force." And again : " Hitherto, 
in our judgments of men, we have taken 
for our masters the oracles and poets, and 
like them we have received for certain 
truths the noble dreams of our imagina- 
tions and the imperious suggestions of 
our hearts. We have bound ourselves 
by the partiality of religious divinations, 
and we have shaped our doctrines by 
our instincts and our vexations. . . . Sci- 
ence at last approaches with exact and 
penetrating implements ; . . . and in this 
employment of science, in this concep- 
tion of things, there is a new art, a new 
morality, a new polity, a new religion, 
and it is in the present time our task to 
discover them." 

Along with this changed attitude has 
come an alteration in our heroic ideals. 
For the sentimental rubbish, the drip- 
ping egotism, of a Werther, of a Man- 
fred, in whom the young of their day 
found the most adequate expression of 
their self-consciousness, we have substi- 
tuted the Stevenson and the Kipling hero, 
hard-headed, silent, practical, scornful 
of abstractions, contemptuous of emo- 
tions ; who has but two dominant no- 
tions, patriotism and duty; who keeps 
his pores open and his mouth shut. 



The old democratic shibboleths re- 
main on our lips, and still pass current 
as if they were truisms, but we have 
ceased to live by their precepts. We 
have lost our youthful cocksureness and 
intolerance in imposing them upon oth- 
ers. We realize that, despite all we have 
so proudly decreed, the strong still rule, 
and often plunder the weak ; that the 
weak still rage, and impotently imagine 
a vain thing of legislation as a means of 
redressing the eternal inequality of life. 
We see the flaws in our tyranny of com- 
mercialism and militarism. We regard 
ourselves our erstwhile important and 
impeccable selves with half -humorous 
leniency. 

Much of good we gave. How could 
any ideal so tender, so high of purpose, 
fail of righting a thousand wrongs ? How 
could all those floods of sweet, foolish 
tears leave the soil of life quite hard and 
dry, or fail to cause a thousand lovely 
flowers of goodness and gentleness to 
bloom ? 

That we have not solved the riddle of 
the Sphinx is hardly cause for wonder 
or shame. Neither will our successors 
find the answer, but it will be interest- 
ing to see the nature of their guess. It 
is plain that our formula will not serve 
for them, but the new programme is 
not yet announced. The newcomers are 
thoughtful and silent, daunted perhaps 
by the failure of our own drums and 
shoutings. 

Will the wage earners shear the bour- 
geoisie, as we shore the nobles a century 
ago ? Or will Liberty sell herself to au- 
thority, for protection from the dry hope- 
lessness of socialism or the turmoil of 
anarchy ? Or will the new generation 
evolve some thought undreamed of, some 
new and happier guess at the great cen- 
tral truth which forever allures and for- 
ever eludes our grasp ? 

Elizabeth Bisland. 



'The Empress Dowager. 



23 



THE EMPRESS DOWAGER. 



A STRUGGLING mass of humanity was 
crowding out of the northeast gate of 
the Forbidden City. Order, etiquette, 
ceremony, none of these amenities of 
life, customary to the existence of the 
Son of Heaven, was apparent on this oc- 
casion. Here a stalwart Manchu was 
shouting for a chair, but none was to be 
had at any price. Eunuchs, loaded with 
spoils, contested the right of way with 
the poor creatures of the harem. " Sauve 
qui peut ! " was the motto of all. The Son 
of Heaven, Hsien Feng, had ordered his 
chair, and, without troubling about his 
council, had ridden off unceremoniously, 
leaving his courtiers, women, and eunuchs 
to follow as best they could. Unused to 
contact with the world, these poor crea- 
tures trailed in the wake of their lord 
and master, many of them falling by the 
wayside, without notice save that of a 
cruel taunt from some coarse eunuch. 

We may turn our eyes from the rest 
of the Manchu women, on their toilsome 
journey that hot summer day of 1860, 
and observe one among them. Although 
somewhat taller than the others, she 
would not have attracted attention on 
that account. Manchu women have not 
adopted the Chinese fashion of compress- 
ing the feet, and this one, although bur- 
dened with a boy of five, stepped out as 
if she did not know what fatigue meant. 
There was determination in her very step. 
She was twenty -four or twenty-five years 
old, had blue-black hair and regular Tar- 
tar features, with large, bold eyes. In 
every movement there was a special but 
almost mechanical alertness as regarded 
her boy. It would have been impossible 
to state if she loved the child or not ; 
but there would have been no difficulty 
in discovering that whatever passions she 
possessed it was evident that she was 
passionate centred in the child. 

She was one of the eighty-one third- 



class wives to which the Son of Heaven 
is entitled, one of eighty-one nameless 
toys of her lord and master. There is 
probably nothing but malicious inven- 
tion in the story that she had been a 
slave girl. It is not from that class that 
the harem of the Emperor is filled. This 
might have been the case in the days 
of Kang-hi or Kien-lung, who were in 
touch with their people ; but it was next 
to impossible with a palace-bred weak- 
ling, like the man who was now running 
away from a shadow. Her motherhood 
always honorable in China, especially 
when the child is a boy had excited 
the envy, hatred, and malice of her less 
favored sisters. Hers had been a hard 
life. She had been tormented with the 
law of Confucius, declaring that the child 
she had borne was not hers, but that of 
the Empress, if the latter should not 
present the monarch with an heir. She 
knew that she was no more than a hand- 
maid. " There are three kinds of filial 
impiety, the gravest of which is to be 
without male descendants," declares 
Mencius, after Confucius the greatest 
sage. (Who should, in such a case, make 
the sacrificial offerings before the tab- 
lets of the ancestors ?) Therefore, if a 
man has no children at the age of forty, 
he is expected to take another wife. The 
first, however, retains her original posi- 
tion ; and if children are born of the sec- 
ond, they belong by law to the first, or 
legal wife. 

These third-class wives are usually 
nameless ; they may be distinguished by 
numbers, but after they have borne a son 
they are known as the mother of that boy. 
Wholly uneducated and illiterate, the 
women of the harem vegetate through 
their melancholy lives, and die without 
leaving a trace. During the two cen- 
turies since the Manchu established the 
dynasty, not one of all the successive 



24 



The Empress Dowager. 



occupants of the women's apartments in 
the Purple Forbidden was known even 
by name. But this woman, stolidly plod- 
ding along the dusty and rocky ruts, 
would form a rude exception. 

Yeh-ho, or Hot Springs, was reached in 
safety, and couriers informed the Son of 
Heaven of the arrival of the barbarians 
in Peking, and later of their withdrawal. 
This was beyond his comprehension, for 
it was inexplicable by precedent. 

The British and French plenipoten- 
tiaries, on their part, knew nothing of 
Chinese conditions, and were wholly at a 
loss with regard to Oriental ratiocination, 
which few of us can follow even at this 
day. The act which appeared as wan- 
ton barbarism, the burning of the sum- 
mer palace, was the only penalty that 
made an impression. The comparative- 
ly lenient conditions of peace produced 
a feeling of relief, but at the same time 
a firm belief that it was only the con- 
sciousness of impotence or inferiority 
which restrained the allies from demand- 
ing or taking more. 

It was not only mental but also phy- 
sical decadence which had overtaken the 
Ta Tsing dynasty. Hsien Feng, while 
trying to maintain the traditional su- 
periority of the Middle Kingdom and 
his own supremacy over all the mon- 
archs in his capacity of Tien tsz', or Son 
of Heaven, did not act the part of a 
man. To do him justice, however, it is 
admitted that he was facing conditions 
which were wholly beyond his compre- 
hension. Prior to the war with Eng- 
land China was the Middle Kingdom, 
and might even call itself the Middle 
Flowery Kingdom, without much exag- 
geration. The potentates of the adja- 
cent countries looked upon the Son of 
Heaven as upon their oldest brother, 
whom they had been taught to revere. 
The great monarch at Peking received 
their homage with benevolent conde- 
scension, as became his superior rank. 
When they sent him congratulations 
and presents on New Year's Day, he 



accepted both, but gave more expensive 
presents in return. If they had trouble 
with their subjects, and appealed to 
him, he was ready to go to their assist- 
ance without remuneration or even re- 
imbursement. Our sinologues translated 
this relationship by the word " tributa- 
ry," because the idea has no existence 
in the Occident, and we have no word to 
express it. It is Oriental in conception, 
and arises from the Confucian formation 
of the state, in which the family, and not 
the individual, constitutes the unit. 

The only nations having intercourse 
with China had received whatever civili- 
zation they possessed from the Middle 
Kingdom. In the early days of the Ta 
Tsing dynasty, Europeans had, indeed, 
come to China, but, whether engaged in 
trade or in the propagation of the gos- 
pel, they had humbly obeyed the im- 
perial decrees. Historical precedent, 
therefore, served to confirm Hsien Feng's 
belief in his own supremacy. He was 
quite willing that the barbarians should 
trade with his people. In theory, at 
least, the autocrat at Peking ruled by 
benevolence, and he was prepared to 
extend his good will to the unfortunate 
inhabitants of countries less favored than 
the Middle Kingdom, to whom its tea 
and other products were a necessary of 
life. He was not averse to receiving their 
ambassadors and to showing them kind- 
ness, provided they observed the tradi- 
tional rules of etiquette and paid him 
the homage that was his due. It was 
this question of homage and etiquette 
which caused the war with Great Brit- 
ain and France, and which drove Hsien 
Feng from his capital, a fugitive, to his 
palace at Yeh-ho. 

Hsien Feng was urged by his brother, 
Prince Kung, to return to the capital. 
He refused. Scarcely had the court set- 
tled at the Hot Springs palace, when one 
of the older attendants remembered that 
the spell of the Feng-shui, the spirit of 
air and water, whose undisturbed repose 
is essential to prosperity or " luck," was 



broken, because the grandfather of the 
Emperor, Kia King, had died at Yeh-ho. 
From the moment when Hsien Feng was 
reminded of this event a dark shadow 
enshrouded him and his court. He felt 
that he was a doomed man, and neither 
astrologer nor geomancer, steeped as such 
were in the murky waters of superstition, 
could bring relief. The Emperor died 
in the spring of the following year. 

Who shall unravel the intrigues fos- 
tered by his anticipated demise ? Legal 
issue there was none, save a girl, and 
girls have no legal existence. The boy 
whom we have seen carried or led by his 
vigorous mother was the undisputed heir, 
and it was known that the deceased mon- 
arch had appointed a council of regen- 
cy. It was also said that some leading 
Manchu had combined to obtain posses- 
sion of the boy, and thereby proclaim 
themselves regents de facto. Whatever 
schemes and plots concentrated about the 
child heir were defeated by the flight of 
the Empress together with the mother 
and child. 

This event marks the beginning of a 
government by palace intrigue, in which 
eunuchs took a leading part. Such 
government is not without precedent, 
although it is almost purely Oriental. 
These intrigues have had their day in 
Constantinople and Moscow, where Oc- 
cidental thought struggles with Oriental 
conditions. It was only through the eu- 
nuchs that the mother of the heir could 
approach the legal wife of the dying 
Emperor, and come to an understanding 
with her ; and it was only by enlisting 
the services of the leading eunuchs that 
preparations for flight could be made. 
Concealment was comparatively easy, 
since the ceremonies attending the funer- 
al engrossed the attention of the super- 
stitious Manchu. The two women with 
the boy arrived safely at Peking, and 
enlisted the sympathy of Prince Kung. 

The mother had decided, upon mak- 
ing her arrangement with the real Em- 
press Dowager, that the heir should be 



The Empress Dowager. 



25 



proclaimed by the two characters stand- 
ing for " Fortunate Union." Her am- 
bition, at the time of her flight, went no 
further. But as soon as her interview 
with Prince Kung had shown her the 
way of revenge upon her enemies, she 
determined that she, and she alone, 
should be supreme in the Purple For- 
bidden City. A remnant of Seng Ko- 
ling-sing's braves were dispatched to Yeh- 
ho, and before the conspirators could 
devise means of safety they were seized 
and beheaded. The same fate overtook 
the eunuchs who had incurred the ha- 
tred of the Manchu women. As to the 
fate of the occupants of the harem, life 
is held cheaply in China, and women 
are mere chattels at the best. The child 
was at once proclaimed Emperor under 
the title of Tung Chih, or United Rule ; 
thus commemorating the agreement be- 
tween the Empress Dowager and her 
former handmaid. 

The arrangement was not only law- 
less, but it violated the highest statutes of 
the country ; and it seems strange that 
the Chinese, so punctilious as to prece- 
dent, and horrified at the very idea of a 
woman being consulted in men's affairs, 
should have submitted without a mur- 
mur. It must be remembered, however, 
that at this time the Yang-tsz' provinces, 
the first to be informed of the usurpa- 
tion, were in the throes of the Tai P'ing 
rebellion, and that their viceroys had all 
they could do to maintain their own au- 
thority. Besides, the occupation of the 
capital by a hostile army, and its subse- 
quent release, had set every precedent 
at naught. The time was, consequently, 
singularly propitious ; and when the re- 
bellion was subdued, and the country had 
settled down, the viceroys faced an ac- 
complished fact, to which they submitted 
with the stoicism of the race. An impe- 
rial decree had imparted official signifi- 
cance to the hitherto nameless woman. 
She was given the title of Tsze Hsi An, 
or Mother of the Sovereign. Inasmuch 
as this act provoked no opposition, as it 



26 



The Empress Dowager. 



undoubtedly would have done but for the 
vigorous measures upon her enemies at 
Yeh-ho, the title was soon afterward sup- 
plemented by that of Empress of the 
West, to distinguish her from the Em- 
press Dowager, who received the title of 
Empress of the East. 

The first ten years of her reign may 
be termed tentative. She was alert by 
nature, and had demonstrated her innate 
powers of intrigue. These faculties 
were ever on the watch. When a high 
Manchu approached her with broad in- 
sinuations that the Empress of the East 
was plotting against her, she suddenly 
confronted him with that less masculine 
woman, and discovered that he had come 
to her rival with a similar tale. Calling 
her chief eunuch, she ordered a box of 
gold leaf to be brought, and scornfully 
compelled the mischief-maker to swal- 
low enough to stop his tongue forever. 

With the palace eunuchs attached to 
her, for she was extravagant in her re- 
wards for faithful services, she could 
bid defiance to any plot. The autonomy 
of the provinces rendered each one obe- 
dient to the viceroy appointed over it. 
The people do not take any part what- 
ever in the government. So long as the 
taxation remains within reasonable lim- 
its, it is immaterial who holds the ver- 
milion pencil at Peking ; and the literati, 
who, as candidates for office, stand be- 
tween the government and the -people, 
look to the former for preferment, and 
are not disposed to interfere so long as 
the violation of Confucian law does not 
threaten their privileges or existence. 

The administration rested chiefly in 
the hands of Prince Kung, known to 
the foreigners as Prince Regent. When, 
however, Tung Chih approached his ma- 
jority, Tsze Hsi An began to look for 
support among the prominent officials of 
Chinese birth, and with rare intuition 
selected two men of very different char- 
acter, Li Hung Chang and Chang Chih 
Tung. The former had rendered val- 
uable services during the Tai P'ing re- 



bellion, where he had proved an unscru- 
pulous, crafty, and daring leader, but 
fond of wealth. Chang Chih Tung, on 
the contrary, had patriotic impulses, was 
opposed to the " foreign devils," but 
was honest and far-sighted. These two 
officials were called to Peking, where 
Li Hung Chang, who had kept in his 
own service some of the troops drilled 
by " Chinese Gordon," was appointed 
to the important position of viceroy of 
Chih-lf. 

When her son was sixteen years old 
Tsze Hsi An selected a wife for him, and 
he was duly proclaimed Emperor and 
installed upon the Dragon Throne. The 
foreign ministers, accredited to Peking, 
now claimed the right of presenting their 
credentials to the sovereign in person, 
and, after many months of weary nego- 
tiations, were finally admitted into the 
hall where the ambassadors of younger 
nations had paid their homage and pre- 
sented the offerings of their respective 
monarchs. Thus the ministers discov- 
ered, but too late, that by tolerating this 
reception they had acknowledged China's 
superiority ! 

It is beyond doubt that Tsze Hsi An 
was the real ruler during the life of her 
son. Filial piety, the one inexorable law 
of China, which, in its ramification into 
ancestral worship, constitutes the reli- 
gion, since it is the tie which binds the 
nation into homogeneity, holds every son 
in bondage during the life of his parents. 
Tung Chih, however, was both vicious 
and stubborn, and threatened his mo- 
ther's autocracy. She must have taken 
a dislike to him, as her actions immedi- 
ately after his death indicate. 

He died in the spring of 1875, from 
an attack of smallpox, leaving his wife 
pregnant. Sudden as was his death, 
Tsze Hsi An, now Mother of the Sov- 
ereign no longer, took instant and ap- 
parently preconcerted measures to retain 
her authority. The breath had scarcely 
left the body before messengers were on 
their way to summon such Manchu no- 




The Empress Dowager. 



27 



bles as were well disposed toward her. 
She invited none possessed of independ- 
ence or respect of the statutes. At the 
same time Li Hung Chang was ordered 
to hold his troops in readiness. When 
the council convened, she simply notified 
its members that she had selected Tsai- 
tien, the three-and-a-half-year-old son of 
Prince Chung, as the heir to the throne. 
The Manchu looked aghast. What if 
Tung Chih's unborn child should prove 
to be a son ? Tsze Hsi An asserted, im- 
patiently but positively, that she would 
have no grandson. To the almost insur- 
mountable objection that Tsai-tien was of 
the same generation as Tung Chih, and 
was therefore excluded from worshiping 
at his tablets, she replied that her " hus- 
band," the late Hsien Feng, dead these 
fourteen years, had adopted the boy by 
" posthumous act." This brazen sug- 
gestion stifled all opposition. The child 
was sent for in the dead of night, and 
brought to the ghostly council chamber, 
where all present, including his own fa- 
ther, prostrated themselves before him. 
He was proclaimed Emperor under the 
title of Kuang Hsu, or Illustrious Suc- 
cessor. 

The supposed adoption by Hsien Feng 
restored to Tsze Hsi An her title, or as 
much right as she had to it while the 
Empress of the East was still living. 
But this violation of China's most sa- 
cred law, that of ancestral worship, pro- 
voked so much opposition that Li Hung 
Chang's troops were called upon to seize 
numerous victims for the executioner. 
Blood flowed freely at Peking; but it 
served only to prove that the country at 
large could be ruled from the capital by 
the aid of a handful of loyal viceroys, 
and in defiance of every law. The high- 
handed action of one who was in every 
respect a usurper caused scarcely a com- 
ment in the provinces. 

The foreign ministers were, of course, 
accredited to the de facto powers, and, 
even if they had been acquainted with 
the facts, would have had no cause to in- 



terfere. Li Hung Chang was promoted 
to the Grand Secretariat, a position hith- 
erto reserved exclusively to a Manchu, 
and Tsze Hsi An was as much the sole 
regent or ruler as after the death of the 
Empress of the East in 1881. She did 
not attempt to interfere with the ma- 
chinery of the government, except in the 
appointment of the viceroys and leading 
officials, and in appropriating a good 
share of the revenue to herself. It seems 
that, as she grew older, the desire to ac- 
cumulate wealth increased, a desire 
easily gratified with the opportunity af- 
forded to her. 

Ruthless in her methods, she ordered 
Alutch, Tung Chih's widow, to commit 
suicide. After this, even the Manchu fa- 
thers, little as they value their daughters, 
were not anxious to furnish a bride to 
Kuang Hsu when he approached his ma- 
jority. His adoptive mother selected one 
of her own nieces, and after the wedding 
Kuang Hsu was duly installed. Tsze Hsi 
An withdrew to the Eho Park palace, 
which had been prepared for her, but 
by no means released her hold upon the 
government. The Peking Gazette, the 
official organ of the administration, bears 
ample evidence that every decree ema- 
nating from Kuang Hsu had been pre- 
viously submitted to, and approved by, 
the imperious woman. 

She might have continued to enjoy her 
authority, if the uniform success of all 
her schemes had not caused her ambi- 
tion to go beyond the bounds controlled 
by palace intrigue. She was sixty years 
old in 1894, and this birthday, the oc- 
casion of great honor in the life of the 
Chinese, was to be appropriately cele- 
brated. The viceroys were notified by 
imperial edict, and received more pri- 
vately a strong hint as to the presents 
that would be acceptable to "her who 
must be obeyed." It was expected that 
this celebration would be made remark- 
able by Japan's humiliation. It is cer- 
tain that Li Hung Chang was devoted 
to her ? and acted entirely upon her or- 



The Empress Dowager. 



ders. It is equally certain that Yuan 
Shi Kai, the Chinese minister-resident 
in Korea, was appointed by, and was a 
creature of, the viceroy of Chih-lf ; nor 
can it be denied that, beginning with the 
assassination of Kim-6k-Kyun, the pro- 
Japanese Korean refugee, on the 24th of 
March, 1894, everything was done by 
the Chinese government to insult Japan. 
That proud nation had, indeed, ample 
cause for resentment, even though its al- 
leged cause of China's suzerainty over 
Korea was ridiculous, and served only 
to justify the war before the civilized 
world. Li Hung Chang could have made 
peace at any time before the battle of 
A-san. That he did not do so, well in- 
formed as he was as to Japan's strength, 
goes far to prove that he was impelled 
by a power superior to his own ; that is, 
by Tsze Hsi An. 

When the Chinese fleet was destroyed 
and Port Arthur taken, the woman re- 
membered the time of her flight, and 
grew frightened. Her trepidation in- 
creased a thousandfold when the capture 
of Wei-hai-wei left the road to Peking 
open to the victorious foe. Her scornful 
behest, " to drive the wo-jin [pygmies] 
back to their lair," had been answered 
by the stirring sounds of Kimigayo, the 
Japanese national anthem. She remem- 
bered, but too late, that the enemy, in 
this case, was no barbarian ignorant of 
Chinese law and precedent, but a deeply 
insulted people to whom both were an 
open book. She knew that she had for- 
feited her life many times by her crimes 
against the statutes, and that the flimsy 
pretext of her adoptive motherhood, 
whatever influence it might exert upon 
the weakling on the throne, would not 
save her from the anger of Japanese 
statesmen. She commanded and implored 
Li Hung Chang to prevent the Japanese 
from entering Peking, and authorized 
him to make peace at any price. Her 
fright assumed such dimensions that she 
actually withdrew from the government, 
and, intending to use the Emperor as a 



scapegoat, thrust the vermilion pencil 
into the untrained fingers of astonished 
Kuang Hsu. 

Those fingers, weak as they were, 
grasped the pencil with greater firmness 
than Tsze Hsi An had expected. Peace 
was concluded upon comparatively easy 
terms, for Marquis Ito was unwilling to 
be the cause of China's disintegration. 
But when Kuang Hsu scrutinized the sac- 
rifices imposed upon China, and found 
how the vast empire had been shameful- 
ly defeated by its small but wiry foe, he 
inquired into the causes producing such 
abnormal results. The consequences of 
this inquiry were soon visible in the inno- 
vations ordered in no uncertain tone, and 
published in the imperial yellow Court 
Journal. 

Tsze Hsi An had evidently relinquished 
her authority prematurely. It was quite 
clear that Kuang Hsu intended to be 
Emperor in deed as well as in name. He 
showed the relative authority of Tsze 
Hsi An and himself, upon the return of 
Li Hung Chang from the coronation 
ceremonies at Moscow. The statesman, 
upon arrival at Peking, hastened to Eho 
Park to pay his respects to its owner. 
When Kuang Hsu heard of it, he reproved 
him publicly as failing in homage due to 
the Emperor, deprived him of his yellow 
jacket, and kept him prostrate upon the 
stone floor for such a long time that the 
old man was made seriously ill. 

The reforms inaugurated under the 
new regime demanded a vast supply of 
money, and threatened the revenues of 
Tsze Hsi An as well as the perquisites 
of courtiers and officials. Worse than 
this, the influence of Sir Robert Hart 
was increasing rapidly, and unpleasant 
inquiries as to the disbursement of large 
amounts of specie might take place at 
any time. To crown the danger threat- 
ening Chinese officialdom, Tsze Hsi An 
was rapidly losing whatever influence she 
still possessed, and even she might be 
called to account for past misdeeds. 
The coup d'etat of the 21st of August, 



1898, excites less wonder than the fact 
that it was so long in maturing. Tsze 
Hsi An needed all her previous experi- 
ence in palace intrigue to spin the web 
with due secrecy, since a single traitor 
among that host of eunuchs would have 
been fatal to her. That there was such 
danger was proved at the last moment, 
when Kuang Hsu was warned. It was 
too late ! As he was trying to escape to 
the British Legation, he was seized by 
one of the head eunuchs, and unceremo- 
niously carried back and placed under 
arrest. Tsze Hsi An reentered the Pur- 
ple Forbidden City, and openly resumed 
her authority. 

It would be profitless and beyond the 
scope of this article to consider what the 
ministers of the great powers might or 
should have done. Moderate but firm 
interference at that time could, beyond 
doubt, have solved the problem of Chi- 
na's rejuvenation. The nations most in- 
terested in this desirable object were re- 
presented by men to whom China was 
a closed book. Neither Mr. Conger nor 
Sir Claude Macdonald could be expected 
to master the art of diplomacy, or to 
acquire a correct knowledge of China 
by intuition. Tsze Hsi An, silently re- 
cognized, satisfied the frightened officials 
by her wholesale abrogation of the de- 
crees issued by the ex -Emperor, and 
thereby gained their approbation. She 
was seated more firmly on the throne 
than ever. 

But one difficulty confronted her. She 
had never dealt directly with the barba- 
rians ; and of the two men who had saved 
her this trouble, Prince Kung was dead, 
and Li Hung Chang, who had experi- 
ence in carrying out her orders, abso- 
lutely declined the responsibility. In 
this connection, her long training in pal- 

Jace intrigue proved of no avail ; and 
among her creatures of the Tsung-li- 
yamen there was not one competent to 
take the lead. 

What increased the difficulty was that 
two powers, at least, could read between 



The Empress Dowager. 



29 



the lines, and knew that she had no 
shadow of right for her high-handed 
proceedings. Russia and Japan knew 
China well, and either could at any time 
render her position untenable. That nei- 
ther of them did so was, as she well 
knew, not on her account, but from 
motives of policy. Russia's information 
was held over her head like the sword 
of Damocles, until its presence drove her 
almost mad. Japan, on the contrary, in 
its desire to preserve China's integrity 
as a guarantee for its own independence, 
was disposed to be more friendly. At 
last she decided to trust Japan ; but when 
about to negotiate an offensive-defensive 
treaty, M. de Giers interfered by declar- 
ing that " such a treaty would be consid- 
ered as an unfriendly act by his govern- 
ment." 

Thus, at the beginning of the year 
1900, Tsze Hsi An was harassed upon 
every side. All her experience in the 
evasion of danger pointed toward the 
shedding of blood as the only certain 
means of success. It seems as if she 
had adopted as motto the gory platform 
of Robespierre : " II n'y a que les morts 
qui ne reviennent pas." That was the 
only solution which she was able to dis- 
cover, and she seized upon it with avid- 
ity. Her experience was not broad 
enough to forecast the result, while her 
superstition, ignorance, and hope led 
her to accept the supposed invulnerabili- 
ty of the Boxers as an established fact. 
When that illusion vanished, and the al- 
lies appeared at T'ung Chow, fourteen 
miles from Peking, she fled, taking with 
her sixty-nine carts filled with the most 
valuable wealth, and poor Kuang Hsu, 
who was to serve as a hostage for her 
own safety and immunity. 

Strong as she is physically, and mental- 
ly as regards determination, it is scarcely 
to be expected that this woman, now 
sixty-six years old, will long survive the 
incredible hardships of a journey of more 
than six hundred miles. Yet the same 
danger besets Kuang Hsu, whose health 



Penelope's Irish Experiences. 



has been at no time good. The question 
is whether her death will in any way al- 
ter the circumstances or affect China's 
future. But from her life the lesson 
may be learned that no law, however sa- 
cred it may be, is considered inviolable in 
the Middle Kingdom, and that, aided by 
loyal viceroys, the regeneration of China 
may be initiated and directed from Pe- 
king, without any serious opposition, so 
long as local interests and traditions are 
not ruthlessly sacrificed. While with 
nations of the Occident reforms usually 
begin among the people, the recent his- 
tory of Japan is ample proof that the re- 
verse is the case in the Orient. That 
history also demonstrates the feasibility 
of gradually infusing new life and aims 
of life by influencing the literati who 
stand between the throne and the peo- 



ple, and exert no little pressure upon 
both. Their number, small if compared 
with the dense population, renders such 
regeneracy possible. A gradual change 
in the programme of the triennial ex- 
aminations, and a liberal revision of the 
salary list, together with the abolition of 
the fee system, should limit the attempts 
at reform during at least one decade. 
By watching the effect thus produced, 
further measures tending in the same 
direction might be inaugurated. But 
if, looking toward the wealth concealed 
within China's soil, violent means are 
adopted either to reach those treasures or 
to introduce reforms having in view the 
same end, the whole of China may be 
roused to a war compared to which the 
late Boxer movement was mere child's 
play. 

R. Van Bergen. 



PENELOPE'S IRISH EXPERIENCES. 1 



PART THIRD. 



XII. 



"See where Mononia's heroes lie, proud Owen 

More's descendants, 

'T is they that won the glorious name and had 
the grand attendants ! " 

IT was a charming thing for us when 
Dr. La Touche gave us introductions to 
the Colquhouns of Ardnagreena ; and 
when they, in turn, took us to tea with 
Lord and Lady Killbally at Balkilly 
Castle. I don't know what there is 
about us : we try to live a sequestered 
life, but there are certain kind forces in 
the universe that are always bringing us 
in contact with the good, the great, and 
the powerful. Francesca enjoys it, but 
secretly fears to have her democracy un- 
dermined. Salemina wonders modestly 
at her good fortune. I accept it as the 



graceful tribute of an old civilization to 
a younger one ; the older men grow the 
better they like girls of sixteen, and why 
should n't the same thing be true of coun- 
tries? 

As long ago as 1589, one of the Eng- 
lish " undertakers " who obtained some 
of the confiscated Desmond lands in 
Munster wrote of the " better sorte " of 
Irish : " Although they did never see 
you before, they will make you the best 
cheare their country yieldeth for two or 
three days, and take not anything there- 
for. . . . They have a common saying 
which I am persuaded they speake un- 
feinedly, which is, ' Defend me and 
spend me.' Yet many doe utterly mis- 
like this or any good thing that the poor 
Irishman dothe." 



Copyright, 1900, hy KATE DOUGLAS RIGOS. 



Penelope's Irish Experiences. 



31 



This certificate of character from an 
* undertaker " of the sixteenth century 
certainly speaks volumes for Irish amia- 
bility and hospitality, since it was given 
at a time when grievances were as real 
as plenty ; when unutterable resentment 
must have been rankling in many minds ; 
and when those traditions were growing 
which have colored the whole texture of 
Irish thought, until, with the poor and 
unlettered, to be " agin the government " 
is an inherited instinct, to be obliterated 
only by time. 

We supplement Mrs. Mullarkey's hel- 
ter-skelter meals with frequent luncheons 
and dinners with our new friends, who 
send us home on our jaunting car laden 
with flowers, fruit, even with jellies and 
jams. Lady Killbally forces us to take 
three cups of tea and a half dozen mar- 
malade sandwiches whenever we go to 
the Castle ; for I apologized for our ap- 
petites, one day, by telling her that we 
had lunched somewhat frugally, the meal 
being sweetened, however, by Molly's 
explanation that there was a fresh sole 
in the house, but she thought she would 
not inthrude on it before dinner ! 

We asked, on our arrival at Knock- 
arney House, if we might breakfast at a 
regular hour, say eight thirty. Mrs. 
Mullarkey agreed, with that suavity 
which is, after her untidiness, her dis- 
tinguishing characteristic ; but notwith- 
standing this arrangement we break our 
fast sometimes at nine forty, sometimes 
at nine twenty, sometimes at nine, but 
never earlier. In order to achieve this 
much, we are obliged to rise early and 
make a combined attack on the execu- 
tive and culinary departments. One 
morning I opened the door leading from 
the hall into the back part of the estab- 
lishment, but closed it hastily, having 
interrupted the toilets of three young 
children, whose existence I had never sus- 
pected, and of Mr. Mullarkey, whom I 
had thought dead for many years. Each 
child had donned one article of clothing, 
and was apparently searching for the 



mate to it, whatever it chanced to be. 
Mrs. Mullarkey was fully clothed, and 
was about to administer correction to one 
of the children, who, unfortunately for 
him, was not. I retired to my apartment 
to report progress, but did not describe 
the scene minutely, nor mention the fact 
that I had seen Salemina's ivory-backed 
hairbrush put to excellent if somewhat 
unusual and unaccustomed service. 

Each party in the house eats in soli- 
tary splendor, like the MacDermott, 
Prince of Coolavin. That royal per- 
sonage of County Sligo, I believe, did 
not allow his wife or his children (who 
must have had the MacDermott blood in 
their veins, even if somewhat diluted) 
to sit at table with him. This method 
introduces the last element of confusion 
into the household arrangements, and 
on two occasions we have had our cus- 
tard pudding or stewed fruit served in 
our bedrooms a full hour after we have 
finished dinner. We have reasons for 
wishing to be first to enter the dining 
room, and we walk in with eyes fixed on 
the ceiling, by far the cleanest part of 
the place. Having wended our way 
through an underbrush of corks, with 
an empty bottle here and there, and 
stumbled over the holes in the carpet, 
we arrive at our table in the window. 
It is as beautiful as heaven outside, and 
the tablecloth is at least cleaner than it 
will be later, for Mrs. Waterf ord of Mul- 
linavat has an unsteady hand. 

When Oonah brings in the toast rack 
now she balances it carefully, remem- 
bering the morning when she dropped 
it on the floor, but picked up the slices 
and offered them to Salemina. Never 
shall I forget that dear martyr's expres- 
sion, which was as if she had made up 
her mind to renounce Ireland and leave 
her to her fate. I know she often must 
wonder if Dr. La Touche's servants, like 
Mrs. Mullarkey's, feel of the potatoes to 
see whether they are warm or cold ! 

At ten thirty there is great confusion 
and laughter and excitement, for the 



32 



Penelope's Irish Experiences. 



sportsmen are setting out for the day, 
and the car has been waiting at the door 
for an hour. Oonah is caroling up and 
down the long passage, laden with dishes, 
her cheerfulness not in the least impaired 
by having served seven or eight separate 
breakfasts. Molly has spilled a jug of 
milk, and is wiping it up with a child's 
undershirt. The Glasgy man is telling 
them that yesterday they forgot the cork- 
screw, the salt, the cup, and the jam from 
the luncheon basket, facts so mirth- 
provoking that Molly wipes tears of plea- 
sure from her eyes with the milky un- 
dershirt, and Oonah sets the hot-water 
jug and the coffeepot on the stairs to 
have her laugh out comfortably. When 
once the car departs, comparative quiet 
reigns in and about the house until the 
passing bicyclers appear for luncheon or 
tea, when Oonah picks up the napkins 
that we have rolled into wads and flung 
under the dining table, and spreads them 
on tea trays, as appetizing details for the 
weary traveler. There would naturally 
be more time for housework if so large 
a portion of the day were not spent in 
pleasant interchange of thought and 
speech. I can well understand Mrs. Col- 
quhoun's objections to the housing of the 
Dublin poor in tenements, even in 
those of a better kind than the present 
horrible examples ; for wherever they are 
huddled together in any numbers they 
will devote most of their time to conver- 
sation. To them, talking is more attrac- 
tive than eating ; it even adds a new joy 
to drinking ; and if I may judge from 
the groups I have seen gossiping over 
a turf fire till midnight, it is preferable 
to sleeping. But do not suppose they 
will bubble over with joke and repartee, 
with racy anecdote, to every casual new- 
comer. The tourist who looks upon the 
Irishman as the merry -andrew of the 
English-speaking world, and who ex- 
pects every jarvey he meets to be as 
whimsical as Mickey Free, will be disap- 
pointed. I have strong suspicions that 
ragged, jovial Mickey Free himself, de- 



licious as he is, was created by Lever to 
satisfy the Anglo-Saxon idea of the low- 
comedy Irishman. You will live in the 
Emerald Isle for many a month, and not 
meet the clown or the villain so familiar 
to you in modern Irish plays. Drama- 
tists have made a stage Irishman to suit 
themselves, and the public and the gal- 
lery are disappointed if anything more 
reasonable is substituted for him. You 
will find, too, that you do not easily gain 
Paddy's confidence. Misled by his care- 
less, reckless impetuosity of demeanor, 
you might expect to be the confidant of 
his joys and sorrows, his hopes and 
expectations, his faiths and beliefs, his 
aspirations, fears, longings, at the first 
interview. Not at all ; you will sooner 
be admitted to a glimpse of the traveling 
Scotsman's or the Englishman's inner 
life, family history, personal ambition. 
Glacial enough at first and far less vol- 
uble, he melts soon enough, if he likes 
you. Meantime, your impulsive Irish 
friend gives himself as freely at the first 
interview as at the twentieth ; and you 
know him as well at the end of a week 
as you are likely to at the end of a year. 
He is a product of the past, be he gen- 
tleman or peasant. A few hundred years 
of necessary reserve concerning articles 
of political and religious belief have bred 
caution and prudence in stronger natures, 
cunning and hypocrisy in weaker ones. 



XIII. 

" The light-hearted daughters of Erin, 
Like the wild mountain deer they can bound ; 
Their feet never touch the green island, 
But music is struck from the ground. 
And oft in the glens and green meadows, 
The ould jig they dance with such grace, 
That even the daisies they tread on, 
Look up with delight in their face." 

One of our favorite diversions is an 
occasional glimpse of a " crossroads 
dance " on a pleasant Sunday afternoon, 
when all the young people of the dis- 
trict are gathered together. Their re- 




Penelope's Irish Experiences. 



33 



ligious duties are over with their confes- 
sions and their masses, and the priests 
encourage these decorous Sabbath gaye- 
ties. A place is generally chosen where 
two or four roads meet, and the dancers 
come from the scattered farmhouses in 
every direction. In Ballyfuchsia, they 
dance on a flat piece of road under some 
fir trees and larches, with stretches of 
mountain covered with yellow gorse or 
purple heather and the quiet lakes lying 
in the distance. A message comes down 
to us at Ardnagreena where we com- 
monly spend our Sunday afternoons 
that they expect a good dance, and the 
blind boy is coming to fiddle ; and " so 
if you will be coming up, it '& welcome 
you '11 be." We join them about five 
o'clock, passing, on our way, groups 
of " boys " of all ages from sixteen up- 
wards, walking in twos and threes, and 
parties of three or four girls by them- 
selves ; for it would not be etiquette for 
the boys and girls to walk together, such 
strictness is observed in these matters 
about here. 

When we reach the rendezvous we find 
quite a crowd of young men and maid- 
ens assembled ; the girls all at one side 
of the road, neatly dressed in dark skirts 
and light blouses, with the national wool- 
en shawl over their heads. Two wide 
stone walls, or dikes, with turf on top, 
make capital seats, and the boys are at 
the opposite side, as custom demands. 
When a young man wants a partner, he 
steps across the road and asks a colleen, 
who lays aside her shawl, generally giv- 
ing it to a younger sister to keep until 
the dance is over, when the girls go back 
to their own side of the road and put on 
their shawls again. Upon our arrival we 
find the " sets " are already in progress ; 
a " set " being a dance like a very intri- 
cate and very long quadrille. We are 
greeted with many friendly words, and 
the young boatmen and farmers' sons ask 
the ladies, " Will you be pleased to dance, 
miss ? " Some of them are shy, and say 
they are not familiar with the steps ; but 

VOL. LXXXVII. NO. 519. 3 



their would-be partners remark encour- 
agingly : " Sure, and what matter ? I '11 
see you through." Soon all are dan- 
cing, and the state of the road is being 
discussed with as much interest as the 
floor of a ballroom. Eager directions 
are given to the more ignorant newcom- 
ers, such as " Twirl your girl, captain ! " 
or " Turn your back to your face ! " 
rather a difficult direction to carry out, 
but one which conveys its meaning. 
Salemina confided to her partner that 
she feared she was getting a bit old to 
dance. He looked at her gray hair care- 
fully for a moment, and then said chiv- 
alrously : " I 'd not say that that was 
old age, ma'am. I'd say it was eddi- 
cation." 

When the sets, which are very long 
and very decorous, are finished, some- 
times a jig is danced for our benefit. 
The spectators make a ring, and the 
chosen dancers go into the middle, where 
their steps are watched by a most crit- 
ical and discriminating audience with 
the most minute and intense interest. 
Our Molly is one of the best jig dancers 
among the girls here (would that she 
were half as clever at cooking !) ; but 
if you want to see an artist of the first 
rank, you must watch Kitty O'Rourke, 
from the neighboring village of Dooclone. 
The half door of the barn is carried into 
the ring by one or two of her admirers, 
whom she numbers by the score, and on 
this she dances her famous jig polthogue, 
sometimes alone and sometimes with Art 
Rooney, the only worthy partner for her 
in the kingdom of Kerry. Art's mo- 
ther, " Bid " Kooney, is a keen match- 
maker, and we heard her the other day 
advising her son, who was going to Doo- 
clone to have a "weeny court" with 
his colleen, to put a clane shirt on him 
in the middle of the week, and disthract 
Kitty intirely by showin' her he had 
three of thim, annyway ! 

Kitty is a beauty, and does n't need to 
be made " purty wid cows," a feat that 
the old Irishman proposed to do when 



34 



Penelope's Irish Experiences. 



he was consummating a match for his 
plain daughter. But the gifts of the 
gods seldom come singly, and Kitty is 
well fortuned as well as beautiful : fifty 
pounds, her own bedstead and its fit- 
tings, a cow, a pig, and a web of linen 
are supposed to be the dazzling total, so 
that it is small wonder her deluderin' 
ways are maddening half the boys in 
Ballyfuchsia and Dooclone. She has 
the prettiest pair of feet in the County 
Kerry, and when they are encased in a 
smart pair of shoes, bought for her by 
Art's rival, the big constable from Bally- 
fuchsia barracks, how they do twinkle 
and caper over that half barn door, to 
be sure ! Even Murty, the blind fiddler, 
seems intoxicated by the plaudits of the 
bystanders, and he certainly never plays 
so well for anybody as for Kitty of the 
Meadow. Blindness is still common in 
Ireland, owing to the smoke in these 
wretched cabins, where sometimes a hole 
in the roof is the only chimney ; and al- 
though the scores of blind fiddlers no 
longer traverse the land, finding a wel- 
come at all firesides, they are still to be 
found in every community. Blind Mur- 
ty is a favorite guest at the Rooneys' 
cabin, which is never so full that there 
is not room for one more. There is a 
small wooden bed in the main room, a 
settle that opens out at night, with hens 
in the straw underneath, where a board 
keeps them safely within until they have 
finished laying. There are six children 
beside Art, and my ambition is to photo- 
graph, or, still better, to sketch the family 
circle together ; the hens cackling under 
the settle, the pig (" him as pays the 
rint ") snoring in the doorway, as a pro- 
prietor should, while the children are 
picturesquely grouped about. I never 
succeed, because Mrs. Rooney sees us as 
we turn into the lane, and calls to the 
family to make itself ready, as quality 's 
comin' in sight. The older children 
can scramble under the bed, slip shoes 
over their bare feet, and be out in front 
of the cabin without the loss of a single 



minute. " Mickey jew'l," the baby, who 
is only four, but " who can handle a stick 
as bould as a man," is generally clad in 
a ragged skirt, slit every few inches from 
waist to hem, so that it resembles a cot- 
ton fringe. The little coateen that tops 
this costume is sometimes, by way of di- 
version, transferred to the dog, who runs 
off with it ; but if we appear at this un- 
lucky moment, there is a stylish yoke of 
pink ribbon and soiled lace which one of 
the girls pins over Mickey jewTs naked 
shoulders. 

Moya, who has this eye for picturesque 
propriety, is a great friend of mine, and 
has many questions about the Big Coun- 
try when we take our walks. She longs 
to emigrate, but the time is not ripe yet. 
" The girls that come back has a lovely 
style to thim," she says wistfully, " but 
they 're so polite they can't live in the 
cabins anny more and be contint." The 
" boys " are not always so improved, she 
thinks. " You 'd niver find a boy in 
Ballyfuchsia that would say annything 
rude to a girl ; but when they come back 
from Ameriky, it 's too free they 've 
grown intirely." It is a dull life for 
them, she says, when they have once been 
away ; though to be sure Ballyfuchsia is 
a pleasanter place than Dooclone, where 
the priest does not approve of dancing, 
and, however secretly you may do it, the 
curate hears of it, and will speak your 
name in church. 

It was Moya who told me of Kitty's 
fortune. " She 's not the match that 
Farmer Brodigan's daughter Kathleen 
is, to be sure ; for he 's a rich man, and 
has given her an iligant eddication in 
Cork, so that she can look high for a 
husband. She won't be takin* up wid 
anny of our boys, wid her two hundred 
pounds and her twenty cows and her 
pianya. Och, it 's a thrimmjus player 
she is, ma'am. She's that quick and 
that strong that you 'd say she would n't 
lave a string on it." 

Some of the young men and girls 
never see each other before the marriage, 




Penelope's Irish Experiences. 



35 



!oya says. " But sure," she adds shyly, 
" I 'd niver be contint with that, though 
some love matches does n't turn out anny 
better than the others." 

" I hope it will be a love match with 
you, and that I shall dance at your wed- 
ding, Moya," I say to her smilingly. 

" Faith, I 'm thinkin' my husband's 
intinded mother died an old maid in 
Dublin," she answers merrily. " It 's 
a small fortune I '11 be havin', and few 
lovers ; but you '11 be soon dancing at 
Kathleen Brodigan's wedding, or Kitty 
O'Rourke's, maybe." 

I do not pretend to understand these 
humble romances, with their foundations 
of cows and linen, which are after all no 
more sordid than bank stock and trous- 
seaux from Paris. The sentiment of the 
Irish peasant lover seems to be frankly 
and truly expressed in the verses : 

"Oh! Moya's wise and beautiful, has wealth 

in plenteous store, 
And fortune fine in calves and kine, and 

lovers half a score ; 
Her faintest smile would saints beguile, or 

sinners captivate, 
Oh! I think a dale of Moya, but I'll surely 

marry Kate. 

Now to let you know the raison why I can- 
not have my way, 

Nor bid my heart decide the part the lover 
must obey 

The calves and kine of Kate are nine, while 
Moya owns but eight, 

So with all my love for Moya I 'm compelled 
to marry Kate ! " 

I gave Moya a lace neckerchief, the 
other day, and she was rarely pleased, 
running into the cabin with it and show- 
ing it to her mother with great pride. 
After we had walked a bit down the 
boreen she excused herself for an instant, 
and, returning to my side, explained that 
she had gone back to ask her mother to 
mind the kerchief, and not let the " cow 
knock it " ! 

Lady Killbally tells us that some of 
the girls who work in the mills deny 
themselves proper food, and live on bread 
and tea for a month, to save the price 



of a gay ribbon. This is trying, no 
doubt, to a philanthropist, but is it not 
partly a starved sense of beauty assert- 
ing itself ? If it has none of the usual 
outlets, where can imagination express 
itself if not in some paltry thing like a 
ribbon ? 

XIV. 

" My love 's an arbutus by the waters of Lene, 
So slender and shapely in her girdle of 
green." 

Mrs. Mullarkey cannot spoil this para- 
dise for us. When I wake in the morn- 
ing, the fuchsia tree outside my window 
is such a glorious mass of color that it 
distracts my eyes from the unwashed 
glass. The air is still ; the mountains 
in the far distance are clear purple ; 
everything is fresh-washed and purified 
for the new day. Francesca and I leave 
the house sleeping, and make our way 
to the bogs. We love to sit under a 
blossoming sloe bush and see the silver 
pools glistening here and there in the 
turf cuttings, and watch the transparent 
vapor rising from the red-brown or the 
purple - shadowed bog fields. Dinnis 
Rooney, half awake, leisurely, silent, is 
moving among the stacks with his creel. 
There is a moist, rich fragrance of mead- 
owsweet and bog myrtle in the air ; and 
how fresh and wild and verdant it is ! 
How the missel thrushes sing in the 
woods, and the plaintive note of the cur- 
lew gives the last touch of mysterious 
tenderness to the scene. 

As for Lough Lein itself, who could 
speak its loveliness, lying like a crystal 
mirror beneath the black Reeks of the 
McGillicuddy, where, in the mountain 
fastnesses, lie spellbound the sleeping war- 
riors who, with their bridles and broad- 
swords in hand, await but the word to 
give Erin her own ! When we glide 
along the surface of the lakes, on some 
bright day after a heavy rain ; when we 
look down through the clear water on 
tiny submerged islets, with their grasses 



Penelope's Irish Experiences. 



and drowned daisies glancing up at us 
from the blue ; when we moor the boat 
and climb the hillsides, we are dazzled 
by the luxuriant beauty of it all. It 
hardly seems real, it is too green, too 
perfect, to be believed ; and one thinks 
of some fairy drop scene, painted by cun- 
ning-fingered elves and sprites, who might 
have a wee folk's way of mixing roses 
and rainbows, dew-drenched greens and 
sun-warmed yellows ; showing the picture 
to you first all burnished, glittering and 
radiant, then " veiled in mist and dia- 
monded with showers." We climb, climb, 
up, up, into the heart of the leafy love- 
liness ; peering down into dewy dingles, 
stopping now and again to watch one of 
the countless streams as it tinkles and 
gurgles down an emerald ravine to join 
the lakes. The way is strewn with 
lichens and mosses ; rich green hollies 
and arbutus surround us on every side ; 
the ivy hangs in sweet disorder from the 
rocks ; and when we reach the innermost 
recess of the glen we can find moist green 
jungles of ferns and bracken, a very 
bending, curling forest of fronds : 

" The fairy's tall palm tree, the heath bird's 

fresh nest, 

And the couch the red deer deems the sweet- 
est and best." 

Carrantual rears its crested head high 
above the other mountains, and on its 
summits Shon the Outlaw, footsore, 
weary, slept ; sighing, " For once, thank 
God, I am above all my enemies." 

You must go to sweet Innisfallen, too, 
and you must not be prosaic or incredu- 
lous at the boatman's stories, or turn the 
"bodthered ear to them." These are 
no ordinary hillsides : not only do the 
wee folk troop through the frond forests 
nightly, but great heroic figures of ro- 
mance have stalked majestically along 
these mountain summits. Every water- 
fall foaming and dashing from its rocky 
bed in the glen has a legend in the toss 
and swirl of the water. 

Can't you see the O'Sullivan, famous 
for fleetness of foot and prowess in the 



chase, starting forth in the cool o' the 
morn to hunt the red deer ? His dogs 
sniff the heather ; a splendid stag bounds 
across the path ; swift as lightning the 
dogs follow the scent across moors and 
glens. Throughout the long day the 
chieftain chases the stag, until at night- 
fall, weary and thirsty, he loses the scent, 
and blows a blast on his horn to call the 
dogs homeward. 

And then he hears a voice : " O'Sul- 
livan, turn back ! " 

He looks over his shoulder to behold 
the great Finn McCool, central figure in 
centuries of romance. 

" Why do you dare chase my stag ? " 
he asks. 

"Because it is the finest man ever 
saw," answers the chieftain composedly. 

" You are a valiant man," says the 
hero, pleased with the reply ; " and as 
you thirst from the long chase, I will 
give you to drink." So he crunched 
his giant heel into the rock, and forth 
burst the waters, seething and roaring 
as they do to this day ; and may the 
divil fly away wid me if I 've spoke an 
unthrue word, ma'am ! 

Come to Lough Lein as did we, too 
early for the crowd of sightseers ; but 
when the " long light shakes across the 
lakes," the blackest arts of the tourist 
(and they are as black as they are many) 
cannot break the spell. Sitting on one 
of these hillsides, we heard a bugle call 
taken up and repeated in delicate, ethe- 
real echoes, sweet enough, indeed, to 
be worthy of the fairy buglers who are 
supposed to pass the sound along their 
lines from crag to crag, until it faints 
and dies in silence. And then came the 
Lament for Owen Roe O'Neill. We were 
thrilled to the very heart with the sor- 
rowful strains ; and when we issued from 
our leafy covert, and rounded the point 
of rocks from which the sound came, we 
found a fat man in uniform playing the 
bugle. "Cook's Tours" was embroid- 
ered on his cap ; and I have no doubt 
that he is a good husband and father, 



ever 
upo: 



Penelope's Irish Experiences. 



37 



even a good citizen, but he is a blight 
upon the landscape, and fancy cannot 
breathe in his presence. The typical 
tourist should be encouraged within 
bounds, both because he is of some bene- 
fit to Ireland, and because Ireland is 
of inestimable benefit to him; but he 
should not be allowed to jeer and laugh 
at the legends (the gentle smile of so- 
phisticated unbelief, with its twinkle of 
amusement, is unknown to and forever 
beyond him) ; and above all, he should 
never be allowed to carry or to play on 
a concertina, for this is the unpardon- 
able sin. 

We had an adventure yesterday. We 
were to dine at eight o'clock at Balkilly 
Castle, where Dr. La Touche is staying 
the week end with Lord and Lady Kill- 
bally. We had been spending an hour 
or two after tea in writing an Irish let- 
ter, and were a bit late in dressing. 
These letters, written in the vernacular, 
are a favorite diversion of ours when 
visiting in foreign lands ; and they are 
very easily done when once you have 
caught the idioms, for you can always 
supplement your slender store of words 
and expressions with choice selections 
from native authors. 

What Francesca and I wore to the 
Castle dinner is, alas, no longer of any 
consequence to the community at large. 
In the mysterious purposes of that third 
volume which we seem to be living in 
Ireland, Francesca's beauty and mine, 
her hats and frocks as well as mine, are 
all reduced to the background ; but Sale- 
mina's toilette had cost us some thought. 
When she first issued from the discreet 
and decorous fastnesses of Salem soci- 
ety, she had never donned any dinner 
dress that was not as high at the throat 
and as long in the sleeves as the Puritan 
mothers ever wore to meeting. In Eng- 
land she lapsed sufficiently from the 
rigid Salem standard to adopt a timid 
compromise ; in Scotland we coaxed her 
into still further modernities, until now 
she is completely enfranchised. We 



achieved this at considerable trouble, 
but do not grudge the time spent in per- 
suasion when we see her en grande toi- 
lette. In day dress she has always been 
inclined ever so little to a primness and 
severity that suggest old-maidishness. 
In her low gown of pale gray, with all 
her silver hair waved softly, she is un- 
expectedly lovely, her face softened, 
transformed, and magically " brought 
out " by the whiteness of her shoulders 
and slender throat. Not an ornament, 
not a jewel, will she wear ; and she is 
right to keep the nunlike simplicity of 
style which suits her so well, and which 
holds its own even in the vicinity of Fran- 
cesca's proud and glowing young beauty. 

On this particular evening, Frances- 
ca, who wished her to look her best, 
had prudently hidden her eyeglasses, for 
which we are now trying to substitute 
a silver-handled lorgnette. Two years 
ago we deliberately smashed her specta- 
cles, which she had adopted at five-and- 
twenty. " But they are more conven- 
ient than eyeglasses," she urged obtuse- 
ly. " That argument is beneath you, 
dear," we replied. " If your hair were 
not prematurely gray, we might permit 
the spectacles, hideous as they are, but 
a combination of the two is impossible ; 
the world shall not convict you of failing 
sight when you are guilty only of petty 
astigmatism ! " 

The gray satin had been chosen for 
this dinner, and Salemina was dressed, 
with the exception of the pretty pearl- 
embroidered waist that has to be laced 
at the last moment, and had slipped on 
a dressing jacket to come down from 
her room in the second story, to be ad- 
vised in some trifling detail. She looked 
unusually well, I thought : her eyes were 
bright and her cheeks flushed, as she rus- 
tled in, holding her satin skirts daintily 
away from the dusty carpets. 

Now, from the morning of our arrival 
we have had trouble with the Mullarkey 
doorknobs, which come off continually, 
and lie on the floors at one side of the 



Penelope's Irish Experiences. 



door or the other. Benella followed 
Salemina from her room, and, being in 
haste, closed the door with unwonted en- 
ergy. She heard the well-known rattle 
and clang, but little suspected that, as 
one knob dropped outside in the hall, the 
other fell inside, carrying the rod of con- 
nection with it. It was not long before 
we heard a cry of despair from above, 
and we responded to it promptly. 

" It 's fell in on the inside, knob and 
all, as I always knew it would some day ; 
and now we can't get back into the 
room ! " said Benella. 

" Oh, nonsense ! We can open it with 
something or other," I answered encour- 
agingly, as I drew on my gloves ; " only 
you must hasten, for the car is at the 
door." 

The curling iron was too large, the 
shoe hook too short, a lead pencil too 
smooth, a crochet needle too slender : 
we tried them all, and the door resisted 
all their insinuations. "Must you ne- 
cessarily get in before we go ? " I asked 
Salemina thoughtlessly. 

She gave me a glance that almost 
froze my blood, as she replied, " The 
waist of my dress is in the room." 

Francesca and I spent a moment in 
irrepressible mirth, and then summoned 
Mrs. Mullarkey. Whether the Irish 
kings could be relied upon in an emer- 
gency I do not know, but their descend- 
ants cannot. Mrs. Mullarkey had gone 
to the convent to see the Mother Supe- 
rior about something ; Mr. Mullarkey 
was at the Dooclone market ; Peter was 
not to be found ; but Oonah and Molly 
came, and also the old lady from Mulli- 
navat, with a package of raffle tickets in 
her hand. 

We left this small army under Benel- 
la's charge, and went down to my room 
for a hasty consultation. 

" Could you wear any evening bodice 
of Francesca's ? " I asked. 

" Of course not. Francesca's waist 
measure is three inches smaller than 
mine." 



"Could you manage my black lace 
dress ? " 

" Penelope, you know it would only 
reach to my ankles ! No, you must go 
without me, and go at once. We are 
too new acquaintances to keep Lady 
Killbally's dinner waiting. Why did I 
come to this place like a pauper, with 
only one evening gown, when I should 
have known that if there is a castle any- 
where within forty miles you always 
spend half your time in it ! " 

This slur was totally unjustified, but I 
pardoned it, because Salemina's temper 
is ordinarily angelic, and the circum- 
stances were somewhat tragic. " If you 
had brought a dozen dresses, they would 
all be in your room at this moment," I 
replied ; " but we must think of some- 
thing. It is impossible for you to remain 
behind ; we were invited more on your 
account than on our own, for you are 
Dr. La Touche's friend, and the dinner 
is especially in his honor. Molly, have 
you a ladder ? " 

" We have not, ma'am." 

" Could we borrow one ? " 

"We could not, Mrs. Beresford, 
ma'am." 

" Then see if you can break down the 
door ; try hard, and if you succeed I will 
buy you a nice new one ! Part of Miss 
Peabody's dress is inside the room, and 
we shall be late to the Castle dinner." 

The entire corps, with Mrs. Water- 
ford of Mullinavat on top, cast itself on 
the door, which withstood the shock to 
perfection. Then in a moment we 
heard : " Weary 's on it, it will not come 
down for us, ma'am. It 's the iligant 
locks we do be havin' in the house ; 
they 're mortial shtrong, ma'am ! " 

" Strong indeed ! " exclaimed the in- 
censed Benella, in a burst of New Eng- 
land wrath. " There 's nothing strong 
about the place but the impidence of the 
people in it ! If you had told Peter to 
get a carpenter or a locksmith, as I 've 
been asking you to these two weeks, it 
would have been all right ; but you never 




Penelope's Irish Experiences. 



39 



do anything till a month after it 's too 
late. I 've no patience with such a set 
of doshies, dawdling around and leaving 
everything to go to rack and ruin ! " 

" Sure it was yourself that ruinated 
the thing," responded Molly, with spirit, 
for the unaccustomed word " doshy " had 
kindled her quick Irish temper. " It 's 
aisy handlin' the knob is used to, and 
faith it would 'a' stuck there for you a 
twelvemonth ! " 

" They will be quarreling soon," said 
Salemina nervously. " Do not wait an- 
other instant ; you are late enough now, 
and I insist on your going. Make any 
excuse you see fit : say I am ill, say I am 
dead, if you like, but don't tell the real 
excuse, it 's too shiftless and wretched 
and embarrassing. Don't cry, Benella. 
Molly, Oonah, go downstairs to your 
work. Mrs. Waterford, I think per- 
haps you have forgotten that we have al- 
ready purchased raffle tickets, and we '11 
not take any more for fear that we may 
draw the necklace. Good-by, dears ; tell 
Lady Killbally I shall see her to-mor- 
row." 

XV. 

" Why the shovel and tongs 
To each other belongs, 
And the kettle sings songs 
Full of family glee, 
While alone with your cup, 
Like a hermit you sup, 
Och hone, Widow Machree." 

Francesca and I were gloomy enough, 
as we drove along facing each other 
in Ballyfuchsia's one " inside " car, a 
strange and fearsome vehicle, partaking 
of the nature of a broken-down omni- 
bus, a hearse, and an overgrown black 
beetle. It holds four, or at a squeeze 
six, the seats being placed from stem to 
stern lengthwise, and the balance being 
so delicate that the passengers, when go- 
ing uphill, are shaken into a heap at the 
door, which is represented by a ragged 
leather flap. I have often seen it strew 



the hard highroad with passengers, as it 
jolts up the steep incline that leads to 
Ardnagreena, and the " fares " who suc- 
ceed in staying in always sit in one an- 
other's laps a good part of the way, a 
method pleasing only to relatives or inti- 
mate friends. Francesca and I agreed 
to tell the real reason of Salemina's ab- 
sence. " It is Ireland's fault, and I will 
not have America blamed for it," she in- 
sisted ; " but it is so embarrassing to be 
going to the dinner ourselves, and leav- 
ing behind the most important personage. 
Think of Dr. La Touche's disappoint- 
ment, think of Salemina's ; and they '11 
never understand why she could n't have 
come in a dressing jacket. I shall ad- 
vise her to discharge Benella after this 
episode, for no one can tell the effect it 
may have upon our future lives." 

It is a four-mile drive to Balkilly 
Castle, and when we arrived there we 
were so shaken that we had to retire to 
a dressing room for repairs. Then came 
the dreaded moment when we entered 
the great hall and advanced to meet 
Lady Killbally, who looked over our 
heads to greet the missing Salemina. 
Francesca's beauty, my supposed genius, 
both fell flat ; it was Salemina whose 
presence was especially desired. The 
company was assembled, save for one 
guest still more tardy than ourselves, 
and we had a moment or two to tell our 
story as sympathetically as possible. It 
had an uncommonly good reception, and, 
coupled with the Irish letter I read at 
dessert, carried the dinner along on a 
basis of such laughter and good-fellow- 
ship that finally there was no place for 
regret save in the hearts of those who 
knew and loved Salemina, poor Sale- 
mina, spending her dull, lonely evening 
in our rooms, and later on in her own 
uneventful bed, if indeed she was ever 
lucky enough to gain access to that bed. 
I had hoped Lady Killbally would put 
one of us beside Dr. La Touche, so that 
we might at least keep Salemina's mem- 
ory green by tactful conversation ; but 



40 



Penelope's Irish Experiences. 



it was too large a company to rearrange, 
and he had to sit by an empty chair, 
which perhaps was just as salutary, after 
all. The dinner was very smart, and 
the company interesting and clever, but 
my thoughts were elsewhere. As there 
were fewer squires than dames at the 
feast, Lady Killbally kindly took me on 
her left, with a view to better acquaint- 
ance, and I was heartily glad of a pos- 
sible chance to hear something of Dr. 
La Touche's earlier life. In our previ- 
ous interviews, Salemina's presence had 
always precluded the possibility of lead- 
ing the conversation in the wished-for 
direction. 

When I first saw Gerald La Touche 
I felt that he required explanation. 
Usually speaking, a human being ought 
to be able, in an evening's conversation, 
to explain himself, without any adven- 
titious aid. If he is a man, alive, vigor- 
ous, well poised, conscious of his own 
personality, he shows you, without any 
effort, as much of his past as you need 
to form your impression, and as much 
of his future as you have intuition to 
read. As opposed to the vigorous per- 
sonality, there is the colorless, flavorless, 
insubstantial sort, forgotten as soon as 
learned, and forever confused with the 
previous or the next comer. When I 
was a beginner in portrait painting, 
I remember that, after I had succeeded 
in making my background stay back 
where it belonged, my figure sometimes 
had a way of clinging to it in a kind of 
smudgy weakness, as if it were afraid 
to come out like a man and stand the 
inspection of my eye. How often have 
I squandered paint upon the ungrateful 
object without adding a cubit to its stat- 
ure ! It refused to look like flesh and 
blood, but resembled rather some half- 
made creature flung on the passive can- 
vas in a liquid state, with its edges run- 
ning over into the background. There 
are a good many of these people in lit- 
erature, too, heroes who, like home- 
made paper dolls, do not stand up well ; 



or if they manage to perform that feat, 
one unexpectedly discovers, when they 
are placed in a strong light, that they 
have no vital organs whatever, and can 
be seen through without the slightest 
difficulty. Dr. La Touche does not be- 
long to either of these two classes : he 
is not warm, magnetic, powerful, impres- 
sive ; neither is he by any means desti- 
tute of vital organs ; but his personality 
is blurred in some way. He seems a 
bit remote, absent-minded, and a trifle, 
just a trifle, over-resigned. Privately, I 
think a man can afford to be resigned 
only to one thing, and that is the will of 
God ; against all other odds I prefer to 
see him fight till the last armed foe ex- 
pires. Dr. La Touche is devotedly at- 
tached to his children, but quite helpless 
in their hands ; so that he never looks at 
them with pleasure or comfort or pride, 
but always with an anxiety as to what 
they may do next. I understand him 
better now that I know the circum- 
stances of which he has been the pro- 
duct. (Of course one is always a pro- 
duct of circumstances, unless one can 
manage to be superior to them.) His 
wife, the daughter of an American con- 
sul in Ireland, was a charming but some- 
what feather-brained person, rather given 
to whims and caprices ; very pretty, 
very young, very much spoiled, very at- 
tractive, very undisciplined. All went 
well enough with them until her father 
was recalled to America, because of 
some change in political administration. 
The young Mrs. La Touche seemed to 
have no resources apart from her fami- 
ly, and even her baby " Jackeen " failed 
to absorb her as might have been ex- 
pected. 

" We thought her a most trying wo- 
man at this time," said Lady Killbally. 
" She seemed to have no thought of her 
husband's interests, and none of the re- 
sponsibilities that she had assumed in 
marrying him ; her only idea of life ap- 
peared to be amusement and variety and 
gayety. Gerald was a student, and al- 



Penelope's Irish Experiences. 



41 



ways very grave and serious ; the kind 
of man who invariably marries a but- 
terfly, if he can find one to make him 
miserable. He was exceedingly pa- 
tient ; but after the birth of little Broona, 
Adeline became so homesick and de- 
pressed and discontented that, although 
the journey was almost an impossibility 
at the time, Gerald took her back to her 
people, and left her with them, while he 
returned to his duties at Trinity Col- 
lege. Their life, I suppose, had been 
very unhappy for a year or two before 
this, and when he came home to Dub- 
lin, without his children, he looked a sad 
and broken man. He was absolutely 
faithful to his ideals, I am glad to say, 
and never wavered in his allegiance to 
his wife, however disappointed he may 
have been in her ; going over regularly 
to spend his long vacations in America, 
although she never seemed to wish to 
see him. At last she fell into a state of 
hopeless melancholia ; and it was rather 
a relief to us all to feel that we had 
judged her too severely, and that her 
unreasonableness and her extraordinary 
caprices had been born of mental disor- 
der more than of moral obliquity. Ger- 
ald gave up everything to nurse her and 
rouse her from her apathy ; but she faded 
away without ever once coming back to 
a more normal self, and that was the 
end of it all. Gerald's father had died 
meanwhile, and he had fallen heir to the 
property and the estates. They were 
very much encumbered, but he is gradu- 
ally getting affairs into a less chaotic 
state ; and while his fortune would seem 
a small one to you extravagant Ameri- 
cans, he is what we Irish paupers would 
call well to do." 

Lady Killbally was suspiciously will- 
ing to give me all this information, 
so much so that I ventured to ask about 
the children. 

" They are captivating, neglected lit- 
tle things," she said. "Madam La 
Touche, an aged aunt, has the ostensi- 
ble charge of them, and she is a most 



easy-going person. The servants are of 
the ' old family ' sort, the reckless, im- 
provident, untidy, devoted, quarrelsome 
creatures that always stand by the ruined 
Irish gentry in all their misfortunes, and 
generally make their life a burden to 
them at the same time. Gerald is a 
saint, and therefore never complains." 

" It never seems to me that saints are 
adapted to positions like these," I sighed ; 
" sinners would do ever so much better. 
I should like to see Dr. La Touche take 
off his halo, lay it carefully on the bu- 
reau, and wield a battle-axe. The world 
will never acknowledge his merit ; it will 
even forget him presently, and his life 
will have been given up to the evolution 
of the passive virtues. Do you suppose 
he will ever marry again ? Do you sup- 
pose he will recognize the tender pas- 
sion if it ever does bud in his breast, or 
will he think it a weed, instead of a 
flower, and let it wither for want of at- 
tention ? " 

" I think his friends will have to 
enhance his self-respect, or he will 
forever be too modest to declare him- 
self," said Lady Killbally. "Perhaps 
you can help us : he is probably going 
to America this winter to lecture at some 
of your universities, and he may stay 
there for a year or two, so he says. At 
any rate, if the right woman ever appears 
on the scene, I hope she will have the 
instinct to admire and love and rever- 
ence him as we do," and here she smiled 
directly into my eyes, and slipping her 
pretty hand under the tablecloth squeezed 
mine in a manner that spoke volumes. 

It is not easy to explain one's desire 
to marry off all the unmarried persons 
in one's vicinity. When I look stead- 
fastly at any group of people, large or 
small, they usually segregate themselves 
into twos under my prophetic eye. If 
they are nice and attractive, I am pleased 
to see them mated ; if they are horrid 
and disagreeable, I like to think of them 
as improving under the discipline of 
matrimony. It is joy to see beauty 



42 



Penelope's Irish Experiences. 



meet a kindling eye, but I am more de- 
lighted still to watch a man fall under 
the glamour of a plain, dull girl, and it 
is ecstasy for me to see a perfectly un- 
attractive, stupid woman snapped up at 
last, when I have given up hopes of 
settling her in life. Sometimes there 
are men so uninspiring that I cannot 
converse with them a single moment 
without yawning ; but though failures in 
all other relations, one can conceive of 
their being tolerably useful as husbands 
and fathers ; not for one's self, you un- 
derstand, but for one's neighbors. 

Dr. La Touche's life now, to any un- 
derstanding eye, is as incomplete as the 
unfinished window in Aladdin's tower. 
He is too wrinkled, too studious, too 
quiet, too patient. His children need a 
mother, his old family servants need 
discipline, his baronial halls need sweep- 
ing and cleaning (I have n't seen them, 
but I know they do !), and his aged aunt 
needs advice and guidance. On the 
other hand, there are those (I speak 
guardedly) who have walked in shady, 
sequestered paths all their lives, looking 
at hundreds of happy lovers on the sun- 
ny highroad, but never joining them ; 
those who adore scholarship, who love 
children, who have a genius for unself- 
ish devotion, who are sweet and refined 
and clever, and who look perfectly love- 
ly when they put on gray satin and 
leave off eyeglasses. They say they are 
over forty, and although this probably 
is exaggeration, they may be thirty-nine 
and three quarters ; and if so, the time 
is limited in which to find for them a 
worthy mate, since half of the mascu- 
line population is looking for itself, and 
always in the wrong quarter, needing 
no assistance to discover rosy-cheeked 
idiots of nineteen, whose obvious charms 
draw thousands to a dull and unevent- 
ful fate. 

These thoughts were running idly 
through my mind while the Honorable 
Michael McGillicuddy was discoursing 
to me of Mr. Gladstone's misunder- 



standing of Irish questions. I was so 
anxious to return to Salemina that I 
wished I had ordered the car at ten 
thirty instead of eleven ; but I made 
up my mind, as we ladies went to the 
drawing-room for coffee, that I would 
seize the first favorable opportunity to 
explore the secret chambers of Dr. La 
Touche's being, and find out at the same 
time whether he knows anything of that 
lavender-scented guest room in Salemi- 
na's heart. First, has he ever seen it ? 
Second, has he ever stopped in it for 
any length of time ? Third, was he suf- 
ficiently enamored of it to occupy it on 
a long lease ? 

XVI. 

" And what use is one's life widout chances ? 
Ye Ve always a chance wid the tide." 

I was walking with Lady Fincoss, and 
Francesca with Miss Clondalkin, a very 
learned personage, who has deciphered 
more undecipherable inscriptions than 
any lady in Ireland, when our eyes fell 
upon an unexpected tableau. 

Seated on a divan in the centre of the 
drawing-room, in a most distinguished at- 
titude, in unexceptionable attire, and with 
the rose-colored lights making all her 
soft grays opalescent, was Miss Salemina 
Peabody. Our exclamations of aston- 
ishment were so audible that they must 
have reached the dining room, for Lord 
Killbally did not keep the gentlemen 
long at their wine. 

Salemina cannot tell a story quite as 
it ought to be told to produce an effect. 
She is too reserved, too concise, too rigid- 
ly conscientious. She does n't like to be 
the centre of interest, even in a modest 
contretemps like being locked out of a 
room which contains part of her dress ; 
but from her brief explanation to Lady 
Killbally, her more complete and confi- 
dential account on the way home, and 
Benella's graphic story when we arrived 
there, we were able to get all the details. 

When the inside car passed out of 






Penelope's Irish Experiences. 



view with us, it appears that Benella 
wept tears of rage, at the sight of which 
Oonah and Molly trembled. In that 
moment of despair and remorse her 
mind worked as it must always have 
done before the Salem priestess befogged 
it with hazy philosophies, understood 
neither by teacher nor by pupil. Peter 
had come back, but could suggest no- 
thing. Benella forgot her " science," 
which prohibits rage and recrimination, 
and called him a great, hulking, lazy 
vagabone, and told him she 'd like to 
have him in Salem for five minutes, just 
to show him a man with a head on his 
shoulders. 

" You call this a Christian country," she 
said, " and you have n't a screw-driver, 
nor a brad awl, nor a monkey wrench, 
nor a rat-tail file, nor no kind of a useful 
tool to bless yourselves with ; and my 
Miss Peabody, that 's worth ten dozen of 
you put together, has got to stay home 
from the Castle and eat warmed - up 
scraps. Now you do as I say : take the 
dining table and put it outside under the 
window, and the side table on top o' 
that, and see how fur up it '11 reach. I 
guess you can't stump a Salem woman 
by telling her there ain't no ladder." 

The two tables were finally in posi- 
tion ; but there still remained nine feet 
of distance to that key of the situation, 
Salemina's window, and Mrs. Water- 
ford's dressing table went on top of this 
pile. " Now, Peter," were the next or- 
ders, " if you 've got sprawl enough, 
hold down the dining table, and you and 
Oonah, Molly, keep the next two tables 
stiddy, while I climb up." 

The intrepid Benella could barely 
reach the sill, and Mrs. Waterford and 
Salemina were called on to " stiddy " 
the tables, while Molly was bidden to 
help by giving an heroic " boost " when 
the word of command came. The de- 
vice was completely successful, and in a 
trice the conqueror disappeared, to reap- 
pear at the window holding the precious 
pearl-embroidered bodice wrapped in a 



towel. " I would n't stop to fool with 
the door till I dropped you this," she 
said. " Oonah, you go and wash your 
hands clean, and help Miss Peabody into 
it, and mind you start the lacing right 
at the top ; and you, Peter, run down to 
Rooney's and get the donkey and the 
cart, and bring 'em back with you, and 
don't you let the grass grow under your 
feet, neither ! " 

There was literally no other mode of 
conveyance within miles, and time was 
precious. Salemina wrapped herself in 
Francesca's long black cloak, and climbed 
into the cart. Dinnis hauls turf in it, 
takes a sack of potatoes or a pig to mar- 
ket in it, and the stubborn little ass, 
blind of one eye, has never in his wholly 
elective course taken up the subject of 
speed. 

It was eight o'clock when Benella 
mounted the seat beside Salemina, and 
gave the donkey a preliminary touch of 
the stick. 

" Be aisy wid him," cautioned Peter. 
" He 's a very arch donkey for a lady to 
be dhrivin', and mebbe he 'd lay down 
and not get up for you." 

" Arrah ! shut yer mouth, Pether. 
Give him a couple of belts anondher the 
hind leg, melady, and that '11 put the fear 
o' God in him ! " said Dinnis. 

" I 'd rather not go at all," urged 
Salemina timidly; "it's too late, and 
too extraordinary." 

" I 'm not going to have it on my con- 
science to make you lose this dinner par- 
ty, not if I have to carry you on my 
back the whole way," said Benella dog- 
gedly ; " and this donkey won't lay down 
with me more 'n once, I can tell him 
that right at the start." 

" Sure, melady, he '11 go to Galway 
for you, when oncet he 's started wid 
himself ; and it 's only a couple o' fingers 
to the Castle, annyways." 

The four-mile drive, especially through 
the village of Ballyf uchsia, was an event- 
ful one, but by dint of prodding, poking, 
and belting Benella had accomplished 



44 



Penelope's Irish Experiences. 



half the distance in three quarters of 
an hour, when the donkey suddenly lay 
down "on her." This was luckily at 
the town cross, where a group of idlers 
rendered hearty assistance. Willing as 
they were to succor a lady in disthress, 
they did not know of any car which 
could be secured in time to be of service, 
but one of them offered to walk and run 
by the side of the donkey, so as to kape 
him on his legs. It was in this wise 
that Miss Peabody approached Balkilly 
Castle ; and when a gilded gentleman-in- 
waiting lifted her from Rooney's " plain 
cart," she was just on the verge of hyster- 
ics. Fortunately his Magnificence was 
English, and betrayed no surprise at the 
arrival in this humble fashion of a din- 
ner guest, but simply summoned the Irish 
housekeeper, who revived her with wine, 
and called on all the saints to witness 
that she 'd never heard of such a shame- 
ful thing, and such a disgrace to Bally- 
fuchsia. The idea of not keeping a lad- 
der in a house where the doorknobs were 
apt to come off struck her as being the 
worst feature of the accident, though 
this unexpected and truly Milesian view 
of the matter had never occurred to us. 

"Well, I got Miss Peabody to the 
dinner party," said Benella triumphant- 
ly, when she was laboriously unlacing my 
frock, later on, " or at least I got her 
there before it broke up. I had to walk 
every step o' the way home, and the 
donkey laid down four times, but I was 
so nerved up I did n't care a mite. I 
was bound Miss Peabody should n't lose 
her chance, after all she 's done for me ! " 

" Her chance ? " I asked, somewhat 
puzzled, for dinners, even castle dinners, 
are not rare in Salemina's experience. 

" Yes, her chance," repeated Benella 
mysteriously ; " you 'd know well enough 
what I mean, if you 'd ben born and 
brought up in Salem, Massachusetts ! " 

Copy of a letter read by Penelope 
O'Connor, descendant of the king of 



Connaught, at the dinner of Lord and 
Lady Killbally at Balkilly Castle. It 
needed no apology then, but we were 
obliged to explain to our American 
friends that though the Irish peasants 
interlard their conversation with saints, 
angels, and devils, and use the name of 
the Virgin Mary, and even the Al- 
mighty, with, to our ears, undue famil- 
iarity and frequency, there is no pro- 
fane or irreverent intent. They are 
instinctively religious, and it is only 
because they feel on terms of such friend- 
ly intimacy with the powers above that 
they speak of them so often. 

At the Widdy Mullarkey's, 

KNOCKARNEY HOUSE, BALLYFUCHSIA, 

County Kerry. 

Och ! musha bedad, man alive, but it 's 
a fine counthry over here, and it bangs 
all the jewel of a view we do be havin' 
from the windys, begorra ! Knockarney 
House is in a wild remoted place at the 
back of beyant, and f aix we 're as much 
alone as Robinson Crusoe on a dissolute 
island ; but when we do be wishful to go 
to the town, sure there 's ivery convan- 
iency. There 's ayther a bit of a jaunt- 
in' car wid a skewbald pony for drivin', 
or we can borry the loan of Dinnis 
Rooney's blind ass wid the plain cart, 
or we can just take a fut in a hand and 
leg it over the bog. Sure it 's no great 
thing to go do, but only a taste of divar- 
sion like, though it 's three good Irish 
miles an' powerful hot weather, with 
niver a dhrop of wet these manny days. 
It 's a great old spring we 're havin' in- 
tirely ; it has raison to be proud of it- 
self, begob ! 

Paddy, the gossoon that drives the 
car (it 's a gossoon we call him, but faix 
he stands five fut nine in his stockin's, 
when he wears anny), Paddy, as I 'm 
afther tellin' you, lives in a cabin down 
below the knockaun, a thrifle back of 
the road. There 's a nate stack of turf 
fornint it, and a pitaty pot sets beside 
the doore, wid the hins and chuckens 




The Growth of Public Expenditures. 



45 



rachin' over into it like aigles tryin' to like an' liberal with the whativer, an* 



swally the smell. 

Across the way there does be a bit of 
sthrarae that 's fairly shtiff wid troutses 
in the saison, and a growth of rooshes 
under the edge lookin' that smooth and 
greeny it must be a pleasure intirely to 
the grand young pig and the goat that 
spinds their time by the side of it when 
out of doores, which is seldom. Paddy 
himself is raggetty like, and a sight to 
behould wid the daylight shinin' through 
the ould coat on him ; but he 's a dacint 
spalpeen, and sure we 'd be lost widout 
him. His mother 's a widdy woman 
with nine moidherin' childer, not count- 
in' the pig an' the goat, which has aquil 
advantages. It 's nine she has livin', 
she says, and four slapin' in the beds o' 
glory ; and faix I hope thim that 's in 
glory is quieter than the wans that 's 
here, for the divil is busy wid thim the 
whole of the day. Here 's wan o' thim 
now makin' me as onaisy as an ould hin 
on a hot griddle, slappin' big sods of 
turf over the dike, and ruinatin' the tim- 
pers of our poulthry ; we 've a right to 
be lambastin' thim this blessed minute, 
the crathurs ! As sure as eggs is mate, if 
they was mine they 'd sup sorrow wid a 
spoon of grief, before they wint to bed 
this night ! 

Misthress Colquhoun, that lives at 
Ardnagreena on the road to the town, is 
an iligant lady intirely, an' she 's uncom- 
mon frindly, may the peace of heaven 
be her sowl's rist ! She 's rale charitable- 



as for Himself, sure he 's the darlin' fine 
man ! He taches the dead - and - gone 
languages in the grand sates of larnin', 
and has more eddication and comper- 
hinson than the whole of County Kerry 
rowled together. 

Then there 's Lord and Lady Kill- 
bally ; faix there 's no iliganter family 
on this counthryside, and they has the 
beautiful quality stoppin' wid thim, be- 
gob ! They have a pew o' their own in 
the church, an' their coachman wears 
top-boots wid yaller chimbleys to thim. 
They do be very open-handed wid the 
eatin' and the drinkin', and it bangs 
Banagher the figurandyin' we do have 
wid thim ! So you see ould Ireland is 
not too disthressful a counthry to be di- 
vartin' ourselves in, an' we have our 
healths finely, glory be to God ! 

Well, we must be shankin' off wid 
ourselves now to the Colquhouns', where 
they 're wettin' a dhrop o' tay for us 
this mortial instant. 

It 's no good for yous to write to us 
here, for we '11 be quittin' out o' this be- 
fore the letther has a chanst to come ; 
though sure it can folly us as we 're jig- 
gin' along to the north. 

Don't be thinkin' that you Ve shlipped 
hould of our ricollections, though the 
breadth of the ocean say 's betune us. 
More power to your elbow ! May your 
life be aisy, and may the heavens be 
your bed ! 

PENELOPE O'CONNOR BEBESFORD. 
Kate Douglas Wiggin. 



(To be continued.} 






THE GROWTH OF PUBLIC EXPENDITURES. 



ONE of the most striking phenomena 
of modern public finance is the growth 
of public expenditures. Burdens of tax- 
ation amounting in volume to many 



times the amount which drove our Brit- 
ish ancestors to take arms against the 
Stuarts in the seventeenth century, or 
which impoverished France before the 



46 



The Growth of Public Expenditures. 



Revolution, are now borne almost with- 
out a murmur by the people of every 
civilized state ; and even where murmurs 
occur, the new burdens have not pre- 
vented an astonishing progress in accu- 
mulated wealth and productive resources. 

Before discussing the reasons for this 
remarkable situation, which has excited 
grave apprehension in many quarters, it 
will be proper, without attempting a sys- 
tematic presentation of comparative sta- 
tistics, to give a few facts which will illus- 
trate the change which has taken place 
within our own century, and even within 
a generation, in the volume of public ex- 
penditure and of taxes collected in civi- 
lized countries. Comparisons cannot be 
reduced readily to a scientific basis, be- 
cause of the wide variety in methods of 
taxation, and the different distribution 
of national, provincial, and local func- 
tions in different countries. In such 
matters, for the general reader, the im- 
pression of the wide difference between 
the past and the present is as truthful 
as minute detail, and fastens a more 
striking and permanent picture in the 
mind. The purpose of this paper is 
chiefly to point out the changes of the 
last twenty-five or thirty years, rather 
than those extending over a longer pe- 
riod, but a few facts from the history of 
the leading civilized countries at earlier 
dates will serve to bring into bolder re- 
lief the tendencies of the present gen- 
eration. The few facts here given for 
purposes of illustration will deal partly 
with the revenue side of the budget, show- 
ing the taxes collected, and partly with 
the side of expenditures, showing the 
great sums disbursed for civil and mili- 
tary purposes under modern conditions. 
It will appear, also, from the comparison 
of the increased revenues collected from 
the same sources from year to year, upon 
what a growing volume of national wealth 
the modern system of public revenue is 
founded. 

In France, when Napoleon was or- 
ganizing the greatest of his armies for 



the disastrous campaign against Russia, 
the entire budget of expenditures sub- 
mitted by his minister of finance, the 
Comte de Mollien, was only 1,168,000,- 
000 francs, or about $225,000,000, of 
which nearly two thirds was for military 
purposes. This comparatively modest 
sum, equal to less than our internal re- 
venue collections last year, was all that 
it was proposed to gather by taxation 
not alone from the France of the Bour- 
bons, but from the great empire beyond 
the Rhine and reaching to the Po, which 
had been established by the victories of 
a dozen years. The budget of France 
to-day, shut within her old limits and 
with the loss of Alsace-Lorraine, is near- 
ly four times this amount in a time of 
profound peace, and no one knows what 
might be its amount in case of war. 
France affords a convenient illustration 
for economic discussions, because her 
population has not increased greatly 
within the century. It was 30,461,875 
in 1821, 36,102,921 in 1872, and 38,- 
343,192 in 1891. It is not, therefore, 
an increase in population which has en- 
abled the French government to swell 
the figures of its budget. The reasons 
must be sought in unusual extravagance, 
or in causes growing out of the industrial 
development of the nation. 

In England, in the times of the re- 
stored Stuart dynasty in 1660, the an- 
nual revenue is computed by good au- 
thorities at 1,200,000 for a population 
of five and a half millions, or but little 
more than $1 per head. In 1795, be- 
fore the Continental wars had brought 
disorder into imperial finances, the re- 
venue of the United Kingdom was 
19,657,993 for a population of less 
than nine millions, or about $8 per 
head. Even then the debt charge swal- 
lowed up half the revenue, and dire 
predictions were frequent of England's 
collapse under the heavy burdens she 
bore. The added burdens of the Napo- 
leonic wars swelled the debt charge to 
a startling amount, but it gradually fell 



The Growth of Public Expenditures. 



47 



relatively to other expenditures, and up 
to 1870 the exactions of the tax gather- 
er tended to demand a smaller rather 
than a larger proportion of the national 
wealth. The expenditures of 1871 were 
69,548,539, amounting to about $11 
(2 4s. 5d.) for each inhabitant of the 
United Kingdom. But the expenditures 
of 1895 rose to 93,918,421, and those 
of 1899 to 108,150,236, or about $13 
per capita. It is significant that the en- 
tire recent increase is exclusive of the 
debt charge. This has been, roughly, 
25,000,000 a year for fifty years, so 
that expenditures for other purposes ad- 
vanced from about 45,000,000 in 1871 
to 83,000,000 in 1899, an increase 
of about 84 per cent within less than a 
generation. 

In the United States, dealing with the 
federal revenue alone, the demand made 
upon the American people in 1842 was 
only $25,205,761, or $1.39 per capita. 
The amount had risen in 1860 only to 
$2.01 per capita. Then came the dis- 
turbances of the Civil War, whose effect 
was felt for many years upon the an- 
nual budget. The lowest per capita ex- 
penditure after the war was in 1886, 
under the administration of President 
Cleveland, when the total amount was 
$242,483,138, and the amount per capita 
was $4.22. Expenditures per capita 
rose to $5.71 in 1891, but fell to $4.93 
in 1896 and $5.01 in 1897. Then came 
the disturbing influences of the Spanish 
War, which it is not necessary to discuss 
here. The expenses of the United States 
upon a peace basis, even before the re- 
cent increase of the army, may be said 
to be about $5 per head, more than 
three times what they were sixty years 
ago, two and a half times what they 
were before the Civil War, and 20 per 
cent greater than they were even within 
fourteen years. If the expenditures for 
state and municipal purposes could be 
presented, they would show at least a 
proportional, and probably a much great- 
er increase. 



In Germany, the modest imperial 
budget established after the war with 
France called for expenditures of only 
$135,000,000 (569,388,500 marks) in 
1878, which swelled to double the amount 
in 1889, and to $370,000,000 (1,551,- 
709,400 marks) in 1899. In Russia, 
the ordinary expenditures rose from 
1,099,372,000 francs ($215,000,000) in 
1866 to 2,433,388,000 francs in 1890, 
and 3,622,789,000 francs ($700,000,- 
000) in 1898. The receipts and ex- 
penditures in Russia have been greatly 
swelled in recent years by the extension 
of the state railways, whose gross trans- 
actions figure in the budget ; but a writer 
in 1'Economiste Europe'en of January 
19, 1900, puts the collections from taxes 
at about two thirds of the total budget. 

The question naturally arises, What is 
the cause of this greatly increased bur- 
den imposed upon the average citizen 
for the expense of government ? Is it 
the result of reckless extravagance by 
public officials, and the needless multi- 
plication of useless offices, or does it 
afford substantial benefits to the com- 
munity ? Such a question is not capa- 
ble of an unqualified answer. There is, 
without doubt, extravagance and need- 
less multiplication of offices in the great 
machines which constitute modern gov- 
ernments. It is in the very nature of 
government service to be less flexible, 
less efficient, and more costly than pri- 
vate service. The controlling reason is 
the absence of competition. Methods 
which would bankrupt a private estab- 
lishment are the usual methods of gov- 
ernments, partly because of the recog- 
nized necessity for greater formality and 
more strict accountability, but largely, 
also, because the government generally 
has no competitor in those fields which it 
enters. In assuming control of the pos- 
tal service, it legislates against private 
post offices. In assuming charge of the 
police, it practically prohibits rival police 
companies except for special and private 
services. In regulating the coinage of 



48 



The Growth of Public Expenditures. 



money, it prohibits private mints. In 
all these fields, the government service 
is not self-supporting, but substitutes 
forced levies upon the pockets of the 
taxpayers for the favorable balance 
sheet which is the vital necessity of pri- 
vate business. 

This statement of the evils inherent 
in government methods does not, how- 
ever, touch the question whether such 
methods are becoming worse under mod- 
ern conditions than they were a century 
ago or a generation ago. The fact in 
most cases is that these methods are be- 
coming better ; that public servants render 
better service ; that their compensation 
is being brought more closely into har- 
mony with that in private business, and 
in many positions of honor and scientific 
skill far below that in private business ; 
and that the pressure of public opinion is 
bringing public services into closer har- 
mony with private methods. The rea- 
son for the great increase in public ex- 
penditures must be sought, therefore, in 
other sources than the corruption of the 
service or its lack of efficiency. Exam- 
ination of the facts will show that it is 
found in new and better services per- 
formed by the state for the community. 
In the words of Professor Maurice 
Block : 

" The citizen is becoming more and 
more exacting. He demands much of 
the state. On the other hand, he multi- 
plies its attributes and powers ; there is 
a sort of emulation in this respect be- 
tween different countries. It follows 
that functionaries are more and more 
numerous and salaries higher ; there are 
more railways and highways ; more ca- 
nals, and harbors, bridges, aqueducts ; 
more monuments, museums, schools, and 
laboratories; alas, more soldiers, can- 
nons, and fortifications, and more ships 
of war." 

These increased services, moreover, 
are not, properly speaking, the result of 
the encroachment by the state (except 
perhaps in Germany) upon the field of 



private enterprise, but are the result of 
the greater social wealth which enables 
the individual to provide himself with a 
better livelihood than before by his pri- 
vate expenditures, and at the same time 
spare the means to the government for 
rendering him services which were not 
performed at all before, and could not 
well be performed by private enterprise. 
Under modern conditions of machine 
production and the application of steam 
and electricity even to farming, the pro- 
ductive power of the individual has great- 
ly increased. This increase was large 
during the first half of the nineteenth 
century, but has perhaps been greater 
during the present generation, since the 
full equipment of the civilized nations 
with labor-saving devices. Man has not 
chosen to take advantage of the whole of 
his increased power to work fewer hours. 
He has done this to some extent and in 
certain exacting industries, but upon the 
whole he has chosen to apply this added 
power chiefly to getting more things ra- 
ther than getting only the same things by 
less work. Hence the wonderfully rapid 
accumulation of wealth in modern soci- 
ety. To illustrate again by the example 
of France, 67,347 machines with a horse 
power of 1,263,000,000 supplemented 
the productive power of Frenchmen en- 
gaged in industry in 1896, where only 
26,221 machines with a horse power of 
320,000 were available in 1869. It is 
not surprising that, among other symp- 
toms of wealth, depositors in the savings 
banks increased in number from 2,131,- 
000 in 1869 to 6,842,000 in 1898, and 
that their deposits rose from 711,000,- 
000 francs to 3,388,000,000 francs 
($657,000,000), without counting the 
postal savings banks, established in 1881, 
and in 1898 showing 2,892,000 deposi- 
tors and 844,000,000 francs of deposits. 
If such growth in wealth has taken 
place in France, one of the most heavily 
taxed of all countries, it is not surpris- 
ing that in Great Britain, within the short 
interval of eighteen years, from 1880 to 




The Growth of Public Expenditures. 



49 



1898, the deposits in the postal savings 
banks were multiplied nearly fourfold 
(from 33,744,637 to 123,144,099), 
and amount to an average of nearly $75 
for every family of five persons. 

Facts like these are sufficient to show 
that the increase of public expenditures 
has not prevented saving by the masses 
at a rate never before approached in the 
world's history. Nor have the wealthier 
classes borne the new burden of taxation 
at the expense of continued progress. In 
Prussia, the revenue subject to income 
tax increased more than 20 per cent from 
1893 to 1898. The amount in 1893 
was 5,724,323,767 marks, and in 1898 
6,774,937,505 marks ($1,650,000,000), 
an increase of 1,050,613,738 marks 
($200,000,000) within the short space 
of five years. In France, the ordinary re- 
ceipts of the treasury rose from 45 francs 
per head in 1869 to 89 francs in 1898, 
representing within about thirty years 
the imposition of a charge of $18 upon 
every Frenchman where $9 was for- 
merly collected. But hand in hand with 
this added burden has gone the increased 
power to bear it. While France has un- 
doubtedly been hampered in her devel- 
opment by military expenditures, every 
index of her wealth and earnings shows 
astonishing progress within the present 
generation. The property subject to the 
succession tax in 1866 was 3,271,841,672 
francs. The amount had risen in 1898 
almost 50 per cent, or to 5,767,500,000 
francs ($1,100,000,000). The estimat- 
ed revenue from negotiable securities, 
upon which a tax is levied, was 1,070,- 
200,000 francs ($206,000,000) in 1874, 
and 1,754,920,000 francs in 1898, an 
increase of more than 70 per cent in 
twenty - four years. This item of the 
growth of the national wealth has been 
subject, moreover, to the modifying in- 
fluence of the fall in the rate of interest. 
While French savings and French in- 
vestments have greatly increased in their 
face value within the present decade, the 
advance in the net revenue and in the 

VOL. LXXXVII. NO. 519. 4 



amount of tax collected has been small, 
because securities which formerly paid 
five and six per cent have fallen in their 
income-paying power, either by formal 
conversion or by the premium in the mar- 
ket, to rates of three and four per cent. 

The civilized world is able, therefore, 
to pay the cost of a larger official class, 
if it renders services of value. Increased 
social wealth permits additions to the 
office -holding and professional classes, 
because the community has gotten be- 
yond the point where the efforts of all, 
or nearly all, are needed for the work of 
obtaining subsistence and the rudiments 
of civilized life. The difference between 
the old conditions and the new is thus set 
forth by Professor William Smart : 

"Society now supports and gladly 
a great many people who add nothing 
material. Once a day if a man had hint- 
ed that he should like to be a poet, a 
player, a singer, or even a journalist, he 
would have been looked on with curios- 
ity and even suspicion, and for an intel- 
ligible reason. When bread and butter 
were scarce and were got by hard labor, 
it did look curious that a man should 
expect other people to share their bread 
and butter with one who did not pro- 
duce, in return, something as tangible 
and nourishing as bread and butter. 
But, with the growth of wealth, all 
these occupations have become legiti- 
mate arid honorable callings, wherein it 
is recognized that men give value for 
value, and there is a par of exchange 
between the products of the hand and 
those of the brain." 

That the increase of wealth permits 
additions to the professional and office- 
holding classes in a much greater ratio 
than that borne by the new wealth to 
the previous mass may be shown by a 
mathematical illustration. A commu- 
nity capable by its utmost exertions of 
producing only enough to supply its food 
and clothing would have no surplus for 
the machinery of government or for the 
support of the professional classes. If 



50 



The Growth of Public Expenditures. 



the productive power necessary to sup- 
ply food and clothing be represented by 
10x, an increase of productive power by 
10 per cent, applied to the support of a 
small governing and professional class, 
will be represented by lie. It is obvious 
that a further increase in the productive 
power of the community by the same 
amount, or one eleventh of its whole pro- 
ducing power, would raise the fund avail- 
able for the governing and professional 
classes, not by 10 per cent, but by 100 
per cent. A further increase of the old 
productive power by one eleventh (or of 
the new power by one twelfth) would per- 
mit three times the proportion of wealth 
to be devoted to the professional and 
office-holding classes that was devoted 
to them under the original conditions. 
If state expenditure alone were consid- 
ered, an increase of one eleventh in the 
producing power of the community, un- 
der the conditions assumed, would per- 
mit double the state expenditure under 
previous conditions. 

A small increase in productive power 
or in wealth, therefore, would permit a 
large increase in the ratio devoted to 
the professional and governing classes. 
These classes would not by any means 
reap the whole benefit of the new wealth. 
It would be necessary that all should pro- 
duce more, and be able to exchange their 
surplus purchasing power for profession- 
al services, like those of physicians, law- 
yers, actors, and artists, in order that this 
exchange should permit the latter classes 
to live. The distribution of the increased 
wealth among the community would be 
such that a smaller number of persons 
than before would be able to produce all 
the food of the community, and a smaller 
number than before would be able to 
produce all the clothing. These groups 
would receive their compensation for in- 
creased productive power in greater com- 
forts of living, and some of those who 
had formerly belonged to the food-pro- 
ducing classes, or their children, would 
ascend into the ranks of the skilled-labor 



and professional classes. Whether the 
distribution of the increased wealth was 
entirely equitable or not, the general tend- 
ency of its distribution could not fail to 
follow this direction. The professional 
classes, so far as they can be considered 
as independent of the producing classes, 
would in their turn have more wealth 
than formerly to apply to the gratification 
of their desires, and would increase their 
demand upon the less efficient classes both 
for products and for personal services. 

The growth of the official and profes- 
sional classes, so far as it is an index of 
the increased wealth of the community, 
is not to be deplored. The essential 
test of the value of these classes is whe- 
ther they are rendering genuine services. 
If they are purely parasitic, they are a 
burden upon the community, of the most 
injurious character. This was conspic- 
uously the case with the French nobility 
just before the Revolution. Every one 
remembers how vividly Taine sketches 
their privileges and exemptions, the ab- 
sentee landlordism which drained away 
the riches of their estates, and their 
purely ornamental functions at the royal 
court, without even performing any of 
the duties of civil leadership. Originat- 
ing in the useful offices of governors and 
leaders of the people, these functions 
had been superseded by the central gov- 
ernment, and the privileged classes had 
become social vampires, drawing their 
vitality from the impoverished blood of 
the community. This has come to be 
the case to some extent with the heredi- 
tary nobility of many of the European 
countries, where they have preserved 
any real privileges. They have ceased 
to perform valuable functions, except 
perhaps to set the standards of taste in 
living and in art, and are supported by 
the labor of the community under pro- 
perty laws which make them the bene- 
ficiaries of the special privileges granted 
their ancestors, even if they have ceased 
to benefit directly by special privileges 
and exemptions accorded them to-day. 




The Growth of Public Expenditures. 



51 



The professional classes, in their turn, 
may be little better than parasites, in 
communities where the number of doc- 
tors, lawyers, and the clergy is multi- 
plied beyond normal needs. The best 
evidence of the excess in their numbers 
is found in their failure to earn a com- 
fortable living. This condition, how- 
ever, is not a permanent one in a grow- 
ing country, as is the parasitism of the 
hereditary nobility of Europe. In many 
American cities and states, the diversion 
of too much of the talent of the com- 
munity to professional employments has 
been gradually corrected by the accu- 
mulation of wealth, and the increased 
opportunities for professional employ- 
ment which wealth and its management 
afford. It is in accordance with the 
laws of political economy that the pro- 
fessional classes feel more keenly than 
the producing classes the diminished 
production of periods of depression. 
With the masses, the need for food arid 
other necessaries of living supersedes the 
necessity for professional services and 
entertainment, and diminishes the de- 
mand for them. Among the more ad- 
vanced classes, however, even this influ- 
ence is counteracted by the elevation of 
professional services, like those of the 
physician and the dentist, to the rank 
of necessities, which can no more be 
dispensed with than tooth powder or the 
bath. 

How far the increase in public ex- 
penditure has been usefully applied to 
the benefit of the community is a prob- 
lem which has been much discussed, and 
which it would require exhaustive analy- 
sis of many budgets to answer with pre- 
cision. That it has been applied to 
many new purposes, and to old ones 
which were inadequately provided for, 
may be easily established. Education, 
improved highways, more and better 
public buildings, and the thousand de- 
tails of sanitation have absorbed most of 
the increased expenditure which has not 
gone to maintain standing armies. In 



England and Wales, local expenditures 
have risen by more than 150 per cent 
within the past generation, from 30,- 
454,523 in the fiscal year 1868 to 78,- 
774,774 in 1897. This increase has been 
applied largely to the expenses of po- 
lice, sanitation, and local public works. 
School boards alone increased their ex- 
penditures, during the brief period be- 
tween 1884 and 1897, from 4,530,242 
to 10,139,366. In the United States, 
also, according to some recent calcula- 
tions by Secretary Gage, salaries paid to 
school-teachers rose from $37,832,556 
in 1870 to $55,942,972 in 1880, and 
$123,809,412 in 1899. 

Among the subjects of federal ex- 
penditure in the United States are many 
which contribute to the promotion of 
commerce. Going back to the report of 
Secretary Ho well Cobb for the fiscal 
year 1860, one finds under the War De- 
partment the trifling item, "Improve- 
ment of rivers, harbors, etc., $221,973." 
This may not have been an entirely re- 
presentative year in such expenditures, 
but it was pointed out by President 
Arthur, in his message vetoing the ap- 
propriation of 1882, that the appropria- 
tions were only $3,975,000 in 1870, and 
$8,976,500 in 1880. The appropriation 
proposed in 1882, which aroused so much 
resentment throughout the country, was 
$18,743,875. The work of river and har- 
bor improvement has since then received 
a wonderful extension, and has been 
made the subject of continuing contracts 
instead of casual appropriations from 
year to year. The net disbursements by 
warrants for the fiscal year 1808 were 
$20,785,049, and for 1899 $16,082,357. 
This is only a small part, moreover, of 
the appropriations now made for the pro- 
motion of commerce. Deficiencies in the 
postal revenue are a contribution toward 
the extension of the mail service into re- 
mote sections, and toward fast mail trains 
and the carriage of great masses of pe- 
riodical and advertising literature. The 
postal deficiency of 1898 was $10,504,- 



52 



The Growth of Public Expenditures. 



040, and that of 1899 $8,211,570. If 
it fell to a less amount for the fiscal 
year 1900, it was because of larger reve- 
nues, and not because -of the unwilling- 
ness of the government to thrust its hand 
into the pocket of the taxpayer for the 
purpose of promoting a widespread and 
efficient service. The lighthouse estab- 
lishment, which called for $835,373 in 
1860 and $1,767,515 in 1874, received 
$3,118,833 in 1899. While these figures 
are small, they represent an increase of 
300 per cent within forty years, and near- 
ly 100 per cent within the present gen- 
eration. 

Items of this character, always recog- 
nized as a necessary part of the duty 
of the federal government, give only a 
faint idea of the new fields in which the 
accumulated wealth flowing into the cof- 
fers of taxation is being spent on works 
which contribute to the scientific educa- 
tion, the public information, and the gen- 
eral equipment of the country for rivalry 
with foreign producing nations. Many 
of the scientific bureaus of the govern- 
ment, like the Weather Bureau, the Pat- 
ent Office, colleges for agriculture and 
mechanic arts, the Coast and Geodetic 
Survey, eat up amounts which do not seem 
large from the modern point of view, but 
which would have made a serious impres- 
sion on the modest budget of 1860 or 
1870, even if due allowance were made 
for the difference in population. It does 
not affect the argument that some of 
these offices, like the Patent Office, are 
partly sustained by fees, since the gross 
cost of their maintenance, as compared 
with the similar cost in the past, is one of 
the measures of the increased resources 
of the country. 

The growth in the public wealth is the 
explanation of the patience with which 
the country bears the munificence of 
Congress toward the pensioners of the 
Civil War. Never in the world's his- 
tory have such sums been distributed to 
soothe the declining years of those who 
suffered for the flag as by the United 



States during the last decade. The lar- 
gest amount paid for pensions up to the 
Civil War was in 1820, when $3,208,376 
was distributed. The country then had 
a population of a little less than ten mil- 
lions, so that the pension charge per 
capita was about 35 cents. This charge 
rose in the fiscal year 1885 to $56,102,- 
267, which was about $1 for each in- 
habitant of the United States, or about 
$5 for the average family. The pro- 
gress of fifteen years raised the pension 
expenditure for the fiscal year 1900 to 
$140,875,992. This is not much less 
than $2 per capita, or more than the 
cost of the federal government for all 
purposes (barring one year of the Mexi- 
can war) down almost to 1860. If the 
costs of the military and naval establish- 
ment last year were added to the expend- 
iture for pensions, the burden upon the 
American people for these objects was 
about $4.40 per head, or very close to 
the entire military and naval expendi- 
ture of the Empire of Napoleon when 
he was leading the " Grand Army " of 
600,000 men to its death amidst the 
snows of Russia. 

The growth of the official classes is 
not to be feared so long as they are per- 
forming functions which are clearly use- 
ful. There is an unmistakable tendency, 
in democratic countries, where the sys- 
tem of using offices as political rewards 
prevails, just as there used to be in 
monarchical countries, where offices were 
distributed as favors by the monarch, 
to create useless functions, and to divide 
up those which are useful among an 
unnecessary number of public servants. 
This was notably the tendency in Great 
Britain under the Stuarts and the 
Georges, when sinecures were freely 
granted in order to pension the favorites 
of the king. It has been a favorite de- 
vice among the political bosses of our 
great cities, where Tom, Mike, and Isaac 
have to be " taken care of " by the city be- 
cause they have a " pull " in their wards. 
But these illustrations of an unfortunate 



The Growth of Public Expenditures. 



53 



tendency to abuse the good nature of the 
public should not obscure the truth : that 
the public can afford to employ more 
servants under modern conditions than 
under old ones, and can obtain from 
them valuable services in promoting the 
comfort of the people and developing 
the economic power of the community. 
The lesson taught by abuses of political 
power is only that of every-day business, 
that the rules of honesty and efficien- 
cy should be rigidly applied in public as 
well as in private service. 

Closely related to the subject of in- 
creased public expenditure is that of the 
creation of public debt. The growth of 
such debts was the cause of grave anxi- 
ety to political economists early in the 
century, while they found defenders, on 
the other hand, among those who saw 
the benefits of negotiable securities in 
attracting the wealth of a country from 
its hiding places into a common mass, 
and in affording a means of absorbing 
the fund of surplus capital which was 
just coming into being. The fact soon 
came to be recognized that the virtue of 
the debt depended in a large degree 
upon its object. Primarily, a debt for 
a useful and productive purpose is more 
justifiable than one for a wasteful pur- 
pose, like that of war. But the instinct 
of self-preservation is a dominant one 
among men, and has apparently led na- 
tions to assume debts for war with light- 
er hearts than for almost any other pur- 
pose. In many cases such expenses have 
been wanton and wasteful ; but where 
national life has been the stake of war, 
the creation of debt might perhaps be 
defended for the preservation of politi- 
cal independence, without which inde- 
pendent economic life would cease to be 



There is not room in this discussion to 
go into all the aspects of debt creation, 
nor to determine the limits of the sound 
principle of John Stuart Mill, that the 
expenses of war should be raised, as far 
as possible, by taxation rather than by 



loans. It is certain that the peace es- 
tablishment of the army and navy, under 
ordinary conditions, should fall within 
the proceeds of taxation, and should not 
be permitted to impose a burden upon 
posterity. The justification for imposing 
burdens upon future generations is found 
only in the preservation of the national 
life ; the extension of national power, 
which carries with it wider economic op- 
portunities ; or the creation of permanent 
works, like railways and harbor improve- 
ments, whose benefits as well as costs 
will be shared by posterity. The latter 
object has had a large share in the in- 
crease in public debts in well-ordered 
states, during the past generation. The 
government of Russia increased its debt 
more than a thousand millions of dollars 
from 1887 to 1900, but nearly the whole 
of the amount has been applied to the 
creation of railways owned by the state, 
whose net earnings of $70,000,000 (137,- 
486,000 rubles) in 1898 much more than 
paid the interest on cost of construction, 
and left a handsome surplus for meeting 
other public charges. In Australia, also, 
$650,000,000 (132,910,524) has been 
expended by the state in the construc- 
tion of more than 14,000 miles of rail- 
way, mostly by the creation of public 
debt ; but the net earnings of these rail- 
ways were $20,000,000 (4,069,805) in 
1898, and they paid more than three 
per cent upon their cost. 

Whatever the merits in the abstract of 
incurring public debts, there is no doubt 
that they bring a powerful stimulus to 
the development of new countries. The 
issue of negotiable securities, whether 
they come from the government or from 
private railway and industrial enter- 
prises, puts into the hands of a poor and 
undeveloped community the means of 
obtaining the most efficient tools of pro- 
duction from abroad, without waiting un- 
til the requisite capital can be saved at 
home. Take the case of Australia, whose 
development has perhaps been more rapid 
within our generation than that of any 



The Growth of Public Expenditures. 



other country of the same population and 
wealth. The people of Australia were 
in the fortunate position of having an 
almost unlimited credit with their Eng- 
lish and Scotch countrymen, which en- 
abled them to borrow more liberally and 
on better terms than any other people. 
They borrowed from 1871 to 1898 near- 
ly a billion and a half of dollars (294,- 
212,000) . This great sum was applied to 
railway construction, to the improvement 
of agricultural land and sheep-farming, to 
the employment of the best machinery 
for gold-mining, and to the development 
of manufactures. 

The result of this influx of foreign cap- 
ital has been to create a large debt, both 
public and private ; but it has been also 
to give to Australia a rapidity and solidi- 
ty of development which would hardly 
have been possible by the unaided ef- 
forts of her own people. With a popu- 
lation increasing by more than 250 per 
cent from 1861 to 1898, and more than 
doubling in the twenty-seven years from 
1871 to 1898, her industrial growth was 
more remarkable still. Her total foreign 
trade rose from 39,729,016 in 1871 
to 83,678,859 in 1897, or more than 
three times the amount per capita of the 
trade of the United States. The pub- 
lic revenues, including railway earnings, 
increased from $45,000,000 (9,269,- 
765) in 1871 to $150,000,000 (31,272,- 
588) in 1898. Deposits in the banks 
increased, during the same period, by five 
hundred millions of dollars (from 28,- 
833,761 to 128,303,360), and the value 
of annual production per capita increased 
100 per cent, and put Australia at the 
head of all countries in volume of pro- 
duction per head. The per capita pro- 
duction of Australia is about $130 (26 
14s. 9c?.), while that of France is only 
$60 ; Great Britain, $40 ; Russia, $31 ; 
and even the United States, only $70. 

These results could not have been 
achieved without the influx of foreign 
capital by the creation of debt in the 
form of negotiable securities. These 



securities were exchanged, through the 
usual medium of stock exchange trans- 
actions, for English woolens, hardware, 
mining machinery, wines, and other luxu- 
ries. They might not be acceptable di- 
rectly to those who had machinery, cloth, 
and wines to sell ; but other people with 
surplus savings in England and Scotland 
were willing to buy these engraved pieces 
of paper, the bonds of the Australian gov- 
ernments, and the stocks and bonds of 
mining, railway, and investment compa- 
nies. Thus, by the process of borrowing 
abroad, Australia was equipped, almost 
in the twinkling of an eye, with a mech- 
anism of production which could have 
been built up out of her own savings 
only by the laborious efforts of several 
generations. By a somewhat similar pro- 
cess of borrowing abroad, the Russian 
Empire has increased its debt by nearly 
a thousand millions of dollars, but has 
encouraged an influx of foreign capital 
which has resulted in the creation within 
five years of stock companies showing a 
capitalization of $600,000,000. 

The history of the century in public 
finance, therefore, and especially the his- 
tory of the present generation, illustrates 
the benefits which may come to the com- 
munity from a well-directed use of a 
part of its new wealth in the extension 
of state functions. The character of this 
extension need not be radically socialis- 
tic nor disturbing to the existing order, 
but may simply relieve the individual 
of many minor duties which could not 
be performed at all before, or were per- 
formed inadequately or at great individ- 
ual expense. Just as the average man 
has ceased to try to be his own carpen- 
ter, physician, or lawyer, in spite of a 
breadth of culture which may include 
some knowledge of their duties, he has 
ceased to undertake the many functions 
relating to public health, instruction, and 
protection, which were formerly per- 
formed by the individual, because he 
could not afford to contribute from his 
slender surplus above the cost of main- 



A Letter from England. 



55 



tenance to have them performed by oth- 
ers. The increase in public expenditures, 
great as it has been, has by no means 
kept pace with the increase of social 
wealth above the subsistence point, but 
has taken a fraction of these great re- 
sjurces, and sought to apply it to those 
improvements in social condition which 



can be best provided through state ac- 
tion. Modern social development, open- 
ing new means of comfort and luxury 
on every hand to the mass of men, would 
be strangely one-sided, if it left the func- 
tions of the state shut within the parsi- 
monious limits of a century ago, or even 
a generation ago. 

Charles A. Conant. 



A LETTER FROM ENGLAND. 



THE past year has, indeed, been a 
year of emotions. Never before, in the 
memory of the immediately present gen- 
eration, has so universal and so sincere 
a wave of national feeling intoxicated 
the average Englishman. Nor has the 
occasion been wholly frivolous, the de- 
monstration entirely without dignity. 
For whether the existence of a well-de- 
fined policy, dating many years before 
the Raid, to " republicanize South 
Africa " and to " drive the British into 
the sea," is ever honestly proven, or 
whether the cry of " The Empire in 
danger" is found to have been no more 
than the invention of a chartered press 
in the service of alien financiers, we 
have unquestionably stumbled into an 
imperial crisis of unparalleled magnitude 
and historic significance. 

Until the secret history of the tor- 
tuous and discreditable diplomacy pur- 
sued alike by Boer and Briton toward 
each other and toward the colored peo- 
ple, their servants, is authentically ex- 
posed, we cannot, in common justice, 
refuse to face the two entirely divergent 
interpretations to which it is liable. 

A great majority of those who are not 
mere slaves to militarism or commer- 
cial greed still hold to the position, so 
ably set forth in Mr. J. P. Fitzpatrick's 
The Transvaal from Within, that every 
difficulty in South Africa has been in 
reality the direct consequence of an un- 



dying struggle for domination between 
the two European races in possession. 
They discover a steady and unscrupu- 
lous development of anti-English legis- 
lation, designed to thwart the injured 
outlander at every turn by denying his 
political rights and hampering his pri- 
vate life, and carried out with a bril- 
liant combination of cunning, corrup- 
tion, and brutality. Mr. Fitzpatrick has 
manifestly overreached himself in the 
attempt to whitewash the Reform Com- 
mittee, even while throwing over Dr. 
Jameson ; but he has created an almost 
irresistible impression of the incompati- 
bility of Boer methods and ideals with 
that ostensibly humanitarian form of 
decency and justice, so essential to com- 
mercial prosperity, which we have al- 
ways claimed as the British brand of 
civilization. The average Boer, and 
President Kruger in particular, would 
certainly seem to have been continually 
and consistently in opposition to our 
ideas of progress. The eight hundred 
and fifty-nine pages lately devoted by 
"Vindex" to the Political Life and 
Speeches of Cecil Rhodes, empire-mak- 
er, provide a solid basis for such con- 
tentions. 

There is, on the other hand, a small 
but increasing body of thoughtful and 
resolute Liberals, whose contentions are 
eloquently embodied in Mr. J. A. Hob- 
son's The War in South Africa. They 



56 



A Letter from England. 



dwell much on the natural community of 
interests between the white races in the 
colonies and the republics, particularly 
for protective purposes toward colored 
peoples, and maintain that honest over- 
tures had already done much for a work- 
ing federation. They view the attitude 
and conduct of the Boers as entirely de- 
fensive against a perpetually encroach- 
ing and treacherous invader, to whom 
the principle of patriotism in other 
people is unintelligible, the neighbor- 
hood of a weaker enemy a constant 
temptation to plunder, and the posses- 
sion of gold fields a perpetual incitement 
to dishonesty. They consider that the 
English nation has been tricked into this 
war by a small ring of international capi- 
talists, with the sole object of " securing 
for the mines a full, cheap, regular, and 
submissive supply of Kaffir and white 
labor," under conditions of practical 
slavery. 

On neither reading is the record or 
the prospect especially satisfactory. We 
have been, in the past, at once perfidi- 
ous to our enemies and ungrateful to 
our loyal colonists. We have broken 
promises in secession and pledges in ex- 
pansion. The negotiations terminating 
in the present war were at least as dis- 
ingenuous on our side as on that of the 
Boers, though both parties may claim 
their previous experiences of each other 
as an excuse for duplicity. And as Mr. 
Hobson effectively points out, "what 
basis for legitimate respect are we offer- 
ing, by bearing down through sheer nu- 
merical superiority a people who will 
rightly boast that we tried to meet them 
man to man, and ignominiously failed ? " 

Yet now, at any rate, there is but one 
question in South Africa, " the struggle 
for British imperial or Boer republican 
predominance ; " and it would seem that 
the very existence of our Empire is turn- 
ing on the inclusion or the exclusion of 
South Africa from its sphere of influ- 
ence. Has England shown, during the 
progress of the war, any honest desire 



to face the position and recognize her 
responsibilities ? Imperialism is on its 
trial. It may prove to be "a mere 
catchword vaguely denoting our insular 
self-conceit," or " a well-considered poli- 
cy to be pursued by a commonwealth 
of the communities flying the British 
flag." 

The occasion' has grown, however un- 
expectedly, to be serious enough not only 
politically, but personally. Every son 
and daughter of the Empire has been 
confronted with torturing anxiety, true 
tales of primal heroism, and sudden 
death. 

Theoretically we despise emotion, still 
more its expression; and when we do 
forget ourselves, our check books, and 
our top-hats, the result is not edifying. 
Drunkenness and rioting have marred 
our " carnivals ; " vulgarity and corrup- 
tion have absorbed the press, with a few 
honorable exceptions ; while some of our 
newspaper posters, topical street toys, 
and music hall " turns " have betrayed 
a flagrant lack of taste. Liberty of 
speech has been seriously, though tem- 
porarily, of course, curtailed ; while all 
opponents of the government's policy, 
foolishly called pro-Boers, are publicly 
insulted without official rebuke and 
privately boycotted. Charges of treason 
are flung broadcast by Khaki enthusi- 
asts. 

Such manifestations, however, can 
never prove that England's nobler feel- 
ings were untouched. Our reverses, 
which M. de Bloch attributes mainly to 
the fact that all military progress has 
been to the advantage of the defense, were 
accepted with clinched teeth and reso- 
lute silence. We rejoiced most conspicu- 
ously over the relief of our soldiers from 
circumstances of cruel suffering, and re- 
frained from malicious triumph over the 
capture of Cronje and the death of Jou- 
bert. " The moving rally of our citi- 
zens from beyond the seas from snow- 
land and sunland, from Canada, from 
Australia and New Zealand has set 



A Letter from England. 



57 



a seal on the unity of the Empire such 
as no parchments of confederation can 
bring." And finally there has arisen 
among us a new moral force to be reck- 
oned with, the power of a sentient crowd, 
a new vitality, at once general and in- 
dividual. There is much significance in 
the mere fact of comradeship between 
classes, evoked by common losses ; the 
unwonted loosening of tongues, for ex- 
ample, in 'buses, trains, and upon street 
corners, the eager discussion of news. 
And though many of the brute instincts, 
lately shedding their veneer of civiliza- 
tion, must afford a smart reproof to our 
complacency, it is none the less become 
evident that the practice and the dan- 
gers of battlefields can actually teach a 
man to look at life more seriously than 
in times of peace. For war is not mere- 
ly, as the military expert would have us 
believe, a measure adopted by states- 
men to gain their ends. It may be also 
the vital expression of a sentiment ; and 
it is not unduly paradoxical or optimis- 
tic to suggest that the present crisis has 
given an articulate voice to that vague 
but strong emotion of wider citizenship 
which stood behind the tawdry pomp 
and circumstance of the Jubilee, and 
inspired Mr. Kipling's Recessional. 

Patriotism, in its narrower sense, has 
long lost its power over Englishmen, for 
the simple reason that they have no op- 
portunities of exercising it. We can 
benefit our country to-day only by execu- 
tive detail and social reforms, which in 
some way always fail to stir the imagi- 
nation. Prosperity, material progress, 
and undisputed supremacy have sapped 
the national backbone, till that last 
worst sign of idle luxury has gained its 
fatal hold through indifference to life, 
fear of death and forgetfulness of hero- 
ism. The war has proved conclusively 
that grit at the core is still our own ; 
but if it should throw us back upon mere 
pride of arms, so unfortunately suggested 
by Lord Roberts's shocking reference to 
the relief of Ladysmith as a revenge for 



Majuba, we care little for the heritage. 
It should more properly, and more 
probably, awaken in the minds of every 
true Englishman a new sense of the im- 
portance of life and the virtue of cour- 
age, through some realization, however 
feeble, of new and wider responsibilities 
in the interests of civilization as a whole. 

The goal of modern imperialism has 
been admirably stated in the manifesto 
of the Fabian Society, the only party 
here to-day with a definite policy, an ac- 
tive conscience, and a living ideal : 

" The problem before us is how the 
world can be ordered by Great Powers 
of practically international extent, ar- 
rived at a degree of internal industrial 
and political development far beyond the 
primitive political economy of the foun- 
ders of the United States and the Anti- 
Corn Law League. The partition of the 
greater part of the globe among such 
Powers is, as a matter of fact that must 
be faced, approvingly or deploringly, now 
only a question of time ; and whether 
England is to be the centre and nucleus 
of one of these Great Powers of the fu- 
ture, or to be cast off by its colonies, 
ousted from its provinces, and reduced 
to its old island status, will depend on 
the ability with which the Empire is gov- 
erned as a whole, and the freedom of its 
government and its officials from com- 
plicity in private financial interests, and 
from the passions of newspaper corre- 
spondents who describe our enemies as 
' beasts.' " 

And again : " The simple answer to 
the military plan of holding the Empire 
is that it is impossible. The pretension 
to it only destroys the prodigious moral 
force which is at our disposal the mo- 
ment we make inclusion in the British 
Empire a privilege to be earned instead 
of a yoke to be enforced. Our one threat 
should be the threat of repudiation and 
the withdrawal of our officials. It would 
be so powerful that no British province 
would dare, in the face of it, to abuse 
its powers of self-government to institute 



58 



A Letter from England. 



slavery or debase the standard of life 
for its workers." 

A very similar note is struck in a 
thoughtful and lucid work entitled The 
Settlement after the War in South Africa, 
by Dr. M. J. Farelli, an advocate of the 
Supreme Court of Cape Colony, who has 
himself played a distinguished and honor- 
able part in attempting to secure a peace- 
ful solution of the difficulties he is dis- 
cussing. He conceives of " the heritage 
of the British Empire as the most glorious 
instrument of justice the world has yet 
seen," and as " a trust for the whole hu- 
man race." In the face of such language, 
it is, indeed, somewhat disquieting to 
discover that Dr. Farelli, in common with 
our press imperialists of the moment, is 
inclined to disclaim the particular moral 
attitudes by which our expansions have 
been commonly excused. He laments, 
for example, that " British Parliaments, 
until quite recently, have not taken wide 
views of foreign relations, or of the ne- 
cessity of safeguarding British trade" 
He condemns at once the sturdy Puri- 
tanism of the sixteenth century, and the 
" humanitarian wave of sentiment " of 
the nineteenth. Yet our claims as school- 
master of the world pursuing a God- 
given mission would seem to rest on 
the upholding of small nationalities, the 
teaching of Christianity, and the ideal, 
at least, of being humane toward subject 
races. From conquest the instrument 
of justice, we are in danger of turning 
justice into an instrument of conquest. 

Dr. Farelli himself points the warning, 
when he says of "the people in South 
Africa : " " It will be a fatal error to 
suppose that so-called * practical ' consid- 
erations meaning those of immediate 
pecuniary gain must necessarily de- 
cide their future action. ... Of all facts, 
the most stubborn and creative are the 
ingrained beliefs and prejudices of a peo- 
ple, which are mostly attributed to quite 
other causes than a regard for their ma- 
terial interests. A generalization which 
is correct enough when applied to opera- 



tors on the Stock Exchange fails to ex- 
plain the action of a generation of Hu- 
guenots who lost all in fleeing from 
France." 

Much has been wisely written, both 
in Dr. Farelli's book and in the Fabian 
manifesto aforesaid, concerning the de- 
tails of future government in South Af- 
rica, where military rule must be brief 
and restricted, a free constitution and 
responsible government guaranteed at 
the earliest possible moment, and the ex- 
ploitation of minerals regarded primarily 
as a fund for state purposes. 

The result of the general election af- 
fords some indication of the country ap- 
preciating its responsibilities. The ex- 
ceptionally heavy polling despite an 
almost foregone conclusion points to 
our recognizing the seriousness of the 
issues at stake; and the dishonorable 
appeal for votes on the Khaki enthusi- 
asm was treated according to its deserts. 
In face of complete disorganization in 
the Liberal party, and since neither side 
of the House had chosen to formulate 
a policy, the electorate naturally deter- 
mined that those who caused the wound 
should find the cure. The onus of set- 
tlement comes by right to the Tory- 
Unionist camp ; but their failure to se- 
cure any increase in their majority will 
have taught them that the Englishman 
who rallies unquestionably to the flag 
does not thereby resign his liberty of 
speech and judgment. In the future we 
must know exactly how far we intend 
to go, and for what end. 

Books on the war itself are more plen- 
tiful than edifying or instructive. Re- 
printed in most cases from newspaper 
correspondence, they are little more than 
clever snapshots ; caught on the run, as 
it were, hastily grouped in series, and 
loosely sewn in covers. 

But Dr. Conan Doyle has produced 
in The Great Boer War a responsible re- 
cord with astonishing rapidity and most 
commendable thoroughness. While ad- 
mitting that a fuller knowledge may 



A Letter from England. 



59 



give an entirely different meaning to 
some of the events of the Boer war, he 
has every right to claim that his judg- 
ments and criticisms have been made 
without fear or favor, under the ines- 
timable advantage of having visited the 
scene of this great drama, met many of 
the chief actors in it, and seen with his 
own eyes something of the actual opera- 
tions. In rather more than fifty pages 
of history, admirably concise and lucid, 
if not quite impartial, he has traced 
the course of events by which the na- 
tion has come once more " to be tested 
by that hammer of war and adversity 
by which Providence still fashions us 
to some nobler and higher end." The 
summary is followed by a readable and 
continuous narrative of an eventful cam- 
paign, in which every detail becomes in- 
telligible and every manoauvre is brought 
to light. His final chapter is concerned 
with the military lessons which can no 
longer be neglected in the face of expe- 
rience. 

Dr. Doyle has no difficulty in justify- 
ing the comments of a civilian in this 
matter; for, to his thinking, the very 
first lesson of the war has been " that 
the army can no longer remain entirely 
in the hands of the professional soldier 
and the official, but that the general pub- 
lic must recognize that the defense of the 
Empire is not the business of a special 
warrior caste, but of every able-bodied 
citizen." He does not entirely realize, 
perhaps, that popular control in military 
affairs means the giving to the critical 
expert of equal if not superior authority 
to the practical; but his own thought- 
ful suggestions of reform would not pro- 
hibit cooperation. He advocates reserv- 
ing a comparatively small force of highly 
organized, well paid professionals 
" constantly encouraged to think and to 
act for themselves " for foreign ser- 
vice, and trusting our home defense to 
volunteers and to the militia, trained as 
competent marksmen. He would re- 
place cavalry by mounted infantry, 



break down the prejudice against a di- 
vided battery, and universalize " the 
trench and the hidden gun." 

From Dr. Doyle it has been an old 
promise fulfilled ; but the reputation of 
the moment is Mr. Winston Spencer 
Churchill's. His capture and his escape, 
his racy comments, his condescensions in 
approval and audacities in criticism, have 
sent the press man to Parliament. He 
will have little difficulty in holding the 
ear of the public ; for he can write nov- 
els, and look after every one else's busi- 
ness as well as his own. 

The anxieties of a grave imperial is- 
sue, with an inscrutable Eastern prob- 
lem, have entirely overshadowed public 
life, while a stationary majority has en- 
couraged the government in its compla- 
cent neglect of home duties. The much- 
heralded visit of the Australian delegates 
was but the fixing of a seal on the work 
of past years, and social reform has been 
officially at a standstill. Party politics 
are not edifying in a national crisis, and 
the reputation of every leading statesman 
has suffered in some degree. 

In the larger humanities men have 
naturally done little ; though here, too, 
there have been some very notable losses 
to supplement the long roll call of the 
battlefield. The death of John Ruskin 
was scarcely, perhaps, a personal event ; 
for his working days were long over, and 
his mantle as reformer in art and econo- 
my had fallen on William Morris, who 
actually died before him. The staying 
power of Ruskin's teaching, his plea for 
dignity and cleanliness in art, and for 
reverence toward nature and simple man- 
hood, has become a national heritage, so 
far modified to universal acceptance that 
we no longer recognize its origin. It is 
as a master of English style that Ruskin 
lives to-day. 

Among scholars, the work of Profes- 
sor Max Miiller has suffered a similar 
eclipse. To our fathers, with their pas- 
sion for " information " and " general 
knowledge," his popularizing gifts were 



60 



A Letter from England. 



invaluable ; and the " Chips " from his 
German Workshop have carried the 
study of philology and comparative re- 
ligions to unexpected quarters. To-day 
we are all specialists, but the fact will 
not justify any depreciation of cultivat- 
ing influences so widespread as Max 
Mtiller's. 

Dr. Martineau was a very different 
type of the last generation. His keen 
and lucid intellect was active to the last, 
and Unitarians can ill spare their schol- 
arly and earnest leader. Lord Russell 
of Killowen, on the other hand, was 
scarcely older in years than in mind. 
The first Roman Catholic Chief Justice 
since the Reformation was an eager poli- 
tician and a passionate lover of abstract 
justice, with a keen eye for horseflesh. 
He valued a clear head, common sense, 
and the gift of concentration above all 
other powers of the intellect. For " near- 
ly twenty years the history of the com- 
mon law bar was his history," and it was 
only the other day that he startled civic 
complacency by a public reproof of the 
Lord Mayor of London for keeping si- 
lence under suspicions of financial job- 
bery and company promoting. 

In Dr. Henry Sidgwick, professor of 
moral philosophy at Cambridge, the 
world has lost one of the wisest and 
noblest of his generation. His intellect 
was of the Greeks, sane, critical, temper- 
ate, and in a sense unproductive. But 
that very genius for seeing both sides, 
illuminated as it was by polished humor 
and incisive style, rendered his presence 
and conversation unceasingly and pene- 
tratingly suggestive. Passionate integ- 
rity and phenomenal industry, again, 
have their influence on a philosopher's 
friends and pupils ; nor must it be for- 
gotten that difficulties along every path 
of learning were liable to be smoothed 
over by his private generosity and cease- 
less devotion. In actual daily hard work 
no fanatic could be more zealous. He 
was of the first and foremost among the 
champions of women's education ; and 



he proved himself a pioneer to the last by 
his courageous conviction that, despite 
the sneers and laughter of the Philistines, 
an investigator of psychical phenomena 
is surely fighting to-day in the very van- 
guard of human thought for the pro- 
gress of knowledge. 

Cambridge has also some special right 
to mourn for two, not bearing arms, who 
yet have fallen in the service of the Em- 
pire. Miss Kingsley, of the West Afri- 
can Gold Coast, was nursing at Cam- 
bridge for almost as many years as she 
spent weeks in the hospital at Simons- 
town. And in the little interval between 
her experiences of the sickroom she be- 
came famous, sought out by everybody, 
universally honored. Yet to those who 
knew her she was always the same ; pos- 
sessing a genius for friendship, a sympa- 
thetic and unflinching loyalty. Coura- 
geous always, in domesticity as in explo- 
ration ; vivid in thought and action ; 
graphic ; humorous and witty without a 
touch of malice, she was the prince of 
good comrades, and a woman. On the 
comparative study of races and religions ; 
on many a field of natural history ; on 
societies for exploration ; and, above all, 
on councils of the pioneers of commerce 
and the administrators of outposts, she 
has left her mark. Her outlook was un- 
questionably imperialistic, tempered by 
large humanity, an intrepid zeal for hy- 
gienic reform, rare sanity or balance in 
affairs, and a marvelous sympathy, by 
no means maudlin, with savage nature. 
But yesterday she prefixed a memoir of 
her father, with all the racy vigor and 
frank veracity of her travels, to a col- 
lection of his delightful papers on sport. 
To-day she is of those whose lives and 
letters are eagerly anticipated. 

The brief record of George W. Stee- 
vens, journalist of Egypt, India, Amer- 
ica, and " the conquering Turk," has 
certain points of similarity to Miss Kings- 
ley's. After gaining academic distinc- 
tions at the sister university, he became 
for a short time a Cambridge coach, with 



A Letter from England. 



61 



literary tastes unusual in that profession. 
His development into the most brilliant 
and most popular of our writers for the 
press was phenomenally abrupt. Without 
apparently possessing the imagination or 
creative powers of Mr. Kipling, he ex- 
hibited an almost equal gift for rapid, 
unhewn, and picturesque description ; 
while there seemed no limit to the sub- 
jects which he could master at sight 
and set down for all men's understand- 
ing, with a vigor of line and an instinct 
for values recalling Beardsley's methods 
in decoration. He was a literary im- 
pressionist, with a touch of genius ; and 
good journalists are as rare as other 
artists. And Steevens, perhaps, was a 
partner of Mr. Kipling in another sense. 
One is Laureate of the Empire, the other 
her Historian. In his From Cape Town 
to Ladysmith George Steevens has left 
a few chapters of vivid and almost im- 
passioned description, which stand for 
more than the last words of one whom 
Lord Kitchener has called a model cor- 
respondent. He saw little, indeed, of 
the country, and less of the war ; but 
nothing escaped him that passed under 
his eye, and all he gained is given. 
Every Englishman may know just what 
happened, just what our soldiers were 
doing and feeling, where Steevens 
crossed their path. 

For the elder dead that noble collec- 
tion of monuments entitled The National 
Dictionary of Biography has been com- 
pleted, and much has been worthily 
written in separate volumes. Mr. Ed- 
ward Clodd's Memoir of the versatile 
Grant Allen is commendably brief and 
readable ; providing a genial and suf- 
ficient record of the man's life work, 
though missing, perhaps, a little the faun- 
like affinities underlying his nature. 

Mr. Leonard Huxley's Life of his 
father is a worthy tribute to the mem- 
ory of one of the founders of modern 
science, the comrade of Darwin and 
Herbert Spencer Huxley belonged to 
the school of agnostic propagandists, now 



almost extinct, but he was a controver- 
sialist by conviction rather than by taste. 
We are drawn to him, as were his 
contemporaries, by something over and 
above his wise knowledge in many fields : 
by his passionate sincerity, his interest 
not only in pure knowledge, but in hu- 
man life ; by his belief that the inter- 
pretation of the book of nature was not 
to be kept apart from the ultimate prob- 
lems of existence ; by the love of truth, 
in short, both theoretical and practical, 
which gave the key to the character of 
the man himself. 

The recent revival of interest in the 
author of The Angel of the House, 
coincident with a wave of Romanism 
among minor poets and essayists, fully 
justifies the publication of the Memoirs 
and Correspondence of Coventry Pat- 
more, by Mr. Basil Champneys. Whether 
Patmore's poetical fame is destined to 
increase or diminish at the hands of 
posterity, the man himself will remain 
a significant and attractive personality. 
The prophet of domestic emotion was 
never a flabby sentimentalist : his reli- 
gious conviction and spiritual mysticism 
were exceptionally sincere ; his affections 
were deep and his friendships loyal. 

Miss Clare L. Thomson has produced 
a reliable and convenient Life of Sam- 
uel Richardson, curiously neglected for 
nearly a hundred years by the biogra- 
phers ; we have two volumes of Letters 
by T. E. Brown, published almost si- 
multaneously with a complete edition of 
his poetical works ; and the two sumptu- 
ous reprints of Byron, lately inaugurated, 
are pursuing their leisurely way toward 
completion. 

In fiction, the most definite tendency 
of the year has been a general yielding 
to the temptation of writing quickly and 
carelessly, on lines that pay. The gift 
of writing after a fashion has become 
well-nigh universal ; the channels of pro- 
duction are widening and multiplying; 
the agent has transformed the struggling 
author into a man of business. As jour- 



62 



A Letter from England. 



nalism develops, literature degenerates. 
Contributions to the picturesque press of 
to-day are just good enough to be reprint- 
ed for a season ; mere novelists strain 
their nerves to keep the pace ; and the 
ideals of permanent work or a critical 
reputation are reserved for the diminish- 
ing elect. 

Although the writing of novels is, per- 
haps, the one occupation in which there 
is no sound excuse, and even but little 
temptation, for separating the work of 
men and women, it may not be imper- 
tinent to remark that every one of our 
leading women writers is to be found 
among the honorable exceptions to this 
rule of unprofitable haste. 

Deliberateness, indeed, gives a moral 
and artistic strength to Mrs. Humphry 
Ward, though it ruins her style. Her 
Eleanor, like Mr. Barrie's Tommy and 
Grizel, has been already reviewed in The 
Atlantic, and must be passed over with 
but a single word. It exhibits the real 
power of Mrs. Ward: that she always 
slowly awakens, with terrible intensity, 
to the ideas which the advanced among 
us have been fighting with for years, and 
sets them plainly and effectively in the 
public eye, under the fierce search light 
of that honest religiosity, stern practical- 
ness, and middle -class idealism which 
compose the average English mind. 

Charles Kingsley's daughter is an 
equally serious writer, though she recog- 
nizes no mission outside the service of art. 
It is eminently characteristic of the two 
women that while Mrs. Ward is still in 
the toils of " problems " and introspec- 
tion, Lucas Malet should be crossing the 
threshold of psychic phenomena, whence 
come the latest science and the newest 
faith. The Gateless Barrier is an at- 
tempt, of fine reverence and subtle au- 
dacity, to imagine a complication in the 
emotional possibilities of life which might 
arise from the developments of contact 
with the spirit world. The old immor- 
tal ideal of choosing death in pursuit of 
a higher life is placed in an entirely new 



setting, and the picture is infinitely sug- 
gestive. 

While Mrs. Ward and Lucas Malet, 
as novelists, were born mature, John 
Oliver Hobbes is only now abandoning 
the nursery. The petulant precocity and 
restless brilliance of her first manner 
have disappeared ; and she seems at last 
to have realized that the greatest artists 
are content to produce their effects in 
patience, to prefer strong and steady 
lines over flashing zigzags, and to mass 
in their characters with sober values. 
There were grown-up touches in A 
School for Saints ; Robert Orange is al- 
most entirely human, and it convinces 
us that the author's penetrating insight 
and command of language may one day 
enable her to write a great novel. 

Mrs. F. A. Steel's work is more diffi- 
cult to appraise. In her Voices of the 
Night, as elsewhere, she moves easily 
amidst a wealth of local color which 
would support a far less competent writ- 
er. The hard brilliancy of Indian life, 
with its violent contrasts of light and 
shadow, its phantasmagoria of races, its 
plagues, its passions, its heroisms, and 
its vices, can hardly fail to make a novel 
interesting. Mrs. Steel knows her ground 
well ; she never overcrowds it, or loses 
her head over its bewildering intrica- 
cies. But though the harmony of the 
picture as a whole is marvelous, its cen- 
tral figures are lacking somewhat in 
strength. The human story fails to 
dominate the imagination. We have 
been on a personally conducted tour and 
seen life, undoubtedly ; but no new char- 
acters have enriched our memory, no 
mind torment or soul ecstasy has stirred 
our heart. We look in vain for the 
wand of the dramatic artist. 

There is much unexpected power in 
Love and Mr. Lewisham, by H. G. 
Wells. The usual manner of this au- 
thor, an up-to-date Jules Verne, is en- 
tirely without distinction, though excel- 
lent of its kind ; but his conversion to 
the school of healthy realists is an event. 



A JLetter from England. 



His book is concerned with an almost 
hackneyed subject, the struggle be- 
tween the ambition of an egoist and the 
love of a man. Despite the digression 
of Alice Heydinger, a character re- 
calling the "red-haired girl" in Mr. 
Kipling's Light that Failed, and Julia in 
Mr. Gissing's Crown of Life, its hero 
is quite virtuous, respectable, and com- 
monplace, like anybody in real life. He 
is a normal product of evening contin- 
uation classes or extension lectures, and 
flounders pitifully at an emotional crisis. 
His life is petty, and even his love is 
not heroic, though Lucy's simple good- 
ness makes a man of him in the end. 
The whole story is spontaneous and nat- 
ural, and one will expect much of Mr. 
Wells henceforth. 

While Mr. Robert Hichens has be- 
trayed, in his Tongues of Conscience, 
the strained artificiality which even the 
brilliancy of his rapid style cannot con- 
ceal, two younger writers have evinced 
an even greater courage of simplicity 
than Mr. Wells. Mr. Henry Harland 
was formerly editor of The Yellow 
Book, and contributed some masterly 
short stories to that remarkable period- 
ical. But his The Cardinal's Snuff-Box 
is an idyllic love story, written with the 
brain of a man of the world and the 
heart of a schoolboy. Entirely unsup- 
ported by plot, local color, crime, analy- 
sis, or " character " parts, it captivates 
the reader by sheer delicacy of form 
and feeling. It is " literature " for the 
young person, a rare possession. 

Sunningwell, by Mr. F. Warre Cor- 
nish, vice provost of Eton, is a quiet 
picture of a cathedral close, and of 
Philip More, canon thereof. The aim 
is to create an atmosphere and a per- 
sonality, interacting on each other, per- 
meating their surroundings. The form 
of mingled essay, dialogue, and descrip- 
tion is well calculated to support so 
slight a framework, and the book may 
be gratefully acknowledged as a relief 
from many of its contemporaries. 



The sobriety of Mr. Henry James is 
wholly different, for his work provides 
always the keenest of intellectual stim- 
ulants. In The Soft Side, however, he 
has not given us of his best, though it 
is a volume of short stories. They are 
overwhimsical, supersubtle, and too fine- 
ly drawn. The Great Condition, indeed, 
will grip the heart ; but others are some- 
way provoking, and Europe the pa- 
thetic story of " the house in all the world 
in which ' culture ' first came to the aid 
of morning calls " compares unfavor- 
ably with the earlier exquisite Four Meet- 
ings, on a similar idea. 

Two of our novelists have chosen the 
field of modern politics, and worked on 
an identical situation. Mr. Zangwill's 
The Mantle of Elijah and Mr. Anthony 
Hope's Quisante' are alike concerned 
with the progress of an uncultured ego- 
ist to the forefront of political life, over 
the shoulders of his early teachers, 
whose principles he has forsaken and 
whose ideals he has crushed. The per- 
sonal interest in both is supplied by the 
marriage of the coarse demagogue to a 
girl of refined and generous nature, suc- 
cumbing at first to a dominant personal- 
ity, and then hating herself for the mag- 
netism of its influence. 

Mr. Zangwill, perhaps, has allowed 
his parable to be inartistically obvious. 
He uses every detail of the present sit- 
uation without demur, and indulges at 
times in open defense of the minority 
nicknamed " Little Englanders." But 
the point of view has seldom been al- 
lowed a fair hearing, of late years, and 
Mr. Zangwill's partisanship is eloquent, 
sincere, and spontaneous ; while no di- 
gressions can weaken the charm of his 
impulsive and generous heroine, spoil his 
drawing of a practical Christian woman, 
or fog the atmosphere of moral earnest- 
ness that pervades his work. Quisante' 
stands further aloof from current tempo- 
ralities. The more detached study in a 
conflict of temperaments gives clearer 
sway to the dramatic development of a 



64 



A Letter from JZngland. 



situation. But the book lacks conviction. 
It reads like an experiment, and, what 
is even less pardonable, the repetition of 
an experiment. The recurrence of types 
and atmospheres would seem to come 
from the man who writes because he will, 
and not because he must. There is much 
of A Man of Mark, and perhaps even 
more of The God in a Car, in Quisante'. 

Mr. Hope is seldom, indeed, at his 
best on subjects of modern life, always 
excepting the Dolly Dialogues. In the 
hands of most men romance moves on 
broader lines than realism ; with him it 
is more subtle. And, contrariwise, Mr. 
E. F. Benson works more surely and 
easily in the society he knows first hand. 
His The Princess Sophia is a clever ex- 
travagance, but no more. The plot de- 
velops in a small principality, frankly 
borrowed from Stevenson or Mr. Hope, 
and may be given due license according- 
ly. But the requisite graces of style 
and a tender imagination are not here, 
and the innovation proves unfortunate 
for Mr. Benson. 

Mr. Kipling has done little new work 
this year ; but the papers included in 
From Sea to Sea have been long in- 
accessible, and are welcome. Somehow 
they suggest Mr. Stead, written in vig- 
orous English and lit up by imagination. 
They form the diary of a journalist of 
genius, having a taste for slums, which 
yet fill him with hatred and indignation. 
One almost wonders why Mr. Kipling 
should have studied so closely the terri- 
ble problems of the vices of the East, 
when he tells you with such insistence 
how sick they make him. Perhaps in 
those days he had not learnt to take him- 
self quite seriously, and actually " did " 
things in search of copy. There is no 
question about what he found, and the 
use he made of it. 

In almost every department of liter- 
ature the numerical output shows no 
sign of diminishing, however inferior its 
quality, although the immediate develop- 
ments of civilization seem hostile to the 



mere production of poetry. But The 
Wild Knight, and Other Poems, by Gil- 
bert Chesterton, is a volume of rare pro- 
mise. We have here the revelation of 
positive originality, the expression of in- 
dependent thought, and the music of dar- 
ing imagination. Mr. Chesterton has a 
message, an outlook, and a style of his 
own ; he is not afraid of himself ; he loves 
mankind and honors God. Though ob- 
viously admiring, and influenced by, 
Robert Browning, he is not imitative in 
form or matter ; and his inspiration 
comes more from life than from books. 
He is at once strenuous and romantic ; 
vibrant to every wail and every song of 
humanity, but full of visions and pro- 
phecies. His intensely religious nature 
sings ever of the joy of life and the 
laughter of heaven ; not in blindness, but 
by right of spiritual intrepidity. The 
two verses of Ecclesiastes contain a sum- 
mary of his philosophy : 

" There is one sin : to call green leaf gray, 
Whereat the sun in heaven shuddereth. 
There is one blasphemy : for death to pray, 
For God alone knoweth the praise of 
death. 

" There is one creed : 'neath no world-terror's 

wing 

Apples forget to grow on apple-trees. 
There is one thing is needful everything 
The rest is vanity of vanities." 

At times Mr. Chesterton is perhaps 
unwisely fantastic, and his love of em- 
phasis has ruined some of his best work ; 
but such faults may be forgiven to im- 
maturity. For the most part, his appar- 
ent extravagance or obscurity may be 
explained by the freshness of his point of 
view. A new poet does not speak the 
language of his fellows : he sees where 
they are groping in deep shadows ; he 
feels what is stirring beneath their con- 
sciousness. The Wild Knight is frank 
and full-blooded, indignantly anti-deca- 
dent and genially humane. It is in tune 
with our noblest and most recent impulses 
toward high seriousness, manly enthusi- 
asm, and spiritual faith. A lyrical gift, 




A Letter from England. 



65 



too seldom indulged, a rare command of 
language, and richness of imagination are 
the ingredients of true poetry. In all 
probability, when Mr. Chesterton is bet- 
ter known his first volume will be more 
appreciated. Some of it will survive its 
author. 

It is a pleasing coincidence, perhaps 
not unwholly undesigned, that the year in 
which the English nation has received the 
Wallace Collection in Hertford House 
the most princely of artistic endow- 
ments should be marked by unusu- 
al activity in the production of illustra- 
tions and biographies of painters. Sir 
Walter Armstrong's Sir Joshua Rey- 
nolds, Lord Gower's Sir Thomas Law- 
rence, haply coupled, and Mr. Andrew 
Lang's beautifully decorated work on 
Prince Charles, are fine examples of 
modern technique. Mr. Byam Shaw has 
executed some strong and imaginative 
pictures from Shakespeare, which are 
worthy of a better setting than the neat 
pocket edition in which they are issued ; 
and Mr. William Nicholson has sur- 
passed his genius for caricature in a 
brilliant series of pastels of Characters 
from Romances, where Mr. Tony Weller 
follows Don Quixote, and Sophia West- 
ern smiles but a page or two from Gar- 
gantua. Dr. G. C. Williamson's admi- 
rable handbooks of the Great Masters in 
Painting and Sculpture, with their sound 
critical biographies and adequate illus- 
trations, are gradually forming a com- 
plete and readable encyclopaedia of the 
subject ; while The Artist's Library of 
Mr. Lawrence Binyon, in which some- 
what less established genius is more un- 
conventionally treated, provides a wel- 
come appendix for the initiate. 

Dramatically it has been an eventful 
year, both for stage and study. The 
practice of publishing plays has grown 
apace : Mr. Benson has established a 
"repertoire" season; the problem play 
has taken a new lease of life ; the drama 
in blank verse has been revived. Lit- 
erary craftsmen, wisely dissatisfied with 

VOL. LXXXVII. NO. 519. 5 



the dramatized novel, have embarked on 
original work, and style is reasserting 
its sway behind the footlights. Mana- 
gers have shown a certain amount of 
courage in the choice of old or new work, 
and there have even been cases in which 
the persons of the drama are suffered to 
divert attention from the personators. 

Mr. Benson's Shakespearean Series, 
now permanently though privately en- 
dowed, is a solid achievement of artistic 
integrity. Though hampered, like Sir 
Henry Irving, by several obvious per- 
sonal limitations and mannerisms, and 
not possessed of that master's dominant 
genius, he always presents a definite and 
serious conception of his part with careful 
energy. Where most of the company 
are well trained and competent, some 
even original, and where the primary re- 
sponsibility for our entertainment rests 
with Shakespeare, the personality of the 
" star " actor is, fortunately, not all-im- 
portant. Mr. Benson's triumph is gained 
by intellectual courage, and more by 
what he does than by the way in which 
it is done. The opportunity of seeing a 
complete Hamlet twice the length of 
the usual stage version, and producing 
an entirely different effect and of liv- 
ing for weeks under the spell of Shake- 
speare's imagination, as the long run of 
a single play can never render it, is a 
benefaction for which one cannot forget 
to be grateful. 

For playwrights of to-day a some- 
what similar service is being rendered 
by a private club, called the Stage So- 
ciety, which arranges one or two per- 
formances of Ibsen, Maeterlinck, and 
Hauptmann, George Bernard and the 
Henley-Stevenson partnership, and there- 
by gives its members the chance of test- 
ing the finest contemporary work. Haupt- 
mann has never before appeared on the 
English stage, and his vivid dramatic 
instinct, defying tradition, strikes a new 
note. 

The Second Mrs. Tanqueray has re- 
ceived a new and fascinating interpreta- 



66 



A Letter from England. 



tion at the hands of Madame Duse. The 
exciting and novel episode of a visit from 
native Japanese actors, performing in 
their own language, has been supplement- 
ed by the exquisite and daring Madam 
Butterfly, adapted from Mr. Luther 
Long's story of that name. Mr. Henry 
Arthur Jones has tried his hand at a 
farce, The Lackey's Carnival, which does 
not please the public ; and written a 
conventional " problem " play for Mr. 
Wyndham, redeemed by the technical 
mastery of its second act. The same old 
tiresome story of a noble woman with a 
past is fluently handled in Mr. Sydney 
Grundy's A Debt of Honour. 

Mr. J. M. Barrie, indeed, cannot es- 
cape the familiar topic ; but his Wedding 
Guest is informed by a moral and artistic 
sincerity of rare distinction. The play 
is not, properly speaking, constructed at 
all ; its dramatic movements vanish and 
reappear like a jack-in-the-box, and the 
situation wanders away to nowhere in 
particular. The author's power rests en- 
tirely in his devotion to the creatures of 
his invention, which forces response from 
the audience. It is the conquest of a 
frank and eager personality. Fresh ma- 
terials and new treatment are reserved 
for Mr. Frank Harris, whose Mr. and 
Mrs. Daventry is an offense to many, be- 
cause it shows vice attracting vice, and 
virtue loving virtue, where stage conven- 
tions demand cross links. It touches, 
moreover, a normally " unpleasant " 
problem, and there is safety in the ab- 
normal. Mr. Harris seems to have stud- 
ied character from real life, and his tra- 
gedy does not rest on the old cry against 
" one law for men and another for wo- 
men." It lies deeper, and is more fear- 
lessly exposed. His language, also, is 
simple and effective, and his stagecraft 
illuminates the plot without being flashy 
or melodramatic. 

Mr. Stephen Phillips is no less daring 
than Mr. Harris, but he produces quite 
different effects by methods entirely dis- 
similar. Summoning to his aid the full 



" pomp and circumstance " of Elizabeth- 
an romanticism, he hazards comparisons 
with Shakespeare by a free treatment of 
the historic magnificence and passion of 
Herod. Situation and diction alike bring 
Antony and Cleopatra to mind, and his 
verse has many an echo, on the other 
hand, of Tennyson. There is no ques- 
tion, of course, that he stands far below 
the masters ; but his courage is fully justi- 
fied, and he has taught us, what no one 
else of his generation has dared even to 
suggest, that poetical drama is neither 
dead nor dying. Mr. Phillips had a long 
training as an actor, and gained there- 
by a mastery in construction and stage 
effects. In spite of certain hauntingly 
beautiful and stirring lines, Herod does 
not contain so much good poetry as Paolo 
and Francesca, but it is gorgeous melo- 
drama. 

Alongside of the intellectual and moral 
activity distinguishing the churches of 
to-day, we have had, this year, many 
notable witnesses among laymen of the 
highest culture and education to the re- 
vived interest in the problems of theolo- 
gy and religion which marks our age and 
country. The time would seem, indeed, 
to be past beyond recall when scientific 
discoveries were regarded as the direct 
enemies of theology, with a message en- 
tirely destructive. For the church, es- 
sentially a diplomatic organization, with 
infinite powers of adaptability, was not 
slow to recover the ascendency by preach- 
ing science and history, somewhat hastily 
digested, and thus ingeniously diverting 
the immediate necessity for a revision of 
faith. The delay was probably to the 
advantage of truth, since the first pride 
of science adopted an arrogant material- 
ism, no less dogmatic than the old ortho- 
doxies. 

And the reconciliation of science, his- 
tory, and religion stands upon a firmer 
basis to-day. In ultimate language, natu- 
ral science can present us with nothing 
more definite than " a universal flux, in 
which something, we know not what. 



A Letter from England. 



67 



moves, we know not why, we know not 
whither." It does not forbid, but rather 
commands, the assumption that behind 
the discovered there is the discoverable, 
beyond the actual the possible. 

In religion, again, we may fearlessly 
apply the scientific method to transfer 
the burden of support of Christian doc- 
trine, and of religion generally, " from 
history to psychology, perhaps rather 
from the history of facts to the history 
of ideas ; " to justify faith by the study 
of religious psychology in conjunction 
with the history of religious ideas. Thus 
we recognize that the facts, or perma- 
nent and inspired part, of religion are 
subjective, founded on individual expe- 
rience and consciousness ; its illusions, 
or temporary structure, are reports of 
historical events, the translation of spir- 
itual doctrines into the sphere of material- 
ism, and the acceptance of creeds on au- 
thority. 

Dr. James Ward, professor of logic 
at Cambridge, in his Naturalism and 
Agnosticism, has cleared the ground by 
a masterly and comprehensive attack on 
agnostic materialism, followed by an un- 
proven deduction of spiritual certitude. 
Dr. Percy Gardner, professor of archae- 
ology at Oxford, noting his delight in 
much agreement with Professor William 
James of Harvard, has devoted facul- 
ties trained in other fields of observation 
to a most reverent and suggestive treatise 
on the origin of Christianity, entitled Ex- 
ploratio Evangelica. And Mr. George 
Santayana, another Harvard professor, 
with a rare command of English style, 
has attempted, in a study of religions 
at once eloquent, scholarly, and sympa- 
thetic, to establish the tenet that ' re- 
ligion and poetry are identical in es- 
sence, and differ merely in the way in 
which they are attached to practical 



affairs. Poetry is called religion when 
it intervenes in life ; and religion, when 
it merely supervenes upon life, is seen 
to be nothing but poetry." 

From his Interpretations of Poetry and 
Religion and from Dr. Gardner's book 
the foregoing analysis of a current atti- 
tude has been entirely derived ; and it 
only remains to note a striking parallel 
between two writers, approaching the 
subject from such different points of 
view, in their conjectures for the future. 

Mr. Santayana has written : " Human 
life is always essentially the same, and 
therefore a religion which, like Chris- 
tianity, seizes the essence of that life 
ought to be an eternal religion. Can 
it reform its claim, or can it overwhelm 
all opposition, and take the human heart 
once more by storm ? " 

Dr. Gardner states unhesitatingly that 
the principles of his book are in favor 
of the revival of collective control : " If 
religious doctrine be really the intellec- 
tual statement of principles of conduct, 
it at once appears to have an ethical 
bearing. . . . Any such revival of dis- 
cipline, of course, involves as a prelimi- 
nary a revival of belief and an outpour- 
ing of religious enthusiasm. . . . The 
process of crystallization has begun, and 
it may be that that process is destined 
to proceed with a rapidity which will 
astonish those who regard religion as a 
matter quite private between the soul and 
its Maker." 

Science is once more confined to its 
legitimate sphere ; morality cannot stir 
imagination, "the great unifier of hu- 
manity," and hence may arise the work 
of the new century, to inspire the 
body politic with some higher and spirit- 
ual purpose ; to build up, from the deep 
convictions of her noblest sons, a corpo- 
rate conscience and a universal church. 
R. Brimley Johnson. 



68 



A Gap in Education. 



A GAP IN EDUCATION. 



EDUCATION is the working of all forces 
that fashion a man during the plastic 
years, before his habits become fixed and 
his character determined. No one can 
escape education even if he would ; what- 
ever may be his lot, his spirit will be led 
toward one desire or another, his mind 
will fasten and feed upon some chosen 
thoughts, his heart will make something 
dear to itself. There is a natural divi- 
sion of education into two parts. One part 
is the domain of chance ; it is compact of 
the manifold influences, the countless hap- 
penings, complicated and subtle, which 
press about a man like the atmosphere. 
The other part is the domain of instruc- 
tion, and is subject to the deliberate pur- 
pose of the teacher. Since the part under 
our control is the smaller, so much the 
more does it deserve careful thought and 
plain speech. 

It would be curious to construct in 
our minds a youth of an age from twelve 
years to twenty-two, out of materials 
furnished by discussions concerning the 
proper education for him. We hear 
about primary and secondary education, 
about periods and times for preparato- 
ry, academic, and special studies, about 
cultivating observation and imagination, 
about literature and science, about athlet- 
ics, about the elective system, about re- 
ligious worship. Some say that a young 
man should be turned into an instrument 
to ascertain truth ; some say, into an in- 
strument to increase wealth ; others, that 
he should learn, in this way or in that, 
to minister to a particular need of socie- 
ty ; others, that he should be made a gen- 
tleman, a good citizen, a Christian. Out 
of all these things rises up a creature 
quite different from the young human 
animal that we know. 

A boy is made up of mind and body. 



These two elements, mysteriously bound 
together, yet separated by the widest gap 
in the universe, jog on side by side, each 
dependent upon the other. Education 
must take this union into account ; it 
must remember that the body is animal, 
and that it has received two great com- 
mandments, " Thou shalt live," and 
" Thou shalt multiply." The education 
of man must be shaped with reference 
to these two fundamental commands. 

Our civilization has reckoned with the 
first. The desire for life has been deep- 
ened, broadened, and transformed ; no 
longer content with filling the belly from 
day to day, it demands architecture, art, 
literature, means of travel, devices for 
diversion. Education, eager to lead civ- 
ilization onward, endeavors, by chosen 
studies, by special schools, by the culti- 
vation of predominant tastes and capaci- 
ties, to use this desire for the nobler de- 
velopment of man. Under the control 
of education, the desire for life seeks 
satisfaction in ever greater knowledge, 
ever greater dominion over nature. Col- 
lege assumes that this desire is a noble 
want of noble things, and teaches it to 
be such. 

But when we consider the second im- 
perious command, what do we find ? 
Civilization has established the institu- 
tion of marriage, it has decreed that a 
man may lawfully have only one wife, 
but it has done little else. Civilization 
is a great brute force that needs to be 
led! What does education? It halts 
timidly to see what civilization will do ; 
and the desire to multiply roams at will. 
Shall not education tame it, train it, and 
manage it? Shall not that desire be 
deepened, broadened, and transformed, 
till it too help make life far nobler than 
it is ? With this passion for a lever we 
might uplift the world, but education is 
afraid of it. 



A Gap in Education. 



69 



From what masters of education say, 
we should suppose boys to be sexless, 
were it not for sundry regulations, mat- 
ters of police, and for certain customary 
vague assurances, smoothed out into gin- 
gerbread phrases, that sons will be care- 
fully protected. The reason that educa- 
tion is silent upon this desire is in part 
because schoolmasters and college mas- 
ters deem it the parents' affair, and 
parents toss it back to the masters. The 
fault belongs to both. Teachers may 
not separate one strand of education 
from other strands, and say to fathers, 
"You are responsible for this wisp in 
the rope." Nor are they workmen whose 
concern is bounded by the section of a 
boy's life committed to their care. Each 
master is one of a crew, all working to- 
gether : the success of one is of little 
value without the success of all, and 
worse than useless if it interfere with 
the success of the others. A bow oar 
might as well say, " What have I to do 
with stroke ? " as the schoolmaster say, 
" What have I to do with the boy at 
college ? " School and college and par- 
ent are all working together, working 
to fashion a man. 

If the masters are at fault, fathers are 
far more to blame. The duty of using 
as an educational force the power given 
by this second commandment rests upon 
them. They cannot shift it from their 
shoulders. It is of continuing, uninter- 
mittent obligation. It is bound on the fa- 
ther's back by the birth of his son : there 
it rests until death shall loose it. A fa- 
ther cannot release himself by putting 
another in' his place. A man shall an- 
swer for every act and for every omission 
of the factor to whom he has intrusted 
his own son. If a son do wrong, if he 
surrender to low things, if he come to 
misery, then must the father be con- 
demned. It is not safe to let this duty 
be of less than absolute obligation. If 
society shall entertain a plea of not guilty, 
in that the father did as other fathers 
do, chose the best school, the wisest mas- 



ters, or in that evil company, or some 
hereditary taint of blood, or ill luck, 
caught up the boy and bore him off, 
then the possibility of such a plea de- 
generates into a probability, that prob- 
ability into use, that use into a pretext, 
that pretext into a habit of mind, until 
at last a man comes to think that his 
son's education, like a suit of clothes, 
once put into the hands of an artisan of 
good repute, ceases to be a matter for 
which he is responsible. A father may 
not, by gift of staff and scrip, by cries of 
"Good luck" and "God speed," break 
the great seal of the paternal bond. 
Doubtless our unformed civilization en- 
ables masters and fathers to evade this 
heavy responsibility. But a more defi- 
nite cause is at hand. 

II. 

What is it that shuts our mouths upon 
this great problem of education ? Dur- 
ing the long centuries in which decency, 
manners, and refinement have been strug- 
gling with our animal nature; while the 
conception of home with one wife, with 
children gathered together, has been 
contending with the dissipating influ- 
ences of savage customs, and the spir- 
itual has been fighting with the bestial, 
it was natural that all means to win the 
contest should have been laid hold upon, 
some wiser and nobler, some less 
wise and less noble. Jealousy, love of 
dominion, asceticism, monasticism, celi- 
bacy, have all been instruments by which 
men have wrought modesty. These in- 
struments have served well, and have 
much yet to accomplish ; nevertheless, 
it was almost inevitable that, in fashion- 
ing modesty, certain other qualities of 
an allied nature, distorted and mis- 
shapen likenesses, prudery, shame- 
facedness, false modesty, should also 
have been made. These mock virtues, 
too, may have done good service in main- 
taining an outward semblance of respect 
for the real virtue ; but they have done 
harm by taking to themselves part of the 



70 



A Gap in Education. 



honor due to their original, and by con- 
founding notions so that men mistake 
false modesty for modesty, shamefaced- 
ness for decency, prudery for virtue. 
Thus a notion has grown strong in this 
country that decent people shall not talk 
openly upon matters of sex, but shall 
throw a cloak over them and keep them 
out of sight and hearing. 

If prudery, shamefacedness, and false 
modesty have given us the grace of vir- 
gin innocence, we must honor them ac- 
cordingly ; or if, by maintaining seclu- 
sion and respect, and by holding back 
knowledge, they have built a fence around 
that grace in the leastwise helpful to 
its growth, we must be most considerate 
before we lay a finger on them. But 
when we have once made up our minds 
that here is mere confusion of thought, 
that life is the rock on which everything 
is founded, that " more life and fuller " 
is what we want, that the powers of life 
are good, and that only by perversion 
can they be turned to ill, then we must 
honor the powers of life as pure and 
holy, and we must treat vulgar disbelief 
as blasphemy and infidelity to the spirit 
of life. Real modesty misunderstood, 
false shame, fear of derision, have kept 
fathers from facing this problem of edu- 
cation. Here are the false doctrine and 
confused thought that underlie the si- 
lence of education as to sex. We must 
turn about. We must cast off prudery 
for the sake of modesty ; we must draw 
our necks out of the yoke of an inherit- 
ed, atrophied shamefacedness. For our 
sons' sake, we must recognize and pro- 
claim that this passion is good, not bad ; 
that it can be put to the noblest uses ; 
that it must be put to the noblest uses. 
We must teach our sons that the union 
of man and woman is a sacrament. 
Yet we need not be impatient with those 
who cannot accept our faith at once. 
We must always remember that men, 
reckless of chastity, have been good and 
great, poets, heroes, men who have 
toiled and denied themselves for their 



fellows, and have set up unshakable their 
title to our gratitude ; we know that 
countless men in private and obscure 
life are reckless of chastity, who are 
good, kind, simple, and upright. We 
are not blind to man as he is, but we 
may not tolerate for ourselves a system 
of education which treats this passion 
as of the devil, and does not try to put 
it to noble use. 

In order to set clearly before our- 
selves a notion of what current educa- 
tion is in this regard, let us avail our- 
selves of our own recollections of the 
teachings which boys at college receive 
from their fathers. Those fathers, for 
this purpose, may be divided into two 
classes. 

There is the refined, sensitive father, 
who hates the idea of vice and turns his 
back upon it, pretending to himself that, 
by some process of subconscious instruc- 
tion, his son shall learn from him its 
odiousness. He sends his son to school, 
and from school to college, advising him 
about Latin and Greek, about physics 
and chemistry, about history and art, 
and other petty matters of education. 
Equipped with platitudes concerning 
virtue, his son goes forth into a world 
where the union of man and woman is 
not recognized as a sacrament, to hear 
boon companions plead for vice with all 
the persuasiveness of youth and gayety. 
Thus the father hands over his son to 
the great educating force of sexual de- 
sire which he knows is stretching out 
its hands to the boy, which he knows is 
bound to lead him higher or lower. 

Then there is the coarse father, who 
accepts the period of puberty as one of 
the corridors or gardens of life, through 
which his son shall walk lightly. He 
hopes that the lad will make merry with- 
out vexation to the father. He warns 
him against disease and against the po- 
lice court. So each father hands down 
his tradition to his son ; and so the pri- 
mal fact of life hides beneath the mod- 
esty of the decent man, and flaunts on 



A Gap in Education. 



71 



the lips of the loose liver, and education 
busies itself with classics, mathematics, 
boat races, and special studies. 

Quitting their fathers, our boys, our 
young animals, they the most carefully 
guarded, the most tenderly prayed for, 

go forth and find our cities, our towns, 
even our villages, swarming with prosti- 
tutes, while ladies gather up their skirts 
and drop their veils, and gentlemen laugh 
and wink, and public opinion puts forth 
conventional protest. Here is a course 
of study which is not set down in the 
college catalogue. Then, too, our boys 
read the experience of men bred with- 
out or maybe stripped of what they call 
illusions, men of the world, Epicureans, 

a Boccaccio, a Maupassant, a d' An- 
nunzio, and take the sayings of these 
backward men for bold truth, honest ut- 
terance, as the casting out of hypocrisy 
and humbug. They learn also that there 
are familiar conceptions of life in which 
this sacrament is deemed a mere mat- 
ter of physical pleasure ; and that, too, 
by men successful in the management 
of affairs and high in the community's 
esteem. They suspect that modesty is 
a priestly contrivance fashioned by old 
men, home-keeping wits, unlearned in 
the ways of the world, ignorant of life. 
So they go. Thus the sexual instinct 
educates them, and this great power for 
breeding noble men is suffered to be a 
hindrance and a hurt. What can fa- 
thers do ? 

in. 

This is a difficult matter. Yet can we 
not outline some course of action which 
shall at least save us from the ignominy 
of doing nothing ? When the first curious 
questioning concerning sex comes into a 
boy's mind, who is to answer it but the fa- 
ther ? That questioning will come. We 
cannot, if we would, hide our animal na- 
ture ; we cannot convert a boy into a dis- 
embodied spirit. On every other matter 
the father tells his son what he can ; 
here he fobs him off ; and the son goes 
to books or to companions who care not 



for him ; and then the sense of nakedness 
comes upon him, sin has entered into 
his world. What right has a father, by 
disingenuousness, by false shame, to teach 
his boy, by concealment, that sex is a 
shameful thing ? Thence springs a desire 
for forbidden fruit, an eagerness of pruri- 
ent curiosity, a recognition that there is 
a barrier betwixt his father and himself. 
How dare a father violate his first great 
duty to his son ? Here is the mighty force 
of sexual attraction, awakening in the 
boy, ready to work for good, ready to 
work for evil, and the great task of edu- 
cation is to put that power to use for 
good ; but the father stealthily slinks 
away, and leaves the son to associate that 
force in his mind with vice and sin, weld- 
ing this false combination together with 
all the strength of early thought. Sexual 
passion is at the base of life : it serves the 
noblest ends ; it manifests itself in poet- 
ry and religion ; it has made our homes ; 
it has given us our children. Every day 
we see that passion put to use in labor, pa- 
tience, self-denial, and noble discontent. 
Must we not teach our boys always to 
link it in their minds with the highest 
conceptions of nobility, aspiration, and 
divinity ? Is it not blasphemy and idola- 
try to confound it with grossness and 
bestiality ? Fathers look on the sexual 
passion with fear instead of reverence. 
We act as if it came from the devil in- 
stead of from God ; we shun it as a tempt- 
er when we should welcome it as an 
angel. How do we make use of all 
those aspirations which break, like April 
blossoms, into flower at the first awaken- 
ing of passion ? How do we encourage 
all the youthful readiness for chivalry ? 
What do we do with that longing for a 
noble quest ? The service for fourteen 
years of Jacob for Rachel is but the type 
of the service that we should demand of 
every youth in the first flood of passion. 
Expectation should exact from him some 
noble proof that he understands the sac- 
rament of union. Nor should it be ne- 
cessary to wait until his love had singled 



72 



A Gap in Education. 



out a maiden ; all the knightliness of 
boyish manhood should be called to arms 
at the first trumpet of passion. We let 
this great seedtime run to waste in mere 
enjoyment unhusbanded. What right 
has a youth to the great joy of love, un- 
ess, like Jacob with the angel, he wrestle, 
and will not suffer it to go until it bless 
him ? We are wont to deem this peri- 
od a mere animal mating time ; we talk 
lightly of happy youth ; whereas it is 
the great solemn opportunity of life, and 
the best proof of man's communion with 
some Being high and holy. 

With like vulgarity of mind we look 
on the dark side of sexual passion. For 
example, we teach our boys that they must 
pity and help wretched men, but we for- 
bear to let them pity the cruel misery of 
numberless women, fearing lest they be 
contaminated. What is our civilization 
to be valued at, while we suffer our 
young men to treat these women with 
laughter, and only ask of our choice 
young men that they turn aside their 
heads and pass ? And yet are these wo- 
men one whit more contaminating than 
the gay young men, their companions 
for a brief season, till need of diversion 
take them elsewhere ? 

Sage heads shake ; voices with which 
we are familiar say : " We are animals 
just as much as the simplest brutes from 
which we are descended. In this world 
life is one continuous struggle ; the battle- 
ground shifts, but the battle continues ; 
passionate animals cannot be bridled 
by sentimentality, however maidenly." 
How pleasant it is to hear the old fa- 
miliar voices ; but we have greater power 
than they fear. There is nothing good or 



bad but thinking makes it so ; even our 
physical world takes all its attributes 
its weight, heat, light, color, its desira- 
bleness, and its excellence from our 
thoughts. If in our animal nature we 
inhabit a world where the laws of gravi- 
tation and evolution are the explaining 
principles, with our minds we live in the 
world of ideas and feelings, wherein 
men, feeble in their power over the 
physical world, exercise great dominion. 
Out of thought we can make a world in 
which honor and love shall be elemental 
forces. " In the beginning God created 
the heaven and the earth." What was 
that heaven but the world of thought 
which God created to take precedence 
before the earth, in which the minds of 
men are the instruments by which di- 
vine energies are still at work? Here 
is perpetual creation; and that part of 
this creation intrusted to fathers is the 
thoughts of their sons. We call it our 
children's education. Shall we be faith- 
ful servants? 

It is no priestly chastity that we mean 
to preach. This great fact of life 
which nature has commanded and in the 
beasts is mere brute instinct, which in 
man has uprisen into love, giving us 
hope by this rising from the dead that 
love is the revelation to man of the na- 
ture of Deity must be acknowledged 
to be divine, and not bestial. When 
once this truth shall be believed, then no 
father will let his son go into the world 
untaught at home ; but he will himself 
teach him the greatest of the miracles 
of life, how a brute fact has been made 
holy, and then the son will go forth con- 
scious of all the obligation of love. 

H. D. Sedgwick, Jr. 



The Difficult Minute. 



73 



THE DIFFICULT MINUTE. 



FROM the depot at Penangton, Morn- 
ing County, Missouri, to the one line 
of street cars it is ten miles. Hender- 
son figured that out for himself, as he 
stumbled irritably over the rough road, 
across the bridge, up the plank walk, to 
the car. It was an October evening, and 
the day was trailing off in a gray, shin- 
ing halation that was neither mist nor 
fog, but dancing haze. Henderson saw 
far-away houses brooded over by gray 
wings; he saw rickety wheels of gray 
spiked by the small gleam of the street 
lamps ; and he saw occasional people 
work up out of, and twist back into, the 
farther distance in gray spirals. The 
whole town and the hills beyond it were 
one wavering, lightening, deepening 
scheme of gray, except where, far to the 
west, a stubborn stretch of red lay along 
the sky. 

As he came on toward the car, Hen- 
derson had a half-dashed, half-defiant 
look in his eyes. " You 're a pretty 
cuss ! " he mumbled once or twice. 
" Better have stayed in Chicago in the 
first place. Better have stayed in Dix- 
burn in the last place. Penangton ! " 
He looked about him disgustedly. To 
the west he could distinguish the outline 
of a tall building, shadowy and uncer- 
tain in the gloom ; he picked out the 
white letters across its sides : " P-e-n-r-y-n 
M-i-1-l-s." He looked to the east, and 
saw a straggling line of sheds. He read 
the letters on their sides easily enough, 
because his eyes had become accustomed 
to the first part of the combination: 
"Penryn C-o-a-1 Penryn Coal P-o-c- 
Penryn Coal Pockets." He stopped 
halfway up the plank walk, dropped his 
heavy traveling case, and worked the 
fingers of his achmg hand. His eyes, 
sweeping southward, were caught by a 
trim brick building beyond the depot. 
It had white letters across its front. 



" The first word is Penryn," said Hen- 
derson, at a guess. " No, the first word 

is T-h-o-r-l-e-y. Thorley-P-e-n-r Uh- 

unh ! I knew Penryn would be along. 
Now what 's the rest ? Thprley-Penryn 

S-e-r-o-t-h Oh, go to the dickens ! " 

he finished impotently. "I don't care 
what you are." Still farther south he 
descried the headstones of a cemetery. 
" Good ! One can at least die in Pe- 
nangton. I'll bet the tallest shaft is 
named Penryn." The night's blacker 
shadow leaped up out of the earth then, 
and the haze became thick gloom. The 
last red flare was gone from the west. 
Two men came up'the plank walk toward 
Henderson. 

" Coolish night," he.heard one saying, 
as they clacked off northward. 

" Brrrt ! It is a coolish night," said 
Henderson to himself. He turned to 
pick up his valise, but for some reason 
his hands went together first, -and he 
held them so convulsively. " A coolish 
night," he heard himself repeating, with 
a witless, wandering intonation. Then 
he shook himself threateningly. " Oh, 
I '11 try again. Of course I '11 try," he 
said, but he said it like a man who is try- 
ing to anaesthetiz^ his soul ; and when he 
got into the car, the look in his eyes was 
more distinctively dashed than defiant. 

" Is there a driver ? " he by and by 
asked wistfully of the one other occu- 
pant of the car. 

"Yes, there's a driver," the other 
occupant looked out of the window at a 
frame house which stood just where the 
plank walk ended, and the brick pave- 
ment and the car track began, " but 
there 's also a saloon." 

Henderson bit his lower lip in a confi- 
dential enjoyment of the quality of that 
voice. There was a note in it of stand- 
ing things good - naturedly when they 
could n't be helped. 



74 



The Difficult Minute. 



" I wonder if there 's no way of break- 
ing the connection?" he said, getting 
back to the driver and the saloon with 
a jerk. He went to the car door and 
hallooed at the frame house. A man 
came to the door. 

"Dave ain't quite ready yet," called 
the man, thickly but genially. "Jes' 
wait a minute till he wets his whis'le, will 
you?" 

It seemed the thing to do under the 
circumstances. The air had the crisp- 
ness of early autumn, and Henderson 
saw that the woman in the car felt it ; 
so he shut the door, and came patiently 
back to his seat. 

"It's just.one of Penangton's ways," 
she explained, with a funny little lift of 
her brows. 

Henderson took his lower lip into con- 
fidence again, and deliberately poised 
himself in midair, as it were, on the 
sound of that voice. It had so many 
kinds of suggestion in it. She had said 
only two sentences to him, but the first 
had made him aware that whatever was 
worth laughing at in the world she was 
ready to laugh at, and the next had made 
him aware that she had run the gamut 
of Penangton from end to end. After 
the atony of the past few weeks he was 
almost feverishly glad of his rising in- 
terest in that voice, in anything. His 
soul, he knew, was somewhere near in 
the same tense, wrung attitude his body 
had assumed out on the plank walk, but 
he had a curious, hurried desire to tell 
his soul to shut up, to come along, to 
make the best of it. 

" It's quite a town, Penangton ? " 

"The lamp is sputtering," said the 
woman, in reply. " Could n't you turn 
the wick higher ? Oh, goodness, it 's 
going out ! Why, there 's no oil in it." 

They both got up hurriedly, but the 
lamp was too far gone for rescue. It 
began to smoke dismally. 

" I '11 go get the driver," said Hender- 
son. " Just wait here a minute." He 
jumped off the car and ran up the steps 



to the saloon. Presently he came back, 
shaking his head. " The driver 's drunk 
for fair," he said. " Everybody in 
there 's drunk. What '11 we do ? " 

"Couldn't you drive?" she asked 
merrily. 

He looked down the silent street, and 
his eyes lit up a little. " I '11 drive you 
home, if you'll let me," he said, with 
decision. " I can just do it." He ran 
through to the front of the car, and un- 
wound the reins from the brake. The 
mules stirred slowly and sorrowfully. 
"Shall I?" asked Henderson. The 
woman began to laugh. " Do you live 
on the car line ? " went on Henderson 
gleefully. He laughed, too. It seemed 
good to be pulling his soul along out of 
its tragics into something humorous and 
commonplace. " Come up ! " He shook 
the reins out over the mules. " It 's my 
idea to drive until I stop to let you out, 
then drive on a little farther, and leave 
the car standing on the track, while I cut 
for a hotel. Do you think it will work ? 
The mules seem to like to stand." 
His voice broke up into little chuckles, 
like a schoolboy's. 

The woman came out on the front 
platform to him. She could hardly talk 
for laughing. "It will work," she said, 
" unless somebody else gets on the car." 

Henderson's face wrinkled a little, but 
he shot the leather quirt out over the 
mules briskly. " Nobody will get on," 
he said. " I '11 never be able to stop this 
team." He felt so exhilarated that it was 
like pain. The car began to make a great 
banging noise that just suited him. The 
way the sparks flew from the hoofs of 
the mules just suited him. The way 
that woman leaned back against the car 
door and laughed just suited him. It 
was all so exactly on the outside. There 
was nothing introspective about it. He 
looked back at her gayly. " I hope you 
live at the other end of the line ? " he 
queried. 

" About halfway." 

" I hope it 's a long line." 




The Difficult Minute. 



75 



"About two miles, not counting the 
roughness." 

" Don't count the roughness. Nothing 
counts." 

" That 's it, nothing counts. Is n't 
this a lark?" 

Henderson nodded brightly. "Will 
it be dark like this all the way ? " he 
asked ; and when she said yes, he began 
to sing the first bars of a gay little air 
under his breath ; the woman sang too, 
both of them holding their voices down 
cautiously. 

" Don't you ever finish things ? " she 
complained finally, after trying in vain 
to adapt her voice to Henderson's many- 
tuned melody. 

" No," said Henderson. " No ; I 
don't like the finish of anything." He 
moved back to where she was, and leaned 
against the car frame, with the reins 
dangling carelessly. " The beginning is 
always so much more interesting." 

She rocked her head on the door jamb 
at her back. " Mmh! I don't know." 

" Oh yes ! " cried Henderson. " In 
the beginning you have the beginning 
and all you can imagine about the end." 

" But in the end you have the end and 
all you can remember about the begin- 
ning." 

" Remember " ! It was a bad word 
for Henderson. Something like a shiver 
passed over him. " I '11 back imagina- 
tion, anticipation, against memory, seven 
days in the week, won't you ? " 

" Hold in your mule steeds here," said 
the woman. " Steady for the corner." 

They swung around the corner, and 
started on a gentle down grade between 
two rows of splendid trees. " Say," 
said Henderson, following her lead like 
a happy child, and shunting the conver- 
sation off on a side track again, "say, 
are n't you cold ? " 

" No, indeed. Is n't this air fine ? 
That's one good thing we have in Pe- 
nangton." 

" What other good things do you have 
in Penangton ? " 



"Oh, mills and coal mines and an 
academy. Then there 's the county," 
she gave a wide sweep of her arm 
which seemed to skip over the town 
and to encircle something outside it, 
" wheat ! " 

" Many doctors here ? " 

She looked back into the car at the 
small case which sat beside his large one. 
"Oh! I see. Yes, there are a great 
many doctors." 

" What school ? " 

" Two who get their bills paid eventu- 
ally, three who never get paid, two who 
forget to send out bills, and one rascal." 

Henderson propped one foot on the 
splashboard of the car. " The last class 
seems to invite as being least crowded," 
he commented gravely. 

" Well, I don't know ; if it comes to 
that, they are all more or less rascals, 
at least they don't believe in themselves. 
That 's a pretty bad sort of rascality, you 
know. Are you coming here to live ? " 
she asked suddenly, turning her face to- 
ward him. 

"Like as not." 

" Well, if you do, there 's one thing 
in Penangton you want to look out for. 
There 's one thing that is n't a good 
thing. It 's Penrynism." 

" What 's Penrynism ? " 

" It 's the money disease. Some doc- 
tors get it. The rascal here has it." 

Henderson dropped his head, and 
whacked at his shoes with the butt of his 
quirt. " I expect I '11 get it, then. I 
feel particularly susceptible to infection 
of that kind just at this writing." Im- 
mediately he was as sombre as he had 
been out there on the plank walk ; his 
merriment had been a thin cloak, after 
all, and it had worn through. 

" Slow up now," said the woman next. 
" I 'm almost home. Just around this 
last corner." 

He drew his breath in sharply, and 
made the mules take the corner very 
slowly. He made them go slower yet 
when he found that he was on a street 



7t; 



The Difficult Minute. 



where the trees were so big and so close 
together, and the street lamps were so lit- 
tle and so far apart, that it was as black 
as Egypt, and as mysteriously pleasant. 

" Stop. I 'm home." 

" Now you see," said Henderson rue- 
fully, " why I hate the end of things." 
He stepped down to help her from the 
car. 

" Remember the beginning. Oh, you 
are going to have to learn to stand re- 
membering," she insisted, laughing light- 
ly. " Here, this is my gate." 

He ran ahead and opened it for her, 
and as she passed through he lifted his 
hat high and made her a sweeping bow. 
" I 'd rather hope it is n't the end," he 
said. 

She only laughed again, and stood 
looking at him for a short moment. " I 
think it is. But it was a nice ride. I 
shan't forget it. Good-night." She 
called back another cheerful good-night, 
as she went up the walk to the house. 

Henderson, at the gate, watched her, 
with a lonely look on bis face. Ahead 
of her he traced out a big frowning house 
front, across the lower part of which ran 
a light veranda, like a misplaced smile. 
When the door had opened to her, she 
paused for a moment in the light from 
the hall, with her face turned his way ; 
then the door shut quietly. Henderson 
rubbed his hand softly over the brass 
head of the low gatepost, until presently 
his eyes traveled to it. " P-e-n-r-y-n," 
he spelled unseeingly. When he did be- 
gin to see it, he said flat-footedly, " Well, 
I 'm damned ! " and turned back to his 
mules. 

They were gone. As far down the 
street as he could see there was no sign 
of them. "Now, how the mischief am 
I to find a hotel ? " mused Henderson, 
without concern. "Follow the track. 
Light her up, Fate, my lady ; I follow," 
and with that he looked at the Penryn 
house purposefully. 

He was sure the car track would pass 
a hotel somewhere, and he had turned 



but another corner when he came upon 
one, with the car and the sad mules stand- 
ing before it. A crowd of mild-looking 
men were around the car. 

" But how you going to account for 
the satchels? " one man was asking, with 
the hope of excitement vibrating blithely 
in his voice. 

Henderson got into the crowd at this 
juncture. " I '11 account for the satchels," 
he volunteered. " You '11 find my name 
on them, Henderson. I left them in 
the car while I went into the saloon for 
the driver. The mules ambled off while 
I was out of the car." It was a long hia- 
tus, but Henderson saw that there was 
no need of bridging it over ; that the men 
around him were used to the driver, the 
saloon, and the mules. 

Once in the hotel, he went directly to 
his room, took off his top-coat, and sat 
down in front of a comfortably glow- 
ing grate. " Very beautiful," he said, 
straight at the red coals. For a few 
minutes longer a half-blunted interest re- 
mained in his face ; then his hands spread 
out weakly on the arms of the chair, and 
he dropped his chin as though he were 
going down in his clothes with the shame- 
faced resolution never to come up again. 
Slowly and reluctantly his mind went 
back over his most recent past, the Illi- 
nois days. 

First of all came the medical college 
in Chicago ; and clearest of all was the 
vision of Alden, the dean, on the rostrum 
before the class, his burning eyes throw- 
ing off some kind of white illumination, 
his thin hands knotted with enthusiasm, 
conviction radiating from every inch of 
his long, swaying body. And loudest of 
all rang the recollection of Alden's voice, 
high and quivering in its advocacy of the 
Hahnemannian creed, the beauty of the 
" law," the totality of the symptoms, the 
central modality ; or fiercely earnest in 
its denunciation of routinism, specifics, 
prescribing in the lump. Ah, Alden had 
believed. That had been the intrinsic 
beauty of sitting under him. Hender- 




The Difficult Minute. 



77 



son's perception had always been of the 
keenest, and Henderson, of all the men 
and women who had listened to Alden, 
and learned of him, in the first four years 
of the college's struggle for existence, 
had been the one to carry away with him 
the deepest impress of Alden' s spirit. 
He, of them all, had gone out from the 
college doors with the feeling most strong 
upon him that he had had a glorious bath 
in some deep, clean current of ethics. He 
had never been able to account to him- 
self for Alden's influence upon him. Be- 
fore he went up to college he had been 
commonplace enough, a quick, shrewd 
fellow, with a good business head, acute 
sympathies, and one strong inclination in 
the world, the inclination to study 
medicine ; but when he left Alden he was 
like a finely charged wire, across which 
hummed and sang concepts of his pro- 
fession as the " noble profession," the 
scientific possibilities of the " noble pro- 
fession," life as an opportunity for the 
"noble profession," all that went to 
make Alden's life like a benediction. 

And what happened ? What always 
happens to the young physician who has 
n't money enough to wait three years for 
patients, and abide by the Code while 
waiting ? He had first " located " in 
Chicago, in a South Side boarding house ; 
a little later he had located in a town in 
central Illinois ; and after that he had 
variously located all over the state, until 
he found himself at Dixburn, in southern 
Illinois. Henderson's memory could lin- 
ger in any one of the half dozen towns 
that had preceded Dixburn, and could 
find in each some pleasant friendship 
begun, some little addendum to the se- 
ries of drug provings he had taken up, 
something halfway pleasant or halfway 
worth while ; but Dixburn had been hell 
from start to finish. He had to admit 
that his acute sufferings in Dixburn had 
had no better or bigger excuse than that 
his clothes had begun there to show signs 
of irreparable wear, and he had had no 
money for new ones. Something psy- 



chical worked itself out in him during 
the second month that he loafed and 
suffered around that sun-baked Illinois 
town. It might have been change, or 
it might have been development, or it 
might have been reversion. " I have got 
down to my clothes," was the way he 
passed judgment upon himself ; and, as 
he had the time, he began to outline, with 
some contemptuous amusement, the sort 
of man he would have been if it had 
happened that he had never been influ- 
enced by Alden. When he had put him- 
self to himself as " ordinary," he went 
under a wet blanket of conviction that 
he must get at life on a different plane ; 
that he had been keyed up too high hi 
the beginning. A little later on in that 
last month, there had come a day when 
one of his shoes cracked straight across 
the top ; and in the black, helpless curs- 
ing that Henderson stuffed into the crack 
he checked off self-potentialities never 
before suspected. As he sat and glared 
at the crack, he told himself unqualified- 
ly that he was done with trying to meet 
the conditions of life in the Alden way ; 
that he was ready to do anything now 
for money, money ! and that fate would 
better not tempt him. His face assumed 
too sharp an expression ; it became the 
face of a man in danger of overreaching 
himself, in his greediness for gain. He 
felt sure that, if opportunity had come 
his way, he would have done things that 
much worse men than he never do. The 
whiteness and the fineness of Alden's in- 
fluence lifted from him entirely, and cir- 
cled off above him with a cool backward 
fanning. 

Then a medical magazine offered a prize 
of one hundred and fifty dollars for the 
best essay on The Spirit of Hahnemann's 
Teachings, and Henderson, with rebel- 
lion and blasphemy and battered-down 
belief in his heart, wrote ethically, and 
got the one hundred and fifty dollars. 
Inevitably, the next thing he did was to 
buy some shoes. That the ethical should 
have stretched out a hand to him with 



78 



The Difficult Minute. 



a purse in it just at this moment half 
frightened him. He walked about Dix- 
burn in his new shoes for another month 
in crushed incompetency, and when he 
crossed over to Penangton he was still 
effectually flattened out. The truth was, 
he told himself in final review, as he sat 
there with his face tucked away from 
the comfort in the grate, the truth was 
that he had primed himself for wicked- 
ness in Dixburn, had hung around and 
waited for temptation, and temptation 
had not come. Instead of temptation had 
come a chance of the right sort. " But 
if the wrong sort of chance had come," 
Henderson pointed out to his soul, with 
that pitilessly keen insight that was his, 

" if the wrong sort had come, and I 
had profited by it more than by the one 
hundred and fifty, I wonder, O my Soul, 
if you would be whining around now like 
an abused house cat ? " 

He tumbled into bed a few minutes 
later, glad to find that he was sleepy. 
Before he was done felicitating himself 
upon that fact he sat up, staringly awake. 
" If I don't win out here," he said, as 
though he had dragged up a large conclu- 
sion from the edge of the land of dreams, 

"if I don't win out here, I '11 never 
win out. It 's now or never, and I don't 
think I '11 ever forget how she looked 
there in that doorway." The dying 
gleam in the grate shot up and broke 
into small gaseous bubbles as he lay back 
on his pillow. 

When he had dressed and breakfasted, 
the next morning, and had made his way 
to the street, he felt immeasurably better. 
He sat down in one of the loafing chairs 
outside the hotel door, and smoked, with 
two clearly defined notions in his head : 
one was to finish his cigar, and the oth- 
er was to beat back along that car track 
to the house whose door had opened and 
shut in front of him the night before. 
Every time he thought of the woman 
who had stood framed in that door, he 
found his determination to stay in Pe- 
nangton strengthening. He was very 



near the end of his cigar, and very near 
the beginning of a dream, when a man 
stopped in front of him. 

" Scrape my shins if 't ain't ! " said 
the man, holding out his hand. The 
big, assertive voice pushed through Hen- 
derson's dream like a steam roller, and 
bowled him back, willy - nilly, to the 
medical college, Alden, and the Chicago 
days. 

" Oh, you, Thorley ? How d' you 
do?" Henderson's greeting was slow, 
but it had the amiability that curls off 
the end of a good cigar, and he got up 
and shook hands with the man, whom 
he could place as one of the fellows of 
the '90 class. He had not seen Thor- 
ley since the finish in April, two years 
and more before, and he hardly recog- 
nized him because of the bushy side whis- 
kers on his face. Still, when he came to 
think of it, it was inevitable that Thor- 
ley should have sprung those whiskers. 
One never saw a man with his kind of 
face who did n't sooner or later come to 
side whiskers, and stop there permanent- 
ly. All that Henderson immediately re- 
called about him was, that he was the one 
chap at college who did n't have to get 
" used " to the dissecting room. Thor- 
ley had n't sickened or blinked from the 
first. And that odor of fresh blood, still 
warm enough to run, which sorely tried 
every freshman's stomach in the operat- 
ing rooms, had n't bothered Thorley in 
the least. He hadn't even noticed it, 
until a boy in front of him reeled, and 
had to be swung out by his shoulders and 
heels. 

" Live here ? " asked Henderson. 

" Yes. How are you making it ? " 
Thorley laughed a good-natured, rollick- 
ing laugh as soon as Henderson opened 
his mouth to reply. " Need n't tell me. 
About eighteen of the twenty in the '90 
class have told me already. I 'm mak- 
ing it," he rounded off, with a dogged 
down jerk of his head. 

" How ? " 

" Whiskey cure." 




The Difficult Minute. 



79 



Oh, Lord ! " 

"And morphine," went on Thorley, 
untouched. 

" What 's your your cure ? " Hen- 
derson smiled down at Thorley from the 
heights of the Code, as he nicked the ash 
from his cigar. 

" Something new. It 's a serotherapy 
wrinkle." 

Henderson's smile became a deep- 
lunged laugh, and Thorley's round eyes 
twinkled. " Hair of the dog for the 
bite," Thorley insisted. " Only mine 's 
cows. It 's simple." His eyes fairly 
danced. " Inoculate a cow with alcohol ; 
then draw off the serum from the cow's 
blood, and use as an antidote for inebri- 
ety. You 'd be surprised at the way it 
works, Henderson." 

For a moment Henderson made no 
reply ; a direct line of comparison had 
projected itself from the face of Thorley, 
standing there with his fat neck spilling 
over his collar, to the face of Alden, all 
aglow with splendid dignity. " You 've 
got a long way from Alden," he demurred 
at last. 

" Oh, Alden hell ! " said Thorley, with 
a short laugh which stayed good-natured. 
" Alden's wife has enough money for him 
to live on. Mine has n't. That 's the 
difference between me and Alden." He 
rocked back on his heels easily. " Going 
to be here long ? " he asked. 

" Maybe." 

" I tell you what you do," suggested 
Thorley quickly, and with some empha- 
sis. " Come up and see my sanitarium. 
And say, one of these days I '11 take you 
out to the depot and show you the Thor- 
ley-Penryn Serotherapy Stables, where 
we draw off anti-alcoholic serum for alco- 
holism." 

" Quack, quack, quack ! " laughed Hen- 
derson ; and Thorley went off with his 
own mouth puckered. 

After Thorley had left him, Henderson 
started up the street toward the Penryn 
house. He had no trouble in finding it ; 
but when he got within a block of it he 



had trouble in accounting for its being 
there, in Penangton. It was so much 
of a castle that while it .had ten times 
more ground than the Chicago castles, it 
still did n't have half ground enough. 
The effect was not good, "though it 
would be if there were two miles of 
park," thought Henderson. " Now, how 
did she ever make a mistake of that 
kind ? Must have been built before she 
grew up and took hold of things." He 
walked on a little farther, and examined 
the house more carefully " It was built 
before she grew up and took hold of 
things," he said finally, his eyes, agile 
as squirrels, running up and down the 
weather marks of the house. He felt im- 
mediately relieved. It somehow seemed 
to him very important, just then, that that 
woman should not fail him anywhere, 
should come quite up to what he expect- 
ed of her. Suddenly he decided not to 
go any nearer the house. It occurred 
to him that if she should see him loiter- 
ing about, their " beginning " might be 
cheapened. He made a detour around 
the house, and came back to the main 
street a block above it, and continued his 
walk. He took that walk and made 
that detour every day for a week ; and 
although he never got a glimpse of her, 
he refrained from making any inquiries 
about her at the hotel, from the same 
fear of cheapening their beginning. Dur- 
ing that week, however, he learned in- 
cidentally that the various signs which 
had glared him out of countenance, the 
night of his arrival, did not begin to 
cover all of the Penryn consequence to 
Penangton. Every enterprise in the 
town or around it was a Penryn enter- 
prise, and the town itself was thickly 
coated with an adulation of Penryn 
which was yet not thick enough to hide 
its deep dislike for him. 

It was on Tuesday of Henderson's 
second week of the old business of wait- 
ing for business that Thorley came into 
the hotel and asked for him. Thorley 
had that concentrated look that most 



The Difficult Minute. 



people wear when they are acting under 
a rigid determination to bring up some- 
thing casually before they have done with 
you. 

" Suppose you come up and take a look 
at my sanitarium to-day," said he, early 
in the conversation. " Suppose you come 
along now. Would n't you care to ? I'd 
like to show you over." 

They went down the street together, 
and Henderson knew that Thorley was 
telling some hard-luck story of his own 
about early struggles ; but as that same 
kind of story was already marked across 
Henderson's memory with a great puck- 
ered cicatrix that pinched every nerve in 
him, he made a point of not listening, 
until Thorley said, " There she is," and 
turned his fat hand on his wrist by way 
of indicating the sanitarium. It was a 
two-story main building of brick, with 
frame annexes that cluttered it up like 
an oversupply of white wings. The 
main building was well out toward the 
street, and had on its front windows, 
" Serotherapy Cure for Alcoholism. If 
I Don't Cure You, You Don't Pay Me." 
The subtle, half-sweet, half-cutting odor 
of some never before smelled drug com- 
bination assailed Henderson as soon as 
he was inside. He sniffed at it curious- 
ly, as Thorley led the way into a front 
room, which seemed to be an office be- 
cause of the desk and safe in it, and a 
laboratory because of the long vial cabi- 
net against one wall. The other walls 
were hung with what looked like framed 
certificates, at first glance, but what 
proved, on closer inspection, to be en- 
grossed letters, all beginning, " My dear 
Dr. Thorley," and all ending, "Very 
gratefully yours." 

" What 's that I smell, Thorley ? " 
asked Henderson, still sniffing. 

" That ? Oh, that 's my secret." 

" You ought to keep your secret bet- 
ter bottled, then," retorted Henderson. 
" It smells to heaven." 

"Well, now," said Thorley, sitting 
down at the desk, " I was just thinking 



of unbottling it, in a way. Look here, 
Henderson, what's lacking about you 
that you useter have ? Tussle been too 
devilish hard for you ? Sit down over 
there, sit down. You want to try your 
hand at something 't ain't so hard ? 
Something that '11 pay ? " 

" Depends on the something," smiled 
Henderson, as he took the chair pointed 
out to him. 

" Oh no, it don't," Thorley answered 
emphatically. " No, it don't. You can 
just bet your life on that, as long as 
you have n't a wife with the money. 
Let 's make a long story short, Hender- 
son. What I want to tell you is this : 
I 'm making a go of this show. I guess 
you ain't been here long enough to know 
all it means to be hitched to the name 
of Penryn with a hyphen. It 's mean- 
ing so much that I can hardly keep 
track of it. I gotter have a partner, 
a parlor partner, Henderson. Trouble 
with me is, I 'm getting a lot of people 
in here that I can't han'le. I 'm plain 
to say they are up the scale from me 
a ways. I haveter keep my mouth shut 
just for fear of not saying the right thing. 
They come from St. Louis and Kansas 
City and round about, and I don't go with 
'em. 'Specially I don't go with the wo- 
men. When you add morphine jim-jams 
to women's natural fits you 've got too 
much for me, Henderson. They want 
you to be sympathetic, and they 're afraid 
you '11 be fresh. They keep me twirling. 
The fact is, I gotter have some help." 

" Count me out, Thorley." 

" Well, now, I don't see why. You 
need n't think I ain't straight. It 's 
all legitimate. There are hundreds of 
places, or similar, in this state and in 
every state in the Union." Thorley 
glanced up at Henderson, and then con- 
tinued, a little sheepishly : " They do 
some good. My medicine is a sort of 
antidote, don't care what you say." 

" I guess your medicine is n't the se- 
rum, then. I guess you fall back on the 
muriate or the bichloride a little." 



The Difficult Minute. 



81 






"Keep on guessing," laughed Thor- 
ley. " Whatever it is, it helps my pa- 
tients to stop, if they wanter stop; it 
helps 'em get 'emselves back. Say, Hen- 
derson, if you want the truth, I got just 
one qualm of conscience about this busi- 
ness. The patients are siich a damn 
bad lot in general, I feel some guilty 
about helping 'em to get 'emselves back. 
There 's nothing in 'em worth saving. 
When you -fish 'em up, and dry 'em out, 
and put 'em on their feet, you feel like 
you 'd played a joke on 'em." 

" Thorley, what the dickens did you 
ever pick out a missionary business 
for ? " Henderson got up, frowning. 
" You don't care a continental about giv- 
ing people a chance, yet " 

" Blue blazes, man," cried Thorley, 
" it 's my own chance I 'm concerned 
about, not theirs ! See here, Hender- 
son. I suppose if I were a damn fool, 
who went about this thing with his face 
shining and his lips twitching, like Al- 
den, you 'd think the thing was. all right, 
and that I was all right. I know the 
enthusiasm dodge ; but I got two eyes, 
let me tell you, and I 'm none the worse 
man for seeing on both sides and straight 
to the bottom." 

"You are the worse man, though, 
Thorley, for never seeing straight to the 
top. Wall your eyes up a little once in 
a way, and you '11 get still another view." 

When Henderson parted from Thor- 
ley, that day, he went home directly past 
the Penryn house. He felt justified in 
it ; and though he did not see Miss Pen- 
ryn about the place, a fine and unsullied 
glow lasted him all the way to the hotel. 
After that he walked directly past the 
house every day. It seemed to him that 
he would have to find out more about 
her soon, whether the " beginning " 
were to be cheapened by his inquiries or 
not. The amount of pleasure he got 
out of just remembering that woman 
was a wonder to him, and the hope of 
knowing her better some day was a joy 
and a support to him. From the sort of 

VOL. LXXXVII. NO. 519. 6 



ivory frame, rich and creamy, in which 
memory had placed her, Miss Penryn 
dominated him, waking or sleeping. 

During the next week he was at Thor- 
ley's a number of times. There was no 
other place to go, and Mrs. Thorley 's 
room, with its glowing fire and cushioned 
chairs, was inviting. It was up there, 
one blustering evening, that Thorley said 
to him suddenly, " Henderson, I wish 
to goodness you 'd quit your hesitating, 
and come on in here with us." 

" Why, I did n't know that I was 
hesitating." 

Thorley gave a peculiar grunt, and 
then went on, as though some things 
were too patent to be talked about: 
" You seem to think it 's wrong for me 
to do a little good to these howling hye- 
nas I cage up here, just because I do 
myself a lot more. That's about the 
size of your argument. Why, my prin- 
ciple is the principle every syndicate and 
every trust fattens on. Do somebody 
else a little good, and do yourself a lot 
more. It 's the Penryn principle, and 
look at Penryn." 

" And look at this bilious town," re- 
plied Henderson. " It 's jaundiced with 
Penrynism." 

" Oh, come off ! If it was n't for 
Penryn, this town would be a sand bar in 
the Missouri River. It 's Penryn that 
worked the railroad in, and Penryn that 
got the elevators away from the river, 
where the grain boats could n't come no 
more, up to the depot, where trains can 
come. It 's Penryn that got the mines 
going, and Penryn that 's getting us elec- 
tricity for the cars. You need n't tell 
me that kind of a man don't deserve 
credit. It 's good religion to call him a 
cheat and a rascal, and I guess he 's all 
of it ; but he does things that other peo- 
ple get the benefit of, no matter how you 
look at him." 

" Has Mr. Penryn any children ? " 
Irresistibly quick, the question clipped 
through the barrier of the careful days 
with bullet-like radicalism. 



82 



The Difficult Minute. 



" Lord, yes. Them three boys at the 
Bank 's his." 

"Any daughters?" Henderson sat 
up straight, to let the questions volley as 
they would. 

" He 's got a daughter." 

" Is she here ? " This close to that 
woman again, this close to her name 
even, she seemed to step down from her 
frame and to come toward him, richly 
alive, with all the promising significance 
she had had for him that first evening. 
There had been nothing in his life more 
foolish than that woman's effect upon 
him, and nothing more vital. He was 
trembling as he waited for Thorley's 
answer. 

" Is she here now, Zu ? " called Thor- 
ley to his wife, who was bending over 
some knitting, close to the lamp. " She 's 
not here much any more." Thorley 
raised his voice and called again : " Zu, 
is Mrs. Shore here now ? " 

" Purl one, two wait a minute 
purl two that 's it. Why, I don't think 
so. She stopped on her way up from St. 
Louis, a week ago, but she did n't stay 
over but one night." 

" Where 'd you ever meet her?" 
asked Thorley. It was strangely as it 
should be that Thorley's emphasis uncon- 
sciously put that woman on a pedestal, 
high and white. 

" Why," said Henderson, like a man 
in a fog, "somewhere a long way 
from here if she is the woman I think 
she is. What does she look like ? " 

" Queen. And she rules, let me tell 
you. She 's the one person living who 's 
been too much for Lowry Penryn. They 
say this town owes a good deal to her." 
Thorley chuckled as he continued : 
" They say she 's headed Lowry off a time 
or two." He put his clumsy thumbs to- 
gether and leaned toward Henderson a 
little. " Say, Henderson, I don't mind 
telling you that Penryn 's agreed to back 
me a long way further on the serum. 
We are going to buy Al Hickam's farm, 
down Weaver Road, for the cows, and we 



are going to work the cure for all there 
is in it. And there 's plenty in it." 

" So." The word clumped at Hender- 
son's ears heavily, without interrogation 
and full of finish. " That 's good." He 
recognized that what Thorley had just 
been telling him had set him fairly back 
in the old-clothes Dixburn period, with- 
out any of the bitter vigor and combative- 
ness of that period. In two seconds he 
had become as pallid and anamic, as un- 
able to fight for his ideal, and as little de- 
sirous of fighting, as though Alden had 
never existed, as though that woman in 
the frame had never existed. She had 
n't ever existed. That was the worst of 
it. He knew what Thorley was going to 
say next, and as he picked up his hat and 
coat his answer stood out in his mind 
with great clearness. It was about the 
only clear thing in his mind. He was 
going to accept Thorley's offer. That 
was all there was to it. Nothing could 
be simpler. His upper lip strained back 
from the. simplicity of it, and his nostrils 
widened fastidiously to let the simplicity 
of it down his dry throat. The next 
thing was Thorley's voice : 

" Tell you what I '11 do, Henderson : 
I '11 guarantee you three thousand for 
the first year. After that there will be 
five, and after that ten, if there 's a cent. 
And there 's always a cent in a Penryn 
deal. Will you take it ? " 

"No," said Henderson. That was 
simple, too ; but his mind, crouched low 
to receive the expected blow, lumbered 
through a good half minute as though 
the blow had really fallen. Then he 
put on his hat and went down the steps, 
all his nerves alive again, and flashing 
jubilant notice to his brain that he had 
n't been able to get down to that lower 
plane even when he had wanted to ; that 
he had underrated the protective value 
of his ideals, had underrated himself 
there in Dixburn. He might have trust- 
ed himself then, as he could trust him- 
self now, to hold out for the right sort 
of finish, as right went with him. He 



A Glimpse of Pittsburg. 



83 



was bound to do it. He could n't do 
anything else. " That 's the good thing 
about it," he told himself. " Could n't 
strike that gait even when I wanted to. 
Lord, Alden, it was a precious leaven 
you gave me." He deliberately stopped 
on the street and hugged himself. " It 's 
bound to keep you quick, you old lump," 
he said. Then, as he was opposite the 



Penryn house, he looked over that way. 
" And I guess I can learn to stand re- 
membering," he decided fearlessly. 

" I 'm afraid you 've lost him," lament- 
ed Mrs. Thorley, when Thorley came 
back from the sanitarium door, after let- 
ting Henderson out. 

" Yes, he 's got that damn Alden look 
back on his face. I 've lost him." 

E. E. Young. 



A GLIMPSE OF PITTSBURG. 



HERBERT SPENCER, after visiting a 
large rail mill of the Pittsburg district, 
once remarked that what he had seen 
there had enlarged his previous ideas of 
the capability of the human mind. A 
well-known painter of the impressionist 
school came to Pittsburg a year ago, as 
a member of the international jury of 
the annual art exhibition, and during 
his stay painted a picture representing a 
squalid cul-de-sac, where sky, bluff, goat, 
chicken, house, and woman, all seemed 
painted with soot. The majority of 
those who know the Smoky City imper- 
fectly, or only by reputation, fancy it 
throughout like this picture. Very few 
study it with the eyes of the philoso- 
pher, who, penetrating the non-essential 
though at times displeasing veil, at once 
understood its real meaning and mission, 
namely, the conquest of nature by intel- 
ligent energy directing suitable machin- 
ery, whose life comes from that smoke 
and dirt producer, bituminous coal. 

The origin of Pittsburg dates back mil- 
lions of years ago to the Carboniferous 
Period. Then immense forests of trees 
and dense vegetation grew in swamps 
upon a warm earth and beneath a trop- 
ical sun ; while the atmosphere was laden 
with carbonic acid, from which the plants 
extracted the precious carbon, leaving 
oxygen in the air for the future use of 
man. 



Before the Glacial Period the Monon- 
gahela River was much larger than it 
is now. It then covered most of the 
triangular site of the present city of 
Pittsburg, which owes to it the deep 
strata of sand, loam, and gravel that 
have contributed largely to the health, 
industries, and buildings of the inhabit- 
ants. The Ohio River was then a part 
of the Monongahela, but subsequent gla- 
cial deposits not only filled the ancient 
channel, but completely turned the 
course of the river, which accounts for 
the sudden southward bend of the Ohio 
at Rochester. 

During the later geological periods, 
the undisturbed strata of coal and clay 
schist were deeply cut and eroded, leav- 
ing coal beds, the height of a man, ex- 
posed along the canon-like valleys and 
above the streams which now transport, 
at very small expense, the cheaply mined 
fuel to adjacent and distant markets. 
As a final result of the decomposition 
and compression of the vegetation of the 
Carboniferous Period, western Pennsyl- 
vania possesses to-day deposits of coal 
which a German geologist has declared 
to be tlfe finest in the world, considering 
their extent, thickness, quality, and avail 
ability. 

Thousands of years of erosion, and the 
wild growth of vegetation, finally left 
the region picturesque and beautiful, as 



84 



A Glimpse of Pittsburg. 



Washington probably saw it from the top 
of the high bluffs which still bear his 
name. Several hundred feet beneath 
him, the Allegheny and Monongahela 
rivers flowed in majestic curves to min- 
gle their waters in the broad Ohio. At 
their angular intersection, now appropri- 
ately named the Point, was the site of 
Fort Duquesne, and of its successor, Fort 
Pitt, commanding the navigation of 
the three rivers, of which Colonel Bou- 
quet's redoubt alone remains, sole witness 
of the incredibly rapid transformation of 
a savage wilderness into the iron, steel, 
and glass centre of the world. 

When James Parton, the historian, 
looked down at night, from the encircling 
hills, upon the weird fountains of flame 
and smoke, he could think only of " hell 
with the lid off." A stranger, looking 
to-day from the top of Mount Washing- 
ton down upon the narrow strips of land 
left between high bluffs by the eroding 
rivers, must notice the tremendous activ- 
ity, and he cannot fail to recognize the 
prime mover in this intense industrial 
drama. The housetops and hillsides 
wear its colors ; and numberless columns, 
like gigantic organ pipes, breathe forth 
graceful plumes of black and white. The 
city and its environs bear testimony to 
the sovereignty of Coal. Foreign engi- 
neers say this region is the world's in- 
dustrial school, because here they find 
men manufacturing iron, steel, and glass 
cheaply enough to sell throughout the 
world, in spite of the fact that the high- 
est wages are paid to all, and that many 
of the workers earn more than most pro- 
fessional men. 

A little over a century ago, Pittsburg 
was noted chiefly for its Monongahela 
whiskey and its independent, belligerent 
Scotch-Irish settlers, who cared very little 
for the dark bands of coal everywhere vis- 
ible along the hillsides. The growth of 
Pittsburg, however, in wealth, population, 
and production has been directly in pro- 
portion to the amount of coal it has mined 
and consumed. Yet its coal still unused 



represents a future market value greater 
than that of the world's present total 
stock of gold, aside from the vast trea- 
sures of petroleum and natural gas in 
this district. It is therefore not surpris- 
ing that all the great manufacturing cor- 
porations are buying up available coal 
lands, to cover their future requirements. 

Early in this century, the steamboat 
and steam engine were introduced here, 
to utilize these precious deposits ; and 
Pittsburg began to manufacture a large 
variety of articles of iron, copper, glass, 
and other materials, for distribution by 
river over the West and South. The sub- 
sequent extension of railroads greatly in- 
creased its manufactures, but temporarily 
diminished its relative importance as the 
navigable key to the West and South. 
During the Civil War, however, its pro- 
duction and wealth were enormously in- 
creased. Its gunboats and ordnance and 
its efficient men were of the greatest ser- 
vice in that struggle. If members of 
Congress are wise, they will do all in 
their power to encourage the attempt 
now being made to connect this most 
important manufacturing centre with the 
Great Lakes by a ship canal, which re- 
cent surveys have shown to be entirely 
practicable at a reasonable expense. Its 
annual tonnage would probably exceed 
that of the Suez Canal ; and it would 
enable the Northwest to receive cheap 
fuel, iron, and steel, in return for its 
cheaply transported ores. The probable 
profits for this year of one Pittsburg 
corporation which uses the largest quan- 
tity of Lake iron ores would suffice to 
build the entire ship canal as recom- 
mended by the Commission ; and the 
saving on the present coal freights by 
rail to the Lakes would alone warrant 
its construction, to say nothing of the 
vast tonnage of heavy and bulky manu- 
factured products now shipped to the 
Northwest from this region. 

The industrial history of Pittsburg is 
largely the history of the steam engine 
and of modern applied science. We are 



A Glimpse of Pittsburg. 



85 



astonished at the low wages in China, 
where a man will work for ten cents per 
day ; yet in Pittsburg machines are do- 
ing, at a cost of less than half a cent per 
day, more and better work than any un- 
aided artisan could do. At almost every 
step, in many works, one can see a youth 
or man operating, with little effort, a ma- 
chine accomplishing results which three 
thousand skilled handworkers could not 
duplicate in the same time. And yet 
three men can mine all the coal neces- 
sary to supply the energy for such a ma- 
chine ; while the total coal product of the 
region could supply steam engines of 
greater horse power than could be ob- 
tained from the entire falls of Niagara. 
So concentrated and intense is the ac- 
tivity of machinery and men in the Pitts- 
burg district that their efficient work is 
more than could be done, without ma- 
chinery, by the entire working popula- 
tion of the United States ; while their 
annual product is about equal in value to 
the yearly gold production of the whole 
world. 

Pittsburgh machinery is the result of 
the world's best mechanical thought and 
of the expenditure of possibly half a bil- 
lion of dollars, most of which will be de- 
stroyed or displaced in less than a gen- 
eration; for the struggle for existence 
among men is nothing compared with 
that among machines, in this region. 

Pittsburg has always been noted for 
its population of intensely active and ef- 
ficient workers. It has never had a lei- 
sure class. The first question asked about 
a new acquaintance is, " What does he 
do ? " If there be a latter-day idler in 
Pittsburg, he is compelled to have a 
nominal occupation, to receive any con- 
sideration from others. He is led to 
make periodic trips to Philadelphia, New 
York, or Europe, in order to preserve his 
self-respect and to find congenial friends ; 
for here his acquaintances are likely to 
regard him as a "degenerate." Pitts- 
burg's aristocracy, if it recognizes any, 
is founded on continuous productive la- 



bor. Its chief worker is the large manu- 
facturer, who has grown with his mills, 
and has become so saturated with his 
business that it engrosses his waking 
hours and colors his dreams ; follows him 
to his home, to his amusements, and does 
not always leave him at church. 

Such a man, having succeeded with- 
out much schooling, is apt to agree with 
the view of life indicated by a fellow 
townsman's remark apropos of an ac- 
quaintance of scholarly attainments : 
" What a hell of a lot of useless informa- 
tion that man possesses ! " Yet, in all 
that pertains, directly or indirectly, to his 
business interests, the Pittsburg manufac- 
turer is thoroughly informed, and eager 
to adopt improvements from any source ; 
but he must first be convinced that they 
are genuine improvements, and that he 
can afford to make them. He is ex- 
tremely practical and matter of fact; 
keen of observation ; logical and accurate 
in his judgment of men and things, in 
so far as they affect his business inter- 
ests. Like the original Scotch-Irish set- 
tlers, he is energetic, independent in 
thought and action ; generous where his 
sympathies are aroused ; peaceful if let 
alone, but a fearless fighter if threatened 
or attacked. He is a manly man, a 
judge and leader of active men. Per- 
sonally economical, his home and family 
are his sole objets de luxe, aside from 
his works, which often absorb all of, or 
more than, his capital. He makes a fine 
executive committee of one, but is not 
always a tractable colleague or subordi- 
nate. Whatever his religion may be, the 
first article of his daily creed is to ful- 
fill his contracts at any cost, be they large 
or small, verbal or written. Easily ap- 
proached, careless as to dress during 
business hours, unpretentious socially, 
clear an(J laconic in his statements, he 
inspires confidence and respect in any 
one who confers with him on business 
matters. He is the effective type of 
the modern industrial general, possess- 
ing all the personal qualities of an army 



86 



A Glimpse of Pittsburg. 



commander, plus that power to manage 
human pride and prejudice which may 
be called business tact. He is a modern 
Stoic determined to succeed in business ; 
his usual lack of ready money, due to 
constant betterments of his works, re- 
minding one of the industrious American 
boy who boasted to a playmate that his 
father intended to buy him a fine new 
axe with the money he earned by chop- 
ping with the old one. 

The successful manufacturer must be 
something of a prophet, to foresee com- 
ing changes in the supply and demand 
of his products in different parts of the 
world. He must prepare for labor trou- 
bles, often caused by distant events over 
which he has no control ; must see that 
his personnel and plant keep pace with 
those of his competitors, or he will be 
impoverished and ruined. He is con- 
stantly menaced by fire, explosions, busi- 
ness failures and changes, serious acci- 
dents to men and machines : all of which 
may come suddenly, without warning, 
and must be met at once with appropri- 
ate remedies. The world at large does 
not, in fact, appreciate the great execu- 
tive power, special knowledge, inventive 
ability, courage, fidelity, perseverance, 
continuous thought, and patience required 
of an active and successful ironmaster. 
Perhaps his daily experience might be 
likened to Wagner's Ride of the Val- 
kyrs, in its intensity of action, its appar- 
ent noise and confusion, its terrific rush- 
ing to and fro of struggling energies ; 
while above all the strife and din there 
presides a rhythmic control, a domi- 
nating force or fate, ceaselessly directing 
to some specific end this seeming mixture 
of chaos and battle of the giants. 

Scarcely less remarkable is the daily 
experience of the glass manufacturers. 
Although still somewhat behind the iron- 
masters in the use of machinery, yet 
so great has been their progress in this 
direction that one company has fifteen 
thousand different objects for use or or- 
nament, which it sells at a profit not only 



throughout the continents of America 
and Europe, but even to the distant em- 
pires of China and Japan ; another com- 
pany sends its products around the world 
to help our petroleum light the hum- 
blest dwellings ; while a third has, in 
a few years, beautified and illumined 
numberless habitations with plate glass, 
so long a luxury for the rich alone. 
Meanwhile, the manufacturers of ordi- 
nary window glass, by using continuous 
melting furnaces, have so cheapened their 
product that it is now within the reach 
of all. 

As abundant coal caused the erection 
of the first glass works here over a cen- 
tury ago, so the use of natural gas, 
formed ages before the coal, has of re- 
cent years confirmed the Iron City's su- 
premacy in glass manufacture, which had 
been gained by means of its coal and 
ingenious machinery. Considering the 
enormous increase in the uses of glass, 
and the possibilities of the toughened va- 
rieties in road and building construction, 
may we not reasonably expect that, with 
the help of Pittsburg, some future cen- 
tury will be known as the Glass Age ? 
But before that epoch the Iron City will 
probably hasten the advent of an Elec- 
trical Age, although glass is the old- 
est, and electrical machinery one of the 
youngest, of its important industries. 
The recent giant strides of applied elec- 
tricity almost baffle description and com- 
prehension, so diverse and intricate are 
the ramifications of these " etheric " ap- 
plications. 

When one considers the great Pitts- 
burg dynamos which lighted the World's 
Fair, and the five thousand horse-power 
generators which utilize a fraction of 
Niagara Falls ; when he calls to mind the 
motors which animate, and the currents 
which heat and light, the ubiquitous trol- 
ley cars, Holmes's broomstick trains, 
whose " witches " are banishing horses 
and even locomotives from city and sub- 
urban service in all parts of the world ; 
when he thinks of the sensitiveness of 






A Glimpse of Pittsburg. 



87 



the telephone, of the multiplex telegraph, 
and of the multitude of electrical instru- 
ments, in connection with the dazzling 
light, the irresistible heat and power of 
electrical currents, he is forced to the 
conclusion that electricity is the form in 
which our successors will utilize most of 
the sources of power which nature has 
placed at their disposal. 

Pittsburg has, of course, the failings of 
its virtues, of which individualism is per- 
haps chief. Individualism characterized 
the original settlers, and, later, shaped 
the industrial and social development of 
the region ; which correspondingly suf- 
fered in much that depends upon public 
and private cooperation. The resulting 
exclusive and exhaustive attention to 
business has caused what might be called 
civic absenteeism, the abandonment 
of personal public duties to the politi- 
cal " boss " and " ring ; " for bossism in 
public life parallels individualism in pri- 
vate life. " After me the deluge," is 
the motto of both. But fortunately they 
have reached their culmination. Even 
Pittsburg, although at times enshrouded 
in the smoke of its industries, and still 
in its pioneer, all-laboring condition, has 
already broken with its political Dark 
Ages, and entered its Renaissance of bet- 
ter municipal government. 

The universal use of natural gas, some 
years ago, demonstrated to the inhabit- 
ants that, with clear skies, a clean city, 
and a site of great natural beauty, Pitts- 
burg might be made one of the most at- 
tractive places of residence in the United 
States. Accordingly, with the gradual 
disappearance of natural gas, and the re- 
turn to coal consumption, there has been 
developed a very strong movement to- 
ward smoke prevention, which has al- 
ready accomplished a great deal, and 
bids fair to be ultimately successful. As 
a slight indication of the drift of public 
opinion may be mentioned the pictorial 
advertising signs of a prominent manu- 
facturer, which show the sunlight break- 
ing through a mass of black clouds, and 



illuminating a large edifice marked " A 
Clean Spot in Pittsburg ; " while a re- 
staurant, once painted white, puts forth 
this inviting sign, alas ! now growing 
dim, " Cleanliness next to Godliness." 

Pittsburg's aesthetic growth is shown 
by the establishment of beautiful parks 
and conservatories, during the past few 
years, and by the quiet enjoyment of the 
vast working population who visit them, 
principally on Sundays. It is doubtful 
if the magnificent Easter displays of 
massed flowers in the.Phipps Conserva- 
tory are equaled anywhere, at home or 
abroad. They might well be called Eas- 
ter choruses, divinely chanting " Peace on 
earth and good will to men " to the tens 
of thousands of toilers of the Iron City, 
whose skill, fidelity, courage, and energy 
can be appreciated only by those who see 
them daily exercised, in spite of troubles, 
accidents, sorrows, and discouragements 
of every description. From the conser- 
vatories it is but a step to the Carnegie 
Institute, which contains the Museum, 
already noted for its collections, with 
the Academy of Science and Art, and 
associated societies, to aid its educational 
work ; the reference and circulating li- 
braries, with their phenomenal growth ; 
the art galleries, with their choice collec- 
tions, and "their yearly Salon of estab- 
lished international character and influ- 
ence ; finally, the beautiful Music Hall, 
where the working population show their 
appreciation of the weekly free organ 
concerts by a master of the instrument ; 
while every winter cultivated and atten- 
tive audiences assemble to listen to their 
Symphony Orchestra, which private gen- 
erosity and exertion have made among 
the best in the country. 

Science also has its votaries here, and 
a fitting temple under the care of the 
Western University. Thanks to the in- 
dustry and generosity of its friends, the 
old Allegheny Observatory, whose work 
and astronomers hold a high rank in the 
scientific world, is soon to have a worthy 
successor. The new Observatorv will 



88 The Brute. 

occupy a well-chosen site, surrounded by Would it not be a remarkable example 

an atmosphere especially adapted for of cosmic compensation if this new Al- 

solar and other work, and possessing a legheny Observatory standing on the 

home-made equipment superior in many very coal where ages ago the sun stored 

respects to that of any existing observa- his abundant treasures of heat, and found- 

tory. There celestial images will be car- ed the future Pittsburg should be the 

ried down into the various physical labo- means of revealing to the world the in- 

ratories, and be made to reveal to the timate history and probable future of the 

astro-physicist the secrets of infinitely dis- sun, whose extinction would sweep all life 

tant, and perhaps long-vanished worlds, from the planet ? 

William Lucien Scaife. 



THE BRUTE. 

THROUGH his might men work their wills. 

They have boweled out the hills 

For food to keep him toiling in the cages they have wrought: 

And they fling him, hour by hour, 

Limbs of men to give him power ; 

Brains of men to give him cunning ; and for dainties to devour, 

Children's souls, the little worth ; hearts of women, cheaply bought. 

He takes them and he breaks them, but he gives them scanty thought. 

For, about the noisy land, 

Roaring, quivering 'neath his hand, 

His thoughts brood fierce and sullen or laugh in lust of pride 

O'er the stubborn things that he 

Breaks to dust and brings to be : 

Some he mightily establishes, some flings down utterly ; 

There is thunder in his stride, nothing ancient can abide, 

When he hales the hills together and bridles up the tide. 

Quietude and loveliness, 

Holy sights that heal and bless, 

They are scattered and abolished where his iron hoof is set; 

When he splashes through the brae, 

Silver streams are choked with clay, 

When he snorts, the bright cliffs crumble and the woods go down like hay; 

He lairs in pleasant cities, and the haggard people fret 

Squalid 'mid their new-got riches, soot-begrimed and desolate. 

They who caught and bound him tight 

Laughed exultant at his might, 

Saying: "Now behold the good time comes, for the weariest and the least! 

We will use this lusty knave ; 

No more need for men to slave; 



The Brute. 89 

We may rise and look about us and have knowledge, ere the grave." 
But the Brute said in his breast: "Till the mills I grind have ceased, 
The riches shall be dust of dust, dry ashes be the feast ! 

" On the strong and cunning few 
Cynic favors I will strew ; 

I will stuff their maw with overplus until their spirit dies : 
From the patient and the low 
I will take the joys they know ; 

They shall hunger after vanities and still anhungered go. 
Madness shall be on the people, ghastly jealousies arise ; 
Brother's blood shall cry on brother up the dead and empty skies. 

" I will burn and dig and hack 
Till the heavens suffer lack ; 

God shall feel a pleasure fail Him, crying to his cherubim, 
'Who hath flung yon mudball there 
Where my world went green and fair ? ' 

I shall laugh and hug me, hearing how his sentinels declare : 
"Tis the Brute they chained to labor! He has made the bright earth dim. 
Store of wares and pelf a plenty, but they got no good of him.' " 

So he plotted in his rage; 

So he deals it, age by age. 

But even as he roared his curse a still small Voice befell ; 

Lo, a still and pleasant voice 

Bade them none the less rejoice, 

For the Brute must bring the good time on ; he has no other choice. 

He may struggle, sweat, and yell, but he knows exceeding well 

He must work them out salvation ere they send him back to hell. 

All the desert that he made 

He must treble bless with shade, 

In primal wastes set precious seed of rapture and of pain ; 

All the strongholds that he built 

For the powers of greed and guilt, 

He must strew their bastions down the sea and choke their towers with silt ; 

He must make the temples clean for the gods to come again, 

And lift the lordly cities under skies without a stain. 

In a very cunning tether 

He must lead the tyrant weather ; 

He must loose the curse of Adam from the worn neck of the race; 

He must cast out hate and fear, 

Dry away each fruitless tear 

And make the fruitful tears to gush from the deep heart and clear. 

He must give each man his portion, each his pride and worthy place; 

He must batter down the arrogant and lift the weary face ; 

On each vile mouth set purity, on each low forehead grace. 



90 



The Tory Lover. 



Then, perhaps, at the last day, 
They will whistle him away, 

Lay a hand upon his muzzle in the face of God, and say : 
" Honor, Lord, the Thing we tamed ! 
Let him not be scourged or blamed. 

Even through his wrath and fierceness was thy fierce wroth world reclaimed ! 
Honor Thou thy servant's servant; let thy justice now be shown." 
Then the Lord will heed their saying, and the Brute come to his own, 
'Twixt the Lion and the Eagle, by the arm-post of the throne. 

William Vaughn Moody. 



THE TORY LOVER. 1 



LATE the next afternoon Mary Ham- 
ilton appeared at the north door of the 
house, and went quickly down the steep 
garden side toward the water. In the 
shallow slip between two large wharves 
lay some idle rowboats, which belonged 
to workmen who came every morning 
from up and down the river. The day's 
short hurry was nearly over ; there was 
still a noise of heavy adzes hewing at a 
solid piece of oak timber, but a group of 
men had begun to cluster about a store- 
house door to talk over the day's news. 

The tide was going out, and a birch 
canoe which the young mistress had be- 
spoken was already left high on the 
shore. She gave no anxious glance for 
her boatman, but got into a stranded skiff, 
and, reaching with a strong hand, caught 
the canoe and dragged it down along 
the slippery mud until she had it well 
afloat ; then, stepping lightly aboard, 
took up her carved paddle, and looked 
before her to mark her course across the 
swift current. Wind and current and 
tide were all going seaward together 
with a determined rush. 

There was a heavy gundelow floating 
down the stream toward the lower ware- 
house, to be loaded with potatoes for the 



Portsmouth market, and this was com- 
ing across the slip. The men on board 
gave a warning cry as they caught sight 
of a slender figure in the fragile craft ; 
but Mary only laughed, and, with suffi- 
cient strength to court the emergency, 
struck her paddle deep into the water 
and shot out into the channel right 
across their bow. The current served 
well to keep her out of reach ; the men 
had been holding back their clumsy 
great boat lest it should pass the wharf. 
One of them ran forward anxiously 
with his long sweep, as if he expected to 
see the canoe in distress like a drowning 
fly ; but Mary, without looking back, was 
pushing on across the river to gain the 
eddy on the farther side. 

" She might ha' held back a minute ; 
she was liable to be catched an' ploughed 
right under ! A gal 's just young enough 
to do that ; men that 's met danger don't 
see no sport in them tricks," grumbled 
the boatman. 

" Some fools would ha' tried to run 
astarn," said old Mr. Philpot, his com- 
panion, " an' the suck o' the water would 
ha' catched 'em side up ag'in' us ; no, she 
knowed what she was about. Kind of 
scairt me, though. Look at her set her 
paddle, strong as a man ! Lord, she 's a 
beauty, an' 's good 's they make 'em ! " 



1 Copyright, 1900, by SARAH ORNE JEWETT. 



The Tory Lover. 



" Folks all thinks, down our way, 
she 's took it master hard the way young 
Wallin'ford went off, 'thout note or warn- 
in'. They 've b'en a-hoverin' round all 
ready to fall to love-makin', till this ob- 
jection got roused 'bout his favorin' the 
Tories. There 'd b'en trouble a'ready 
if he 'd stayed to home. I misdoubt 
they 'd smoked him out within half a 
week's time. Some o' them fellows that 
hangs about Dover Landin' and Chris- 
tian Shore was bent on it, an' they 'd had 
some better men 'long of 'em." 

" Then 't would have been as black a 
wrong as ever was done on this river ! " 
exclaimed the elder man indignantly, 
looking back over his shoulder toward 
the long house of the Wallingfords, that 
stood peaceful in the autumn sunshine 
high above the river. " They 've been 
good folks in all their ginerations. The 
lad was young, an' had n't formed his 
mind. As for Madam, why, women 
folks is natural Tories ; they hold by the 
past, same as men are fain to reach out 
and want change. She 's feeble and 
fearful since the judge was taken away, 
an' can't grope out to nothin' new. I 
heared tell that one o' her own brothers 
is different from the rest as all holds by 
the King, an' has given as much as 
any man in Boston to carry on this war. 
There ain't no Loyalist inside my skin, 
but I despise to see a low lot o' fools 
think smart o' theirselves for bein' sassy 
to their betters." 

The other man looked a little crest- 
fallen. " There 's those as has it that 
the cap'n o' the Ranger would n't let 
nobody look at young miss whilst he 
was by," he hastened to say. " Folks 
say they 're good as promised an' have 
changed rings. I al'ays heared he was 
a gre't man for the ladies ; loves 'em 
an' leaves 'em. I knowed men that had 
sailed with him in times past, an' they 
said he kept the highest company in 
every port. But if all tales is true " 

" Mostly they ain't," retorted old Mr. 
Philpot scornfully. 



" I don't know nothin' 't all about it ; 
that's what folks say," answered his 
mate. "He's got the look of a bold 
commander, anyway, and a voice an' eye 
that would wile a bird from a bush." 
But at this moment the gundelow bumped 
heavily against the wharf, and there was 
no more time for general conversation. 

Mary Hamilton paddled steadily up 
river in the smooth water of the eddy, 
now and then working hard to get 
round some rocky point that bit into the 
hurrying stream. The wind had driven 
the ebbing tide before it, so that the 
water had fallen quickly, and sometimes 
the still dripping boughs of overhanging 
alders and oaks swept the canoe from 
end to end, and spattered the kneeling 
girl with a cold shower by way of greet- 
ing. Sometimes a musquash splashed 
into the water or scuttled into his chilly 
hole under the bank, clattering an un- 
tidy heap of empty mussel shells as he 
went. All the shy little beasts, weasels 
and minks and squirrels, made haste to 
disappear before this harmless voyager, 
and came back again as she passed. 
The great fishhawks and crows sailed 
high overhead, secure but curious, and 
harder for civilization to dispossess of 
their rights than wild creatures that 
lived aground. 

The air was dry and sweet, as if snow 
were coming, and all the falling leaves 
were down. Here and there might 
linger a tuft of latest frost flowers in a 
sheltered place, and the witch-hazel in 
the thickets was still sprinkled with 
bright bloom. Mary stopped once under 
the shore where a bough of this strange, 
spring-in-autumn flower grew over the 
water, and broke some twigs to lay gently 
before her in the canoe. The old In- 
dian, last descendant of the chief Pas- 
saconaway, who had made the light 
craft and taught her to guide it, had 
taught her many other things of his wild 
and wise inheritance. This flower of 
mystery brought up deep associations 






92 



The Tory Lover. 



with that gentle-hearted old friend, the 
child of savagery and a shadowy past 

The river broadened now at Madam's 
Cove. There was a great roaring in the 
main channel beyond, where the river 
was vexed by rocky falls ; inside the cove 
there was little water left except in the 
straight channel that led to the landing 
place and quaint heavy-timbered boat- 
house. From the shore a grassy avenue 
went winding up to the house above. 
Against the northwestern sky the old 
home of the Wallingfords looked sad and 
lonely; its windows were like anxious 
eyes that followed the river's course to- 
ward a dark sea where its master had 
gone adventuring. 

Mary stood on land, looking back the 
way she had come ; her heart was beat- 
ing fast, but it was not from any effort 
of fighting against wind or tide. She did 
not know why she began to remember 
with strange vividness the solemn pageant 
of Judge Wallingford's funeral, which 
had followed the water highway from 
Portsmouth, one summer evening, on the 
flood tide. It was only six years before, 
when she was already the young and 
anxious mistress of her brother's house, 
careful and troubled about many things, 
like Martha, in spite of her gentler name. 
She had looked out of an upper window 
to see the black procession of boats with 
slow-moving oars come curving and wind- 
ing across the bay ; the muffled black of 
mourning trailed from the sides ; there 
were soldiers of the judge's regiment, 
sitting straight in their bright uniforms, 
for pallbearers, and they sounded a sol- 
emn tap of drum as they came. 

They drew nearer : the large coffin 
with its tasseled pall, the long train of 
boats which followed filled with sorrow- 
ing friends, the President and many 
of the chief men of the Province, had 
all passed slowly by. 

The tears rushed to Mary's eyes, 
that day, when she saw her brother's 
serious young head among the elder 
gentlemen, and close beside him was the 



fair tear-reddened face and blond un- 
covered hair of the fatherless son. Roger 
Wallingford was but a boy then ; his 
father had been the kind friend and 
generous founder of all her brother's 
fortunes. She remembered how she had 
thanked him from a grateful heart, and 
meant to be unsparing in her service 
and unfailing in duty toward the good 
man's widow and son. They had read 
prayers for him in old St. John's at 
Portsmouth ; they were but bringing him 
to his own plot of ground in Somers- 
worth, at eventide, and Mary Hamilton 
had prayed for him out of a full heart 
as his funeral went by. The color came 
in her young cheeks at the remembrance. 
What had she dared to do, what respon- 
sibility had she not taken upon her now ? 
She was but an ignorant girl, and driven 
by the whip of Fate. A strange enthu- 
siasm, for which she could not in this 
dark moment defend herself, had led her 
on. It was like the moment of helpless 
agony that' comes with a bad dream. 

She turned again and faced the house ; 
and the house, like a great conscious crea- 
ture on the hillside, seemed to wait for 
her quietly and with patience. She was 
standing on Wallingford's ground, and 
bent upon a most difficult errand. There 
was neither any 'wish for escape, in her 
heart, nor any thought of it, and yet for 
one moment she trembled as if the wind 
shook her as it shook the naked trees. 
Then she went her way, young and 
strong-footed, up the long slope. It was 
one of the strange symbolic correspond- 
ences of life that her path led steadily 
up the hill. 

The great door of the house opened 
wide before her, as if the whole future 
must have room to enter ; old Rodney, 
the house servant, stood within, as if he 
had been watching for succor. In the 
spacious hall the portraits looked proud 
and serene, as if they were still capable 
of all hospitalities save that of speech. 

" Will you say that Miss Hamilton 



The, Tory Lover. 



waits upon Madam Wallingford ? " said 
Mary ; and the white-headed old man 
bowed with much ceremony, and went 
up the broad stairway, still nodding, and 
pausing once, with his hand on the high 
banister, to look back at so spirited and 
beautiful a guest. A faithful heart ached 
within him to see her look so young, so 
fresh-blooming, so untouched by sorrow, 
and to think of his stricken mistress. 
Yet she had come into the chilly house 
like a brave, warm reassurance, and all 
Rodney's resentment was swift to fade. 
The quick instincts of his race were con- 
fronted by something that had power to 
master them ; he comprehended the truth 
because it was a simple truth and his 
was a simple heart. 

He disappeared at the turn of the 
staircase into the upper hall, and Mary 
took a few impatient steps to and fro. 
On the great moose antlers was flung 
some of the young master's riding gear ; 
there was his rack of whips below, and 
a pair of leather gloves with his own 
firm grasp still showing in the rounded 
fingers. There were his rods and guns ; 
even his old dog leash and the silver 
whistle. She knew them all as well as 
he, with their significance of past activi- 
ties and the joys of life and combat. 
They made their owner seem so close at 
hand, and the pleasures of his youth all 
snatched away. Oh, what a sharp long- 
ing for the old lively companionship was 
in her heart ! It was like knowing that 
poor Roger was dead instead of gone 
away to sea. He would come no more 
in the winter evenings to tell his hunter's 
tales of what had happened at the lakes, 
or to plan a snowshoe journey up the 
country. Mary stamped her foot impa- 
tiently ; was she going to fall into help- 
less weakness now, when she had most 
need to be quiet and to keep her steadi- 
ness ? Old Rodney was stepping care- 
fully down the stairs again, and she wore 
a paler look than when they had parted. 
Somehow, she felt like a stranger in the 
familiar house. 



Once Rodney would have been a mere 
reflection of his mistress's ready welcome, 
but now he came close to Miss Hamil- 
ton's side and spoke in an anxious whis- 
per. 

" You '11 be monst'ous gentle with her 
dis day, young mistis ? " he asked plead- 
ingly. " Oh yis, mistis ; her heart 's done 
broke ! " 

Then he shuffled away to the dining 
room to move the tankards on the great 
sideboard. One could feel everything, 
but an old black man, born in the jungle 
and stolen by a slaver's crew, knew when 
he had said enough. 



XI. 

The low afternoon sun slanted its rays 
into the stately chamber, and brightened 
the dull East Indian red of some old 
pictured cottons that made the tasseled 
hangings. There were glowing coals in 
the deep fireplace, and Madam Walling- 
ford sat at the left, in one of those great 
easy-chairs that seem to offer refuge to 
both illness and sorrow. She had turned 
away so that she could not see the river, 
and even the wistful sunshine was all 
behind her. There was a slender light- 
stand with some white knitting work at 
her side, but her hands were lying idle 
in her lap. She had never been called 
beautiful ; she had no great learning, 
though on a shelf near by she had ga- 
thered a little treasury of good books. 
She had manners rather than manner ; 
she was plainly enough that unmistak- 
able and easily recognized person, a great 
lady. They are but few in every gen- 
eration, but the simplicity and royalty of 
their lovely succession have never disap- 
peared from an admiring world. 

" Come in, Mary," said Madam Wal- 
lingford, with a wan look of gentleness 
and patience. " * Here I and Sorrow 
sit ! ' " 

She motioned toward a chair which 
her attendant, an ancient countrywoman, 



94 



The Tory Lover. 



was placing near. Mary crossed the 
room quickly, and took her appointed 
place ; then she clasped her hands tight 
together, and her head drooped. At 
that moment patriotism and all its high 
resolves may have seemed too high ; she 
forgot everything except that she was in 
the presence of a lonely woman, sad and 
old and bereft. She saw the woeful 
change that grief had made in this Tory 
mother of a Patriot son. She could but 
sit in silence with maidenly self-efface- 
ment, and a wistful affectionateness that 
was like the timidest caress, this young 
creature of high spirit, who had so lately 
thrown down her bold challenge of a 
man's loyalty. She sat there before the 
fire, afraid of nothing but her own in- 
sistent tears ; she could not conquer a sud- 
den dumbness that had forgotten speech. 
She could not bear to look again at the 
piteous beloved face of Madam Walling- 
ford. 

The march of events had withered the 
elder woman and trampled her under- 
foot, like a flower in the road that every 
wheel went over ; she had grown old in 
two short days, while the girl who sat 
before her had only changed into bright- 
er bloom. 

" You may leave us now, Susan," said 
Madam Wallingford ; and with many an 
anxious glance the old serving woman 
went away. 

Still there fell silence between the two. 
The wind was droning its perpetual com- 
plaining note in the chimney ; a belated 
song sparrow lifted its happy little tune 
outside the southern windows, and they 
both listened to the very end. Then 
their eyes turned to each other's faces ; 
the bird had spoken first in the wintry 
air. Then Mary Hamilton, with a quick 
cry, took a hurried step, and fell upon 
her knees at the mother's side, and took 
her in her arms, hiding her own face 
from sight. 

" What can I say ? Oh, what can I 
say ? " she cried again. " It will break 
my heart if you love me no more ! " 



The elder woman shrank for a mo- 
ment ; there was a quick flash in her eyes ; 
then she drew Mary still nearer and held 
her fast. The comfort of a warm young 
life so close to her shivering loneliness, 
the sense of her own weakness and that 
Mary was the stronger, kept her from 
breaking now into the stern speech of 
which her heart was full. She said no- 
thing for a long time, but sat waiting ; 
and now and then she laid her hand on 
the girl's soft hair, until Mary's fit of 
weeping had passed. 

"Bring the little footstool here and 
sit by me ; we must talk of many things 
together," she gave command at last ; and 
Mary, doing the errand like a child, lin- 
gered by the window, and then returned 
with calmness to her old friend's side. 
The childish sense of distance between 
them had strangely returned, and yet she 
was conscious that she must take a new 
charge upon herself, and keep nearer 
than ever to this sad heart. 

" I did not know his plans until that 
very night," she said to Madam Walling- 
ford, looking bravely and sweetly now 
into the mother's face. " I could not 
understand at first why there was sucli 
excitement in the very air. Then I found 
out that the mob was ready to come and 
ruin you, and to drag him out to answer 
them, as they did the Loyalists in Bos- 
ton. And there were many strangers on 
our side the river. I heard a horrid 
humming in the crowd that gathered 
when the captain came ; they kept to- 
gether after he was in the house, and I 
feared that they were bent upon a worse 
errand. I was thankful to know that 
Roger was in Portsmouth, so that no- 
thing could be done that night. When 
he came to me suddenly, a little later," 
the girl's voice began to falter, "I was 
angry with him at first ; I thought only 
of you. I see now that I was cruel." 

" My son has been taught to honor 
and to serve his King," said Madam Wal- 
lingford coldly. 

" He has put his country above his 




The Tory Lover. 



95 



King, now," answered Mary Hamilton, 
who had steadied herself and could go 
on ; yet something hindered her from say- 
ing more, and the wind kept up its steady 
plaint in the chimney, but in this diffi- 
cult moment the little bird was still. 

" To us, our King and country have 
been but one. I own that the colonies 
have suffered hardship, and not alone 
through willfulness ; but to give the reins 
of government to unfit men, to put high 
matters into the hands of rioters and law- 
breakers, can only bring ruin. I could 
not find it in my heart to blame him, 
even after the hasty Declaration, when he 
would not join with English troops to 
fight the colonies ; but to join the rebels 
to fight England should shame a house 
like this. Our government is held a high 
profession among the wise of England ; 
these foolish people will bring us all upon 
the quicksands. If my son had sailed 
with officers and gentlemen, such " 

" He has sailed with a hero," said 
Mary hotly, " and in company with good 
men of our own neighborhood, in whom 
he can put his trust." 

" Let us not quarrel," answered the 
lady more gently. She leaned her head 
against the chair side, and looked strange- 
ly pale and old. " T is true I sent for 
you to accuse you, and now you are here 
I only long for comfort. I am the mo- 
ther of an only son ; I am a widow, lit- 
tle you know what that can mean, and 
my prop has gone. Yet I would have 
sent him proudly to the wars, like a 
mother of ancient days, did I but think 
the quarrel just. I could but bless him 
when he wakened me and knelt beside 
my bed, and looked so noble, telling his 
eager story. I did not think his own 
heart altogether fixed upon this change 
till he said his country would have need 
of him. ' All your country, boy ! ' I 
begged him then, ' not alone this willful 
portion of our heritage. Can you forget 
that you are English born ? ' 

" Then he rose up and stood upon his 
feet, and I saw that I had looked my 



last upon his boyish days. 'No, dear 
mother,' he told me, ' I am beginning 
to remember it ! ' and he stooped and 
kissed me, and stood between the cur- 
tains looking down at me, till I myself 
could see his face no more, I was so 
blind with tears. Then he kissed me 
yet again, and went quick away, and I 
could hear him sobbing in the hall. I 
would not have him break his word 
though my own heart should break in- 
stead, and I rose then and put on my 
double-gown, and I called to Susan, who 
wept aloud, I even chid her at last for 
that, and her foolish questions ; and all 
through the dead of night we gathered 
the poor child's hasty plenishings. Now 
I can only weep for things forgotten. 
'T was still dark when ,he rode away ; 
when the tide turned, the river cried all 
along its banks, as it did that long night 
when his father lay dead in the house. I 
prayed ; I even lingered, hoping that he 
might be too late, and the ship gone to 
sea. When he unpacks the chest, he will 
not see the tears that fell there. I can- 
not think of our parting, it hurts my heart 
so. ... He bade me give his love to 
you ; he said that God could not be so 
cruel as to forbid his return. 

" Mary Hamilton ! " and suddenly, as 
she spoke, all the plaintive bewailing of 
her voice, all the regretful memories, were 
left behind. " Oh, Mary Hamilton, tell 
me why you have done this ! All my 
children are in their graves save this 
one youngest son. Since I was widowed 
I have gathered age even beyond my 
years, and a heavy burden of care be- 
longs to this masterless house. I am a 
woman full of fears and weak in body. 
My own forefathers and my husband's 
house alike have never refused their 
loyal service to church and state. Who 
can stand in my son's place now ? He 
was early and late at his business ; the 
poor boy's one ambition was to make 
his father less missed by those who look 
to us for help. What is a little soldier- 
ing, a trading vessel sunk or an English 



96 



The Tory Lover. 



town affrighted, to the service he could 
give at home ? Had you only thought 
of this, had you only listened to those 
who are wiser than we, had you re- 
membered that these troubles must be, 
in the end, put down, you could not have 
been unjust. I never dreamed that the 
worst blow that could fall upon me, ex- 
cept my dear son had died, could be 
struck me by your hand. Had you no 
pity, that you urged my boy to go ? Tell 
me why you were willing. Tell me, I 
command you, why you have done 
this I " 

Mary was standing, white as a flower 
now, before her dear accuser. The 
quick scarlet flickered for one moment 
in her cheeks ; her frightened .eyes never 
for one moment left Madam Walling- 
ford's face. 

" You must answer me ! " the old 
mother cried again, shaken with passion 
and despair. 

" Because I loved you," said the girl 
then, and a flash of light was on her 
face that matched the thrill in her 
voice. " God forgive me, I had no 
other reason," she answered, as if she 
were a prisoner at the bar, and her very 
life hung upon the words. 

Madam Wallingford had spent all the 
life that was in her. Sleepless nights 
had robbed her of her strength ; she 
was withered by her grief into something 
like the very looks of death. All the 
long nights, all the long hours since she 
had lost her son, she had said these 
things over to herself, that she might 
say them clear to those who ought to lis- 
ten. They had now been said, and her 
poor brain that had shot its force of 
anger and misery to another heart was 
cold like the firelock that has sped its 
ball. She sank back into the chair, faint 
with weakness ; she put out her hands as 
if she groped for help. "Oh, Mary, 
Mary ! " she entreated now ; and again 
Mary, forgetting all, was ready with 
fond heart to comfort her. 

" It is of no use ! *' exclaimed Madam 



Wallingford, rousing herself at last, 
and speaking more coldly than before. 
" I can only keep to one thought, that 
my son has gone. 'T is Love brings all 
our pain ; this is what it means to have 
a child ; my joy and my sorrow are one, 
and the light of my life casts its shadow ! 
And I have always loved you ; I have 
wished many a time, in the old days, that 
you were my own little girl. And now 
I am told that this adventurer has won 
your heart, this man who speaks much 
of Glory, lest Glory should forget to 
speak of him ; that you have even made 
my son a sacrifice to pride and ambi- 
tion ! " 

Mary's cheeks flamed, her eyes grew 
dark and angry ; she tried to speak, but 
she looked in her accuser's face, and 
first a natural rage, and then a sudden 
pity and the old love, held her dumb. 

" Forgive me, then," said Madam 
Wallingford, looking at her, and into 
her heart there crept unwonted shame. 

" You do me wrong ; you would wrong 
both your son and me ! " and Mary had 
sprung away next moment from her 
side. " I have told only the truth. I was 
harsh to Roger when I had never known 
him false, and I almost hated him be- 
cause he seemed unsettled in his course. 
I even thought that the rising against 
the Loyalists had frighted him, and I 
hated him when I thought he was seek- 
ing shelter. He came that very night 
to tell me that he was for the Patriots, and 
was doing all a brave man could, and 
standing for liberty with the rest of us. 
Then I knew better than he how far the 
distrust of him had gone, and I took it 
upon myself to plead with the captain 
of the Ranger. I knew too well that 
if, already prejudiced by envious tales, 
he turned the commission down, the 
mob would quick take the signal. 'T was 
for love of my friends I acted ; some- 
thing drove me past myself, that night. 
If Roger should die, if indeed I have 
robbed you of your son, this was the 
part I took. I would not have done 




The Tory Lover. 



97 



ua ; 



otherwise. He has taken a man's part 
for Liberty, and I thank God. Now I 
have told you all." 

They were facing each other again. 
Mary's voice was broken ; she could say 
no more. Then, with a quick change of 
look and with a splendid gesture, Mad- 
am Wallingford rose from her place 
like a queen. Her face shone with sud- 
den happiness ; she held out her arms, 
no queen and no accuser, but only a be- 
reft woman, a loving heart that had been 
beggared of all comfort. " Come, my 
darling," she whispered ; " you must for- 
give me everything, and love me the 
more for my poor weakness ; you will 
help me to have patience all these weary 
months." 

The sun broke out again from behind 
a thick, low-hanging cloud, and flooded 
all the dark chamber. Again the Indian 
stuffs looked warm and bright ; the fire 
sprang on the hearth as if upon an altar : 
it was as if Heaven's own light had 
smiled into the room. Poor Mary's 
young pride was sore hurt and distressed, 
but her old friend's wonted look of kind- 
ness was strangely coming back ; she 
showed all her familiar affectionateness 
as if she had passed a great crisis. As 
for the lad whom they had wept and 
quarreled over, and for whose sake they 
had come back again to each other's 
hearts, he was far out upon the gray and 
tumbling sea ; every hour took him far- 
ther and farther from home. 

And now Madam Wallingford must 
talk of him with Mary, and tell her 
everything ; how he had chosen but two 
books, his Bible and an old volume 
of French essays that Master Sullivan 
had given him when he went to college. 
" 'T was his copy of Shakespeare's 
plays," said she, " that he wanted most ; 
but in all our hurry, and with dullest 
candlelight, we could find it nowhere, 
and yesterday I saw it lying here on my 
chest of drawers. 'T is not so many 
days since he read me a pretty piece of 

VOL. LXXXVII. NO. 519. 7 



The Tempest, as we sat together. I can 
hear his voice now as he read : 't was 
like a lover, the way he said ' my noble 
mistress ! ' and I could but smile to 
hear him. He saw the great Garrick 
in his best plays, when he was in Lon- 
don. Roger was ever a pretty reader 
when he was a boy. 'T is a gift the 
dullest child might learn from Master 
Sullivan." 

The mother spoke fondly between 
smiles and tears ; the old book lay open 
on her knee, and something dropped to 
the floor, a twig of faded witch-hazel 
blossoms that her son had held in his 
fingers as he read, and left between the 
leaves for a marker ; a twig of witch- 
hazel, perhaps from the same bough that 
Mary had broken as she came. It were 
easy to count it for a message where 
some one else might think of but a pret- 
ty accident. Mary stooped and picked 
the withered twig of blossoms from the 
floor, and played with it, smiling as 
Madam Wallingford talked on, and they 
sat together late into the autumn twi- 
light. The poor lady was like one who, 
by force of habit, takes up the life of 
every day again when death has been 
in the house. The familiar presence of 
her young neighbor had cured her for 
the moment of the pain of loneliness, but 
the sharp words she had spoken in her 
distress would ache for many a day in 
Mary's heart. 

Mary did not understand that strange 
moment when she had been forgiven. 
Yet the hardest soul might have compas- 
sion for a poor woman so overwrought 
and defeated ; she was still staggering 
from a heavy blow. 

It was dark when they parted, and 
Madam Wallingford showed a strange 
solicitude after her earlier reproaches, 
and forbade Mary when she would have 
crossed the river alone. She took a 
new air of rightful command, and Rod- 
ney must send two of the men with their 
own boat, and put by the canoe until 
morning. The stars were bright and 



98 



The Tory Lover. 



quick as diamonds overhead, and it was 
light enough on the water, as they crossed. 
The candle-light in the upper chamber 
on the hill looked dim, as if there were 
illness in the house. 

Indeed, Madam Wallingford was trem- 
bling with cold since her young guest 
had gone. Susan wrapped her in an old 
cloak of soft fur, as she sat beside the 
fire, and turned often to look at her 
anxiously, as she piled the fagots and 
logs on the hearth until their flame tow- 
ered high. 

" Dear child, dear child,** the poor 
lady said over and over in her heart. 
" I think she does not know it yet, but 
I believe she loves my son." 

That night old Susan hovered about 
her mistress, altering the droop of the 
bed curtains and untwisting the balls of 
their fringe with a businesslike air ; then 
she put some heavy knots of wood on 
the fire for the night, and built it solidly 
together, until the leaping lights and 
shadows played fast about the room. 
She glanced as often as she dared at the 
tired face on the pillow. 

" 'T is a wild night, Susan," said 
Madam Wallingford. "I thought the 
wind was going down with the sun. 
How often I have watched for my dear 
man such nights as this, when he was 
kept late in Portsmouth ! 'T was well we 
lived in town those latest winters. You 
remember that Rodney always kept the 
fire bright in the dining parlor ('t is a 
cosy place in winter), and put a tankard 
of mulled wine inside the fender ; 't would 
bring back the color to his face all chilled 
with winter rain, and the light into his 
eyes. And Roger would come in with 
him, holding his father's hand ; he would 
ever run out bareheaded in the wet, while 
I called from the door to them to come 
in and let the horse go to stable, and they 
laughed at me for my fears. Where is 
Roger to-night, I wonder, Susan ? They 
cannot be in port for a long time yet. 
I hate to think of him on the sea ! ' 



" Maybe 't is morning there, and the 
sun out, madam." 

" Susan," said Madam Wallingford, 
" you used to sing to him when he was 
a baby ; sit near the fire awhile, there 
is no more for you to do. Sing one of 
your old hymns, so that I may go to 
sleep; perhaps it will quiet his heart, 
too, if we are quiet and try to be at 
peace." 

The very shadows grew stiller, as if 
to listen as the patient old handmaiden 
came and sat beside the bed and began 
to sing, moving her foot as if she still 
held the restless baby who had grown to 
be a man. There were quavering notes 
in her voice, but when she had sung all 
her pious verses of the Cradle Hymn to 
their very end Madam Wallingford was 
fast asleep. 

XII. 

The Ranger was under full sail, and 
ran like a hound ; she had cleared the 
Banks, with all their snow squalls and 
thick nights, without let or hindrance. 
The captain's boast that he would land 
his dispatches and spread the news of 
Burgoyne's surrender in France in thirty 
days seemed likely to come true. The 
men were already beginning to show ef- 
fects of constant vigilance and over- 
work; but whatever discomforts might 
arrive, the splendid seamanship of Paul 
Jones could only be admired by such 
thoroughgoing sailors as made up the 
greater portion of his crew. The young- 
er members of the ship's company were 
full of gayety if the wind and work eased 
ever so little, and at any time, by night 
or day, some hearty voice might be heard 
practicing the strains of a stirring song 
new made by one of the midshipmen : 
" That is why we Brave the Blast 
To carry the news to Lon-don." 

There were plenty of rival factions 
and jealousies. The river men were 
against all strangers ; and even the river 
men had their own divisions, their warm 



The Tory Lover. 



99 



friendships and cold aversions, so that 
now and then some smouldering fire 
came perilously near an outbreak. The 
tremendous pressure of work alow and 
aloft, the driving wind, the heavy tum- 
bling seas, the constant exposure and 
strain in such trying duty and incessant 
service of the sails, put upon every man 
all that he could well bear, and sent him 
to his berth as tired as a dog. 

It takes but little while for a good 
shipmaster to discover who are the diffi- 
cult men in his crew, the sea lawyers and 
breeders of dissatisfaction. The captain 
of the Ranger was a man of astonish- 
ing readiness both to blame and praise ; 
nobody could resist his inspiriting enthu- 
siasm and dominating presence, but in 
absence he was often proved wrong, and 
roundly cursed, as captains are, with solid 
satisfaction of resentment. Everybody 
cheered when he boldly declared against 
flogging, and even tossed that horrid sea- 
going implement, the cat, lightly over the 
ship's side. Even in that surprising mo- 
ment, one of the old seamen had growled 
that when you saw a man too good, 't was 
the time to look out for him. 

" I dasen't say but it 's about time to 
get a fuss going," said one of these mari- 
ners to a friend, later on. " Ginerally 
takes about ten days to start a row 
atween decks, 'less you 're extra eased 
off with good weather." 

" This bad weather 's all along o' 
Dickson," ventured his comrade ; " if 
they 'd known what they was about, he 'd 
been the fust man they 'd hasted to set 
ashore. I know him ; I 've knowed 
him ever since he was a boy. I seen 
him get a black stripe o' rage acrost 
his face when he see Mr. Wallin'ford 
come aboard, that mornin'. Wallin'- 
ford's folks cotched him thievin' when 
he had his fat chance o' surveyor up 
country, after the old judge died. He 
cut their growth on his own account and 
done a sight o' tricks, and Madam dis- 
missed him, and would ha' jailed him 
but for pity o' his folks. I always 



wished she 'd done it ; 't would ha' 
stamped him plain, if he 'd seen the 
inside o' old York jail for a couple o' 
years. As 't was, he had his own story 
to tell, and made out how he was the 
injured one ; so there was some o' them 
fools that likes to be on the off side that 
went an' upheld him. Oh, Dickson 's 
smart, and some calls him pious, but I 
wish you 'd seen him the day Madam 
Wallin'ford sent for him to speak her 
mind ! That mornin' we was sailin' out 
o' Porchmouth, I see him watch the 
young man as if he was layin' for him 
like a tiger ! There he is now, comin' 
out o' the cabin. I guess the cap'n 's 
been rakiri' him fore an' aft. He hates 
him ; an' Simpson hates him, too, but 
not so bad. Simpson don't jibe with the 
cap'n hisself , so he demeans himself to 
hark to Dickson more 'n he otherwise 
would. Lord, what a cur'ous world this 
is!" 

" What 's that n'ise risin' out o' the 
fo'c's'le now, Cooper ? Le' 's go see ! " 
and the two old comrades made haste to 
go below. 

Paul Jones gave a hearty sigh, as he 
sat alone in his cabin, and struck his 
fist into the empty air. He also could 
hear the sound of a loud quarrel from 
the gun deck, and for a moment in- 
dulged a fierce hope that somebody 
might be well punished, or even killed, 
just to lessen the number of citizens in 
this wrangling village with which he had 
put to sea. They had brought aboard 
all the unsettled rivalries and jealousies 
of a most independent neighborhood. 

He looked about him as he sat ; then 
rose and impatiently closed one of his 
lockers where there was an untidy fold of 
crumpled clothing hanging out. What 
miserable surroundings and conditions 
for a man of inborn fastidiousness and 
refinement of nature ! 

Yet this new ship, so fast growing to- 
ward the disgusting squalor of an old 
one ; these men, with their cheap sus- 



100 



The Tory Lover. 



picions and narrow ambitions, were the 
strong tools ready to his hand. 'T was 
a manly crew as crews go, and like- 
minded in respect to their country's 
wrongs. 

" I feel it in my breast that I shall 
some day be master in a great sea 
fight ! " said the little captain as he sat 
alone, while the Ranger labored against 
the waves, and the light of heroic en- 
durance came back to his eyes as he saw 
again the splendid vision that had ever 
led him on. 

" Curse that scoundrel Dickson ! " 
and his look darkened. " Patience, pa- 
tience ! If I were a better sleeper, I 
could face everything that can come in 
a man's day ; I could face the devil 
himself. The wind 's in the right quar- 
ter now, and the sea 's going down. I '11 
go on deck and give all hands some grog, 
I '11 give it them myself ; the poor fel- 
lows are cold and wet, and they serve 
me like men. We 're getting past the 
worst," and again Paul Jones fell to 
studying his charts as if they were love 
letters writ by his lady's hand. 

Cooper and Hanscom had come be- 
low to join the rest of their watch, and 
still sat side by side, being old shipmates 
and friends. There was an easy sort 
of comfort in being together. Just now 
they spoke again in low voices of young 
Mr. Wallingford. 

" Young master looks wamble-cropped 
to me," said Hanscom. "Don't fancy 
privateerin' so well as ridin' a blood horse 
on Porchmouth parade, and bein' courted 
by the Tory big-bugs. Looks wintry in 
the face to me." 

" Lord bless us, when he 's old 's we 
are, he'll 1'arn that spring al'ays gets 
round again long 's a creatur' 's alive," 
answered Cooper, who instinctively gave 
a general turn to the discussion. " Ary 
thing that 's livin' knows its four sea- 
sons, an' I 've long maintained that after 
the wust o' winter, spring usu'lly doos 
come follerin' right on." 



"I don't know but it's so," agreed 
his mate politely. Cooper would have 
these fanciful notions, while Hanscom 
was a plain-spoken man. 

" What I 'd like to know," said he, 
" yes, what I 'd like to ascertain, is what 
young Squire Wallin'f ord ever come for ; 
't ain't in his blood to fight on our side, 
an' he 's too straight-minded to play the 
sneak. Also, he never come from cow- 
ardice. No, I can't make it out noway. 
Sometimes folks mistakes their duty, 
and risks their all. Bain't spyin' round 
to do no hurt, is he ? or is he ? " 

There was a sharp suggestion in the 
way this question was put, and Cooper 
turned fiercely upon his companion. 

" Hunscom, I be ashamed of you ! " 
he said scornfully, and said no more. 
There was a dull warmth of color in his 
hard, sea-smitten face ; he was an elderly, 
quiet man, with a round, pleasant coun- 
tenance, unaltered in the worst of wea- 
ther, and a look of kindly tolerance. 

" There 's b'en some consid'able 
changin' o' sides in our neighborhood, 
as you know," he said, a few moments 
later, in his usual tone. " Young Wal- 
lin'ford went to school to Master Sulli- 
van, and the old master 1'arnt everybody 
he could 1'arn to be honest an' square, 
to hold by their word, an' be afeard o' 
nothin'." 

"Pity 'twas that Dickson couldn't 
ha' got a term o' such schoolin'," said 
Hanscom, as they beheld that shipmate's 
unwelcome face peering down the com- 
panion. 

" Sometimes I wish I was to home 
again," announced Cooper, in an unex- 
pected fit of despondency. "I don' 
know why ; 't ain't usual with me to 
have such feelin's in the outset of a 
v'y'ge. I grow sicker every day o' this 
flat, strivin' sea. I was raised on a good 
hill. I don' know how I ever come to 
f oiler the sea, anyway ! " 

The forecastle was a forlorn abiding 
place at best, and crowded at any hour 



The Tory Lover. 



101 






almost past endurance. The one hint 
of homeliness and decency was in the 
well-made sea chests, which had not 
been out of place against a steadier wall 
in the farmhouses whence most of them 
had come. They were of plain wood, 
with a touch of art in their rude carv- 
ing ; many of them were painted dull 
green or blue. There were others with 
really handsome escutcheons of wrought 
iron, and all were graced with fine turk's- 
heads to their rope handles, and every 
ingenuity of sailors' fancywork. 

There was a grumbling company of 
able seamen, their owners, who had no 
better place to sit than the chest tops, 
or to stretch at idle length with these 
treasuries to lean against. The cold sea 
was nearer to a man than when he was 
on deck and could reassure himself of 
freedom by a look at the sky. The 
hammocks were here and there sagging 
with the rounded bulk of a sleeping 
owner, and all jerked uneasily as the 
vessel pitched and rolled by turns. The 
air was close and heavy with dampness 
and tobacco smoke. 

At this moment the great sea boots 
of Simon Staples were seen descending 
from the deck above, and stumbling dan- 
gerously on the slippery straight ladder. 

" Handsomely, handsomely," urged a 
spectator, with deep solicitude. 

" She 's goin' large now, ain't she ? 
How 's she headin' now ? " asked a man 
named Grant. 

" She 's full an' by, an' headin' east 
by south half east, same 's we struck 
out past the Isles o' Shoals," was the 
mirthful answer. " She can't keep to 
nothin', an' the cap'n 's got to make an- 
other night on 't. But she 's full an' by, 
just now, all you lazy larbowlines," he 
repeated cheerfully, at last getting his 
head down under decks as his foot found 
the last step. " She 's been on a good 
leadin' wind this half hour back, an' 
he 's got the stu'n'sails set again ; 't is 
all luff an' touch her, this v'y'ge." 

There was a loud groan from the lis- 



teners. The captain insisted upon 
spreading every rag the ship could stag- 
ger under, and while they admired his 
persistent daring, it was sometimes too 
much for flesh and blood. 

Staples was looking ruefully at his 
yarn mittens. They were far beyond 
the possibility of repair, and he took off 
first one and then the other of these cher- 
ished reminders of much logging experi- 
ence, and, sitting on his sea chest, began 
to ravel what broken gray yarn was left 
and to wind it into a ball. 

" Goin' to knit you another pair ? " 
inquired Hanscom. " That 's clever ; 
empl'y your idle moments." 

" Mend up his stockin's, you fool ! " 
explained Grant, who was evidently 
gifted with some sympathetic imagina- 
tion. 

" I wish they was thumbs up on the 
stakes o' my old wood-sled," said Sta- 
ples. " There, when I 'in to sea I wish 
's how I was lumberin', an' when I 'm 
in the woods I 'm plottin' how to git to 
sea again ; ain't no suitin' of me neither 
way. I al'ays wanted to be aboard a 
fast sailer, an' here I be thrashin' along, 
an' lamentin' 'cause my mittins is wore 
out the fust fortnight." 

" My ! I wish old Master Hackett that 
built her could see how she runs ! " he 
exclaimed next moment, as if a warm 
admiration still had power to cheer him. 
" I marked her lines for a beauty the 
day I see her launched : 't was what 
drove me here. There was plenty 
a-watchin' her on Langdon's Island that 
hoped she 'd stick in the stays, but she 
took the water like a young duck." 

" He 'd best not carry so much sail 
when she 's clawin' to wind'ard close- 
hauled," growled James Chase, an old 
Nantucket seaman, with a warning shake 
of the head. " 'T won't take much to 
lay her down, I can tell him ! I never 
see a ship drove so, in my time. Lord 
help every soul aboard if she wa'n't so 
weatherly ! " 

Fernald and Sherburne, old Ports^ 



102 



The Tory Lover. 



mouth sailors, wagged their sage heads 
in solemn agreement ; but William 
Young, a Dover man, with a responsible 
look, was waiting with some impatience 
for Chase to stand out of the poor sup- 
ply of light that came down the narrow 
hatchway. Young was reading an old 
copy of the New Hampshire Gazette 
that had already been the solace of every 
reading man aboard. 

" What in time 's been the matter 
amongst ye ?" Staples now inquired, with 
interest. " I heard as how there was a 
fuss goin' down below ; ain't ary bully- 
raggin' as I can see ; dull as meetin' ! " 
Han scorn and Cooper looked up eagerly ; 
some of the other men only laughed for 
answer ; but Chase signified that the 
trouble lay with their messmate Star- 
buck, who appeared surly, and sat with 
his back to the company. He now 
turned and displayed a much-disfigured 
countenance, but said nothing. 

" What 's the cap'n about now ? " Chase 
hastened to inquire pointedly. 

"He's up there a-cunnin' the ship," 
answered Staples. " He 's workin' the 
life out o' Grosvenor at the wheel. I 
just come from the maintop ; my arms 
aches as if they 'd been broke with a 
crowbar. I lost my holt o' the life line 
whilst we was settin' the stu'n's'l there 
on the maintops'l yard, an' I give me a 
dreadful wrench. He had n't ought to 
send them green boys to such places, 
neither ; pore little Johnny Downes was 
makin' out to do his stent like a man, 
but the halyards got fouled in the jewel 
blocks, an' for all he 's so willin'-hearted 
the tears was a-runnin' down his cheeks 
when he come back. I was skeert the 
wind 'd blow him off like a whirligig off 
a stick, an' I spoke sharp to him so 's to 
brace him, an' give him a good boxed 
ear when I got him in reach. He was 
about beat, an' half froze anyway ; his 
fingers looked like the p'ints o' parsnips. 
When he got back he laid right over 
acrost the cap. I left him up there 
a-clingin' on." 



" He worked as handsome a pair o' 
man-rope knots as I ever see, settin' 
here this mornin'," said Cooper com- 
passionately. " He '11 make a good 
smart sailor, but he needs to grow ; he 's 
dreadful small to send aloft in a spell o' 
weather. The cap'n don't save himself, 
this v'y'ge, nor nobody else." 

" Come, you 'd as good 's hear what 
Starbuck 's b'en saying," said Chase, with 
a wink. He had been waiting impa- 
tiently for this digression to end. 

"That spry -. tempered admiral o' 
yourn don't know how to treat a crew ! " 
Starbuck burst forth, at this convenient 
opportunity. " Some on us gits a whack 
ivery time he parades the deck. He 's 
re'lly too outdacious for decent folks. 
This arternoon I was a-loungin' on the 
gratin's an' got sort o' drowsin' off, an' 
I niver heared him comin' nor knowed 
he was there. Along he come like 
some upstropelous poppet an' give me a 
cuff side o' my head. I dodged the 
next one, an* spoke up smart 'fore I 
knowed what I was doin'. 'Damn ye, 
le' me be ! ' says I, an' he fetched me an- 
other on my nose here; most stunded 
me. 

" ' I '11 1'arn ye to make yourself sca'ce ! 
Keep to the port-hand side where ye be- 
long ! Remember you 're aboard a inan- 
o'-war ! ' says he, hollerin like a crowin' 
pullet. ' 'T ain't no fishin' smack ! Go 
forrard ! Out o' the way with ye ! ' says 
he, same 's I was a stray dog. I run to 
the side, my nose was a-bleedin' so, an' I 
fumbled after somethin' to serve me for 
a hankicher. 

" ' Here 's mine,' says he, ' but you 've 
got to understand there 's discipline on 
this frigate,' says he. Joseph Fernald 
knows where I was," continued the suf- 
ferer ; " you see me, Joseph, when you 
come past. 'T wa'n't larboard nor star- 
board ; 't was right 'midships, 'less I may 
have rolled one way or t'other. I could 
ha' squinched him so all the friends he 'd 
ever needed 'd be clargy an' saxon, an' 
then to pass me his linning hankicher 's 






The Tory Lover. 



103 



if I was a young lady ! I dove into my 
pockets an' come upon this old piece o' 
callamink I 'd wropped up some 'baccy 
in. I never give a look at him ; I d' 
know but he gallded me more when he 
was pleasant 'n when he fetched me the 
clip. I ketched up a Iingum-vita3 mar- 
linspike I see by me an' took arter hinio 
I should ha' hit him good, but he niver 
turned to look arter me, an' I come to 
reason. If I 'd had time, I 'd ha' hit 
him, if I 'd made the rest o' this v'y'ge 
in irons." 

" Lord sakes ! don't you bluster no 
more ! " advised old Mr. Cooper sooth 
ingly, with a disapproving glance at the 
pleased audience. "Shipmasters like 
him ain't goin' to ask ye every mornin' 
how seafarin' agrees with ye. He ain't 
goin' to treat hisself nor none on us like 
passengers. He ain't had three hours' 
sleep a night sence this v'y'ge begun. 
He 's been studyin' his charts this day, 
with his head set to 'em on the cabin 
table 's if they showed the path to hea- 
ven. They was English charts, too, 'long 
by Bristol an' up there in the Irish Sea. 
I see 'em through the skylight." 

" I '11 bate he 's figurin' to lay outside 
some o' them very ports an' cut out some 
han'some prizes," said Falls, one of the 
gunners, looking down out of his ham- 
mock. Falls was a young man full of 
enthusiasm, who played the fiddle. 

" You '11 find 't will be all glory for 
him, an' no prizes for you, my young 
musicianer ! " answered Starbuck, who 
was a discouraged person by nature. 
Now that he had a real grievance his 
spirits seemed to rise. " Up hammocks 
all ! Show a leg ! " he gayly ordered 
the gunner. 

" Wall, I seldom seen so good a navi- 
gator as the cap 'n in my time," insisted 
Staples. " He knows every man's duty 
well 's his own, an' that he knows to a 
maracle." 

" I '11 bate any man in this fo'c's'le 
that he 's a gre't fighter ; you wait an' 
see the little wasp when he 's gittin' into 



action ! " exclaimed Chase, who had been 
with Paul Jones on the Alfred. " He 
knows no fear an' he sticks at nothin' ! 
You hold on till we 're safe in Channel, 
an' sight one o' them fat-bellied old West 
Injymen lo'ded deep an' headed up for 
London. Then you '11 see Gre't Works 
in a way you niver expected." 

This local allusion was not lost upon 
most members of the larboard watch, 
and Starbuck's wrongs, with the increas- 
ing size of his once useful nose, were 
quite disregarded in the hopeful laughter 
which followed. 

" Hand me the keerds," said one of 
the men lazily. " Falls, there, knows a 
couple o' rale queer tricks." 

" You keep 'em dowsed ; if he thinks 
we ain't sleepin' or eatin', so 's to git our 
courage up," said Staples, "he'll have 
every soul on us aloft. Le' 's set here 
where 't 's warm an' put some kecklin' on 
Starbuck ; the cap'n 's 'n all places to 
once, with eyes like gimblets, an' the 
wind 's a-blowin' up there round the lub- 
ber holes like the mouth o' hell ! " 

Chase, the Nantucket sailor, looked at 
him, with a laugh. 

" What a farmer you be ! " he ex- 
claimed. " Makes me think of a country- 
man, shipmate o' mine on the brig Polly 
Dunn. We was whaling in the South 
Seas, an' it come on to blow like fury ; we 
was rollin' rails under, an' I was well 
skeert myself ; feared I could n't keep 
my holt; him an' me was on the fore 
yard together. He looked dreadful easy 
an' pleasant. I thought he 'd be skeert 
too, if he knowed enough, an' I kind o' 
swore at the fool an' axed him what he 
was a-thinkin' of. Why, 't is the 20th 
o' May,' says he : * all the caows goes to 
pastur' to-day, to home in Eppin' ! ' ' 

There was a cheerful chuckle from 
the audience. Grant alone looked much 
perplexed. 

" Why, 't is the day, ain't it ? " he pro- 
tested. " What be you all a-laughin' 
at?" 

At this moment there was a strange 



104 



In the Last Days of the Confederacy. 



lull; the wind fell, and the Ranger 
stopped rolling, and then staggered as if 
she balked at some unexpected danger. 
One of the elder seamen gave an odd 
warning cry. A monstrous hammer 
seemed to strike the side, and a great 
wave swept over as if to bury them for- 
ever in the sea. The water came pour- 



ing down and flooded the forecastle 
knee-deep. There was an outcry on 
deck, and an instant later three loud 
knocks on the scuttle. 

" All the larboard watch ahoy ! " 
bawled John DougalL " Hear the news, 
can't ye ? All hands up ! All hands on 
deck ! " 

Sarah Orne Jewett. 



(To be continued.) 



IN THE LAST DAYS OF THE CONFEDERACY. 



IN April, 1865, my home was in Cum- 
berland County, Virginia, near what, be- 
fore the days of railroads, had been the 
old stage road between Richmond and 
Lynchburg. There were then left in the 
whole state but four counties which had 
neither been reached by raiders nor occu- 
pied by the contending armies : Patrick 
and Henry in the southwestern part, and 
Buckingham and Cumberland near the 
centre south of the James River. At the 
approach of the enemy, the planters on 
the north side of the river ferried their 
valuable horses and other stock across to 
the last two counties, whence Sheridan's 
troopers derisively nicknamed them 
" the horse heaven." 

Again and again had we been threat- 
ened, and once narrowly saved by a 
spring freshet which hindered Sheridan 
and Custer from laying their pontoons 
across James River, Every one felt 
that the " anaconda folds " were tight- 
ening, and we looked forward helplessly 
to the fast approaching time when we 
too, whose county had been a favorite 
harbor for refugees, should be left with- 
in the enemy's lines, an enemy from 
whom we had been persistently taught 
that we were to expect no mercy. On 
Monday morning, April 3, a neighbor 
sent to ask the loan of our buggy, to take 
to the railway station her son, a surgeon 



on duty at Richmond, who had been at 
home on a brief leave of absence. Early 
in the afternoon came word that he had 
returned, bringing tidings that Rich- 
mond had been evacuated the previous 
night, and that Lee's army was in full 
retreat. The wildest rumors were afloat, 
all of them pregnant with disaster, death, 
and defeat. That night the advance 
guard of the treasure train arrived, on 
its way to North Carolina, and from mid- 
night until early dawn its wagons thun- 
dered across the bridge at the foot of the 
hill on which our house was built. 

Tuesday, our breakfast table was kept 
standing from six o'clock, the hour of the 
early breakfast given to the half dozen 
officers quartered under our roof the 
night before, until one P. M., when it 
was cleared for early dinner. During 
the day over forty commissioned officers 
sat down thereto ; of the soldiers whom 
we fed outside no count was taken, and 
I arn unable even to guess at their num- 
ber. From the officers we learned that 
the retreating army trains had been divid- 
ed into three branches ; or rather, four. 
Jefferson Davis had fled, taking the pub- 
lic documents, by railroad to Danville, 
and a provision train had been sent, by 
the Danville Railroad, also, to meet Lee's 
army at Amelia Court House. That 
Davis, in his panic, had taken this train 



In the Last Days of the Confederacy. 



105 



on to Danville, leaving the army to al- 
most certain starvation, we heard later 
on, when the end had come. The quar- 
termaster's train had gone in the wake 
of the army, through Amelia, by way of 
Jetersville; the ordnance and hospital 
train was in front of the army ; while 
the treasure train, as already stated, had 
come our way. 

Among our guests was Major Isaac 
Carrington, provost marshal of Rich- 
mond, with some of his staff, and the 
firing of the city was naturally among 
the chief topics of conversation. The 
version which he gave may be regarded 
as official, and I believe has never yet 
been in print : 

There had been a heated discussion 
on the subject in a council held by the 
Confederate Cabinet and generals. Gen- 
eral Lee had opposed the measure, on 
the score of the suffering which it must 
necessarily entail on the crowded town. 
Davis urged it strongly, and cited the 
examples of the Dutch who cut their 
dikes, and the Russians who fired Mos- 
cow. The cotton and tobacco stored in 
the government warehouses an im- 
mense amount would go far to defray 
the Federal war debt : were they to be 
tamely surrendered ? This last argu- 
ment carried the vote. The warehouses 
were ordered to be burned, and to Ma- 
jor Carrington was assigned the duty of 
executing the order. The fire brigade 
was called out, and every possible pre- 
caution taken to confine the fire to these 
warehouses. The Home Guard, a mili- 
tia composed of old men and boys, with 
the aid of a small detachment of regu- 
lar soldiers, were, at the same time, de- 
tailed to break open the liquor stores in 
the city and empty the liquor into the 
gutters, in order to mitigate as far as 
possible the horrors of the expected sack. 

The work was begun according to pro- 
gramme ; but its projectors had reck- 
oned without their hosts. Out from 
every slum and alley poured the scum 
of the city, fugitives from justice, de- 



serters, etc. The troops were knocked 
down over the barrels they were striving 
to empty, and a free fight ensued. Men, 
women, and children threw themselves 
flat on the pavement and lapped the 
liquor from the gutters ; or, seizing axes, 
broke into any and every store they 
chose. The fire caught the inflammable 
fluids, and ran in a stream of flame along 
the streets. The firemen abandoned their 
hose, and joined the mob in the work of 
wholesale plunder ; and riot and rob- 
bery held high carnival, while the flames 
raged without let or hindrance, until the 
morning, when the Union army entered 
quietly and decorously, and at once set 
to work to extinguish the conflagration, 
thus presenting the spectacle, unique 
in history, of a besieging army occupy- 
ing a town, and, instead of harrowing 
the residents, at once proceeding to re- 
lieve their sufferings from fire and fam- 
ine. 

Major Turner, commandant of Libby 
Prison, was among our visitors, on Tues- 
day morning. He had spent the night 
and breakfasted at the house of a neigh- 
boring planter. My sister's husband, 
the adjutant general of the cavalry, at 
that time with Hampton in the south, 
was by birth a Philadelphian, and his 
immediate relatives were all officers in 
the Union army. His brother, a cap- 
tain on Custer's staff, had some months 
previous, to use his own expression, been 
" picked up by General Heath, while re- 
connoitring," and sent to the Libby. 
Hearing of his capture, my sister at 
once sent him a box of eatables and 
some underclothing. The box reached 
Richmond after his exchange, which, 
through his brother's influence, had been 
promptly effected. In accordance with 
his parting instructions, the supplies were 
delivered to his messmates. It was to 
remind Mrs. McC. (my sister) of this, 
and to furnish her with the names of 
the Federal officers who had thus inad- 
vertently been made to break our bread, 
that Major Turner called, thinking that 



106 



In the Last Days of the Confederacy. 



she might find the incident useful when 
left within the Union lines. 

He seemed to me nervous and anxious, 
perhaps because I thought he had good 
cause to be so, but the testimony of oth- 
ers is that he was remarkably cool and 
collected. My father, by virtue of his 
more than threescore years, urged him 
to lose no time in making his escape, since 
from his position he was doubly obnox- 
ious to the enemy. 

Major Turner insisted, however, with 
evident sincerity, that he had no special 
reason for apprehension. He had, he 
said, merely done his duty in the office, 
which he had never sought, to which 
the Confederate government had called 
him. He had always tried to be kind 
to the prisoners under his charge ; for 
the meagre rations served to them he 
was in no wise to blame, a govern- 
ment which could not feed its soldiers 
could scarcely be expected to feast its 
prisoners. His fellow officers did not 
agree with him in his view of the case, 
and joined my father in his advice. 
When next we heard from him he had 
been sent to the Dry Tortugas, and 
news of his death soon followed. 

Later in the day came General Walk- 
er and his quartermaster. His brigade 
was without rations ; what supplies had 
we on hand ? He was shown papers 
certifying that we had already respond- 
ed to General Lee's appeal, and put 
ourselves on half rations in order to 
feed the army at Petersburg. " In that 
case," he said, " we have no right to 
take more ; but," he pleaded, " my men 
are absolutely starving." Such a plea 
was not to be resisted, and so our slen- 
der stores were again divided, though 
we knew that we ourselves must go 
hungry in consequence. Next came a 
pitiful appeal from a party of officers 
trying to rejoin their command. Their 
horses had not been fed for thirty-six 
hours, and had fallen, exhausted, almost 
at our gates. These too were helped 
and sent on, the men walking to rest the 



horses ; and so the train passed. It re- 
minded me of nothing so much as a fu- 
neral procession. 

Wednesday morning was damp and 
cloudy, though no rain fell. Before 
daybreak we heard the booming of can- 
non far away to the southeast, moving 
slowly toward the west, in the arc of an 
ellipse, until on Sunday morning, after 
a pause of some hours, there came a 
final volley, the salute fired for Lee's 
surrender. On Wednesday, also, the 
stream of stragglers began, hungry-eyed, 
ragged, and footsore, begging, one and 
all, for the food which we had not to 
give them. The flood which had swept 
away Lee's dams at Petersburg had 
broken our milldam, and the mill wheels 
stood idle. We had given away corn 
and meal freely, until little was left for 
ourselves. We had ordered supplies 
from Richmond some three weeks pre- 
vious, and could only hope that the flat- 
boat which was bringing them had left 
the James and entered our little river 
before the enemy's cavalry had over- 
hauled it, a hope destroyed later on by 
the arrival of the free negro who owned 
the boat, with the news that Sheridan's 
troopers had sunk craft and cargo to the 
bottom of the river. " I could er stood 
it better," he said, " if dey had er took- 
en en took de t'ings fur demselves ; but 
ter see all dat good vittles jes' bodily 
'stroyed, sah, it hu't my feelin's, sah, it 
p'intedly did." 

Wednesday afternoon we had a nota- 
ble caller, a handsome fellow in a brand- 
new Confederate uniform, with a cap- 
tain's bars on his collar. He asked for 
Mrs. McC. by name, claimed to be well 
acquainted with her husband, the major, 
and said that he had been a scout at 
Stuart's headquarters. He knew the 
names of the whole staff, claimed String- 
fellow as a brother in craft, and talked 
of officers and men as near and dear 
friends. I took an instant antipathy to 
him, principally, I must confess, because 
he called me " missy ; " but my clear- 



In the, Last Days of the Confederacy. 



107 



sighted father distrusted him on better 
grounds, and gave me a hint not to be 
too communicative. He thirsted for in- 
formation, and, won by his praise of her 
husband and his evident familiarity 
with army matters, my sister was ready 
to tell him all she knew. Then it was 
that, for the only time in my life, I told 
falsehood after falsehood, deliberately 
and unblushingly. I contradicted her 
statements flatly : it was the ordnance, 
and not the treasure train, that had 
passed our way ; the treasure had gone 
to Danville by rail with Davis. In the 
midst of my fabrications my father came 
in, and I gave myself up for lost. The 
unpardonable sin, in his eyes, was false- 
hood, and he had no patience whatever 
with prevarication. But I stuck to my 
story stubbornly, determined to " die in 
the last ditch," even when she appealed 
to him to corroborate her account of the 
matter. I could scarcely believe my ears 
when he threw his weight into my false 
balance. " I think S. is right, my daugh- 
ter ; you know her memory is unusually 
good, and you were out of the room a 
great deal yesterday, while she was pre- 
sent nearly all the time." Then my sis- 
ter backed down, and went off to write 
a hasty note to her husband, to be sent 
by the stranger, who professed to be on 
his way to join Johnston, and I was left 
to perjure myself still further in the ser- 
vice of the Southern Confederacy. The 
major never received his letter, and he 
and others afterwards identified our 
friend as one of Sheridan's most trusted 
scouts. 

As I look back to those days, they 
appear as a horrible nightmare. We lay 
down at night in our clothes, not daring 
to go regularly to bed, for fear lest we 
might be roused at any hour by the 
blaze of our burning mills. I had a 
small five - shooter, which I wore con- 
stantly, and thus felt that, to some de- 
gree, I held my fate in my own hands ; 
but it is not an exhilarating conscious- 
ness to know that at any moment you 



may be called upon to save yourself 
from dishonor by taking your own life. 
Fortunately for us, the armies were kept 
well together, and the stragglers were 
too cowed and exhausted to be danger- 
ous ; but, for all that, my feminine fancy 
for gilt braid and brass buttons died a 
violent death, and I never see a military 
uniform without recalling the sickening 
dread of that time. 

Ours was apprehension, not actual 
suffering, and others fared far worse. It 
was almost by accident that I was at 
home during that terrible first week in 
April, instead of being, as I had planned, 
on a visit to an intimate friend, whose 
home lay directly in the line of retreat 
and pursuit. The last battle of the war, 
that of Sailor's Creek, was fought two 
miles away, on a corner of her father's 
plantation, and for four days the house 
was filled with Federal soldiers, coming 
and going. At one time kerosene oil 
was poured on the floors preparatory to 
burning the house, on the ground that it 
afforded shelter for Confederate sharp- 
shooters, an intention which, however, 
fortunately for the family, was not car- 
ried out. 

When it first became certain that the 
armies were coming, the owner of the 
plantation made ready for them by emp- 
tying the valuable contents of his liquor 
closet into the river, -^ a measure which 
did little good, since his more avaricious 
neighbors hid their liquor, instead of 
destroying it, and the soldiers had no 
difficulty in finding plenty in the vicin- 
ity. Such provisions and valuables as 
could be hastily concealed were hidden 
with the aid of a faithful slave, and the 
women and children of the family, four 
generations, grandmother, mother, 
daughter, and grandchildren, with their 
governess and her sister, were assem- 
bled in one room, which as far as possible 
was prepared for a siege. Their num- 
bers were more than quadrupled when, 
early in the first day, between forty and 
fifty refugees, women and children from 



108 



In the Last Days of the Confederacy. 



the wagon train, which had been raided 
at Sailor's Creek, rushed in, tired and di- 
sheveled and draggled, begging for shel- 
ter, which was freely given ; no one in 
need was ever turned away from that 
hospitable door. The refugees were 
packed into the chamber with the fam- 
ily, and, as it proved, the crowd was in 
itself a means of safety. As one of the 
young ladies said afterwards : " Nobody 
could get into the door ; we were packed 
like herrings. Now and then drunken 
soldiers would stagger to door or window 
and peep in, but there were so many of 
us that they made no attempt to enter. 
Mother had thought we could make out 
with three beds, by close squeezing ; but 
after the refugees came they seemed like 
nothing. We put two of the mattresses on 
the floor, and then took turns in lying 
down, six and eight of us on a bed at 
once." The food stored in a closet for 
the family was merely a bite among so 
many ; and after it gave out they lived 
on Irish potatoes, handed in through the 
windows by the faithful slaves, and roast- 
ed in the ashes of the fire, kept up by 
wood supplied in the same way. For 
three days they had nothing else to eat. 
The family plate was concealed in the 
cellar, under a huge pile of potatoes. 
The soldiers cleared the premises of 
everything else eatable, but left the po- 
tatoes untouched, in spite of the fact 
that the cellar door stood wide open, 
and the headman, who had hidden the 
silver, cordially invited them to help 
themselves. " I thought ef I did n' pear 
to kyar 'bout 'um, dey would n' 'spicion 
nothin','' he said afterwards. Our own 
silver was tied up in a stout bag, and 
dropped at midnight into the well. This 
well had been dug in the hill itself by a 
former owner of the place, who declared 
that at any cost he would have water 
close at hand. He dug ninety feet, and 
then struck a perennial stream of pure, 
cold water, which at its normal height 
was about fifteen feet deep. There the 
silver lay, like truth, until the next fall, 



before we could secure the services of a 
well-cleaner willing and able to go to the 
bottom in search of it. 

The telegraph poles were down, the 
mails stopped, and it was not until Mon- 
day, April 10, that Confederate cavalry- 
men, returning on parole, brought us 
tidings of the surrender at Appomat- 
tox Court House. First, of course, was 
the crushing sense of defeat, the helpless 
and hopeless looking forward to confisca- 
tion and possible exile ; and, having no 
expectation of amnesty, next to that 
came astonishment at the liberal terms 
which Grant had accorded. The Con- 
federates, men as well as officers, owned 
their horses ; and only a cavalryman, 
whose steed has for years been his com- 
rade and best friend, knows what that 
sentence, " Let them keep their horses," 
meant to men who had fought to the 
bitter end, and had looked for no clem- 
ency from their conquerors. There was 
much wild talk of joining Johnston in 
North Carolina, and retreating thence 
to the Trans-Mississippi, among those 
who had come away unparoled, at the 
first knowledge that the surrender was 
inevitable. Others took a more practi- 
cal view of the situation. " I tell you," 
said one ingenuous lad, " the Southern 
Confederacy has gone up the spout, and 
I 'm goin' home to plant corn." 

We did not realize fully, however, 
that, so far as we Virginians were con- 
cerned, the end had come, until the next 
day, when General Fitz Lee and his 
staff stopped to rest and water their 
horses, on their way they scarcely knew 
whither. We set before them the best 
we had for lunch ; but while the mem- 
bers of his staff ate like hungry men, 
the general scarcely tasted food, and 
sat with his head in his hands, as one 
who has suffered a crushing blow. Only 
once did he really rouse himself, when 
my sister spoke bitterly of the strag- 
gling from the ranks of our army ; then 
his eyes flashed, and his voice took on 
its old tone. "Madam," he said, "the 



In the, Last Days of the Confederacy. 



109 



men were not to blame. They fought 
like devils, until they were faint with 
hunger, and their officers sent them in 
quest of food. Our rations from Ame- 
lia Court House to Appomattox were 
an ear of corn a day apiece for the 
men ; nothing for the horses" None 
of the party had been paroled, and most 
of the staff were hoping to make their 
way by bridle paths to North Carolina 
and Johnston. They implored their 
leader to go with them. " We have 
surely the right to regard ourselves as 
escaped prisoners," urged one, a young 
lieutenant, whose story, as he told it to 
us in his despair, was a pitiful one. He 
was from West Virginia, and his family, 
one and all, were strong Unionists. He 
had been a Lexington cadet, and had 
entered the Confederate army under 
age and against his father's positive 
command ; and now there seemed no 
choice for him but that of joining John- 
ston, or the role of the prodigal son 
with apparently little chance of success. 
Some of the officers, with my father's 
aid, were tracing the route on a large 
map of the state, spread out on the pi- 
ano, through Buckingham and Amherst, 
and so, by way of the mountains, to the 
desired goal, only to prove clearly that 
there was barely a chance of escape. 

Suddenly the general lifted his bowed 
head, and looked my father straight in the 
eyes. "What do you think?" he said. 

"You know best, general," was the 
answer ; "but if an old man may advise 
you, I think that your uncle is the best 
guide for us all in this strait. Moreover, 
it seems to me impossible that Johnston, 
hemmed in as he is between Grant and 
Sherman, can do otherwise than follow 
his example. If he cuts his way out, it 
must be at fearful loss of life." 

" Yes, I suppose you are right ; only 
I felt yesterday that I could not give 
up. Come, boys," and bidding us a 
hasty good-by, they rode away on the 
Farmville road. 

As soon as definite intelligence of the 



surrender reached us. my father called 
his slaves together and formally an- 
nounced to them that they were free. 
" I have no money," he told them, 
" and I cannot promise you wages ; 
but while you are free to go, you are 
also welcome to remain, and earn a 
living for yourselves and your children 
by your labor, until you can do better 
for yourselves, or I can do better for 
you." Like almost all the negroes in 
the country, they behaved admirably ; 
gave us no trouble, but remained and 
did their work as though there had 
been no change in our mutual relations. 
This pleasant state of affairs was soon 
interrupted. There came two men, one 
in the uniform of a United States ser- 
geant, the other a private, who curtly 
asked how our ex-slaves were conducting 
themselves. My father answered that 
they were behaving much better than we 
had any right to expect. 

" Do any of them talk of leaving ? " 
" Only one : a woman whose husband 
is headman on a plantation in another 
county, and who naturally wishes to be 
with him." 

" H'm ! let me see this woman." 
My father was about to accompany 
them to the cabin, when he was rudely 
repulsed. 

" We prefer to talk to her alone." 
A few moments later he heard screams, 
and he followed them to find the men 
whipping her brutally. Again and again 
he assured them that she had done no- 
thing whatever to deserve punishment, 
and vainly ordered them to desist. Af- 
ter a savage beating they left, and her 
stripes were dressed. Her sufferings 
were intense, and blacks and whites were 
alike indignant at the outrage. The 
same men went to various other places in 
the neighborhood, with the same results. 
No one ventured to oppose them, and 
their conduct was, as might have been 
expected, followed by more or less of a 
stampede among the colored people, who, 
suspecting their former owners, flocked 



110 



In the Last Days of the Confederacy. 



to the military stations for protection. 
We were never able to find out, still 
less to punish, the perpetrators of these 
high-handed outrages. The military 
authorities at Farmville disclaimed all 
knowledge of them, but made no effort 
to trace them ; and they disappeared as 
they had come, no one knew whither. 

To realize how well the negroes be- 
haved, it must be remembered that we 
were, for the time being, comparatively 
in their power. Cumberland lies in 
what is known as the Black District, 
where they outnumber the whites seven 
to one ; or, to give the exact figures by 
the census of 1860, there were six thou- 
sand five hundred people in the county, 
of whom less than nine hundred were 
white. In 1865 the fortunes of war had 
more than decimated the able-bodied 
white men, so that at any time, by a bold 
and simultaneous uprising, the blacks, 
had they been so disposed, might have 
blotted the whites out of existence. It 
was to this state of affairs, and the fears 
to which it gave birth, that the Ku- 
Klux Klan owed its origin. Whatever 
may have been the outrages of that so- 
ciety later on, and farther south, at first 
it represented a means of self-protection 
against numbers by working upon the 
superstitious fears of the negro. 

Sunday, April 16, brought us news of 
Lincoln's assassination. To us young- 
er folk the murder of the President of 
the United States was of little moment as 
compared with our own trials, a gate- 
post near by may hide a mountain in 
the distance, but our father took it 



sorely to heart. " It is the worst mis- 
fortune that was left to befall us," said 
he. " Lincoln was the one man in all 
the North who could well afford to be 
magnanimous, and I say it, not forget- 
ting Grant's leniency at Appomattox 
was the one man wholly inclined to be 
so. 'Sic semper tyrannis,' forsooth! 
What 's Virginia to Booth, or he to Vir- 
ginia ? and how should he serve her 
by cutting her throat.? " Months after- 
wards, when that wise gray head lay at 
rest under the sod, we appreciated its 
wisdom only too well. 

For the near future, so far as we per- 
sonally were concerned, the darkest 
hour was over. That we were under 
military rule seemed a little thing, after 
having been without any government at 
all, and in terror of our lives. When 
my brother-in-law, from whom for six 
weeks we had heard nothing, returned 
safe and sound, we were thankful indeed. 
He had surrendered with Johnston, and 
brought with him his share of the mili- 
tary stores which Sherman allowed John- 
ston to divide among his men, rather than 
risk a battle with an army at bay and 
strongly intrenched. Those who blamed 
Sherman for his liberality in conceding 
such terms took no thought of the lives 
saved on both sides ; still less of what 
those army stores, so little to the United 
States government, were to the beggared 
people among whom they were distrib- 
uted. To us, for example, the train of 
mules, the provisions, and the silver 
which the major brought home as his 
share meant salvation, if not from star- 
vation, at least from pinching want. 
Sara Matthews Handy. 




The Esmeralda Herders. 



THE ESMERALDA HERDERS. 



Ill 



Louis PAPEST laid his thumbed Shake- 
speare on the table, after many ineffec- 
tual attempts to read it, and said aloud 
in a speculative tone of voice, " Per- 
haps I 'd better try a game of solitaire." 

He spread the cards out before him 
with much care ; but the game proceeded 
slowly, for the reason that he seemed to 
have difficulty in recognizing the value 
of a card, staring at a three spot or a 
knave of clubs with uncomprehending 
eyes, as if he had never seen the like be- 
fore. All of which meant, of course, 
that the enterprising impresario of the 
Esmeralda ranch had something on his 
mind. 

Something was, indeed, so imperatively 
upon his mind that, after fifteen min- 
utes of uncomprehending devotion to his 
game, he gathered up his cards, and, put- 
ting them in their case, began to pace 
the floor of his room. He had, no doubt, 
plenty of troubles of a personal sort, if 
he had had the time to think about them. 
But his perplexity on this night was of 
another kind. The truth was, he stood 
face to face with the most vexatious prob- 
lem which had confronted him since he 
came down from San Francisco to look 
after eight thousand merinos for Leon- 
ard and Filbin. One year there had 
been an epidemic of acute tonsillitis, but 
he had nursed the men through that so 
successfully that not one grave on the 
wind-ravaged desert told the tale ; an- 
other season the sheep had been stricken 
with influenza, but that was weathered 
with the loss of a few hundred head ; 
and once, in the dead of the wet season, 
the season of black nights, a series 
of disastrous raids had been made by 
the Mexicans, in which nearly two thou- 
sand of the long-wooled sheep had been 
" cut out." 

Papin congratulated himself upon hav- 
ing met all of these difficulties with 



decision and a heart for the struggle. 
Neither he nor his men had faltered till 
order and normality were restored. But 
it was a different matter now. A mal- 
ady of more serious character than ton- 
sillitis had broken out among the men. 
It was homesickness, endemic, conta- 
gious, malignant homesickness. 

Three of the men were down in bed 
from sheer sullenness, and there was 
hardly a man about the place who would 
vouchsafe an intelligible and frank an- 
swer to a question. The home-madness 
was on them, and deeper each day grew 
their disgust for the desert, where the 
senseless sheep browsed and the rabid 
sun made its frantic course. 

It had come about naturally enough. 
The season had been unusually hot and 
dusty, and it seemed as if the sun grudged 
every hour which the night claimed for 
its own. The stars were well upon their 
way before the eyes of the herders could 
discover them, and the dawn was hustled, 
dry and breathless, over the mountains. 
They hardly caught a glimpse of her 
pale draperies before the day, swagger- 
ing and insolent, was there, holding her 
place with evil assurance. The quar- 
ters looked even more than usually un- 
inviting. Lee Hang, the Chinaman, was 
an evil fellow, careless and ill-natured, 
and things got at their worst under his 
management. It seemed as if the men 
breathed and ate dust. It was actually 
in their food. It was on their beds. 
They could not escape it ; the sky ap- 
peared to be blurred with it. They be- 
gan to see visions in the twilight hour, 
visions of trees beside running brooks, 
and dewy paths where women walked. 
The desert was womanless, and thereby 
doubly a desert. All of these things 
Papin reviewed in his weary mind. He 
wished more than he could say that some 
perfectly sane and disinterested person 



112 



The Esmeralda Herders. 



would come along, to whom he might ex- 
plain his perplexities. Perhaps he was 
a trifle anxious about his own poise. It 
had come to him once or twice that if 
there should be an hegira of the whole 
gang, the dogs would follow merrily, 
he, Papin, would have a good and 
legitimate excuse for ceasing to be fac- 
tor of the dreariest ranch in Southern 
California. And this thought, upon re- 
flection, did not seem to be just the sort 
which Leonard and Filbin would expect 
their manager to entertain. 

He was granted his wish for a com- 
panion much sooner than could possibly 
have been expected. 

The next afternoon, just as the west 
was getting red, along came a white-cov- 
ered wagon, driven by a coolie, and con- 
taining Mrs. Ambrose Herrick, wife of 
the manager for Stebbins of the 'Toinette 
ranch, with her baby and two maids. 

" I 've been up in the mountains all 
summer, Mr. Papin," she explained, 
when she had been lifted out of her 
roomy vehicle. "Mr. Herrick said it 
was n't fit for the sheep down here in 
midsummer. But I'm worn out with 
sunrise excursions and horseback parties 
and hops. I made up my mind that if 
the rest of you could stand it down here, 
we could. Besides," she added, some- 
what anxiously, "it's the middle of 
September. Don't you think Mr. Her- 
rick will forgive me for surprising him 
by my return ? " 

" I should think it would be an offense 
easy to overlook," answered Papin. 

" The first night we put up at Farns- 
worth's Inn, but there was no hope for a 
roof over our heads to-night unless we 
reached the Esmeralda. I hope you are 
not going to be inconvenienced. We '11 
put up with any sort of accommodation." 

" Don't you know you are conferring 
a favor, Mrs. Herrick ? Lee Hang will 
be tickled to death at sight of your coo- 
lie ; and the maids can have more admir- 
ers than they ever dreamed of, if they '11 
only consent to talk with my lonely fel- 



lows. The sight of women will do us 
all good." 

It was an enthusiastic welcome, as she 
had known that it would be. Papin made 
her pour the coffee at dinner, while he 
gave himself up to the enjoyment of an 
evanescent sense of domesticity. 

" I wish I could commend your im- 
pulsiveness, Mrs. Herrick," he said. 
" Herrick will certainly congratulate 
himself because of it. But the actual 
truth is that you have come back four 
weeks too soon. You have n't had a 
chance yet to learn what the Californian 
desert can do. Pity may sit in the hea- 
vens elsewhere, but not here. The 
world's hidden batteries may hold swift 
currents for others ; for us they have no- 
thing, not even the boon of swift de- 
struction." 

And he told her of the madness that 
had come upon the men. 

"They are preposterous children, 
Mrs. Herrick. If they were down with 
the fever, I might see some hope ahead. 
But they 're in the dumps, and it 's dan- 
gerous." 

" I suppose I am to take you seri- 
ously ? " 

" Quite seriously, madam. I have 
told them my best stories, and had the 
pain of seeing them fall flat. I have 
essayed jokes ; they might as well have 
been lamentations. I have played jigs 
on my violin, but I might better have 
devoted myself to funeral marches." 

The Chinese sweets had been served 
and eaten, and Mrs. Herrick's host led 
the way out to the gallery. 

They seated themselves comfortably 
in the low chairs, and Mrs. Herrick 
clasped her hands and watched the stars 
beginning to burn fervidly through the 
dust-laden atmosphere. 

" Our stars have all turned red," com- 
mented Papin ; " and as for our sunsets, 
they are bloody." 

" I *m afraid it was too soon to bring 
the baby back," Mrs. Herrick said anx- 
iously. 



The Esmeralda Herders. 



113 






A penetrating and imperative cry 
broke the stillness. 

" There is the baby now ! " She 
arose and ran to her chamber, returning 
with the little creature in her arms. 

" The maids are at dinner, so I 
thought I would bring him out here, Mr. 
Papin. I hope you don't mind." 

" A man who has seen only saddle- 
skinned herders with sun-bleached elf- 
locks for four months is not likely to ob- 
ject to this," was Papin's ardent reply. 

The baby was undressed, and its flesh 
showed the tint of a half - opened wild 
rose. Its shy azure eyes contemplated 
Papin curiously, and it finally reached 
out a moist and clinging hand and in- 
closed one of the impresario's fingers. 
It gave inarticulate, wild-bird cries ; and 
when the moon showed a florid face above 
the horizon, it stretched out its arms in 
longing for this celestial toy. 

"The immemorial aspiration of ba- 
bies," said Papin, really very much 
amused at the offended manner in which 
the baby buried its face in its mother's 
breast and wailed, when it found that 
the glorious object was not handed over 
to it. 

" Everything seems immemorial," Mrs. 
Herrick said, "the desert most of all." 

" I know what you mean," responded 
Papin. " I have felt it. The herders, 
how ancient is their vocation ! The 
sheep, they are of eld ! I believe these 
are the same flocks that the holy shep- 
herds tended ; the same ones that Phillis 
and Corydon piped to. And I, am I 
not the most ancient of all ? I, the man 
who does nothing, who waits for some 
event within his own soul, knowing it 
will never come ? " 

" I read Amiel's Journal while I was 
up in the hills," commented Mrs. Herrick. 

" Did you ? I started to read it, but 
I feared I might be trying to extenuate 
myself by means of its logic. It will 
make me melancholy if we talk of Amiel. 
See what a flush the moonlight has ! No 
one could call this a silver light." 

VOL. LXXXVII. NO. 519. 8 



" No ; it is red gold." 

A silence fell, a tribute to the beau- 
ty of the night. Then the baby grew 
restless, and Mrs. Herrick nuzzled it, and 
sent it to Banbury Cross and brought it 
back again. Somehow, all this gave a 
certain pang to Papin. It even embar- 
rassed him. He ventured a suggestion. 

" Mrs. Herrick, I wonder if you 
would have the great goodness to take 
the baby to the quarters and show him 
to the men ? You have no idea how 
they would appreciate it ! " 

u If any poor creature wants to see 
the baby, he must not be denied. It is 
really pitiable to me to think of the num- 
ber of persons in the world who have 
never seen the baby." She arose, laugh- 
ing and eager, and followed her host. 

Such of the herders as were not upon 
the night shift were sitting on benches 
without the house, looking off with un- 
anticipatory eyes toward the arching sky, 
when Victoria Herrick went out to them 
in her fragrant white garments, carrying 
her half-naked baby in her arms. The 
glorifying radiance of the night lit up 
her young face, elate with its maternal 
joy, picked out the rounded whiteness 
of her arm, and glimmered through the 
drifting draperies of her gown. 

The men stared from her to the babe, 
and something clinked hard and dry in 
their throats. Louis Papin had made a 
mistake, and he realized it. Still, the 
scene must be gone through with some- 
how. 

" We are all a trifle awkward with 
babies," he said, addressing Mrs. Her- 
rick, but speaking for the benefit of the 
men. " The only ones we see are at 
lambing time." 

Mrs. Herrick's clear and happy laugh 
rang out. 

" I like all kinds of babies, from pigs 
to monkeys," she said. " I am sure I 
should like little lambs. But this kind 
of a baby is my choice ! " And she 
snatched her little son close to her, fair- 
ly wreathing him about her neck, while 



114 



The Esmeralda Herders. 



the baby clutched at his mother's hair, 
and gave little shrieks as penetrating as 
the cries of a young jay. Then, under 
cover of the little one's happy clamor 
and the shy compliments of the men, 
Mrs. Herrick made good her retreat. 

" You should not have asked me to go 
out there ! " she cried reprovingly, when 
she was alone again with the impresario. 
" The baby quite upset them," 

Louis Papin looked at the glowing and 
beautiful face of the young woman, and 
smiled. 

" The vision was too fair," he admit- 
ted. " I would better have left them to 
a contemplation of the desert." 

When the serving women had made 
all comfortable for the night, and the 
lady and her little one were sleeping, 
Louis Papin paced the earthen floor of 
the gallery, and indulged himself in a 
luxury of reminiscence, which, unfortu- 
nately, he could confide to none. The 
great lack in his life was a friend. As 
star dust may float in space, luminous 
and unformed, so the friendliness of this 
man failed to find any creature to whom, 
it could attach itself. There had once 
been a man, out there at the Edge of 
Things, to whom Papin might have told 
many secrets, but somehow the chances 
had slipped by ; and just when he had 
reached the point where he might have 
unburdened his heart, the man had gone 
off toward the North, with exultant heart, 
following a phantom, and Papin saw him 
no more. 

To-night there came to him, with cruel 
tantali/ation, a vision of the home po- 
tential, the home to which he had not 
attained, and which, because of some in- 
herent hesitancy of his nature, compact- 
ed of delicacy and melancholy, he seemed 
never to be likely to achieve. As a convict 
in his cell dreams of joy, so this man, en- 
vironed by the desert, who had sucked 
solitude into his soul, permitted himself, 
for an hour, to picture eagerly the com- 
forts, the fine amenities, of a life about 
a hearthstone. He reproached himself 



for having been false to his generation. 
He blamed himself bitterly for what 
seemed, to-night, to be nothing better 
than criminal stupidity. He had turned 
his back, with silly cowardice, upon the 
beauty and fire of life, and, secure, as he 
had thought, from all assaults of passion 
or ambition, had fixed himself here in 
the wilderness among these sullen men. 
Perhaps never in his experience with 
them had he been so willing to apply un- 
pleasant epithets as he was this night. 
For a fortnight he had seen them slouch- 
ing about their tasks, cross to the dogs 
and brutal to the sheep. He had heard 
them using ugly words in the quarters. 

" We 're ripe for murder," he thought. 
" We must have a diversion of some na- 
ture. If I were to break my leg, even, 
it would have a bracing effect. But it 's 
absurd to hope for the unexpected. It 
is the expected that always happens out 
here." 

But for once he was unfair to the 
land of eternal heartbreak, for even while 
he complained a horse's hoofs pounded 
the earth with a message of haste. 

Papin heard. He was glad to hear 
anything. He hastened to the gallery, 
and by the starlight he saw approach- 
ing a mounted figure in headlong haste, 
and heard a short barking cry, the 
danger signal of the Esmeraldas. The 
factor sent back a cheerful shout. The 
unexpected was arriving, in the form 
of disaster, perhaps, but welcome never- 
theless. 

" The Salita gang ! " the man cried, 
as his horse plunged forward and was 
brought up on his haunches at the edge 
of the gallery. " They crept up by the 
arroyo and shot into the crowd." 

" Anybody hit ? " 

Dox." 

"Not killed!" 

" I did n't stay to see, sir. I saw a 
black crowd of fellows, and I lit out to 
git help." 

" Going to have a pitched battle, 
think ? " 



The Esmeralda Herders. 



115 



It 's on now." 

Papin walked with a quick step to the 
outer door of the quarters. 

" Out, men ! Out ! " he cried, his 
voice trumpet-clear. " The Salita gang 
is making a raid ! Billy Dox has been 
shot ! Best hurry, or he '11 have com- 
pany ! " 

There was no excitement in Papin's 
voice. Certainly vociferation would have 
been superfluous. The men were on 
their feet before he had finished speak- 
ing. It does not take a herder of the 
sun-blistered desert long to make his 
toilet. His articles of clothing are not nu- 
merous, even when his cartridge belt, his 
pistols, and his short rifle are counted in. 
Now the men dressed themselves with 
the rapidity of firemen, and ran shouting 
to the corral where the saddles lay in a 
heap. They had no trouble, however, 
in finding their own, no more trouble 
than soldiers do to pick their muskets 
from a stack of arms. The ponies strug- 
gled up, snorting and curious ; sniffed the 
air to make sure that it was not yet dawn ; 
and then, smelling adventure, nervously 
submitted to the adjustment of the sad- 
dles and the rough haste of the men who 
mounted them. 

Papin did not stop to get out of his 
white linens, but put himself at the head 
of his men, armed like the rest, and with 
riding boots adding to the incongruity 
of his costume. The men fell into their 
places behind him, riding four abreast as 
was their habit, and the ponies, roweled 
to the feat, scurried over the plain like 
frightened rabbits. 

After fifteen minutes of this kind of 
riding, the sound of firing reached their 
ears, a brisk fusillade. The men sent 
a shout ahead of them that scared the 
breathless desert, but which was intend- 
ed to convey reassurance to their fight- 
ing comrades. A moment later the stars 
showed them bunches of sheep plunging 
aimlessly forward, and it was necessary 
to drive carefully to avoid trampling 
them. 



" Push ahead ! Push ahead \ " came 
Papin's voice. The firing reached their 
ears spasmodically, and each time the 
advancing herders sent their wild cry 
of warning through the startled night. 
Then, a moment more, they were in the 
thick of the tumult. At first it was al- 
most impossible to distinguish friend 
from foe. Then it became apparent that 
the Mexicans had ranged themselves so 
as to protect a great body of the sheep 
which they had succeeded in detaching 
from the herd ; but Papin led a flanking 
movement, and pressed down on them 
relentlessly. They made a feint of fight- 
ing, but gave way almost immediately 
before the onslaught of avenging men 
and frantic horses, and were blown be- 
fore the herders like flies before a wind. 
Papin laughed aloud at the flight, and 
then sent out warnings to his men, too 
headlong to note the arroyo, now not a 
hundred yards distant. 

" Steady ! Steady ! " came his voice 
above the din. 

They halted on the verge of the rocky 
declivity. 

" They 're brilliant thieves, but rather 
dull fighters," commented the factor. 
" They might have given us more of a 
party than this ! " 

The men were rending the air with 
their derisive calls, and curveting their 
horses in sheer excess of activity. 

" Who 's hurt ? " called out Papin. 

" I got plunked in the arm," sang 
Basil Watts cheerfully. 

" Richards," said Papin sharply, " why 
are you sitting limp like that? Why 
don't you own you 're wounded ? " 

" All I need is a screw-driver, sir. 
Something seems a leetle loose about my 
right ribs." 

" Ride home slowly, Richards. Some 
one go with him. Now, how about 
Dox?" 

A man rode to find out, and the herd- 
ers, once more the swaggering guardians 
of the desert, sent out their long, wild 
sheep cry : 



116 



The Esmeralda Herders. 



" Coo-ee ! Coo-ee ! Coo-ee ! " 

The beat of a myriad little hoofs was 
heard. The sheep began to answer to 
the homing call, and came running to- 
gether excitedly, and still full of vague 
alarms. Seeing this, the call of the men 
became steadier and more reassuring. 
Papin gave orders that the trampled 
sheep should be carried to a designated 
spot, watered, and left till morning, when 
the experienced surgery of the men might 
benefit some of them. No one wanted 
to go home. The wind of the dawn be- 
gan singing afar off in the east, and the 
pink and yellow clouds that danced about 
the horizon appeared as a procession of 
Aurora's servitors. 

It was decided finally not to return to 
the ranch for breakfast. No man had a 
notion for an indoor meal. Some one 
was dispatched for the wagons, and a fire 
made on the ground ready for the coffee 
when it appeared in the guardianship of 
the smiling Chinese, who brought word 
incidentally that Mrs. Herrick had a 
sufficient guard in her coolie, and would 
set out upon her journey without delay. 

" Dey lun, dose Salita lascals ? " que- 
ried Lee Hang. 

" Run ! " responded Papin. " They 
ran so, my friend, that if they had had 
pigtails like yours they would have all 
been whipped off." 

The smoke of the fire flirted up through 
the golden air. The strange voices of 
the waste whispered along the ground. 
Then the fragrant scent of the coffee 
reached the nostrils of the hungry men, 
and Lee Hang began tossing griddle 
cakes in the air. The horses, staked at 
a little distance, called out their con- 
gratulations to their masters in tremu- 
lous whinnies, and the sheep kept up a 
sociable bleating. The men were full of 
noise, and told stock jokes, at which 
everybody roared. 

"They'd even laugh at one of my 
jokes, this morning," thought Papin. 

The man who had been sent to inquire 
about the wounded herder returned with 



word that Dox wanted coffee. A great 
shout went up. 

" What 's the matter with Billy Dox ? " 
they inquired of the scurrying coyote 
who appeared above the edge of the ar- 
royo. Then, as he vouchsafed no an- 
swer to this vociferous inquiry, they sup- 
plied the antiphon, " He 's all right ! " 

He was, in fact, lying in the shelter of 
a clump of bushes, suffering from a ra- 
ther serious head wound. 

"Thank God the Mexicans are not 
better marksmen ! " said Papin devoutly. 
" We 're all alive ; but the real question 
is, are we glad of it ? " 

A chorus of yells greeted him. The 
homesickness was gone. The desert 
claimed its children again. The familiar 
scene appealed to the men with elo- 
quence. The arch of the sky, the limit- 
less space, the friendly beasts, the daunt- 
less company, the comradeship, the lib- 
erty from man's yea and nay, was this 
not better a thousand times than a life of 
rules between walls or along thronging 
streets, with women forever cluttering 
the world ? 

" Lyon," said Papin, " where 's your 
music box ? Out of order ? " 

Lyon was the singer among the Es- 
meraldas. 

He set his cup of coffee down between 
his knees, and, as the dawn gilded the 
low sky behind the scrub of twisted oaks, 
he opened his mouth like one who utters 
a challenge to destiny, and cheered his 
messmates thus : 
"Sonny, there was seven cities a-builded on 

th' plain ; 

Coronado, he beheld 'em, so he said. 
But I Ve hunted high an' low, under sun an' 

in th' rain, 

An' them highf alutin' cities, they is fled. 
I have ranged this hlisterin' desert for a 

pretty turn of years, 

I ken f oiler paths no mortal man ken see, 
But I 'd ruther take my chances roundin' up 

unhranded steers, 

Then a-verif yin' statements of a giddy ole 
grandee." 

To this there was added a chorus, 
ribald and strident : 



Rowland Robinson. 



117 



" He was talkin' thro' his hat, 

Don't you see ? 

Oh, where could he have bin at, 
That grandee ? 
Coo-ee ! Coo-ee ! Coo-ee ! " 

The wild and melancholy sheep call, 



uttered by fifty throats at once, heralded 
the scarlet face of the sun as it swung 
arrogantly upon the habitated desert, 
a desert which, upon that morning, found 
no man sad among all the tribe of the 
Esmeraldas. 

Elia W. Peattie. 



ROWLAND ROBINSON. 






WHEN a personality as strong, as 
vivid, as unique and picturesque as that of 
the creator of Uncle 'Lisha, Sam Lovel, 
Antoine, and Gran'ther Hill passes be- 
yond our sight into the undiscovered 
country, it is surely fitting that something 
should be said of him in the columns of 
the monthly that has given to the world 
Gran'ther Hill's Patridge, Out of Bond- 
age, A Voyage in the Dark, and other 
stories and essays that will not soon be 
forgotten. The many readers of Danvis 
Folks, Uncle 'Lisha's Outing, Sam Lov- 
el's Camps, and In New England Fields 
and Woods hold something in memory 
for which they may well be grateful. 

Rowland Robinson was born in Ferris- 
burg, Vermont, May 14, 1833. He died 
there, October 15, 1900, in the very 
room in which he was born. This is in 
itself a distinction, for it falls to the lot 
of very few of our migratory race to live 
a long life and, at the end, to draw the 
last breath under the same roof. 

His grandfather came to Vermont from 
Newport, Rhode Island, in 1791, and a 
few years later bought a farm in Ferris- 
burg, four miles north of the thriving 
little city of Vergennes. Here he built 
a small, unpretentious house, which is 
now only an adjunct of the larger build- 
ing erected in 1812. 

Mr. Robinson's mother was Rachel 
Gilpin, granddaughter of George Gilpin, 
of Alexandria, Virginia, who, although a 
stanch Quaker, was colonel of the cele- 
brated Fairfax militia in the war of the 



Revolution, aide to General Washington, 
and one of the pallbearers at his funeral. 
In this connection, it is interesting to 
know that the two " beautiful Quaker 
sisters " alluded to by Colonel T. W. 
Higginson in his charming Oldport Days 
were great-aunts of Mr. Robinson. 

The families on both the paternal and 
maternal sides were Quakers, richly en- 
dowed with the quiet strength and lofty 
conscientiousness to be looked for in that 
sect. Mr. Robinson's father was an ac- 
tive worker in the anti-slavery cause, and 
a warm friend of Garrison, May, John- 
son, and other noted abolitionists. They 
always found a welcome in his house, 
which, being so near to the Canadian 
line, was, it is almost needless to say, a 
convenient and secret station of the Un- 
derground Railroad. He was a ready 
and forcible writer, and his pen was often 
employed in the service of the cause that 
was so near his heart. 

So much for the forbears of Mr. Rob- 
inson. Now for himself. His early train- 
ing was that of the average country boy 
sixty years ago. He attended the dis- 
trict school, taught in winter by college 
students, generally from Burlington or 
Middlebury ; and in summer by a suc- 
cession of schoolmistresses, young girls, 
for the most part, who did their best 
to drill the unruly urchins in the rudi- 
ments of the three R's. When he grew 
older, he went to the Ferrisburg Acad- 
emy for a while ; but he says of him- 
self that he was an unwilling scholar, 



118 



Rowland Robinson. 



and did not make the most of even such 
small opportunities as he had. He was, 
however, a persistent and omnivorous 
reader ; and as his father's house was well 
supplied with books, he made amends 
for lack of study by reading over and 
over again, with ever increasing delight, 
the Waverley novels, The Lady of the 
Lake and Marmion, histories galore, 
and many books of travel and adven- 
ture. And he had, moreover, spread out 
before his keenly observant eyes the 
vast domain of nature : its mountain fast- 
nesses, its wide forests, its pure streams 
and silver lakes ; the world of bird and 
beast and fish, of tree and shrub, fern 
and wild flower, of all which he was 
to become in later years so true an inter- 
preter. 

From his mother he had inherited an 
artistic temperament ; and, as he ap- 
proached manhood, there is little doubt 
that he shrank somewhat from the more 
prosaic details of farm life. At all events 
he fled from the farm to New York, 
where he soon found employment as 
draughtsman and wood engraver. From 
1866 to 1873 a large number of his draw- 
ings appeared in the columns of Har- 
per's, Frank Leslie's, and other illustrat- 
ed periodicals. But this was all experi- 
mental, tentative, and not oversuccessful. 
In 1873 he gladly returned to the home 
of his boyhood. 

Meanwhile he had married Anna Ste- 
vens, a lovely girl then, a charming 
woman now, of great executive ability, 
and much talent in the direction of both 
art and literature. She was his encour- 
ager and inspirer ; and, urged by her, he 
wrote and illustrated Fox Hunting in 
New England, and offered it to Scrib- 
ner's Magazine. Somewhat to his sur- 
prise, the article was accepted; and it 
was followed by others in Scribner's, The 
Century, Harper's, Lippincott's, and The 
Atlantic. 

In 1888 a series of sketches written 
for Forest and Stream was published in 
book form, under the title of Uncle 



'Lisha's Shop. Another of like charac- 
ter, Sam Level's Camps, appeared in 
1890, followed by Danvis Folks and Un- 
cle 'Lisha's Outing, Vermont : A Study 
of Independence (one of the American 
Commonwealth Series), In New Eng- 
land Fields and Woods, A Danvis Pio- 
neer, and one or two other books. His 
last story, Sara Level's Boy, in which 
Sam teaches his son many a secret of 
the hunter's craft, is now in press. 

This list of works is a long one, indeed, 
when one recalls the fact, known to so 
few of his readers, that all these books, 
with the exception of Uncle 'Lisha's 
Shop, are the work of a blind man. For 
in 1887 his eyes began to fail him. 
Gradually, slowly, but steadily, the light 
grew dimmer and dimmer, then flick- 
ered and went out, leaving him in total 
darkness. When Sam Lovel's Camps 
was placed in his hands, he was able to 
see the faint outline, the size and shape 
of the book, perhaps, but that was all. 

While it may be doubted if Mr. Rob- 
inson was ever a very enthusiastic farm- 
er, he was too sane and prudent to 
neglect his farm. The two things that 
especially interested him were his fine 
orchard and his butter-making. Of his 
skill in the latter, and of the pencil 
sketches, rhymes, and caricatures with 
which he was wont to adorn the covers 
of his butter tubs, many amusing stories 
are told. It was a gala day with New 
York and Boston dealers when " Robin- 
son's butter " came in. But all this was 
before the light went out. After that, 
though he superintended and gave or- 
ders, his real work was done with his 
pen ; or rather, with his pencil. He wrote 
by means of the grooved board which 
enabled him to guide and space the lines ; 
and his loyal wife afterwards revised the 
manuscript, and prepared it for the press. 
She was at once his amanuensis, private 
secretary, friend, and devoted comrade. 

Then it was that his ardent love of 
Nature, his intimate knowledge of her 
deepest secrets, his admission into her 



Rowland Robinson. 



119 



very holy of holies, stood him in good 
stead. From boyhood he had been a 
keen sportsman, sharp-eyed, strangely 
observant, familiar with all the ways of 
woodland creatures ; reading leaf and 
flower, moss, lichen, and fungus, the phe- 
nomena of the changing seasons, dawn 
and sunset, moonshine and starbeam, the 
hoary frost and the dew of summer 
nights, as one reads from an open book. 
Few persons ever see as much as did 
Rowland Robinson. No minutest detail 
escaped him. He knew the haunts of 
every wild thing as he knew the path to 
his own fireside. 

His memory was as remarkable as 
were his powers of observation ; and thus 
it was that, lying sightless on his bed, to 
which he was confined for nearly two 
years before the end came, he was able 
to portray every varying phase of nature 
in words so tender, so graphic, so pic- 
turesque, so illuminating, that the reader 
saw as the writer had seen. 

But his powers of interpretation were 
not confined to the outside world alone. 
He studied human nature as faithfully 
as he studied the ways of bird and beast, 
of tree and wild flower. His ear was as 
keen and unerring as his eye. Let no 
one suppose that Mr. Robinson's stories 
are meant to be actual transcripts of 
the life of Vermont to-day as it exists 
even in her mountain towns. They are 
stories of old Vermont, the Vermont of 
sixty years ago, and even earlier ; before 
the railroad had penetrated her fast- 
nesses, or the telegraph brought her into 
close and vital connection with the outer 
world. I have heard the question asked, 
nay, more, I admit I have asked it 
myself : " Did New Englanders ever talk 
like Sam Lovel and Uncle 'Lisha and 
Joseph Hill ? " A friend once said to me : 
" I have known Vermont many years, 
and I never heard any one say ' julluck ' 
for ' just like,' or ' seem 's 'ough,' or 
'hayth' for 'height,' or sundry other 
queer expressions and pronunciations that 
Mr. Robinson gives as Yankeeisms." 



Shortly after this I went into my "gar- 
den, where a man-of-all-work was remov- 
ing some bulbs. 

" Say, Mis' Dorr," he remarked, 
" don't them roots look julluck turnups? 
Seem 's 'ough they did ! " 

Whereupon I concluded it was not a 
proof of superior wisdom to question Mr. 
Robinson's use of Yankee dialect. It is 
well to believe that his ear was quicker 
than that of most men, and that he was 
familiar with every phase of the vernacu- 
lar in which his men and women speak. 

As for Antoine, he is inimitable. No 
one else has so perfectly caught the queer 
jargon of the French " Canuck " when 
trying to wrestle with the vagaries of the 
English tongue. 

Mr. Robinson makes no attempt to 
depict the life of cities, towns, or even 
large villages. His characters, which re- 
appear in most of his stories, live and 
breathe in secluded mountain hamlets, to 
the life of which he is absolutely true. 
Once in a while, as when the dignified 
and elegant lawyer of whom Antoine as- 
serts, "He was be de biggest 1'yer in 
Vairgenne ; he goin' be judge, prob'ly 
gov'ner, mebby," goes hunting up the 
Slang, electrifying Sam at once by his skill 
as a sportsman and by the beautiful gun 
that was such a contrast to his own heavy 
rifle, we get a glimpse of another world. 
But it is only momentary, and in an in- 
stant we are back again with the simple, 
kindly, rural folk who dominate the 
stage. There are not many of them left 
now. The tide of progress has swept 
away the old landmarks. Uncle 'Lisha's 
Shop is a thing of the past. Yet even 
now one who, with observant eye and ear, 
wanders up and down New England 
will still find proof that Mr. Robinson is 
true to the life of old New England. 

Perhaps one charm of these stories 
lies in the fact that they are written so 
sympathetically. Mr. Robinson never 
condescends, or apologizes, or pities. It 
never occurs to him that there is any 
need of doing either. He values his men 



120 



Rowland Robinson. 



and women for their own sakes and for 
what they are. If they are queer and 
quaint, so much the better for the artist, 
and the picture he would paint. Their 
strange expletives, and even their occa- 
sional mild profanities, are by no means 
coarse or irreligious. They swear from 
force of habit, with no more idea of 
breaking the third commandment than a 
baby has when it says, " Now I lay 
me." 

To turn from what he wrote to what 
he was is a pleasing task, for the man 
was greater than his books. In person 
Mr. Robinson was strikingly like the late 
Francis H. Underwood, so well known 
to many readers of The Atlantic : tall, 
well built, with a ruddy color that he 
kept almost to the last. His eyes were 
blue. His hair and his patriarchal beard 
had been snow-white for many years, 
but in his younger days they were a rich 
reddish, or golden, brown. Entirely un- 
assuming, with faith in his own powers, 
yet with seemingly very little idea that 
they were recognized by others, he was 
the most modest of men. A few years 
ago a club in a Vermont town dramatized 
Dan vis Folks, after a fashion, for the 
benefit of a local charity, and put it on 
the stage. The author was invited to be 
present on the opening night, and he ac- 
cepted. As he entered the crowded hall, 
guided by a friend on either hand, the 
audience, recognizing him, broke into 
loud applause. He paid no attention to 
it, but quietly felt his way to the chair 
assigned to him. As he seated himself, 
he said, with a smile : " They seem to be 
in very good spirits here. Whom are 
they applauding now ? " 

"Why, Mr. Robinson, they are ap- 
plauding you ! " was the reply. " Don't 
you know that you are the hero of this 
occasion ? " And he sank back in his 
chair with an air of bewilderment and 
surprise that was unmistakable. That 
he should be applauded had never en- 
tered his brain. 

The legislature of his native state was 



in session when he died, and in joint as- 
sembly passed most appreciative resolu- 
tions of regret and condolence. Mrs. 
Robinson's comment thereon, as I sat 
by her side a few days ago, was charac- 
teristic of both herself and her husband. 
" Oh," she said, " if Rowland had been 
told that the legislature of Vermont 
would take any notice of his death, he 
would not have believed it. He did not 
think people cared much for him." 

This was due in part, no doubt, to his 
isolation. He knew very few "literary 
people," so called. He had little or no 
intercourse with his peers. It has been 
said that reputations are made at dinner 
tables. If this be true, as it certainly is 
in a measure, the man fights against 
great odds who, from environment or 
force of circumstances, is almost com- 
pletely shut out set apart, as it were 
from the great body of his fellow 
workers in the field of letters. 

Let us glance at the home of this 
brave and lonely craftsman. The Rob- 
inson homestead a large, square, gray 
farmhouse, having the broad porch, with 
high railing and bracketed seats on either 
side, that is almost invariably to be 
found in mansions of that date stands 
twenty or thirty rods back from the road, 
on a slight, rocky elevation. It is ap- 
proached by a fine avenue of elms, the 
entrance to which is marked by groups 
of stately Lombardy poplars. On either 
side are other groups, locusts, maples, 
and beeches. On the October day when 
I first saw the place, the greensward was 
thickly strewn with the crimson and gold 
of the falling leaves. Over the wall, at 
the right, a few white sheep were crop- 
ping the short grass among the gray 
ledges of the pasture. The outlook is 
one of unusual beauty. On the east is 
the lovely Champlain Valley, stretching 
away in broad reaches, above which soar 
the Green Mountains, with Mount Mans- 
field and Camel's Hump in the distance. 
On the west, past green, fertile meadows 
and rolling pastures, lie the clear waters 



Rowland Robinson. 



121 



of Lake Champlain, of which glimpses 
may be caught here and there through 
the thick fringe of pine and hemlock. 
And farther still beyond the lake rise 
the mighty Adirondacks, range on range, 
tier above tier, until their heads are lost 
in the clouds. 

But on that October day it was not of 
the house, nor of its surroundings, that I 
thought. Its master lay prone and help- 
less somewhere within its walls, and it 
was he whom I sought. I was ushered 
first into the living room, on the right 
of the hall of entrance, and from there, 
through the great old-fashioned kitchen 
and a short passageway, into what has 
always been known as the " East Room." 
There, incurably ill of a wasting disease, 
and blind to all the beauty of the au- 
tumnal day, lay Rowland Robinson, with 
a smile on his lips, and all the implements 
of his craft about him, the grooved 
board, the pencil, and a great pile of 
manuscript. But as I sat in the flood of 
sunshine by his bedside, and listened to 
his eager talk of this and that, I felt 
again, as I had felt at other times, that 
it was impossible to realize that he was 
a blind man. His eyes were bright, 
seeming to seek mine as he talked, their 
blue depths giving not the slightest hint 
that they were sightless. He spoke of 
" seeing " things ; he called my attention 
to the dish of fine pears on the table ; he 
was as alert and interested in the life 
around him as if he had had a dozen 
pairs of eyes. 

" Do you never leave your bed, Mr. 
Robinson ? " I asked. 

"Not often," he answered. " But I 
wanted to see the procession go by on 
Dewey day, and they managed to wheel 
me out on the porch for a little while. 
It was very interesting." 

Not a complaint, not a murmur, not 
a suggestion of repining, nothing but 
splendid courage, patient hopefulness, 
tender regard for others, and a determi- 
nation to work to the last. 

The old house is in itself most in- 



teresting. Antique furniture meets the 
eye in every room. There is a queer 
old grand piano that was brought from 
Vienna by a member of the family early 
in the century, and that has been voice- 
less and tuneless for at least one genera- 
tion. There is a chair that Washington 
and Lafayette must often have seen, even 
if it cannot be proved that they ever re- 
posed in its ample depths ; for it had an 
honored place in the parlor of a house 
in which they were often guests. There 
are old tables that have histories, and blue 
Delft ware and bits of china antedating 
the Revolution. Over the piano hangs 
a full-length portrait of its former own- 
er, the work of an Austrian artist, 
a dark-haired lady in a crimson velvet 
gown, with a little boy at her feet who 
is playing with an American flag. There 
are other old family portraits, and one 
of Mr. Robinson himself, painted by his 
daughter. There are Indian relics, and 
trophies of the chase, hunting imple- 
ments, and above all books, books 
everywhere, overflowing the cases and 
finding lodgment wherever they can. 
Some of them are exceedingly rare, 
heirlooms in the shape of old doctrinal 
works relating to the Friends, which were 
hidden away in the far-off days when it 
was against the law of New England to 
possess them, and brought to light again 
when the persecutions were over. 

In the old kitchen, which is the main 
part of the first building, the doorlatches 
are of hard wood, whittled into shape by 
Mr. Robinson's grandfather. They are 
like polished ivory now, with its rare yel- 
lowish-brown tint, worn smooth by the 
touch of many generations. 

Here, too, is the secret staircase men- 
tioned in Out of Bondage, narrow, dark, 
and forbidding, up which many a fugi- 
tive slave has glided like a phantom of 
the gloaming, to find refuge in the cham- 
ber above. This chamber was partitioned 
off from the rest of the house, and to 
the children of the family was at once a 
terror and a mystery. Whenever they 



122 



The Child in the Library. 



saw Aunt Eliza surreptitiously convey- 
ing plates of food upstairs, they knew 
there was some one in the chamber whom 
they were not to see, and of whose pre- 
sence they were never to speak. 

The great kitchen, as "neat as wax," 
with an indescribable air of homely com- 
fort and dignity, is also the dining room of 
the establishment. A long table, about 
which a small army might gather, stands 
just where it stood seventy-five years 
or more ago ; and here the Queen her- 
self would dine, if she had the honor of 
being admitted to the hospitality of the 
house. At one end the family and their 
guests ; at the other the stalwart Yan- 
kee yeomen, who are not servants, but 
helpers. It is like one of the old stories 
of a baron and his retainers, above 
and below the salt. 



On yet another October day I visited 
the old farmhouse ; but the master had 
gone thence. The autumn leaves were 
as bright as ever, the sunshine as brilliant ; 
and still the white sheep huddled among 
the gray ledges, and the broad landscape 
stretched to right and left, as beautiful 
as a dream. 

I went again into the East Room, 
the room of birth and death. Near the 
white bed lay the grooved board, with 
the pencil slipped in between the paper 
and the board, just as it had been left. 
I copied the last sentence, written three 
days before the busy hand was stilled : 

" The lifting veil disclosed the last 
flash of blue plumage disappearing in 
the mist of budding leaves from behind 
the cloud of smoke that now hid my 
mark." 

Julia C. E. Dorr. 



THE CHILD IN THE LIBRARY. 



HE was an only child and a mother- 
less one. I may say a relationless one, 
except for a stray aunt or uncle, seldom 
heard of and never seen. His father 
was a busy man, and the slow change in 
his son from babyhood to boyhood was 
unnoticed. A succession of kind-heart- 
ed nurses had taken care of the child's 
physical comfort, but otherwise had left 
him to his own devices. In some inexpli- 
cable way he learned to read by the time 
he was eight years old. It had been a 
quick step from ignorance to this delight- 
ful accomplishment. First he could not 
read, then he could ; there seemed to be 
no intermediate stage. He was a pale, 
delicate boy, and when his busy father 
took time to consult a physician the ver- 
dict was " no school ; " so the child had 
all his days to himself. 

He had no friends, and time hung 
heavily, until one day, entering his fa- 
ther's library, he made the acquaintance 



of a large number of people. His father 
had no great love for books, but he felt 
it was a proper thing to have a well- 
stocked library ; so he had filled his book- 
shelves, with a delightful ignorance of 
the inside of the books, but with the 
knowledge that the outside was irre- 
proachable. It was a curiously mixed 
collection ; there were books of all kinds, 
and all jumbled together without regard 
to subject or character. With this mixed 
assemblage the child made acquaintance, 
one cold, bleak November day. 

He had come in with a vague idea of 
getting a picture book to look at. He 
knew the illustrations of the books on 
the table by heart ; he was tired of 
them, and craved something new. I 
think it was almost entirely from illus- 
trations that the child had learned to 
read. The pictures meant much; and 
after gathering their meaning he knew 
the words below must correspond, as 



The Child in the Library. 



123 






they did, and the child read. On this 
day he determined to try to find pictures 
in the books on the shelves. He stood 
before the cases and gazed at the pros- 
pect before him. The books all gazed 
back solemnly at him ; they did n't look 
inviting. 

The ones that appeared less forbidding 
than the rest were a long line of fellows 
which reminded him of his soldiers. 
They stood shoulder to shoulder, dressed 
in a dark chocolate - brown uniform 
striped with gold. They were sober 
enough in color. There were many books 
in the cases gayer in dress, but these par- 
ticular ones were fat, quite fat, and not 
very tall, and they appeared to be good- 
natured. He opened the case where 
they were, and looked at their names. 
They almost all seemed to be about men : 
one was Barnaby Rudge ; one, Nicholas 
Nickleby ; one, Martin Chuzzlewit ; one, 
David Copperfield ; and so on down the 
line. Somehow, after reading all their 
names, he returned to David Copper- 
field ; the name haunted him, David, 
David Copperfield. What was there so 
bewitching in the sound ? He put out 
his hand and took down the volume. 

The pictures were queer, very queer. 
He studied them gravely and carefully. 
He found himself saying under his 
breath, " David, David, David Copper- 
field," with a curious sense of having 
met the name before. He glanced at 
the first page; it was headed, "I am 
born." He glanced down the page, and 
some one seemed to be talking, talking 
in a delightfully confidential way to him, 
the child himself. He turned over the 
pages : it was David who was speaking, 
David Copperfield. 

Suddenly an idea struck him: why 
should he not read the book ? It was 
such a tremendous idea that the blood tin- 
gled in his veins from excitement. Why 
not ? The book was here ; he had no- 
thing to do ; and the story might tell more 
about the curious pictures. He took the 
book, cuddled up in a chair, and began 



to read. He read till luncheon time ; he 
lunched, and read till dinner time ; he 
dined, and read till bedtime ; and then 
dreamed the story all through again. 
The next day he began bright and early 
another rapturous ten hours. There was 
no one to disturb him; his nurse was 
only too glad to have him quiet, and his 
father was away till dinner time. How 
he read ! 

It seemed to him, as he read, that in- 
stead of the story coming from the book 
it came from the lips of a boy who sat 
opposite him by the library fire, a boy 
with big brown eyes, curly chestnut hair, 
and a sweet, grave face. It was David 
who talked to him, David Copperfield, 
and he spoke of his life with curiously 
bated breath. 

To be sure, in the book he grew up, 
but the child across the fire did n't. It 
almost seemed as if David had lived his 
life, and been changed from manhood 
back to boyhood, with a man's knowledge 
of the world and a child's sweetness and 
faith. He told the child of his baby- 
hood, of his pretty mother and honest 
nurse ; he spoke in a lowered tone of his 
aunt, a Miss Betsey Trotwood ; he drew 
nearer and spoke of a Mr. and Miss 
Murdstone: and the two children held 
each other close. He told of a school 
and some boy friends ; he told of his boy- 
hood's sweetheart, a little Em'ly : and the 
child followed on. He wandered around 
London with David ; he trudged to Can- 
terbury with him on his memorable pil- 
grimage. He shared his fortunes, and 
rose and fell with them. 

When the book was finished the boy 
had an enlarged acquaintance with peo- 
ple and places. He was an American 
child, but he knew London the docks, 
that is to say intimately. A certain 
home at Canterbury he knew by heart, 
old, substantial, so very dear, with shin- 
ing wood and glass. He had new friends : 
a man Peggotty, a little Miss Mowcher, 
the best of nurses and the kindest of 
aunts, a Micawber and a Traddles, a 



124 



The Child in the Library. 



most beloved one named Steerforth, and 
one, the best of all, one who sat with him 
and talked with him, a fidus Achates, 
David, David Coppertield. 

The next door he opened was one that 
took him straight to a twilight fairyland. 
It was labeled Pilgrim's Progress, and 
he and David followed a man named 
Christian through a marvelous land. The 
child was n't quite clear as to why Chris- 
tian fled from his home, beyond the fact 
that something was to happen to the city 
where he lived, and then he was of an 
adventurous spirit and wanted to find a 
place called " the Celestial City." He 
joined David and the child by their fire- 
side and told them of his adventures. He 
was a tall, dark man, quaintly clad, and 
had a big bundle on his back. He told 
them marvelous things of fights with 
lions, of a dreadful place called " Vanity 
Fair," of a dark valley, and finally of a 
river and the Shining City. I do not 
know why he had left this city and come 
to this fireside with his pack, but there 
he was in the group, and David and the 
child and he went on to new lands to- 
gether. 

There was a wonderful' land back of 
these big bookcases, and each book was 
a key to it. David had taken him to 
London, and to Canterbury, and down to 
Suffolk. Christian took him to a land, 
no less real, abounding in danger and in 
adventure, and they were now ready for 
a trip to a new part of this marvelous 
country. 

The new key was a little book that 
had fallen behind the rest. It was all 
the more strange that they tried this key, 
for it had no pictures, and the spelling 
was curious and foreign ; but the child 
opened it and read this : " Sweet Lord 
have mercy upon me, for I may not live 
after the death of my love Sir Tristram 
de Lyoness, for he was ray first love and 
he shall be my last." It sounded sweet 
and sad to the child, and yet half real 
and wholly good. He turned to the 
front : there was a man, and a king, and 



a fair lady ; and now he and Christian 
and David were in a new country. I 
suppose Christian must have enjoyed it, 
for he had been an adventurous man in 
his day, and I am sure David and the 
child loved the country with their whole 
hearts. They brought back new friends 
to join their group : a tall, fair man, who 
I fear slightly tyrannized over them all, 
and yet whom they loved, a King Ar- 
thur ; and by his side, a tall, dark man 
with a sad, grave face, named Lancelot ; 
and they felt that sometimes another man 
was there, an old man in brown, with 
a long white beard arid long hair, yet 
with a young face. They could never be 
sure he was there, for he came and went 
mysteriously, and his name was Merlin. 
They made other friends in Britain, 
Tristram, and Gawain, and Geraint, and 
others ; but these did n't join the fireside 
group, though one had only to open the 
little blue book to join them. Soon the 
five became great friends, and told one 
another tales that were not in their books, 
new tales, and their friendship grew into 
comradeship. 

One day a brightly bound book caught 
the child's eye. It was all spotted with 
gold, and the child played it was a golden 
key. It certainly opened a golden door 
and took them into a golden country. 

This man that met them at the door, 
and led them across a country called Bon- 
ny England, was a jolly fellow, a kind of 
superior ragamuffin named Robin Hood. 
Oh, the gay times he gave them ! What 
merry adventures beneath the green- 
wood tree ! What jolly excursions after 
lazy abbots and fat priests ! Another big 
fellow with a twinkling eye, a great ras- 
cal in his way, yet a most genial com- 
rade, was Little John ; and there were 
besides him Maid Marian, and Will Scar- 
let, and King Richard himself. Christian 
and Lancelot and Arthur enjoyed this 
roving kind of life, and David and the 
child thought it wonderful. To be sure, 
they cried for hours over Robin Hood's 
death, until they found that he and 



Sky- Children. 



125 



jelot had gone to Avalon with Ar- 
thur, and Robin Hood, green coat and 
great bow and all, came and joined their 
company, and they went on enriched by 
him. Sometimes they would all go with 
Christian to fight with Apollyon, or 
would accompany Lancelot and Arthur 
to rescue distressed damsels, or else 
journey with Robin Hood in mere idle 
quest, or David and the child would 
slip quietly into London. In all these 
lands the shadowy Merlin would go 
making curious things happen, " for he 
was a great wise man." 

After a little time the child made 
a new friend, a certain Greek named 
Ulysses. He was entirely a new kind 
of character. I think the whole group 
mistrusted him at first ; but they soon got 
over that, and loved him dearly. He 
was so clever, and thought of such en- 
tirely new ways of doing things. When 
Arthur wanted to summon his knights 
and make a charge on Troy, and Lance- 



lot wished to try a single combat with 
Hector, Ulysses thought of the Wooden 
Horse, which was such a complete suc- 
cess. After accompanying him for years, 
and finding how stanch and true he 
was, they asked him to join them ; and 
he, finding them good fellows, left Ithaca 
and Penelope, and came with his dog and 
made one of them. 

And so they traveled on : Arthur and 
Lancelot, friends again through the 
child, were able still to journey on in 
wide Britain, seeking adventures ; and 
there was Robin Hood, jolly fellow that 
he was, brave as a lion and full of jest 
and grit ; and there was Christian, daunt- 
less in trial, bearing still his mysterious 
bundle, the contents of which often puz- 
zled the child ; and there was Ulysses, 
their guide and counselor, looking for- 
ward with crafty eyes, and occasionally 
turning to whistle to his good dog ; and 
last of all, hand clasped in hand, came 
David and the child. 

Edith Lanigan. 



SKY-CHILDREN. 



CHILDREN. 

CHERUBIM ! Cherubim ! 
How will you dance ? 

CHERUBIM. 

Just as wee motes where 
Sunbeams glance. 

CHILDREN. 

Cherubim ! Cherubim ! 

Supposing one cries, 
How shall he wipe 

His poor wet eyes ? 

CHERUBIM. 

Innocents ! Innocents ! 

If one should cry, 
Out in the wind 

He would fly, fly, fly, 



126 The Final Quest. 

Just as the dewy 
Dripping bees 

Back in the Earth-time 
Dried in the breeze. 



CHILDREN. 
Cherubim ! Cherubim ! 

Tired are we ; 
Put us to sleep 

Where the light won't see. 

CHERUBIM. 
Lullaby ! LuUaby ! 

On our soft wings, 
When the winds blow, 

Every one swings. 



When the stars whisper, 

Little ears, hark ! 
Lower, lids, lower ! 

Hush! all's dark. 

Jefferson Fletcher 



THE FINAL QUEST. 

AT last I feel my freedom. So a leaf, 
Under some swift, keen prompting of the spring, 
Aches with great light and air, and, stretching forth 
Into the circled wonder overhead, 
Unfolds to breath and being. So the stream, 
Wounded by boulders, fretted into foam, 
But flows with mightier passion on and on 
(O mystic prescience born of watery ways!) 
Into the wide, sweet hope awaiting him 
Of ample banks and murmurous plenitudes. 
So I, by midnight mothered, lift my voice 
And cry to mine old enemies encamped, 
Fear, dread of fear and dark bewilderment : 
" Ye cannot harm me. O unreal shapes, 
Wherewith Life garnishes her golden house 
To urge us forth upon our further quest, 
I see you now for what you truly are, 
Usurping slaves, pale mimicries of power, 
Air held in armor to amaze a child. 
In your grim company I lie at ease 
And look alone upon the vistaed light, 
The grave, pure track of worlds beyond the world." 



Fiction, New and Old. 



127 



Oh, the still wells of life, the conquering winds 

In this wide garden once my wilderness ! 

Who that hath felt these brooding silences 

Could sigh for June, her rose and nightingale, 

Or, when a dry leaf trembles from the branch, 

Fear, in that flitting, aught but other Junes ? 

Doth this immortal need mortality, 

She, the fair soul, the spark of all that is, 

She who can ride upon the changing flood 

Of dim desires, or, if she faint, 

Creep into caves of her own fashioning ? 

It is her garment now, the while she wields 

This battered blade of earthly circumstance. 

A breath and she walks naked, like the dawn, 

Led, through some western radiance of surmise, 

By arc as true as orbed planets hold, 

Home to that house where birth and death are one, 

And dreams keep tryst with hearts that died of them. 

Alice Brown. 



FICTION, NEW AND OLD. 



WHEN we are told with authority, con- 
Mrs. Ward's cerning a forthcoming book, 
Later Novels. that s i xt y_fi ve thousand copies 

have been ordered in advance ; that sixty 
thousand pounds of paper will be re- 
quired for the plebeian one-volume edi- 
tion, to say nothing of the Edition bour- 
geoise in two volumes, and the edition de 
luxe of two hundred numbered copies ; 
also, that if this paper were piled sheet 
upon sheet it would make a tower five 
hundred and fifty feet high, and that if 
the sheets were placed end to end, in a 
straight line, they would extend one thou- 
sand miles, we are forced to admit, 
whatever we may think of the taste of 
the advertisement, that we are on the eve 
of an important event. The writer whose 
work can be thus heralded wields an in- 
calculable power ; and it is well when, 
as in the present case, we know before- 
hand that it is a power which will make 
both for righteousness in conduct and 
refinement in art. 

The writer is Mrs. Humphry Ward, of 



course, and the book is Eleanor, 1 and I 
hasten to record my own impression, after 
reading the skillfully reserved and ex- 
tremely beautiful winding up of the story, 
that no discerning reader can be disap- 
pointed therewith, and that the new ro- 
mance is, upon the whole, altogether the 
finest thing that Mrs. Ward has done. 
Yet Eleanor will be a surprise, in 
some ways, to those who have not fol- 
lowed attentively, in its author's later 
work, the gradual alteration of her meth- 
od and the new development of her dis- 
tinguished talent. It will hardly, I sup- 
pose, be disputed that, at a time when 
there are multitudes of women at work 
in the literary mills, turning off, with 
reasonable success', many kinds of skilled 
labor which used to be supposed impossi- 
ble for any woman, Mrs. Ward's place 
in the honor list is among the very few 
double-firsts of her sex : with Charlotte 
Bronte, certainly, and George Sand, and 

1 Eleanor. By Mrs. HUMPHRY WARD, Ne\v 
York ; Harper & Brothers. 1900, 



128 



Fiction, New and Old. 



Matilde Serao ; and only a little lower 
than Emily BrontQ and Mrs. Browning 
and George Eliot. 

But Mrs. Ward's idea of her own vo- 
cation, when she first began, hardly more 
than a dozen years ago, her remarkable 
career as a novelist, was essentially dif- 
ferent from any of theirs. I always dis- 
like using of a writer the word " artist," 
which is almost more " soiled by ignoble 
use " than the greater word " gentleman." 
But I do not know what else to say than 
that the other famous women named 
above were all, in their different ways 
and degrees, artists ; while Mrs. Ward, 
with all her dramatic instinct and ana- 
lytic acumen, the wealth of her acquired 
knowledge and the grace of her inher- 
ited culture, began by being resolutely 
and even aggressively the moralist. She 
stooped to illustrate her lectures by fas- 
cinating parables ; but lecture she must 
and would. The parables made the lec- 
tures go down with a vast majority of 
her readers ; but there will always re- 
main an impatient and impenitent few 
who cannot long stand being lectured, 
not even though the soundest precepts 
be presented with a maximum of femi- 
nine grace. And how much, after all, 
is ever accomplished by the lecture? 
How many converts did Robert Els- 
mere make to agnosticism ? How many 
people were deterred from the dangers 
and indecorums of the union libre by 
David Grieve's mythical experiences in 
Paris ? And then, after a suitable in- 
terval, for Mrs. Ward is not one of 
those who tend to write too much, we 
were invited to a treatise on the new wo- 
man and her possibilities, in Marcella. 

The book opened most attractively. 
Marcella was the new woman to the life, 
and the new young woman : courageous 
and sincere, though crude and chaotic ; 
self-centred and self-exaggerated; full 
of generous impulses and audacious am- 
bitions ; her brain disproportionately de- 
veloped rather than soberly and effectu- 
ally disciplined ; philanthropical, but not 



affectionate, the strangest compound, 
surely, of nobility and absurdity that the 
world has ever seen. But Mrs. Ward 
has not a quick eye for absurdity. One 
of the few marked defects which go along 
with her many brilliant qualities is an 
insufficient, not to say absent sense of 
humor. She meant to portray a type in 
Marcella, and she meant to portray it se- 
riously and respectfully ; sympathetically 
also, and, if we may judge by her inces- 
sant and almost fatiguing insistence on 
the heroine's transcendent personal beau- 
ty, even flatteringly. Here, however, she 
labored in vain. The Marcellas of this 
world may be admirably handsome ; and, 
indeed, the conditions of life in the class 
from which they mostly come, especially 
in England and America, undoubtedly 
favor the development of a high order 
of personal comeliness. But they seldom 
produce the effect of beauty. What we 
all recognize as charm is a nicely pro- 
portioned compound of many different 
qualities, mental, sentimental, and, 
above all, physical ; but, like a perfect 
salad dressing, the product should be 
neutral, retaining the distinct flavor of 
no one of its ingredients. Now, in Mar- 
cella and the daily growing class whom 
she represents, every pungent condi- 
ment speaks, or rather stings, for itself. 
" Macta virtute ! " we murmur, a little 
awestruck, as the intrepid young Ama- 
zon adjusts her armor and essays her 
exercise. 

Howbeit, the highly aspiring, grossly 
blundering, and unconsciously appeal- 
ing Marcella of Mrs. Ward's first vivid 
conception, unclassed through no fault 
of her own, and held at arm's length 
by her embittered mother (one of the 
author's most powerful character stud- 
ies), that faulty but entirely natural 
being did really enlist our sympathies 
and compel our belief. But the same 
girl, rescued from her grim struggle by 
the fairy prince of the nursery tale, and 
established on a social pinnacle ; re- 
warded, like the virtuous Periwinkle- 



Fiction, New and Old. 



129 



Girl in the ballad, with a coronet and a 
clear income of thirty thousand pounds, 
was as unreal as one of Ouida's most 
lavishly bespangled heroines ; and the 
sequel to her story in Sir George Tres- 
sady came perilously near a fiasco. Her 
gross abuse of the opportunities of her 
new position, and her truly inexcusa- 
ble behavior with the fatuous and ill- 
starred hero of Mrs. Ward's feeblest 
book, accused, upon every page, her bad 
up-bringing, and must have been a sad 
mortification to her intimidated but in- 
finitely correct lord. For a laborious 
attempt was made in Sir George Tres- 
sady to represent the married and pro- 
moted Marcella as a political force, an 
influential voice upon the liberal side of 
English legislation. Now it is matter 
of history that, sometimes in England, 
though less often perhaps than in France, 
women have exercised that kind of in- 
fluence in one or the other of the highly 
trained and privileged coteries which al- 
ternately govern England. But they 
never have exercised it in the least after 
the fashion of the intense and irrepres- 
sible Marcella. Neither preaching nor 
" slumming " has been in the line of these 
clever ladies. Their ways have been 
and it were well for civilized society that 
they should continue to be the supple, 
suave, indirect, and chiefly anonymous 
ways of the granddaughters of Sheridan, 
the wives of Palmerston and Beacons- 
field, and the benign stars of the scru- 
pulously guarded circles of Bo wood, 
Panshanger, and Holland House. One 
hardly sees, indeed, how, with her own 
traditions and environment, Mrs. Ward 
could so signally have failed to catch the 
tone and reflect the manners of that para- 
mount section of the English great world. 
She goes astray in the House of Com- 
mons, and loses her head completely 
among the Lords. And it is the more 
remarkable because she had such excel- 
lent models to study. The thing which 
the. biographer of Marcella tried to do 
was done to admiration, twenty-odd years 



ago, both in Endymion, with its full 
flow of patrician gossip and perfect fa- 
miliarity with the subject in hand, and 
in those easy, unassuming, garrulous, and 
yet thoroughbred chronicles of contem- 
porary life, so rich in humor and insight, 
so full of social and civic intelligence, 
the political novels of the too lightly ap- 
preciated and too soon forgotten Antho- 
ny Trollope. 

But the power handsomely to retrieve 
an error, whether in literature or in life, 
is almost more 'rare than the power to 
avoid the same. It proves, at all events, 
the penitent's possession of some admi- 
rable qualities, both moral and intellec- 
tual, such as breadth and versatility of 
mind, candor of spirit, and the most ex- 
cellent kind of humility. When Hel- 
beck of Bannisdale appeared, a com- 
plete story, not anticipated by periodical 
publication and announced by no pom- 
pous headlines, the sympathetic reader 
perceived at once in its author an 
altered, more graceful, and less authori- 
tative manner. The theme was still a 
grave, even a sombre one, the light 
and playful is never in Mrs. Ward's 
line, but it was a theme, and not a 
thesis; and it was developed earnestly, 
indeed, but quietly and without argu- 
ment. The intellectual tragedy involved 
in the hapless loves of the Catholic mag- 
nate and the agnostic maiden was yet 
a tragedy of pure circumstance, the 
occult and awe-inspiring tragedy of the 
legitimate Greek drama; the clash of 
souls driven to their own mutual undo- 
ing by cosmic forces, incomprehensible 
and seemingly blind. It was not that 
Mrs. Ward had not studied, and studied 
profoundly, the terms of one of the most 
painful spiritual problems of her time ; 
and the conditions of her own young 
life had given her an exceptional advan- 
tage in grappling with it. But she offers 
no solution, pronounces no judgment. 
How, indeed, could she have given sen- 
tence between the two sponsors of her own 
prophetic soul, her father and her uncle ? 



VOL. LXXXVII. NO. 519. 



9 



130 



Fiction, New and Old. 



The figure of Helbeck is an heroic one, 
and drawn with astonishing power. It 
haunts the reader like some lately dis- 
covered portrait, dark with the accre- 
tions of age, but commanding in its au- 
thenticity, by Titian or Velasquez. The 
author, formerly so salient and emphatic, 
is forgotten at last in the creation ; the 
tale achieves, as it goes along, its own 
sad symmetry, and moves with touching 
dignity to the inevitable end, without a 
flaw, if we except a touch of unnecessary 
melodrama in the concluding chapter. 

In Eleanor, one is tempted, in the glow 
of one's first enthusiasm over the deli- 
cate and restrained yet infinitely mov- 
ing conclusion of the story, to say that 
there is no flaw whatever. The plot of 
Eleanor is even simpler than that of 
Helbeck, the annalist more innocent of 
ulterior views, the treatment more en- 
tirely natural. We have the ardent, 
self-consuming love of an already fading 
woman, of exquisite nature, for a man of 
many gifts and little heart, who care- 
lessly accepts all homage and almost all 
sacrifice as his due. The pure and prim- 
itive passion of the woman pierces the 
conventionalities of her caste, and shoots 
heavenward like a tongue of lambent 
altar flame. It speaks the matchless 
language of the Portuguese Sonnets, but 
receives no such fitting response as did 
they. Enter then the fresh, young, inex- 
perienced, almost rustic rival, unconscious 
at first, and then unwilling ; ingenuous, 
loyal, and proud. The man's unstable 
nature swings from its old allegiance and 
tumbles to a new, as the darkling tide 
obeys the rising moon. There is no 
need to anticipate here, for those who 
have not yet read it, the precise end of 
the story. The loveliest feature of it, 
as a psychological study, is the noble 
reaction of the two women upon one an- 
other. Let us do justice, after all, to 
the uneasy age in which we live ; whose 
fads do fret, whose manners displease, 
whose hitherto unheard-of claims and 
innovations often fairly appall us. Wo- 



men are less petty, upon the whole, than 
they were, let us say in the days of 
Miss Austen. Never before our time 
would the invigorating truth have been 
instantly and widely recognized of the 
great scenes between Dinah and Hetty 
in Adam Bede, between Dorothea and 
Rosamund in Middlemarch, between 
Eleanor and Lucy in the last chapters of 
Mrs. Ward's new story. 

Of Lucy herself, the remorseful rival, 
the magnanimous ingenue, with her cool 
temperament, her stern conscience, her 
self-collected sweetness, a word must be 
said as embodying Mrs. Ward's idea 
of the unfashionable and unspoiled 
American girl. On the whole, I con- 
sider this one of the Englishwoman's 
most remarkable pieces of divination ; 
lacking but a shade here and a touch 
there of consummate veracity. We all 
know the type : the flower of the old- 
fashioned provincial town; a creature 
of gentle blood, but often stringent cir- 
cumstances, of heroic instincts, whole- 
some training, and a spotless imagina- 
tion. But Mrs. Ward cannot have seen 
much of this type in the phalanx of 
those who march every summer to the 
conquest of Mayfair, in such marvelous 
bravery of equipment ; and she is the 
less likely to have done so, because we 
are beginning to think of it even here 
as a blossom of seasons gone by. Cer- 
tainly we have more Marcellas than 
Lucys among us at the present moment, 
though we may hope that it will not 
always be so. Lucy is essentially of 
New England (mons viridis genuit), 
but with odd touches here and there of 
the remoter West, which do not detract 
from her piquancy ; and Manisty was 
quite right in his complacent prevision 
that she would adapt herself easily and 
rapidly to the tone of his monde, and 
" become the grande dame of the future 
that his labor, his ambitions, and his 
gifts should make for her." 

That Lucy will play well her untried 
part of great lady in an old society seems 



Fiction, New and Old. 



131 



more certain, indeed, than that she will 
be a happy woman as the wife of Ed- 
ward Manisty. Mrs. Ward's complex, in- 
consistent, and highly sophisticated hero 
is a very real being to herself, and she 
succeeds in making him almost equally 
so to her readers. Our feeling about 
him does but oscillate with her own, be- 
tween delight in his rich temperament 
and his intellectual gifts, and impatience 
with his astonishing spiritual coxcombry ; 
his inveterate coquetries with all the wo- 
men he meets, including the scarlet one. 
It is, of course, impossible not to remem- 
ber that Manisty's purely sentimental 
attraction toward the Catholic Church, 
and the grand dementi of his effusive 
but highly unphilosophical book, have a 
parallel in the case of that English man 
of letters who has introduced into his 
latest novel a harsh and vulgar but un- 
mistakable caricature of Mrs. Ward. In 
so far, however, as the character of Man- 
isty is a retort for that of Mrs. Norham 
in Mallock's Tristram Lacy, it is a 
wholly dignified and magnanimous one, 
which leaves the advantage, in this curi- 
ous battle, overwhelmingly upon the wo- 
man's side. 

The scene of Eleanor all passes in 
rural Italy: first, among the storied 
hills to the south of Rome ; later, in the 
sylvan tract that is dominated by the 
isolated Arx of Orvieto, and the rarely 
explored nooks and valleys of that minor 
mountain range which culminates in the 
visionary peak of Monte Amiata. How 
deeply the enchantment of that scenery 
is felt, and how exquisitely it is rendered 
in Eleanor, only the lifelong lover of 
Italy perhaps only her unwilling exile 
can fully appreciate. It is all here, 
painted in soft yet vivid hues, the 
classic lineaments, the purpureal air, the 
haunting sense of immemorial habitation, 
and what Mrs. Ward herself so aptly 
calls the " Virgilian grace " of the " Sa- 
turnia tellus." 

But she has done more and better 
than faithfully to reproduce upon her 



English canvas the finest stage setting 
ever yet provided for every possible act 
in the human drama. Her eloquent dedi- 
cation of the book to the country shows 
that hers is no mere sentimental infatu- 
ation, but a tried and sacred love ; and 
the same exceptional experience which 
enabled her to handle with so masterly 
a freedom, in Helbeck of Bannisdale, the 
sore problem presented by the clash of 
hoary faith with modern thought assists 
her to understand and analyze, as few 
outsiders have done, the desperate and 
still undecided struggle between the old 
church and the new state in Italy. Here 
all her learning tells, and tells as learn- 
ing should ; not loudly, vauntingly, im- 
periously, but with the still small voice 
that wins to a wider comprehension and 
a more sincere and searching charity. 

Mrs. Ward's Italians are not always 
drawn with a flattering pen, but she in- 
troduces us to one peculiarly fine type 
of Italian womanhood and not a very 
rare type, either in the Contessa Guer- 
rini. She is a minor character, indeed, 
and comes rather late into the story, but, 
as not infrequently happens, with Mrs. 
Ward as with other writers, the figure 
on the second plane seems drawn with 
a firmer and more expert hand than even 
those foremost ones on which a more 
anxious industry has been bestowed. 
A brave, wise woman is the old countess, 
a woman of the oldest race and the 
youngest sympathies; a good Catholic, 
and an equally good patriot ; and I, for 
one, could embrace Mrs. Ward for the 
word of sober and yet thrilling hope 
for her country's future which she puts 
into the mouth of this deeply chastened 
but indomitable creature who would have 
" no pessimism about Italy : " 

" I dare say the taxes are heavy, and 
that our officials and bankers and im- 
piegati are not on as good terms as they 
might be with the Eighth Command- 
ment. Well ! was ever a nation made 
in a night before ? When your Queen 
came to the throne, were you English 



182 



Fiction, New and Old. 



so immaculate ? You talk about our 
Socialists have we any disturbances, 
pray, worse than your disturbances in 
the twenties and thirties ? The parroco 
says to me day after day, * The African 
campaign has been the ruin of Italy ! ' 
That 's only because he wants it to be so. 
The machine marches, and the people 
pay their taxes, and farming improves 
every year, all the same. A month or 
two ago, the newspapers were full of the 
mobbing of trains starting with soldiers 
for Erythrea. Yet all that time, if you 
went down into the Campo de' Fiori, you 
could find poems sold for a soldo, that 
only the people wrote and the people 
read, that were as patriotic as the poor 
King himself." 

The " poor King " has fallen well asleep 
after his fitful fever, since these words 
were written, and a younger, and it may 
be stronger, reigns in his stead. But when 
we find a gem of political wisdom, like 
this, incidentally dropped in the pages of 
the most poetic and highly wrought ro- 
mance of the year, we can only rejoice 
that sixty -five thousand people have 
pledged themselves, on peril of pecunia- 
ry sacrifice, to read the book, and hope 
that the number may be largely increased. 

It is a little doubtful if Sentimental 
Tommy and Tommy is not to be called a 
Grizel. prelude to Tommy and Grizel, 1 
rather than Tommy and Grizel to be 
called a sequel to Sentimental Tommy. 
This newer tale, though for a more per- 
fect understanding of the characters one 
needs to have read the earlier, is so large 
an undertaking that the former book gets 
a good deal of its value as an interpreta- 
tion of it. For Tommy and Grizel is no 
less an undertaking than a penetrative 
study of the soul of an artist in relation 
to his art and his life. The parable is 
homely enough, it is the nature of par- 
ables to be homely. A Scottish youth 
who has won fame as an analyst of the 
human soul, in terms either of fiction or 

1 Tommy and Grizel. By JAMES M. BABBIE. 
New York: Charles Scribner's Sons. 1900. 



of the essay, is called upon to settle his 
own case in actual life, to put to the test 
all his noble sentiments. And the girl 
who is the touchstone is a daughter born 
out of wedlock, and herself conscious of 
a terrible tendency to follow in her mo- 
ther's steps. 

These two characters, who had been 
boy and girl together in the earlier book, 
come once more into each other's ken 
when they have reached maturity, and 
the field of their experience is the same 
Scottish village of Thrums, which Gri- 
zel had never left, and to which Tommy, 
now Mr. T. Sandys, returns, full of honor 
and with unsated thirst for applause. 
The other figures, admirably subordi- 
nated, are Tommy's sister Elspeth and 
her lover, the old village gossips, and a 
certain Lady Pippinworth, who comes 
upon the scene with an apparent air of 
being a supernumerary, and remains 
hardly materialized to the reader, but a 
malignant force in the development of 
Tommy's drama. 

The stage upon which the play is set 
is a small one. The scenes shift from 
London to Thrums, and back to London, 
and for a brief space to a Continental 
watering place. The incidents, moreover, 
are, with two exceptions, of the most triv- 
ial character, mere meetings of the 
dramatis personce under ordinary village 
conditions; and yet even before the 
fourth act of the tragedy for tragedy 
it is, of a very powerful sort the read- 
er is aware of some impending disaster. 
Beneath the extraordinarily light move- 
ment of the story one perceives a re- 
pressed power gathering for some sort