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 of
outburst. One holds one's breath, and
feels at times really feverish in his ap-
prehension of he knows not what. In-
deed, the more open manifestation of
disaster in the scenes attending Grizel's
adventure at St. Gian, where she is a
witness to the intolerable meeting of
Tommy and Lady Pippinworth, does not
move the reader so subtly. There is
something conventional about the situa-
Fiction^ New and Old.
133
tion, and Mr. Barrie lingers over Gri-
zel's misery in a way that makes one
impatient. He forces the note, and one
discovers how ineffectual a novelist he
might be if he contented himself with
fiction of this sort ; but the ultimate ca-
tastrophe is told with a swiftness which
makes it the horror that it is, and flashes
it on the unsuspecting reader in a way
to light up the whole horizon of the
story.
Mr. Barrie's art in laying bare the
souls of his two chief characters, with-
out wearying the reader with intermina-
ble analysis and speculation, is of a very
high order. As one skips lightly over
the surface of the story he is not shown
any yawning abysses ; yet the whole un-
derworld is volcanic, and, as we have
intimated, the more attentive observer
is aware of a commotion which disturbs
him at the most innocent moment. To
be sure, now and then Mr. Barrie, in an
aside, which seems like a breathing hole
for the stifling author, whispers a note
of warning ; but so bright is the air, so
sparkling the scene, that one scarcely
heeds it. He is watching, it may be,
some fence of words between Tommy
and Grizel, in which the foils flash and
cross each other with lightning-like ra-
pidity, and his whole mind is intent on
seeing the effect of the wordy contest.
Or again, he is momentarily puzzled by
Mr. Barrie's air. Is he mocking ? Are
those tears in his eyes ? Does he really
know what his hero and heroine are to do
with each other and themselves ? Yet,
if he re-reads the book under the light
flaming up from the conclusion, he dis-
covers how relentless the author is, how
like Fate is the movement throughout ;
not the Fate which stalks terribly over
the stage, but the resistless force which
sucks the swimmer who thinks he is
playing with the waves into the mael-
strom toward which he is always float-
ing.
For Tommy in love with his creations
of art, who takes on the forms and hues
of these creations with Protean celerity
and completeness, is miserably caught in
the toils of his real selfishness and hypo-
crisy. The real Tommy, whom Grizel
mournfully and Latta scornfully sees,
struggles fitfully to rid himself of the
garment of beautiful curses which he
has wrapped about him. This fictitious
hero, whose death itself is made to en-
hance his fictitious heroism, might de-
ceive the very elect, one would say, if
the very elect were not the other leading
character, the patient Grizel, of the story.
The antithesis of this noble creature is
the answer to any complaint which a
superficial reader might make that Mr.
Barrie was sneering at his hero. Her
infinite charity attendant on her open-
eyed knowledge has a world of pathos
in it, which is nowhere more clearly
seen than in the passage after Tommy's
death. He who made Tommy made
Grizel, and his art in the one case as in
the other is firm-footed. If he is relent-
less with Tommy, he is like an encour-
aging Great-heart with Grizel.
The old contention of the relation of
art to morality, which is more or less
academic in character, always fades in
the light of a real masterpiece. Is there
art in the parable of the Pharisee and the
Publican ? Who shall deny it ? Is there
morality in this tale ? Assuredly. At
times, as in the conversation between the
old doctor and Grizel, the morality is a
trifle bald, though certainly delicate in
its presentment, but for the most part it
is sunken as the substructure of a beau-
tiful building. That Grizel should have
entered the kingdom, and Tommy have
been thrust out, is the unerring conclu-
sion of a great artist; but Grizel's entrance
sees her stripped of all she wanted, and
Tommy is expelled when he has had his
apple. For is it not the pippin worth that
he is after ?
This disease of a nature dominated
by an artistic faculty is so insidious that,
though one recognizes it readily in some
of its minor apparitions, there needed a
134
Fiction^ New and Old.
great pathologist in art, like Mr. Barrie,
to follow it in all its turnings and wind-
ings, till he should track it to its final
lair in the very pulsations of the heart.
The corrosion which goes on in Tommy,
even when the outside is fairest, is ter-
rible, and it is consummate art that does
not shrink from disclosing it. No con-
scientious artist in any field of endeavor
can read the book without being stirred
by the possibilities it opens to view in
his own nature. We wonder, indeed, if
the author of Margaret Ogilvy did not,
as he wrote or read Tommy and Grizel,
see a shadow thrown across the page by
that book.
There is a question which this publica-
tion raises that might be raised by other
contemporaneous fiction, though not per-
haps so strongly. Why should it be
thought necessary to accompany a great
work of art in literature with a con-
temptible work of art in delineation?
Is it possible that the artistic nature ex-
istent in a recipient form in every ap-
preciative reader is so feeble that it can-
not visualize the scenes, and must call
in the aid of some one who uses the
brush, and not the pen ? It would seem
so from the almost universal recourse by
publishers to draughtsmen to illustrate
new works of fiction. When the novel-
ist is himself a mere artisan, one may
accept the pictures which he suggests to
some other artisan. But when the nov-
elist is a great artist, as Mr. Barrie cer-
tainly is, to interpose between his page
and the reader's eye such cheap and
feeble, in some instances such ridiculous
pictures as Tommy and Grizel contains
is to insult the reader.
The latest edition of the writings of
The Haworth the Bronte sisters 1 is a notable
one. The seven ample vol-
umes are a pleasure to the eye and the
hand. Facsimiles of manuscript, abun-
dant illustrations of scenes and buildings
1 Life and Works of the Sisters Bronte. The
Haworth Edition. Illustrated. With prefaces
by Mrs. HUMPHRY WARD, and annotations to
associated with the novels and their au-
thors, and the reproduction of every avail-
able portrait, including Richmond's love-
ly head of Mrs. Gaskell, ought to satisfy
the most exacting collector of Brontiana.
Mr. Snorter's excellent annotations to
the Life furnish some details hitherto
unpublished, though nothing that affects
materially one's impression of the justice
or the charm of that memorable biogra-
phy. It is through Mrs. Ward's intro-
ductions to the novels, however, even
more than in its mechanical perfection
and its skillful use of expert knowledge,
that the Haworth edition may well claim
to present the works of the Brontes in
definitive form.
The public has grown hardened to
new editions of once popular or still
popular books, " with introductions by
some other Tommy," as Mr. Barrie has
lately phrased it. The service of a dis-
tinguished living Tommy in vouching
for the worth of his predecessor com-
mands, no doubt, a commercial value.
Still, that service is likely to be either
patronizing, as when some youthful
sword-and-buckler fictionist gravely tells
us that Sir Walter Scott, all things con-
sidered, wrote very good novels, or else
perfunctory, as is witnessed by the mel-
ancholy list of English classics dully
"edited" for school and college use.
But to the task of commenting upon the
work of the Bronte sisters Mrs. Ward
brings a natural sympathy, born of race
and sex and personal affinity, and of pro-
fessional craftsmanship. Her scholarly
appreciation of distinguished literary
workmanship, as well as her insight into
rare spiritual experiences, was shown
long ago in her preface to Amiel's Jour-
nal. In dealing with the Brontes she
is upon even more congenial soil. Her
critical acumen is too keen for over-
praise. She is under no illusion as to
the limitations of the three sisters, or
Mrs. Gaskell's Life of Charlotte Bronte by
CLEMENT K. SHORTER. In seven volumes.
New York : Harper & Brothers. 1899-1900.
Fiction, New and Old.
135
their positive defects in taste and con-
structive faculty. She has not been
deafened by the extravagant eulogies
pronounced by followers of the Bronte
cult. Yet she penetrates to the real
power of these extraordinary Yorkshire
women through her kinship with their
seriousness, their strenuousness, their
emotional intensity.
Mrs. Ward herself has known the
potency of environment whether it be
gray Northern moorland or the brilliant
life of a foreign city in stimulating
the imagination. She follows Charlotte
Bronte to Brussels and back again, with
full comprehension of the significance of
the sojourn there. Her thorough study
of the great European writers of the ro-
mantic school has taught her the part
played by the unsophisticated inmates
of the Haworth parsonage in that new
dramatic attitude toward life and na-
ture. She perceives the English girl
pure of heart, isolated, yearning for the
right back of the rebellious roman-
ticist. Finally, Mrs. "Ward's own train-
ing as a writer of fiction, in novels that
are increasingly faithful to the best tra-
ditions of the English school, helps her
to perceive the skill with which the
Brontes utilized their narrow field of
observation, and breathed into those se-
cretly written books their own fiery en-
ergy of soul. While she never intrudes
her personal interpretation upon those
who read the Bronte novels in this edi-
tion, she unquestionably illuminates the
stories with new meaning, both as re-
cords of the human spirit and as signal
achievements of the art of fiction.
And what, after all, is the reason for
the continued vitality of these novels ?
They contain grave lapses against per-
fection of form ; they are full of hasty,
diffuse, and extravagant writing ; they
reveal astounding ignorance of the mo-
tives, the words, and the ways of actual
men and women. Jane Eyre, the most
widely read of the group, has been rid-
dled by critics, burlesqued by novelists,
imitated by penny dreadfuls without
number. Yet it lives ; and Shirley lives,
and the "imperishable" Villette, and
Emily's marvelous Wuthering Heights.
A partial explanation, 110 doubt, is to
be found in the unique interest attach-
ing to the tragic fortunes of that singu-
larly gifted family. Mrs. Gaskell's Life,
finely reticent as it is, throbs with sym-
pathy for the piteousness and glory of
those brief lives, and has done much to
intensify the purely personal concern for
all that pertains to the dwellers in the
Haworth parsonage. Understanding the
sisters as completely as we now may, it
is difficult to escape the assertive force
of their individual genius. The pene-
trating intelligence, the stubborn courage
of Charlotte, the flame and music of
Emily, the gentle gravity of Anne, have
become a part of their printed pages.
It is true, also, that by some happy
prescience their art availed itself of
methods that have grown more and
more effective in the fifty years that
have elapsed since these books were
written. Their use of landscape, to se-
lect an obvious example, has naively an-
ticipated many of the consciously im-
pressionistic or symbolistic experiments
of later writers. By natural sensitiveness
to the influences of sky and moor, of
sodden mist and luminous moonlight and
impenetrable night, these amateurs in
fiction still move the mind to wonder-
ing delight or vague foreboding. Their
stage machinery creaks and jolts, or
grows palpably absurd ; but the gleams
and shadows that irradiate or enshroud
it belong to another and more real world,
the world of nature as beheld by the
modern spirit.
We turn to the enduring books for
what they do not for what they do
not contain. The shortcomings of the
Bronte novels are easily detected. But
to read them, nevertheless, is to go deep-
sea fishing. Not everybody cares for
that sort of pleasure. It entails incon-
veniences and annoyances, narrow quar-
136
Fiction, New and Old.
ters and alien horizons ; and one may
toil long and take nothing. Yet if one
likes it, one may always go down with
Charlotte and Emily Bronte into the
great deeps of passion and of will. The
face of these waters is a solitary place ;
there are no fellow voyagers save mem-
ory, and half-conquered hope, and an
unconquered faith that holds the rudder
to the polestar of duty. But there is
nothing trivial there or ignoble, and all
around are the brightness and the mys-
tery of the brine.
When one is reading some of Mr.
Stockton's ingenious and seri-
Novels and ous stories, 1 The Great Stone
of Sardis, for example, or The
Water-Devil, or The Great War Syndi-
cate, one is tempted to speculate what
would have happened had the author of
these tales been caught early and shut up
in the shop, say, of an electrical engi-
neer, and had his mind turned in the di-
rection of mechanical inventions. His
seriousness is never more effective than
when he is carefully explaining some of
those contrivances, upon the successful
working of which his story depends.
Perhaps a reader trained in electrical sci-
ence would detect the suppressed factor,
but the ordinary reader is more likely to
grow a little impatient, and wonder why
Mr. Stockton is explaining so patiently
his invention or his mechanism ; he is
quite ready to accept the results of so
plainly an accomplished mechanic, and
wishes he would hurry on with his story.
In truth, Mr. Stockton is really an ex-
ceedingly clever juggler, who rolls up
his sleeves, places his apparatus under a
calcium light, puts on an innocent face,
deprecates the slightest appearance of
deception, and then performs his extraor-
dinary feats. There is a nimbleness of
movement, an imperturbable air, and the
thing is done.
The supreme quality which Mr. Stock-
1 The Novels and Stories of Frank E. Stock-
ton. Eighteen volumes. New York : Charles
Scribner's Sons. 1900.
ton possesses as a novelist is his inven-
tiveness. He is an Edison amongst the
patient students and gropers after the
dramatic truths of human life. As one
surveys the eighteen volumes which ga-
ther the greater part, but by no means
the whole of his product in fiction, one
is amazed at the fertility of invention
brought to light, and the careless ease
with which each piece of work is thrown
off. One might think his Adventures
of Captain Horn had exhausted the
capacity of the story-teller dealing with
hid treasures, but Mrs. Cliff's Yacht fol-
lows in its wake, and one gets, not the
leavings of the former story, but a fresh
turn of absorbing interest. Mr. Stock-
ton has hinted at the author's predica-
ment who has struck twelve once, and
vainly hopes to be heard when he strikes
eleven, in his witty story of " His Wife's
Deceased Sister ; " but he himself fol-
lowed the inimitable tale of The Casting
Away of Mrs. Leeks and Mrs. Aleshine
with The Dusantes, and seems to delight
in explaining one mystery by another.
Inventiveness is so dominant a note
that human character itself is presented
as a cleverly put together toy. The per-
sons in these stories are usually matter
of fact in their manner, but the springs
which work the characters are often
marvels of ingenuity. Thus, when Mr.
Stockton first proposed to himself to
write novels in distinction from stories,
he sought in each of the leading cases a
central character, set, so to speak, like
an alarm clock, to go off, when the
striking time came, with a great whir.
His Mrs. Null is carefully constructed
thus to go through all the motions of a
human being, yet to have a concealed
mechanism which is the ultimate ex-
planation of her conduct. So, too, Mr.
Horace Stratford, in The Hundredth
Man, has a whim upon which the whole
structure of the book is nicely balanced,
like a rocking stone ; and in The Girl at
Cobhurst, Miss Panney is like the linch-
pin to a very ramshackle sort of vehicle,
Fiction, New and Old.
137
pull it out, and the whole wagon falls
to pieces.
Perhaps this is the explanation why
so many of Mr. Stockton's stories are
autobiographic in form. When the nar-
rator is himself the hero, he is bound to
a certain modesty of behavior, and the
low key in which his narrative is pitched
allows of more extravagant incident,
because the sincerity of the narrator
cannot easily be called in question. The
soberness, almost melancholy, with which
the brother-in-law of J. George Watts
tells of The Remarkable Wreck of the
" Thomas Hyke " is like a seal set to the
verity of the tale. Defoe seeks to give
authenticity to one of his fictions by
calling one or two witnesses into court
who are just as fictitious as his hero.
Mr. Stockton uses a better art when he
makes his narrator's manner corroborate
his invention. But it is easier to con-
ceal an invention than both the inventor
and the invention, and so, when he has
some highly improbable tale to tell, Mr.
Stockton is apt to resort to this device.
The story-teller was himself a part of
the story, and how can you disbelieve
the story when the teller is so careful in
his narrative, so manifestly unwilling to
pass beyond the bounds of the actual
fact? If you have not to account for
the inventor, if he is the sober reality on
which everything leans, then you have
removed the greatest obstacle to confi-
dence. Mr. Stockton realizes to the full
the advantage which accrues from a
trustworthy narrator, and he makes his
narrator trustworthy by abdicating his
own place as invisible story-teller, and
giving it to one who was himself an actor
in the story.
That human life is treated as a piece
of mechanism, a stray bit of a Chinese
puzzle, appears not merely from the de-
liberateness with which each part is fitted
into its place, but from the entire ab-
sence of the emotional element, except
as it is supplied now and then by the
inventor to lubricate his machinery a
little. Mr. Stockton is rarely more droll
than when he lets his lovers disport them-
selves as lovers. It sometimes seems as
if he looked up lover's words in the dic-
tionary. At times, he hastens over the
critical passages with a shamefaced alac-
rity ; at others, he makes his lovers go
through the motions with praiseworthy
carefulness, almost as if he were re-
hearsing them for some real scene.
Love-making is for the most part merely
one of the incidents in a merry career,
and one of the great charms of Mr.
Stockton's stories is that entertainment
is furnished without any undue excita-
tion of the nerves. Even the murders
that are committed occasionally in his
books are like those one encounters in
the Arabian Nights, necessary parts of
the plot, but bringing no discomfort to any
one. There is often a tremendous clat-
ter and banging in tempestuous scenes,
but likely as not the mind carries away
as the permanent effect some highly
amusing byplay ; as when, in the story
of Mrs. Cliff's Yacht, we hear above the
roar of battle the torrent of virtuous
oaths delivered with stunning effect by
Miss Willy Croup.
The one exception to the mechanical
theory of inspiration of character in
these stories is found in Mr. Stockton's
use of the negro. Once in a while, to
be fcure, his negro is a sort of jack-in-the-
box, as good little Peggy in The Late
Mrs. Null, who takes a very deliberate
part in pulling the strings ; but for the
most part Mr. Stockton seems to assume
that nature has been so munificent in
endowing the negro with incalculable
motives and springs of conduct, that he
need only stand by, admiring, and faith-
fully record these whimsical inventions.
The very fidelity with which he attends
to this business results in far greater
successes than any he wins by his own
motion. In this same story of The Late
Mrs. Null he has a character Aunt
Patsy so vivid, so truthful, and so
appealing to the imagination that one
138
Two Lives of Cromwell.
familiar with the great company of Mr.
Stockton's characters can find no other
so triumphant in its art.
It is, perhaps, an inevitable conse-
quence of a view of human life which
concerns itself but little with the great
moments of emotion, that there are fre-
quent failures in proportion. The elabor
rate fiction, for example, of Mr. Stull
as the real proprietor of Vatoldis, but
concealed behind the screen of social
dignity, leads Mr. Stockton into a great
deal of humorous but rather wearisome
detail ; and in The Girl at Cobhurst, the
highly specialized cook seems to be
boosted into an important part in the
evolution of the story. Yet the delicacy,
the refinement of mind, which give al-
most an old-fashioned air, Mr. Stock-
ton's " madam," in his conversations, is
a courtly bow, are conspicuous by the
entire absence of the burlesque. If Mr.
Stockton hurries over the emotional,
there is not the slightest taint of cyni-
cism, nor any approach to the vulgarity
of making fun of the secrets of the heart.
Grotesquerie there is in abundance, and
dry drolling ; but both artistic restraint
and a fine reserve of nature render the
work always humane and sweet.
Where, indeed, in our literature shall
we find such a body of honest humor,
with its exaggeration deep in the nature
of things, and not in the distortion of the
surface ? The salt which seasons it, and
may be relied on to keep it wholesome,
is the unfailing good humor and charity
of the author. The world, as he sees it,
is a world peopled with tricksy sprites
and amusing goblins. When he was
telling tales for children, these gnomes
and fairies and brownies were very much
in evidence. He does not bring them
into evidence in his stories for maturer
readers, except occasionally, as in The
Griffin and the Minor Canon ; but they
have simply retired into the recesses of
the human spirit. They do their work
still in initiating all manner of caprices
and whimsical outbreaks ; but they are
concealed, and this story-teller, who
knows of their superabundant activity,
goes about with a grave face the better to
keep their secret.
TWO LIVES OF CROMWELL.
WHY has Cromwell so astonishingly
come to his own in the past few years ?
It is not simply a literary phenomenon.
Carlyle's Rettung worked something of
a revulsion in the learned world ; but
even there pygmies soon reared them-
selves on the giant's shoulders to remark
condescendingly that, of course, Carlyle
had " never seen the Clark Papers." and
so needed infinite correction ; while it
may be doubted if the flame-girt-hero
theory of Cromwell ever took a sure
hold of the popular imagination. Yet
Oliver Cromtcfll. By JOHX MORLET. New
York : The Century Co. 1900.
Oliver Cromwell. By THEODORE ROOSE-
it is the popular return to Cromwell
which is the striking thing. Where
once his skull grinned on a pole at West-
minster, his statue now rises defiantly ;
and as " not a dog barked " at him when
he turned Parliament out of doors, so
only bishops and a few lords barked
when his effigy was placed for admira-
tion and remembrance in the very par-
liamentary precincts which he violated.
Lord Rosebery. who was. bien entendu.
the " unknown donor " of the statue.
about whom Lord Salisbury jested, saw
VELT. New York : Charles Scribner's Sons.
1900.
Two Lives of Cromwell.
139
the true hiding of Cromwell's power in
his being ' a practical mystic, the most
formidable and terrible of all combina-
tions." Frederic Harrison praises him
as ** the first political genius of his time."
To go further back, Macaulay pronounced
him " the greatest prince that ever ruled
England." Even Southey said of him
that no man was ever " so worthy of the
station which he filled." But how, out
of these generalities, can we deduce the
real ground for the Cromwell revival,
the real reason for our latter-day lau-
dation of the man and his ideals and
deeds ? Mr. Gardiner, that " giant
of research," as John Morley calls him,
" our greatest living master in history,"
in Frederic Harrison's phrase, " who,
with enormous industry and persever-
ance, just manages to write the events
of one year in the seventeenth century
within each twelve months of his own
laborious life," Mr. Gardiner, in the
second volume of his History of the
Commonwealth, published three years
ago, said the truer word, a word which
seems also almost prophetic, in view of
what has happened since. To this calm
historian, the deepest reason why Crom-
well has become " the national hero of
the nineteenth century " is that, " like
him, modern Britain has waged wars,
annexed territory, extended trade, and
raised her head among the nations. Like
him, her sons have been unable to find
complete satisfaction in their achieve-
ments unless they could persuade them-
selves that the general result was bene-
ficial to others besides themselves. It is
inevitable that now, as then, such an atti-
tude should draw upon itself the charge
of hypocrisy." An obvious application
of this scripture might be made to the
Britain beyond the seas, and to the latest
American biographer of Cromwell.
But if our century is harking back to
the seventeenth for a reassuring states-
man, able to show us how to knock peo-
ple on the head, as Cromwell did the
monks at Drogheda. for their own good
and ad majorem Dei gloriam, we at
least carry our critical apparatus and
our historic method along with us. The
old way was to make Cromwell out
either saint or devil. We moderns aim
to understand rather than to judge.
Mr. Gardiner marks the great transition
in his quiet putting one side of all the
old personal controversies, heated and
bitter : * With the man we are con-
cerned only so far as a knowledge of
him may enable us to understand his
work." Contrast this with the Rhada-
manthus air of even the liberal Claren-
don, summoning before the judgment
seat the ' ; brave bad man," who " had
all the wickedness against which damna-
tion is denounced and for which hell fire
is prepared." Mr. Morley, on his part,
passes over to the serene impartiality, if
not forgiveness, of the tout comprendre.
He speaks of * the common error" of
ascribing " far too much to the designs
and the influence of eminent men," and
directs our gaze rather to "the momentum
of past events, the spontaneous impulses
of the mass of a nation or a race, the pres-
sure of general hopes and fears." Not so
Governor Roosevelt. For him, the great
question is whether Cromwell and the
regicides were " right," whether Oliver
was " thoroughly justified." With un-
dergraduate truculence he re-threshes
this old straw. The moralist in him is
too much for the historian. " As the
"historic school," writes Mr. Morley,
"has come to an end that dispatched
Oliver Cromwell as a hypocrite, so we
are escaping from the other school that
dismissed Charles as a tyrant. Laud as
a driveler and a bigot, and Wentworth
as an apostate." But Roosevelt is only
pawing to get free. Laud, he tells us,
was a "small and narrow man ; " Went-
worth ' had obtained his price ; " and
Charles's character is painted in the
blackest colors. " It is pretty safe to be
sure," says Mr. Morley, to whom we
naturally turn for comfort, " that these
slashing superlatives are never true."
140
Two Lives of Cromwell.
The conjunction of these two lives of
Cromwell in both magazine and book
makes the reviewer's task easy. A hint
has already been given of the uncon-
scious way in which Mr. Morley applies
the rod of correction. In general, if
the reader is puzzled or offended by a
passage in Roosevelt, he may find the
appropriate comment in Morley. Take
a specimen case or two. The Governor
speaks of " Cromwell's tremendous poli-
cies " which have been carried to " frui-
tion" in the past century and a half.
Nay, says Mr. Morley ; " when it is
claimed that no English ruler did more
than Cromwell to shape the future of
the land he governed, we run some risk
of straining history only to procure in-
cense for retrograde ideals." If any
man says that this is only one authority
against another, one no better than the
other, let him hear the voice of an im-
partial umpire. Mr. Gardiner, who by an-
ticipation sets Governor Roosevelt right
in so many points of mere fact, sets him
right also in this point of mingled fact
and philosophy. Cromwell, he writes,
" effected nothing in the way of build-
ing up where he had pulled down, and
there was no single act of the Protec-
torate that was not swept away at the
Restoration without hope of revival"
Think of that other military revolution-
ist, Napoleon. His family rule failed
as signally as Cromwell's ; his form of
government was swept away ; but he
had the brain of a constructive states-
man, and, as Mr. Bodley has recently
shown once more, the type of adminis-
tration and of law which he stamped
upon France has persisted through all
governmental upheavals, so that the
veriest pekin of a Republican minister
who to-day journeys to a department
gets the military salute ordered in such
cases by the Emperor Napoleon. Crom-
well's great work was negative. He
wrote with his sword the thing that
should not be in England. What he
attempted to say should be was writ in
water. This fixes the true point of
view for determining his historic posi-
tion. According to Roosevelt, Cromwell
and the Puritans were " the beginning
of the great modern epoch of the Eng-
lish-speaking world." Mr. Morley takes
issue, as squarely and verbally as if he
had foreseen who would be inviting re-
futation at his hands : " Cromwell's re-
volution was the end of the mediaeval
rather than the beginning of the modern
era." The reason is that Oliver had
" little of that faith in Progress that be-
came the inspiration of a later age," and
that for " the driving force of modern
government " Public Opinion he
had but " a strictly limited regard."
Nor is it a mere strife about words to
dispute whether Cromwell began the new
or simply ended the old. The whole
philosophy of English liberty turns on
the nice distinction.
Colonel Roosevelt's life of the Pro-
tector is a very characteristic bit of ex-
temporized and headlong vigor. His
account of Cromwell's battles is written
with the stern joy of a warrior, and
with a good deal of rough force and pic-
turesqueness. One may doubt, however,
if his description of Dun bar fight will
ever be taken over, as Carlyle's Ross-
bach was, for a textbook in use by the
Prussian General-Staff. Indeed, in this
very province of military expertness,
the civilian Morley, though he expressly
puts the thunder of the captains and the
shouting one side, shows a better ac-
quaintance with the latest material, Ger-
man and other, than the soldier Roose-
velt. A hasty getting up of his case is,
indeed, too often betrayed by the latter.
What he says, for example, about thr
lack of " material prosperity " in Eng-
land under Charles, of the working of
the Navigation Act, of the " uppermost
motive " in Cromwell's foreign policy,
needs to be checked by reference to
easily accessible authorities. But it is
clear that he never thought of writing
his Life of Cromwell as sober-sided his-
Two Lives of Cromwell.
141
tory. In none of his writings is there
room for Burns's doubt whether the
thing would turn out " sang " or ser-
mon ; the sermon is sure to come sooner
or later. A political moralist and ex-
horter by main bent, the Governor uses
Cromwell as a peg on which to hang his
own hat. Really, as one reads his fre-
quent excursuses, the feeling grows that
the book should have been called Crom-
well's Difficulties Elucidated by Office-
Holding in New York ; or, Cromwell as
an Example of Compromise ; or, Crom-
well and the Impossible Best. The po-
litical philosophy preached is mostly of
the slapdash order, and too frequently
the reader's only resource is to recall
that eighteenth - century biographer of
Cromwell, of whom Carlyle said that,
with all his faults, he " has occasionally
a helpless broad innocence of platitude
which is almost interesting."
" Ah ! Sire, ce Cromwell &ait tout
autre chose," said the Dutch ambassa-
dor to Charles II., when the latter com-
plained of being shown less deference
than the late Protector by Holland. So
must any reader say who turns from
Roosevelt's volume to Morley's. It is
not simply a question of more practiced
and pointed writing. " Remarquez,"
said Voltaire, " que les hommes qui ont
le mieux pens sont aussi ceux qui ont
le mieux e'crit." It is the antecedent
thinking, the breadth of outlook, by
which Mr. Morley charms, as much as
by his brilliant style. " Universal his-
tory has been truly said to make a large
part of every national history." That
is Mr. Morley's starting point ; and as
Emerson said of Carlyle that his Freder-
ick the Great was written as by a man of
cosmic knowledge descending on chaos, so
we may say Mr. Morley reads Cromwell's
time by the light of the " central line
of beacon fires that mark the onward
journey of the race." His flashes of
illumination from the French Revolu-
tion are particularly enlightening. And
he fairly oozes political philosophy as he
goes on, seeing the general truth in the
particular instance with a piercing gaze,
and stating it with an epigrammatic pow-
er, that remind one of Burke. It would
be easy to string a full circlet of these
gems of his : " To be a pedant is to insist
on applying a stiff theory to fluid fact."
" To impose broad views upon the narrow
is one of the things that a party leader
exists for." "The first of those mo-
ments of fatigue had come that attend
all revolutions." " No inconsiderable
part of history is a record of the illu-
sions of statesmen." " As soon as peo-
ple see a leader knowing how to calcu-
late, they slavishly assume that the aim
of his calculations can be nothing else
than his own interest." " It is not al-
ways palatable for men in power to be
confronted with their aims in Opposi-
tion." But there would be no end if one
were to go on citing passages marked.
Mr. Morley has recklessly invited the
condemnation of the Rev. jiEthelbald
Wessex, whose opinion it was that " in
history you cannot trust a fellow who
tries to be interesting. If he pretends
to be philosophical, you may know him
to be an impostor." If saturation with
his material, a power of luminous con-
densation, and a fascinating gift for
expression that captures the judgment
while it haunts the memory, if these
are the leading credentials of an histo-
rian, then Mr. Morley is an historian
almost hors concours among living writ-
ers. Milton, in Hugo's play, is made
to beseech the Protector to put away
the offered crown, finally crying out,
" Redeviens Cromwell a la voix de Milton I "
In Mr. Morley's page Cromwell be-
comes himself again, and that by dint
of faithful painting, wart and all. The
poet Waller, with the suppleness of a
Vicar of Bray, had his verses ready to
greet the restored Charles II. But that
monarch thought they did not ring as true
as the same poet's Panegyric to the Lord
Protector, and asked for an explana-
142
The Contributors' Club.
tion of the poetical falling off. " Ah ! "
said the deft Waller, " we poets always
get on better with fiction than with the
truth." Mr. Morley, however, brushes
away the fiction both of indiscriminate
eulogy and of indiscriminate abuse, and
shows us the true Cromwell, in his habit
as he lived.
Hollo Ogden.
THE CONTRIBUTORS' CLUB.
THERE are many forms of cant in
Cant In CriU- criticism ; and the anti-critic
clsm. would do a good turn to both
art and literature who should zealously
set himself to work at the pleasant task
of exposing them. But what I wish to
signalize just now for especial reproba-
tion is the cant of American chauvin-
ism, which affects to decry all literature
produced in this country that does not
portray American characters and paint
American life in what it is pleased to
call the American manner. It has laid
the ban upon even so exquisite a writer
as Irving, because forsooth his style is
English and his taste cosmopolitan.
The very term " American literature "
is an amusing misnomer. What the zeal-
ots for Americanism mean by the phrase
is simply the English literature of the
United States. But the term they have
chosen to use would logically include not
only the work of Canadian writers, but
also the Spanish literature of the states
sprung from Spanish colonies on this con-
tinent and the Portuguese literature of
Brazil.
What would the ancients have thought
of the expression " Sicilian literature "
or "Alexandrian literature," as some-
thing separate and distinct from Greek
literature at large ? Yet Pindar wrote
a goodly number of his odes in Sicily, and
for the glory of a tyrant of Syracuse ; and
Bion and Theocritus were Sicilians, writ-
ing on Sicilian themes, and patronized by
the Ptolemies of Egypt ; to say nothing
of the scientists and philosophers who
belonged wholly to the university life of
Alexandria. What would Apuleius and
Augustine and Synesius have said to the
men who should propose to place them
apart from the general list of Latin au-
thors, and call their literature " Afri-
can " ? What would the French say,
to-day, if Switzerland should claim as a
classic of hers Rousseau, who lived so
little in France, or Voltaire, who lived
so long in Switzerland ? Must English
literature forfeit the name and fame of
Burns, Scott, and Stevenson, because
their genius was so markedly Scottish,
or of Maria Edgeworth and Tom Moore,
because theirs was Irish ?
The truth is, the whole claim is born
of a besotted chauvinism, unworthy of
a great people. We are English not
Anglo-Saxon, thank Heaven ! in his-
toric continuity of language, literature,
and institutions ; largely English in
blood ; and we should be silly indeed to
renounce the glorious heritage that runs
back to Chaucer in literature and to
Caxton in language.
There is something painfully small in
the spectacle of men, able to boast of
writers like Irving, Hawthorne, Legare*,
Holmes, and Poe, perpetually on the
lookout for that elusive phantasm "the
great American novel," utterly unaware
that a great novel written by an Ameri-
can, no matter where the scene is laid
or of what nationality the characters may
be, is a triumph for our country.
The evil involved in the delusion, be-
sides the disreputableness of what is
after all nothing but a silly Anglophobia,
lies in the fact that false estimates are
The Contributors' Club.
143
continually made in consequence of it.
A recent example is the quite dispro-
portioned value that has been attached
to a book like David Harum, pleasant
enough, but certainly not of the highest
merit, solely because the characters
and the local color are distinctively
American.
I AM a back number. I have not ar-
A Back rived at this conclusion hasti-
Numfcer. j Vj or w jthout thought or re-
gret. It has been borne in upon me for
several years. I might have known it
sooner if I had been alert to the facts.
The evidence has been most pronounced,
perhaps, in the matter of church-going.
Whenever I attend church in a new
place, I find myself hesitating. I make
wary inquiries before setting out. I
ask carefully about a possible " com-
mittee of welcome." I approach cau-
tiously. I have been known, at the very
vestibule, to turn and flee. The sight
of an especially friendly usher or com-
mittee of welcome terrifies me beyond
approach. I have an old-fashioned way
of regarding a church as the house of
the Lord. I have a consequent sense
of freedom in it. All this new machin-
ery of welcome and hand-shaking and
pleasant conversation appalls me. That
a man with a black beard, whom I have
never seen before, and whom I am ear-
nestly wishful never to see again, should
feel at liberty to grasp my hand and
hold his face very close, while he wel-
comes me to the sanctuary, is a source of
embarrassment, even of annoyance, to
a conservative person. It puts me in
a state of mind that ill accords with the
spirit of worship. Even if I escape the
preliminary welcome, I never feel thor-
oughly safe. There is the possibility
that roe preacher, from his watch tower,
may spy out the newcomer, and, by
some method of speed or circumvention,
as yet unfathomed by me, may be waiting
at the front door to give me an earnest
social welcome. All this is painful to
one accustomed, by experience and tra-
dition, to look up to the preacher, to
drink in his words of wisdom with no
carnal expectation or hope of later be-
ing grasped by the hand as a prospec-
tive church member.
I find that I miss something in the
new method, a hush before the ser-
vice, a sense of waiting upon the spirit,
an atmosphere of prayer and praise, the
hush that followed " The Lord watch
between thee and me," the quiet dispers-
ing of the congregation ; some gathering
in groups to talk over the sermon, or the
weather, or the crops, or rumors of war ;
but every one at liberty to walk quietly
away, down the long street, under the
shading trees, carrying the words of
comfort and inspiration in his heart.
My chief objection to the committee of
welcome is that they have made all
this impossible. Even if one escapes
them without bodily contact, there is an
uncomfortable sense of a gauntlet run ;
of a strategic turn at the fatal moment,
which barely brought one safely through.
The spiritual mood, the sense of spiritual
communion with one's fellows, is gone,
never to return. It is old-fashioned to
regret it. It is useless to evade it. But
I find myself saying, with the great pro-
phet, " I am not better than my fathers."
I would that their ways might have been
my ways until I died.
AFTER many baffled attempts at con-
Sine Qua tributing to The Atlantic,
Non - efforts through which the
toiling aspirant discovered her rare inge-
nuity in achieving the " unavailable,"
at last a versatile career of failure de-
veloped an altruistic spirit within her,
and, as a warning and a guide to fellow
un-immortals, she wrote the following
verses :
SINE QUA NON.
To all the yearning throng of scribes
Whose goal is The Atlantic,
I proffer this authentic list of obstacles gigantic,
Which loom upon that corduroy road,
'T were well that you should con them ;
For, traveling that way myself,
I somehow stumbled on them !
144
The Contributors' Club.
Avoid the firecracker style,
Snap flash-phittz ! all is over !
Avoid the sanguinary charms of buccaneer and
rover;
Avoid that trap for learned souls,
The erudite pedantic ;
Avoid the supernatural, the saccharine roman-
tic.
Avoid the storiette ; likewise
Hysteric lucubrations
Of spineless " cults," all purple words and
thought attenuations ;
Avoid slang monologues ; avoid
" Strong " pessimistic novels ;
Lay not unexpurgated stress on those who live
in hovels.
Next, when the road winds free again,
Cull, as the day grows later,
These flowers : the mind of Emerson, the lyric
prose of Pater,
The wit of Holmes, and Kipling's grasp,
The virile strength of Browning ;
Will Shakespeare's knowledge of mankind
The brilliant cluster crowning.
These gathered, bind them with the art
Best learned from France, and hasten
To lay them in that august hand which will
applaud or chasten.
Let hope illumine dark suspense,
Which, brief, yet makes one frantic
At last 't is possible you may appear in The At-
lantic !
ART carries a mirror on her back.
Dilemma ol When she turns her face away
gjModern f rom the Past, her kneeling
worshipers see in the reflec-
tion the proof of a changing Present.
A pagan suspicious of his idol, the mod-
ern poet has discovered that the winged
Pegasus is only a painted flying ma-
chine. He finds himself, not upon the
trembling pinions that in flights of fancy
carried the ancestral bards up the slope
of Parnassus, but astride a swerving
steed, bulging with springs of steel and
rocked with electric lunges. The clam-
my finger of Finance tinkers with every
lever. Contrary winds of Trade worry
every sail. But like a lark the singer is
launched to his song. He grows giddy
with the ascension. He throws over-
board the ballast that kept him low
among his fellows. Higher he mounts.
Watching him are men with one eye on
bis flight, and the other on the dim trail
of little grains of gold he drops as he
rises. The higher he soars, the thinner
the air that bears him upward, the slower
the speed of his balking Pegasus. He
is lost to the wind that sent him up ; his
faint canticle is drowned by the choirs
that sing above him. Too low of note"
to swell the music of the upper spheres,
too thin and delicate and pure of tone to
send his echoes to the throngs he left
upon the plain below, midway between
earth and sky, the poet falters in the cir-
cles of his song.
How many a wee Milton has cheerily
climbed up the ladder of harpstrings,
only to pause, out of breath, and find
himself lost in the dreary waste of silence
between the highest note in the chords
of his bold heart and the lowest note
in the range of his master ! It is the
place where clouds drift. It is the
region where mists gather. It is the
corner of the sky where hopeful rain-
bows fade, where stars go blind. It is
the shadowy rooftree on the house of
song, where the mad lightnings strike
down the silver shingles and let in the
chill rain. When they fall in a hail of
shining fragments, like atoms from a
moon-kissed meteor ; when the songs
not one complete fall upon your ears
like tired bird notes from weary dis-
tances dropped, then go out to the low-
est rung in the ladder of harpstrings, if
you would see Defeat come home on her
own wings, in the rain. For you may
know then that at last the poet has
deserted his arbitrary Pegasus, his
painted flying machine, and is coming
down : he cannot go up.
Forbear to ask him whither he has
soared. Lead him to the fire, nor ask
him to sing, like a cricket, on your
hearthstone now ; for he has felt the
mad lightning, the cloud, and the rain,
and his heart is cold.
THE
ATLANTIC MONTHLY:
iaga?ine of literature,, Science., art, anD
VOL. LXXXVIL PEER UARY, 1901. No. DXX.
THE CONDITIONS OF THE RECONSTRUCTION PROBLEM.
CONDITIONS in the late Confederate
states, from "the surrender," as it is still
called in the South, up to the passage of
the act of March 2, 1867, overthrowing
the Johnson governments, and establish-
ing the congressional plan of reconstruc-
tion, were pathetic in the extreme.
Out of a white population of about five
million, there had gone into the Confed-
erate army six hundred and twenty-five
thousand, and of these two hundred thou-
sand had lost their lives. Many thou-
sands more had been maimed. Many
other thousands had enlisted in the
armies of the Union, and they also had
suffered severely.
Prussia was in a piteous plight at the
close of the Seven Years' War, and so
was France at the end of her great Re-
volution. But Prussia, after her dire-
ful disasters, still had a certain amount
of currency, and had no debts ; France
was left deeply in debt, but she had her
currency and her financial institutions ;
whereas the Confederates, whose bank
notes were now worthless, and whose
currency and bonds were left without
any government behind them, had prac-
tically nothing to show for their past
savings. There was this further differ-
ence: neither Prussia nor France had
ever been cursed with slavery ; and all
the other misfortunes of the South, ag-
gregated, were but fleeting and tempo-
rary when compared with the enduring
problems, economic and political, which
were to come from the sudden manumis-
sion of four millions of slaves.
Desolation had followed in the wake
of armies. Plough stock had been taken,
cattle and provisions consumed, fences
destroyed, in places even cotton seed
was not to be had ; and almost no one
had credit, where credit had once been
nearly universal. The harvest of death
had left nothing but debts and lands,
and many landowners were without a
dollar that would pay taxes, state or
federal. Already in the Union for pur-
poses of taxation, but still out of it po-
litically, the people of the late Confeder-
ate states were at once to assume their
full share of the debt of nearly three
billions of dollars contracted in subju-
gating them ; they were to pay also their
share of the pensions to Union soldiers :
and the money thus drained from the
South, to be expended in the North dur-
ing the coming thirty-five years, was to
be far more than equal to all the ex-
penses of the Southern state governments,
including school funds and interest on
state debts. The spring of 1865 wit-
nessed indeed the completion of the trans-
fer of wealth in the United States from
the home of the Southern planter, where
it was once supposed to exist, to the
Northern section of the Union.
There was but one resource left.
" King Cotton," during the past four
years, had grievously disappointed the
prophets who had boasted of his prowess ;
but now he came out from his hiding
places, and showed that, though he could
not as a sovereign turn the tide of un-
successful war, he still could play the
146
The Conditions of the Reconstruction Problem.
part of Santa Glaus in time of peace.
Never were children more delighted by
the gray-bearded king of Christmas than
were the helpless and hapless people of
the South by the blessings that came
to them from the fleecy staple, abso-
lutely the only relief in sight. The cot-
ton that had in war escaped Federal and
Confederate torches, and that could elude
the United States government agents,
who were seizing it upon the plea, often
groundless, that it had been subscribed
to the Confederacy, brought high prices ;
and the money thus received, though
wholly insufficient, was invaluable. It
passed rapidly from hand to hand ; for
lessons of economy that are learned under
compulsion are seldom taken to heart.
Most of those who got money for cotton
were in a mood for self-indulgence ; they
must put away the memory of the bitter
past, and reward themselves for the sac-
rifices they had made. Women who had
woven and worn homespuns, those who
had cut up and sent their carpets to sol-
diers for blankets, must have silks and
satins. Sorghum syrup, substitutes for
coffee, and other economic makeshifts
were relegated as far as possible to the
limbo of the unhappy past.
These were the conditions that awaited
the Confederate soldier at home. To
appreciate his attitude, it must be re-
called that as nine tenths of the Union
army had enlisted to save the Union,
and would have refused to join in a
war having for its sole purpose the abo-
lition of slavery, so five sixths of the
Confederates were non-slaveholders, and
had fought, not for slavery, but to main-
tain the old Constitution under an inde-
pendent government. When it became
apparent that independence was impossi-
ble, the war ended suddenly. There was
no guerrilla warfare, prompted by hatred,
as in South Africa or in the Philippines.
The issue was decided, and the Confed-
erate soldier turned his footsteps home-
ward, not ashamed of his defeat, but ex-
ulting in the thought that he could call
upon mankind to witness he had made a
brave fight. His cause was lost and his
country desolated, but " hope springs
eternal in the human breast." Now that
slavery and secession were out of the
way, he hoped for peace and prosperity
in the old Union. One of the most nota-
ble features of his home-coming was the
strangely intermingled gayety and gloom
that everywhere, for weeks and months,
pervaded society. The comrade who was
never to return had met a soldier's fate ;
for him the tear had fallen as he was
buried. Why should not the survivor be
happy at meeting again those whom he
had often thought he was nevermore to
see ? Mother, sister, wife, or sweetheart
greeted him with joy, and as a hero who
had deserved, if he did not achieve, suc-
cess ; and never were there gayer routs,
dancing parties, and weddings than those
which were everywhere witnessed
throughout the late Confederacy in the
times of which we write. Tables were
often thinly spread, but youth and beau-
ty and valor had shaken hands, the long
agony of war was over, and the white
dove of peace had come again. The
theory of Malthus, that after devastating
wars population increases with a bound,
was being illustrated afresh. Marriages
were more frequent than ever. Around
camp fires and in lonely prison cells, the
soldier, often a bachelor who had never
before thought to prove Benedict, had
been dreaming of a peaceful home, made
happy by the smiles of wife and the prat-
tle of children ; and now, whatever else
was in store for him, this dream must be
realized.
But if the sunshine was strangely
bright for some, others were in deepest
gloom. Always in sight of the merry-
making that was so common were homes
that were wrecked forever, husbands,
fathers, sons, brothers, and fortunes,
gone ; and it was a matter of common
remark that never had the mortality
among persons who had passed middle
age been so great in the late Confed-
The Conditions of the Reconstruction Problem.
147
erate states as within the decade follow-
ing 1865. Everywhere, men and wo-
men, brooding over the past, sank broken-
hearted into their graves.
Its terrible losses and stinging defeat
had naturally caused throughout the
South much bitterness toward the North.
This is well illustrated by the anecdote
of the Virginian whose wife told him, one
bright morning, that every negro had left
the place; that he must cut the wood,
and she must get breakfast. It is not
recorded that the wife indulged in any
expletives ; but the husband, with the
first stroke of the axe, damned " old
Abe Lincoln for freeing the negroes ; "
with the next he went further back, and
double-damned George Washington for
setting up the United States government ;
and with the third, going back to the
first cause of all his woes, he double-
double-damned Christopher Columbus
for discovering America !
This feeling of vindictiveness, while
it pervaded more or less all classes who
had sympathized with the Confederacy,
was far more intense among non-com-
batants than with the returned soldiers.
These had learned to respect their foes.
Courage had been demonstrated to be
common to both armies ; kind offices to
the wounded and the hungry had been
mutual, and the dividing of rations by
Grant's veterans with Lee's at Appomat-
tox was just what had occurred on a
smaller scale many times before. But
the non-combatants at the South (and so
it must have been at the North, judging
from subsequent events) had none of the
kindly feelings with which soldiers re-
garded their adversaries. It was quite
common in 1865 to hear a soldier say
that, for himself, he had had "enough
of it ; but my neighbor, who has been hid-
ing all the time at home behind a bomb-
proof position, has just now begun to get
mad. What a pity he could n't have got-
ten his courage up before the fighting
was over ! " And now, thirty-five years
afterwards, it may be affirmed without
reserve that if the soldiers of the two
armies had been allowed of themselves,
uninfluenced by politicians, to dictate the
terms of reconstruction, the history of the
United States during the past three de-
cades would have been widely different.
An added cause of bitterness among
ex-Confederates was the imprisonment
of Jefferson Davis, and his treatment in
a manner that to the South seemed cruel
and without justification. This genera-
tion has almost forgotten that, although
Mr. Davis, then in feeble health, was
doubly safe by reason of the strong case-
mate at Fortress Monroe and the guards
that surrounded him, an officer was re-
quired to see him every fifteen minutes,
day and night, thus breaking his rest;
and that the prisoner was for a long time
forbidden books, except the Bible, and all
correspondence, even with his wife. Irons
were at one time placed on his legs ; but
though these were soon removed, the
condition of the captive, as reported by
the post surgeon, caused in May, 1866,
a vigorous protest not only in the South,
but in prominent Northern journals.
Those were days of intense excitement,
even in the North. Naturally, the ex-
Confederates looked upon their Presi-
dent as suffering for them, and were
much embittered by this incident.
But the North was not always held re-
sponsible as the fons et origo of Southern
misfortunes in those days, which were so
full of gloom to all who took time to con-
sider the conditions that surrounded them.
There was a widespread feeling that the
secession leaders were answerable for the
calamitous situation. Many Whigs re-
tained their old-time prejudices against
Democrats, and in every Southern state
there had been Unionists. These were
disposed to claim the benefit of their su-
perior judgment, and many indeed were
now " Union men " whose Union senti-
ments prior to secession their friends
were by no means able to recall.
The disposition to put down the seces-
sionists had received a powerful impulse
148
The Conditions of the Reconstruction Problem.
from an unfortunate and unwise law
passed by the Confederate Congress, ex-
empting from service in the army, under
certain conditions, the owners of twenty
negroes, on the ground that they were
needed at home to raise food -stuffs.
Even in the army it had been bruit-
ed about, " This is the rich man's war,
and the poor man's fight." In most of
the states, the feeling of comradeship
among Confederate soldiers would have
rendered improbable any very equal di-
vision at the outset between secession-
ists and anti-secessionists ; but certain
it is that here were lines of cleavage
that would inevitably have divided the
Southern people into two bitterly hostile
factions, had not the sempiternal negro
question now appeared again, and this
time in a form that was eventually to
bring about a greater solidarity, even,
than had come from the invasion of
Northern armies. The shape it assumed
was the suffrage involved in the recon-
struction problem.
If the condition of the Southern white
in 1865-66 was such as to command,
from the present standpoint, the sympa-
thy of the generous-minded, still more
strikingly pitiful and helpless was the
condition of the freed man. Not in all
the imaginings of the Arabian Nights is
there any concept so startling as the
sudden manumission of four millions of
slaves, left unshackled to shift for them-
selves, without property, without re-
sources excepting their labor, without
mental training, and with no traditions
save only such as connected them with
bondage and barbarism. What was to
become of these people ? Would their
energies be properly directed, and would
they, as other peoples had done, gradu-
ally build up with their strong arms a
future for themselves ? Or would they
be misdirected and led away from reli-
ance on labor into fields where, by reason
of their limitations, success was impos-
sible ? This was not for the freedman to
decide. It was a problem for the white
man, the Caucasian, who makes and
unmakes the laws and governments of
the world ; who fashions civilizations,
sometimes in comely shape, sometimes
awry, but always in moulds of his own
making. And it was still further a ques-
tion as to what white man was to under-
take the solution of this problem. Was
it to be the white man whose lot was
cast in the same land with the freedman,
or was it to be the man who sympa-
thized with him from afar, but knew
him not ?
Rehabilitation of the states, therefore,
involving as it did the future relations of
both whites and blacks to the states and
the federal government, marked a crisis
in our history second in import only to
that created by the attempt to secede.
The task was delicate, and called for de-
liberation and wise statesmanship. If,
instead, the intense patriotism and phil-
anthropy of the hour were allowed to
become only the handmaids of acrimony
and political ardor, and if results have
proven the policy adopted to have been
fraught with evil, the commentator fails
of his duty who does not set up a beacon
light to warn his countrymen of the dan-
gers that come to the ship of state from
venturing, when full-freighted, into the
stormy waters of partisanship ; for as-
suredly the perils of the future are not
to be avoided by concealing or glossing
over either the errors of the past or the
reasoning upon which they proceeded.
Mr. Lincoln, as early as December 8,
1863, had formulated a plan of recon-
struction by the Executive, voters to
be those who were qualified " by the elec-
tion laws of the state, existing immedi-
ately before the so-called act of seces-
sion, and excluding all others ; " but
Congress had afterwards passed a joint
resolution asserting its own power over
reconstruction. Mr. Lincoln, it is true,
killed this resolution by a pocket veto ;
but the great head of his party had been
removed by an assassin, and there stood
the action of Congress, and the declara-
The Conditions of the Reconstruction Problem.
149
tion of Mr. Sumner, one of its foremost
leaders, on the 25th of February, 1865,
that " the cause of human rights and of
the Union needed the ballots as well as
the muskets of colored men."
It was feared in the South that Pre-
sident Johnson, especially after he had
said that traitors must be deprived of
social position, and " treason made odi-
ous," would share Mr. Sumner's views.
Mr. Sumner has claimed that for a time
he did; but if so, the President soon
changed his mind, for on the 9th of May,
1865, he made an order recognizing Mr.
Lincoln's plan in Virginia, and on May
29 he issued his proclamation for the re-
construction of North Carolina, exclud-
ing negroes, and recognizing as voters
only those qualified by the state law at
the date of the attempt to secede.
The continued presence of the mili-
tary and the aggravating conduct of
many of the officials of the Freedmen's
Bureau were causing much dissatisfac-
tion at the time of this proclamation ;
yet it was an immeasurable relief to feel
that the seceded states were to be admit-
ted without putting the ballot into the
hands of the ex-slave.
The repugnance of Southern white
men to negro suffrage was extreme.
Edmund Burke, in one of his speeches
in the British Parliament, pointing out
the difficulties in the way of the subju-
gation of the American colonies, ex-
plained that in all the slaveholding com-
munities there was an aristocracy of
color ; every white man felt himself to
belong to a superior race, and this pride
of race to an extent ennobled and ele-
vated him. It was a true picture, and
such a people were naturally prejudiced
against meeting their inferior, the negro,
as an equal at the ballot box. But their
aversion had a better foundation than
prejudice. The negro had nowhere
shown himself capable of self-govern-
ment. White manhood suffrage had
obtained for years in all the seceded
states, and never had the suffrage been
purer or given better results. The pop-
ulation was largely of English and Scotch
descent. Free schools had not been
general, and illiteracy was more preva-
lent than in the Northern states ; but
joint discussions before the people by
candidates for office were almost univer-
sal, while the code of honor regulating
duels, then sanctioned by public opinion,
exacted from every speaker rigid re-
sponsibility for his statements in debate ;
and so it came about that even among
those who were uneducated there were
unusually correct ideas of the high du-
ties discharged by freemen in casting
their ballots. Their suffrages were not
for sale, and in self-government the mo-
rality and patriotism of voters count for
almost everything ; without these, book-
learning is a snare.
It is easy enough to write that the
success of universal manhood suffrage
for whites, although in evidence both
North and South, was not a sufficient ar-
gument for giving the ballot to every
male over twenty-one among four mil-
lions of ex-slaves, and to add that a
question like this ought to have been de-
cided on its merits, and without regard
to its effects on political parties. This
is a truth that was recognized by Mr.
Lincoln and by Mr. Johnson, each feel-
ing that the burden of decision rested
upon him. Individual responsibility so-
bers and lifts men up to meet great cri-
ses. Divided authority, however, weak-
ens the sense of responsibility, and leaves
passion full play, especially in a nu-
merous body like Congress ; and never
was there so much bitterness between
parties, or so much at stake upon the
action of Congress. The Confederacy,
after a bloody war against the Union,
was prostrate. Should ex-Confederates
come back with increased membership
in Congress, representing all the negroes
as freedmen, instead of, as previously,
three fifths of the negroes as slaves?
Should the party claiming to be the
party of the Union incur the danger
150
The Conditions of the Reconstruction Problem.
of handing over the government to an
alliance of ex - Confederates with the
Democrats, who in their platform of
1864 had denounced the war for the
Union as a failure ? Had not the North
freed the slave? Was not this freed-
man the ward of the nation? Ought
not the government to be keenly watch-
ful of his interests, and was it not a
duty to protect him and give him power
to protect himself? The ballot was
clearly the remedy, provided the freed-
man was competent to wield it. This
was the question, competency, and it
called for decision on its own merits ; but
passion, prejudice, love of power, philan-
thropy, and a sense of justice to the
negro, all combined to obscure the issue,
and to make it, as it soon became in
Congress, a party question. A few Re-
publicans were to oppose their party in
the House and Senate, and be soon
driven out of public life. The party that
elected Mr. Johnson was to oppose him,
and the party that opposed him in the
election was to sustain him unanimously
in Congress. This President, who had
come to his office on account of his ser-
vices to the Union, was to become the
best friend, the adviser, and the leader
of the ex-Confederates in a political con-
test ; and occupying this peculiar atti-
tude, he had uncommon need of tact, in
which, unfortunately for his new allies,
he was singularly lacking.
The Southern whites looked upon
negro suffrage as a crime against Re-
publican government, a crime against
which the people of the North, and if
not they, then the President and the Su-
preme Court, would protect them. They
had abandoned in good faith both slav-
ery and secession, all that they thought
were in issue, and now they were un-
compromising in demanding what they
denominated their " rights " as conced-
ed by Lincoln and by Johnson. They
never once thought of a compromise, but
staked all upon the result of the fight
between the President and Congress.
From March 4 till December 4, 1865,
Congress was not in session, and dur-
ing all this time Mr. Johnson was busy
carrying out in the Southern states Mr.
Lincoln's plan of reconstruction. The
result was that when Congress convened,
in December, Representatives and Sena-
tors from most of the late Confederate
states were applying for admission. The
Thirteenth Amendment, abolishing slav-
ery, had been ratified by these states,
and new constitutions had been adopted.
The issue was thus fairly presented,
whether Congress would recognize re-
construction after the Lincoln-Johnson
plan. The new constitutions set up
under Johnson all confined suffrage to
white men.
It is strange that, inasmuch as the
country was yet to pass upon the ques-
tion, Mr. Johnson, in his message in De-
cember, 1865, and elsewhere in his many
public utterances, should not have ap-
pealed earnestly for support to the mem-
ory of his great predecessor, the author
of the plan he was pursuing. On the
contrary, prompted probably by egotism,
he always spoke of the policy as his own.
It has been said that Mr. Lincoln's
Southern birth and association with
Southern men naturally inclined him
against negro suffrage. Johnson was
not only born in the South, but had al-
ways lived there. The views of the two
Presidents as to who ought to exercise
the power to define suffrage, and as to
the manner in which that power should
be exerted by the Southern states, were
almost identical.
Mr. Lincoln wrote to Governor Halm,
when the convention he had called to
reconstruct Louisiana during the war was
about to assemble : " I barely suggest for
your private consideration whether some
of the colored people may not be let in,
as, for instance, the very intelligent, and
especially those who have fought gal-
lantly in our ranks." So Mr. Johnson,
August 15, 1865, to Governor Sharkey,
of Mississippi : " If you could extend
The Conditions of the Reconstruction Problem.
151
the elective franchise to all persons of
color who can read and write, and who
have a certain amount of property, etc.,
you would completely disarm the adver-
sary, and set an example that other states
would follow."
It would have been wise for Missis-
sippi and the other Southern states to
follow the advice given Governor Shar-
key. The few negroes qualified under
these restrictions could have done no
harm, and such a course might have had
weight with voters in the North, to whom
the general policy Congress was pursu-
ing toward the South was to be submitted
before the venture upon negro suffrage
was made.
The majority sentiment in Congress
did not, at the outset, favor negro suf-
frage as a condition of rehabilitation,
and progress in that direction was not
rapid. In the spring of 1865, the New
York Tribune, while contending that the
negro was entitled to the ballot, was
urging the unwisdom of taking issue
with a Republican President who had at
hand all the patronage of the govern-
ment. When, however, the 4th of July,
the national anniversary, had come, ora-
tions were made by such leaders as
Boutwell in Massachusetts, Garfield in
Ohio, and Julian in Indiana, advocating
broadly negro suffrage for the late Con-
federate states, and this before a sin-
gle state convention had assembled un-
der Johnson's reconstruction proclama-
tions.
In forwarding the claim of the negro
for the ballot no factor was more power-
ful than the Freedmen's Bureau. The
Bureau had been established by the act
of March 3, 1865, to take care of the
freedmen who were flocking into the
Union lines ; and as those lines advanced
the Bureau had been extended all over
the South. Backed by the bayonet, and
exercising absolute power to settle dis-
putes between two races where natural
friction was easily aggravated, the offi-
cers of the Bureau had exceptional op-
portunities for good or for evil. Many
performed their duties faithfully ; but
many others were in search even then
of the offices that were afterwards to
come by the votes of their wards. To
get these offices, the North must be made
to believe that the ballot was a necessity
for the negro ; and it was easy, especially
for the subordinate officials who dealt
directly with the freedman, to encourage
discontent among their wards and strife
between the races. The Southern white
man was frequently impulsive, and, when
vexed by negro " insolence " and by the
stories that came to him of the injustice
at Bureau headquarters, where often, in
negro language, " the bottom rail was
on top," he took justice into his own
hands, and sometimes it was injustice.
Race prejudice was also here and there
painfully apparent in superior courts and
in juries. Thus there was enough truth
in some of the many stories of outrages
that were circulated in the North to make
them all current at their face value. So
it came about that the Freedmen's Bu-
reau, the real purpose of which was to
make contracts for the freedmen, settle
questions between them and their em-
ployers, and take care of its wards gen-
erally, was, through many dishonest and
partisan officials who were attached to
it, proving to be a prime factor in the
manufacture of political opinion during
the whole period covered by this article.
The reports of Bureau chiefs, where they
spoke of quiet, passed unnoticed ; it was
the reports of outrages that attracted at-
tention.
The dispensing of supplies without
price to able-bodied persons must always
tend to produce idleness : this tendency
of its own work it was the especial duty
of the Freedmen's Bureau to correct.
The greatest crisis that had ever occurred
in the lives of four million people had
arrived. Slavery had lifted the South-
ern negro to a plane of civilization never
before attained by any large body of his
raee, had taught him to be law-abiding
152
The Conditions of the Reconstruction Problem.
and industrious. If the guardians of
this man, who was bewildered by his new
surroundings, and who was clay, though
unwashed clay, in the hands of the pot-
ter, had shown him the absolute necessity
of continued industry, the negro would
have had at this critical moment the best
chance of thrift that was ever to come
to him. But, unluckily, this was not to
be. Instead of being properly directed,
the credulous freedman was in many in-
stances encouraged in idleness, while he
was deluded by false hopes. General
Grant, in a report to the President, after
having made a tour of inspection in the
South, though he qualified his statement
by attributing to "many, and perhaps
a majority of them," the inculcation of
proper ideas, nevertheless said, " The be-
lief widely spread among the freedmen
of the Southern states, that the lands of
the former owners will at least in part
be divided among them, has come from
the agents of this Bureau ; " and further,
" The effect of the belief in the division
of lands is idleness and accumulation in
towns and cities."
Idleness is the prolific parent of hun-
ger, want, and crime, and the widespread
idleness prevailing everywhere in the
South in the fall and winter of 1865
called loudly for legislation. It was
during this period that the legislatures
elected under the presidential recon-
struction plan were in session, and passed,
most of them, vagrancy and apprentice-
ship laws, some containing very stringent
provisions. These statutes embraced,
most of them without material variations,
the features of the old law of Maine,
brought forward in Rev. Stats, of 1883,
sec. 17, p. 925, providing that one who
goes about begging, etc., " shall be
deemed a tramp, and be imprisoned at
hard labor," etc. ; and the old law of
Rhode Island, brought forward in Rev.
Stats, of 1872, p. 243, " If any servant
or apprentice shall depart from the ser-
vice of his master or otherwise neglect his
duty," he may be committed to the work-
house ; and the long-existing law of Con-
necticut, contained in the Revision of
1866, p. 320, punishing by fine or im-
prisonment one who shall entice a " mi-
nor [apprentice] from the service or em-
ployment of such master."
In some instances details were harsher
than in the New England laws, but exist-
ing conditions were without precedent.
Southern legislators were excited by the
aggravated evils that surrounded them,
and they seem never to have thought of
political results.
One feature that was in practically all
these apprentice laws, and that attract-
ed general attention at the North, was
a provision giving preference as masters
to former owners of negro minors when
before a court to be bound over. This
was looked upon by many Northern
voters as conclusive evidence of an in-
tent to continue slavery, as far as could
be, exactly as it had existed. In reality
it was a humane provision. William H.
Council, Booker T. Washington, and oth-
er leading colored students of the negro
question, as it has been bequeathed to us
from the days of reconstruction, concur
in holding that the negro's best friend at
the South was and is the former slave-
holder. But, unfortunately, Southern
legislators did not know that here they
were outraging the sympathies of North-
ern voters.
The features of this legislation that met
with the most universal condemnation
were the Mississippi law of November
25, 1865, requiring every freedman to
make a contract for a home and work
by the second Monday in January, 1866 ;
a similar law of Louisiana, passed in
December ; and a statute of Mississippi,
punishing unlawful assemblages of blacks,
or of whites and blacks mixed. Acts
were also passed by Florida, Louisiana,
Alabama, and Mississippi, forbidding to
negroes the use of firearms : in two of
these states absolutely, in one except by
license, and in the other of such arms
only as were " appropriate for purposes
The Conditions of the Reconstruction Problem.
153
of war." Recollections of the negro
insurrection headed by Nat Turner, cou-
pled with predictions long ago made by
Mr. Calhoun, and frequently by others
during and preceding the Civil War, had
inspired in the South a very general fear
that, in favoring localities, the suddenly
emancipated slaves might attempt to re-
peat the massacres of San Domingo. In
two of the states thus forbidding or limit-
ing the use of firearms the negro was in
the majority ; in the other two there were
" negro belts," where the few whites
would be helpless in case of an insurrec-
tion.
The most indefensible provision any-
where found by the writer is a statute of
Mississippi, enacting that, while freed-
men might hold personal property, they
should not be allowed to lease lands or
tenements " except in towns or cities,
where the corporate authorities shall con-
trol the same." How much of this enact-
ment was the result of pure prejudice,
and how much of it came from the bogy
of negro supremacy in a state in parts of
which the negro was in numbers as over-
whelming as he had been in San Do-
mingo, the reader will determine for him-
self.
Much was yet to be learned about the
freedman by both Southerner and North-
erner. The one was to find out how
peaceful, the other how incapable as a
voter, the freedman was.
There was little chance for modera-
tion in public sentiment or for deliberate
action by Congress, when Southern peo-
ple, in constawt dread, were watching
and guarding against insurrection, which
they even feared might be prompted by
agents of the Freedmen's Bureau ; and
when, at the same time, Northern peo-
ple, with their hearts full of sympathy
for the helpless and hapless freedmen,
were daily watching the reports of that
Bureau for stories of cruelty by the for-
mer masters. The friction, reasonably
to be expected, between the master race
on the one hand, almost all of them with
the domineering blood of the Anglo-
Saxon in their veins, few of them saints
and all the rest sinners, and the negro
on the other, now dazed by the blind-
ing light of sudden freedom, would nat-
urally be enough, even without official
intermeddling, to cause almost any one
to believe or to do anything toward
which either prejudice or philanthropy
might incline him. Nevertheless, there
were prominent Republicans who took
no stock in the continued scrutiny by the
North of the relations between whites
and blacks in the South. Among these
was the head of Lincoln's and of John-
son's Cabinet, Mr. Seward, who said in
an interview in April, 1866 :
" The North has nothing to do with
the negroes. . . . They are not of our
race. They will find their place. They
must take their level. The laws of po-
litical economy will determine their posi-
tion, and the relations of the two races.
Congress cannot contravene those."
But Mr. Seward and his views were
then in a woeful minority.
Only one of the late Confederate states
had legislated in relation to the negro
when Congress met, December 4, 1865,
and yet the members of that body had
already made up their minds against Mr.
Johnson's plan of reconstruction.
The first step of this Congress was the
passage, by practically a solid party vote,
of the celebrated " Concurrent Resolu-
tion " to inquire by a Committee of Fif-
teen into the condition of the late Confed-
erate states ; the next was the passage in
the House, December 14, of a resolution
referring to that Committee of Fifteen
every question relating to conditions in
the late Confederate states, and to admit
no member from these states until the
committee had reported ; then came the
defeat of the Voorhees resolution, in-
dorsing the presidential plan. The Re-
publicans, in the votes on all these mea-
sures, presented practically a solid front,
while the Democrats were unanimous in
opposition. The action of the Senate
154
The Conditions of the Reconstruction Problem.
was on like lines. In the language of
Mr. Stevens, Congress was already de-
termined " to take no account of the
aggregation of whitewashed rebels who,
without any legal authority, have assem-
bled in the capitals of the late rebel
states and simulated legislative bodies."
Reconstruction was already a party
question. Mr. Stevens, the leader of the
radicals, said, during these proceedings,
on the floor of the House, December 14,
1865 :
" According to my judgment, they [the
insurrectionary states] ought never to be
recognized as capable of acting in the
Union, or of being recognized as valid
states, until the Constitution shall have
been so amended as to make it what its
makers intended, and so as to secure
perpetual ascendency to the party of
the Union."
A sample of the arguments for the
Concurrent Resolution is the following,
by a prominent member, Mr. Shellabar-
ger, in answer to Mr. Raymond :
" They framed iniquity and univer-
sal murder into law. . . . Their pirates
burned your unarmed commerce upon
every sea. They carved the bones of
your dead heroes into ornaments, and
drank from goblets made out of their
skulls. They poisoned your fountains,
put mines under your soldiers' prisons,
organized bands whose leaders were con-
cealed in your homes; and commissions
ordered the torch and yellow fever to be
carried to your citizens and to your wo-
men and children. They planned one
universal bonfire of the North from Lake
Ontario to the Missouri," etc.
Moderation was out of the question.
A few conservative Republicans, who,
like Mr. Raymond, of New York, stood
out for Mr. Johnson's policy, were tram-
pled under the feet of the majority.
Others, though halting now and then,
kept in line with the party which was
steadily marching forward to the view
that was already held by the radicals,
and afterward expressed by Mr. Sumner
in debate upon the bill for suffrage in
the District of Columbia :
"Nothing is clearer than the absolute
necessity for suffrage for all colored per-
sons in the disorganized states. It will
not be enough if you give it to those who
read and write ; you will not in this way
acquire the voting force which you need
there for the protection of Unionists,
whether black or white. You will not
secure the new allies who are essential
to the national cause."
To reach this goal there were many
obstacles to be overcome, and time was
necessary. The plan of the radicals in-
cluded legislation relating to freed men ;
there was good reason to expect hostility
from the Supreme Court, and Southern-
ers did not foresee how a square deci-
sion from that tribunal could be avoid-
ed ; it included constitutional amend-
ments ; three fourths of the states only
could amend the Constitution, and sev-
eral of the Northern states were hostile to
negro suffrage ; while, if the policy en-
tered upon should fail, the failure would
be disastrous. The Democrats in Con-
gress had allied themselves with the
cause of the Southern whites, and, as
Mr. Stevens expressed it on the floor
of the House, if negroes were not to
have the ballot, the representatives from
the Southern states, with the Democrats
"that would be elected in the best of
times at the North," would control the
country.
The radicals were looking hopefully
to the investigation of the Committee of
Fifteen, under the Concurrent Resolution,
of which Mr. Seward said (Bancroft's
Seward, p. 454) it " was not a plan for
reconstruction, but a plan for indefinite
delay." The committee was composed
of twelve Republicans and three Demo-
crats, and of them Mr. Elaine says
(Twenty Years in Congress, vol. ii. p.
127) : " It was foreseen that in an espe-
cial degree the fortunes of the Republi-
can party would be in the keeping of
the fifteen men who might be chosen."
The Conditions of the Reconstruction Problem.
155
This committee was appointed in De-
cember, 1865, continued its investiga-
tions until June, 1866, when, dividing
on strictly party lines, the majority made
its report June 18, and the minority
June 22.
The majority report discussed at
length theories of reconstruction, and
bitterly condemned the plan of the Pre-
sident. As to conditions in the South,
it found that the Freedmen's Bureau
was "almost universally hated," and
that " the feeling in many portions to-
wards the emancipated slaves, especially
among the uneducated and ignorant, is
one of vindictive and malicious hatred.
This deep-seated prejudice against color
is assiduously cultivated by the public
journals, and leads to acts of cruelty,
oppression, and murder, which the local
authorities are at no pains to prevent
or punish."
The committee went on to recommend
that Congress should not admit the late
Confederate states to representation
" without first providing such constitu-
tional or other guaranties as will tend
to secure the civil rights of all the citi-
zens of the Republic," the disfranchise-
ment of a portion, etc. As to the nature
of the guaranties to be required there
was in this report nothing definite. The
three minority members, in their report,
vigorously combated the views of the
majority.
Mr. Stevens had reported, January 31,
1866, and the House had passed, a pro-
position for a constitutional amendment
providing that, whenever suffrage was
denied on account of race or color, the
persons so denied suffrage should be ex-
cluded from the basis of representation.
But there was no promise that such
amendment, if adopted, should be taken
as a settlement. The amendment, how-
ever, was never to be submitted to the
states, as Mr. Sumner and other radicals
joined with the Democrats and conserva-
tive Republicans, and defeated it in the
Senate.
Both Democrats and Republicans were
now treating all measures affecting the
South as political, and the late Confed-
erate states were being counted as in the
Union for the purpose of passing on
constitutional amendments, while their
governments were held as " revolution-
ary, null, and void " for all other pur-
poses. Nothing could more conclusively
illustrate the intense partisanship of the
hour.
The fairest chance the Southern state
governments, as set up by Johnson, had
to stem the tide that was setting in
against them but it is doubtful whe-
ther that could have succeeded was
by unanimously ratifying the Fourteenth
Amendment. Had this amendment
been accepted by both sides as a settle-
ment, it would have reduced the repre-
sentation of the late slave states and
left them in control of suffrage. But
this article disfranchised nearly all South-
erners of prominence and experience,
and Southern people could not bring
themselves to vote for the degradation
of those whom they had honored and
trusted. Johnson, too, now their friend
and political leader, advised against it ;
so did Northern Democrats. It was a
political fight to a finish between the
prostrate ex-Confederates, without repre-
sentation in Congress and without an
acknowledged vote anywhere, aided by
the President, a handful of Democrats
in Congress, and an unknown number
of sympathizers in the North, on the one
side, and the Republican party in un-
mistakable control of Congress on the
other. The bill for the extension of the
Freedmen's Bureau, which failed to pass
over Johnson's veto, and the civil rights
bill, which did pass over a veto, these,
and the angry discussions over them in
the spring of 1866, only intensified, North
and South, the bitterness of the struggle
in progress.
If Mr. Lincoln had lived, and had
carried on, as the speech in answer to a
serenade just before his death indicates
The Conditions of the Reconstruction Problem.
156
he would have done, the policy embodied
in the North Carolina proclamation,
approved by him shortly before his death, 1
and used by his successor as the basis of
his policy, he would have had before
him the same open field and the same
nine months preceding the meeting of
Congress that were before Johnson ;
and though it would have been a strange
spectacle to see the great Republican
chieftain politically allied with ex-Con-
federates, one cannot avoid the conclu-
sion that, tactful and at the same time
great-hearted as he was, he would have
been continually pointing out to South-
erners the breakers that they did not,
and he did, see ahead. His influence,
too, with his own party, after the suc-
cessful termination of the war, would
have given him a measure of control
over his party that Johnson did not pos-
sess.
Mr. Johnson was much abused for
having "deserted" the party that had
honored him, and now that the fight
was on, instead of the coolness and skill
of a gladiator, he manifested only the
qualities of an angry bull rushing at a
red rag. In a public speech, alluding to
some charge that he had played Judas, he
said : " If I have played the Judas, who
has been my Christ that I have played
the Judas with? Was it Thad Ste-
vens ? Was it Wendell Phillips ? Was
it Charles Sumner ? "
Numerous conventions, state and na-
tional, were now, in 1866, being held,
all devoted to the manufacture of public
opinion for and against the Johnson plan
of reconstruction.
No two eras in our history differ more
widely than the epoch-making years
1787 and 1866. In the one, statesmen
were sitting with closed doors to formu-
1 " The very same instrument for restoring
the national authority over North Carolina,
aud placing her where she stood before her
attempted secession, which had been approved
by Mr. Lincoln, was by Mr. Stanton presented
at the first Cabinet meeting which was held
late, uninfluenced by outside discussion,
the Constitution which is the most per-
fect work of man. In the other, with
doors wide open, members of both polit-
ical parties uttering fiery declarations
which were echoed and reechoed all
over the land, the two houses of Con-
gress as political bodies, with passion at
white heat, shaped the policy according
to which the chief corner stone of the
old Constitution the suffrage on which
it rested was to be remodeled; and
the trend of all the work of the session
of 1865-66 was in the direction of the
guaranties demanded by Mr. Stevens
and Mr. Sumner.
That policy, when the session had
closed, was submitted to the Northern
voters in the congressional elections of
1866. It was overwhelmingly approved ;
and at the last session of that Congress
the act of March 2, 1867, was passed,
reconstructing the states on the basis of
universal negro suffrage, to which the
Fifteenth Amendment, intended to se-
cure the rights thus granted, was but a
corollary, both, as we have seen, be-
gotten of partisanship out of philanthro-
py ; and this was not the first, nor has
it been the last, of these liaisons.
It is not making any new or startling
assertion to say that negro suffrage was
a failure. It did not give Republican
control at the South, except for a brief
period, and it did not benefit, but injured,
the freedman ; it made unavoidable in
the South the color line, and impossible
there two capable political parties, of
which all men, North and South alike,
now see the crying need.
The negro had, when suddenly eman-
cipated, one recourse : he was by train-
ing a good laborer. The pathway was
wide open before him to profit by ex-
at the Executive Mansion after Mr. Lincoln's
death, and having been carefully considered
at two or three meetings, was adopted as the
reconstruction policy of the [Johnson's] Ad-
ministration." (McCulloch's Men and Measures,
p. 378.)
The New Industrial Revolution.
157
perience based upon the results of con-
tinued industry. Laws like those we
have noted, repressing idleness, even
though unnecessarily severe, as some of
them undoubtedly were, would have
given him a continuing forward impulse
in what was his only possible line of bet-
terment ; for the lesson of self-support
is a prerequisite of all development.
In Mr. Seward's language, the negro
would have found his place.
To import the ex-slave into politics
was to make a parasite of a plant that
needed to strike its roots deep into the
earth. To implant within him the thought
that he might live without work was
an egregious error. Influential negroes,
those who should have led in industry
and thrift, not only themselves deserted
the cotton field for the field of politics,
but drew others after them to march in
processions and listen to discussions no
syllable of which was comprehensible
save only appeals to race antagonism.
The consequences of the mistake then
made have come down to this day ; and
as to some of them, at least, whites and
blacks are now working together for re-
lief.
Professor W. H. Council, the able
negro president of the college at Hunts-
ville, Alabama, voiced the present best
Southern thought when he said, in his
annual address to his colored students, in
October last :
" As our footsteps diverge from po-
litical walks, they approach industrial
success and true citizenship. The negro
will grow strong and grow into useful-
ness in proportion to his contribution to
industrial development, and not political
strife."
Hilary A. Herbert.
THE NEW INDUSTRIAL REVOLUTION.
THE law regulating human develop-
ment may possibly be formulated some-
what as follows : Nature favors those
organisms which, for the time being, op-
erate cheapest ; but organisms are waste-
ful which, relatively, lack energy. An
organism may fail in energy either be-
cause it is deficient in mass, or because
it has been imperfectly endowed with
energetic material. In either case the
result is the same : organisms which,
compared with others, are wanting in
energy are wasteful, and, being wasteful,
nature rejects them. Applying this law
to recent social phenomena, certain de-
ductions may be made which are not
without interest regarding the past, and
may be worthy of consideration in view
of the future. An inquiry of this kind
must begin with Europe, which until late-
ly has been the focus of activity.
Scientifically speaking, the Urals have
never formed a dividing line between
Europe and Asia. The boundary be-
tween the two continents has been fixed
by the path of trade, which early regu-
lated the flow of civilization and the mi-
grations of the races. The true frontier
of modern Europe has always consisted
of a triangular isthmus, about 800 miles
broad at its narrowest, following the line
of the Vistula and the Dniester, or from
Dantzic to Odessa ; and some 600 miles
deep along its base, from the mouth of
the Vistula to the Neva, or from Dantzic
to St. Petersburg. The apex of this tri-
angle rests upon the Black Sea, at the
outlet of the Dniester and the Dnieper ;
while its eastern frontier is formed by
the chain of water courses which unites
the Black Sea with the Baltic, by the
way of the Dnieper, the Lovat, Lake
Ladoga, and the Neva.
A thousand years ago, when Constan-
158
The New Industrial Revolution.
tinople was the capital of the world, the
Eastern trade reached Scandinavia by
these water courses ; Kiev being the out-
post of the Greek economic system, and
Novgorod the northern emporium. The
Scandinavian merchants left Novgorod,
bearing furs and amber to sell on the Bos-
phorus, and brought back spices and coin.
Speaking generally, this isthmus, though
forming, as it were, a debatable land be-
tween two civilizations, appertained to
Europe, and contained what are now
the German Baltic provinces of Russia,
beside Poland and Lithuania. Within
the commercial thoroughfare formed by
these water courses lay the cradle and
hotbed of Western civilization; beyond
lay desolate wastes, impenetrable alike to
the trader and the soldier. These wastes
cut off the Occident from the Pacific
coast, a region singularly favored both in
soil and minerals. Europe, on the con-
trary, has never been remarkable either
for the fecundity of its soil or for the
wealth of its mines. It reached high
fortune rather because, before railroads,
its physical formation lent itself in a
supreme degree to cheap transportation
by water.
A tongue of land deeply indented by
the sea, and penetrated throughout by
rivers navigable, at least, for small craft,
Europe could market what it had to sell
when the treasures of Asia and America
lay inaccessible. This advantage she re-
tained until within about twenty years,
and the new industrial revolution has
been at once the cause and the effect of
its loss.
Even a generation ago competition re-
mained much upon the basis of the
eighteenth century. Although tending
to shrink, the margin of profit stayed
broad enough to spare the individual
trader, and distance afforded Europe
protection against the attack of more
favored communities. America, for ex-
ample, did not harass France or Ger-
many. On the contrary, America offered
these countries the best market for their
surplus ; the United States buying manu-
factures with bullion, raw materials, or
food, which last freight raised to a price
harmless to the value of land. The case
of England will illustrate a universal
condition.
Between 1760 and 1870 Great Britain
reached the plenitude of prosperity, and
she did so chiefly because of the Ameri-
can trade. As late as 1860 a disparity
existed between England and the United
States, which to-day seems almost incred-
ible. While England's exports of man-
ufactures then reached $613,000,000,
those of the Union only slightly exceed-
ed $40,000,000; and while in 1860
Great Britain had substantially com-
pleted her railroad system, that of the
United States lay in embryo. Thirty
thousand miles of road were then in
operation ; nearly 200,000 are now in
use, and even in 1900 4500 more were
added. The United Kingdom, in 1898,
possessed altogether 22,000 miles, and
building has long gone on at the rate of
a hundred miles or so a year. The
burden of construction on the two com-
munities can be easily compared. In
1860, with the facilities then existing,
neither iron, nor coal, nor grain, nor
meat could be exported from America
in competition with the product of Brit-
ish mines or farms ; while, on her side,
Great Britain could sell her manufac-
tures in the United States almost at her
own price. The reason for this is ob-
vious. A generation ago, land rates of
transportation could not be made even to
approximate sea rates : therefore, iron,
for instance, could not be brought from
the interior to the ports. England had
substantially no land carriage. Her re-
sources lay on the coast.
In these years Great Britain accumu-
lated great sums in ready money, mostly,
perhaps, through the returns of agricul-
ture. The manufacturing population grew
apace, eating much, yet producing no
food ; nevertheless they paid for food lib-
erally, because the revenue from Amer-
The New Industrial Revolution.
159
ica provided ample wages. Thus pass-
ing from hand to hand, the larger share
of American remittances finally lodged
in the coffers of the landlords in the shape
of rent. The landlords consequently en-
joyed opulence, habitually saved a part
of their incomes, and invested what they
saved either in business paper or in for-
eign securities. Agriculture thus formed
the corner stone of the economic system
of Europe during the decades which
ended with the Franco-German war.
Bagehot wrote Lombard Street between
1870 and 1873, and in the introduction
to that interesting essay he inserted a
passage which has made luminous many
subsequent phenomena. Commenting on
the loanable funds always lying on de-
posit in London, Bagehot observed :
" There are whole districts in England
which cannot, and do not, employ their
own money. No purely agricultural
county does so. The savings of a coun-
ty with good land, but no manufactures
and no trade, much exceed what can be
safely lent in the county. These sav-
ings are . . . sent to London. . . . The
money thus sent up from the accumulat-
ing districts is employed in discounting
the bills of the industrial districts. De-
posits are made with the bankers . . .
in Lombard Street by the bankers of
such counties as Somersetshire and
Hampshire, and those . . . bankers em-
ploy them in the discount of bills from
Yorkshire and Lancashire." *
Almost as Bagehot wrote these words
the economic equilibrium of the world
changed ; and it changed because the in-
troduction of the railroad permitted the
consolidation of larger and more ener-
getic masses than had theretofore exist-
ed. The movement first gained head-
way in central Europe, which prior to
1870 had been the most decentralized
portion of a decentralized continent.
The consolidation of Germany be-
tween 1866 and 1870 led to the down-
fall of France, and the transfer to Berlin
1 Lombard Street, p. 12.
of a large treasure, in the shape of a
war indemnity. Besides entering on a
period of industrial expansion incident
to accelerated movement, the German
Empire, by means of this treasure, suc-
ceeded in restricting its coinage to gold.
Silver being discarded fell in value, until,
in 1873, France also curtailed its silver
coinage ; and thus, by degrees, half the
supply of metal for the currency having
been eliminated, a contraction followed,
which lasted until the abundant yield
of gold about 1897 began to make good
the deficiency. The contraction of the
currency caused a fall in prices, more
particularly the prices of agricultural
products and freights, and this fall struck
at the very vitals of England.
The structure of society had not been
simplified in Great Britain, during the
French Revolution, as it had on the Con-
tinent. Consequently, in 1870, much of
the apparatus of the Middle Ages sur-
vived, especially in the customs relating
to the tenure of land. In Great Britain
land was expected to earn two profits,
one for the cultivator, the other for the
landlord ; and though this had been pos-
sible when freights were high, it became
impossible as they fell, accompanied as
the fall in freights was by a decrease in
the value of the crops themselves.
In 1873 it cost, on the average, about
$0.21 to convey a bushel of wheat from
New York to Liverpool, in 1880 only
about $0.117 ; or, estimating the value
of the bushel of wheat in London in the
early seventies at $1.60, and allowing
for the reduction in railroad as well as
in ocean rates, the farmer lost something
equivalent to a protective tariff of 10 per
cent. This difference seems toward 1880
just about to have offset the rent. At a
later date matters grew worse and farms
went out of cultivation.
And now a very curious phenomenon
occurred. In earlier days the manu-
factures of Great Britain had been sold
in America ; the proceeds had been re-
mitted to Lancashire or Yorkshire, had
160
The New Industrial Revolution.
for the most part been spent in wages,
and by the wage earner had been ex-
pended for food ; the sale of food had
paid the gentry's rent, and the gentry's
accumulations had either found their
way back to Lancashire in the form of
loans, or had been invested in American
stocks. Such was the condition when
Bagehot wrote Lombard Street. What
happened in the next two decades a few
figures will explain better than much
argument. For example, the acreage
under wheat in England, Scotland, and
Wales fell from 3,490,000 acres in 1873
to 1,897,000 in 1893, while imports of
wheat rose from 43,863,000 hundred-
weight in 1873 to 65,461,000 in 1893.
Meanwhile, the population of the United
Kingdom had only grown from 32,000,-
000 to 38,000,000. In other words, the
imports of wheat had increased 50 per
cent, and the population 20 per cent : and
this leaves out purchases of flour, which
had swelled from 6,000,000 to 20,000,-
000 hundredweight.
The course of trade is obvious enough.
The profits made on sales of merchan-
dise abroad, and paid out in wages, no
longer remained with English farmers
as the price of food, thus forming a basis
for English credit. After 1879, as soon
as earned, these profits flowed back again
whence they came, with the effect of
gradually converting the landholding
class from lenders into borrowers.
The landed class became borrowers
largely because of the traditionally ex-
travagant system of family settlements.
The eldest son took the property, but
he took a property incumbered with set-
tlements for the widow, the brothers and
sisters. These settlements constituted
a fixed charge on rent ; and when rents
disappeared the owner had to make good
the settlements, or pay the interest on his
mortgages, which amounted to the same
thing, out of sales of personal property.
Hence, although economy might be prac-
ticed, liquidation on a large scale became
imperative ; and frequently it proved im-
practicable, even with frugality, to save
the land.
At all events, the best property to
realize upon was American stock and
bonds, and, accordingly, from the early
eighties sales began. At first the drain
upon the United States was hardly no-
ticeable ; then it gathered volume, and
after 1890 grew overwhelming. The
purchasing power of this country failed,
the market broke, gold flowed abroad
in floods, and the panic of 1893 super-
vened. But to comprehend that mo-
mentous convulsion, and to realize the
bearing it has had on all later events, a
few words must be said in relation to the
straits into which the United States had
fallen, and the gigantic exertion by which
the people freed themselves from debt.
There is little more dramatic in recent
history.
In 1865 the problem presented was
this : The United States could certainly
excel any European nation in economic
competition, and possibly the whole Con-
tinent combined, if it could utilize its
resources. So much was admitted ; the
doubt touched the capacity of the people
to organize a system of transportation
and industry adequate to attain that end.
Failure meant certain bankruptcy. Un-
appalled by the magnitude of the specu-
lation, the American people took the risk.
What that risk was may be imagined
when the fact is grasped that in 1865,
with 35,000 miles of road already built,
this people entered on the construction
of 160,000 miles more, at an outlay,
probably, in excess of $10,000,000,000.
Such figures convey no impression to the
mind, any more than a statement of the
distance of a star. It may aid the im-
agination, perhaps, to say that Mr. Gif-
fen estimated the cost to France of the
war of 1870, including the indemnity
and Alsace and Lorraine, at less than
$3,500,000,000, or about one third of
this portentous mortgage on the future.
As late as 1870 America remained
relatively poor ; for America, so far as
The New Industrial Revolution.
161
her export trade went, relied on agricul-
ture alone. To build her roads she had
to borrow, and she expected to pay dear ;
but she did not calculate on having to
pay twice the capital she borrowed, esti-
mating that capital in the only merchan-
dise she had to sell. Yet this is very
nearly what occurred. Agricultural
prices fell so rapidly that between 1890
and 1897, when the sharpest pressure
prevailed, it took something like twice
the weight of wheat or cotton, to repay
a dollar borrowed in 1873, that would
have sufficed to satisfy the creditor when
the debt was contracted. Merchandise
enough could not be shipped to meet the
emergency, and balances had to be paid
in coin. The agony this people endured
may be measured by the sacrifice they
made. At the moment of severest con-
traction, in the single year 1893, the
United States parted with upwards of
$87,000,000 of gold, when to lose gold
was like draining a living body of its
blood. And the terror lay in the fact
that the further realizing went, and the
lower prices fell, the greater the needs
of the foreigner became, and the more
drastic had to be the liquidation. After
1890, for example, cotton spinning for
some years ceased to pay in Lancashire :
consequently, many manufacturers found
themselves in the same plight as the
landlords, and had to resort to the same
expedients.
What America owed abroad can never
be computed ; it is enough that it reached
an enormous sum, to refund which, even
under favorable circumstances, would
have taken years of effort ; actually
forced payment brought the nation to
the brink of a convulsion. Perhaps no
people ever faced such an emergency and
paid, without recourse to war. America
triumphed through her inventive and ad-
ministrative genius. Brought to a white
heat under compression, the industrial
system of the Union suddenly fused into
a homogeneous mass. One day, with-
out warning, the gigantic mechanism
VOL. LXXXVII. NO. 520. 11
operated, and two hemispheres vibrated
with the shock. In March, 1897, the
vast consolidation of mines, foundries,
railroads, and steamship companies, cen-
tralized at Pittsburg, began producing
steel rails at $18 the ton, and at a bound
America bestrode the world. She had
won her great wager with Fate ; society
lay helpless at her feet ; she could flood
the markets of a small, decentralized,
and half -exhausted peninsula with in-
calculable wealth. How tremendous her
victory was, how far reaching must be
its results, may be judged from the re-
turns which show the condition of the
British minerals.
As early as 1882, the iron mines of
the United Kingdom yielded their maxi-
mum, at 18,000,000 tons of ore ; in 1898,
the yield had fallen to 14,000,000. In
1868, 9817 tons of copper were pro-
duced ; in 1898, 640 tons. Two years
later the turn came in lead, the output
in 1870 having reached 73,420 tons, as
against 25,355 in 1898 ; while tin, which
stood at 10,900 tons in 1871, had dwin-
dled to 4013 according to the last re-
turns. The quantity of coal raised, in-
deed, increases, but prices have advanced
from 50 to 70 per cent during the year ;
and though now they tend to fall, it is
only through a shrinkage of the indus-
trial demand, caused by inability to com-
pete on such a basis. The end seems
only a question of time. Europe is
doomed not only to buy her raw material
abroad, but to pay the cost of transport.
And Europe knew this instinctively in
March, 1897, and nerved herself for re-
sistance. Her best hope, next to a vic-
torious war, lay in imitating America,
and in organizing a system of transpor-
tation which would open up the East.
Carnegie achieved the new indus-
trial revolution in March, 1897. With-
in a twelvemonth the rival nations had
emptied themselves upon the shore of
the Yellow Sea. In November Ger-
many seized Kiao-chau, a month later
the Russians occupied Port Arthur, and
162
The New Industrial Revolution.
the following April the English appro-
priated Wei-hai-wei ; but the fact to re-
member is that just 400 miles inland,
due west of Kiao-chau, lies Tszechau,
the centre, according to Richthofen, of
the richest coal and iron deposits in ex-
istence. There, with the rude methods
used by the Chinese, coal actually sells
at 13 cents the ton. Thus it has come
to pass that the problem now being at-
tacked by all the statesmen, soldiers,
scientific men, and engineers of the two
eastern continents is whether Russia,
Germany, France, England, and Japan,
combined or separately, can ever bring
these resources on the market in com-
petition with the United States.
From the days of Alexander down-
ward, the dream of every dominant Oc-
cidental race has been to overrun the
East; but, with the exception of Eng-
land, who invaded India from the sea,
no Western people have ever established
a foothold in the recesses of Asia.
Alexander left nothing behind him, and
the Romans met disaster. Tiberius ad-
dressed himself to the task of reducing
Germany. He first made three success-
ful campaigns between the Rhine and the
Elbe by way of Paderborn and Bruns-
wick. He then proposed a combined
movement from the Rhine and the Dan-
ube against Bohemia; but before it could
be executed, in the year 9, Augustus
sent Varus to organize the newly con-
quered province of North Germany,
where Varus with his army perished.
Subsequently, the government decided
that the cost of expansion exceeded the
profit, and the legions retired behind the
Rhine. A century later Trajan marched
down the Tigris to the Persian Gulf, con-
templating an attempt on India by sea;
but Hadrian, on maturer consideration,
fell back upon the Euphrates. In the
Middle Ages, whenever the Crusaders
ventured beyond the defiles of the Leba-
non, they suffered defeat ; and the Teu-
tonic Knights could never force their way
beyond the region of Livonia.
Thus repulsed, mediaeval Europeans
cast about for means to reach Cathay
by water, since ships fit for the purpose
then existed. In 1497 Vasco da Gama
doubled the Cape of Good Hope on his
voyage to India, while five years earlier
Columbus, in pursuit of the same object,
had stumbled on America. This dis-
covery changed the equilibrium of soci-
ety by giving it an impulsion westward,
an impulsion shared by Asia as well
as Europe. Here doubt is impossible.
Colonization in Hispaniola began in
1496, and emigration has poured west-
ward ever since ; on the other hand, the
organization of modern Russia dates
from Ivan the Terrible, who reigned
from 1533 to 1584. Modern Russia,
indeed, is nothing but the old Tartar
Empire centralized on the Neva instead
of on the Amoor, with the Slavic in-
fluence instead of the Mongol in the
ascendant. Almost contemporaneously
with the voyage of Columbus the cur-
rent began to sweep the Asiatics over
what had once been Europe. Novgorod
lay at the eastern extremity of the tri-
angular isthmus between the continents ;
and Novgorod was a European town, and
a bulwark of the Baltic provinces. In
1495 Ivan III. pillaged Novgorod, ex-
pelled the German merchants, and be-
gan to press westward. In the middle
of the next century Ivan the Terrible
occupied Narva, reached the Caspian,
crossed the Urals, and began the con-
quest of Siberia. In 1703 Peter the
Great fixed the capital on the Neva.
In 1772 came the first partition of Po-
land, and by 1795 Asia had pushed her
frontier across the debatable land, and
had reached the Vistula.
Withal, the new empire, like its Tar-
tar predecessor, has proved impervious
to attack, and this invulnerability has
controlled the most complicated problem
of modern times. That problem is the
old one of the possibility of absorbing
northern Asia in the European economic
system. Had Napoleon prevailed in 1812
The New Industrial Revolution.
163
he might have solved the difficulty ; for
an archaic community often reaches
with rapidity the level of its conqueror,
as did Gaul after Caesar's campaigns.
When, however, the primitive race re-
mains free, subject to no severer con-
straint than the pressure of peaceful
competition, instances are rare where the
pupil has overtaken the master, while the
master has kept his vigor. Certainly
Russia has not outstripped Germany and
France. For two centuries Russia has
imported foreigners with a view to accel-
erate her movement, and yet to-day the
Russian people are, relatively, as sluggish
as when Ivan the Terrible ruled at Mos-
cow. No more striking illustration of
comparative inertia could be found than
the building of the Siberian railroad,
an inertia the more noteworthy as no en-
terprise was ever undertaken under more
favorable auspices, or with stronger in-
centive to activity through apprehension
of impending peril.
To regard the Siberian railroad as a
purely Russian venture is incorrect ; it
is only necessary to read the French
newspapers of the last decade to be con-
vinced of the contrary. The Siberian
railroad has been the result of the effort
made by Europe to extend its base over
Asia, and it has been made possible only
by the support of the Western nations.
Russia's chief contribution has lain in
the administrative department, and it
has been the administration which has
crippled the enterprise.
As long as the United States acted as
a useful appendage to Europe, absorbing
at once her surplus manufactures and
population, and repaying her with silver
and gold, Europe looked on the devel-
opment of eastern Asia with indiffer-
ence ; but no sooner had the shadow of
American competition fallen across the
Atlantic than penetrating the recesses of
Asia was recognized as essential to safe-
ty. Uneasiness, which had been grow-
ing since 1880, gave way to alarm dur
ing the crisis of 1890, when the Bank of
England betrayed unequivocal signs of
weakness, and in 1891 an imperial re-
script ordered the construction of the Si-
berian road to begin on the Pacific coast.
Much has been said about the mag-
nitude of the Siberian railroad scheme.
It has certainly strained the resources
of Russia and France ; it has even im-
paired the credit of the Czar's govern-
ment; it has been prosecuted with all
the resources and vigor of the empire :
probably, therefore, it may fairly serve
as a gauge of Russian energy, whereby
the Russian may be measured with the
citizen of the United States.
The length of the entire Siberian line,
including branches, fell short of 6000
miles. The road runs for the most part
through an easy country ; the land cost
nothing ; work can be carried on from
several points at once ; and a French
company offered to complete the task
within six years, at an average cost of
$30,000 the mile. In reality, the main
division, on whose effective working suc-
cess or failure hung, is only half this
length. From Cheliabinsk to Stretensk
on the Amoor, where steam navigation
to the Pacific begins, is less than 3000
miles, and M. de Witte solemnly assured
the world that this vital section should be
in thorough order by 1898, or 1899 at
the latest. In the spring of 1900, when
the Chinese outbreak occurred, not only
did this line prove unfit for ordinary trav-
el, but incapable of transporting enough
troops to Manchuria to afford police pro-
tection to the road itself. As for garri-
sons, the Russian government appears to
have sent them to Port Arthur and else-
where by sea, which is equivalent to the
United States government sending troops
to California round the Horn. Such is
the fruit of nine years of toil, at an out-
lay estimated at double the price asked
by Frenchmen for the work, and with a
product so inferior that experts are agreed
the road will have to be nearly rebuilt to
raise it even to the European standard.
The European standard, nevertheless, re-
164
The New Industrial Revolution.
presents perhaps not more than half the
energy developed by American systems.
In the United States, between 1880
and 1890, the average construction ex-
ceeded 6000 miles of road annually, all
built by private enterprise ; and in 1887
more than 12,000 miles of track were
laid. Had the United States been under
a stimulus of apprehension such as the
Russians felt in regard to their eastern
frontier, the building of a line equal to
that to the Amoor could scarcely have
occupied three years at the most, and
probably much less.
Measuring thus Russian with Ameri-
can energy, the former could hardly hold
a higher ratio than as one to four or five
in relation to the latter, a handicap
which would seem to preclude successful
competition.
This conclusion is likely to be gener-
ally accepted by Europeans ; for at pre-
sent the theory that the Siberian railroad
would provide a practicable channel for
international traffic, as against the sea,
appears to have been abandoned. There-
fore, for the next generation, the rela-
tions of the West toward China in regard
to transportation promise to remain near-
ly unchanged.
Furthermore, there can be no mistak-
ing the symptoms. Russia is betraying
exhaustion under the strain of an at-
tempt at industrial competition. Hence
she has collapsed at the crucial moment,
and her collapse has checked the parti-
tion of China, which has been a chief
aim of central Europe. A convulsion in
China has long been anticipated as the
signal for a division of the empire by an
agreement of the Powers, somewhat as
Poland was apportioned a century ago.
In 1795 Russia possessed the energy to
seize her prey. In 1900 she could with
difficulty move an army corps, far less
prosecute a campaign. A severe finan-
cial crisis has been in progress in Russia
for many months. Hitherto M. de Witte
has been unable to secure his annual loan
to cover his deficit, and accordingly the
Bank of Russia is losing gold. Every
item of outlay possible to be suppressed
has been suppressed ; yet paralysis su-
pervened. This paralysis isolated Ger-
many and England; for the overland
route to Berlin remained closed, and in
the rear lay the United States intrenched
in Luzon. The Germans perceived final-
ly that the military position was hope-
less, and capitulated. The victory for
America, in the East, appears to be de-
cisive, and the organization of northern
China by her commercial rivals, tempo-
rarily at least, postponed.
On the other hand, assuming that Eu-
rope is once more foiled in her attempt
to expand eastward, it is not demonstrat-
ed that an economic equilibrium will be
reached with America in the ascendant.
Though now the position of Europe is
untenable, her energy is not exhausted,
and therefore she will presumably seek
means of defense. If she cannot expand,
she will doubtless consolidate, and try to
compensate for inferior resources by su-
perior administration. Should all else
fail, she will, unless the precedents of
history are to be reversed, resort to war.
Probably without exception sinking com-
munities have fought for life. Upon the
same principle, the present economic sit-
uation logically points toward a collision.
After finishing her internal lines of com-
munication, America has extended them
across the sea to her rival's ports, the
more effectually to deluge them with her
wares. Furthermore, the United States
bars all avenues of escape. She has long
held South America closed ; she is now
closing China ; and while thus caging
Europeans within their narrow peninsu-
la, she is slowly suffocating them with
her surplus. Any animal cornered and
threatened will strike at the foe ; much
more, proud, energetic, and powerful na-
tions. Nevertheless, war is an eventual-
ity which each can ponder for himself.
European economic consolidation, though
perhaps equally dangerous, is less famil-
The New Industrial Revolution.
165
Obviously, great economies may be
effected by concentration. Disarmament,
more or less complete ; the absorption of
small states, like Holland, Belgium, Den-
mark, and the like ; the redistribution of
the Austrian Empire ; the adoption of an
international railroad system, with uni-
form coinage and banking ; and, above
all, the massing of industries upon the
American model, may enable Europe to
force down prices indefinitely, and pos-
sibly turn the balance of trade. In
other words, the twentieth century offers
the prospect of a continuation of the
conditions of the last upon a progres-
sive scale, the severity of competition
depending largely on the supply of gold
coming from the mines, in proportion to
the volume of trade.
Should the foregoing statement of facts
be approximately correct, and presuppos-
ing that the United States succeeds tem-
porarily in preventing the industrial de-
velopment of China, the following infer-
ences seem justified. Europe stands at
a disadvantage, whether in war or peace,
because of inferior natural resources, in-
adequate bulk, and imperfect organiza-
tion ; but the position of Europe is not
so desperate that it may not be amend-
ed by inertia in America and energy at
home. Moreover, Americans must re-
cognize that this is war to the death,
a struggle no longer against single na-
tions, but against a continent. There is
not room in the economy of the world for
two centres of wealth and empire. One
organism, in the end, will destroy the
other. The weaker must succumb. Un-
der commercial competition, that society
will survive which works cheapest ; but
to be undersold is often more fatal to a
population than to be conquered.
Economies consist in the administra-
tion of masses, thus eliminating double
profits, surplus wages, and needless rent.
Such masses in America are represented
by the so-called " trusts : " therefore the
trust must be accepted as the corner stone
of modern civilization, and the movement
toward the trust must gather momentum
until the limit of possible economies has
been reached.
Analogously with political institu-
tions, all institutions of any country are
but the reflection of a social condition ;
and as that condition changes, so must
habits and methods of thought and gov-
ernment. In proportion as the United
States consolidate within, in order to
evolve the largest administrative mass,
so must they be expected to expand
without ; and as they expand, they must
simplify and cheapen their administra-
tive machinery, until in this direction,
also, the limit of economy by mass has
been attained. When that limit has
been touched the process will automat-
ically stop, as the Roman Empire stopped
under Augustus. In the stern struggle
for life, affections, traditions, and beliefs
are as naught. Every innovation is re-
sisted by some portion of every popula-
tion ; but resistance to innovation indi-
cates, in the eye of nature, senility, and
senility is doomed to be discarded.
When a whole nation becomes senile, like
the Chinese, it perishes. That nation
thrives best which is most flexible, and
which has fewest prejudices to hamper
adaptation.
One quality Nature inexorably de-
mands of men : she exacts from them the
capacity to exert their energy through
such channels as she may open from age
to age. Those who can conform to her
behests she crowns with wealth, with
power and renown ; those who rebel or
lag behind she exterminates or enslaves.
Should America be destined to prevail,
in the struggle for empire which lies
before her, those men will rule over her
who can best administer masses vaster
than anything now existing in the world,
and the laws and institutions of our coun-
try will take the shape best adapted to
the needs of the mighty engines which
such men shall control.
Brooks Adams.
166
The Last Phase of Napoleon.
THE LAST PHASE OF NAPOLEON. 1
ANYTHING from Lord Rosebery's pen
is sure to be sparkling and attractive.
But the petty miseries of Napoleon at
St. Helena, his squabbles with Sir Hud-
son Lowe, and the bickerings of his little
household were hardly a subject worthy
of being handled by one who has been
Prime Minister of England, who may
again be Prime Minister of England, and
who is being courted as a leader by a
large section of a great political party.
Perhaps Lord Rosebery, while awaiting
the call of Destiny, wishes to kill the
time without mental strain by dallying
with lighter themes. Though strictly
critical and veracious, he is evidently
under a spell, and feels that in dealing
with the great conqueror he is dealing
with something more than human.
Napoleon on his way to Elba, after his
first deposition, found his statues over-
turned, and was more than once in peril
of his life from the fury of the people
against their fallen tyrant. He owed to
the intrepidity of the allied Commission-
ers a narrow escape from a violent end.
A mob surrounded the carriage, demand-
ing his head ; and to save his life he had
to escape by a back window, and ride the
next post disguised as a courier with a
white cockade upon his breast. Did he
suffer any indignity worse than this at
the hands of Lord Bathurst or Sir Hud-
son Lowe ? The political and municipal
bodies of France at once, with one ac-
cord, acclaimed his fall and the deliver-
ance of the country. One of his own
marshals, Augereau, his companion in
many victories, thus addressed the sol-
diers :
" Soldiers ! The Senate, the first inter-
preter of the national will, worn out with
the despotism of Buonaparte, has pro-
1 Napoleon : The Last Phase. By LORD
ROSEHERY. New York : Harper & Brothers.
1900.
nounced, on the 2nd April, the dethrone-
ment of him and his family. A new
dynasty, strong and liberal, descended
from our ancient kings, will replace
Buonaparte and his despotism. Soldiers !
You are absolved from your oaths : you
are so by the nation, in which the sov-
ereignty resides ; you are still more so,
were it necessary, by the abdication of a
man who, after having sacrificed millions
to his cruel ambition, has not known how
to die as a soldier."
Ney, on Napoleon's return from Elba,
marched against him, promising the
King to bring him back in an iron cage.
Napoleon's wonderful success after his
return from Elba was due, not to love of
him, but to hatred of the Bourbons, to
the restless discontent of the soldiery,
and to the fear of the peasantry that the
old dynasty would restore the feudal sys-
tem and resume the confiscated lands.
Napoleon would never have been re-
called by the French people. In Lord
Russell's interview with him at Elba, the
subject of his anxious inquiry was the dis-
position, not of the people, but of the
army. The disposition of the people he
knew too well.
After his first deposition, the fallen
Emperor was treated with studious re-
spect by the allies, and notably by the
British. He was received, says Alison,
by Captain Usher, who commanded the
vessel in which he sailed for Elba, agree-
ably to the orders of the government,
with the honors due to a crowned head :
a royal salute was fired as he stepped
on board, the yards were manned, and
every possible respect was shown to him
by all, from the captain to the cabin boy.
So great was the contrast between this
reception and that with which he had
met at the hands of his own subjects that
he burst into tears. It was when he had
broken his word, made his escape from
The Last Phase of Napoleon.
1G7
Elba, and again for the purposes of his
own ambition plunged the world into
slaughter and havoc, that he was treated
with less indulgence. That, with his
invariable perfidy, he had from his first
removal to Elba meditated breach of his
parole and return to France, if he had
a chance, can hardly be matter of doubt.
In his interview with Lord Russell, he
affected to fear that the allies had a de-
sign upon his life. He was evidently
providing an excuse for his flight. He
actually invited Lord Russell to visit
him in Paris, and the invitation was
repeated in the Hundred Days through
Bertrand.
This man had sacrificed to his ambi-
tion at least two millions of lives. He
had oppressed and plundered all the na-
tions, till they rose together in united ef-
fort against the intolerable iniquities of
his sway. He had formed a design, as
he himself avowed, of reducing them
all to satellites of France, the domestic
liberties of which he had extinguished.
He had, besides, committed a long series
of particular crimes : he had murdered
Pichegru, the Due d'Enghien, Toussaint-
Louverture, and Hofer ; he had slaugh-
tered four thousand prisoners of war in
cold blood, because he found it difficult
to hold them. He had trampled on pub-
lic faith as well as the laws of humanity.
Had he, upon the renewal of his crimi-
nal attempts, been treated with more se-
verity than he was, the measure would
have been impolitic, certainly unsenti-
mental, but it would not have been un-
just. It might not even have been en-
tirely impolitic, if it would have broken
the spell the prevalence of which was to
be so prolific of evil.
Any idea that consideration was due
to Napoleon for having, after Waterloo,
abstained from putting himself at the
head of the Jacobin populace of Paris,
and prolonging the resistance to the al-
lied armies, is preposterous. There was
not between him and the populace the
sympathy by which such a combination
could have been formed. He hated the
populace of Paris. In the Hundred
Days, Guizot saw him, after receiving at
a window a mob demonstration, turn
away with a shrug of disdain.
Suppose, after all that Napoleon had
done, the physical and, still worse,
moral evil that he had brought upon the
world, the loss and suffering which he
had brought upon Great Britain in par-
ticular, and the pertinacious malignity
with which he had sought her ruin, a
British minister, upon the renewal of all
this, did, in a letter to his colleague, give
vent to his indignation in an angry
phrase suggesting that Napoleon de-
served to be handed over to the King of
France for treatment as a rebel: was
this a thing to fill the world with horror ?
Lord Liverpool did not really expect the
King of France to put Napoleon to death
as a rebel, nor had he the slightest in-
tention of doing anything of the kind
himself.
It was unfortunate, perhaps, that the
British government should have had to
undertake the custody of a prisoner
whose extraordinary genius and still
more extraordinary fortunes were sure
to create a sentiment in his favor and
against his keepers. But this could
hardly have been helped. A fortress in
Russia or Prussia would have been more
penal than St. Helena. To allow the
ex-Emperor to go to the United States,
there to cabal against Great Britain,
would have been fatuous. It must be
remembered that there were French,
Austrian, and Russian Commissioners
at St. Helena. Prussia was invited to
send a Commissioner, but did not.
In the indictment of the British gov-
ernment, as presented by Lord Rosebery,
there are three counts :
I. The denial of the imperial title.
Napoleon was allowed himself to assume,
and did assume, the title, as he did all
the forms of imperial state. But could
the government have given it to him ?
His own legislature had dethroned him,
168
The Last Phase of Napoleon.
and forced him to sign his abdication.
With his little empire of Elba he had
been allowed to retain his title of Em-
peror. But how, without disparagement
to the title of the restored dynasty, could
he be recognized as Emperor of the
French ? Does not the revival of the ti-
tle by Napoleon III. show that there was
a substantial reason for refusal ? On the
captive's playing at Emperor no restric-
tion seems to have been placed. All the
forms of imperial etiquette were strictly
observed in his little court. Its mem-
bers were kept standing for hours, till
they nearly dropped from fatigue. At
dinner, Lord Rosebery tells us, he was
served on gold and silver plate, and at-
tended by his French servants in rich
liveries. When he took an airing, it was
in a carriage and six, with an equerry
riding on each side. A really noble na-
ture surely would have preferred to lay
aside a title which had become a mock-
ery of forfeited greatness, and have
found a higher majesty in simple man-
hood, dignified as it would have been by
misfortune.
II. The second charge is niggardly
supply of funds. But this seems at once
to fall to the ground. The original allow-
ance was 8000 a year. This was en-
larged to 12,000, and ultimately there
was no fixed limit. If there were rats at
Longwood, there was wherewithal to buy
ratsbane, and the governor could scarce-
ly be blamed for leaving that business to
the suite. Napoleon appears to have
been supplied with everything that he
desired, including, it is curious to hear,
large consignments of books, of which,
we are told, this mighty conqueror was
a great, even a voracious reader. Ber-
trand confessed that St. Helena was bet-
ter than Elba.
III. There is, unfortunately, more
foundation for the charge of want of tact
and indelicacy on the part of Sir Hudson
Lowe, whose vigilance was extreme, but
who was otherwise ill chosen for his role.
Sir Hudson was haunted by fears of an
escape ; for which, in fact, there were
plots on foot, and one, as the Russian
government thought, feasible, though
there could hardly be serious danger,
considering the inaccessibility of the
island and the unwieldy corpulence of
the captive. Lowe's instructions were
"to permit every indulgence to Napo-
leon compatible with the entire security
of his person." It is not alleged that
he departed from the first part of these
instructions, but only that he was over-
strict and maladroit in the execution of
the second. He seems to have shown
no ill will. He raised the allowance on
his own responsibility. In inviting the
ex-Emperor to meet Lady Loudon at
dinner he may have committed a social
blunder, but he meant only to be kind.
Napoleon was irritable and petulant.
" Lowe was antipathetic to him," says
Lord Rosebery, " as a man and as a
jailer. Consequently, Napoleon lost his
temper outrageously when they met."
This seems to suggest a fair summary
of the case. Napoleon, it will be re-
membered, for an unfortunate though
well-intended remark, kicked Volney in
the stomach, so that he had to be carried
out of the room. He gave vent " out-
rageously " to his temper against the
British ambassador, Lord Whitworth,
before the whole diplomatic circle. He
shoots Madame Bertrand's pet kids, to
her great distress, because they strayed
upon his garden, and other innocent ani-
mals share their fate. So he used to shoot
his wife's favorite birds at Malmaison.
He had in him, in fact, a strong dash of
the Quilp. Lamartine thought that he
insulted in order to provoke insult and
found a case for his friends in the British
Parliament, whose intervention was his
hope of release. Montholon, one of his
confidants at Longwood, in fact, avowed
that this was their game. If Napoleon
had allowed Sir Hudson Lowe to see him
regularly without seriously intruding on
his privacy, even to see him at a window,
all would apparently have gone well.
The Last Phase of Napoleon.
169
Pope Piua VII. was the head of
Catholic Christendom. Yet the treat-
ment which he received as Napoleon's
captive was less respectful, according to
Lord Rosebery, than that received by
Napoleon. " He was put into captivity,
not as Napoleon was confined, but al-
most as malefactors are imprisoned."
A cardinal who had displeased the des-
pot was confined in a state prison in
Savoy. All these things, as well as the
conqueror's far more serious offenses
against humanity, were then fresh in the
minds of the people with whom he had
to deal.
One of Napoleon's occupations at St.
Helena, as Lord Rosebery evidently be-
lieves, was the forging of a document
which, if genuine, would have thrown
the blame for the catastrophe in Spain
off his own shoulders, and on to those
of Murat. Another was the execution
of a will leaving a legacy to Cantillon,
who had attempted to assassinate Wel-
lington. The duke had some reason
for saying that Napoleon was not a gen-
tleman. It is true that this man was a
Jupiter ; true also that he was a Jupiter
Scapin. He seems to have been framed
by nature to show the difference between
intellectual and moral greatness. His
views of humanity were sagacious as his
intellect was great ; they were low as his
character was mean.
Lord Rosebery has given us a vivid
and amusing picture of the companions
of Napoleon in his exile. A curious set
they seem to have been. Never, surely,
did august adversity receive a less im-
pressive tribute from the attachment and
sympathy of friends. In fact, as Lord
Rosebery admits, Napoleon had no
friends. He speaks of Ney, Murat, and
Soult in the most unfeeling way. His
own brothers and sisters defied and aban-
doned him. Two of his sisters, on whom
he had conferred royalty, tried to make
independent terms for themselves with
the enemy. He avowed that he cared
for people who were useful to him only
for so long as they were useful. He
would bear no divided attachment. " You
are mad to love your mother so," said
Napoleon to Gourgaud. " How old is
she?" "Sixty-seven, Sire." "Well,
you will never see her again ; she will be
dead before you return to France."
" Napoleon," says Lord Rosebery,
" was not good in the sense in which
Wilberforce or St. Francis was good.
Nor was he one of the virtuous rulers.
He was not a Washington or an Anto-
nine." On the other hand, he was not
a monster, like Eccelino or Timur the
Tartar. He did not love evil for its own
sake. He was a Corsican, and a thor-
ough Corsican, of extraordinary genius,
initiated in wickedness under the Jaco-
bins and confirmed under the Directory,
probably about the two worst schools in
which it was possible for any human be-
ing to be trained. He was utterly un-
scrupulous, utterly regardless of faith or
truth, absolutely selfish, absolutely de-
void of the slightest sense of humanity
or the slightest feeling for the sufferings
of his kind. The horrors of the retreat
from Moscow, the horrors of the retreat
from Leipsic, touched him not. His bul-
letin at the end of the Russian campaign
contained no word of remorse, but an-
nounced to bleeding France that the
Emperor never was in better health.
On the morrow of a battle he always
went over the field, and presumably felt
pleasure in the sight. To drag gener-
ation after generation of French boys
from their homes for consumption in his
wars, till he had actually reduced the
stature and physique of the country, cost
him not a pang. At the last, his only
regret was that he could not stake his
few remaining conscripts on the gam-
bling table. Constant installments of
glory he deemed necessary to his posi-
tion ; and what was necessary to his po-
sition was to be supplied, no matter at
what cost to his nation or to mankind.
Brougham used to repeat a story told
him by one who aecompanied the Em-
170
The Last Phase of Napoleon.
peror's flight from Waterloo. Seeing
Napoleon depressed, and thinking that
he might be touched by the slaughter of so
many old comrades, his companion said,
" Wellington also has lost many of his
friends." " Yes," replied Napoleon with
an oath, " but he has n't lost the battle."
When the list of the slain was brought
to Wellington, tears ran down the iron
cheeks.
The supreme genius of Napoleon for
war nobody disputes. Perhaps his only
rivals are Alexander, Hannibal, and Cae-
sar. Marlborough would hardly be placed
in the same rank, though it is to be re-
membered that he conquered, with ar-
mies composed of very motley material
and long used to defeat, the victorious
veterans of Louis XIV., not to mention
that he left off victorious. Napoleon had
the great advantage of being despot as
well as commander in chief, with his
hands entirely free, unaffected by failure,
and master of all the resources of the
state. He had no English Parliamen-
tary Opposition to interfere with him, or
Dutch Deputies to tie his hands. In war
power the political element always stands
for a good deal. Napoleon was fortu-
nate, also, in having to command such
people as the French, brave, light-heart-
ed, fired with enthusiasm by the Revolu-
tion, and at the same time inured to
obedience by immemorial absolutism,
which was as complete under Robes-
pierre as under Louis XIV., while the
conscription had recruited the army with
men of a superior class.
Napoleon's special characteristic as a
general seems to be the wonderful celer-
ity of his movements, which he owed
partly to his admirable physique. He
was able, Lord Rosebery tells us, to fight
Alvinzi for five consecutive days without
taking off his boots. But latterly he
grew corpulent and somewhat torpid.
Lord Russell said that when he saw him
at Elba he was so fat that, as he laid
his hand upon the table, you could hard-
ly see his knuckles. Hence, no doubt,
his fatal delay between Ligny and Wa-
terloo. His decline as a general, how-
ever, appears to have begun before his
last campaign. Experts think that it
showed itself at Leipsic, where he neg-
lected to provide sufficient bridges for
his retreat.
In peace, as in war, Napoleon was
a first-rate organizer and administrator.
The government which, as First Consul,
he gave France could hardly fail to be
welcome, after a reign of murderous an-
archy followed by one of unprincipled
cabal, maladministration, and corrup-
tion, when it was for order rather than
for liberty that everybody pined. But
he lacked the moral element of states-
manship which would have enabled him
to found an enduring polity, and his sys-
tem was only set up again by the cracks-
man of Ham to fall ignominiously once
more. How little root it took in the life-
time of its author the scandalous success
of Malet's conspiracy showed. Glory
ever fresh, its author admitted, was es-
sential to its existence. But fresh glory
could not be supplied forever, while ul-
timate defeat was sure, and on the first,
second, and third trial proved to be ruin.
The brightest point in Napoleon's his-
tory is the Code to which he had the
good fortune to give his name, and on
which, though the body of it was the
work of professional jurists, his practical
sagacity and extraordinary powers of
application seem in a wonderful degree
to have left their mark. It must not
be supposed, however, that the Code Na-
pol&m was a sudden light out of dark-
ness. Those who fancy that it was forget
Tanucci, Bentham, and the general pro-
gress of European jurisprudence. The
main lines of the Code had, in fact, been
laid down by the Constituent Assembly,
which had decreed the liberty of wor-
ship, trial by jury, publicity of criminal
proceedings, with other securities for fair
trial, a uniform system of criminal juris-
prudence, equality in taxation, abolition
of all feudal burdens and privileges.
The Last Phase of Napoleon.
171
The article of the Code which Lord Rose-
bery specially connects, and which is gen-
erally connected, with Napoleon's name
is the rule of inheritance subdividing
the land. This, however, had been al-
ready introduced, and it seems doubtful
whether, in retaining it, Napoleon was
obeying the dictate of his own judgment,
or yielding to the anti-feudal sentiment
of the people. If he wished to create
an hereditary aristocracy, as it appeared
he did, he could scarcely be an enemy
to entails. In either case the results
were the same : an immense body of land-
owners ; a territorial democracy, con-
servative, or at all events opposed to com-
munism ; and, in large districts at least,
the civilization of La Terre. The Revo-
lution having made a clean sweep of the
past, Napoleon's genius had the great
advantage of a perfectly blank paper on
which to work.
Among other curious points, Lord
Rosebery has dealt with Napoleon's reli-
gion. In a passage of Newman's works
to which he refers, and which he thinks
beautiful, the cardinal has tried to se-
cure the countenance of the famous con-
queror for the religion of Christ. But
there is no ground, according to Lord
Rosebery, for this claim. The only re-
ligion to which Napoleon was inclined
appears to have been Mahometanism,
which had taken his fancy in Egypt, part-
ly perhaps by its militant character, but
principally as a religion of the East, to
which, as the most grandiose field of enter-
prise, his imagination constantly turned.
His restoration of the Catholic Church
in France was purely political. He seems
himself to have attended mass in the
Tuileries by doing business in an ad-
joining room. He admitted that if he
had turned his mind to religious subjects,
he would not have been able to do great
things. Assuredly, he would not have
been able to do some things which he
deemed great, had he been under the re-
straints of religion even in the slightest
Napoleon, says Lord Rosebery, in-
definitely raised mankind's conceptions
of its own powers and possibilities. He
indefinitely raised, among other concep-
tions, that of human servility and of the
proneness of mankind to worship mere
power. A glance at the starry heavens
will measure the stature of the intellec-
tual giant. Moral power will not lose by
the comparison. It is itself, if our in-
most nature does not lie to us, a particle
of the power " through which the heavens
are fresh and strong."
Lord Russell, when the present writer
questioned him about Napoleon's look,
said, and emphatically repeated, that
there was something evil in the eye. He
had remarked that it flashed on an allu-
sion to the excitement of war as contrast-
ed with the dullness of Elba. A feature
in the character which, perhaps, has hard-
ly been enough noticed was a sheer lust
of war, and especially of battles, the emo-
tions of which, Napoleon seems to have
owned, were agreeable to him. It ap-
pears not improbable that this had a
share, together with his insatiable ambi-
tion and his political need of glory, in
launching him on his mad invasion of
Russia, for which it is difficult to assign
any political purpose, as he refused to
restore the kingdom of Poland.
Another feature not much noticed in
Napoleon's character is his classicism.
In his early days he had employed his
garrison leisure partly in reading Ro-
man history ; and instead of being re-
pelled, he had been fascinated by the
presentation of the Roman Empire in
Tacitus. We see the result in his Eagles,
his Legion of Honor, his political no-
menclature, and the general cast of his
political institutions. Perhaps the image
of the Roman Empire as a model for
reproduction floated vaguely before his
mind, as it does before those of our im-
perialists at the present day. A grosser
anachronism, it is needless to say, there
could not be than an attempt to impose
upon the European family of living na-
172
A Plea for New York.
tions anything like the yoke imposed by
Rome on a set of conquered provinces
in which national spirit was extinct.
Longwood, Lord Rosebery will own,
as vividly described by him, is not sub-
lime. The glory of sunset is not upon
it. It was, in truth, no harvest sun that
was setting there, but a meteor, brilliant
and baleful, that was ending its course.
Not that its course was then altogether
ended. In 1871, Napoleon, reimperson-
ated in his nephew, brought an invading
army for the third time into Paris.
Joinville, in his wisdom, carried the
bones of Napoleon from their resting
place in St. Helena to Paris. He car-
ried with them the Napoleonic lust of
military adventure which largely contrib-
uted to the overthrow of the monarchy,
bourgeois, drab-colored, and pacific, of
his own house.
Judgment on Napoleon's character
must, of course, be qualified by due al-
lowance for the influences under which
it was formed. But if he was not the
worst of men, he was about the worst
of all enemies to his kind. When we
consider not only the havoc which he
made in his lifetime, but all that fol-
lowed, the Holy Alliance and the ab-
solutist reaction, the violence with which
the pendulum afterwards swung back to
revolution, the spirit of militarism which
now pervades the world, we shall be
ready to admit that, of all the disastrous
accidents of history, not one is more
disastrous than that which made the
Corsican a citizen of France.
Goldwin Smith.
A PLEA FOR NEW YORK.
MB. HOWELLS once started a question
that went the rounds of the newspapers :
" Why should any one love New York ? "
Some answered, with a sigh, that there
was indeed no good reason why any one
should do so. Others bristled up to the de-
fense of the unconscious metropolis, and
succeeded in showing, not why any one
should, but the fact that they themselves
did love with a rare and surpassing devo-
tion the city that affords them sensation
and their daily bread. It is clear that
the question, in the answers it elicited,
did not escape altogether the harass-
ments derived from a political bias. The
anxious mugwump, gazing from his high
tower upon the indifference of those who
ought to be interested in the city's wel-
fare, would fain find a cause in the city
itself for their distressing lack of atten-
tion to his familiar exhortations ; the
striped Tammany man, on the other hand,
is profoundly convinced of the moral
and material greatness of the community
in which he is so prominent a figure ;
while Republicans are prone to believe
New York wicked by reason of its stead-
ily Democratic majorities. Considera-
tions such as these serve only to obscure
the issue, and must be rigidly abjured if
we would address ourselves to the pre-
servation of an impartial mind.
In beginning our examination of Mr.
Howells's question, it will not greatly af-
fect most of us to hear it said that the ques-
tion itself is, in a certain sense, an idle
one. In the same sense are all questions
idle that do not bear directly upon a
practical end. It is by reason of the
light it throws on the way, of the con-
sciousness that it awakens in other di-
rections, that such a question is valuable.
Most of us like or dislike New York.
A large majority of us who live there
have to put up with it, whether we like
it or not. We shall perhaps not like
our individual lots the better for know-
ing that there are good grounds for be-
A Plea for New York.
173
lieving in and loving the community
within which those lots are cast. But if
we know (and such a question is a help
to our finding out) that the conditions
under which we live, and the society of
which we form a part, are not so much
inferior to those obtaining elsewhere,
then we have made a step toward con-
tentment ; and that step is usually one in
the direction of increasing the useful-
ness of our lives to ourselves and others.
A question that stimulates, even indi-
rectly, such a result is not to be called
an idle one.
It may be maintained that we love a
place chiefly for two things : first for
the associations it brings us, and then
for the present interests it affords. Be-
sides these, we may be in love with its
external beauty; but few cities of our
modern, overcrowded, industrial type are
beautiful externally. At most there are
some beautiful spots in them, best ren-
dered by the etcher's point, so minute
and delicate is the treatment they de-
mand ; and even these derive how much
of their charm from association ! For
instance, Washington Square is almost
beautiful to the present writer ; but he
cannot be certain it would so appear
were he to chance upon it in a foreign
city. There was nothing remarkable
there architecturally nothing above
what might be called distinguishing in its
old-fashioned respectability until they
built the Arch and the Judson Memorial
Church ; and of the effect produced by
these, it must be said that it is already
impaired, and is threatened with extinc-
tion, by the inroads of an advancing
commercialism from the side of Broad-
way. If the bronze bust of Alexander
Holley is fine, the statue of Garibaldi is
decidedly queer. These are not the
things that give to the old part its fas-
cination, in his eyes ; rather, certain
vague and shadowy recollections of child-
hood, together with an intellectual con-
nection, formed later on, between its
green, shabby precincts and a whole class
of city lives with the glamour of Bohe-
mianism upon them beating backward
and forward about its boundaries. These
are the associations of the place ; and as-
sociations do not need to be historical, in
order to lend a place character and to
give it a certain kind of beauty.
In such associations New York is
rich ; even in the historical association
that clings to men and events, rather
than to phases of social development,
it is not poor. The difficulty is that so
many of its inhabitants the larger half
have lived there too short a time to
feel the value of such association. It
has been said by a witty traveler that
long search for an old New Yorker dis-
covered him at last in the person of a
corner policeman, who brought to the
discharge of his official duties a compo-
sure that distinguished him from the bus-
tling throng of money-makers. Assum-
ing the story to be true, although we
should not have thought of going to the
police force for a specimen of the native
New Yorker, this man, if he passed
his childhood in Greenwich Village, or
even in a Mulberry Street tenement,
when there was still room in the " yard "
for a row of green cabbages, and the
families took pride in their " garden,"
is in a better position to judge of local
associations than are most of our critics.
The geographical position of New
York, on a long slip of land between the
waters, explains much about the city. It
explains the crowded slums of the lower
end of the peninsula, now creeping threat-
eningly along the river banks, until al-
ready half the island is covered with
them. It explains the hideous elevated
railways, made necessary by the daily
rush of people going in the same direc-
tion at the same time. It does not ex-
plain why New York, with water wash-
ing both its shores, is not a clean city ;
that is another chapter. But it explains
why, in spite of carelessness in destroy-
ing old landmarks, associations are thick-
er than ghosts in a churchyard. The
174
ghosts of nationalities have passed over
it, and are passing. Irish, Germans,
Jews, Italians, and negroes have occu-
pied in succession the same quarter, and
each racial wave has swept on its way
" up town," leaving behind it an odor not
always of sanctity. Poor
" ghosts from an enchanter fleeing,
Yellow, and black, and pale, and hectic red,
Pestilence-stricken multitudes ! "
as Shelley says of the dead autumn
leaves driven before the west wind, is
the souvenir of these to be forgotten,
and are the associations connected with
their coming too vile to dignify and
adorn the city that gave them a refuge ?
Castle Garden ! What associations,
painful, palpitating with hope and fear,
its name must call up to many a pros-
perous citizen of to-day ! What second
building in the world, scarce except-
ing the Roman Coliseum, has witnessed
scenes so touching, so dramatic ? Such
a scene, for instance, as the following,
of which I remember reading in the
newspaper. A young Englishman had
come there to meet his two children,
whom he had delayed sending for un-
til his position in the new country was
assured. With them came their mo-
ther, a poor, forlorn little woman, who
seemed to have no interest in life apart
from this girl and boy. But she had not
been sent for, and her husband refused to
receive her. Some one had written him
that she had proved an unfaithful wife.
In vain she protested her innocence ; in
vain the children pleaded to have her stay
with them, urging pathetically upon their
father how good mamma had been to
them. The man was obdurate, and the
woman, desisting at last from, her en-
treaties, bade the children go with their
father. Such is the wonderful strength
of weakness ! The woman found her-
self without a friend, in a country un-
known to her. On the threshold of so
blank a future the newspaper account left
her standing.
Hundreds of episodes as poignant as
A Plea for New York.
this have been enacted within the walls
of the old Garden, where Jenny Lind
once sang to the " wealth and fashion "
of New York, and where now the fishes
swim and the sea anemones bloom, not
alone for the wealth and fashion, but for
all the people of the city, among them
many, no doubt, to whom the place brings
up memories of other days and different
scenes.
In the meantime they are not all
ghosts, it may be objected ; they are with
us still, these fateful foreigners that have
trailed their sad procession through this
romantic Castle Garden. Yes, they are
ghosts only in their relations to one an-
other, passing and flitting one before the
other from neighborhood to neighbor-
hood, as a fresh wave of alien popula-
tion sweeps up from the Battery. But
the city holds them all, real creatures
of flesh and blood, who contribute ac-
cording to their strength to her prosperi-
ty. Perhaps she is not the better for
them all. Yet I am sure that her life is
incomparably the richer for their pre-
sence here. In the case of the Irish
and the Germans, their roots have struck
deep into the soil ; what the city might
have become without them it were idle
to guess. They cannot be absolved
from their share of responsibility for
the evils that have grown upon us. In
particular, the Irish have written a chap-
ter of corruption and misrule upon the
city's records. In other cities, it is only
fair to say, native Americans have done
the same. But in New York the Irish-
man's superiority in the domain of ward
politics has been unquestioningly ac-
cepted by the other nationalities, and the
fabric that has arisen is his own handi-
work. Beauty and refinement have not
entered very largely into its composition ;
where is the political machine that can
show us beauty and refinement? But
before condemning it utterly let us re-
member one essential fact, which, if not
in its present favor, at least holds out a
hope for the future, namely, that it
A Plea for New York.
175
springs from the people. New York is
governed to-day, not by the wealthy, the
intelligent, or the specially fit, in a
word, by those persons constituting in
every community the privileged class,
but by persons from the lower ranks of
her citizens. Representatives of the poor
they are not ; it is much that they are
not representatives of the rich.
Apart from the peculiar sphere of
politics, Irish influence in New York
the Irish note in her cosmopolitan sym-
phony has always been marked and
insistent. The popular pastimes get
their dominant characteristics from the
Irish, although they have submitted to
modifications from the German. Irish
wit and easy - going Irish nonchalance
are responsible for a great deal of the
picturesque incident of our daily lives.
The popular songs are chiefly Irish, and
some of them are admirable in the plain
grasp they have upon the essentials in
words and music. Listen to little An-
nie Rooney's accepted suitor :
" She 's my Annie, I 'm her Joe ;
;She 's my sweetheart, I 'm her beau."
These words have a universal applica-
tion ; simple as they are, they are not
to be surpassed (I mean, of course, in a
popular song, wedded to music) in the
vivid sense of personal relationship con-
veyed. It is impossible to listen and not
feel the heart of the people beating be-
neath them. Or take some of the Harri-
gan songs, Danny by my Side, Mag-
gie Murphy's Home, The Knights of the
Mystic Star. Danny and his girl go walk-
ing every Sunday afternoon, with a host
of other lovers, on Brooklyn Bridge :
" Laughing, chaffing,
Watching the silvery tide ;
Dressed in my hest,
Each day of rest,
With Danny by my side."
These songs illustrate some phase of ex-
istence in the metropolis, and have a
local life. It would be easy to multiply
examples of the social influence of the
Irish, were it not patent to all. The
Irish are preeminently a sociable race,
and where so many are gathered together
as in New York, we should not expect
the community to escape the contagion
of their example. Their political as-
cendency has aided in stamping upon
the city, in its external aspects, some of
the less engaging qualities of the race.
Improvidence and lack of consequence
seem only less marked in the Irishman
than in the negro, and New York thor-
oughfares, police courts, and public in-
stitutions yield abundant evidence of the
fact.
These are some of the earmarks of
the Irish in New York. Most of the
nationalities have not yet been here long
enough to leave earmarks, and their
value as elements in her interestingness,
if one may be allowed the word, is as
yet chiefly picturesque. No one will be
inclined to dispute their services in this
regard who has seen what used to be
" the Bend " in Mulberry Street, on a
fine afternoon, the bright colors of its
Neapolitan population all astir in the
sunlight; or who has walked through
the Pig Market in Hester Street, on a
Saturday night. The quality of such a
locality that strikes the modern observer
most is, fortunately, not the picturesque
one. The world, with the possible ex-
ception of fin-de-sibcle Frenchmen, is
growing too humane to feel first for
beauty, where there is a question of hu-
man degradation and misery. Yet it is
of no use, on this account, to deny the
picturesque; and the true artist may
accept it gratefully, even gladly, not as
a compensation for the misery it covers,
but as one testimony the more to that
visible beauty of the universe which lin-
gers still after man has done his worst
in abasement of his fellow and himself.
One scene impressed me strangely,
when I saw it first. I had been walking
through the Italian quarter, where the
light - hearted, careless inhabitants, ga-
thered about the street stands piled high
with red peppers and gayly colored mer-
176
A Plea for New York.
chandise, were lingering to chatter in
the new-found enjoyment of the April
sunshine, when, turning a sudden cor-
ner, I found myself in Mott Street.
Here the Chinese, sombre-clothed and
sullen, stood silent in their doorways.
The place was so quiet as to seem de-
serted, but for these silent figures. It
was like a scene from the last act of The
Flying Dutchman, where the jovial sail-
ors are disturbed in their revelry by the
sudden appearance of the uncanny sea-
men of the phantom ship. These unac-
countable Chinamen ! Like an enigma
they stand in the middle of our Western
civilization, and no man can read them.
The Italians " dagos " and " guineas,"
the northern races prefer to call them
have come into possession of nearly
all the fruit stands in New York, and
their little boys are our bootblacks. This
means for New York a gain in pictur-
esqueness, and little corresponding dis-
advantage anywhere. The Italians in
New York do not live a life of prolonged
basking in the sunshine, whatever may
be their custom at home on the vine-
yard-clad hills of provincia di Napoli;
they work for their living, and it will
not be long before they too have im-
printed their earmarks upon the city.
How is it with the sturdy Teuton ?
If he has been left until so late in the
story, it has not been because we had
forgotten him. The figure of the Irish-
man himself is not more familiar to the
patient New Yorker. (Will the typical
gentleman on the police force kindly
consent to do duty again ?) The Teu-
ton has brought us much that we cannot
dispense with. He has brought us the
love of music, it is a matter of doubt
whether we really cared for it (as a na-
tion, I mean) before he came, and
for this one gift he ought to be held in
immortal honor amongst us. But this
need not blind us to the fact, as it seems
to be, concerning the social influence of
the German in New York, that it is,
when one considers the force in which
he is here, remarkably slight. Not that
it is so surprising, after all. For the
German is an impressionable animal,
and has a wonderful habit of adapting
himself to circumstances, putting on
the fashion of the place. So, when he
has gone into politics and become an al-
derman, he has borne a very faithful re-
semblance to an Irish city father ; and
when he has gone into business, he has
laid aside his steady Teutonic habits, and
developed a degree of shrewdness and
what is called " business head " that
compares not unfavorably with the Yan-
kee original. In the meantime he has
retained his deeper characteristics, and
it is a pleasant reflection that they are
at work upon the generations destined
further to modify the national character.
The German is playing for the long
run. If the future is to belong to him,
his graceful acquiescence in the present
ought to reconcile us to his coming dom-
ination. He is a most courteous con-
queror, never insisting upon his national
holidays, as do almost all the other na-
tionalities in New York, but content to
regard St. Patrick and Uncle Sam as
twin divinities. For all the years he
has been in New York, the city has only
to show, in its external features, a crop
of " summer gardens," rather dilapi-
dated bowers, where the national taste
for nature and the national taste for beer
receive a gratification by no means pro-
portionate. It has a permanent Ger-
man theatre and an intermittent German
opera : and with these the stock of things
German unless we include the import-
ed beers must be brought to an abrupt
close. Mind, we said external things.
Of course it has German thrift, and the
magnificent product ; German stability
and German erudition (just enough of it
to boast of). But in its character and
aspects the city is entirely un-German,
and the spirit of its people is quite the
reverse of the tranquil and imaginative
Geist that possesses the populace in the
towns and cities of the Fatherland.
A Plea for New York.
Ill
Should an apology be deemed neces-
sary for the attention here bestowed
upon the foreign element in New York,
let it be found in the statement that the
charm of nationality is subtle and per-
vading. One reason, it cannot be doubt-
ed, why Europe is so fascinating to
Americans lies in the close juxtaposition
of nationalities there : you have only to
travel a few miles to find yourself amid
different surroundings, in which men
and customs are also different ; in trav-
eling these few miles you have left one
civilization for another. In our country
it is possible to travel for hundreds of
miles without shifting the ideal. There
is no need to deny an interest to the
facts one will observe, symptoms they
are of a passion for progress that will
one day turn in a direction less prosaic,
but it is idle to pretend that, for the
moment, the interest they excite com-
pares with that felt in the problems of
race and mind suggested by the brushing
of one civilization against another. New
York, in this regard, enjoys some of the
advantages of Europe ; her experience of
nationalities is already deep and varied.
This, surely, may count as a large ele-
ment among the " present interests " the
city has to offer those of her citizens who
will see.
What are these interests, the rest
of them? Matthew Arnold, we know,
makes the test of a civilization's success
the answer to the question, "Is it inter-
esting ? " Whether the justice of such a
test be admitted or not, we shall probably
all agree that the response a place makes
has a good deal to do with our liking or
disliking it. " What are the interests of
New York ? " we can hear the average
citizen repeating. " Why, they are too
numerous to mention." And the aver-
age citizen is not far wrong. He is not
much troubled with civic pride, the aver-
age citizen of New York, and he does
1 If there is a sense in which this statement
requires a qualification, it lies herein : that the
large foreign population of all our greater
VOL. LXXXVII. NO. 520. 12
not, in general, feel it necessary to boast
about the town ; that is big enough to take
care of itself. He has the provincialism
common to the denizens of all great cities,
to whom what goes on in the world out-
side the city walls is of far less conse-
quence than what occurs within. This is
provincialism, of course, because it sets
a higher value upon the interests of a
part than upon those of the whole ; but if
that part is the centre, there is a greater
chance of its interests coinciding with
those of the whole, and the provincial-
ism is not without an excuse, which it
usually lacks. Now, New York is still
be it said gently, and with due regard
for the tender susceptibilities of sister
cities the centre, 1 the intellectual and
social no less than the commercial cen-
tre, of the United States. Chicago may
be destined to take the place, but the
change will not occur, as so many of the
inhabitants of the Western city seem to
think, upon the day when she surpasses
New York upon the population lists.
Chicago, it may be admitted, is in some
respects even more representative of the
American spirit of progress than is New
York, but she requires time in which to
grow a tradition capable of attracting
to her the finest flower of the national
life ; as yet she is too much the crea-
ture of chance, the product of forces
gigantic but blind. Boston has succeed-
ed in creating for herself an atmosphere
of culture superior to that in which New
York swelters ; and she enjoys to some
degree the aspects of an independent
capital. Philadelphia, on the other
hand, while more American than either
Boston or New York, seems never to
have parted with the colonial stamp,
and consequently fails to impress one as
a capital at all. Neither city occupies
in the public eye the position ascribed
to New York. To enumerate but a very
few of the many indications of this, it
cities renders them less representative of the
American type of character than the smaller
cities and country districts.
178
A Plea for New York.
is only necessary to refer to the fact that
about one half of the news, not local,
published in the lesser newspapers of the
country is under date of New York ;
further, to the well-known habit of men
who have made fortunes in other parts
of the country of coming to New York
to spend or increase them ; again, to the
generally accepted belief that any prob-
lem in letters, art, or social economics
solved in New York a new play pro-
duced successfully, or a measure of re-
form carried is solved as well for the
country at large ; and lastly, to the in-
terest in the city and its social condi-
tions manifested by people everywhere,
one class displaying as much anxiety
to see the Bowery as another to behold
for themselves the magnificence of Fifth
Avenue.
If, then, it be true that we of New
York live at the centre of a civilization,
no matter how crude and undeveloped
in some respects we may be willing to
admit it to be, can we escape the ad-
mission of a considerable degree of su-
perficiality in ourselves, if we assert that
for us it is lacking in interests ? It is
possible, of course, to find ourselves out
of sympathy with its tendencies ; it is
possible to lament the lack of coherency
in its plan, to complain of the lack of
symmetry that permits such glaring in-
consistencies in its social and physical
structure, although we should not omit
to consider our own share in its building ;
but it is scarcely possible to deny to
it an uncommon measure of the interest
that attaches to growth. New York is
vast, confused, incomplete. There is a
struggle for expression going on in all its
parts at once, but they are separated one
from another, and a common denomina-
tor is missing. The soul of man yearns
for unity in an organism, and in this re-
spect New York must long remain unsat-
isfactory. But in the meanwhile all who
care for progress cannot well refuse the
city their interest.
Will they, at the same time, accord
it their affection ? It is natural for men
to love the place where their labor is
being accomplished, their duty done, al-
though it is also a little natural for
them to growl at it sometimes. If it be
true that the children and foster chil-
dren of New York form an exception to
a rule so universal, the reason for it
ought to be nearly as obvious as the fact.
I do not think that either is very ob-
vious ; but admitting the fact, for the
sake of argument, what can the reason
be ? It will hardly be enough to say,
as used to be said, that the average
dweller in New York looks upon the
city as a transient stopping place, con-
venient for the acquisition of a fortune
or a competence, as the case may be,
but not to be regarded in the light of a
permanent home. That must be true
now of only a small portion of the pop-
ulation. To be sure, many wander from
house to house, hardly giving themselves
time to identify with home the aspect
of any particular house or set of apart-
ments ; yet the Irishman's question, de-
livered pathetically to the other occu-
pants of an elevated -railway car in which
he had been standing, supported by a
strap, from the Battery to Harlem,
" Hev yez none o' yez homes ? " must
be answered, for a sufficiently large num-
ber of us, in the affirmative. " Yes, you
have homes, some of you," perhaps some
hyperaesthetic critic will be found to re-
ply ; " but they are so painfully deficient
in individuality and in distinction, these
homes of yours. And that is why I can-
not care for your city, because it lacks
these things, and because it is lacking
besides in the charm of a quality best
described by the French word intimite,
a quality that is subjective and per-
sonal as well as possessed of an objective
side. Without this I can respect your
achievement, but it is impossible for me
to give you my affection."
There is quite certainly a distressing
want of individuality about our long,
straight streets, lined with ugly " brown-
A Plea for New York.
179
stone fronts" or gaunt tenements, ac-
cording as one is in the rich or in the
poor quarter of the town ; they have for-
feited even the privilege of a name. But
one is not so sure that this lack of in-
dividuality in the parts does not in it-
self secure a kind of individuality for the
whole. At least, this is only an outward
and physical peculiarity, and one that
our architects, with something very near
to genius, are conspiring every day to
overturn. As for distinction, most as-
suredly we lack distinction ; it is a na-
tional defect. But distinction comes of
itself, or does not come, and he who
makes its acquisition the object of his
ambition is apt to earn the solitary dis-
tinction of turning out an unconscion-
able prig. We are too frank, too in-
genuous (except when we go abroad), to
deserve to be called prigs ; and for the
present we should seek consolation for
the absence of distinction in our pos-
session of the good sense that prevents
us from going in search of it. Nor is
it only that we as a city lack individu-
ality and distinction, but we lack also,
it seems, a subtle something that our
critic chooses to define as intimite',
meaning, perhaps, the quality that per-
mits one to feel himself at home amid
surroundings that speak to his spirit
with the force either of a long authority
or of a peculiar degree of intensity.
Intimacy and cosiness are the terms of
subject and object that enter into the
definition. The objection is too vague
to admit of a reply in exact terms. But
perhaps we guard against possible mis-
apprehension in hazarding the remarks
that intimacy is perfectly compatible
with vastness in a city, and that it is a
mistake to assume New York guiltless
of a tradition. Intimacy, in our sense,
means the parting with a little piece of
one's soul, with which the object of the
intimacy becomes endowed. Does no
part of the soul of its inhabitants cling
about New York ? One can answer for
himself, yes ; and he fancies he is not
the only one who finds expressed in the
city as an entity some part or portion,
privately favored, of himself. And in
answering thus, has he, whoever he
may be, replied to the objections of our
critic, to the skepticism of Mr. Howells ?
Not in the least. " De amore nullum
argumentum " might be, if it is not, a
Latin proverb. Were he as full of rea-
sons as the sea is of sands, these gentle-
men might continue shaking their heads,
and refuse to be convinced. Perhaps it
will be Mr. Howells's punishment some-
where to learn to like New York. But
why should Mr. Howells be punished ?
In conclusion, perhaps apology should
be made for dwelling so long, in the
course of our journey through social
New York, upon the commoner phases
of existence, when the way was open to
us, by wandering a little from the high-
road, to find that which would enliven
and diversify the journey. Fifth Ave-
nue and Wall Street, no less than Hes-
ter Street and the Bowery, might have
been found to yield perspectives full of
the interests that reward life. These
things are interesting because they are
so many exemplifications of life, the
one thing, with its correlative death, that
is permanently interesting. New York,
for us of the western world, sums up
more of life holds in solution more
of the consecrated element than any
other place ; hence is more interesting.
Her brow is not stainless : Dishonor sits
there with Renown. In this New York
is but the prototype of our modern civi-
lization. Let us love her if we can. If
we cannot, there is danger lest, lacking
soil in which to spread our roots, we end
by withering in those higher attributes
that bring to bloom in the individual the
blossom of the race.
J. K. Paulding.
180
The Tory Lover.
THE TORY LOVER. 1
XIII.
THERE was one man, at least, on board
the Ranger who was a lover of peace :
this was the ship's surgeon, Dr. Ezra
Green. With a strong and hearty crew,
and the voyage just beginning, his pro-
fessional duties had naturally been but
light ; he had no more concern with the
working of the ship than if he were sit-
ting in his office at home in Dover, and
eagerly assented to the captain's pro-
posal that he should act as the Ranger's
purser.
The surgeon's tiny cabin was stuffed
with books ; this was a good chance to go
on with his studies, and, being a good
sailor and a cheerful man, the whole
ship's company took pleasure in his pre-
sence. There was an amiable serious-
ness about his every-day demeanor that
calmed even the activities of the captain's
temper ; he seemed to be surgeon and pur-
ser and chaplain all in one, and to be fit,
as one of his calling should be, to min-
ister to both souls and bodies. It was
known on board that he was unusually
liberal in his views of religion, and was
provided with some works upon theology
as well as medicine, and could argue well
for the Arminian doctrines against Dick-
son, who, like many men of his type,
was pretentious of great religious zeal,
and declared himself a Calvinist of the
severest order. Dickson was pleased to
consider the surgeon very lax and he-
retical ; as if that would make the world
think himself a good man, and the sur-
geon a bad one, which was, for evident
proof and reason, quite impossible.
On this dark night, after the terrible
sea of the afternoon had gone down, and
poor Solomon Hutchings, the first victim
of the voyage, had been made as com-
fortable as possible under the circum-
stances of a badly broken leg, the sur-
geon was sitting alone, with a pleasant
sense of having been useful. He gave
a sigh at the sound of Dickson's voice
outside. Dickson would be ready as
usual for an altercation, and was one of
those men who always come into a room
as if they expect to be kicked out of it.
Dr. Green was writing, he kept a
careful journal of the voyage, and now
looked over his shoulder impatiently, as
if he did not wish to be interrupted.
Dickson wore a look of patient per-
sistence.
The surgeon pointed to a seat with his
long quill, and finished the writing of a
sentence. He could not honestly wel-
come a man whom he liked so little, and
usually treated him as if he were a pa-
tient who had come to seek advice.
" I only dropped in for a chat," ex-
plained the visitor reprovingly, as his
host looked up again. " Have you heard
how the captain blew at young Walling-
ford, just before dark ? Well, sir, they
are at supper together now. Walling-
ford must be a tame kitten. I suppose
he crept down to the table as if he want-
ed to be stroked."
" He is a good fellow and a gentle-
man," said Ezra Green slowly. " The
captain has hardly left the deck since
yesterday noon, when this gale began."
The surgeon was a young man, but he
had a grave, middle-aged manner which
Dickson's sneering smoothness seemed
always to insult.
" You always take Jones's part," ven-
tured the guest.
" We are not living in a tavern ashore,"
retorted the surgeon. " The officer you
speak of is our captain, and commands
an American man-of-war. That must
1 Copyright, 1901, by SARAH ORNE JEWETT.
The Tory Lover.
181
be understood. I cannot discuss these
matters again."
"Some of the best sailors vow they
will desert him in the first French port,"
said Dickson.
"Then they make themselves liable
to be shot for desertion whenever they
are caught," replied Green coolly, " and
you must take every opportunity to tell
them so. Those who are here simply to
make a little dirty money had better
have stayed ashore and traded their
country produce with the British ships.
They say there was a fine-paying busi-
ness on foot, out at the Isles of Shoals."
This advice struck home, as the speak-
er desired. Dickson swallowed hard
once or twice, and then looked meek and
stubborn ; he watched the surgeon slyly
before he spoke again.
" Yes, it is a very difficult crew to
command," he agreed : " we have plenty
of good loyal men aboard, but they want
revenge for their country's wrongs, as
you and I do, I hope ! "
" War is one thing, and has law and
order to dignify it ; common piracy and
thievery are of another breed. Some of
our men need education in these matters,
not to say all the discipline they can get.
The captain is much wronged and insult-
ed by the spirit that has begun to spread
between decks. I believe that he has
the right view of his duty ; his methods
are sometimes his own."
" As in the case of Mr. Wallingford,"
blandly suggested Dickson, swift to seize
his opportunity. " Even you would have
thought the captain outrageous in his
choice of words."
" The captain is a man easily pro-
voked, and has suffered certain provoca-
tions such as no man of spirit could brook.
I believe he was very wrong to vent his
spite on Mr. Wallingford, who has proved
as respectful of others and forgetful of
himself as any man on board. I say this
without knowing the present circum-
stances, but Wallingford has made a no-
bler sacrifice than any of us."
" He would have been chased to his
own kind among the Tories in another
week," sneered the other. " You know
it as well as I. Wallingford hesitated
just as long as he dared, and there 's the
truth ! He 's a good mate to Ben Thomp-
son, both of 'em courtiers of the Went-
worths ; and both of 'em had to hurry
at the last, one way or the other, which-
ever served."
" Plenty of our best citizens clung to
the hope that delay would bring some
proper arbitration and concession. No
good citizen went to war lightly and
without a pang. A man who has seen
carnage must always dread it ; such glory
as we win must reckon upon groans and
weeping behind the loudest cheers. But
war once declared, men of clear con-
science and decent character may accept
their lot, and in the end serve their coun-
try best," said the doctor.
" You are sentimental to-night," scoffed
Dickson.
" I have been thinking much of home,"
said the surgeon, with deep feeling. " I
may never see my home again, nor may
you. We are near shore now ; in a few
days this ship may be smeared with
blood, and these poor fellows who snarl
and bargain, and discuss the captain's or-
ders and the chance of prize money, may
come under my hands, bleeding and torn
and suffering their last agony. We must
face these things as best we may ; we do
not know what war means yet ; the cap-
tain will spare none of us. He is like a
creature in a cage now, fretted by his
bounds and all their petty conditions ; but
when the moment of freedom comes he
will seek action. He is fit by nature to
leap to the greatest opportunities, and
to do what the best of us could never
dream of. No, not you, sir, nor Simpson
either, though he aims to supplant him ! "
grumbled the surgeon, under his voice.
" Perhaps his gift is too great for so
small a command as this," Dickson re-
turned, with an evil smile. " It is un-
derstood that he must be transferred to
182
The Tory Lover.
a more sufficient frigate, if France sees
fit," he added, in a pious tone. " I shall
strive to do my own duty in either case."
At which Dr. Green looked up and
smiled.
Dickson laughed back ; he was quick
to feel the change of mood in his com-
panion. For a moment they were like
two schoolboys, but there was a flicker of
malice in Dickson's eyes ; no one likes
being laughed at.
" Shall we take a hand at cards, sir ? "
he asked hastily. "All these great
things will soon be settled when we get
to France."
The surgeon did not offer to get the
cards, which lay on the nearest shelf. He
was clasping his hands across his broad
breast, and leaning back in a comfort-
able, tolerant sort of way in his corner
seat They both knew perfectly well
that they were in for a long evening to-
gether, and might as well make the best
of it. It was too much trouble to fight
with a cur. Somehow, the current of
their general interest did not set as usual
toward theological opinions.
" I was called to a patient down on
Sligo Point, beyond the Gulf Road, just
before we sailed," said Green presently,
in a more friendly tone. " 'T was an
old woman of unsteady brain, but of no
commonplace fancy, who was under one
of her wildest spells, and had mounted
the house roof to sell all her neighbors
at auction. She was amusing enough,
't is a pretty wit when she is sane ; but
I heard roars of laughter as I rode up
the lane, and saw a flock of listeners
at the orchard edge. She had knocked
off the minister and both deacons, the
lot for ninepence, and was running her
lame neighbor Paul to seventy thousand
pounds."
" I heard that they called the minis-
ter to pray with her when her fit was
coming on, and she chased him down
the lane, and would have driven him
into the river, if there had not been some
uien at fall ploughing in a field near by.
She was a fixed Calvinist in her prime,
and always thought him lax," said Dick-
son, with relish, continuing the tale.
" They had told the good man to come
dressed in his gown and bands, thinking
it would impress her mind."
"Which it certainly seemed to do,"
agreed the doctor. " At any rate, she
knocked him down for ninepence. 'T was
a good sample of the valuation most of
us put upon our neighbors. She likes to
hear her neighbor Paul play the fiddle ;
sometimes he can make her forget all
her poor distresses, and fall asleep like a
baby. The minister had somehow vexed
her. Our standards are just as personal
here aboard ship. The Great Day will
sum up men at their true value, we
shall never do it before ; 't would ask too
much of poor human nature."
Dickson drummed on the bulkhead
before he spoke. " Some men are taken
at less than their true value."
" And some at more, especially by
themselves. Don't let things go too far
with Simpson. He 's a good man, but
can easily be led into making trouble,"
said the surgeon ; and Dickson half rose,
and then sat down again, with his face
showing an angry red.
"We must be patient," added the
surgeon a moment later, without having
looked again at his companion. " 'T is
just like a cage of beasts here : fierce and
harmless are shut in together. Tame
creatures are sometimes forced to show
their teeth. We must not fret about
petty things, either ; 't is a great errand
we have come out upon, and the honest
doing of it is all the business we have in
common."
" True, sir," said Dickson, with a
touch of insolent flattery. " Shall we
take a hand at cards ? "
XIV.
Captain Paul Jones was waiting, a
most affable and dignified host, to greet
The Tory Lover.
183
his guest. Wallingford stood before him,
with a faint flush of anger brightening
his cheeks.
" You commanded me, sir," he said
shortly.
" Oh, come, Wallingford ! " exclaimed
the captain, never so friendly before, and
keeping that pleasant voice and manner
which at once claimed comradeship from
men and admiring affection from women.
" I '11 drop the commander when we 're
by ourselves, if you '11 consent, and we '11
say what we like. I wanted you to sup
with me. I 've got a bottle of good wine
for us, some of Hamilton's Madeira."
Wallingford hesitated ; after all, what
did it matter ? The captain was the cap-
tain; there was a vigorous sort of re-
freshment in this life on shipboard ; a
man could not judge his associates by the
one final test of their being gentlemen,
but only expect of each that he should
follow after his kind. Outside society
there lies humanity.
The lieutenant seated himself under
the swinging lamp, and took the glass
that was held out to him. They drank
together to the flag they carried, and to
their lucky landfall on the morrow.
" To France ! " said the captain gal-
lantly. It was plainly expected that all
personal misunderstandings should be
drowned in the good wine. Walling-
ford knew the flavor well enough, and
even from which cask in Hamilton's cel-
lar it had been drawn. Then the cap-
tain was quickly on his feet again, and
took the four steps to and fro which were
all his cabin permitted. He did not even
appear to be impatient, though supper
was slow in coming. His hands were
clasped behind him, and he smiled once
or twice, but did not speak, and seemed
to be lost in thought. As for the guest,
his thoughts were with Mary Hamilton.
The flavor of wine, like the fragrance of
a flower, can be a quick spur to memory.
He saw her bright face and sweet, ex-
pectant eyes, as if they were sitting to-
gether at Hamilton's own table.
The process of this evening meal at
sea was not a long one ; and when the
two men had dispatched their food with
businesslike haste, the steward was dis-
missed, and they were left alone with
Hamilton's Madeira at better than half
tide in the bottle between them, a plate
of biscuit and some raisins, and the
usual pack of cards. Paul Jones cov-
ered these with a forbidding hand, and
presently pushed them aside altogether,
and added a handful of cigars to the pro-
visioning of the plain dessert. He wished
to speak of serious things, and could not
make too long an evening away from his
papers. It seemed incredible that the
voyage was so near its end. He refilled
his own glass and Mr. Wallingford's.
"I foresee much annoyance now, on
board this ship. I must at once post to
Paris, and here they will have time to
finish their machinations at their leisure,
without me to drive them up to duty.
Have you long known this man Dick-
son ? " asked the captain, lowering his
voice and fixing his eyes upon the lieu-
tenant.
" I have always known him. He was
once in our own employ and much trust-
ed, but was afterward dismissed, and for
the worst of reasons," said Wallingford.
" What reputation has he borne in the
neighborhood ? "
" He is called a sharp man of busi
ness, quick to see his own advantage,
and generous in buying the good will of
those who can serve his purpose. He is
a stirring, money-getting fellow, very
close-fisted ; but he has been unlucky in
his larger ventures, as if fortune did not
much incline to favor him."
" I despised the fellow from the first,"
said the captain, with engaging frank-
ness, " but I have no fear that I cannot
master him ; he is much cleverer than
many a better man, yet 't is not well to
forget that a cripple in the right road
can beat a racer in the wrong. He has
been sure these last days that he pos-
sesses my confidence, but I have made
184
The Tory Lover.
him serve some good turns. Now he is
making trouble as fast as he can between
Simpson and me. Simpson knows little
of human nature ; he would as soon have
Dickson's praise as yours or mine. He
cannot wait to supplant me in this com-
mand, and he frets to gather prizes off
these rich seas. There 's no harm in
prizes; but I sometimes think that no
soul on board has any real comprehen-
sion of the larger duties of our voyage,
and the ends it may serve in furthering
an alliance with France. They all be-
gin, well instructed by Dickson, to look
upon me as hardly more than a passen-
ger. 'T is true that I look for a French
frigate very soon, as Dickson tells them ;
but he adds that 'tis to Simpson they
must look for success, while if he could
rid himself of Simpson he would do it.
I must have a fleet if I can, and as soon
as I can, and be master of it, too. I
have my plans all well laid ! Dickson is
full of plots of his own, but to tell such a
man the truth about himself is to give
him the blackest of insults."
Wallingford made a gesture of impa-
tience. The captain's face relaxed, and
he laughed as he leaned across the table.
" Dickson took his commission for the
sake of prize money," he said. " A pi-
rate, a pirate, that 's what he is, but oh,
how pious in his speech !
* Unpitying hears the captive's moans
Or e'en a dying brother's groans ! '
There 's a hymn for him ! " exclaimed
the captain, with bitter emphasis. " No,
he has no gleam of true patriotism in his
cold heart ; he is full of deliberate insin
cerities ; ' a mitten for any hand,' as they
say in Portsmouth. I believe he would
risk a mutiny, if he had time enough; and
having gained his own ends of putting
better men to shame, he would pose as
the queller of it. A low-lived, self-seek-
ing man ; you can see it for yourself, Mr.
Wallingford ? "
" True, sir. I did not need to come
to sea to learn that man's character,"
and Wallingford finished his glass and
set it down, but still held it with one
hand stretched out upon the table, while
he leaned back comfortably against the
bulkhead.
" If our enterprise has any value in
the sight of the nations, or any true
power against our oppressors, it lies in
our noble cause and in our own unself-
ishness," said Paul Jones, his eyes kin-
dling. " This man and his fellows would
have us sneak about the shores of Great
Britain, picking up an old man and a
lad and a squalling woman from some
coastwise trading smack, and plunder-
ing what weak craft we can find to stuff
our pockets with ha'pennies. We have
a small ship, it is true ; but it is war we
follow, not thievery. I hear there's
grumbling between decks about ourselves
getting nothing by this voyage. 'T is our
country we have put to sea for, not our-
selves. No man has it in his heart more
than I to confront the enemy; but Dick-
son would like to creep along the coast
forever after small game, and count up
by night what he has taken by day, like
a petty shopkeeper. I look for larger
things, or we might have stopped at home.
I have my plans, sir ; the Marine Com-
mittee have promised me my proper ship.
One thing that I cannot brook is a man's
perfidy. I have good men aboard, but
Dickson is not among them. I feel some-
times as if I trod on caltrops. I am out-
done, Mr. Wallingford. I have hardly
slept these three nights. You have my
apology, sir."
The lieutenant bowed with respectful
courtesy, but said nothing. The captain
opened his eyes a little wider, and looked
amused ; then he quickly grew grave and
observed his guest with fresh attention.
There was a fine unassailable dignity in
Wallingford's bearing at this moment.
"Since you are aware that there is
some disaffection, sir," he said deliber-
ately, " I can only answer that it seems
to me there is but one course to follow,
and you must not overrate the opposi-
tion. They will always sit in judgment
The Tory Lover.
185
upon your orders, and discuss your mea-
sures, and express their minds freely.
I have long since seen that our natural
independence of spirit in New England
makes individual opinion appear of too
great consequence, 't is the way they
fall upon the parson's sermon ashore,
every Monday morning. As for Lieu-
tenant Simpson, I think him a very hon-
est-hearted man, though capable of being
influenced. He has the reputation in
Portsmouth of an excellent seaman, but
high-tempered. Among the men here,
he has the advantage of great powers of
self-command."
Wallingford paused, as if to make his
words more emphatic, and then repeated
them : " He has the mastery of his tem-
per, sir, and the men fear him ; he can
stop to think even when he is angry. His
gifts are perhaps not great, but they have
that real advantage."
Paul Jones blazed with sudden fury,
and he sprang to his feet, and stood light
and steady there beyond the table, in
spite of the swaying ship.
" Forgive me, sir," said Roger Wal-
lingford, "but you bade us speak to-
gether like friends to-night. I think you
a far greater man and master than when
we left Portsmouth ; I am not so small-
minded as to forget to honor my supe-
riors. I see plainly that you are too
much vexed with these men, I respect
and admire you enough to say so ; you
must not expect from them what you de-
mand from yourself. In the worst wea-
ther you could not have had a better
crew : you have confessed to that. I be-
lieve you must have patience with the
small affairs which have so deeply vexed
you. The men are right at heart ; you
ought to be able to hold them better than
Dickson ! "
The captain's rage had burnt out like
a straw fire, and he was himself again.
" Speak on, Mr. Lieutenant ; you mean
kindly," he said, and took his seat. The
sweat stood on his forehead, and his
hands twitched.
" I think we have it in our power to
intimidate the enemy, poorly fitted out
as we are," he said, with calmness, " but
we must act like one man. At least we
all pity our countrymen, who are starv-
ing in filthy prisons. Since Parliament,
now two years agone, authorized the
King to treat all Americans taken under
arms at sea as pirates and felons, they
have been stuffing their dungeons with
the innocent and guilty together. What
man seeing his enemy approach does not
arm himself in defense ? We have made
no retaliation such as I shall make now.
I have my plans, but I cannot risk losing
a man here and a man there, out of a crew
like this, before I adventure a hearty
blow ; this cuts me off from prize-hunting.
And the commander of an American
man-of-war cannot hobnob with his sail-
ors, like the leader of a gang of pirates.
I am no Captain Kidd, nor am I another
Tench or Blackboard. I can easily be
blocked in carrying out my purposes.
Dickson will not consent to serve his
country unless he can fill his pockets.
Simpson cannot see the justice of obey-
ing my orders, and lets his inferiors see
that he resents them. I wish Dickson
were in the blackest pit of Plymouth
jail. If I were the pirate he would like
to have me, I'd yard-arm him quick
enough ! "
" We may be overheard, sir," pleaded
Wallingford. " We each have our am-
bitions," he continued bravely, while his
father's noble looks came to his face.
" Mine are certainly not Dickson's, nor
do I look forward to a life at sea, like
yourself, sir. This may be the last time
we can speak together on the terms you
commanded we should speak to-night. I
look for no promotion ; I am humble
enough about my fitness to serve ; the
navy is but an accident, as you know, in
my career. I beg you to command my
hearty service, such as it is ; you have a
right to it, and you shall not find me want-
ing. I know that you have been very
hard placed."
186
The Tory Lover.
And now the captain bowed courteous-
ly in his turn, and received the pledge
with gratitude, but he kept his eyes upon
the young man with growing curiosity.
Wallingford had turned pale, and spoke
with much effort.
" My heart leaps within me when I
think that I shall soon stand upon the
shore of France," Paul Jones went on,
for his guest kept silence. " Within a
few days I shall see the Duke de Char-
tres, if he be within reach. No man ever
took such hold of my affections at first
acquaintance as that French prince. We
knew each other first at Hampton Roads,
where he was with Kersaint, the French
commodore. My only thought in board-
ing him was to serve our own young
navy and get information for our ship-
building, but I was rewarded by a noble
gift of friendship. 'T is now two years
since we have met, but I cannot believe
that I shall find him changed ; I can feel
my hand in his already. He will give
our enterprise what help he can. He met
me on his deck that day like a brother ;
we were friends from the first. I told
him my errand, and he showed me every-
thing about his new ship, and even had
copies made for me of her plans. 'T was
before France and England had come to
open trouble, and he was dealing with a
rebel, but he helped me all he could. I
loaded my sloop with the best I had on
my plantation ; 't was May, and the gar-
dens very forward. I knew their ves-
sels had been long at sea, and could ship
a whole salad garden. I would not go
to ask for favors then without trying to
make some pleasure in return, but we
were friends from the first. He is a very
noble gentleman ; you shall see him soon,
I hope, and judge for yourself."
Wallingford listened, but the captain
was still puzzled by a look on the young
man's face.
"I must make my confession," said
the lieutenant. " When I hear you speak
of such a friend, I know that I have
done wrong in keeping silence, sir. I
put myself into your hands. When I
took my commission, I openly took the
side of our colonies against the Crown. I
am at heart among the Neutrals : 't is ever
an ignominious part to take. I never
could bring myself to take the King's
side against the country that bore me.
I should rather curse those who insisted,
on either side, upon this unnatural and
unnecessary war. Now I am here; I
put myself very low ; I am at your mercy,
Captain Paul Jones. I cannot explain
to you my immediate reasons, but I have
gone against my own principles for the
sake of one I love and honor. You may
put irons on me, or set me ashore with-
out mercy, or believe that I still mean to
keep the oath I took. Since I came on
this ship I have begun to see that the
colonies are in the right ; my heart is
with my oath as it was not in the begin-
ning."
" By Heaven ! " exclaimed the cap-
tain, staring. "Wallingford, do you
mean this ? " The captain sprang to his
feet again. " By Heaven ! I could not
have believed this from another, but I
know you can speak the truth ! Give me
your hand, sir ! Give me your hand, I
say, Wallingford ! I have known men
enough who would fight for their princi-
ples, and fight well, but you are the first
I ever saw who would fight against them
for love and honor's sake. This is what
I shall do," he went on rapidly. " I
shall not iron you or set you ashore ; I
shall hold you to your oath. I have no
fear that you will ever fail to carry out
my orders as an officer of this ship. Now
we have indeed spoken together like
friends ! "
They seated themselves once more,
face to face.
There was a heavy trampling over-
head. Wallingford had a sudden fear
lest this best hour of the voyage might
be at an end, and some unexpected event
summon them to the deck, but it was
only some usual duty of the sailors. His
heart was full of admiration for the
The Tory Lover.
187
great traits of the captain. He had come
to know Paul Jones at last ; their former
disastrous attempts at fellowship were all
forgotten. A man might well keep dif-
ficult promises to such a chief ; the re-
sponsibilities of his life were in a strong
and by no means unjust hand. The
confession was made ; the confessor had
proved to be a man of noble charity.
There was a strange look of gentleness
and compassion on the captain's face ;
his thought was always leading him
away from the past moment, the narrow
lodging and poor comfort of the ship.
" We have great dangers before us,"
he reflected, " and only our poor human
nature to count upon ; 't is the shame and
failures of past years that make us wince
at such a time as this. We can but offer
ourselves upon the altar of duty, and
hope to be accepted. I have kept a
promise, too, since I came to sea. I was
mighty near to breaking it this very
day," he added simply.
The lieutenant had but a dim sense of
these words ; something urged him to
make a still greater confidence. He was
ready to speak with utter frankness now,
to such a listener, of the reasons why
he had come to sea, of the one he loved
best, and of all his manly hopes ; to tell
the captain everything.
At this moment, the captain himself,
deeply moved by his own thoughts,
reached a cordial hand across the table.
Wallingford was quick to grasp it and
to pledge his friendship as he never had
done before.
Suddenly he drew back, startled, and
caught his hand away. There was a
ring shining on Paul Jones's hand, and
the ring was Mary Hamilton's.
XV.
Next day, in the Channel, every heart
was rejoiced by the easy taking of two
prizes, rich fruit-laden vessels from Ma-
deira and Malaga. With these in either
hand the Ranger came in sight of land,
after a quick passage and little in debt to
time, when the rough seas and the many
difficulties of handling a new ship were
fairly considered.
The coast lay like a low and heavy
cloud to the east and north ; there were
plenty of small craft to be seen, and the
Ranger ran within short distance of a
three-decker frigate that looked like an
Englishman. She was standing by to go
about, and looked majestic, and a worthy
defender of the British Isles. Every
man on board was in a fury to fight and
sink this enemy; but she was far too
powerful, and much nobler in size than
the Ranger. They crowded to the rail.
There was plenty of grumbling alow and
aloft lest Captain Paul Jones should not
dare to try his chances. A moment later
he was himself in a passion because the
great Invincible had passed easily out of
reach, as if with insolent unconscious-
ness of having been in any danger.
Dickson, who stood on deck, maintained
his usual expression of aggravating ami-
ability, and only ventured to smile a
little more openly as the captain railed
in greater desperation. Dickson had a
new grievance to store away in his rich
remembrance, because he had been over-
looked in the choice of prize masters to
bring the two merchantmen into port.
" Do not let us stand in your way,
sir," he said affably. " Some illustrious
sea fights have been won before this by
the smaller craft against the greater."
"There was the Revenge, and the
great San Philip with her Spanish fleet
behind her, in the well-known fight at
Flores," answered Paul Jones, on the
instant. " That story will go down to
the end of time ; but you know the littlo
Revenge sank to the bottom of the sea,
with all her men who were left alive.
Their glory could not sink, but I did not
know you ever shipped for glory's sake,
Mr. Dickson." And Dickson turned a
leaden color under his sallow skin, but
said nothing.
188
The Tory Lover.
" At least, our first duty now is to be
prudent," continued the captain. " I
must only fight to win ; my first duty is
to make my way to port, before we ven-
ture upon too much bravery. There '11
be fighting soon enough, and I hope glory
enough for all of us this day four weeks.
I own it grieves me to see that frigate
leave us. She's almost hull down al-
ready ! " he exclaimed regretfully, with
a seaward glance, as he went to his
cabin.
Presently he appeared again, as if he
thought no more of the three-decker,
with a favorite worn copy of Thom-
son's poems in hand, and began to walk
the deck to and fro as he read. On this
fair winter morning the ship drove busily
along ; the wind was out of the west ;
they were running along the Breton coast,
and there was more and more pleasure
and relief at finding the hard voyage so
near its end. . The men were all on
deck or clustered thick in the rigging ;
they made a good strong-looking ship's
company. The captain on his quarter-
deck was pacing off his exercise with
great spirit, and repeating some lines of
poetry aloud :
" With such mad seas the daring Gama fought,
For many a day and many a dreadful night ;
Incessant lab'ring round the stormy Cape
By bold ambition led "
" The wide enlivening air is full of fate."
Then he paused a moment, still wav-
ing the book at arm's length, as if he
were following the metre silently in his
own mind.
" On Sarum's plain I met a wandering fair,
The look of Sorrow, lovely still she bore "
" He 's gettin' ready to meet the la-
dies ! " said Cooper, who was within
listening distance, polishing a piece of
brass on one of the guns. " I can't say
as we 've had much po'try at sea this
v'y'ge, sir," he continued to Lieutenant
Wallingford, who crossed the deck to-
ward him, as the captain disappeared
above on his forward stretch. Cooper
and Wallingford were old friends ashore,
with many memories in common.
The lieutenant was pale and severe ;
the ready smile that made him seem
more boyish than his years was strangely
absent ; he had suddenly taken on the
looks of a much-displeased man.
" Ain't you feelin' well, sir ? " asked
Cooper, with solicitude. " Things is all
doin' well, though there 's those aboard
that won't have us think so, if they can
help it. When I was on watch, I see you
writin' very late these nights past. You
will excuse my boldness, but we all want
the little sleep we get ; 't is a strain on a
man unused to life at sea."
" I shall write no more this voyage,"
said Wallingford, touched by the kind-
ness of old Cooper's feeling, but impa-
tient at the boyish relation with an older
man, and dreading a word about home
affairs. He was an officer now, and
must resent such things. Then the color
rushed to his face ; he was afraid that
tears would shame him. With a sud-
den impulse he drew from his pocket a
package of letters, tied together ready
for sending home, and flung them over-
board with an angry toss. It was as if
his heart went after them. It was a
poor return for Cooper's innocent kind-
ness ; the good man had known him
since he had been in the world. Old
Susan, his elder sister, was chief among
the household at home. This was a
most distressing moment, and the lieu-
tenant turned aside, and leaned his elbow
on the gun, bending a little as if to see
under the sail whether the three-decker
were still in sight.
The little package of letters was on
its slow way down through the pale
green water ; the fishes were dodging as
it sank to the dim depths where it must
lie and drown, and tiny shells would
fasten upon the slow-wasting substance
of its folds. The words that he had
written would but darken a little salt
water with their useless ink ; he had
written them as he could never write
The Tory Lover.
189
again, in those long lonely hours at sea,
under the dim lamp in his close cabin,
those hours made warm and shining with
the thought and promise of love that
also hoped and waited. All a young
man's dream was there ; there were tiny
sketches of the Ranger's decks and the
men in the rigging done into the close
text. Alas, there was his mother's let-
ter, too ; he had written them both the
letters they would be looking and long-
ing for, and sent them to the bottom of
the sea. If he had them back, Mary
Hamilton's should go to her, to show her
what she had done. And in this unex-
pected moment he felt her wondering
eyes upon him, and covered his face
with his hands. It was all he could do
to keep from sobbing over the gun. He
had seen the ring !
"'Tis a shore headache coming on
with this sun-blink over the water," said
Cooper, still watching him. " I 'd go
and lie in the dark a bit." It was not
like Mr. Wallingf ord, but there had been
plenty of drinking the night before, and
gaming too, the boy might have got
into trouble.
" The Lusitanian prince, who Heaven-inspired
To love of useful Glory roused mankind."
They both heard the captain at his
loud orations ; but he stopped for a mo-
ment and looked down at the lieutenant
as if about to speak, and then turned on
his heel and paced away again.
The shore seemed to move a long step
nearer with every hour. The old sea-
farers among the crew gave knowing
glances at the coast, and were full of
wisest information in regard to the har-
bor of Nantes, toward which they were
making all possible speed. Dickson, who
was in command, came now to repri-
mand Cooper for his idleness, and set him
to his duty sharply, being a great lover
of authority.
Wallingford left his place by the trun-
nion, and disappeared below.
" On the sick list ? " inquired Dickson
of the captain, who reappeared, and again
glanced down ; but the captain shrugged
his shoulders and made no reply. He
was sincerely sorry to have somehow put
a bar between himself and his young
officer just at this moment. Walling-
ford was a noble-looking fellow, and as
good a gentleman as the Duke de Char-
tres himself. The sight of such a sec-
ond would lend credit to their enterprise
among the Frenchmen. Simpson was
bringing in one of the prizes ; and as for
Dickson, he was a common, trading sort
of sneak.
The dispatches from Congress to an-
nounce the surrender of Burgoyne lay
ready to the captain's hand : for the
bringing of such welcome news to the
American commissioners, and to France
herself, he should certainly have a place
among good French seamen and officers.
He stamped his foot impatiently ; the
moment he was on shore he must post
to Paris to lay the dispatches in Mr.
Franklin's hand. They were directed
to Glory herself in sympathetic ink, on
the part of the captain of the Ranger ;
but this could not be read by common
eyes, above the titles of the Philadelphia
envoy at his lodgings in Passy.
After reflecting upon these things,
Paul Jones, again in a tender mood, took
a paper out of his pocketbook, and re-
read a song of Allan Ramsay's,
" At setting day and rising 1 moon,"
which a young Virginia girl had copied
for him in a neat, painful little hand.
" Poor maid ! " he said, with gentle
affectionateness, as he folded the paper
again carefully. " Poor maid ! I shall
not forget to do her some great kindness,
if my hopes come true and my life con-
tinues. Now I must send for Walling-
ford and speak with him."
XVI.
Every-day life at Colonel Hamilton's
house went on with as steady current
190
The Tory Lover.
as the great river that passed its walls.
The raising of men and money for a dis-
tressed army, with what survived of his
duties toward a great shipping business,
kept Hamilton himself ceaselessly busy.
Often there came an anxious company
of citizens riding down the lane to con-
sult upon public affairs ; there was an
increasing number of guests of humbler
condition who sought a rich man's house
to plead their poverty. The winter
looked long and resourceless to these
troubled souls. There were old mothers,
who had been left on lonely farms when
their sons had gone to war. There was
a continued asking of unanswerable ques-
tions about the soldiers' return. And
younger women came, pale and desper-
ate, with little troops of children pull-
ing at their skirts. When one appealing
group left the door, another might be seen
coming to take its place. The improvi-
dent suffered first and made loudest com-
plaint ; later there were discoveries of
want that had been too uncomplainingly
borne. The well-to-do families of Ber-
wick were sometimes brought to straits
themselves, in their effort to succor their
poorer neighbors.
Mary Hamilton looked graver and
older. All the bright elation of her heart
had gone, as if a long arctic night were
setting in instead of a plain New Eng-
land winter, with its lengthening days and
bright January sun at no great distance.
She could not put Madam Wallingford's
sorrow out of mind ; she was thankful to
be so busy in the great house, like a new
Dorcas with her gifts of garments, but
the shadow of war seemed more and
more to give these days a deeper dark-
ness.
There was no snow on the ground, so
late in the sad year ; there was still a
touch of faded greenness on the fields.
One afternoon Mary came across the
flagstoned court toward the stables,
tempted by the milder air to take a holi-
day, though the vane still held by the
northwest. That great wind was not
dead, but only drowsy in the early after-
noon, and now and then a breath of it
swept down the country.
Old Peggy had followed her young
mistress to the door, and still stood there
watching with affectionate eyes.
" My poor darlin' ! " said the good
soul to herself, and Mary turned to look
back at her with a smile. She thought
Peggy was at her usual grumbling.
" Bless ye, we 've all got to have pa-
tience ! " said the old housekeeper, again
looking wistfully at the girl, whose tired
face had touched her very heart. As
if this quick wave of unwonted feeling
were spread to all the air about, Mary's
own eyes filled with tears ; she tried to
go on, and then turned and ran back.
She put her arms round Peggy, there in
the doorway.
" I am only going for a ride. Kiss
me, Peggy, kiss me just as you did
when I was a little girl ; things do worry
me so. Oh, Peggy dear, you don't know ;
I can't tell anybody ! "
" There, there, darlin', somebody '11 see
you ! Don't you go to huggin' this dry
old thrashin' o' straw ; no, don't you
care nothin' 'bout an old withered corn
shuck like me ! " she protested, but her
face shone with tenderness. " Go have
your ride, an' I 'm goin' to make ye a
pretty cake ; 't will be all nice and crusty ;
I was goin' to make you one, anyway.
I tell ye things is all comin' right in the
end. There, le' me button your little
cape ! " And so they parted.
Peggy marched back into the great
kitchen without her accustomed looks of
disapproval at the maids, and dropped
into the corner of the settle next the
fire. She put out her lame foot in its
shuffling shoe, and looked at it as if
there were no other object of commiser-
ation in the world.
" 'T is a shame to be wearin' out, so
fine made as I was. The Lord give me
a good smart body, but 't is begmnin' to
fail an' go," said the old woman impa-
tiently. " Once 't would ha' took twice
The Tory Lover.
191
yisterday's work to tire foot or back o'
me."
" I 'm dreadful spent myself, bein' up
'arly an' late. We car'ied an upstrope-
lous sight o' dishes to an' fro. Don't
see no vally in feedin' a whole neigh-
borhood, when best part on 'em 's only
too lazy to provide theirselves," mur-
mured one of the younger handmaidens,
who was languidly scouring a great
pewter platter. Whereat Peggy rose in
her wrath, and set the complainer a stint
of afternoon work sufficient to cast a
heavy shadow over the freshest spirit of
industry.
The mistress of these had gone her
way to the long stables, where a saddle
was being put on her favorite horse, and
stood in the wide doorway looking down
the river. The tide was out ; the last
brown leaves of the poplars were flying
off some close lower branches ; there was
a touch of north in the wind, but the
sun was clear and bright for the time
of year. Mary was dressed in a warm
habit of green cloth, with a close hood
like a child's tied under her chin ; the
long skirt was full of sharp creases where
it had lain all summer in one of the
brass-nailed East Indian chests, and a
fragrance of camphor and Eastern spices
blew out as the heavy folds came to the
air. The old coachman was busy with
the last girth, and soothed the young
horse as he circled about the floor ; then,
with a last fond stroke of a shining shoul-
der, he gave Mary his hand, and mount-
ed her light as a feather to the saddle.
" He 's terrible fresh ! " said the old
master of horse, as he drew the riding
skirt in place with a careful touch.
" Have a care, missy ! "
Mary thanked the old man with a
gentle smile, and took heed that the
horse walked quietly away. When she
turned the corner beyond the shipyard
she dropped the curb rein, and the strong
young creature flew straight away like
an arrow from the bowstring. " Mind
your first wind, now. 'T is a good thing
to keep ! " said the rider gayly, and
leaned forward, as they slackened pace
for a moment on the pitch of the hill,
to pat the horse's neck and toss a hand-
ful of flying mane back to its place.
Until the first pleasure and impulse of
speed were past there was no time to
think, or even to remember any trouble
of mind. For the first time in many
days all the motive power of life did not
seem to come from herself.
The fields of Berwick were already
beginning to wear that look of hand-
shaped smoothness which belongs only
to long-tilled lands in an old country.
The first colonists and pilgrims of a
hundred and fifty years before might
now return to find their dreams had
borne fair fruit in this likeness to Eng-
land, that had come upon a landscape
hard wrung from the wilderness. The
long slopes, the gently rounded knolls
that seemed to gather and to hold the
wintry sunshine, the bushy field corners
and hedgerows of wild cherry that
crossed the shoulders of the higher hills,
would be pleasant to those homesick
English eyes in the new country they
had toiled so hard to win. The river
that made its way by shelter and covert
of the hilly country of field and pasture,
the river must for many a year have
been looked at wistfully, because it was
the only road home. Portsmouth might
have been all for this world, while Ply-
mouth was all for the next ; but the Ber-
wick farms were made by home-makers,
neither easy to transplant in the first
place, nor easy now to uproot again.
The northern mountains were as blue
as if it were a day in spring. They
looked as if the warm mist of April
hung over them ; as if they were the out-
posts of another world, whose climate
and cares were of another and gentler
sort, and there was no more fretting or
losing, and no more war either by land
or sea.
The road was up and down all the way
192
The Tory Lover.
over the hills, winding and turning among
the upper farms that lay along the river-
side above the Salmon Fall. Now and
then a wood road or footpath shortened
the way, dark under the black hemlocks,
and sunshiny again past the old garrison
houses. Goodwins, Plaisteds, Keays, and
Wentworths had all sent their captives
through the winter snows to Canada, in
the old French and Indian wars, and had
stood in their lot and place for many a
generation to suffer attacks by savage
stealth at their quiet ploughing, or con-
front an army's strength and fury, of fire-
brand and organized assault.
There was the ford to cross at Woos-
ter's River, that noisy stream which
can never be silent, as if the horror of a
great battle fought upon its bank could
never be told. Here there was always a
good modern moment of excitement : the
young horse must whirl about and rear,
and show horror in his turn, as if the
ghosts of Hertel and his French and In-
dians stood upon the historic spot of
their victory over the poor settlers ; final-
ly the Duke stepped trembling into the
bright shallow water, and then stopped
midway with perfect composure, for a
drink. Then they journeyed up the
steep battleground, and presently caught
the sound of roaring water at the Great
Falls, heavy with the latter rains.
On the crest of the hill Mary overtook
a woman, who was wearily carrying a
child that looked large enough to walk
alone ; but his cheeks were streaked with
tears, and there were no shoes on his
little feet to tread the frozen road ; only
some worn rags wrapped them clumsily
about. Mary held back her horse, and
reached down for the poor little thing to
take him before her on the saddle. The
child twisted determinedly in her arms
to get a look at her face, and then cud-
dled against his new friend with great
content. He took fast hold of the right
arm which held him, and looked proudly
down at his mother, who, relieved of her
extra burden, stepped briskly alongside.
"Goiri' up country to stay with my
folks," she answered Mary's question of
her journey. " Ain't nothin' else I can
do ; my man 's with the army at Valley
Forge. ' God forbid you 're any poor-
er than I be ! ' he sent me word. ' I 've
got no pay and no clothes to speak of,
an' here 's winter comin' right on.' This
mornin' I looked round the house an'
see how bare it was, an' I locked the
door an' left it. The baby cried good
after his cat, but I could n't lug 'em both.
She's a pretty creatur' an' smart. I
don't know but she '11 make out ; there 's
plenty o' squirrels. Cats is better off
than women folks."
" I '11 ride there some day and get her,
if I can, and keep her until you come
home," offered Mary kindly.
" Rich folks like you can do every-
thing," said the woman bitterly, with a
look at the beautiful horse which easily
outstepped her.
" Alas, we can't do everything ! " said
Mary sadly ; and there was something in
her voice which touched the complainer's
heart.
"I guess you would if you could,"
she answered simply ; and then Mary's
own heart was warmed again.
The road still led northward along the
high uplands above the river; all the
northern hills and the mountains of Os-
sipee looked dark now, in a solemn row.
Mary turned her horse into a narrow
track off the highroad, and leaned over to
give the comforted child into his mother's
arms. He slipped to the ground of his
own accord, and trotted gayly along.
"Look at them pore little feet! I
wisht he had some shoes ; he can't git fur
afore he '11 be cryin' again for me to
take an' car' him," said the mother rue-
fully. " You see them furthest peaks ?
I 've got to git there somehow 'nother,
with this lo'd on my back an' that pore
baby. But I know folks on the road ;
pore 's they be, they '11 take me in,
if I can hold out to do the travelin'.
War 's hard on pore folks. We 've got
The Tory Lover.
193
a good little farm, an' my man did n't
want to leave it. He held out 'count o'
me till the bounty tempted him. We
could n't be no poorer than we be, now
I tell ye ! "
" Go to the store on the hill and get
some shoes for the baby," said Mary
eagerly, as if to try to cheer her fellow
traveler. " Get some warm little shoes,
and tell the storekeeper 't was I who
bade you come." And so they parted ;
but Mary's head drooped sorrowfully as
she rode among the gray birches, on hor
shorter way to the high slopes of Pine
Hill.
This piece of country had, years be-
fore, furnished some of the noblest masts
that were ever landed on English shores.
The ruined stump of that great pine
which was the wonder of the King's
dockyards, and had loaded one of the old
mastships with its tons of timber, could
still be seen, though shrunken and soft
with moss. A fox, large in his new win-
ter fur, went sneaking across the way ;
and the young horse pranced gayly at
the sight of him, while Mary noticed his
track and the way it led, for her bro-
ther's sake, and turned aside across the
half-wooded pasture, until she had a
sportsman's satisfaction in seeing the fox
make toward a rough ledgy bit of ground,
and warm thicket of underbrush at a
spring head. This would be good news
for poor old Jack, who might take no
time for hunting, but could dream of it
any night after supper, like a happy dog
before his own fire.
On the heights of the great ridge
some of the elder generation of trees
were still standing, left because they
were crooked and unfit for the mast-
ships' cargoes. They were masters of
the whole landscape, and waved their
long boughs in the wintry wind. Mary
Hamilton had known them in her earli-
est childhood, and looked toward them
now with happy recognition, as if within
their hard seasoned shapes their hearts
were conscious of other existences, and
VOL. LXXXVII. NO. 520. 13
affection like her own. She stopped the
fleet horse on the top of the hill, and
laid her hand upon the bark of a huge
pine ; then she looked off at the lower
country. The sight of it was a chal-
lenge to adventure ; a great horizon sets
the boundaries of the inner life of man
wider to match itself, and something that
had bound the girl's heart too closely
seemed to slip easily away.
She smiled and took a long breath,
and, turning, rode down the rough pas-
ture again, and along the field toward
the river. Her heavy riding dress filled
and flew with the cold northwest wind,
and a bright color came back to her
cheeks. To stand on the bleak height
had freed her spirit, and sent her back
to the lower countries of life happier
than she came : it was said long ago
that one may not sweep away a fog, but
one may climb the hills of life and look
over it altogether.
She leaped the horse lightly over some
bars that gave a surly sort of entrance
to a poor-looking farm, and rode toward
the low house. Suddenly from behind a
thorn bush there appeared a strange fig-
ure, short-skirted and bent almost double
under a stack of dry bean stalks. The
bearer seemed to have uprooted her
clumsy burden in a fury. She tramped
along, while the horse took to shying at
the sight, and had to be pacified with
much firmness and patience.
The bean stack at last ceased its an-
gry progress, and stood still.
" What 's all that thromping ? Kape
away wit' yourself, then, whoiver ye are !
I can only see the ground by me two
feet. Ye '11 not ride over me ; kape back
now till I 'm gone ! " screamed the shrill
voice of an old woman.
" It is I, Mary Hamilton," said the
girl, laughing. " You 've frightened the
Duke almost to death, Mrs. Sullivan !
I can hold him, but do let me get by be-
fore you bob at him again."
There was a scornful laugh out of the
moving ambush.
194
The Tory Lover.
" Get out of me way, then, the two of
ye ! " and the bean stack moved angrily
away, its transfixing pole piercing the
air like a disguised unicorn. The two
small feet below were well shod and
sturdy like a boy's ; the whole figure was
so short that the dry frost-bitten vines
trailed on the ground more and more,
until it appeared as if the tangled mass
were rolling uphill by its own volition.
Mary went on with the trembling
horse. A moment later she walked
quickly up the slope to the gray wooden
house. There was the handsome head
of a very old man, reading, close to the
window, as she passed ; but he did not
look up until she had shut the door be-
hind her and stood within the little
room.
Then Master Sullivan, the exile, closed
his book and sprang to his feet, a tall
and ancient figure with the manners of
a prince. He bent to kiss the hand of
his guest, and looked at her silently
before he spoke, with an unconscious
eagerness of affection equal to her own.
" A thousand welcomes ! " he said at
last. " I should have seen you coming ;
you have had no one to serve you. I
was on the Sabine farm with Horace ;
't is far enough away ! " he added, with
a smile.
"I like to fasten my horse myself,"
answered Mary. " 'T is best I should ;
he makes it a point of honor then to
stand still and wait for me, and resents
a stranger's hand, being young and im-
patient."
Mary looked bright and smiling ; she
threw back her close green hood, and
her face bloomed out of it like a flower,
as she stood before the gallant, frail old
man. " There was a terrible little bean
stack that came up the hill beside us,"
she went on, as if to amuse him, " and
I heard a voice out of it, and saw two
steady feet that I knew to be Mrs. Sul-
livan's ; but my black Duke was pleased
to be frightened out of his wits, and so
we have all parted on bad terms, this
dark day."
" She will shine upon you like a May
morning when she comes in, then ! "
said Master Sullivan. " She 's in a huge
toil the day, with sure news of a great
storm that 's coming. * Stay a while,' I
begged her, ' stay a while, my dear ; the
wind is in a fury, and to-morrow' "
" An' to-morrow indeed ! " cried Mrs.
Sullivan, bursting in at the door, half a
wild brownie, and half a tame enough,
grandmotherly old soul. " An' to-mor-
row ! I 've heard nothing but to-morrow
from ye all my life long, an' here's
the hand of winter upon us again, an'
thank God all me poor little crops is un-
der cover, an' no praise to yourself."
The old man held out his slender
hand ; she did not take it, but her face
began to shine with affection.
" Thank God, 't is yourself, Miss Mary
Hamilton, my dear ! " she exclaimed,
dropping a curtsy. " My old gentleman
here has been sorrowing for a sight of
your fair face these many days. 'Tis
in December like this we do be sighing
after the May. I don't know have ye
brought any news yet from the ship ? "
" Oh no, not yet," said Mary. " No,
there is no news yet from the Ranger."
"I have had good dreams of her, then,"
announced the old creature with triumph.
" Listen : there 's quarrels amongst 'em,
but they '11 come safe to shore, with gold
in everybody's two hands."
She crossed the room, and drew her
lesser wheel close to her knee and began
to spin busily.
Sarah Orne Jewett.
(To be continued.)
The Essence of American Humor.
195
THE ESSENCE OF AMERICAN HUMOR.
WRITING a few months ago of The
American Spirit in Literature, I tried to
solve a problem which had been haunt-
ing me for years : to give myself an
account of the peculiar and wonderful
quality which distinguishes the best that-
has been written on this continent from
all other writing whatsoever, from the
days of gray-headed Chaldea and Mo-
ther India down to the latest fantasies
of Maurice Maeterlinck and Gabriel
d' Annunzio.
To lay a ghost, the magicians of the
East always have to evoke a demon. I
find myself in much the same case. In
settling to my own satisfaction that first
haunting problem, I find I have called
up half a dozen more, just as difficult
and just as clamorous for solution. It
happened in this way : To show the visi-
ble presence and sunlit transparence of
the best American writing, I instanced
chiefly four story-tellers, Bret Harte,
Mark Twain, G. W. Cable, and Mary
Wilkins. But all four of them, and es-
pecially the first two, irresistibly suggest
another quality besides the American
spirit, namely, the quality of humor.
And so up springs the new demon, the
infinitely tantalizing problem, What is
American humor ? And if it differs
from the humor of other lands, from
Aristophanes to Rabelais, from Chaucer
to Dickens, from the Ecclesiast to Hito-
padesha, wherein does the difference
lie ? Here, again, to lay one ghost, we
must raise another. Supposing we have
settled the question of humor : just as we
are folding our hands in placid satisfac-
tion, we suddenly remember that there
is such a thing as wit, and we are called
on either to try a fall with this new ad-
versary, or to admit ourselves disgrace-
fully vanquished.
I hope I have some humanity in my
breast, for I have already raised a whole
army of sprites, and in imagination see
myself confronted with a host of vision-
ary readers, with haggard eyes and
drawn countenances, desperately asking :
" What is a joke ? And how are you to
know one if you see it ? " My justifica-
tion for this wanton malice is, that I
think I have discovered the charm to lay
these haunting presences to rest ; that I
have in some sort discovered the true
inwardness of humor, and even been able
to draw the shadowy line dividing it from
wit.
Here is a story which seems to me to
come close to the heart of the secret.
The scene is laid in the Wild and Wool-
ly West. A mustang has been stolen,
a claim jumped, or a euchre pack found
to contain more right and left bowers
than an Arctic brig ; and swift Nemesis
has descended in the form of Manila
hemp. The time has come to break the
news to the family of the deceased. A
deputation goes ahead, and the leader
knocks at the door of the'bereaved home-
stead, asking, " Does Widow Smith live
here ? "
A stout and cheerful person replies,
" I 'm Mrs. Smith, but I ain't no widow ! "
The deputation answers : " Bet you a
dollar you are ! But you Ve got the
laugh on us, just the same, for we Ve
lynched the wrong man."
That story is irresistible. It is as full
of sardonic fire as anything in all liter-
ature, but you would hardly call it hu-
mor. It seems to me to lie so directly
on the border line that we may use it as
a landmark.
The moral is this : humor consists in
laughing with the other man ; wit, in
laughing at him. There is all the dif-
ference in the world. But in both there
must be laughter. And laughter is al-
ways the fruit of a certain excess of
power, of animal or vital magnetism,
196
The Essence of American Humor.
drawn forth by a sense of contrast or
discrepancy. This story illustrates each
of these points. The discrepancy or
contrast lies in the chasm between the
terrible bereavement of widowhood and
the jest that announces it. Even the
Widow Smith must have smiled. But
after the first spasms of laughter have
passed, there remains the yawning gulf
before her, in all its blackness. The
story is really infinitely bitter, and the
laughter it calls up something of a snarl.
To laugh at the other man is invari-
ably a tribute to one's own egotism, a
burning of incense to one's self. It
widens the chasm between the two per-
sonalities, and sharpens the natural oppo-
sition between man and man. In this
way wit is essentially demoralizing. It
is also essentially self-conscious. Watch
the efforts of the conscientiously funny
man, and you will see both elements man-
ifest themselves, the self-consciousness
and the demoralization. The final re-
sult of his efforts is contempt instead
of admiration, and a universal sadness
overcasting the company he has tried to
move to mirth. Wit, therefore, differs
from humor in this : that while both are
expressed in laughter, arising from ex-
cess of animal magnetism, and called
forth by a feeling of discrepancy or con-
trast, wit is self-conscious and egotistical,
while humor is natural and humane.
One may call humane whatever re-
cognizes our common humanity, or, still
more broadly, whatever recognizes our
common life. For there is a humanity
toward animals. But if we look deep
enough, we shall find that behind our
conscious intention we do perpetually
recognize a common life, a common
soul ; that we do this by hating no less
than by loving, by hostility as well as
by acts of gentlest charity. Behind all
our dramas of emotion, grave or gay,
passionate, tragic, or mirthful, behind
avarice, ambition, vanity, lies the deep
intuition of our common soul, and to this
we in all things ultimately appeal. We
seek the envy of human beings, not of
stones or trees ; we covet and lust for
human ends ; and in even the blackest
elements of our human lives, we are still
paying tribute to our humanity, to the
common soul. Even murderers would
not conspire together but for the sense
of the common soul in both.
But pity and compassion recognize the
common life, the common human soul ;
the very name of sympathy means a
suffering with some other. The classic
story of sympathy, the Good Samaritan,
owes its immortal power to this sense.
First there is the sympathy of the nar-
rator with the afflicted man and with his
rescuer ; and then the second and com-
municated sympathy which all hearers
are compelled to feel with both, thus be-
ing brought into the humane mood of
the narrator, and recognizing the com-
mon soul in themselves, in him, in the
sufferer, and in the Samaritan who re-
lieved his pain. This irresistible quality
of sympathy, this potent assertion of the
common soul, has made the story im-
mortal, erecting the name of an obscure
Semitic clan into a synonym for human-
ity and kindness.
Sympathy, compassion, the suffering
with another, are recognitions of the
common soul in the face of sorrow, in
the face of suffering, in the face of fate.
The whole cycle of Greek tragedy is
full of this sense of universal man bear-
ing in common the mountainous burden
of adverse and invincible law. That
line of Homer might characterize it all :
" Purple Death took him, and mighty
Fate." The bereavements of Hecuba,
the madness and death of Ajax, owe
their undying power, not to any quality
of art or beauty, though they are satu-
rated and sultry with beauty, but to
something greater still : to the sense of
the common soul, called up in us by sor-
row, by danger, by affliction, by death.
Consider the message of Galilee as
an orderly sequence to this. We have
the same recognition of the common
The Essence of American Humor.
197
soul, not so much in resignation and
submission to fate as in a certain warm
and subtle quality which outruns fate
and makes it powerless, a quality of
sympathy, of compassion, of suffering
with another, in virtue of which the
very shadows of Greek tragedy, sick-
ness, sorrow, affliction, become the lights
of the picture, for they testify to and
evoke the common soul. Rightly un-
derstood, this is the message of the
Evangel of Sorrow. When our com-
placence and self-satisfied egotism are
beaten down, this other side of our na-
ture arises ; when we are less full of
ourselves, we have more room for oth-
ers, or, deeper still, more room for that
which we recognize in others, the one
soul common to all humanity. All emo-
tion, not compassion only, is contagious.
All emotion testifies to the common soul.
We come to this result : that humor is
emotion expressing itself in laughter,
and called forth by a contrast or discrep-
ancy. But laughter is always the fruit
of an excess of vital magnetism, of pow-
er. Therefore, rightly understood, hu-
mor is a contagion or sharing of the
sense of excess power, of abundant vi-
tality, of animal magnetism.
You can see now why we laid such
stress upon the Greek tragedy and its
message. Sophocles unites us through
the sense of our common danger and
common pain. That is the darker side
of sympathy, the deep shadow of the
picture. The Galilean unites us through
sympathy, the feeling of kindness drawn
forth by pain. But, if my definition
comes near the truth, real humor unites
us in a sense of our excess vitality, a
sense of mastery over fate ; an intuition
that the common soul in us can easily
conquer and outlast the longest night of
sorrow, the deepest shadow of pain. Hu-
mor thus becomes a very serious matter.
It becomes nothing less than the herald
of our final victory, the dawn of the gold-
en age.
To go back a little to a point we
raised before. Wit is a sense of scoring
off the other man, a triumph over him,
a sense of our excess vitality as contrast-
ed with his weakness, a mentally push-
ing him into the mud and gloating over
him. Now it is essentially unpleasant to
be pushed into the mud and laughed
at, whether mentally or bodily ; and the
successful wit's tribute to his own ego-
tism, so far from cementing the bonds
of man, really widens the chasm, and
sets up that hostility between one per-
sonality and another which is always the
demoniac element in human life. It
follows that whatever separates persons
in feeling, though it may be the fodder
of wit, is fatal to humor, just as it is
fatal to sympathy or to gentle charity.
Therefore, to have true humor, we must
first hold in abeyance the elements of
hostility, difference of race or rank, dif-
ference of faith or hope. If the com-
mon soul be, as we have seen it is, the
last and highest reality behind all our
dramas of feeling and ambition, behind
hate as well as love, behind envy as well
as kindliness, then all these things which
separate persons and set them at vari-
ance, the dreams of different race and
rank, of different faiths and ideals, are
but shadows cast by our fancies in the
light of the common soul : that is the
reality, while these are dreams.
Humor, then, can know no difference
of race. For it, we are all human be-
ings, all children of the common soul.
But humor will not apprehend this as a
doctrine, as we have done here ; it will
go far deeper, and apprehend it as a
visible presence, a reality touched and
felt, a direct intuition. For this reason,
along with many others, the best Amer-
ican humor stands preeminent through-
out the world and through all time. It
recognizes no difference of race. It is
free from that miserable tribal vanity
which is the root of half our human ills.
The Jewish spirit is perhaps the su-
preme instance which human history af-
fords of this tribal self-love, with its re-
198
The Essence of American Humor.
ward of intensity and its punishment of
isolation. And as certainly as night fol-
lows day, or day night, we find in Jew-
ish wit the last essence of bitterness, the
culmination of that unhumane quality
which eternally divides it from humor.
Read sentence after sentence of Kohe-
leth, the Preacher, the living dog bet-
ter than the dead lion, the gibes at wo-
men, the perpetual mockery at fools, the
deep pessimism under it all, and you
will realize how closely tribal zeal and
bitterness are bound together ; how cer-
tainly the keen sense of race difference
closes the door of that warm human heart
from which alone humor can come.
All Jewish writing, ancient or mod-
ern, has the same defect. There is al-
ways the presence of two qualities, seem-
ingly unconnected, but in reality bound
very closely together, a certain bitter
sensuality and a sardonic and mordant
wit. Both spring from the same thing :
an overkeen sense of bodily difference,
whether of sex or of race. The first sense
of difference causes a subjection to sex
tyranny, which revenges itself in gibes
and epigrams, as with that uxorious king
to whom tradition accredits the Proverbs.
The second, the keen sense of race differ-
ence, breeds a hostile and jealous spirit,
a perpetual desire to exhibit one's own
superiority, to show off, to " get the
laugh on" the supposed inferior races
and outer barbarians, which, going with
excess of vital power, a marvelous
characteristic of the Jews, will inev-
itably give birth to keen and biting wit,
but to humor never. The gibes of the
Preacher, the courtly insincerities of
D' Israeli, the morbid sensuousness of
Zola, all flow from the same race char-
acter, and are moods of the same mind.
It is curious to see the same thing
cropping up in Alphonse Daudet, who
was of mixed race, half Jew, half Pro-
venal. One may follow that famous im-
age of his own, which describes the two
Tartarins, Tartarin-Quixote and Tar-
tariu-Sancho-Panza, or, more familiarly,
Tartarin lapin-de-garenne and Tartarin
lapin -de - choux, and say that there
are two Daudets, Daudet - Koheleth and
Daudet-Tartarin : the one, the Semitic
author of Sapho, of Rose et Ninette, of
Fromont Jeune et Risler Aine' ; the oth-
er, the creator of the many-sided me-
ridional, Tartarin-Numa-Nabab. There
lies the difference between wit and hu-
mor, as it is influenced by exclusiveness
of race, or, to give a foolish thing a com-
moner name, by tribal vanity.
To precisely the same category of wit
springing from tribal vanity belong the
endless stories in which the Germans
score off the Russians, the Russians score
off the Germans ; in which Magyars and
Austrians whet their satire on each other ;
in which Bengalis try to get the laugh
on Punjabis ; in which Frenchmen are
witty about John Bull's protruding front
teeth, while Englishmen revenge them-
selves by tales of the frog-eating Moun-
seer. So that we have here a perfectly
definite line : if there is a play of the
mind about difference of race, using this
as the laughter-rousing contrast which is
common to both wit and humor, and if
this play of thought and feeling accentu-
ates and heightens the race difference,
and tries to show, or assumes, as is often-
er the case, that the race of the joker is
endlessly superior to the other, then we
are dealing with wit, an amusing thing
enough in its way, but a false thing, one
which leads us away from the true end of
man. If, on the other hand, we have an
accentuation of the common life, bridging
the chasm of race, and the overplus of
power is felt to be shared in by the two
races and to unite them, then we have
genuine humor, something as vital to
our true humanity as is the Tragedy of
Greece, as is the Evangel of Galilee, yet
something more joyful and buoyant than
either ; uniting us, not through compas-
sion or the sense of common danger, but
through the sense of common power,
a prophecy of the golden age, of the ulti-
mate triumph of the soul.
The Essence of American Humor.
199
In this binding quality of humor Mark
Twain's best work stands easily supreme.
Take the scenes on the Mississippi in
which the immortal trio, Tom Sawyer,
Huck Finn, and Jim the Nigger, play
their parts : they are as saturated with
the sense of our common life as is the
story of the sorrow of Ajax or the tale
of the Samaritan. The author has felt
the humanity in his triad of heroes as
deeply and humanely as it can be felt ;
his work is sincere and true throughout ;
it is full of that inimitable quality of con-
tagion, the touchstone of all true art, in
virtue of which we vividly feel and real-
ize what the artist has vividly felt and
realized. Through every page we feel
the difference of race, used as an artistic
contrast ; but we are conscious of some-
thing more, of overstepping the chasm,
of bridging the abyss between black and
white, American and Ethiopian, bond
and free. We have come to the conclu-
sion, long before Huck Finn puts it in
words, that Jim is a white man inside,
as white as we are.
This binding of the two races has been
accomplished before, in a famous Ameri-
can book ; the most successful, probably,
that the New World has yet produced.
But in Uncle Tom the cement is senti-
mentality rather than humor ; the Gali-
lean sense of sympathy through common
suffering rather than through excess of
power ; it plays round feelings and emo-
tions which, however keen and poignant,
are not part of our everlasting inherit-
ance ; moreover, it is colored with a re-
ligious pathos which, while it still satu-
rates the minds of the race mates of
Uncle Tom, is quickly vanishing from
the hearts of his white masters, to give
place to Something higher and better,
an assured sense of the power of the soul.
So marked has been the growth of our
spiritual consciousness in the last genera-
tion, hitherto unconscious and unrecord-
ed, that we can confidently look forward
to a time when the fear of death will no
longer be valid as a motive of tragedy,
any more than the fear of hell is now a
motor of morals. Therefore, the mood
of religion which colors Uncle Tom is a
far less enduring and vital thing than
the robust out-of-doors vitality of Tom
Sawyer's Mississippi days : and it is this
quality, this buoyancy and excess of pow-
er, which forms the necessary atmosphere
of humor.
In another story, of a much earlier
period, Mark Twain has again used his
genius to bridge the same race chasm.
It is that fine and epic tale of Captain
Ned Blakely and his colored mate. Here
humor is reinforced by indignation, and
both are illuminated by fancy ; but hu-
mor, the sense of excess of power and of
our common soul, is still the dominant
note. Yet the Tom Sawyer trio, in those
sunlit days on the great river, with the raft
floating along, and the boys telling tales,
or puffing at their corncob pipes, or going
in swimming, is, and will probably long
remain, the high-water mark of humor
and imaginative creation for the New
World, the most genuinely American
thing ever written.
Bret Harte is of nearly equal value in
his early tales, but with this difference :
that it is the chasm of caste, not of race,
which his great power bridges over.
Mark Twain does this abundantly, too.
Huck Finn, the outcast, the vagabond,
the homeless wanderer, with his patched
breeches, his one suspender, his perfo-
rated hat, is bone of our bone and flesh
of our flesh, beyond the common mea-
sure of our kind ; more, he is the supe-
rior of most of us in humane simplicity,
in ease of manner and unconsciousness,
in genuine kindness of heart. But with
Bret Harte, this bridging of chasms, this
humanizing of outcasts, of vagabonds,
gamblers, and waifs of either sex, is a
passion, the dominant quality of his rich
and natural humor. That nameless baby,
the Luck of Roaring Camp, enlists our
heartiest sympathy from the first ; so, in-
deed, does his disreputable mother. We
remember, and we are conscious of a pro-
200
The Essence of American Humor.
found satisfaction in remembering, that
motherhood is always the same, without
regard to race, caste, color, or creed.
And with the excess of power in his ro-
bust miners, and their fine animal mag-
netism, as of the primeval out of doors,
comes the quality of humor, like the touch
of morning sunshine on the red pine
stems and granite boulders of the Rock-
ies, where is their home.
The Outcasts of Poker Flat is full of
the same leveling quality ; a leveling up,
not a leveling down. The two real out-
casts, the gambler and the Rahab, are
raised to a sense of their human life, to a
human dignity and self-sacrifice, by the
simplicity of their half-childish chance
companions ; all barriers are broken
down, and there remains nothing but the
common soul. There is a touch of pa-
thos in this tale, too, but rather as a con-
trast than as a primary element ; yet the
final feeling is humor, victory, not de-
feat ; not weakness, but power. M'liss,
one of the finest things Bret Harte ever
wrote, is full of the same quality, the
quality of charity, of sympathy with
outcasts ; or, to come to the true name,
it is full of the sense of the common
soul under all differences. More than
that, we are all through conscious of a
feeling that the essential truth is with
M'liss in her wildness ; that she is more
at home in the universe than we are,
feels more kindred with the enduring
things, the green forests, the sun-
shine, the wind, the stars in the purple
sky, the primal passions of the human
heart.
If genius thus bridges over the greater
chasms of our life, we need hardly say that
it still more easily and certainly passes
over the less ; but there is one chasm
which it is worth while to speak of more
fully, the chasm between childhood
and age. American humor has discovered
the child for the purposes of literature.
The reason is, without doubt, that Ameri-
cans are the only people in the world
who take their children seriously ; who
make it stuff of the conscience to give
their children the utmost possible free-
dom, and rouse them to a sense of re-
sponsibility. Think of how children were
kept down and suppressed, even op-
pressed, in the Old World, only a genera-
tion or two ago, and you have the reason
why the child of European literature is
such a failure. I know not whether it
has ever been said before, but the chil-
dren of the greatest writer of them all
are stiff and unnatural to a marvelous
degree, so that we hardly regret Mac-
beth's bringing to an end that precocious
and sententious youngster who moralizes
to his mamma. It is with a feeling of
relief that we read the stage direction,
" Dies." Let him rest in peace.
Contrast with the deceased child those
two inimitable creations of American
humor, Budge and Toddy, in Helen's
Babies, one of the best books this con-
tinent has yet seen. In every point of
reality, as far as child life is concerned,
Habberton is the superior of Shake-
speare, who in so much else is the supe-
rior of all other men. Tom Sawyer is
also a most notable child in literature ;
but of course he is ever so much older
than Budge and Toddy, and therefore
the chasm is not so wide, and the honor
of bridging it less. Yet there is some-
thing inimitable in the way he " shows
off " when the new girl comes to the vil-
lage, and, let me add, something irresist-
ibly American. Up to the present, I
have not been able to determine at what
age Tom Sawyer's fellow countrymen
drop the habit, or at any rate the desire,
of showing off ; I am indeed strongly
convinced that nothing more serious than
that selfsame human weakness is the root
of all the millionairism which seems to
fill so large a space in our horizons. It
is the desire to possess the stage proper-
ties essential to successful showing off
which keeps the millionaires so busy ;
and it is to be surmised that, as in Tom
Sawyer's case, the "new girl " is the au-
dience of the play.
The Essence of American Humor.
201
Speaking of the new girl calls atten-
tion to the fact that, so far, Budge, Tod-
dy, and Tom Sawyer, the hierarchy of
American boys, have no sisters. There
are no little girls of the first magni-
tude in American literature. Perhaps
the English Alice in Wonderland is the
high-water mark among little girls ; but
wonderful achievement as she is, and
absorbing as are her adventures, the
atmosphere of cards and chessmen which
surrounds her is very different from the
broad river bosom, the sweet - smelling
woods, the echoing hills of night under
the stars, where Tom Sawyer and Huck
Finn play their parts. So infinitely does
nature outweigh fancy.
Having established our canon, we can
now apply it. We do, in fact, find that
the masterpieces of American humor
were conceived in an atmosphere pos-
sessing exactly the qualities we have out-
lined. There was the broad and humane
sense of this our life, of our common
nature, our common soul, overleaping all
barriers whatsoever ; the distinctions of
race and caste, of rich and poor, dwin-
dling to their real insignificance, or for-
gotten altogether ; this binding of hearts
taking place, not through the sense of
our common tragedy, our common servi-
tude to fate, as in ^schylus and Sopho-
cles, nor in pity and compassion, as in
the Evangel of Galilee, but with a cer-
tain surcharge and overplus of power, a
buoyancy, a sense of conquest, which
could best come with the first youth of
a young, strong nation, and which did,
in fact, come in the harvest of success
following that fine outburst of manliness
and adventure, the mining campaign of
'49.
One characteristic of the finest humor,
touched on already, we must come back
to, the quality of unconsciousness.
Neither Bret Harte nor Mark Twain,
when they wrote of the Luck, of M'liss,
of Captain Ned Blakely, of Buck Fan-
shaw and Scotty Briggs, had any idea
how great they were, or even that they
were great at all ; they never dreamt that
these sketches for the local journal would
outlive the week that saw their birth, and
at last make the circuit of the world, be-
coming a part of the permanent wealth of
man. This unconsciousness gives these
stories their inimitable charm. There is
none of the striving of the funny man in
what belongs to that first period, no set-
ting of traps for our admiration. This is
the same as saying that there is none of
that instinct of egotism which prompts a
man to laugh at his fellow, to show how
much wiser and cleverer he himself is.
It is all free, generous, and bountiful as
the sunshine of the land where it was
conceived, full of the spontaneous life of
Nature herself. As there is in the sim
plest heart a wisdom that outweighs all
philosophy, in the most untutored soul a
faith that the schools and doctors know
nothing of, so there is in these firstf ruits
of genius a fresh charm that no art can
emulate ; we recognize the wisdom and
handiwork, not of the immediate artifi-
cer, but of the great master builder, the
one enduring soul, common to all men
through all time. There is the sense of
the unprecedented, of creative power, in
all works of genius ; it shines forth bright-
ly in the best work of American litera-
ture, and most brightly in the firstfruits
of American humor.
It is not so agreeable to complete our
inventory ; for we are forced to see that
much of what passes for humor nowa-
days is not humor at all, but its imitation
and baser counterfeit, that wit which
is marred by egotism and vanity, which
springs from the desire to shine, to show
off, to prove one's self smarter than one's
fellows, to air the superior qualities of
one's mind. Let us devoutly hope that
this mood of self-consciousness, like its
cousin, the shyness of the half man, half
boy, is transient only ; that it will pre-
sently give place to something more mel-
low and humane. How often we feel,
when we read the productions of this
class, that the writer, as he made each
202
Confessions of a Minister s Wife.
point, was lit up with a little explosion
of vanity ; that he was terribly self-con
scious ; that he bridled and pranced
within him, to think he was not as other
men! Instead of that fine and hu-
morous tale of Pharisee and Publican.
we might write one of the humorist and
the wit, the child of genius and the fun-
ny man ; and the moral would be just
the same. In the one case, a sense of
peace, of hitting the mark, of adding to
our human wealth, of reaching the true
end of man ; in the other, a certain tic-
kling of the sensations, it is true, but, with
it, dissatisfaction, unrest, a sense of vani
ty, with final bankruptcy staring us in
the face. Self-consciousness is fatal to
humor. It is as disappointing as that
habit certain people have, whose sex and
age we shall not specify, of always think-
ing of their clothes, or of your clothes
or of some one else's clothes ; their so
ciety is not joy and gladness, nor does it
bring us nearer to the golden age.
It would be with genuine joy of heart
that I should record, if conscience al-
lowed me, that American life seems, on
the whole, to be flowing in the direction
which leads to humor rather than to wit,
the direction which leads away from
tribal and personal vanity, from the lam-
entable longing to show off, from self-
consciousness and egotism, toward the
common heart of man. But this, at least,
can with certainty be said : that only as
the great tide thus sets toward the bet-
ter goal ; only when the desire of wealth
gives way to humane sympathy and in-
herent power ; when the barriers of caste,
so untimely and anomalous here, are
broken down; when the tribal vanity
of fancied race superiority is forgotten ;
when self - consciousness and the long-
ing for stage properties are left behind,
merged in that large urbanity which is
the essence at once of real culture and
of true breeding, only then will a real
development of humor be possible. But
this humanizing of our hearts is in itself
not enough, though it is essential and
not to be replaced : there must also be
a sense of power, of lightness, of suc-
cess ; a surplus of magnetism and vital
energy, like that surcharge of life which,
having moulded root and stem and leaves,
bursts forth in beauty in the flower. All
this is needful, and by no means to be
dispensed with ; yet to all this must be
added something more, something which,
by all our taking thought, we can never
gain, that superb fire of genius which
comes not with observation, but is the
best gift and creative handiwork of our
everlasting human soul.
Charles Johnston.
CONFESSIONS OF A MINISTER'S WIFE.
" JUST the one to marry a minister ! "
So our friends said when the engage-
ment was announced. What the moral
and spiritual properties of a minister's
wife should be, as differentiated from oth-
er men's wives, I have never been able to
discover, but this I can truly say : I was
satisfied not only with my husband, but
with his profession. How thankful was
I that he had not chosen a literary ca-
reer, as certain friends advised, or en-
tered the law, where others prophesied
success ! Before we were installed in
our first parish I had studied the church
roll, and every name was at my tongue's
end, ready to be applied when the owner
appeared. I looked at the congregation
as a company of saints. I would not
have exchanged that first parsonage for
the office of the Secretary of State at
Washington or for an appointment as
ambassador to the Court of St. James.
Confessions of a Minister's Wife.
203
Twenty years have passed. The en-
thusiasm of youth has been modified by
the experiences of actual life. Time has
furnished the test by which we form true
judgment. My husband has occupied
influential pulpits in both Western and
Eastern cities. We have had delightful
homes, a comfortable income, apprecia-
tive congregations, and social advantages
greater than fall to the lot of the average
minister. If I have learned that a par-
ish is not composed exclusively of saints,
I have likewise learned that the mis-
takes and weaknesses of parishioners
are necessary incidents in the process of
spiritual development, and their more
serious faults I have come to regard as
simply evolutionary growing-pains. I
am still satisfied with my husband, still
glad that he is a minister ; yet I secret-
ly rejoice that our son shows no predi-
lection for a theological seminary; I
might even be tempted to maternal tac-
tics in order to frustrate a clerical alli-
ance for our daughter. I believe that
men of the greatest genius and highest
culture may find in this profession a
worthy sphere of activity, and that, as
knowledge increases, religious organiza-
tions will become associations for spirit-
ual uplifting and practical helpfulness.
But I must confess that at the present
day no profession is attended with more
subtle temptations. We are far from the
realization of the ideal, if indeed we are
advancing toward it. From the first,
loyalty to my husband made me ex-
tremely sensitive to slurs upon his pro-
fession. I was offended by the charac-
terizations of literature in which the
typical clergyman is an erudite gentle-
man, quite ignorant of worldly affairs,
and abjectly fawning before wealth and
power. The clergyman's wife, an ami-
able creature, adoring her husband, is
quite unsophisticated and ill at ease in
the presence of the cultured parishioner.
The drama, which probes human defects
to the quick, represents the priest as a
sleek, well - fed personage, using the
lamb's wool of his office for divers chi-
caneries. Public sentiment evidently
regards the minister as a paid attorney,
whose living is little better than a gra-
tuity, and whose character lacks the
qualities of virile manhood. By degrees
the conviction has come to me that,
among the learned professions, the one
which is nominally the most beneficent
is most frequently ridiculed.
The common judgment is never with-
out foundation. Evidently, some essen-
tial element of confidence is lacking. We
to whom the profession is dear ought
to look at the case courageously and
dispassionately. This I have sought to
do, and have become convinced that,
however much individual ministers may
be at fault, the evil lies primarily with
our ecclesiastical machinery. It is as
difficult for a pastor to carry out his
ideals, in our highly organized religious
systems, as for a right-minded mayor to
realize the ideals of municipal govern-
ment, hampered by the city charter and
the demands of his political party.
A condition so common as to be al-
most a constant problem is financial
stringency. Every one behind the
scenes is conscious of general poverty.
Churches are not only poor, but very
generally encumbered with debt. A
wealthy congregation does not alter the
fact of chronic poverty. It is what the
congregation gives, not the bank account
of individual members, which consti-
tutes ecclesiastical opulence. In our
parish, a poor shoemaker gives much
more, proportionately, than the million-
aire pewholder. The church is the first
to suffer from a business panic, and the
last to feel the returning wave of pros-
perity. When retrenchment is neces-
sary, economy finds its first expression
in the contribution plate. Indeed, I
sometimes query how those families
which cannot afford a pew in church
can yet afford a box at the opera. In
many cities and rapidly growing towns,
the older churches suffer from the shift-
204
ing of residence, a once desirable loca-
tion having given place to shops and
tenements. The usual cause of bank-
ruptcy, however, is luxurious trappings
and reckless expense. New economic
needs have developed, in our generation,
a taste for easy and pleasant ways of
doing things. The demand for sump-
tuous buildings, costly organs, Tiffany
windows, and elaborate decoration ex-
ceeds the cash on hand. There is a con-
stant strain to make income keep pace
with outgo. Many churches are in the
condition of the poor serving woman who
flaunts her feathers and lace while desti-
tute of woolens and overshoes. I have
known many elaborately housed congre-
gations without suitable hymn books and
looking for a " cheap minister." The
revenues of the church are derived from
pew rentals and offertories. The preach-
er must be so " attractive " as to fill va-
cant seats, until the income covers cur-
rent expenses. His eloquence must foot
the coal bills, pay the sexton, the organ-
ist, the choir, the interest on the mort-
gage, and, last of all, his own salary.
On one side, the minister sees the de-
cline of the church-going habit. Plea-
sure, materialism, and intellectual liber-
ty are pitted against the pulpit. On the
other side, he is under the surveillance of
his own trustees, and, back of the trustees,
the hierarchy of the denomination. Can
a man do his best work under pressure
of a depleted treasury ? A tambourine
and a poke bonnet gather a crowd. The
minister, covertly, beats his tom-tom.
His spiritual wares are advertised as sys-
tematically as the Parisian novelties of
the thrifty merchant. Curious themes
fill empty pews ; Double Bowknots and
how to Untie Them, by One who has Tied
Them ; The Women Men Love ; Brim-
stone Corner, or the Modern Idea of Hell ;
Jehoiakim and his Penknife ; Pancakes.
An enterprising evangelist had the au-
dacity to advertise a single word, Hen ;
the text being taken from that pathetic
scene on the hilltops of Jerusalem, when
Confessions of a Minister's Wife.
Jesus cried out in compassion, " How
often would I have gathered thy children
together, even as a hen gathereth her
chickens under her wings, and ye would
not ! " A series of sermons is announced
to different professions, to Young Men,
to Young Women, to Business Men, to
Old Maids. City officials are invited to
a special service, and the Fire Depart-
ment sit in reserved seats. The Police
Department and military organizations
attend in " full uniform." Lectures on
various literary themes, reviews of new
books, sacred concerts, stereopticon illus-
trations, sunrise prayer meetings, floral
decorations, greengrocery exhibits, en-
richment of service, are ingenious meth-
ods of attracting. A well-known metro-
politan church, discouraged by the empty
pews on Sunday evenings, appointed
young lady ushers ; announcing through
the daily press the names of the damsels
and the gowns they would don. Other
city churches, with a laudable view of
enlisting young men, issue invitations to
a smoker in the church parlors. Is the
minister reprehensible ? Yes, doubtless,
but his capital is the power to please.
The market is regulated by the law of
supply and demand, and this clerical
caterer furnishes that which the consum-
er will take. Husbands and wives do
not always stimulate each other toward
the noblest ideals. Secretly, I like to
have the sermons sufficiently garnished
to satisfy the popular craving for garlic
and condiments.
Aside from running expenses, the mod-
ern church has a long list of benevo-
lences. As philanthropic interests have
increased, the church has become sponsor
for a multitude of worthy objects. The
pledges are met with great difficulty,
through the unflagging zeal of the brave
souls devoted to these special causes.
Altogether, the financial straits of the
church affect the pew as well as the pul-
pit. That " blessed tie " which binds
the hearts of the saints is more frequent-
ly financial than spiritual. Church work,
Confessions of a Minister's Wife.
205
about which we talk piously, resolves it-
self usually into some scheme of money-
getting. Festivals, fairs, concerts, sup-
pers, distract attention and usurp higher
interests. It is hardly necessary to state
that when both minister and people are
in mad search for dollars a truly devo-
tional spirit cannot exist.
Another insidious foe of the church is
the curious custom of estimating results
by numerical showing. Every denomi-
nation has a system of bookkeeping, by
which the statistics of the local churches
are tabulated. The minister of each par-
ish reports annually the net result of his
work, the number of baptisms, acces-
sions in membership, losses by death or re-
moval, contributions to the benevolences
under the patronage of the denomina-
tion. The returns are published in book
form, and the gain or loss is expressed
arithmetically. In order to assist in the
mechanical part of parish work, it has
been my self-imposed task to look after
the church records ; and, in the capacity
of secretary, I became conscious of the
constant pressure to keep up and augment
membership. In decadent communities
it is difficult to make gains cover losses.
Perhaps this accounts for inaccuracy in
ecclesiastical posting. Old names are al-
lowed to remain on the list long after
the individuals bearing them have re-
moved from the parish or have been
gathered to their fathers. When the re-
cords are thoroughly " purged," the fig-
ures show a large shrinkage. A church
accredited with a membership of one
thousand may easily shrink to eight hun-
dred, and the minister who eliminates the
dead wood must bear the odium of the
clearing. When progress is estimated
by numbers, the minister and his wife,
perforce, must prospect for converts.
" Work up your mission chapel " was the
advice of a scheming prelate, when my
husband assumed the care of an insti-
tutional church : " that 's where you '11
make your counts." Perhaps, also, it
encourages elasticity in the test of mem-
bership. Thus a noted infidel of our ac-
quaintance was urged by a distinguished
clergyman to be confirmed. " I '11 make
it easy for you," he argued obligingly.
The pressure for numerical growth is
shared by the congregation. When a
communion season arrives, and no can-
didates are propounded, the brethren and
sisters are dispirited. The test of or-
ganic strength is in the length of the roll
call, and not in the quantity and quality
of spiritual life. Joy reigns when a
goodly number gather for the first time
about the altar, especially if there are
boys and men in the group. New mem-
bers are reported, not as souls, but as
" male " and " female." The latter are
so much in excess that males are consid-
ered great trophies.
The minister is under the same pressure
to keep the benevolences of his church
up to the high-water mark. Parochial
gifts are scrutinized by the denomina-
tional fathers as the campaign fund is
watched by political bosses. Here is a
dilemma of divided sympathy. On one
side the minister finds a group who are
jealous of denominational honor. They
implore him to quicken the sentiment for
sectarian pledges. They deplore contri-
butions which will not be credited in the
annual report. They are offended when
an "outside" cause is presented. On
the other is a group who discredit secta-
rian propagandism. They demand that
the pulpit address itself to the practical
philanthropies close at hand. How shall
the minister retain prestige in the eccle-
siastical hierarchy, crushed between the
millstones of denominational and local
demands ?
But by far the greatest obstacle in the
path of the minister, and hence a con-
stant perplexity to the minister's wife,
is our highly organized systems of eccle-
siastical government, and the emphasis
placed upon philosophical thought. Each
sect has a centralized system of govern-
ment, and is conducted in the interest of
special tenets. At the beginning of our
206
Confessions of a Minister's Wife.
married life, I did not realize the alter-
natives which modern scholarship places
before the religious teacher. We are in
that transition period when old dogmas
are disputed, and essential truths are not
yet established. The young minister
soon finds himself facing two masters :
a sectarian system demands that he lend
himself to the idiosyncrasies of its creed ;
intellectual liberty cries imperatively,
" Prove all things ; hold fast that which
is good." Personal advantage requires
him to stand by the machine, just as it
requires the British army officer to stand
by the royal family. Promotion and
honor lie in this direction. His portrait
appears in the denominational paper.
His little successes are lauded and em-
phasized. Powerful churches make over-
tures for the pastorate. If, on the other
hand, this minister fails in sectarian
loyalty, the strength of the powerful ma-
chine is arrayed against him ; that which
was a savor of life unto life becomes a
savor of death unto death. He who re-
sists traditional theology becomes, in tech-
nical language, a " suspect," dangerous
to the harmony of the church. Every
parish is divided into factions, repre-
senting the " stationary class " and the
" party of movement." The former dom-
inates through the use of the machine.
The pastor sought by religious bodies is,
not the man of open vision, but he who
preaches the prevailing theology. No
persecution is so bitter, so brazen, so
heartless, as that occasioned by religious
prejudice. That the persecutors belong
to the stationary class is confirmed by
history. Were not the inquisitional fires
kindled for the preservation of the estab-
lished order ? The party of movement
in the church to-day is timid and half-
hearted. It keeps silence in the hope of
peace, or because its members have pri-
vate interests to conserve. Thus it comes
about that the minister who has chosen
to be honest, and is loyal to the deepest
convictions, must walk alone. So in-
tense is factional prejudice that anathe-
mas are hurled not only against the de-
fenseless victim, but against his family.
In a somewhat extended acquaintance
among the liberal fraternity, I have
learned that the wife of a suspect re-
ceives stony salutations from former
friends ; she is " cut dead " in a chance
shopping rencounter, is sedulously avoid-
ed at the social function.
As a result of the attitude of the
church, various types appear in her
priesthood. There is the conformist, who
resolutely stuffs his ears against the si-
ren of progress. He is, in this transi-
tion period, the only man who can be
happy in the clerical profession. It is
possible to so nurse our prejudices that
reason becomes inoperative. This type of
minister uses all the stereotyped phrase-
ology ; the mind of the hearer is con-
fused by mazes of speculative theology.
Yet the conformist has a large following.
Many are satisfied because accustomed
to the conventional forms of expression.
People in general do not want to have
thought challenged in religious service,
and " blind faith " is easy. The con-
gregation expects neither intellectual nor
spiritual help of the minister. The more
serious endure in silence or remain at
home. Peace and harmony prevail
throughout the parochial borders. It is
the peace and harmony of an autocracy,
where people are too superstitious or too
indifferent to rebel. Such priests bring
discredit on the profession. True it is
that some souls have found abiding peace
through, or in spite of, dogmatic theo-
logy. Others have been driven into in-
fidelity. The believe-what-you-cannot-
understand preacher is held in just con-
tempt by the more intelligent. I know
a minister of this sort who asked a mo-
ther, in anguish over the death of a six-
year-old son, " Did he understand the
plan of salvation ? "
Another type is the middle-of-the-
road minister. He has tasted of the
tree of the knowledge of good and evil,
but he wants to stay comfortably in his
Confessions of a Minister's Wife.
207
Garden of Eden. He adopts the world-
ly policy, " Have no opinions until you
are on the safe side of the dollar ques-
tion." His tones are stentorian in pro-
portion as they are insincere. In popu-
lar phraseology his oratorical efforts are
denominated " cant ; " in Scripture they
are " sounding brass or a tinkling cym-
bal." All the woes of Christ were ut-
tered against the hypocrite. For him
no gracious " Go in peace ; thy sins are
forgiven." The congregation may be de-
ceived, but what of the man who makes
a business of kneeling to false gods ?
Then we have the minister of pro-
found insight and open vision. He is
loyal to his deepest convictions, and gives
the truth without reservation. He es-
pouses unpopular reforms ; his dress is
that of a man among men ; he is never
seen in public places with a limp-covered
Bible under his arm. His manner is
unostentatious, his language simple and
direct, his eloquence that of genuine
purpose. Business men respect him.
Men and women say to him : " I never
before knew what it is to be a Christian.
You have made the religious life practi-
cal and genuine." Yet, strange to say,
things do not go well in the parish.
Some old lady misses the traditional
phraseology; the deacons fear the influ-
ence of practical teaching on the young ;
factional prejudices are roused ; pews are
given up, the salary is cut down ; here-
sy trials threaten. At last this honest
man cries out in bitterness, " With a
great price obtained I this liberty ! "
and sometimes, in loneliness of heart,
he exclaims, " My God, hast thou for-
saken me ? " Let the advocates of an
open pulpit and an open college inau-
gurate a bread-and-butter fund for the
maintenance of untrammeled preachers
and professors !
Another temptation to insincerity
meets both the minister and his wife on
the social side. They must be friends
of each member of the little flock. Now
friendship is not made to order ; it is the
spontaneous result of affinity. The can-
didates for parochial love may not al-
ways be lovable. They may be vulgar,
superstitious, ignorant, depraved, or even
hostile. The temptation is to assume an
interest which would not exist under
other circumstances. An acquaintance,
for many years a popular clergyman's
wife, has shown, since the death of her
husband, the prevalence of manufactured
interest. " Count me out now," she
says, very frankly. " I am not going to
church unless I feel like it. I am not
going to visit people whom I do not care
to know."
Passing from these general subjects,
let me speak of those which more in-
timately concern the minister's wife.
During these twenty years, the sense of
insecurity of position has been a con-
stant undertone of anxiety and an un-
failing shadow in the background of en-
deavor. The only parallel is the politi-
cian's tenure of office. The economic
principles which dominate the conduct
of other men are, with the minister,
entirely reversed. Any apparent effort
to better his condition is sure defeat.
Money cannot buy a pastorate ; ability
cannot secure one. The church gives to
its pastor quite as much as the pastor
gives to his people. The minister of a
prominent congregation occupies a posi-
tion of dignity quite beyond and inde-
pendent of personal merit. A minister
without charge is distrusted. He is Jean
Valjean with his yellow convict pass-
port. Hence the clerical rule, " Never
take up your foot until you know where
you are going to put it down." A min-
ister often endures untold indignities
and remains, when both he and the con-
gregation are secretly praying for deliv-
erance. The minister without charge
may be more desirable than he of the
parish. Personal selfishness induces one
to remain where his service is not desired.
Chivalrous feeling and self-respect cause
the other to retire. Moreover, the parish
is quite as often at fault as the minister.
208
Confessions of a Minister s Wife.
The process of gaining a new field is
often fraught with ignominy and humili-
ation. Some one has well said, " If there
be anything contingent in the Divine
Mind, it is what a church will do when
looking for a pastor." The first step is
to appoint a committee, whose business is
to scour the country for the right man
All churches are self-complacent, and,
however difficult the work, however mea-
gre the stipend, demand a first - class
preacher and pastor. The committee
of minister-tasters require months, and
sometimes years, of experimenting before
a nominee can be agreed upon. Then
his record is looked up, and a tentative
overture is made. The overture is care-
fully guarded, and the chairman discreet-
ly intimates that he has only the authority
of an advisory agent. A church does
not commit itself, however, without some
assurance of success. It is as if a youth
said to his maiden : " It is possible I may
wish to marry you. If I so decide, will
your answer be affirmative ? " His af-
firmation having been secured, the min-
ister may be jilted without even a cour-
teous explanation. " Candidating " is
now disclaimed by churches of reputa-
tion. Whatever the course adopted, whe-
ther the candidate appears openly in the
vacant pulpit or covertly preaches in a
neighboring church, or the congregation
act on the advice of the committee, the
case must be brought before the people
for final vote. Every detail concerning
this unhappy man is openly discussed in
the parish meeting, his health, his
age, his personal appearance, the quality
of his voice, his theological and political
opinions, his skill as an organizer, his
social gifts. His wife, also, must be a
discreet and godly person ; always wisely
helpful, but never officious. The one es-
sential, spiritual power and practical
righteousness, does not so much concern
these census takers. All the offensive
details of the parish meeting are talked
of in the streets and the corner grocery.
They are allowed to go into the hands
of the enterprising reporter, and, with
proper editorial embellishments, are
served to the general public. Doubtless
the law of causality operates in calling
a minister, but the effect is so remote,
so untraceable, that the outcome seems
more like fatalism. The range of crit-
icism extends from Alpha to Omega.
" Too damn pious ! " was the actual ver-
dict of an important member of an im-
portant congregation upon my husband.
A minister has been deposed for no
greater offense than subscribing to the
Outlook. A gifted preacher lost a pro-
minent church because one man, of me-
chanical mind and fat pocketbook, ob-
jected to a single sentence in the evening
sermon. The public, says Thackeray,
is a jackass. The average congregation,
to speak more civilly, is sadly lacking in
discrimination. Perhaps fifteen out of
one hundred catch the real thought of
the speaker. Defective hearing is the
cause of constant misapprehension and
misquotation. In other callings, con-
tracts are made between peers who have
equal advantage in the decision. In this
profession, the vote of a miss in her
teens, a timid old woman, a blundering
drayman, an unreasoning bigot, is as
powerful as that of the intelligent and
fair-minded. When factional passions
have been roused, the most objectionable
methods may be introduced into a par-
ish meeting ; and all this time the min-
ister in question is absolutely defense-
less. He has nothing of value in the
world except his character. This he
may see traduced, his motives impugned,
misconceptions unexplained, yet he must
remain silent.
The question of ways and means is
always serious in the minister's family.
Since the average salary is eight hun-
dred dollars, it follows that life with
average pastors is both frugal and stren-
uous. Most of them live from hand to
mouth, and are denied not only comforts,
but the equipment which is necessary
for intelligent work. The minister's
Confessions of a Ministers Wife.
209
tools are not simply pen and ink bot-
tle, but a library and current literature.
Their children are educated with great
difficulty, and for the " rainy day " they
must depend upon charitably disposed
neighbors or the fund for disabled min-
isters. The average lawyer has not only
a more generous income and less de-
mand for gratuitous service, but a longer
period of productive activity. This
time limit is the bete noire of the minis-
terial profession. After seven years of
specialized training, the theological grad-
uate must serve a period of apprentice-
ship in some obscure or indigent church,
where his latent possibilities are tested.
He makes the real start of life at the
age of thirty or over ; at forty-five the
shadows of coming dissolution stealthily
approach. The minister's period of ef-
fective service is therefore within the
radius of fifteen or twenty years. " The
old minister," says Ian Maclaren, "ought
to be shot," and the dead line is fixed at
fifty. In law, in medicine, in civil gov-
ernment, society demands men of wisdom
and experience. The church only gives
preference to striplings.
A business man said recently to my
husband, " I suppose that your fees are
a very considerable item in the annual
budget." " How much," he replied, u do
you imagine I receive from this source ?"
" Well, from eight hundred to one thou-
sand dollars per year." " That amount,"
said my husband, " would cover the fees
of my entire ministry." Perquisites are
confined almost entirely to the wedding
fee. Marriages are rare events in par-
ish history, and optional gratuity is mea-
gre. A five-dollar bill expresses the hap-
piness of the average bridegroom, and
fifteen dollars implies exuberance of joy.
Twice in our experience of twenty years
the bridegroom has reached the hundred
mark. Occasionally compensation is of-
fered for attendance upon funerals : no
right-minded man, however, accepts a
fee for service in the house of mourning.
The frequent imputation that minis-
VOL. LXXXVII. NO. 520. 14
ters have no sense of honor in financial
matters has led me to close observation
of their actual record. We have always
paid our bills like other people, and so do
our ministerial friends, even those living
on starvation salaries. Rebates are ex-
tremely rare. Indeed, I have learned
to avoid the milkman and coal dealer of
our own congregation, because the ordi-
nary protests against blue milk and light
weight are impossible. Clerical half
fares and " reductions to the cloth " are
unusual, and are more than balanced by
gratuitous service to the community.
I have often been commiserated upon
the peculiar and irksome duties of a pas-
tor's wife. The impression prevails that
the parsonage is an open house, where
chance guests appear at inopportune mo-
ments, and that the minister's wife is an
unsalaried assistant, a victim to female
prayer meetings and Dorcas Societies.
Never having met with injustices of this
' kind in my own experience, I have been
for some years in search of the abused
clergyman's wife, in both city and coun-
try parishes. I have come to the conclu-
sion that she is a myth. But I will speak
only for myself. Neither the parish nor
the public have presumed upon our hos-
pitality. Our house is an open house
only as we make it so. Instead of ask-
ing me to take up parish drudgeries, our
people have always shielded me from
them. Often they say, " You must not
do this, because you are the minister's
wife." So far as my observation goes,
the church makes no demand upon the
minister's wife ; what she does, or re-
frains from doing, is at her own volition.
I have no sympathy with those women
who say, " The church engaged my hus-
band, not me." The clergyman's wife
has the same interest in the church that
every loyal member feels, plus the inter-
est that every loyal wife has in her hus-
band's life work.
A parish, large or small, demands not
only the gift of tongues, but that of a
pastor and an administrator. The wife
210
Confessions of a Minister's Wife.
cooperates in these various functions.
She secures the study from interruption,
keeps in touch with theological litera-
ture, suggests references bearing on the
theme of the discourse, supplying, con-
sciously or unconsciously, the feminine
thought element. " Do you ever criti-
cise your husband?" I am sometimes
asked. Yes, from invocation to benedic-
tion, if there is aught to criticise. The
pastor is responsible for the movement
and efficiency of the entire organization.
His wife, as far as possible, should share
that responsibility. Never a baptismal
service that I do not casually ascertain if
the sexton has filled the font. The fem-
inine mind instinctively keeps track of
the sick, the disheartened, the malcon-
tent.
Pastoral calls, which formerly partook
of a religious nature, are now more pure-
ly social, and the tendency is to abandon
them entirely. Yet, in the world of af-
fairs, great stress is laid upon the social
instinct. A very indifferent preacher
may build up a strong congregation
through friendly visitations. A woman,
through her quick intuition, her tact
and native instinct, recognizes the social
needs of the parish, quickening and re-
inforcing the slower methods of the
masculine mind. " Where shall I call
to-day ? " is a frequent question. The
wise wife is ready with a carefully se-
lected list, and the battle is half fought.
At first I made calls with my husband.
I soon observed that our people always
preferred to talk with the minister. So
I learned to bid him Godspeed without
resentment or self-depreciation. Often
there are perplexities, doubts, sorrows,
and even joys, which can be better ex-
pressed to him in confidence. When I
call alone, I am received with undivided
cordiality. The minister's wife has per-
sonal interest in all the members of the
congregation, adapting herself to their
various needs, and helping each to the
best. The more courage, the more sym-
pathy, the more wisdom, the more spir-
itual illumination, the greater her min-
istry. As I recall my comrades among
all denominations, the one who fills my
ideal of a pastor's wife is a dear Meth-
odist sister, of sainted memory. She
wore a broche' shawl, a rusty black gown,
and an antiquated bonnet. But she had
the grace of God in her heart ; high and
low, rich and poor, lettered and unlet-
tered, sat at her feet.
General interest in the members of the
congregation is no bar to special and con-
genial friendship either within or outside
the parish. The only restraint I ever
feel is in relation to ethical and sociolo-
gical questions. When the trustees and
representative pewholders are engaged in
business trusts and combines, the minis-
ter's wife, at the Woman's Club, often
with a lurking sense of moral cowardice,
is wary of topics touching on private mo-
nopolies and strenuous reform. When
the prevailing sentiment is conservative,
she is too judicious to appear at a suf-
frage convention. However, the wife of
the lawyer, the physician, the editor, is
under similar bondage to a professional
clientage.
While the church stands preeminently
as a religious institution, it has a many-
sided life, social, educational, philan-
thropic. Ostensibly democratic, it yet
reflects the social aspirations of its mem-
bers. Thus we have an "aristocratic
congregation" and a "people's church."
In the aristocratic church, the Sunday
school is composed chiefly of mission
scholars. In this church, a reception is
a bore, the prayer meeting languishes,
and the congregation is " cold " toward
strangers. A healthy congregation is
composed largely of " plain people,"
who are the working bees of the re-
ligious hive. The commingling of all
sorts and conditions is desirable, because
they unconsciously modify each other.
The social life of a church is dominated
by women. How large a factor it has
become is indicated by ecclesiastical ar-
chitecture : a kitchen and a parlor are as
Confessions of a Minister's Wife.
211
necessary as the audience room. Many
families have no acquaintance outside
their parish. A sewing society, a fair,
a reception, is a social function ; even
the midweek meeting is a rallying point.
The character and number of social ac-
tivities depend largely upon the taste and
organizing instinct of the pastor. The
love of music, art, and literature is stim-
ulated by well-planned lecture courses.
Social functions, however, are usually
combined with financial schemes. A fair
has the double purpose of raising money
and bringing the congregation together.
An " active church " is one in which meet-
ings of various kinds are so continuous
that the saints can boast that the fire
never goes out on the altar.
Naturally, more or less of the caste
spirit prevails in religious organizations.
Superior learning, superior wealth, fos-
ter the exclusive spirit and excite jeal-
ousy. There is always a class who com-
plain that they are not " noticed " as
often as a Lady Bountiful with arm's-
length patronage. I have much sympa-
thy with the unnoticed set, having seen,
in the vicissitudes of parish history, how
the obscure may become popular, and
the popular may be in turn relegated to
obscurity. For many years one of these
unobserved members was constantly on
my heart. Through legal technicalities
she had lost her property, and, in a
humble way, she worked out her own
salvation. Whenever this brave soul
appeared in the prayer meeting, I tried,
gently, to jog the memory of former ac-
quaintances. Not even our good deacons
could remember her from week to week.
But when this unobserved sister finally
married a wealthy banker, and took a
seat in the middle aisle, my duties as
mentor came to a perpetual end.
If the principal work of each genera-
tion is the training of the next, the pre-
sent-day Sunday school as an educational
institution must be pronounced a failure.
The great development of the pedago-
gical profession has not yet penetrated
this department of ecclesiastics. While
we cannot hope to have a satisfactory
Sunday school until parents send their
children with regularity and seriousness
of purpose, neither can we expect pa-
rental cooperation until we offer instruc-
tion as intelligent as that of day schools.
Sometimes I have rebelled against their
futile if not pernicious influence. In our
home, we have endeavored to surround
our children with literature, music, and
art, of unquestioned value. Schools and
teachers have been carefully selected. In
the Sunday school, the " lesson charts "
are crude in line and color, and grotesque
in conception. When I have tried to
introduce illustrations of acknowledged
artistic merit, I have been baffled by the
announcement of the Sunday-school pub-
lisher, " It will not pay." Our hymno-
dy is doctrinal in bias, maudlin in senti-
ment, and cheap in melody.
Yet these are trivial factors compared
with the religious concepts of the aver-
age teacher : perhaps a young miss, ig-
norant of the Bible and of ethical princi-
ples ; perhaps a veteran, who can quote
Scripture from Genesis to Revelation,
while quite devoid of spiritual insight.
Often I have secretly rejoiced at the
marching drills and mechanics of the
infant department, because they leave
little time for religious instruction. It
has been a hard fight to undo the im-
pressions made on our children by some
of these well-meaning teachers : a God
who dwells far away in the sky ; a
Heavenly Father who loves only good
children ; a book of remembrance in
which are recorded every naughty word
and thought. Here and there, indeed,
I have found teachers of rare grace
and intelligence, and these qualities are
quickly recognized.
I have been connected with many La-
dies' Aids and Woman's Guilds. Aside
from the purpose of swelling the funds
of the Lord's treasury, it has seemed to
me that these societies exist in order to
hold meetings. Successful meetings are
212
Confessions of a Minister's Wife.
impossible without a genuine purpose.
So the first care of the officers is to in-
augurate linger occupation. It is a great
boon when a destitute family must be
sewed up, or a charitable institution ap-
peals for pillowcases, or a missionary
box is to be filled. But any effort to
remove the causes of poverty and suffer-
ing, like temperance work or socio-
logical reform, this kind of " Ladies'
Aid " I have never seen. The benevo-
lences of the church are not yet con-
ducted in the scientific spirit ; their aim
is palliative, not curative.
For many years I have been an offi-
cer on the Board of Missions, and every-
where I have found indifference. The
aggregate of contributions to foreign
missions amounts annually to millions
of dollars. Yet I venture to say that
if we knew the history of each individ-
ual dollar, very few would prove a lov-
ing, genuine gift. I myself have given
chiefly because my position demanded
it. These enormous contributions are
not the spontaneous offerings of the
church. They represent the intense in-
terest of a few individuals. These indi-
viduals are always women. They spur
on the minister, hector the rich, stimu-
late the poor, quicken the conscienceless.
In a certain church which had failed to
raise its apportionment, one lowly, ear-
nest woman, at the eleventh hour, went
from house to house and secured the
quota. So far as I could discover, the
contributors felt more compassion for
the woman than interest in the cause ;
or they were wearied by her importuni-
ty. The case is typical. The Woman's
Boards in all denominations are admi-
rably organized societies, with frequent
local meetings, annual and semiannual
rallies. The officers have personal re-
lations with the higher ecclesiastical func-
tionaries, and are zealous in filling all
pledges to the Board. A woman may
hold office in a missionary society, and
even speak at its public meetings, with-
out danger of social ostracism, as in tem-
perance work. Indeed, I often think
that our officers enjoy their little arena.
I am persuaded that our Woman's
Boards foster the denominational spirit ;
for if the majority of a congregation
should reach that stage of spiritual de-
velopment in which sectarian interest
were lost in zeal for the kingdom of right-
eousness, the fealty of the Woman's
Board would prevent practical steps to-
ward comity. Federation of the de-
nominations at home is more likely to
come at the instance of the missionary
abroad. He sees the waste of money
and the waste of spiritual power which
spring from divided effort, while we at
home have our eyes fastened upon the
ledger books of our Missionary Boards.
Do I, then, not believe in missions ?
Yes, in the development of the religious
life which is found among all peoples.
Do I not love the church ? There is
no choice. " Wherever one hand reaches
out to help another, there is the church
of God."
Do I depreciate creeds ? Yes, every
creed which I may not restate in accord-
ance with the demands of my growing
spiritual nature.
Do I honor the Christian minister ?
Yes, the prophet, but not the priest.
Am I a pessimist ? No. The pessi-
mist has no future. His world is either
stationary or retreating. My world is
advancing and triumphing, as I grow
into sympathy with the order and wis-
dom and goodness which impel the uni-
verse.
Mr. Smedley^s Guest.
213
MR. SMEDLEY'S GUEST.
THE Honorable B. Jerome Smedley
was in a contented mood, for him, to
whom such moods came seldom. The
great firm of Barlow Brothers & Co.
had gone to the wall, drawing with it a
score of lesser houses, and the business
world had not yet recovered from the
shock. Smedley's bank had been ad-
vancing money to the firm for two years
past, and the failure had resulted from
his deliberate policy. That very morn-
ing, Barlow senior had accused him of
ruining the house under the pretense of
aiding it, and Smedley had smiled a
self-depreciating smile, as though the
honor were too great for his modest abili-
ty. He held mortgages covering every
available asset of the firm, and already
had perfected a plan for its reorganiza-
tion under his own management. If it
were not for the action of the leather
trust, which had stiffened the price of
hides materially, and the rumor of an-
other disgraceful escapade on the part
of his stepson, Mr. H. Stillwell Barker,
Smedley believed he should have been
quite happy. As it was, he was disposed
to make the best of what he had, and
for an hour or two, at least, to give him-
self up to the enjoyment of his present
success.
He was seated at the dinner table, in
company with his wife and stepdaughter,
Miss Maude Barker, but so busy was he
in mentally recounting the various steps
in the reorganization of Barlow Brothers
& Co. under the direction of the Smedley
Improvement Co. that he hardly noticed
the two ladies. They were going out for
the evening, and as he and his wife had
already had a difference of opinion over
his declining to accompany them, the
silence at the table was broken only by
the subdued discussion between the mo-
ther and daughter of some detail in the
latter's costume.
Whether it was that Smedley had
been out of his office and in the open air
more than usual that day, or had been
affected by the successful result of his
labors in the direction of the Barlow
Brothers & Co. assets, he had come to
the dinner table with more than his cus-
tomary appetite. It so frequently hap-
pened that he had little or no appetite
that when the condition was reversed
he indulged himself freely. He would
have repudiated the assertion that he
was not strong and hearty. He had
commenced to grow somewhat rotund,
and when obliged to walk up a flight of
stairs he arrived at the top puffing and
blowing badly. The gray hair had left
the top of his head, and gathered around
the sides and back, where it curled up
in little waves to the height not covered
by his hat. His face still had a hearty
look, but the red in his cheeks seemed
to be more mottled than formerly, and
sometimes took on a purple hue. His
wife had told him, on one occasion, when
they had been discussing some family
matter and his face had colored more
fiercely than usual, that if he were not
careful he would have apoplexy. His
family physician, however, had assured
him that it was only his liver, and had
given him some medicine, which occa-
sionally he took in a surreptitious man-
ner, not wishing to attract his wife's at-
tention.
He leaned back in his chair now, and
looked thoughtfully at the large, dark
oil portrait of his wife's father, the late
Judge Stillwell, on the wall before him.
The wife and daughter retired : the lat-
ter in silence ; the former with a remark
that was intended to, and did, recall to
his mind the entire course of her argu-
ment used to induce him to accompany
them that evening. He said nothing.
He had enjoyed his dinner, and he was
214
Mr. Smedley's Guest.
in such a contented frame of mind that
he did not wish to be forced into con-
versation. And he had learned long
since that to answer certain remarks of
his wife's was to bring on discussions
which frequently terminated by leaving
him in an ill humor, and without affect-
ing in the slightest degree the objects
he had in view. So he sighed gently,
and kept his eyes fixed steadily upon
the countenance of his departed father-
in-law. When he was alone he called
the butler, and sent him for a bottle
of wine. It was not likely that Mrs.
Smedley would return to the dining
room, and, whether she did or not, he
felt that he had fairly earned the right
to enjoy the wine in peace. The suc-
cessful result of the day's work, the din-
ner he had eaten, and the fact that he
would have several troublesome matters
to take up and dispose of on the mor-
row united in convincing him that for
the present he should permit himself an
added pleasure. He was not going out
that evening, and he would therefore re-
main where he was, and later, after the
ladies of his household had departed,
slip into the library, and finish the wine
in the company of a cigar and a news-
paper.
The wine came, and was sipped. The
servant was dismissed, and again the
large features of the deceased member
of the state judiciary became the object
of Smedley's speculative gaze. He took
his third glass of wine, settled a little more
comfortably in his chair, and thought he
heard the carriage drive up for his wife
and daughter. He closed his eyes as he
listened, and from the sound of the car-
riage wheels his mind traveled to other
sounds and sights lying half hidden in
the borderland of sleep, and then, still
thinking busily, passed on into the dark-
ness where dreams are born.
Ten minutes later he opened his eyes
with a start, to find the butler standing
before him with a card in his hand. He
stared at the man for a moment, vainly
trying to shake off the remnants of sleep
and realize where he was. Then he
freed himself, and as he did so gave the
butler a suspicious glance, to discover
whether the servant had seen that he
was asleep. The butler's face was un-
moved, but as he delivered the card he
looked a trifle embarrassed, and said :
" The gentlemun is at the door, sir.
'E insisted on comin' to you at once.
'E said 'e was un ole friend, sir, quite
one of the family, an' 'twood be all
right." .
Smedley glanced at the card and fum-
bled for his glasses, wondering, with his
mind not yet fully cleared of the fog of
sleep, how the butler had happened to
make such an unusual departure from
his routine. The man stepped over and
brought the glasses out from under his
master's arm, where they had fallen dur-
ing his brief nap. The act was done with
the deferential tact of the well-trained
servant, and Smedley was spared the
slightest intimation that he was becoming
stout and helpless. Before he could ad-
just the glasses the door opened, and he
looked up. His guest had, indeed, fol-
lowed closely upon the servant's heels,
and, giving Smedley but a moment in
which to read his card, had entered the
dining room in search of him.
Smedley gazed at the visitor with an
expression which hardly concealed his
open curiosity. The man was not tall,
though his somewhat spare figure gave
him that appearance. He was well pre-
served, and appeared to be a thoughtful,
scholarly man, who had spent much of
his life in the open air. Clearly not a
laborer, he yet had about him something
of the air of one accustomed to out-of-
door work. But it was his face that
most impressed Smedley. He was a
good judge of character, and the face
was one to attract attention from a per-
son less skilled in reading men. It was
a smooth, dark face, surmounted by a
mass of iron-gray hair, the face of a
strong man. who had seen his full share
Mr. Smedley's Guest.
215
of care and trouble ; but the lines about
the mouth and eyes, and especially the
eyes themselves, showed one who was at
peace with himself and the world he
lived in. All this Smedley felt rather
than saw. What most impressed him
was the striking resemblance the man
bore to some one he had seen before.
He felt that he must have known either
this man or some one looking very much
like him. The stranger smiled, his face
lighting up with pleasure, and advanced
with extended hand.
"Of course you'll pardon me," he
said ; " but I really could n't bear to
think of waiting to see you, so I came
right in."
His voice struck Smedley as familiar,
and he decided that this was some one
he had known and forgotten, a common
occurrence in a life so varied and busy as
his had been. He felt that it was too
late to adjust his glasses and look at the
card, so he put the best face he could
upon the matter, and pushed back his
chair. The butler assisted him, and he
rose to his feet.
" Yes," he replied, shaking hands
with the visitor, and noting that, though
plainly dressed, he had the air and ap-
pearance of a person of no mean stand-
ing in his own world, " I 'm glad you
did n't wait. I just stopped after din-
ner to take a little wine. My wife and
daughter have gone out, I think ; so if
you will come into the library, I can make
you quite at home."
He told the butler to bring another
bottle of wine and some cigars, and,
carelessly slipping the visitor's card into
his pocket, led the way into the other
part of the house.
" Do you know, I believe I should
have recognized your face anywhere,"
remarked Smedley, when they were
seated. There was something very tak-
ing about his guest, and he warmed to
him instinctively.
" It 's hardly to be wondered at, I
suppose," answered the stranger, with the
same winning smile. " And I can't tell
you how glad I am to see you so com-
fortably situated here. It must be some
compensation, I should think."
Smedley thought this remark a trifle
uncalled for. Still, his guest had the
air of a Westerner, and was probably
accustomed to unconventional forms of
intercourse ; and then, plenty of people
could imagine the cares and trials that
Smedley's large business interests im-
posed upon him. It did not follow that
reference was being made to his wife and
her children. Anyway, it was impossi-
ble to be offended with this frank, honest,
pleasant gentleman, who seemed to know
him so well.
" Yes, it is," said Smedley, glancing
about the room with satisfaction. "I
took quite a little pleasure in arranging
the house, though it was altered a good
deal after my wife came to see it. I real-
ly enjoy my country place out at Shady
Grove better. It 's an ideal retreat. I
planned it before I was married for a sort
of bachelor quarters ; but since Shady
Grove has become a fashionable place,
we that is, my wife and her daughter
spend considerable time there."
Smedley was busily going over in his
mind all the old acquaintances he thought
he had forgotten, in an effort to identify
the stranger. After his own apparent
recognition he could not make up his
mind to ask him his name, and the longer
he delayed the more impossible the ques-
tion became.
" Do you know," he remarked, by way
of edging around toward something that
would enlighten him, " you remind me
strongly of my brother."
" Your brother George, you mean ? "
inquired the other. " Will was too young
when he died for me to resemble him
much, I suppose. Yes, I think I do
look like George. I think it 's hardly to
be wondered at, being a a relative, as
I am."
" A relative ! " said Smedley to him-
self, more puzzled than before.
216
Mr. Smedletfs Guest.
" When when did you see George
for the last time ? " he asked, deciding
to plunge after a clue.
" Oh, I was with him when he died,"
answered his companion. And Smed-
ley, glancing up quickly, noticed his vet-
eran's bronze button. His brother had
been killed at Gettysburg. The stran-
ger's face took on a tender look, as his
eyes traveled back to the scene he spoke
of. " It was during the cannonading
that preceded Pickett's charge," he said.
" We were ordered up to strengthen the
line that was meeting the attack, and it
was then I found him. They had dragged
him into a fence corner, and he was dy-
ing there, all alone, when I came upon
him. I have always been thankful I
was privileged to be there at that time.
He recognized me, though he could n't
say much, and he died with his head on
my knee."
The speaker's eyes moistened, and
Smedley felt something stirring in his
breast.
" You you I 'm very glad I 've
had a chance to see you," he said earnest-
ly. " I 'm glad some one you were
there. I used to have a sort of guilty
feeling about my brother's death. I 'm
glad to know, even after all these years,
that he was n't alone when he died. He
was younger than I, you know, and al-
ways seemed to depend upon me, some-
how " He checked himself. " Let
me see ; what regiment were you in ? "
he asked.
"The Sixty-Ninth," said the stranger.
" Oh yes. Of course. My old regi-
ment." And Smedley stopped as he saw
the blunder lie had made. This, then,
was an old comrade. " You were pro-
moted after I was transferred, were n't
you ? " That certainly was a safe re-
mark.
"Yes," replied the other. "I was
made a major after you secured that
place in the Commissary Department at
Washington. You were transferred in
'62, 1 think. That was really where we
parted." (Smedley was trying to recall
the majors of the Sixty-Ninth.) " You
remember the colonel," continued the
guest, " old Plimmer ? He lost his
leg on the first day at Gettysburg."
" And then you "
" Yes, I had charge of the men after
that. I stayed with them until the Wil-
derness."
" Were you with them when they made
that great stand during the first day
there," asked Srnedley, " when they were
all cut up ? "
" Yes," answered the other quietly. " I
received a brevet for that ; but my wound
did n't heal rapidly, and I could n't get
back again until it was all over."
" Then you must have known Furner,"
remarked the host, still trying to discover
the man's identity without disclosing his
own ignorance. " Furner took my com-
pany after I left, and was in command
of the regiment during the last campaign.
He was in charge when they did that
great fighting on the first day in the Wil-
derness."
" I was in command there," said the
stranger quietly. "He took my place
the next day, after I was wounded."
Smedley knew well that Furner had
been in command on that day. Only
last fall he had heard Furner's war re-
cord eulogized in a political campaign
speech, with a detailed description of how
Furner, and Furner alone, had rallied
the remnant of the regiment, and held
the entire rebel right wing in check.
" Saved the Union right there," Furner's
advocate had declared. Smedley looked
at his guest. The stranger's face was as
calm as a child's. If the man was tell-
ing what was untrue, he was doing so in
perfect innocence ; there was no ques-
tion as to that. Smedley was too keen
a judge of men, and he already had
too sympathetic a feeling for this man's
moods, to be deceived. The man was
uttering what he felt to be the truth.
And now the question came again, Who
was this man ?
Mr. Smedley's Guest.
217
The guest continued to talk of the
war days and the old regiment, and
Smedley listened with a growing feeling
of interest in him. He could not un-
derstand the influence this man exerted
over him. It was something he had
never experienced before. He felt that
the stranger thoroughly understood him,
and that in some degree he himself was
in sympathy with his guest. The but-
ler entered with the wine and cigars.
The visitor declined the wine, but light-
ed a cigar.
" Maybe you 'd prefer whiskey ? " sug-
gested Smedley, pausing as he filled his
own glass. " I always like port after
dinner, myself. Oh, you don't drink ?
Strange, for an old soldier. Teetotaler,
are you ? "
" It 's more a matter of taste with me,"
answered the other quietly. " Most peo-
ple have an aversion for certain kinds of
food and drink, you know, and I dislike
liquor. And, of course," he added, look-
ing thoughtfully at Smedley as he sipped
his wine, " there is, with some tempera-
ments, the danger of excess."
Smedley set down his glass. He was
not offended at any insinuation the re-
mark might contain. It was impossible
to be offended with this man. But he
remembered that his wife, with whom it
was not impossible to be offended, had
made much the same observation. He
changed the subject.
" What have you been doing since the
war ? " he asked. He was interested in
this old friend, even though for the mo-
ment he did not know his name.
" Oh, I have followed up the start you
gave me," said his guest. " You made
a very good beginning ; better, I have
been inclined to think, than you or any
one else guessed at the time. Just now
I am at work on a new edition of my
poems. I have n't published anything
in the way of a collection in ten or fif-
teen years. The last volume contained
my earlier work, and some of the best
of yours."
u Eh ! " exclaimed Smedley, in sur-
prise.
" Yes," continued the other, in the
most natural manner. " I included a
number of your verses. My Lady's
Glove, The Old Bridge, and The Cloud
were the best of them. You remember
The Cloud? You wrote it during the
summer of '59, when you were out at
the old farm. I consider it really one
of the best in the collection. I have
hardly surpassed it, I think, in the best
of my own more mature work."
Smedley gasped. A rush of old memo-
ries came over him, and he saw his youth
again. He saw the old home, the old
friends, and the old occupations, and re-
membered, for the first time in years,
the crude, boyish verses he used to scrib-
ble in the idle days when home from col-
lege. His surprise that this man should
have known of those youthful verses, and
have used them in a book of his own, was
lost in the greater surprise that any of
them should have been deemed worthy
of preservation.
" You take little interest in poetry
now, I fancy," said the visitor, with a
peculiar smile.
" No-o," answered Smedley slowly.
" I find hardly any time for it. My
daughter, Miss Barker, makes rather a
fad of it. She admires the modern poets,
the dialect ones, you know. But I
never see much in them, myself. Those
that are n't unintelligible seem to be
using their lines to write editorials that
could be done better by the newspapers.
I 'm obliged to confess that I 'm not very
familiar with your work."
" Yes, I suppose that is to be expect-
ed," said the other ; and Smedley tried
in vain to fathom the meaning of his pe-
culiar smile.
" You find it pays ? " he inquired.
" There 's money in it ? "
" I find it ' pays ' me," replied his
companion, slightly emphasizing the last
word. " There would n't be money
enough in it for you ; but tastes differ.
218
Mr. Smedley's Guest.
As for that, it used to pay ' me, as you
call it, in the early days, when I had to
work at something else to earn my bread.
It is my life, you know, and one does n't
estimate his life by the number of dollars
lie gets for it."
Smedley felt that he had been gently
rebuked, and was silent, emptying his
glass in an absent, preoccupied manner.
" I declare," said the visitor suddenly,
" I nearly forgot my wife. I told her I
would come around here and get you to
come over to the house. I 've been so
interested in visiting with you that it
nearly slipped my mind. She is very
anxious to see you."
" Oh, do you live here ? " asked Smed-
ley.
" We have been staying in town for
some time past," he answered. " My
publishers are here, and I found it more
convenient to be near by while my book
was being brought out. Our home is
in Michigan. Don't refuse," he urged,
as Smedley began to frame an apology.
" We shall hardly have another chance
to be together. My wife is very anxious
to see you again."
Smedley hesitated. "Your wife
was "
" Oh, did n't you know ? She was
Mary Alden."
" Indeed," exclaimed Smedley, his
face lighting up, " I should very much
like to see her again ! Why, do you
know," with a little laugh, " I think she
came very near being my wife. I always
thought that if I 'd gone home, when I
got that leave of absence in the summer
of '62, I should have married her, or at
least have tried to. But I went to Wash-
ington instead, and spent most of the
time in pulling wires for that place in
the Commissary Department. I never
saw her again. How long ago it seems !
Has she changed much ? "
" Much less than you have," said the
stranger, rising to accompany him.
On the street Smedley returned to
the subject. " I heard in a roundabout
way that she went West after the war,
and died there. I had always supposed
she never married."
" You did n't return to the old home
after the war ? " inquired his companion.
" No. I was pretty busy then. You
see, I had left the service, and was get-
ting contracts for government supplies.
I had a good many irons in the fire, and
could n't get away. That was where I
got my first start in a financial way, you
know. We did n't correspond very regu-
larly during the last years of the war.
I was traveling about quite a little, and
so finally we ceased writing."
They walked on in silence.
" She was quite my ideal of what a
woman ought to be," remarked Smedley,
in a retrospective tone, half to himself.
" She is mine still," said his compan-
ion. " All that I am I owe to her."
" I don't wonder at it," replied Smed-
ley earnestly. " How time changes us ! "
he added. " Now at one time I thought
I was in love with her. I dare say I did
love her as much as a boy can love a
girl. But I was an impulsive sort of a
chap in those days."
" I think that was one thing that made
her love you as she did."
" Did she love me ? " inquired the old
gentleman. " Well, well, I never that
is, I did n't really believe she thought
much of me. Still, my going off to the
war that way might have made her care
for me more than " He was silent,
his mind busy with the pictures his words
had conjured up out of the past.
" Her family were rather inferior peo-
ple," said his companion, " though they
were self-respecting enough. They had
no wealth or position, you know."
" No, that 's so," answered Smedley
more briskly. " And, of course, in those
days I was hardly in a position to marry,
anyway." And they walked on in si-
lence.
The house into which Smedley's com-
panion introduced him had been rented
ready furnished, but it contained artistic
Mr. Smedley s Guest.
219
touches that gave Smedley a higher opin-
ion of the culture of its occupants. There
was about it, also, a homelike air which
he had never found in his own house.
He was strangely moved when his com-
panion's wife came forward to greet him.
The beautiful face of the girl he had
known was gone, but in its place was the
face of a mature woman who had grown
beautiful through a life of loving service
to her husband and children. The brown
hair was getting a little gray about the
temples, time had left loving marks on
the face, and the laughter in the blue
eyes had given place to a steadier, more
thoughtful expression.
"I I am very glad to meet you
again," said Smedley, taking her hand.
She smiled quite in her old way, yet
with something so calm and restful about
the greeting that Smedley guessed where
her husband had acquired his notably
peaceful manner.
" I thought we might never meet," she
answered. " It is indeed a great plea-
sure."
She glanced from his face to that of
her husband, and back again, as though
comparing them. She sighed a little,
and Smedley thought there was some-
thing of pity in the look she gave him.
" You enjoy it," she asked, " your
present life ? "
" Oh yes," replied Smedley, thinking
of the affairs of Barlow Brothers & Co.
" It keeps me pretty busy, of course,
and I don't have much time for reading
and that sort of thing," he cast his eyes
over the array of books in the room,
" but I find I don't miss it so much as I
used to suppose I should. One's tastes
change with time, I think."
" Yes, indeed," she said, giving him
that peculiar look again. "And your
home life," she inquired, as they seated
themselves, " that is pleasant ? " How
like her old way of questioning him !
"Quite so," he said a little stiffly.
" Of course, I am not at home much of
the time, and my wife and her daughter
go out a good deal. My stepson does
does not live at home. I don't go
into society much myself, though. I find
I 'm a little tired at the end of the day,
and I usually stop at home or stay down
at the club."
She asked him about old friends whose
names and faces he supposed he had for-
gotten, and she told him of many of
whom he had lost track. Yes, she in-
formed him, they had three children liv-
ing. He must have heard of their son,
who was winning a name as a lawyer in
Chicago. One daughter was married,
she told him, and the other, the youngest
of the family, was with them. The lady
had been looking over the proof sheets
of the volume of poems her husband had
mentioned, and they were scattered about
on the table.
" How do you like Bertram's poems ? "
she asked.
Smedley knew in a vague way that
Bertram was considered one of the lead-
ing American poets. He had heard his
stepdaughter speak of him many times,
and believed that his poems had been
the subject of study by the members of
her literary club. The question was
quite like the stereotyped phrases he had
heard in society. He himself had never
read any of the man's work, and was
inclined to rate him with the other un-
interesting writers of weak verse.
" I really know little about his work,"
he answered. " My daughter professes
to be quite fond of his poems, but, as I
said, I have so little time for reading that
I don't pretend to keep up with current
literature. I have to read the newspa-
pers, but, aside from a magazine or two,
that 's about all the reading I do."
His careless tone seemed to hurt her,
and he saw the same look of mingled
regret and pity that she had given him
before.
" I dare say he 's better than many of
them," added Smedley, thinking his tone
might have jarred on her finer feelings.
" I have really thought of getting a copy
220
Mr. Smedley's Guest
of his poems and looking them over.
It 's so difficult to judge from hearsay."
She turned to her husband. " Why,
he does n't know," she said ; and her
look seemed one of regret, not that he
was ignorant, but that he was content to
remain so.
"Mary was referring to me," ex-
plained his host. " I usually write un-
der the name * Bertram.' But she was
speaking of me by my own name, without
thinking you were unfamiliar with it."
" Then you you are the * Bertram '
we hear so much about ? " asked Smed-
ley, in astonishment.
' Yes," replied the other quietly.
" You always signed your verses and
early letters ' Bertram,' you know. I see
you have dropped the first name, of late
years. I kept up the custom, and have
signed most of my later work in the
same way."
Smedley's astonishment gave place to
embarrassment at finding that his friend
was " the great Bertram," as his daugh-
ter would say. Glancing toward the
piano, he changed the subject by asking
if his hostess still played. " Your play-
ing used to have a great charm for me,"
he remarked.
She smiled and shook her head. " I
have given that up," she said. " But I
will have my daughter come and play
for you. I think I heard her come in
just now. I should like you to see her.
Bertram thinks she looks much as I used
to when we were young together."
She stepped out, and returned in a
few moments, followed by a young girl
about eighteen years of age.
" This is my daughter Mary, Mr.
Smedley," she said.
The old gentleman rose to his feet,
and gazed at the girl with a strange look
in his eyes. For a moment the years
seemed to have rolled away, and there
before him stood the girl he had known
in his youth : the same waving brown
hair and deep blue eyes, the same beau-
tiful face and graceful young figure, and,
more than all, the same familiar air ; the
pose of the head and the expression in
the eyes, the smile, the bow with which
she greeted him, all, all were the same.
Smedley's eyes moistened. He turned
to her mother. " She is very like you,"
he said ; and then to the daughter, " My
dar, I am very happy to meet you."
He kept his eyes upon her and fol-
lowed her movement across the room ;
and later, when she had seated herself
at the piano and commenced to play, he
crossed over and turned the music for
her. She seemed to know he would like
old songs the best, and, taking up a well-
worn, old-fashioned song book, which
she explained had been her mother's, she
played and sang several of the gentle,
sweet, old - time melodies that were
linked in his mind with the days that
were gone. The old songs, sung by a
clear, youthful voice that he remembered
so well, the sight of the old book whose
pages he had so often turned before,
and, more than all, the presence of the
fresh young creature at his side made
him feel for the time that he really was
a boy again. He wiped his eyes quiet-
ly when he took his seat, and his voice
broke a little as he tried to thank her
for the music.
Then the three older people sat and
talked of the past, and the girl, still
seated at the piano, listened with inter-
est, and occasionally, at the suggestion
of her mother, played or sang a verse
or two ; the music, to the ears of the
guest, seeming to come directly out of
the past. It was with genuine regret
that he found himself obliged to leave.
The peaceful air of the little family cir-
cle no less than the half-sad memories
of the past had moved him more deeply
than he had supposed possible. For
two hours he had entirely forgotten his
business and his family, and during all
that time he had not once recalled the
fact that he was ignorant of his host's
name. The poet insisted upon walking
back with him.
Mr. Smedley's Guest.
221
" I must see you again," said Smed-
ley to his hostess, pausing at the door
as he took his leave. " You must "
he smothered the thought of possible
opposition from his wife and daughter
" you must come and see me at my
home. I '11 have my wife invite you to
dinner." He was ignorant of the way
his wife would make this lady's ac-
quaintance, but a dinner always appealed
to him.
" Thank you very much," answered his
hostess. " I 'm afraid we cannot have
that happiness. I do not suppose we
shall meet again. This has been a great
pleasure. I am so glad to have seen
you, to have seen that you were a
doing so well. I wish that we might
see each other of tener, that we might
But there, we need not look at what is
not and cannot be. Think only of this
evening. I hope you will not forget it
or forget us."
"I shall never forget you and your
husband," replied Smedley earnestly.
" But why "
" I can explain that on the way back,"
said the poet.
" Good-night," said Smedley to the
lady, " and, if I must say it now, good-
by." He took her hand and bent low
over it in the courteous style of other
days, and there were tears in his eyes
when he turned away and joined his
companion.
The poet did not speak at first, and
Smedley felt better pleased with silence.
After a time, as they walked on, his
friend called attention to the moon, which
swung high over the city streets, and
seemed sailing through masses of golden
cloud. "Even here," he said gently,
" where everything is so artificial, one
can find the beauties of nature by sim-
ply looking up." But Smedley's mind
was too busy with the events of the even-
ing to heed what he said.
When they reached the house, his
companion would have paused at the
door, but Smedley urged him to step
inside. Preceding him into the hall, he
noticed that the dining-room door was
ajar. He opened it and looked in. A
single electric globe dimly lighted the
apartment, and Smedley saw the half-
emptied bottle on the table, at his plate.
His chair was still pushed back from its
place. Evidently, the servants had not
been in the room since he left. He
crossed over to the table, and laid his
hand on the bottle.
" It 's still cold," he said, in some sur-
prise. " Won't you have Oh, I for-
got. You don't care for wine. Well, if
you'll pardon me," he poured out a
glass, " I '11 take a little myself. You
see, I 'm so shut up in the office that I
don't get much exercise, and that was
quite a walk. Really, I feel more tired
than I thought."
He seated himself in the chair, drew
a long breath, and, resting his elbow on
the table, held up the wineglass before
his eye.
" I 'm sorry you 're to leave town so
soon," he remarked, sipping a little and
setting the glass down. " I want to see
more of you. I 've never enjoyed an
evening so much in my life."
" It was like my wife to wish you not
to forget us," said his companion, stand-
ing near the door, ready to depart. " But
it seems to me you would do better not
to take her too seriously. I think you
would better forget us ; forget me, at
any rate. You see, I could not but in-
terfere with your business, and, though I
don't know the trend of your thoughts
and ambitions, at the best I must exert
on you what I might call a weakening
influence. It seems that it must be so.
At all events, don't be led to vain re-
gret. I can't say there 's danger,"
he smiled modestly, " but, whatever
may remain to you of our meeting, ap-
ply it to the future, not to the past. For
the future, you know, is all we have.
We ourselves are held by the past ; we
hold only the future. Good-night."
" Stop ! " cried Smedley. " Don't go
222
Outlook.
yet. I I want to thank you. You
have given me a great pleasure this
evening. Leave me your address. I
must not lose track of you. I must
write to you. If we cannot meet again,
we can "
" No," responded the other, " it will
be impossible. It is better so, I think."
He approached the chair and held out
his hand. " Good-by."
" Good-by," said Smedley, and then
added : " Do you know, I don't remem-
ber your real name. I "
" Ah ! " exclaimed the guest. " I
thought once or twice you seemed hard-
ly to understand. You have my card ? "
Smedley took it from his pocket, and
felt for his glasses. Not finding them,
he turned to his friend. " You are "
" Bertram J. Smedley," answered the
poet quietly.
Smedley frowned, and looked at him
with a puzzled expression. "I don't
understand," he said.
" I am the man you might have been,"
replied his companion.
" No, no. No joking," insisted Smed-
ley. " That would make you a myth.
You are real. You are alive, you
know." He took a bit of the other's coat
sleeve between his thumb and finger, as
though testing the quality of the cloth.
" That would be quite absurd," he said.
" It is true," declared the visitor, re-
tiring. " Good-night."
Smedley gazed after him, saw him
pass out and close the door behind him,
and sat looking at the door until he heard
the outer hall door open and close. He
felt dazed. He could not understand it.
He glanced at the card in his hand.
That, at all events, was real. He fum-
bled for his glasses again. Then the
door opened, and, glancing up, he saw
his wife enter. She was in evening
dress, with an opera cloak over her
shoulders.
" You here still ! " she said somewhat
sharply. " I should think you would be
ashamed of yourself. This is too bad.
I believe you have n't stirred from that
chair since dinner. I hope you have n't
drunk all the wine that 's gone from that
bottle. You look as though you 'd been
asleep."
" I have had a caller," explained
Smedley. " I have spent the evening
with him."
But his wife looked skeptical. "In
the dining room ? " she inquired. " Who
was he ? "
Smedley found his glasses and adjust-
ed them. " His name was " He
glanced at the card and stopped. The
name on the card was " B. Jerome
Smedley."
E. S. Chamberlayne.
OUTLOOK.
WE know but this : a glint afar
Through darkness of a heavenly light;
Beyond that star another night;
Beyond that night another star.
John Hall Ingham.
Penelope's Irish Experiences.
223
PENELOPE'S IRISH EXPERIENCES. 1
PART FOURTH.
XVII.
"Silent, Moyle, be the roar of thy water;
Break not, ye breezes, your chain of re-
pose ;
While murmuring mournfully, Lir's lovely
daughter
Tells to the night-star her tale of woes."
SORLEY BOY HOTEL,
Glens of Antrim.
WE are here for a week, in the neigh-
borhood of Cushendun, just to see a
bit of the northeastern corner of Erin,
where, at the end of the nineteenth cen-
tury, as at the beginning of the seven-
teenth, the population is almost exclu-
sively Catholic and Celtic. The Gaelic
Sorley Boy is, in Irish state papers,
Carolus Flavus, yellow-haired Charles,
the most famous of the Macdonnell
fighters ; the one who, when recognized
by Elizabeth as Lord of the Route, and
given a patent for his estates, burned
the document before his retainers, swear-
ing that what had been won by the sword
should never be held by the sheepskin.
Cushendun was one of the places in our
literary pilgrimage, because of its asso-
ciation with that charming Irish poetess
and good glenswoman who calls herself
" Moira O'Neill."
This country of the Glens, east of the
river Bann, escaped "plantation," and
that accounts for its Celtic character.
When the great Ulster chieftains, the
O'Donnells and the O'Neills of Donegal,
went under, the third great house of
Ulster, the " Macdonnells of the Isles,"
was more fortunate, and, thanks to its
Scots blood, found favor with James I.
It was a Macdonnell who was created
first Earl of Antrim, and given a " grant
of the Glens and the Route, from the
Curran of Larne to the Cutts of Cole-
raine." Ballycastle is our nearest large
town, and its great days were all under
the Macdonnells, where, in the Fran-
ciscan abbey across the bay, it is said
the ground " literally heaves with Clan-
donnell dust." Here are buried those
of the clan who perished at the hands
of Shane O'Neill, Shane the Proud,
who signed himself " Myself O'Neill,"
and who has been called " the shaker of
Ulster ; " here, too, are those who fell
in the great fight at Slieve-an-Aura up
in Glen Shesk, when the Macdonnells
finally routed the older lords, the Mc-
Quillans. A clansman once went to the
Countess of Antrim to ask the lease of
a farm.
" Another Macdonnell ? " asked the
countess. " Why, you must all be Mac-
donnells in the Low Glens ! "
"Ay," said the man. "Too many
Macdonnells now, but not one too many
on the day of Aura."
From the cliffs of Antrim we can see
on any clear day the Sea of Moyle and
the bonnie blue hills of Scotland, divided
from Ulster at this point by only twenty
miles of sea path. The Irish or Gaels
or Scots of " Uladh " often crossed in
their curraghs to this lovely coast of
Alba, then inhabited by the Picts. Here,
" when the tide drains out wid itself be-
yant the rocks," we sit for many an
hour, perhaps on the very spot from
which they pushed off their boats. The
Mull of Cantire runs out sharply toward
you ; south of it are Ailsa Craig and the
soft Ayrshire coast ; north of the Mull
are blue, blue mountains in a semicircle,
and just beyond them somewhere, Fran-
cesca knows, are the Argyleshire High-
Copyright, 1901, by KATE DOUGLAS RIQGS.
224
Penelope's Irish Experiences.
lands. And oh ! the pearl and opal tints
that the Irish atmosphere flings over the
scene, shifting them ever at will, in
misty sun or radiant shower ; and how
lovely are the too rare bits of woodland !
The ground is sometimes white with wild
garlic, sometimes blue with hyacinths ;
the primroses still linger in moist hidden
places, and there are violets and marsh
marigolds.
Long, long before the Clandonnell
ruled these hills and glens and cliffs
they were the home of Celtic legend.
Over the waters of the wee river Margy,
with its half-mile course, often sailed the
four white swans, those enchanted chil-
dren of Lir, king of the Isle of Man, who
had been transformed into this guise by
their cruel stepmother, with a stroke of
her druidical fairy wand. After turning
them into four beautiful white swans she
pronounced their doom, which was to sail
three hundred years on smooth Lough
Derryvara, three hundred on the gloomy
Sea of Moyle, and three hundred on the
Sea of Erris, sail, and sail, until the
union of Largnen, the prince from the
north, with Decca, the princess from
the south ; until the Taillkenn l should
come to Erinn, bringing the light of a
pure faith, and until they should hear the
voice of a Christian bell. They were al-
lowed to keep their own Gaelic speech,
and to sing sweet, plaintive fairy music,
which should excel all the music of the
world, and which should lull to sleep all
who listened to it. We could hear it, we
three, for we loved the story ; and love
opens the ear as well as the heart to all
sorts of sounds not heard by the dull and
incredulous. You may hear it, too, any
fine soft day, if you will sit there looking
out on Fair Head and Rathlin Island,
and read the old fairy tale. When you
put down the book, you will see Finola,
Lir's lovely daughter, in any white-breast-
ed bird ; and while she covers her bro-
thers with her wings, she will chant to
you her old song in the Gaelic tongue.
1 A name given by the druids to St. Patrick.
The Fate of the Children of Lir is the
second of Erin's Three Sorrows of Story,
and the third and greatest is the Fate of
the Sons of Usnach, which has to do
with a sloping rock on the north side of
Fair Head, five miles from us. Here
the three sons of Usnach landed when
they returned from Alba to Erin with
Deirdre', Deirdre', who was " beautiful
as Helen, and gifted like Cassandra with
unavailing prophecy ; " and by reason of
her beauty many sorrows fell upon the
Ultonians. It is a sad story, and we can
easily weep at the thrilling moment when,
there being no man among the Ultonians
to do the king's bidding, a Norse captive
takes Naisi's magic sword and strikes off
the heads of the three sons of Usnach
with one swift blow, and Deirdre', falling
prone upon the dead bodies, chants a la-
ment ; and when she has finished singing,
she puts her pale cheek against Naisi's,
and dies ; and a great cairn is piled over
them, and an inscription in Ogham set
upon it.
We were full of legendary lore, these
days, for we were fresh from a sight of
Glen Ariff. Who that has ever chanced
to be there in a pelting rain but will re-
member its innumerable little waterfalls,
and the great falls of Ess-na-Crubh and
Ess-na-Craoibhe ! And who can ever
forget the atmosphere of romance that
broods over these Irish glens !
We have had many advantages here
as elsewhere; for kind Dr. La Touche,
Lady Killbally, and Mrs. Colquhoun
follow us with letters, and wherever there
is an unusual personage in a district
we are commended to his or her care.
Sometimes it is one of the " grand qual-
ity," and often it is an Ossianic sort of
person like Shaun O'Grady, who lives in
a little whitewashed cabin, and who has,
like Mr. Yeats' Gleeman, "the whole
Middle Ages under his frieze coat." The
longer and more intimately we know
these peasants, the more we realize how
much in imagination, or in the clouds, if
you will, they live. The ragged man of
Penelope's Irish Experiences.
225
leisure you meet on the road may be a
philosopher, and is still more likely to be
a poet ; but unless you have something
of each in yourself, you may mistake him
for a mere beggar.
" The practical ones have all emigrat-
ed," a Dublin novelist told us, " and the
dreamers are left. The heads of the old-
er ones are filled with poetry and legends ;
they see nothing as it is, but always
through some iridescent-tinted medium.
Their waking moments, when not tor-
mented by hunger, are spent in heaven,
and they all live in a dream, whether it
be of the next world or of a revolution.
Effort is to them useless, submission to
everybody and everything the only safe
course ; in a word, fatalism expresses
their attitude to life."
Much of this submission to the inevi-
table is a product of past poverty, mis-
fortune and famine, and the rest is un-
doubtedly a trace of the same spirit that
we find in the lives and writings of the
saints, and which is an integral part of
the mystery and the tradition of Roman-
ism. We who live in the bright (and
sometimes staring) sunlight of common
sense can hardly hope to penetrate the
dim, mysterious world of the Catholic
peasant, with his unworldliness and sense
of failure.
Dr. Douglas Hyde, an Irish scholar
and stanch Protestant, says : " A pious
race is the Gaelic race. The Irish Gael
is pious by nature. There is not an
Irishman in a hundred in whom is the
making of an unbeliever. The spirit,
and the things of the spirit, affect him
more powerfully than the body, and the
things of the body. . . . What is invisi-
ble for other people is visible for him. . . .
He feels invisible powers before him, and
by his side, and at his back, throughout
the day and throughout the night. . . .
His mind on the subject may be summed
up in the two sayings : that of the early
Church, ' Let ancient things prevail,'
and that of St. Augustine, ' Credo quia
impossibile.' Nature did not form him
VOL. LXXXVII. NO. 520. 15
to be an unbeliever ; unbelief is alien to
his mind and contrary to his feelings."
Here, only a few miles away, is the
Slemish mountain where St. Patrick,
then a captive of the rich cattle-owner
Milcho, herded his sheep and swine.
Here, when his flocks were sleeping, he
poured out his prayers, a Christian voice
in pagan darkness. It was the memory
of that darkness, you remember, that
brought him back, years after, to convert
Milcho. Here, too, they say, lies the
great bard Ossian ? for they love to think
that Finn's son Oisin 1 , the hero poet, sur-
vived to the time of St. Patrick, three
hundred years after the other " Fianna "
had vanished from the earth, the
three centuries being passed in Tir-nan-
og, the Land of Youth, where the great
Oisin married the king's daughter, Niam
of the Golden Hair.
There is plenty of history here, and
plenty of poetry, to one who will listen
to it ; but the high and tragic story of
Ireland has been cherished mainly in
the sorrowful traditions of a defeated
race, and the legends have not yet been
wrought into undying verse. Erin's
songs of battle could only recount weary
successions of Flodden Fields, with never
a Bannockburn and its nimbus of victo-
ry ; but somewhere in the green isle is an
unborn poet who will put all this mystery,
beauty, passion, romance, and sadness,
these tragic memories, these beliefs, these
visions of unfulfilled desire, into verse
that will glow on the page and live for'
ever. Somewhere is a mother who has
kept all these things in her heart, and
who will bear a son to write them.
Meantime, who shall say that they have
not been imbedded in the language, like
flower petals in amber ? that language
which, as an English scholar says, " has
been blossoming there unseen "like a hid-
den garland of roses ; and whenever the
wind has blown from the west, English
poetry has felt the vague perfume of it."
1 Pronounced Isheen'in Munster, Osh'in'in
Ulster.
226
Penelope's Irish Experiences.
XVIII.
" As beautiful Kitty one morning was tripping
With a pitcher of milk from the fair of Cole-
raine,
When she saw me she stumbled, the pitcher
it tumbled,
And all the sweet buttermilk watered the
plain."
We wanted to cross to Rathlin Island,
which is " like an Irish stockinge, the
toe of which pointeth to the main lande."
That would bring Francesca six miles
nearer to Scotland and her Scottish
lover ; and we wished to see the castle of
Robert the Bruce, where, according to
the legend, he learned his lesson from
the "six times baffled spider." We de-
layed too long, however, and the Sea of
Moyle looked as bleak and stormy as it
did to the children of Lir. We had no
mind to be swallowed up in Brecain's
Caldron, where the grandson of Niall
and the Nine Hostages sank with his
fifty curraghs ; so we left the Sorley Boy
Hotel bright and early in the morn-
ing, for Coleraine, a great Presbyterian
stronghold in what is called by the Ro-
man Catholics the "black north." If
we liked it, and saw anything of Kitty's
descendants, or any nice pitchers to
break, or any reason for breaking them,
we intended 'to stop ; if not, then to push
on to the walled town of Derry,
" Where Foyle his swelling waters
Rolls northward to the main."
We thought it Francesca's duty, as she
was to be the wife of a Scottish minister
of the Established Church, to look up
Presbyterianism in Ireland whenever and
wherever possible, with a view to dis-
coursing learnedly about it in her let-
ters, though, as she confessed ingenu-
ously, Ronald, in his, never so much as
mentions Presbyterianism. As for our-
selves, we determined to observe all the-
ological differences between Protestants
and Roman Catholics, but leave Presby-
terianism to gang its ain gait. We had
devoted hours yes, days in Edin-
burgh to the understanding of the subtle
and technical barriers which separated
the Free Kirkers and the United Presby-
terians ; and the first thing they did, after
we had completely mastered the subject,
was to unite. It is all very well for
Salemina, who condenses her informa-
tion and stows it away neatly ; but we
who have small storage room and inferior
methods of packing must be as econom-
ical as possible in amassing facts.
If we had been touring properly, of
course we should have been going to
the Giant's Causeway and the swinging
bridge at Carrick-a-rede ; but propriety
was the last thing we aimed at, in our
itineraries. We were within worshiping
distance of two rather important shrines
in our literary pilgrimage ; for we had
met a very knowledgable traveler at the
Sorley Boy, and after a little chat with
him had planned a day of surprises for
the academic Miss Peabody. We pro-
posed to halt at Port Stewart, lunch at
Coleraine, sleep at Limavady ; and
meantime, Salemina was to read all the
books at her command, and guess, we
hoped vainly, the why and wherefore of
these stops.
On the appointed day, the lady in
question drove in state on a car with Ben-
ella, but Francesca and I hired a couple
of very wheezy bicycles for the journey.
We had a thrilling start ; for it chanced
to be a Fair day in Ballycastle, and we
wheeled through a sea of squealing, bolt-
ing pigs, stupid sheep, and unruly cows,
all pursued on every side by their driv-
ers. To alight from a bicycle in such
a whirl of beasts always seems certain
death ; to remain seated diminishes, I be-
lieve, the number of one's days of life to
an appreciable extent. Francesca chose
the first course, and, standing still in the
middle of the street, called upon every-
body within hearing to save her, and
that right speedily. A crowd of " jib-
bing " heifers encircled her on all sides,
while a fat porker, " who might be a prize
Penelope's Irish Experiences.
227
pig by his impidence," and a donkey
that (his driver said) was feelin' blue-
mouldy for want of a batin', tried to poke
their noses into the group. Salemina's
only weapon was her scarlet parasol, and,
standing on the step of her side car, she
brandished this with such terrible effect
that the only bull in the cavalcade put up
his head and roared. " Have conduct, wo-
man dear ! " cried his owner to Salemina.
" Sure if you kape on moidherin' him
wid that red ombrelly, you '11 have him
ugly on me immajently, and the divil a
bit o' me can stop him." " Don't be
cryin' that way, asthore," he went on,
going to Francesca's side, and piloting
her tenderly to the hedge. " Sure I '11
nourish him wid the whip whin I get
him to a more remoted place."
We had no more adventures, but Fran-
cesca was so unhinged by her . unfortu-
nate exit from Bally castle that, after a
few miles, she announced her intention
of putting her machine and herself on
the car ; whereupon Benella proclaimed
herself a cyclist, and climbed down
blithely to mount the discarded wheel.
Her ideas of propriety were by this time
so developed that she rode ten or twelve
feet behind me, where she looked quaint
enough, in her black dress and little
black bonnet with its white lawn strings.
" Sure it 's a quare footman ye have,
melady," said a pleasant and friendly
person who was sitting by the roadside
smoking his old dudeen. An Irishman,
somehow, is always going to his work
" jist," or coming from it, or thinking
how it shall presently be done, or medi-
tating on the next step in the process, or
resting a bit before taking it up again, or
reflecting whether the weather is on the
whole favorable to its proper perform-
ance ; but, however poor and needy he
may be, it is somewhat difficult to catch
him at the precise working moment.
Mr. Alfred Austin says of the Irish pea-
sants that idleness and poverty seem nat-
ural to them. "Life to the Scotsman
or Englishman is a business to conduct,
to extend, to render profitable. To the
Irishman it is a dream, a little bit of
passing consciousness on a rather hard
pillow ; the hard part of it being the oc-
casional necessity for work, which spoils
the tenderness and continuity of the
dream."
Presently we passed the castle, rode
along a neat quay with a row of houses
advertising lodgings to let ; and here is
Lever Cottage, where Harry Lorrequer
was written ; for Lever was dispensary
doctor in Port Stewart when his first
book was appearing in the Dublin Uni-
versity Magazine.
We did not fancy Coleraine ; it looked
like anything but Cuil-rathain, a ferny
corner. Kitty's sweet buttermilk may
have watered, but it had not fertilized
the plain, though the town itself seemed
painfully prosperous. Neither the Cloth-
workers' Inn nor the Corporation Arms
looked a pleasant stopping place ; so we
took the railway, and departed with de-
light for Limavady, where Thackeray,
fresh from his visit to Charles Lever,
laid his poetical tribute at the stocking-
less feet of Miss Margaret of that town.
O'Cahan, whose chief seat was at Lim-
avady, was the principal urraght of
O'Neill, and when one of the great clan
was " proclaimed " at Tullaghogue it was
the magnificent privilege of the O'Cahan
to toss a shoe over his head. We slept
at O'Cahan' s Hotel, and well, one must
sleep ; and wherever we attend to that
necessary function without due prepara-
tion, we generally make a mistake in the
selection of the particular spot. Pro-
testantism does not necessarily mean
cleanliness, although it may have natural
tendencies in that direction ; and we find,
to our surprise (a surprise rooted, prob-
ably, in bigotry), that Catholicism can be
as clean as a penny whistle, now and
again. There were no special privileges
at O'Cahan's for maids, and Benella,
therefore, had a delightful evening in the
coffee room with a storm-bound commer-
cial traveler. As for Francesca and me,
228
Penelope's Irish Experiences.
there was plenty to occupy us in our
regular letters to Ronald and Himself ;
and Salemina wrote several sheets of
thin paper to somebody, no one in
America, either, for we saw her put on
a penny stamp.
Our pleasant duties over, we looked
into the cheerful glow of the turf sods
while I read aloud Thackeray's verses,
delightful all, from Peg's first entrance,
" Presently a maid
Enters with the liquor
(Half-a-pint of ale
Frothing in a beaker).
Gads ! I did n't know
What my beating heart meant :
Hebe's self I thought
Enter'd the apartment.
As she came she smiled,
And the smile bewitching,
On my word and honour,
Lighted all the kitchen ! "
to the last eloquent summing-up of her
charms :
" This I do declare,
Happy is the laddy
Who the heart can share
Of Peg of Limavaddy.
Married if she were,
Blest would be the daddy
Of the children fair
Of Peg of Limavaddy.
Beauty is not rare
In the land of Paddy,
Fair beyond compare
Is Peg of Limavaddy."
This cheered us a hit ; but the wind
sighed in the trees, the rain dripped on
the window panes, and we felt for the
first time a consciousness of home-long-
ing. Francesca sat on a low stool, look-
ing into the fire, Ronald's last letter in
her lap, and it was easy indeed to see
that her heart was in the Highlands.
She had been giving us a few extracts
from the letter, an unusual proceeding,
as Ronald, in his ordinary correspond-
ence, is evidently not a quotable person.
We smiled over his account of a visit to
his old parish of Inehcaldy in Fifeshire.
There is a certain large orphanage in
the vicinity, in which we had all taken
an interest, chiefly because our friends
the Macraes of Pettybaw House were
among its guardians.
It seems that Lady Ro warden nan of
the Castle had promised the orphans, en
bloc, that those who passed through an
entire year without once falling into
falsehood should have a treat or festival
of their own choosing. On the eventful
day of decision, those orphans, male and
female, who had not for a twelvemonth
deviated from the truth by a hair's
breadth raised their little white hands
(emblematic of their pure hearts and
lips), and were solemnly counted. Then
came the unhappy moment when a scat-
tering of small grimy paws was timidly
put up, and their falsifying owners con-
fessed that they had fibbed more than
once during the year. These tearful
fibbers were also counted, and sent from
the room, while the non-fibbers chose
their reward, which was to sail around
the Bass Rock and the Isle of May in
a steam tug.
On the festival day, the matron of the
orphanage chanced on the happy thought
that it might have a moral effect on the
said fibbers to see the non-fibbers depart
in a blaze of glory ; so they were taken to
the beach to watch the tug start on its
voyage. They looked wretched enough,
Ronald wrote, when forsaken by their
virtuous playmates, who stepped jaunti-
ly on board, holding their sailor hats on
their heads and carrying nice little lunch-
eon baskets ; so miserably unhappy, in-
deed, did they seem that certain sympa-
thetic and ill-balanced persons sprang to
their relief, providing them with sand-
wiches, sweeties, and pennies. It was a
lovely day, and when the fibbers' tears
were dried they played merrily on the
sand, their games directed and shared in
by the aforesaid misguided persons.
Meantime a high wind had sprung up
at sea, and the tug was tossed to and fro
upon the foamy deep. So many and so
varied were the ills of the righteous or-
phans that the matron could not attend
Penelope's Irish Experiences.
229
to all of them properly, and they were
laid on benches or on the deck, where
they languidly declined luncheon, and
wept for a sight of land. At five the
tug steamed up to the landing. A few of
the voyagers were able to walk ashore,
some were assisted, others were carried ;
and as the pale, haggard, truthful com-
pany gathered on the beach, they were
met by a boisterous, happy crowd of Ana-
niases and Sapphiras, sunburned, warm,
full of tea and cakes and high spirits, and
with the moral law already so uncertain
in their minds that at the sight of the
suffering non-liars it tottered to its fall.
Ronald hopes that Lady Rowardennan
and the matron may perhaps have gained
some useful experience by the incident,
though the orphans, truthful and untruth-
ful, are hopelessly mixed in their views
of right doing.
He is staying now at the great house of
the neighborhood, while his new manse is
being put in order. Roderick, the piper,
he says, has a grand collection of pipe
tunes given him by an officer of the Black
Watch. Francesca, when she and Ronald
visit the Castle on their wedding journey,
is to have Johnnie Cope to wake her in
the morning, Brose and Butter just be-
fore dinner is served, a reel, a strathspey,
and a march while the meal is going on,
and last of all The Highland Wedding.
Ronald does not know whether there are
any Lowland Scots or English words to
this pipe tune, but it is always played in
the Highlands after the actual marriage,
and the words in the Gaelic are, " Alas
for me if the wife I have married is not
a good one, for she will eat the food and
not do the work ! "
" You don't think Ronald meant any-
thing personal in quoting that ? " I asked
Francesca teasingly ; but she shot me
such a reproachful look that I had n't
the heart to persist, her face was so full
of self-distrust and love and longing.
What creatures of sense we are, after
all ; and in certain moods, of what avail
is it if the beloved object is alive, safe,
loyal, so long as he is absent ? He may
write letters like Horace Walpole or
Chesterfield, better still, like Alfred
de Musset, or George Sand, or the
Brownings ; but one clasp of the hand
that moved the pen is worth an ocean of
words ! You believe only in the ethe-
realized, the spiritualized passion of
love ; you know that it can exist through
years of separation, can live and grow
where a coarser feeling would die for
lack of nourishment ; still, though your
spirit should be strong enough to meet
its spirit mate somewhere in the realms
of imagination, and the bodily presence
ought not really to be necessary, your
stubborn heart of flesh craves sight and
sound and touch. That is the only piti-
less part of death, it seems to me. We
have had the friendship, the love, the
sympathy, and these are things that can
never die ; they have made us what we
are, and they are by their very nature
immortal; yet we would come near to
bartering all these spiritual possessions
for the " touch of a vanished hand, and
the sound of a voice that is still."
How could I ever think life easy
enough to be ventured on alone ! It is
so beautiful to feel one's self of infinite
value to one other human creature ; to
hear beside one's own step the tread of
a chosen companion on the same road.
And if the way be dusty or the hills diffi-
cult to climb, each can say to the other :
" I love you, dear ; lean on me and
walk in confidence. I can always be
counted on, whatever happens."
XIX.
" Here 's a health to you, Father O'Flynn !
Slainte 1 , and slainte*, and slainte* agin ;
Pow'rfulest preacher and tenderest teacher,
And kindliest creature in ould Donegal."
COOMNAGEEHA HOTKL,
In ould Donegal.
It is a far cry from the kingdom ol'
Kerry to " ould Donegal," where we
230
Penelope's Irish Experiences.
have been traveling for a week, chiefly
in the hope of meeting Father O'Flynn.
We miss our careless, genial, ragged,
southern Paddy just a bit ; for he was a
picturesque, likable figure, on the whole,
and easier to know than this Ulster
Irishman, the product of a mixed de-
scent.
We did not stop long in Belfast ; for
if there is anything we detest, when on
our journeys, it is to mix too much with
people of industry, thrift, and busi-
ness sagacity. Sturdy, prosperous, cal-
culating, well-to-do Protestants are well
enough in their way, and undoubtedly
they make a very good backbone for
Ireland ; but we crave something more
romantic than the citizen virtues, or we
should have remained in our own coun-
try, where they are tolerably common,
although we have not as yet anything
approaching overproduction.
Dr. La Touche writes to Salemina that
we need not try to understand all the re-
ligious and political complications which
surround us. They are by no means as
violent or as many as in Thackeray's
day, when the great English author found
nine shades of politico-religious differ-
ences in the Irish Liverpool. As the
impartial observer must necessarily dis-
please eight parties, and probably the
whole nine, Thackeray advised a rigid
abstinence from all intellectual curiosity.
Dr. La Touche says, if we wish to know
the north better, it will do us no harm
to study the Plantation of Ulster, the
United Irish movement, Orangeism,
Irish Jacobitism, the effect of French
and Swiss Republicanism in the evolution
of public sentiment, and the close rela-
tion and affection that formerly existed
between the north of Ireland and New
England. (This last topic seems to ap-
peal to Salemina particularly.) He also
alludes to Tories and Rapparees, Rous-
seau and Thomas Paine and Owen Roe
O'Neill, but I have entirely forgotten
their connection with the subject. Fran-
cesca and I are thoroughly enjoying
ourselves, as only those people can who
never take notes, and never try, when
Pandora's box is opened in their neigh-
borhood, to seize the heterogeneous con-
tents and put them back properly, with
nice little labels on them.
Ireland is no longer a battlefield of
English parties, neither is it wholly a
laboratory for political experiment ; but
from having been both the one and the
other, its features are a bit knocked out
of shape and proportion, as it were. We
have bought two hideous engravings of
The Battle of the Boyne and The Se-
cret of England's Greatness ; and when-
ever we stay for a night in any inn where
perchance these are not, we pin them on
the wall, and are received into the land-
lady's heart at once. I don't know which
is the finer study : the picture of his Ma-
jesty William III. crossing the Boyne,
or the plump little Queen presenting a
huge family Bible to an apparently un-
interested black man. In the latter work
of art the eye is confused at first, and
Francesca asked innocently, " Which is
the secret of England's greatness, the
Bible, the Queen, or the black man ? "
This is a thriving town, and we are at
a smart hotel which had for two years
an English manager. The scent of the
roses hangs round it still, but it is gradu-
ally growing fainter under the stress of
small patronage and other adverse cir-
cumstances. The table linen is a trifle
ragged, though clean ; but the circle of
red and green wineglasses by each plate,
an array not borne out by the number of
vintages on the wine list, the tiny ferns
scattered everywhere in innumerable
pots, and the dozens of minute glass
vases, each holding a few blue hyacinths,
give an air of urban elegance to the din-
ing room. The guests are requested in
printed placards to be punctual at meals,
especially at the seven-thirty table d'hote
dinner, and the management itself is
punctual at this function about seven
forty-five. This is much better than at
the south, where we, and sixty other
Penelope's Irish J2x2ieriences.
231
travelers, were once kept waiting fifteen
minutes between the soup and the fish
course. When we were finally served
with half - cooked turbot, a pleasant-
spoken waitress went about to each table,
explaining to the irate guests that the
cook was " not at her best."
There is nothing sacred about dinner
to the average Irishman ; he is willing to
take anything that comes, as a rule, and
cooking is not regarded as a fine art
here. Perhaps occasional flashes of star-
vation and seasons of famine have ren-
dered the Irish palate easier to please ;
at all events, wherever the national god
may be, its pedestal is not in the stomach.
Our breakfast, day after day, week after
week, has been bacon and eggs. One
morning we had tomatoes on bacon, and
concluded that the cook had experienced
religion or fallen in love, since both these
operations send a flush of blood to the
brain and stimulate the mental processes.
But no ; we found simply that the eggs
had not been brought in time for break-
fast. There is no consciousness of mo-
notony, far from it ; the nobility and
gentry can at least eat what they choose,
and they choose bacon and eggs. There
is no running of the family gamut, either,
from plain boiled to omelet ; poached or
fried eggs on bacon, it is, week days
and Sundays. The luncheon, too, is
rarely inspired : they eat cold joint of
beef with pickled beet root, or mutton
and boiled potatoes, with unfailing regu-
larity, finishing off at most hotels with
semolina pudding, a concoction intend-
ed for, and appealing solely to, the taste
of the toothless infant, who, having just
graduated from rubber rings, has not a
jaded palate.
It is odd to see how soon, if one has
a strong sense of humanity, one feels at
home in a foreign country. I am never
impressed by the differences, at least, but
only by the similarities, between English-
speaking peoples. We take part in the
life about us here, living each experience
as fully as we can, whether it be a " hir-
ing fair " in Donegal or a pilgrimage
to the Boon " Well of Healing." Not
the least part of the pleasure is to watch
its effect upon the Derelict. Where, or
in what way, could three persons hope
to gain as much return from a monthly
expenditure of twenty dollars, added to
her living and traveling expenses, as we
have had in Miss Benella Dusenberry ?
We sometimes ask ourselves what we
found to do with our time before she
came into the family, and yet she is as
busy as possible herself.
Having twice singed Francesca's beau-
tiful locks, she no longer attempts hair-
dressing ; while she never accomplishes
the lacing of an evening dress without
putting her knee in the centre of your
"back once, at least, during the operation.
She can button shoes, and she can mend
and patch and darn to perfection ; she
has a frenzy for small laundry opera-
tions, and, after washing the windows of
her room, she adorns every pane of glass
with a fine cambric handkerchief, and,
stretching a line between the bedpost
and the bureau knob, she hangs out her
white neckties and her bonnet strings to
dry. She has learned to pack reason-
ably well, too. But if she has another
passion beside those of washing and
mending, it is for making bags. She
buys scraps of gingham and print, and
makes cases of every possible size and
for every possible purpose ; so that all
our personal property, roughly speaking,
hairbrushes, shoes, writing materials,
pincushions, photographs, underclothing,
gloves, medicines, is bagged. The
strings in the bags pull both ways, and
nothing is commoner than to see Benella
open and close seventeen or eighteen of
them when she is searching for Fran-
cesca's rubbers or my gold thimble.
But what other lady's maid or traveling
companion ever had half the Derelict's
unique charm and interest, half her con-
versational power, her unusual and ori-
ginal defects and virtues ? Put her in a
third-class carriage when we go " first,"
232
Penelope's Irish Experiences.
and she makes friends with all her fel-
low travelers, discussing Home Rule or
Free Silver with the utmost prejudice
and vehemence, and freeing her mind
on any point, to the delight of the na-
tives. Occasionally, when borne along
by the joy of argument, she forgets to
change at the point of junction, and has
to be found and dragged out of the rail-
way carriage ; occasionally, too, she is
left behind when taking a cheerful cup
of tea at a way station, but this is com-
paratively seldom. Her stories of life
below stairs in the various inns and ho-
tels, her altercations with housemaid or
boots or landlady in our behalf, all add
a zest to the day's doings.
Benella's father was an itinerant
preacher, her mother the daughter of a
Vermont farmer ; and although she was
left an orphan at ten years, educating
and supporting herself as best she could
after that, she is as truly a combination
of both parents as her name is a union
of their two names.
" I 'm so 'fraid I shan't run across
any of grandmother's folks over here,
after all," she said yesterday, " though
I ask every nice-appearin' person I meet
anywheres if he or she 's any kin to
Mary Boyce of Trim ; and then, again,
I 'm scared to death for fear I shall find
I 'm own cousin to one of these here
critters that ain't brushed their hair nor
washed their apurns for a month o' Sun-
days ! I declare, it keeps me real nerved
up. ... I think it 's partly the climate
that makes 'em so slack," she philoso-
phized, pinning a new bag on her knee,
and preparing to backstitch the seam.
" There 's nothin' like a Massachusetts
winter for puttin' the git-up-an'-git into
you. Land ! you 've got to move round
smart, or you 'd freeze in your tracks.
These warm, moist places always makes
folks lazy ; and when they 're hot enough,
if you take notice, it makes heathen
of 'em. It always seems so queer to
me that real hot weather and the Chris-
tian religion don't seem to git along
together. P'r'aps it 's just as well that
the idol-worshipers should git used to
heat in this world, for they '11 have it
consid'able hot in the next one, I guess !
And see here, Mrs. Beresford, will you
get me ten cents' I mean sixpence
worth o' red gingham, to make Miss
Monroe a bag for Mr. Macdonald's let-
ters ? They go sprawlin' all over her
trunk ; and there 's so many of 'em, I
wish to the land she 'd send 'em to the
bank while she 's travelin' ! "
XX.
"Soon as you lift the latch, little ones are
meeting you,
Soon as you're 'neath the thatch, kindly
looks are greeting you ;
Scarcely have you time to be holding out the
fist to them
Down by the fireside you 're sitting in the
midst of them."
KOOTHYTHANTHRUM COTTAGE,
Knockcool, County Tyrone.
Of course, we have always intended
sooner or later to forsake this life of
hotels and lodgings, and become either
Irish landlords or tenants, or both, with
a view to the better understanding of
one burning Irish question. We heard
of a charming house in County Down,
which could be secured by renting it the
first of May for the season ; but as we
could occupy it only for a month at most,
we were obliged to forego the opportu-
nity.
" We have been told from time im-
memorial that absenteeism has been one
of the curses of Ireland," I remarked to
Salemina ; " so, whatever the charms of
the cottage in Rostrevor, do not let us
take it, and in so doing become absentee
landlords."
" It was you two who hired the ' wee
theekit hoosie ' in Pettybaw," said Fran-
cesca. " I am going to be in the van-
guard of the next house-hunting expedi-
tion ; in fact, I have almost made up my
mind to take my third of Benella and
Penelope's Irish Experiences.
233
be an independent householder for a
time. If I am ever to learn the man-
agement of an establishment before be-
ginning to experiment on Ronald's, now
is the proper moment."
" Ronald must have looked the future
in the face when he asked you to marry
him," I replied, " although it is possible
that he looked only at you, and there-
fore it is his duty to endure your maiden
incapacities ; but why should Salemina
and I suffer you to experiment upon us,
pray ? "
It was Benella, after all, who inveigled
us into making our first political mis-
step ; for, after avoiding the sin of ab-
senteeism, we fell into one almost as
black, inasmuch as we evicted a tenant.
It is part of Benella's heterogeneous and
unusual duty to take a bicycle and scour
the country in search of information for
us : to find out where shops are, post
office, lodgings, places for good sketches,
ruins, pretty roads for walks and drives,
and many other things, too numerous to
mention. She came home from one of
these expeditions flushed with triumph.
" I 've got you a house ! " she exclaimed
proudly. " There 's a lady in it now,
but she '11 move out to-morrow when we
move in ; and we are to pay seventeen
dollars fifty I mean three pound ten
a week for the house, with privilege of re-
newal, and she throws in the hired girl."
(Benella is hopelessly provincial in the
matter of language ; butler, chef, boots,
footman, scullery maid, all come under
the generic term u help.")
" I knew our week at this hotel was
out to-morrow," she continued, "and
we 've about used up this place, anyway,
and the new village that I 've b'en to is
the prettiest place we 've seen yet ; it 's
got an up-and-down hill to it, just like
home, and the house I 've partly rented
is opposite a Fair green, where there 's
a market every week, and Wednesday 's
the day ; and we '11 save money, for I
shan't cost you so much when we can
housekeep."
" Would you mind explaining a little
more in detail," asked Salemina quiet-
ly, " and telling me whether you have
hired the house for yourself or for us ? "
" For us all," she replied genially,
" you don't suppose I 'd leave you ? I
liked the looks of this cottage the first
time I passed it, and I got acquainted
with the hired girl by going in the side
yard and asking for a drink. The next
time I went I got acquainted with the
lady, who 's got the most outlandish name
that ever was wrote down, and here it is
on a paper ; and to-day I asked her if she
did n't want to rent her house for a week
to three quiet ladies without children.
She said it wa'n't her own house, and I
asked her if she could n't sublet to de-
sirable parties, I knew she was as poor
as Job's turkey by her looks ; and she
said it would suit her well enough, if she
had any place to go. I asked her if she
would n't like to travel, and she said no.
Then I says, ' Would n't you like to go
to visit some of your folks ? ' And she
said she s'posed she could stop a week
with her son's wife, just to oblige us. So
I engaged a car to drive you down this
afternoon just to look at the place ; and if
you like it we can easy move over to-mor-
row. The sun 's so hot I asked the stable-
man if he had n't got a top buggy, or a
surrey, or a carryall ; but he never heard
tell of any of 'em ; he did n't even know
a shay. I forgot to tell you the lady is
a Protestant, and the hired girl's name
is Bridget Thunder, and she 's a Roman
Catholic, but she seems extra smart and
neat. I was kind of in hopes she would
n't be, for I thought I should enjoy train-
in' her, and doin' that much for the coun-
try."
And so we drove over to this village
of Knockcool (Knockcool, by the way,
means " Hill of Sleep "), as much to
make amends for Benella's eccentricities
as with any idea of falling in with her
proposal. The house proved everything
she said, and in Mrs. Wogan Odevaine
Benella had found a person every whit
234
Penelope's Irish Experiences.
as remarkable as herself. She was evi-
dently an Irish gentlewoman of very
small means, very flexible in her views
and convictions, very talkative and amus-
ing, and very much impressed with Ben-
ella as a product of New England in-
stitutions. We all took a fancy to one
another at first sight, and we heard with
real pleasure that her son's wife lived
only a few miles away. We insisted on
paying the evicted lady the three pounds
ten in advance for the first week. She
seemed surprised, and we remembered
that Irish tenants, though often capable
of shedding blood for a good landlord,
are generally averse to paying him. rent.
Mrs. Wogan Odevaine then drove away
in high good humor, taking some per-
sonal belongings with her, and promising
to drink tea with us some time during
the week. She kissed Francesca good-
by, told her she was the prettiest crea-
ture she had ever seen, and asked if she
might have a peep at all her hats and
frocks when she came to visit us.
Salemina says that Rhododendron Cot-
tage (pronounced by Bridget Thunder
" Roothythanthrum ") being the proper-
ty of one landlord and the residence of
four tenants at the same time makes us
in a sense participators in the old system
of rundale tenure, long since abolished.
The good will or tenant right was in-
finitely subdivided, and the tiniest hold-
ings sometimes existed in thirty -two
pieces. The result of this joint tenure
was an extraordinary tangle, particularly
when it went so far as the subdivision
of " one cow's grass," or even of a horse,
which, being owned jointly by three men,
ultimately went lame, because none of
them would pay for shoeing the fourth
foot.
We have been here five days, and in-
stead of reproving Benella, as we intend-
ed, for gross assumption of authority in
the matter, we are more than ever her
bond slaves. The place is altogether
charming, and here it is for you.
Knockcool Street is Knockcool village
itself, as with almost all Irish towns ; but
the line of little thatched cabins is bright-
ened at the far end by the neat house of
Mrs. Wogan Odevaine, set a trifle back
in its own garden, by the pillared porch
of a modest hotel, and by the barracks
of the Royal Irish Constabulary. The
sign of the Provincial Bank of Ireland
almost faces our windows ; and although
it is used as a meal shop the rest of the
week, they tell us that two thousand
pounds in money is needed there on
Fair days. Next to it is a little house,
the upper part of which is used as a
Methodist chapel; and old Nancy, the
caretaker, is already a good friend of
ours. It is a humble house of prayer,
but Nancy takes much pride in it, and
showed us the melodeon, " worked by a
young lady from Rossantach," the Sun-
day-school rooms, and even the cupboard
where she keeps the jugs for the love
feast and the linen and wine for the
sacrament, which is administered once
in three years. Next comes the Hoeys'
cabin, where we have always a cordial
welcome, but where we never go all to-
gether, for fear of embarrassing the fam-
ily, which is a large one, three gen-
erations under one roof, and plenty of
children in the last. Old Mrs. Hoey
does not rightly know her age, she says ;
but her daughter Ellen was born the
year of the Big Wind, and she herself
was twenty-two when she was married,
and you might allow a year between that
and when Ellen was born, and make
your own calculation. Ellen's husband,
Miles M'Gillan, is the carpenter on an
estate in the neighborhood. His shop
opens out of the cabin, and I love to
sit by the Hoey fireside, where the fan
bellows, turned by a crank, brings in
an instant a fresh flame to the sods of
smouldering turf, and watch a wee Col-
leen Bawn playing among her ancestral
shavings, tying them about her waist and
fat wrists, hanging them on her ears
and in among her brown curls. Mother
Hoey says that I do not speak like an
Penelopes Irish Experiences.
235
American, that I have not so many
" caperin's " in my language, whatever
they may be ; and so we have long de-
lightful chats together when I go in for
a taste of Ellen's griddle bread, cooked
over the peat coals. Francesca, mean-
time, is calling on Mrs. O'Rourke, whose
son has taken more than fifty bicycle
prizes; and no stranger can come to
Knockcool without inspecting the brave
show of silver, medals, and china that
adorn the bedroom, and make the
O'Rourkes the proudest couple in ould
Donegal. Phelim O'Rourke smokes his
dudeen on a bench by the door, and in-
vites the passer-by to enter and examine
the trophies. His trousers are held up
with bits of rope arranged as suspend-
ers ; indeed, his toilet is so much a mat-
ter of strings that it must be a work of
time to tie on his clothing in the morn-
ing, in case betakes it off at night, which
is open to doubt ; nevertheless it is he
that 's the satisfied man, and the luck
would be on him as well as on e'er a
man alive, were he not kilt wid the
cough intirely ! Mrs. Phelim's skirt
shows a triangle of red flannel behind,
where the two ends of the waistband fail
to meet by about six inches, but are held
together by a piece of white ball fringe.
Any informality in this part of her cos-
tume is, however, more than atoned for
by the presence of a dingy bonnet of
magenta velvet, which she always dons
for visitors.
The O'Rourke family is the essence
of hospitality, so their kitchen is gen-
erally full of children and visitors ; and
on the occasion when Salemina issued
from the prize bedroom, the guests were
so busy with conversation that, to use
their own language, divil a wan of thim
clapt eyes on the O'Rourke puppy, and
they did not notice that the baste was
floundering in a tub of soft, newly made
butter standing on the floor. He was in-
deed desperately involved, being so com-
pletely wound up in the waxy mass that
he could not climb over the tub's edge.
He looked comical and miserable enough
in his plight : the children and the vis-
itors thought so, and so did Francesca
and I ; but Salemina went directly home,
and was not at her best for an hour. She
is so sensitive ! Och, thin, it 's herself
that 's the marthyr intirely ! We cannot
see that the incident affects us so long
as we avoid the O'Rourkes' butter ; but
she says, covering her eyes with her
handkerchief and shuddering : " Suppose
there are other tubs and other pup
Oh, I cannot bear the thought of it, dears !
Please change the subject, and order me
two hard-boiled eggs for dinner."
Leaving Knockcool behind us, we walk
along the country road between high,
thick hedges : here a clump of weather-
beaten trees, there a stretch of bog with
silver pools and piles of black turf, then
a sudden view of hazy hills, a grove of
beeches, a great house with a splendid
gateway, and sometimes, riding through
it, a figure new to our eyes, a Lady
Master of the Hounds, handsome in her
habit with red facings. We pass many
an " evicted farm," the ruined house with
the rushes growing all about it, and a
lonely goat browsing near; and on we
walk, until we can see the roofs of Lis-
dara's solitary cabin row, huddled under
the shadow of a gloomy hill topped by
the ruin of an old fort. All is silent,
and the blue haze of the peat smoke
curls up from the thatch. Lisdara's
young people have mostly gone to the
Big Country ; and how many tears have
dropped on the path we are treading, as
Peggy and Mary, Cormac and Miles,
with a little wooden box in the donkey
cart behind them, or perhaps with only a
bundle hanging from a blackthorn stick,
have come down the hill to seek their
fortune ! Perhaps Peggy is barefooted ;
perhaps Mary has little luggage be-
yond a pot of shamrock or a mountain
thrush in a wicker cage ; but what mat-
ter for that ? They are used to poverty
and hardship and hunger, and although
Penelope's Irish Experiences.
they are going quite penniless to a new
country, sure it can be no worse than the
old. This is the happy-go-lucky Irish
philosophy, and there is mixed with it a
deal of simple trust in God.
How many exiles and wanderers, both
those who have no fortune and those who
have failed to win it, dream of these
cabin rows, these sweet-scented boreens
with their " banks of furze unprofitably
gay," these leaking thatches with the pur-
ple loosestrife growing in their ragged
seams, and, looking backward across the
distance of time and space, give the hum-
ble spot a tender thought, because after
all it was in their dear native isle !
" Pearly are the skies in the country of my
fathers,
Purple are thy mountains, home of my heart ;
Mother of my yearning, love of all my long-
ings,
Keep me in remembrance long leagues apart."
I have been thinking in this strain be-
cause of an old dame in the first cabin
in Lisdara row, whose daughter is in
America, and who can talk of nothing
else. She shows us the last letter, with
its postal order for sixteen shillings, that
Mida sent from New'York, with little
presents for blind Timsj, "dark since
he were three year old," and for lame
Dan, or the " Bocca," as he is called in
Lisdara. Mida was named for the vir-
gin saint of Killeedy in Limerick, often
called the Brigit of Munster. " And it 's
she that 's good enough to bear a saint's
name, glory'be to God ! " exclaims the
old mother, returning Mida's photograph
to a little hole in the wall, where the pig
cannot possibly molest it.
At the far end of the row lives " Oma-
dhaun Pat." He is a " little sthrange,"
you understand ; not because he was
born with too small a share of wit, but
because he fell asleep one evening when he
was lying on the grass up by the old fort,
and " well, . he was niver the same
thing since." There are places in Ire-
land, you must know, where, if you lie
down upon the green earth and sink into
untimely slumber, you will " wake silly ;"
or, for that matter, although it is doubt-
less a risk, you may escape the fate of
waking silly, and wake a poet ! Caro-
lan fell asleep upon a faery rath, and it
was the faeries who filled his ears with
music, so that he was haunted by the
tunes ever afterward ; and perhaps all
poets, whether they are conscious of it
or not, fall asleep on faery raths before
they write sweet songs.
Little Omadhaun Pat is pale, hollow-
eyed, and thin ; but that, his mother says,
is " because he is overstudyin' for his
confirmation." The great day is many
weeks away, but to me it seems likely
that, when the examination cornes, Pat
will be where he will know more than
the priests !
Next door lives old Biddy Tuke.
She is too old to work, and she sits in
her doorway, always a pleasant figure
in her short woolen petticoat, her little
shawl, and her neat white cap. She has
pitaties for food, with stirabout of Indian
meal once a day (oatmeal is too dear),
tea occasionally when there is sixpence
left from the rent, and she has more
than once tasted bacon in her eighty
years of life ; more than once, she tells
me proudly, for it 's she that 's had the
good sons to help her a bit now and
then, four to carry her and one to
walk after, which is the Irish notion of
an ideal family.
" It 's no chuckeris I do be bavin' now,
ma'am," she says, " but it 's a darlin'
flock I had ten year ago, whin Dinnis
was harvestin' in Scotland ! Sure it was
two-and-twinty chuckens I had on the
floore wid meself that year, ma'am."
" Oh, it 's a conthrary world, that 's a
mortial fact ! " as Phelim O'Kourke is
wont to say when his cough is bad ; and
for my life I can frame no better wish
for ould Biddy Tuke and Omadhaun
Pat, dark Timsy and the Bocca, than
that they might wake, one of these sum-
mer mornings, in the harvest field of the
seventh heaven. That place is reserved
Penelope's Irish Experiences.
237
for the saints, and surely these unfortu-
nates, acquainted with grief like An-
other, might without difficulty find en-
trance there.
I am not wise enough to say how much
of all this squalor and wretchedness
and hunger is the fault of the people
themselves, how much of it belongs to
circumstances and environment, how
much is the result of past errors of gov-
ernment, how much is race, how much
is religion. I only know that children
should never be hungry, that there are
ignorant human creatures to be taught
how to live : and if it is a hard task, the
sooner it is begun the better, both for
teachers and pupils. It is comparatively
easy to form opinions and devise reme-
dies, when one knows the absolute truth
of things ; but it is so difficult to find the
truth here, or at least there are so many
and such different truths to weigh in the
balance, the Protestant and the Ro-
man Catholic truth, the landlord's and
the tenant's, the Nationalist's and the
Unionist's truth ! I am sadly befogged,
and so, pushing the vexing questions all
aside, I take dark Timsy, Bocca Lynch,
and Omadhaun Pat up on the green
hillside near the ruined fort, to tell them
stories, and teach them somo of the thou-
sand things that happier, luckier chil-
dren know.
This is an island of anomalies ; the
Irish peasants will puzzle you, perplex
you, disappoint you, with their incon-
sistencies, but keep from liking them if
you can ! There are a few cleaner and
more comfortable homes in Lisdara and
Knockcool than when we came, and Ben-
ella has been invaluable, although her
reforms, as might be expected, are of
an unusual character ; and with her the
wheels of progress never move silently,
as they should, but always squeak. With
the two golden sovereigns given her to
spend, she has bought scissors, knives,
hammers, boards, sewing materials, knit-
ting needles, and yarn, everything to
work with, and nothing to eat, drink, or
wear, though Heaven knows there is lit-
tle enough of such things in Lisdara.
" The quicker you wear 'em out, the
better you '11 suit me," she says to the
awe-stricken Lisdarians. " I 'in a workin'
woman myself, an' it 's my ladies' money
I 've spent this time ; but I '11 make out
to keep you in brooms and scrubbin'
brushes, if only you '11 use 'em ! You
must n't take offense at anything I say
to you, for I 'm part Irish, my grand-
mother was Mary Boyce of Trim ; and
if she had n't come away and settled in
Salem, Massachusetts, mebbe I wouldn't
have known a scrubbin' brush by sight
myself ! "
XXI.
" What ails you, Sister Erin, that your face
Is, like your mountains, still bedewed with
tears?
Forgive ! forget ! lest harsher lips should
say,
Like your turf fire, your rancour smoulders
long,
And let Oblivion strew Time's ashes o'er your
wrong."
At tea time, and again after our simple
dinner, for Bridget Thunder's reper-
tory is not large, and Benella's is quite
unsuited to the Knockcool markets,
we wend our way to a certain little house
that stands by itself on the road to Lis-
dara. It is only a whitewashed cabin
with green window trimmings, but it is
a larger and more comfortable one than
we commonly see, and it is the perfection
of neatness within and without. The
stone wall that incloses it is whitewashed,
too, and the iron picket railing at the top
is painted bright green ; the stones on
the posts are green, also, and there is
the prettiest possible garden, with nicely
cut borders of box. In fine, if ever
there was a cheery place to look at, Sars-
field Cottage is that one; and if ever*
there was a cheerless gentleman, it is Mr.
Jordan, who dwells there. Mrs. Wogan
Odevaine commended him to us as the
Penelope's Irish Experiences.
man of all others with whom to discuss
Irish questions, if we wanted, for once
in a way, to hear a thoroughly disaffected,
outraged, wrong-headed, and rancorous
view of things.
" He is an encyclopaedia, and he is per-
fectly delightful on any topic in the uni-
verse but the wrongs of Ireland," said
she ; " not entirely sane, and yet a good
father, and a good neighbor, and a good
talker. Faith, he can abuse the Eng-
lish government with any man alive!
He has a smaller grudge against you
Americans, perhaps, than against most
of the other nations, so possibly he may
elect to discuss something more cheerful
than our national grievances ; if he does,
and you want a livelier topic, just men-
tion let me see you might speak
of Wentworth, who destroyed Ireland's
woolen industry, though it is true he laid
the foundation of the linen trade, so he
would n't do, though Mr. Jordan is likely
to remember the former point, and for-
get the latter. Well, just breathe the
words ' Catholic Disqualification ' or ' Ul-
ster Confiscation,' and you will have as
pretty a burst of oratory as you 'd care
to hear. You remember that exas-
perated Englishman who asked in the
House why Irishmen were always lay-
ing bare their grievances ? And Major
0' Gorman bawled across the floor, ' Be-
cause they want them redressed ! '"
Salemina and I went to call on Mr.
Jordan the very next day after our ar-
rival at Knockcool. Over the sitting-
room or library door at Sarsfield Cot-
tage is a coat of arms with the motto of
the Jordans, " Percussus surgus ; " and as
our friend is descended from Richard
Jordan of Knock, who died on the scaf-
fold at Claremorris in the memorable
year 1798, I find that he is related to
me, for one of the De Exeter Jordans
married Penelope O'Connor, daughter of
the king of Con naught. He took her to
wife, too, when the espousal of anything
Irish, names, language, apparel, customs,
or daughters, was high treason, and meant
instant confiscation of estates. I never
thought of mentioning the relationship,
for obviously a family cannot hold griev-
ances for hundreds of years and bequeath
a sense of humor at the same time.
Mr. Jordan's wife has been long dead,
but he has four sons, only one of them,
Napper Tandy, living at home. Theo-
bald Wolfe Tone is practicing law in
Dublin ; Hamilton Rowan is a physician
in Cork; and Daniel O'Connell, common-
ly called " Lib " (a delicate reference to
the. Liberator), is still a lad at Trinity.
It is a great pity that Mr. Jordan could
not have had a larger family, that he
might have kept fresh in the national
heart the names of a few more patriots ;
for his library walls, "where Memory
sits by the altar she has raised to Woe,"
are hung with engravings and prints of
celebrated insurgents, rebels, agitators,
demagogues, denunciators, conspirators,
pictures of anybody, in a word, who
ever struck a blow, right or wrong, well
or ill judged, for the green isle. That gal-
lant Jacobite, Patrick Sarsfield, Burke,
Grattan, Flood, and Robert Emmet
stand shoulder to shoulder with three
Fenian gentlemen, named Allan, Larkin,
and O'Brien, known in ultra-Nationalist
circles as the "Manchester martyrs."
For some years after this trio was hanged
in Salford jail, it appears that the infant
mind was sadly mixed in its attempt to
separate knowledge in the concrete from
the more or less abstract information
contained in the Catechism ; and many
a bishop was shocked, when asking in
the confirmation service, " Who are the
martyrs ? " to be told, " Allan, Larkin,
and O'Brien, me lord ! "
Francesca says she longs to smuggle
into Mr. Jordan's library a picture of
Tom Steele, one of Daniel O'Connell's
henchmen, to whom he gave the title of
Head Pacificator of Ireland. It is true
he was half a madman, but as Sir James
O'Connell, Daniel's candid brother, said,
" And who the divil else would take such
a job ? " At any rate, when we gaze
Penelope's Irish Experiences.
239
at Mr. Jordan's gallery, imagining the
scene that would ensue were the breath
of life breathed into the patriots' quiver-
ing nostrils, we feel sure that the Head
Pacificator would be kept busy.
Dear old white-haired Mr. Jordan,
known in select circles as "Grievance
Jordan," sitting in his library surround-
ed by his denunciators, conspirators, and
martyrs, with incendiary documents
piled mountains high on his desk,
what a pathetic anachronism he is !
The shillelagh is hung on the wall
now, for the most part, and faction-fight-
ing is at an end ; but in the very last mo-
ments of it there were still " ructions "
between the Fitzgeralds and the Mori-
artys, and the age-old reason of the
quarrel was, according to the Fitzger-
alds, the betrayal of the " Cause of Ire-
land." The particular instance occurred
in the sixteenth century, but no Fitzger-
ald could ever afterward meet any Mo-
kriarty at a fair without crying, " Who
dare tread on the tail of me coat ? "
and inviting him to join in the dishcus-
sion with shticks. This practically is
Mr. Jordan's position ; and if an Irish-
man desires to live entirely in the past,
he can be as unhappy as any man alive.
He is writing a book, which Mrs. Wogan
Odevaine insists is to be called The
Groans of Ireland ; but after a glance at
a page of memoranda penciled in a col-
lection of Swift's Irish tracts that he lent
to me (the volume containing that ghast-
ly piece of irony, The Modest Proposal
for Preventing the Poor of Ireland from
being a Burden to their Parents and
Country), I have concluded that he is
editing a Catalogue of Irish Wrongs
Alphabetically Arranged. This idea
pleased Mrs. Wogan Odevaine extreme-
ly ; and when she drove over to tea, bring-
ing several cheerful young people to call
upon us, she proposed, in the most light-
hearted way in the world, to play what
she termed the Grievance Game, an in-
tellectual diversion which she had invent-
ed on the instant. She proposed it, ap-
parently, with a view of showing us how
small a knowledge of Ireland's ancient
wrongs is the property of the modern
Irish girl, and how slight a hold on her
memory and imagination have the un-
speakably bitter days of the long ago.
We were each given pencil and paper,
and two or three letters of the alphabet,
and bidden to arrange the wrongs of
Ireland neatly under them, as we sup-
posed Mr. Jordan to be doing for the
instruction and the depression of pos-
terity. The result proved that Mrs.
Odevaine was a true prophet, for the
youngest members of the coterie came
off badly enough, and read their brief
list of grievances with much chagrin at
their lack of knowledge ; the only piece
of information they possessed in common
being the inherited idea that England
never had understood Ireland, never
would, never could, never should, never
might understand her.
Rosetta Odevaine succeeded in re-
membering, for A, F, and H, Absentee-
ism, Flight of the Earls, Famine, and
Hunger ; her elder sister, Eileen, fresh
from college, was rather triumphant
with O and P, giving us Oppression of
the Irish Tenantry, Penal Laws, Protes-
tant Supremacy, Poyning's Law, Potato
Rot, and Plantations. Their friend,
Rhona Burke, had V, W, X, Y, Z, and
succeeded only in finding Wentworth
and Woolen Trade Destroyed, until Miss
Odevaine helped her with Wood's Half-
pence, about which everybody else had
to be enlightened ; and there was plenty
of laughter when Francesca suggested,
for V, Vipers Expelled by St. Patrick.
Salemina carried off the first prize ; but
we insisted that C and D were the easi-
est letters ; at any rate, her list showed
great erudition, and would certainly have
pleased Mr. Jordan. C. Church Cess,
Catholic Disqualification, Crimes Act of
1887, Confiscations, Cromwell, Carry-
ing Away of Lia Fail (Stone of Destiny)
from Tara. D. Destruction of Trees on
Confiscated Lands, Discoverers (of flaws
240
Making the Crowd Beautiful.
in Irish titles), Debasing of the Coinage
by James I.
Mrs. Odevaine came next with R and
S. R. Recall of Lord Fitzwilliams by
Pitt, Rundale Lani Tenure, Rack-Rents,
Ribbonism. S. Schism Act, Supremacy
Act, Sixth Act of George I.
I followed with T and U, having un-
earthed Tithes and the Test Act for the
first, and Undertakers, the Acts of Union
and Uniformity, for the second ; while
Francesca, who had been given I, J, K,
L, and M, disgraced herself by failing on
all the letters but the last, under which
she finally catalogued one particularly
obnoxious wrong in Middlemen.
This ignorance of the past may have
its bright side, after all, though, to speak
truthfully, it did show a too scanty know-
ledge of national history. But if one
must forget, it is as well to begin with
the wrongs of far-off years, those " done
to your ancient name or wreaked upon
your race."
Kate Douglas Wiggin.
(To be continued.)
MAKING THE CROWD BEAUTIFUL.
A CROWD civilization produces, as a
matter of course, crowd art and art for
crowded conditions. This fact is at once
the glory arid the weakness of the kind
of art a democracy is bound to have.
The most natural evidence to turn to
first of the crowd in a crowd age
is such as can be found in its literature,
especially in its masterpieces.
The significance of shaking hands
with a Senator of the United States is
that it is a convenient and labor-saving
way of shaking hands with two or three
million people. The impressiveness of
the Senator's Washington voice, the
voice on the floor of the Senate, con-
sists in the mystical undertone, the
chorus in it, multitudes in smoking
cities, men and women, rich and poor,
who are speaking when this man speaks,
and who are silent when he is silent, in
the government of the United States.
The typical fact that the Senator
stands for in modern life has a corre-
sponding typical fact in modern litera-
ture. The typical fact in modern liter-
ature is the epigram, the senatorial sen-
tence, the sentence that immeasurably
represents what it does not say. The
difference between democracy in Wash-
ington and democracy in Athens may be
said to be that in Washington we have
an epigram government, a government in
which seventy million people are crowded
into two rooms to consider what to do,
and in which seventy million people are
made to sit in one chair to see that it is
done. In Athens every man represented
himself.
It may be said to be a good working
distinction between modern and classic
art that in modern art words and col-
ors and sounds stand for things, and in
classic art they said them. In the art
of the Greek, things were what they
seemed, and they were all there. Hence
simplicity. It is a quality of the art of
to-day that things are not what they seem
in it. If they were, we should not call
it art at all. Everything stands not only
for itself and for what it says, but for an
immeasurable something that cannot be
said. Every sound in music is the sen-
ator of a thousand sounds, thoughts, and
associations, and in literature every word
that is allowed to appear is the repre-
sentative in three syllables of three pages
of a dictionary. The whistle of the lo-
Making the Crowd Beautiful.
241
comotive, and the ring of the telephone,
and the still, swift rush of the elevator
are making themselves felt in the ideal
world. They are proclaiming to the
ideal world that the real world is out-
stripping it. The twelve thousand horse
power steamer does not find itself ac-
curately expressed in iambics on the
leisurely fleet of Ulysses. It is seek-
ing new expression. The command has
gone forth over all the beauty and over
all the art of the present world, crowded
for time and crowded for space. " Tele-
graph ! " To the nine Muses the order
flies. One can hear it on every side.
" Telegraph ! " The result is symbolism,
the Morse alphabet of art and " types,"
the epigrams of human nature, crowding
us all into ten or twelve people. The
epic is telescoped into the sonnet, and
the sonnet is compressed into quatrains or
Tabbs of poetry, and couplets are signed
as masterpieces. The novel has come
into being, several hundred pages of
crowded people in crowded sentences,
jostling each other to oblivion ; and now
the novel, jostled into oblivion by the next
novel, is becoming the short story. Kip-
ling's short stories sum the situation up.
So far as skeleton or plot is concerned,
they are built up out of a bit of nothing
put with an infinity of Kipling ; so far as
meat is concerned, they are the Liebig
Beef Extract of fiction. A single jar of
Kipling contains a whole herd of old-time
novels lowing on a hundred hills.
The classic of any given world is a
work of art that has passed through the
same process in being a work of art that
that world has passed through in being a
world. Mr. Kipling represents a crowd
age, because he is crowded with it ; be-
cause, above all others, he is the man
who produces art in the way the age he
lives in is producing everything else.
This is no mere circumstance of demo-
cracy. It is its manifest destiny that it
shall produce art for crowded conditions,
that it shall have crowd art. The kind
of beauty that can be indefinitely mul-
VOL. LXXXVH. NO. 520. 16
tiplied is the kind of beauty in which,
in the nature of things, we have made
our most characteristic and most impor-
tant progress. Our most considerable
success in pictures could not be other-
wise than in black and white. Black-
and-white art is printing-press art, and
art that can be produced in endless
copies, that can be subscribed for by
crowds, finds an extraordinary demand,
and artists have applied themselves to
supplying it. All the improvements,
moving on through the use of wood and
steel and copper, and the process of
etching, to the photogravure, the litho-
graph, and the latest photograph in
color, whatever else may be said of
them from the point of view of Titian
or Michael Angelo, constitute a most
amazing and triumphant advance from
the point of view of making art a de-
mocracy, of making the rare and the
beautiful minister day and night to
crowds. The fact that the mechanical
arts are so prominent in their relation to
the fine arts may not seem to argue a
high ideal amongst us ; but as the me-
chanical arts are the body of beauty, and
the fine arts .are the soul of it, it is a
necessary part of the ideal to keep body
and soul together until we can do better.
Mourning with Ruskin is not so much to
the point as going to work with William
Morris. If we have deeper feelings
about wall papers than we have about
other things, it is going to the root of
the matter to begin with wall papers,
to make machinery say something as
beautiful as possible, inasmuch as it is
bound to have, for a long time at least,
about all the say there is. The pho-
tograph does not go about the world
doing Murillos everywhere by pressing
a button, but the camera habit is doing
more in the way of steady daily hydrau-
lic lifting of great masses of men to
where they enjoy beauty in the world
than Leonardo da Vinci would have
dared to dream in his far-off day ; and
Leonardo's pictures thanks to the same
242
Making the Crowd Beautiful.
photograph and everybody's pictures,
films of paper, countless spirits of them-
selves, pass around the world to every
home in Christendom. The printing
press made literature a democracy, and
machinery is making all the arts demo-
cracies. The symphony piano, an in-
vention for making vast numbers of peo-
ple who can play only a few very poor
things play very poorly a great many
good ones, is a consummate instance both
of the limitation and the value of our
contemporary tendency in the arts. The
pipe organ, though on a much higher
plane, is an equally characteristic con-
trivance, making it possible for a man
to be a complete orchestra and a con-
ductor all by himself, playing on a crowd
of instruments, to a crowd of people,
with two hands and one pair of feet. It
is a crowd invention. The orchestra
a most distinctively modern institution,
a kind of republic of soirhd, the unseen
spirit of the many in one is the sub-
limest expression yet attained of the
crowd music, which is, and must be,
the supreme music of this modern day,
the symphony. Richard Wagner comes
to his triumph because his music is the
voice of multitudes. The opera a
crowd of sounds accompanied by a crowd
of sights, presented by one crowd of
people on the stage to another crowd of
people in the galleries stands for the
same tendency in art that the syndicate
stands for in commerce. It is syndicate
music ; and in proportion as a musical
composition in this present day is an
aggregation f multitudinous moods, in
proportion as it is suggestive, complex,
paradoxical, the way a crowd is com-
plex, suggestive, and paradoxical,
provided it be wrought at the same time
into some vast and splendid unity,
just in this proportion is it modern
music. It gives itself to the counter-
points of the spirit, the passion of va-
riety in modern life. The legacy of
all the ages, is it not descended upon
us ? the spirit of a thousand nations ?
All our arts are thousand-nation arts,
shadows and echoes of dead worlds play-
ing upon our own. Italian music, out
of its feudal kingdoms, comes to us as
essentially solo music, melody ; and
the civilization of Greece, being a civi-
lization of heroes, individuals, comes to
us in its noble array with its solo arts,
its striding heroes everywhere in front
of all, and with nothing nearer to the
people in it than the Greek Chorus,
which, out of limbo, pale and featureless
across all ages, sounds to us as the first
far faint coming of the crowd to the arts
of this groping world. Modern art, in-
heriting each of these and each of all
things, is revealed to us as the struggle to
express all things at once. Democracy
is democracy for this very reason, and for
no other : that all things may be expressed
at once in it, arid that all things may be
given a chance to be expressed at once
in it. Being a race of hero worshipers,
the Greeks said the best, perhaps, that
could be said in sculpture ; but the mar-
bles and bronzes of a democracy, having
average men for subjects, and being done
by average men, are average marbles
and bronzes. We express what we have.
We are in a transition stage. It is not
without its significance, however, that we
have perfected the plaster cast, the es-
tablishment of democracy among statues,
and mobs of Greek gods mingling
with the people can be seen almost any
day in every considerable city of the
world. The same principle is working
itself out in our architecture. It is idle
to contend against the principle. The
way out is the way through. However
eagerly we gaze at Parthenons on their
ruined hills, if twenty-one-story blocks
are in our souls, twenty-one-story blocks
will be our masterpieces, whether we like
it or not. They will be our masterpieces
because they tell the truth about us ; and
while truth may not be beautiful, it is
the thing that must be told first before
beauty can begin. The beauty we are to
have shall only be worked out from the
Making the Crowd Beautiful.
243
truth we have. Living as we do in a new
era, not to see that the twenty-one-story
block is the expression of a new truth
is to turn ourselves away from the one
way that beauty can ever be found by
men, whether in this era or in any other.
What is it that the twenty-one-story
block is trying to say about us ? The
twenty-one-story block is the masterpiece
of mass, of immensity, of numbers ; with
its 1425 windows and its 497 offices, and
its crowds of lives piled upon lives, it is
expressing the one supreme and char-
acteristic thing that is taking place in
the era in which we live. The city is
the main fact that modern civilization
stands for, and crowding is the logical
architectural form of the city idea. The
twenty-one-story block is the statue of a
crowd. It stands for a spiritual fact, and
it will never be beautiful until that fact
is beautiful. The only way to make the
twenty - one - story block beautiful (the
crowd expressed by the crowd) is to
make the crowd beautiful. The most
artistic, the only artistic thing the world
can do next is to make the crowd beau-
tiful.
The typical city blocks, with their gar-
rets in the lower stories of the sky, were
not possible in the ancient world, because
steel had not been invented ; and the in-
vention of steel, which is not the least
of our triumphs in. the mechanical arts,
is in many ways the most characteristic.
Steel is republican for stone. Putting
whole quarries into a single girder, it
makes room for crowds ; and what is
more significant than this, inasmuch as
the steel pillar is an invention that makes
it possible to put floors up first, and build
the walls around the floors, instead of
putting the walls up first, and support-
ing the floors upon the walls, as in the
ancient world, it has come to pass that
the modern world being the ancient world
turned upside down, modern architec-
ture is ancient architecture turned in-
side out, a symbol of many things. The
ancient world was a wall of individuals,
supporting floor after floor and stage
after stage of society, from the lowest to
the highest ; and it is a typical fact in
this modern democratic world that it
grows from the inside, and that it sup-
ports itself from the inside. When the
mass in the centre has been finished, an
ornamental stone facing of great individ-
uals will be built around it and supported
by it, and the work will be considered
done.
The modern spirit has much to boast
of in its mechanical arts, and in its fine
arts almost nothing at all, because the
mechanical arts are studying what men
are needing to-day, and the fine arts are
studying what the Greeks needed three
thousand years ago. To be a real classic
is, first, to be a contemporary of one's
own time ; second, to be a contemporary
of one's own time so deeply and widely as
to be a contemporary of all time. The
true Greek is a man who is doing with
his own age what the Greeks did with
theirs, bringing all ages to bear upon
it, interpreting it. As long as the fine
arts miss the fundamental principle of
this present age, the crowd principle,
and the mechanical arts do not, the
mechanical arts are bound to have their
way with us. And it were vastly better
that they should. Sincere and straight-
forward mechanical arts are not only
more beautiful than affected fine ones,
but they are more to the point ; they are
the one sure sign we have of where we
are going to be beautiful next. It is
impossible to love the fine arts in the
year 1901 without studying the mechan-
ical ones ; without finding one's self look-
ing for artistic material in the things
that people are using, and that they are
obliged to use. The determining law of
a thing of beauty being, in the nature of
things, what it is for, the very essence of
the classic attitude in a utilitarian age is to
make the beautiful follow the useful and
inspire the useful with its spirit. The
fine art of the next one thousand years
shall be the transfiguring of the mechan-
244
Making the Crowd Beautiful.
ical arts. The modern hotel, having been
made necessary by great natural forces
in modern life, and having been made
possible by new mechanical arts, now
puts itself forward as the next great op-
portunity of the fine arts. One of the
characteristic achievements of the imme-
diate future shall be the twentieth-century
Parthenon, a Parthenon not of the
great and of the few and of the gods, but
of the great many, where, through mighty
corridors, day and night, democracy wan-
ders and sleeps and chatters and is sad,
and lives and dies, the streets rumbling
below. The hotel, the crowd fireside,
being more than any other one thing,
perhaps, the thing that this civilization is
about, the token of what it loves and of
how it lives, is bound to be a masterpiece
sooner or later that shall express demo-
cracy. The hotel rotunda, the parlor for
multitudes, is bound to be made beautiful
in ways we do not guess. Why should
we guess ? Multitudes have never want-
ed parlors before. The idea of a parlor
has been to get out of a multitude. All
the inevitable problems that come of
having a whole city of families live in
one house have yet to be solved by the
fine arts as well as by the mechanical
ones. We have barely begun. The time
is bound to come when the radiator, the
crowd's fireplace-in-a-pipe, shall be made
beautiful ; and when the electric light
shall be taught the secret of the candle ;
and when the especial problem of modern
life, of how to make two rooms as good as
twelve, shall be mastered aesthetically as
well as mathematically ; and when even
the piano - folding - bed - bookcase - toilet-
stand-writing-desk a crowd invention
for living in a crowd shall either take
beauty to itself, or lead to beauty that
serves the same end.
While for the time being it seems to
be true that the fine arts are looking to
the past, the mechanical arts are produ-
cing conditions in the future that will
bring the fine arts to terms, whether they
want to be brought to terms or not. The
mechanical arts hold the situation in
their hands. It is decreed that people
who cannot begin by making the things
they use beautiful shall be allowed no
beauty in other things. We may wish
that Parthenons and cathedrals were
within our souls ; but what the cathe-
dral said of an age that had the cathe-
dral mood, that had a cathedral civiliza-
tion and thrones and popes in it, we are
bound to say in some stupendous fashion
of our own, something which, when it
is built at last, will be left worshiping
upon the ground beneath the sky when
we are dead, as a memorial that we too
have lived. The great cathedrals, with
the feet of the huddled and dreary poor
upon their floors, and saints and heroes
shining on their pillars, and priests be-
hind the chancel with God to themselves,
and the vast and vacant nave, symbol of
the heaven glimmering above that few
could reach, it is not to these that we
shall look to get ourselves said to the
nations that are now unborn ; rather,
though it be strange to say it, we shall
look to something like the ocean steam-
ship cathedral of this huge unresting
modern world under the wide heaven,
on the infinite seas, with spars for towers
and the empty nave reversed filled with
human beings, souls, the cathedral of
crowds hurrying to crowds. There are
hundreds of them throbbing and gleam-
ing in the night, this very moment,
lonely cities in the hollow of the stars,
bringing together the nations of the
earth.
When the spirit of a thing, the idea
of it, the fact that it stands for, has found
its way at last into the minds of artists,
masterpieces shall come to us out of
every great and living activity in our
lives. Art shall tell the things these
lives are about. When this fact is once
realized in America as it was in Greece,
the fine arts shall cover the other arts as
the waters cover the sea. The Brook-
lyn Bridge, swinging its web for im-
mortal souls across sky and sea, comes
Making the Crowd Beautiful.
245
nearer to being a work of art than almost
anything we possess to-day, because it
tells the truth, because it is the mate-
rial form of a spiritual idea, because it
is a sublime and beautiful expression of
New York in the way that the Acropolis
was a sublime and beautiful expression
of Athens. The Acropolis was beauti-
ful because it was the abode of heroes,
of great individuals ; and the Brooklyn
Bridge, because it expresses the bring-
ing together of millions of men. It is
the architecture of crowds, this Brook-
lyn Bridge, with winds and sunsets
and the dark and the tides of souls upon
it ; it is the type and symbol of the
kind of thing that our modern genius is
bound to make beautiful and immortal
before it dies. The very word " bridge "
is the symbol of the future of art and of
everything else, the bringing together of
things that are apart, democracy. The
bridge, which makes land across the wa-
ter, and the boat, which makes land on
the water, and the cable, which makes
land and water alike, these are the
physical forms of the spirit of modern
life, the democracy of matter. But the
spirit has countless forms. They are all
new, and they are all waiting to be made
beautiful. The dumb crowd waits in
them. We have electricity, the life
current of the republican idea, char-
acteristically our foremost invention, be-
cause it takes all power that belongs to
individual places and puts it on a wire
and carries it to all places. We have
the telephone, an invention which makes
it possible for a man to live on a back
street and be a next-door neighbor to
boulevards ; and we have the trolley,
the modern reduction of the private car-
riage to its lowest terms, so that any man
for five cents can have as much carriage
power as Napoleon with all his chariots.
We have the phonograph, an invention
which gives a man a thousand voices ;
which sets him to singing a thousand
songs at the same time to a thousand
crowds ; which makes it possible for the
commonest man to hear the whisper of
Bismarck or Gladstone, to unwind crowds
of great men by the firelight of his own
house. We have the elevator, an inven-
tion for making the many as well off as
the few, an approximate arrangement
for giving first floors to everybody, and
putting all men on a level at the same
price, one more of a thousand in-
stances of the extraordinary manner in
which the mechanical arts have devoted
themselves from first to last to the Con-
stitution of the United States. While
it cannot be said of many of these tools
of existence that they are beautiful now,
it is enough to affirm that when they are
perfected they will be beautiful ; and that
if we cannot make beautiful the things
that we need, we cannot expect to make
beautiful the things that we merely want.
When the beauty of these things is at
last brought out, we shall have attained
the most characteristic and original and
expressive and beautiful art that is in
our power. It will be unprecedented,
because it will tell unprecedented truths.
It was the mission of ancient art to ex-
press states of being and individuals, and
it may be said to be in a general way
the mission of our modern art to express
the beautiful in endless change, the move-
ment of masses, coming to its sublimity
and immortality at last by revealing the
beauty of the things that move and that
have to do with motion, the bringing of
all things and of all souls together on the
earth.
The fulfillment of the word that has
been written, " Your valleys shall be
exalted, and your mountains shall be
made low," is by no means a beautiful
process. Democracy is the grading prin-
ciple of the beautiful. The natural ten-
dency the arts have had from the first
to rise from the level of the world, to
make themselves into Switzerlands in it,
is finding itself confronted with the Con-
stitution of the United States, a Con-
stitution which, whatever it may be said
to mean in the years to come, has placed
240
itself on record up to the present time,
at least, as standing for the table-land.
The very least that can be granted
to this Constitution is that it is so con-
summate apolitical document that it has
made itself the creed of our theology,
philosophy, and sociology ; the principle
of our commerce and industry ; the law
of production, education, and journalism ;
the method of our life ; the controlling
characteristic and the significant force
in our literature ; and the thing our re-
ligion and our arts are about.
II.
If it is true, as events now seem
to point out, that whatever is accom-
plished in a crowd civilization that is,
a modern civilization is being accom-
plished by the crowd for the crowd, we
are brought i ace to face with what must
soon be recognized as the great challenge
of modern life. Nothing beautiful can
be accomplished in a crowd civilization,
by the crowd for the crowd, unless the
crowd is beautiful. No man who is en-
gaged in looking under the lives about
him, who wishes to face the facts of
these lives as they are lived to-day, will
find himself able to avoid this last and
most important fact in the history of
the world, the fact that, whatever it
may mean, or whether it is for better or
worse, the world has staked all that it is
and has been, and all that it is capable of
being, on the one supreme issue, " How
can the crowd be made beautiful ? "
The answer to this question involves
two difficulties: (1.) A crowd cannot
make itself beautiful. (2.) A crowd will
not let any one else make it beautiful.
The men who have been on the whole
the most eager democrats of history,
the real-idealists, that is, the men
who love the crowd and the beautiful
too, and who can have no honest or hu-
man pleasure in either of them except
as they are being drawn together, are
obliged to admit that living in a demo-
cratic country, a country where politics
Making the Crowd Beautiful.
and aesthetics can no longer be kept
apart, is an ordeal that can only be
faced a large part of the time with heavy
hearts. We are obliged to admit that it
is a country where paintings have little
but the Constitution of the United States
wrought into them ; where sculpture is
voted and paid for by the common peo-
ple ; where music is composed for major-
ities ; where poetry is sung to a circula-
tion ; where literature itself is scaled to
subscription lists ; where all the creators
of the True and the Beautiful and the
Good may be seen almost any day, tramp-
ing the table-land of the average man,
fed by the average man, allowed to live
by the average man, plodding along
with weary and dusty steps to the aver-
age man's forgetfulness. And indeed,
it is no least trait of this same average
man that he forgets, that he is forgotten,
that all his slaves are forgotten ; that the
world remembers only those who have
been his masters.
On the other hand, the literature of
finding fault with the average man
(which is what the larger part of our
more ambitious literature really is) is
not a kind of literature that can do any-
thing to mend matters. The art of
finding fault with the average man,
with the fact that the world is made
convenient for him, is inferior art be-
cause it is helpless art. The world is
made convenient for the average man
because it has to be, to get him to live
in it ; and if the world were not made
convenient for him, the man of genius
would find living with him a great deal
more uncomfortable than he does. He
would not even be allowed the com-
fort of saying how uncomfortable. The
world belongs to the average man, and,
excepting the stars and other things
that are too big to belong to him, the
moment the average man deserves any-
thing better in it or more beautiful in it
than he is getting, some man of genius
rises by his side, in spite of him, and
claims it for him. Then he slowly
Making the Crowd Beautiful.
247
claims it for himself. The last thing
to do, to make the world a good place
for the average man, would be to make
it a world with nothing but average men
in it. If it is the ideal of democracy
that there shall be a slow massive lifting,
a grading up of all things at once ; that
whatever is highest in the True and the
Beautiful, and whatever is lowest in it,
shall be graded down and graded up to
the middle height of human life, where
the greatest numbers shall make their
home and live upon it ; if the ideal of
democracy is table-land, that is, moun-
tains for everybody, a few mountains
must be kept on hand to make table-land
out of.
Two solutions, then, of a crowd civili-
zation having the extraordinary men
crowded out of it as a convenience to
the average ones, and having the aver-
age men crowded out of it as a con-
venience to the extraordinary ones are
equally impracticable.
This brings us to the horns of our
dilemma. If the crowd cannot be made
beautiful by itself, and if the crowd
will not allow itself to be made beautiful
by any one else, the crowd can only be
made beautiful by a man who lives so
great a life in it that he can make a
crowd beautiful whether it allows him to
or not.
When this man is born to us and looks
out on the conditions around him, he will
find that to be born in a crowd civiliza-
tion is to be born in a civilization, first,
in which every man can do as he pleases ;
second, in which nobody does. Every
man is given by the government abso-
lute freedom ; and when it has given him
absolute freedom, the government says to
him, " Now, if you can get enough other
men, with their absolute freedom, to put
their absolute freedom with your abso-
lute freedom, you can use your absolute
freedom in any way you want." Demo-
cracy, seeking to free a man from being a
slave to one master, has simply increased
the number of masters a man shall have.
He is hemmed in with crowds of mas-
ters. He cannot see his master's huge
amorphous face. He cannot go to his
master and reason with him. He cannot
even plead with him. You can cry your
heart out to one of these modern ballot
boxes. You have but one ballot. They
will not count tears. The ultimate ques-
tion in a crowd civilization becomes, not
" What does a thing mean ? " or " What
is it worth ? " but " How much is there
of it?" "If thou art a great man,"
says Civilization, "get thou a crowd
for thy greatness. Then come with thy
crowd, and we will deal with thee. It
shall be even as thou wilt." The pres-
sure has become so great, as is obvious
on every side, that men who are of small
or ordinary calibre can only be more
pressed by it. They are pressed smaller
and smaller, the more they are civi-
lized, the smaller they are pressed ; and
we are being daily brought face to face
with the fact that the one solution a
crowd civilization can have for the evil
of being a crowd civilization is the man
in the crowd who can withstand the pres-
sure of the crowd ; that is to say, the one
solution of a crowd civilization is the great-
man solution, a solution which is none
the less true because by name, at least, it
leaves most of us out, or because it is so
familiar that we have forgotten it. The
one method by which a crowd can be
freed and can be made to realize itself
is the great-man method, the method
of crucifying and worshiping great men,
until by crucifying and worshiping great
men enough, inch by inch and era by
era, it is lifted to greatness itself.
Not very many years ago, certain great
and good men, who at the cost of infi-
nite pains were standing at the time on
a safe and lofty rock, protected from the
fury of their kind by the fury of the sea,
contrived to say to the older nations of
the earth, " All men are created equal."
It is a thing to be borne in mind, that if
these men, who declared that all men
were created equal, had not been some
248
Making the Crowd Beautiful.
several hundred percent better men than
the men they said they were created
equal to, it would not have made any dif-
ference to us or to any one else whether
they had said that all men were created
equal or not, or whether the Republic
had ever been started or not, in which
every man, for hundreds of years, should
look up to these men and worship them,
as the kind of men that every man in
America was free to try to equal. A
civilization by numbers, a crowd civili-
zation, if it had not been started by
heroes, could never have been started at
all ; and on whether or not this civiliza-
tion shall attempt to live by the crowd
principle, without men in it who are
living by the hero principle, depends the
question whether this civilization, with
all its crowds, shall stand or fall among
the civilizations of the earth. The main
difference between the heroes of Ply-
mouth Rock, the heroes who proclaimed
freedom in 1776, and the heroes who
must contrive to proclaim freedom now
is that tyranny now is crowding around
the Rock, and climbing up on the Rock,
seventy-five million strong, and that tyr-
anny then was a half -idiot king three
thousand miles away.
m.
Bearing in mind the extraordinary
and almost impossible terms the crowd
civilization makes with the Individual,
the question arises, " If the crowd is to
he made beautiful by the Individual,
by the great man in it, what kind of a
great man is it going to be necessary for
a man to be, and what kind of a life
shall he live ? " Looking at the matter
from the historical point of view, what-
ever else this man may be, he will be an
artist (using the word in the heroic and
more generous sense), and he will live
the life of the artist.
A crowd can only be made beautiful
by a man who defies it and delights in
it at once. A crowd can only be defied
by a man who has resources outside the
crowd, and it cannot be delighted in or
helped except by a man who has re-
sources inside the crowd, who is iden-
tified with it. The man who masters
the crowd enough to serve it can only
do it by attacking it from the outside
and the inside at the same time, by put-
ting his inside and outside resources to-
gether. He must be a man who has the
spirit of the artist, who is a sharer and
spectator at once ; living above the crowd
enough to lift it, and living in the midst
of the crowd enough to be loved by it,
so that it will let him lift it. The man
who lives in two worlds, the world the
crowd has, and the world it ought to
have ; who insists on keeping up a com-
plete establishment in each of them ; who
moves from one to the other as his work
demands, avoiding the disadvantages of
both worlds, and claiming the advan-
tages of both, is the only man who can
be free and independent enough to ac-
cumulate the strength, the material, and
the method either in matter or in spir-
it that world-lifting calls for. It is
impossible for a man to become inter-
ested in world-lifting to feel, as many
men do, that it is the only exercise that
has joy enough in it to be worth while
without coming to the conclusion very
soon that the only way to move any-
thing as large as a world is to get hold
of another world to move it with, one
that is at least one size larger than this
one. The world that is one size larger
than this one is the ideal world. By
this is not meant the one our ditties are
about (mainly remarkable for being one
size smaller than this one), but the ideal
world which is the to-morrow of this
one, of this one as it actually is,
the real-ideal world, unashamed of na-
ture, based upon an apocalypse of facts.
The men who most habitually demand
the freedom of two worlds to do their
living in are found to be, as a matter of
fact, almost without exception in every
generation, the artists of that generation.
Artists may be defined as the men in
Making the Crowd Beautiful.
249
all classes of society and in every walk
of life who are preeminent for seeing
things for themselves, and who are en-
gaged in making over the things that
they see for themselves into things that
others can see. They may differ as
regards the substances they are dealing
with, and the spirit they are expressing
in the substances, or they may differ in
degree in their power of seeing what
they see and embodying it, but they all
have the same class of power in them,
and they can differ only in their degree
of power. When a man sees with such
vividness that vision overflows from him
on all the lives around him, and he lights
all men up to themselves ; when he sees
so deeply and clearly that he has merely
to say the thing that he sees, to make
other men do it, he is an artist of the
first degree of power, like Ralph Waldo
Emerson or the upper Ruskin. The
artist of the second degree sees the thing
he sees clearly enough to do it himself,
like William Morris or Thomas Edi-
son, two men who have lived their
lives on the opposite sides of Wonder,
both artists with it, as far around it as
they could see, but who, like most artists
of the second degree, are scarcely on
speaking terms with each other.
Laying all matters of degree aside,
however, the important fact remains,
that whether it is a great commercial
enterprise, a new-dreamed loom, or dy-
namo, or telephone, or water color, or
symphony, any man who is a seer in
matter and spirit is an artist; and all
artists may be said to belong to the same
class, that is, the master class. They
are all two-world men, engaged in mak-
ing an ideal something in the world
within them over into a real something
in the world outside them. It is these
men who have made the world, and the
history of their lives is the history of the
world. Nations that have not spelled
themselves out in men like these are as
if they had never been, to us. They
have but rearranged Dust on the edge
of the globe. They blow like an empty
wind on it, and vanish. Nations do
things. Ages are full of achievements.
They pile and unpile, and die ; but at last,
in the great dim gallery of the years, the
nation that has lived and struggled and
died, and piled and unpiled, shall be but
the sound of a Voice to us, or a bit of
color, or a vision to light a world with,
or a few beautiful words. It shall be
what some artist did with it. It shall
say in clay and spirit what he made it
say ; and if he cannot make it say any-
thing, if it is a world that will not let
him make it say anything, men shall not
know that world. They shall not even
know that it is silent. We are not
making too large a claim for the artist.
Men who are masters of the world two
thousand years after they are dead were
the real masters of it when they lived,
whether any one knew it or not. And
it is the men who are the most like these,
the two-world men, the artists, who are
the real masters of it now.
IV.
If the only way that our modern civi-
lization can be made beautiful is to make
the crowd beautiful ; and if the crowd
will not make itself beautiful, and will
not let any one else make it beautiful ;
and if it can only be made beautiful by
the great man in it delighting in it and
defying it ; and if the only way a man
can be a great man in a crowd civilization
is to be a two-world man, an artist, the
next question that confronts us is, consid-
ering the trend of a crowd civilization,
" What kind of an artist will he be ? "
He will be a novelist. Whatever his
art form may be called, and whether he
literally writes novels or not, he will have
the equipment, the spiritual habit, and
the temperament of the great novelist.
The crowd can only be made beauti-
ful in proportion as every man in the
crowd is interpreted to every other man
in the crowd. The reason that the crowd
is not beautiful now is that interpreta-
250
Making the Crowd Beautiful.
tion has not taken place. Every man
in the crowd is spending his time in
struggling against every other man in-
stead of in understanding him. The
more time such men spend in doing
" practical things," that is, in strug-
gling against one another's lives to get a
living, the less they understand one
another's lives. The man who is going
to be able to make every man, living in
his pigeonhole in the crowd, understand
every other man will be a man who
spends a great deal of time in under-
standing every man in the crowd ; that
is, in watching all of the crowd's pigeon-
holes instead of merely struggling inside
one of them. The man who comes near-
est to doing this is the artist. He will
be a great artist, in conditions like these,
in proportion as he is a novelist. The
great artist of the modern age cannot
help being a novelist. The novel is
what the modern age is for. It tells
what every man in it is for. The only
artist who can either get or hold the at-
tention of men who are living in a mod-
ern age is the artist who will tell these
men what they are for, and who will tell
them what other men are for. The ar-
tist who shall be able to put himself in
the place of the most men shall be the
greatest artist a modern age can pro-
duce, because he will be the most practi-
cal man in it, the man who is most to
the point in it. He may make his point
by being a novelist who writes poems, as
Browning did ; or by being a novelist in
oils, like Sargent or Millet ; or a novelist
with an orchestra, like Wagner ; but in
proportion as he is a powerful artist in
this modern world he will be an inter-
preter of persons.
To say that the power to do this is
a beautiful or graceful accomplishment,
that it ought to be held in honor by
a practical world, is not enough. The
power of putting one's self in the place of
other men is the most direct and prac-
tical and lasting force of human history.
It is the primal energy of it. It is what
the ages and nations are for. Every
government that has lived has lived be-
cause it could put itself in the place of
more men than the governments before
it, and it has died because it could not
put itself in the place of men enough.
A man's ability to put himself in the
place of others is religion and econom-
ics, literature and art, theology, sociolo-
gy, and politics, all in one. The typical
man who has this ability is the artist,
and the typical artist who has it is the
novelist. This truth is so true that, like
all reaching-under truths, it applies to
all men. Every man in modern life
may be said to be a force in it, a
maker of the crowd beautiful, in propor-
tion as he is his own novelist, goes up
and down in it, living his life with the
instincts of the novelist. The man we
call great in history is a great or less
great man according to the repertoire
of the men he might have been, the dif-
ferent kinds of lives he might have lived.
The preeminence of Shakespeare is that
he might have been almost any one else,
that he had a many-peopled typically
modern mind. As far as he went,
Shakespeare (like most men of genius)
may be characterized as a pagan who
had the abilities of Christ ; and the one
ability Christ had, that included all the
others, was his ability to be all men
in one, the comprehensiveness of his
temperament. His supreme doctrine
was his ability, and it was his abilities
rather than his doctrines that he sought
to convey to others. The degree of a
man's Christianity in any age may be
exactly measured and counted off by the
number of the kinds of men he can put
himself in the place of. The Golden
Rule was offered to the world as an
ability, and not as a precept. This abili-
ty, by whatever theological name it is
called, is the typical ability of the artist ;
and it is the one ability that can ever
draw the crowd together, that can ever
make the crowd beautiful. The man
who spends his days in weaving light
Making the Crowd Beautiful.
251
and energy into the inner essence of
every life about him, whether he does it
with his hands or with his lips, or by
holding up a light to it (which men call
art), fulfills the supreme office of history.
His work, whatever its art form or life
form may be, is at once the spirit and
the fibre of progress and the method of
it. Acts of the legislature, park grants,
and eight-hour laws are but symptoms
that the method is working, that men are
seeing and living in one another's lives.
The crowd is not beautiful because
the men who live in it are deceived by
appearances. They cannot understand
one another's lives as they would like to
live them. So they do not let one an-
other live them. The only men in the
crowd who can be said to be doing any
real living in it (so far as they go) are
those whose lives are so small that the
crowd can comprehend them, or so con-
venient that the crowd can use them with-
out needing to comprehend them. In-
asmuch as the majority even of the com-
monest people are hard to comprehend,
the more people there are in a crowd,
the fewer people there are living in it.
It is this not being able to live which the
average man calls life. He calls it life
with a sad shake of the head ; but the
shake of the head is as far as he gets
with it. Reduced to its last analysis,
this not being able to live, called life,
consists in being afraid to live. Being
afraid to live, the man in the crowd says,
is hard, but it is not so hard as living.
The few men he knows in the crowd who
really are living who are living their
own lives in it are paying, so far as he
has observed, a great deal more for their
lives than their lives are worth. The
crowd cuts itself off from them. As long
as the crowd is deceived by appearances,
persecutes men for living, and honors
men for looking as if they were living, it
cannot be free, and therefore it cannot
be beautiful.
So it comes to pass that the solution
of the crowd civilization is not going to
be a mere great-man solution, a mu-
seum of heroes on pedestals, as Car-
lyle would have it ; nor is it going to be
an endless row of pleasant and proper
persons, as the average church would
have it ; nor is it going to be infinite
soup kitchens, parks with benches and
fountains in them, and acts of the legis-
lature, as philanthropists would have it ;
nor is it going to be a kind of immeasur-
able man-machine, a huge, happy world
windlass, hauling all men up to a prai-
rie heaven of bliss, in a kind of colossal
clattering belt of buckets, as the social-
ist would have it. The solution of the
crowd civilization is going to be the man
who shall have it in him to be a crowd-
in-spirit. The man who is the crowd
spirit, when the crowd finds out that he is
its spirit, shall be the crowd's hero ; and
being the crowd's hero, like all heroes
he shall draw it together. The charac-
ter of Christ is not merely the greatest
spectacle in history. It is the greatest
energy in history because it is the great-
est spectacle. History is made by see-
ing things so clearly that they cannot
help being done ; by conceiving a great
human life so clearly that it has to be
lived. When the spectacle of a human
life with all men's lives in it is before the
world, all lives draw together in it,
great ones and little ones, as the flow-
ers and seas and mountains troop to the
sun. The man who understands every-
body brings all men together. Their
understanding him and wanting to un-
derstand him brings them together.
They cannot understand him all of
him except they are together. " I, if
I be lifted up, will draw all men unto
me," was not the assertion of a heroic
egoism. It was the assertion of a world
process, the one process by which a
world can be lifted, and by which every
man can help in lifting it. The more re-
ligion and economics, literature and art,
are looked in the face, the more we see
that the difficulties in all of them are due
to small individuals in all of them,
252
Making the Crowd Beautiful.
men who separate. No solution is, or has
been, or can be lasting, in any one of
them, except through producing compre-
hensive individuals, men who bring
together. It is the law of democracy
that little men, being born in the world,
must be served in it, and it is the gospel
of democracy that they shall be served
by great ones. When we have enough
small democracies, enough great men
who are democracies all by themselves,
there will be a great democracy. Hu-
man society, swinging its thousands of
years from ballot box to dynasty, and
from dynasty to ballot box again, faces
the true secret of government, namely,
that the type of the ideal democrat is
the true king, the man who represents
everybody. In his own life he shall
prove that the crowd can be beautiful,
and the crowd shall look in his face and
know that it can be beautiful. By look-
ing in his face it shall become beautiful.
This civilization is a crowd civiliza-
tion. The only beauty of art or life that
such a civilization can produce must be
produced by making the crowd beauti-
ful. The crowd can only be made beau-
tiful by the great man in it. A man can
only be great in it by being a two-world
man, an artist. He can only be a great
artist by possessing and expressing the
New Testament temperament, the tem-
perament of the great novelist, making
the crowd beautiful by being a crowd in
himself . In its last analysis, the solution
of the crowd is the most practical man in
it ; that is, the diviner, the interpreter of
persons. He sees so much that he makes
us all see. He is the lifter of the hori-
zons in which we live our lives. He is
the man whose seeing is so deep a see-
ing that it is a kind of colossal doing,
who goes about amongst us, world-mak-
ing with his eyes. He gazes on each of
us through the world's heart. He is
the eye of a thousand years. It takes
a thousand years for the world to make
him ; and when he is made, he makes the
world for a thousand years. Men shall
be born, troops of generations of them,
and go through their days and die, that
the visions of a man like this may be
lived upon the platform of the earth.
History is the long slow pantomime acted
by all of us now in sorrow, and now in
joy of the dreams of a man like this.
We cannot escape him. He is univer-
sal. Only by being out of the universe
can we escape him. The stars are his
footlights. We are born in the cast of
his dreams. He is the playwright over
us all.
He shall master the crowd and make
it beautiful by glorying in all of its lives.
His soul shall go up and down in it, cry-
ing : " What a miracle is Man, that I
should call him Brother, that I should
commune with his spirit ! The globe is
his gate. The sea is flashed through
with his thought. He warms himself
with the hearts of mountains, and his
hand is upon the poles of the earth,
four thousand headlights boring the
night for him, the trail of their glim-
mering trains hands of his hands,
feet of his feet flying and plying fate
for him ; while he lies in his bed and
sleeps, dreams that he sleeps, dreams
that he dreams, his will is on a thousand
hills. Four thousand ships with their
flo<5ks of smoke, shut in with space by
day, spirits of light by night, signal his
soul on the roofs of skies beneath the
boundaries of the earth."
When a man like this the Maker of
the Crowd-Beautiful shall come to us,
there will be No One to take him away.
He shall haunt all life. To stand in the
hurrying great highway shall be to be
crowded and jostled by him. The cease-
less pouring of The Face of the Street
- the long, hot, hissing wave of it
on our souls, its awful current of pain
and joy, shall be as the sweep of his
heart upon us, flowing over us, gliding
on with us. ... Whatever his singing
may be, whether he prints it, or paints
it, or builds it, the rhythm of the pave-
The Eleventh Hour.
253
ments shall be in it, and the footfall of the Day and the Night, we shall hear
the crowd. His soul shall be the bound- the songs of ages and nations, and of
less book of the street. Death and Life, and, across spaces we
In the roar of the street, as in some cannot go and years that are not, the
vast transcendent shell on the shore of low, far singing of God.
Gerald Stanley Lee.
THE ELEVENTH HOUR.
WHEN Jael Boltwood was carried into
the Hotel Dieu, the nuns cried out in
amazement that one so old could have
borne the hardships of the flight from
Boston and the journey to Quebec.
They laid her in the softest bed in
the big, bright room in which the sun
shone all day long.
" C'est incroyable a son age ! " said
Mother St. Anthony of Padua.
" En voila une qui est vaillante ! "
Mother St. Bernard exclaimed, as she
busied herself about the bed, smoothing
the pillows and adjusting the coverlet.
The New England woman did not
understand. She made no attempt to
thank them, for she could not speak
their tongue. She offered no response
to their kind looks, to their gentle pres-
sures of the hand, to their efforts to make
her feel, without the use of words, that
she was among friends.
When they had done their best, she
lay back upon the pillows, with folded
hands and fixed eyes, as though await-
ing death.
" It is enough," she breathed. " Now,
O Lord, take away my life. Take it
away. Take it away."
But when, a little later, the nuns had
forced her to eat and drink, she was
stronger. She suffered them to bathe
her face and hands, and smooth her
snow-white hair. They tried to comfort
her with caresses and to soothe her with
endearing words, but she paid no heed.
She was beyond the reach of superficial
solace.
When they left her alone, she looked
about her. There were two empty beds
besides her own. The walls were white-
washed, but not quite bare. A roughly
carved crucifix was fastened over the
empty fireplace, and in a conspicuous
position hung the engraved portrait of
a lady in court dress and flowing curls.
It was inscribed with the legend, Tres
haute et puissante dame, Marie de Vi-
gnerod, Duchesse d'Aiguillon, and re-
presented Cardinal Richelieu's niece, the
foundress of the Hotel Dieu. Apart
from the picture and the crucifix, there
was nothing in the room which was not
of the simplest necessity. The floor was
clean, but uncarpeted ; the linen white,
but coarse.
Jael Boltwood turned her eyes away
from this appalling emptiness. Her bed
was near a window ; the window com-
manded the prospect of the meeting of
the St. Lawrence with the St. Charles.
The town in the foreground was little
more than a stockade. The Indians
squatting in the place before the hospi-
tal made the sick woman tremble. When
a cassocked priest went by, she lifted
her eyes with a shudder to the distant
autumn-tinted hills.
She thought of her home in Sudbury
Street, the house which Philip had
built after they had grown rich. She
thought of its spacious, well-filled rooms
in which she had taken so much pride ;
she thought of her Chippendale furniture,
strong and slender, which Philip had
bought in England ; she thought of her
254
The Eleventh Hour.
service of Lowestoft, each piece bearing
her initials in black and gold. She
thought of her negro servants, her
coach, her stores. People had called
their house the Boltwood Mansion. She
herself, since her three sons had taken
wives, had been addressed as Madam
Boltwood. Philip and she had held
their heads high in Boston. They had
begun poor, but had worked their way
upwards. They had moved on the same
level as the Faneuils, the Vassalls, the
Royals, and the Lees. When the war
began, Philip had been loyal to his
friends and to the King. His three
sons were in the Continental army, but
he himself would not forsake the tra-
ditions in which he had lived for over
ninety years.
The result had been flight. Their
friends had told them to remain in Bos-
ton, for at their age they would be un-
molested. Philip would not listen. He
would not be spared through pity. He
braved, provoked, and finally exasper-
ated public opinion. When the mo-
ment came to flee, he had bidden his
wife remain behind ; her sons' influence
would protect her. But it was her turn
to be daring. After having lived with
him for fifty years, she would not be
parted from him now. She was as hale
as he. She would die with him, if need
were, on the road, but she would neither
forsake him nor be forsaken.
Broken, penniless, and spent they had
reached Quebec, just in time for Philip
to die under the flag he had fought for.
He had been buried that afternoon.
The English governor had begged the
Hospitalieres of the Hotel Dieu to take
the heroic widow under their protection.
She had neither assented nor refused.
She had felt herself helpless, like a bit
of a wreckage on the ocean. She was
in a strange land, amid strange people,
speaking a language she did not under-
stand, and surrounding themselves with
religious emblems of which she had al-
ways thought with horror.
" Surely the bitterness of death is
past," she had moaned, as they took her
husband's body away.
She had neither wept nor prayed.
Her old eyes had no more tears ; and
the God of this wild land of cliffs and
rushing waters, the God who was wor-
shiped with beads and crosses, was not
the God of the Old South Church in
Boston.
But now that all was over, and she
was lying on a bed, she began to think
again. Hitherto she had had time for
nothing but each moment's bitterness ;
now all would be leisure to the end.
" I said, I shall die in my nest," she
murmured, half aloud, as in thought she
traversed the rooms of the Boltwood
Mansion one by one. " I said, I shall
die in my nest. I shall multiply my
days as the sand. And now my soul is
poured out upon me ; the days of afflic-
tion have taken hold upon me. My
harp is turned to mourning, and my or-
gan into the voice of them that weep."
She went back over her long life with
Philip. She began with the days when
she had first loved him ; when she had
planned and plotted and lied to make
him love her in return. She recalled
the triumph of their marriage, their re-
moval to Boston, the coming of their
children, and the long road by which
they had climbed to wealth and honor.
" My God," she cried, " do not let me
see him ! I am going fast. My feet
are on the river's brink. I feel its wa-
ters. Let me not cross where Philip
is ! Send me into some other world !
Give me any other torture but that of
my soul coming face to face with his !
He has loved and honored me all these
years, and now he knows the truth.
Shut me out from his presence ! Shut
me out from Thine 1 Let me not see
him, even with the impassable gulf be-
tween us ! "
Yet, because she was human, she
could not relinquish every hope.
When, toward evening, Mother St.
The Eleventh Hour.
255
Anthony of Padua came in again, the
dying woman, with eager inquiry in her
eyes, watched her moving about the
room.
" Poor lady dear lady," the nun
murmured caressingly, as she rear-
ranged the pillows. She was a brisk,
motherly French Canadian, with dark
eyes twinkling under the severe white
wimple and long black veil. Her wide
white robes made her look short and
stout. Since the conquest of Canada,
sixteen years before, she had picked up
a few English words.
" Tell me," Jael Boltwood said sudden-
ly, as the nun stood beside her bed. " In
your religion they teach that sins can be
forgiven by some one here on earth ; that
we can know it and have peace before
we die. Is it true ? "
But the nun only smiled and spread
her hands apart with an apologetic ges-
ture.
" Not understand," she stammered.
"No English. But Mother St. Per-
petua speak English. I go. I send."
But it was not until after the last
night office that Mother St. Perpetua
came.
Jael Boltwood, lying in sleepless de-
spair, and gazing fixedly into the dark-
ness which, by the light of the one can-
dle burning beside the bed, became a
haunted shadowland, suddenly saw the
door opened, while a tall, slight figure,
robed in white, with long, black, floating
veil, came slowly in.
Mother St. Perpetua carried a candle
in one hand, and in the other a cane, by
the aid of which she walked. She stood
erect, but as she came forward Madam
Boltwood saw that she was very old.
" As old as I," she thought.
She saw, too, that the nun had a sort
of aged beauty. The face framed in
its white bands was delicate in feature,
and the complexion of ethereal transpar-
ency.
The nun placed the candle on the
table, and sat down beside the bed.
"The Reverend Mother," she began,
" has allowed me to come and spend the
night with you. She thought you might
like to talk with me. I am the only one
in the house who speaks English."
The voice stirred something in Madam
Boltwood's memory. It was nothing
that could be seized or understood. It
was like the recollection of a dream, of
which everything has passed but a vague
emotion. The nun's accent, too, was
that of New England. Its very sound
seemed to call the exiled woman back
from the desert of despair.
"You are very kind to come. But
it will tire you."
" Mother St. Anthony of Padua will
remain in the next room, in case we
need anything. I am too old to run
about. The Reverend Mother was only
afraid you would be lonely."
" I thank her," said Madam Boltwood
stiffly, " but we must go down into the
valley of the shadow one by one."
" I too feel that ; for I, like you, am
going down. And yet 't is a comfort to
feel the grasp of loving hands on earth,
even to the moment when we see the
angel's arms outstretched to carry us
into paradise."
The nun's voice was low and soft.
She spoke slowly, as if choosing her
words. A slight French intonation was
perceptible.
" I have almost forgotten my Eng-
lish," she continued after a pause, during
which the sick woman seemed to have
retired into her own thoughts. " I speak
it so rarely ; but more now than former-
ly, now since our nation has taken
possession of Quebec."
" Do you believe in the forgiveness of
sins ? "
The question came abruptly, as though
the dying woman forced herself with an
effort back into the world of men.
" Assuredly," the nun said tranquilly.
"Do you think God has mercy on
us?"
" I know it."
256
The Eleventh Hour.
" How can you tell ? " Jael Boltwood
demanded almost fiercely. "You say
so because your priests have told you.
You do not know. I have never had
any mercy."
"Oh, madame!"
" Never, I tell you. I have had every-
thing else a woman could have, but it
has always been mingled with gall. And
now I am dying, and there is no hope.
Till to-day I have kept some trust that
the crooked might be made straight, but
the last chance was buried this after-
noon."
"I do not know your trouble, ma-
dame, but if you would pray "
"Pray? I have prayed for sixty
years. And for answer I am sent here
to die."
"Who knows? That may be the
best answer. God is love."
" I have tried to believe so. I be-
lieve it no more."
"Even your own religion teaches
that. I know, for I have been a Pro-
testant."
" Who are you ? I seem to have
seen you before."
Again the question came with fierce
abruptness, but the nun was not dis-
turbed.
" No, madame, I think not," she said,
with a faint, sweet smile. " I have been
many years in the convent. It is long
since I left my native land. I was born
in Deerfield."
" Ah ! " The exclamation was pro-
longed. Jael Boltwood raised herself on
her arm, and looked with eager scrutiny
into the nun's pale, saintly face. " How
came you here ? "
" I was taken captive in a great mas-
sacre at that place, when I was a girl."
"And you exchanged your religion
for your life? There were many who
did so."
" No. That is what my friends at
home would think, but it was not so."
" What then ? Go on. Tell me. Be-
gin at the beginning."
" The beginning was at dawn on a
February morning, many years ago.
My father and mother were dead, and I
lived with my grandparents, having no
other kin. There had been talk for
some days of Indians being not far from
the town, but the winter was so cold and
the snow so deep that we thought they
would not be able to attack us. But
they came."
" Go on. Go on," Madam Boltwood
whispered hoarsely.
" They came upon us stealthily, giv-
ing no sign until they were almost with-
in our houses. When I awaked, a tall
Indian was already at my door. Seeing
that I was but a girl, he turned from
me and entered the adjoining room,
where my grandparents lay. By this
time three or four more were stealing
up the stair. I slipped from my bed,
and, wrapping myself in a blanket, fol-
lowed the Indian into the next room.
My grandmother woke with a shriek.
My grandfather seized the pistol from
a shelf above the bed and fired. The
Indian fell dead. But in an instant his
companions were in the room, yelling
and dancing. One of them seized me
and threw me to the floor, and so I mer-
cifully did not see the blow which killed
my grandfather before he had time to
rise. They dragged my grandmother
from the bed and bound her. They
bound me, too, and, carrying us like
bundles down the stair, threw us into
the snow. Then they fired the house,
and only the heat from the flames kept
us from perishing of cold."
Mother St. Perpetua spoke tranquilly,
as though telling a dream rather than an
actual experience.
"Yes, yes," Jael Boltwood said im-
patiently. "What then? What then ?"
" As we lay in the snow, we could see
fire and fighting everywhere in our vil-
lage street. Many of the houses were in
flames. Women and children who were
still free ran shrieking from house to
house. Some were caught, and, after
The Eleventh Hour.
257
being bound with thongs, were cast, like
ourselves, into the snow, to await the cap-
tor's pleasure. Our men fought brave-
ly, but all were overpowered, and many
slain. Here and there we could see the
dead bodies of our neighbors lying in the
snow, the crust of which was everywhere
trampled down and stained with blood."
The nun paused, and seemed for a
moment lost in reflection.
" I was to have been married the next
week," she began tranquilly, again,
" though I was only seventeen. My
lover had built a house next to that of
my grandparents, so that I might be near
them. It was new and unfurnished, and
so burnt quickly. Him I saw not, and
feared he was among the slain. My
grandmother, as she lay in the snow,
prayed aloud, and repeated texts of
Scripture, comforting and supporting all
who were within sound of her voice.
Mr. Williams, the minister, also sus-
tained the faith of many. As he passed
us, on his way to Canada, for he was
among the first of the captives to begin
the march, he called out to us, ' God
is our hope and strength, a very present
help in trouble.' To which my grand-
mother replied in a ringing voice, quot-
ing from the same psalm : ' The Lord of
Hosts is with us ; the God of Jacob is
our refuge. Selah ! Selah ! Selah ! '
But," said the nun, with a sudden change
of tone, " you are tired, madam e. You
would like to sleep."
" No, no. I shall have time to sleep
hereafter. Do not stop. I must hear
all."
"Then I shall put this candle out.
We shall keep it in case we talk late.
At our age sleep does not matter."
She rose as she spoke, and extin-
guished one of the two candles. Jael
Boltwood fell back again upon her pil-
lows, gazing into the darkness with fixed
eyes, but listening intently.
"It was about ten by the clock,"
Mother St. Perpetua resumed, as she
took her seat again, " when we set out
VOL. LXXXVII. NO. 520. 17
for Canada. Most of the captives had
already gone, but some few were left to
follow after us. As we came near to the
foot of our mountain, we saw my lover
fastened hand and foot to a great oak
tree, and guarded by two Macquas. His
garments were torn, his head bare, and
his face and hands streaming with blood.
When he saw me he struggled to free
himself, but in vain.
" ' Have no fear ! ' he called out to me.
* Go on to Canada. I shall find means
to meet you there and redeem you.'
" ' When the Lord bringeth back the
captivity of his people,' my grandmother
cried to him, 'Jacob shall rejoice and
Israel shall be glad.'
" * Tarry thou the Lord's leisure and
be strong,' I whispered to him, as I went
fey-
" * Commit thy way unto the Lord,' he
replied, ' and put thy trust in Him, and
He shall bring it to pass.'
" ' Now God Himself and our Father
and our Lord Jesus Christ direct our way
unto you ! ' called out Eunice Williams,
the minister's wife, as she too passed my
lover by.
" ' Amen ! Amen ! Amen ! ' cried
Mary Brooks, pressing onward in the
rear of our party, carrying her two
years' child.
" I could hear my lover's voice calling
out encouraging words to us until we were
beyond earshot. Our masters would rot
suffer us to look back, but the thought
that my lover would come for me gave
me heart. It sustained me through all
the three weeks' march, when so many
others of my sex fell by the way.
" The snow was very deep, and the sur-
face, while crisp, was not strong enough
to support us. We walked with diffi-
culty, and the crust cut deeply into our
ankles.
" In our party were four women, my
grandmother, Eunice Williams, Mary
Brooks, and I. Eunice Williams had
pleaded to have at least one of her liv-
ing children with her, but the Indians
258
The Eleventh Hour.
would not suffer it. Two had been slain
at their own door, and the others were
scattered among the companies. Mary
Brooks had kept her youngest in her
arms, and one of our masters, after first
attempting to snatch it from her, had al-
lowed her to retain it. We were guard-
ed by three Indians, of whom the young-
est seemed to be a chief.
" At noon they suffered us to sit down
and rest, and gave us to eat a little fro-
zen meat with some black bread, taken
from one of the houses.
" * 'T is Remembrance Stebbins's
bread,' said Mary Brooks; and at the
thought of our pleasant homes in ashes,
and all our ties of friendship and family
broken up forever, our first tears fell.
" * Strengthen ye the weak hands and
confirm the feeble knees,' said my grand-
mother. ' Say to them of a fearful
heart : Be strong, fear not. Behold your
God will come with vengeance, even God
with a recompense; He will come and
save you.'
" In the afternoon we were much dis-
tressed because of the heavy burdens of
every kind of household stuff which the
Macquas had bound upon us. Mary
Brooks, carrying one child and expect-
ing another, was ready to faint by the
way. Fearing to lose a woman captive,
one of the older Indians seized the child,
and, as we were passing above a rush-
ing mountain stream, threw it into the
waters far below. The mother would
fain have sprung after it, but the sav-
ages held her back and forced us on.
" ' Thus saith the Lord,' my grand-
mother cried to the stricken parent, ' Re-
frain thy voice from weeping and thine
eyes from tears ; for thy work shall be
rewarded, saith the Lord, and they shall
come again from the land of the enemy.
And there is hope in thine end, saith
the Lord, that thy children shall come
again to their own border.'
"At nightfall we came up with some
of the other companies ; and though we
were not permitted speech, the savages
did not silence us when we raised our
voices in a hymn. It was my grand-
mother who started it, and the tune was
taken up from camp to camp.
' Jerusalem, ray happy home !
Name ever dear to me,
When shall my labors have an end ?
Thy joys when shall I see ?
' happy harbor of the Saints,
O sweet and pleasant soil,
In thee no sorrow may be found,
No grief, no care, no toil.
' Jerusalem ! Jerusalem !
God grant I soon may see
Thy endless joys, and of the same
Partaker aye to be.' "
Mother St. Perpetua repeated the
words softly, lifting her thin white hand
in time to the measure. Then she paused,
and, raising her eyes, seemed to be look-
ing at something visible to her in the
darkness.
"And then? What then?" Jael
Boltwood broke in, as though impatient
of the nun's gentle exaltation.
"Then," said Mother St. Perpetua,
" then we slept. The savages had made
us wigwams and beds of boughs. It was
cold, but we huddled together, and not-
withstanding all that we had seen since
dawn we slept as if at home. The next
day our masters provided us with snow-
shoes and Indian moccasins, so that those
of us who could use them walked with
greater ease. But my grandmother, be-
ing old, and weary with the journey of
yesterday, began to lag behind. The
savages struck her and forced her for-
ward, but under her heavy burden she
repeatedly staggered and fell. At last,
late in the afternoon, having fallen, she
could not rise. I tried to go back to her,
but the savages would not suffer me.
" * I will lay me down in peace and
take my rest, for it is Thou, Lord '
" But I heard no more. The same
Indian who had slain Mary Brooks' babe
had run back to my grandmother and
given her her freedom. Next day we
lost Eunice Williams. She had grown
The Eleventh Hour.
259
feeble, and had missed her footing while
crossing a rapid stream. As she drift-
ed down the waters a savage struck at
her with his hatchet, and she too found
peace. Mary Brooks and I were thus
left together ; but she losing strength we
overheard our masters deciding to take
her life also. Then she boldly prayed
them to let her see once more our good
minister, Mr. Williams, and take fare-
well of him. This, to our surprise, they
consented to, and so she received before
her death the blessing of the holy man,
and gave him the tidings of his wife's
release.
" Thus I was left alone with my mas-
ters. Suddenly their behavior toward
me changed. I was no more beaten
nor forced to carry burdens. They
treated me with kindness, and gave
me the best of all they had. In due
time I learned the reason of this unex-
pected favor. When we neared Sorel,
instead of being led with the other cap-
tives into the French fort, I was taken
to the encampment of the savages, some
miles away. Here I was made to under-
stand that I should not be held for ran-
som, but should be adopted into their
tribe, and become one day the wife of
the young chief who had brought me
from Deerfield. I was cast down, but
not in despair, for I knew that God would
not forsake me. My lover's words,
4 Have no fear,' were always ringing in
my mind, and I was sure that he would
come and rescue me. For two years I
lived among the Indians. In all that
was outward I was a Macqua woman,
like one of their own. The French
priests came from time to time, and gave
me both counsel and comfort. Then it
was that I began to feel kindly toward
their religion. At first I had held it in
horror, and when the Macquas bade me
sign the cross or go to mass I allowed
myself to be beaten rather than obey.
But little by little the French priests
taught me much that was good, and I
began to thank them."
" It was for their own purposes. It
was to ensnare your feeble soul," Mad-
am Boltwood declared.
" No, I think not," the nun replied,
speaking always in the same sweet voice.
" One of them, Pere Duplessis, saved me
from becoming the young chief's wife,
and at last helped me to escape. The
Macquas had at that time moved their
camp to Chambly. Having aided me,
under cover of darkness, to slip away un-
seen, the priest conveyed me to Mount
Royal. Thence I passed down the river
to Quebec, disguised as an Ursuline nun.
At Quebec the Intendant's wife received
me kindly, and took me to her house.
By this time the captives had all been
redeemed, and had gone back by sea to
New England. But one Isaac Allis, a
young Deerfield man, was belated. By
him I sent word to my lover that I was
alive and would wait for him, bidding
him come for me here at the Hotel Dieu,
where the nuns had consented to shelter
me."
Jael Boltwood raised herself on her
arm again, and peered into the aged
face.
"Yes? Yes? Then? What then ?"
" He never came," the nun said, with
a sigh. " When ten years had gone by,
I knew he would not come. Then I em-
braced the Catholic religion, the faith of
those whom I had learned to love, and
took the veil. My lover never came."
" Because I kept him, Marah Carter."
The dying woman dragged herself
to the edge of the bed, and seized the
nun by the arm. Mother St. Perpetua
started, and became, if possible, whiter
still.
" Marah Carter, Marah Carter," she
murmured under her breath. " It used
to be my name in Deerfield. I have
not heard it for over sixty years."
" I was Jael Hurst ! " Madam Bolt-
wood cried. " I was Jael Hurst ! You
remember me ? "
"Yes," said Mother St. Perpetua
doubtfully, as if searching in her mem-
260
The Eleventh Hour.
ory, " I think so. I am not sure. Did
you live at Green River ? "
"At first; and then we moved to
Deerfield. It was then I met your lover,
Philip Boltwood ! "
The nun rose, trembling.
" Sit down," the sick woman said im-
periously, and the nun obeyed. " Yes,
I met him, and I loved him. You did
not know it, nor did he. I used to
watch you together, and then go home
to offer up tears and prayers that he
might be mine."
"But"
"No. Do not speak. My time is
short. I must say it. I must lay bare
my heart. When the time came for you
to be married, I could endure no more.
I begged my parents to take me to Bos-
ton, where we had kin. We had scarce
arrived when we heard of the fate of
Deerfield. After that I neither ate nor
slept till I knew that Philip Boltwood
was alive. He escaped from his captors,
and reached Lancaster."
" Thank God ! " the nun breathed fer-
vently. " I never knew it."
" He was buried this afternoon. His
funeral passed under these very walls."
"And I. saw it by hazard in looking
out. Ah, God! Ah, God!"
"Yes, cry to God! There may be
peace for such as you."
" For all, madame."
" No, not for me. But let me go on.
Let me speak. In time your lover went
back to Deerfield. I too went back.
We became friends, but he had no love
for any one but you. The redeemed
captives returned one by one, but brought
no tidings of Marah Carter. All the
other women of her party were known
to be gone, and she was numbered with
them. Philip Boltwood was a stricken
man, but I learnt the art to comfort him.
I talked of Marah Carter, praised her,
mourned for her, wept at the sound of
her name. Yet we were only friends.
He did not give up hope that Marali
Carter might be alive, and so worked and
saved that he might go into Canada with
money for her redemption."
"Ah, God! Ah, God!"
" Two years later I was again in Bos-
ton, visiting my kin. One day they told
me that Isaac Allis, long given up for
dead, had come back again. I hurried
to his ship, for he was of a mind now to
be a sailor.
" ' Have you any tidings of Marah
Carter ? ' was my first question.
" ' Yes, she is alive, and waiting for
Philip Boltwood in the nuns' hospital
at Quebec.'
"'Then I will tell him so,' I said,
* for I go back soon to Deerfield.'
" ' And I,' said he, ' intrust the task
to you.'
" Isaac Allis sailed for the China seas,
and I went home again. I swear that
at first I had no intention to do evil.
My heart was breaking, but I meant to
let it break. It was not until I saw
Philip Boltwood that the temptation
came to me. He was right on the eve
of going into Canada, and I could not
let him go.
" ' I have seen Isaac Allis,' I said to
him. ' He had tidings for you.'
" * Speak, speak, in God's name ! ' he
cried.
"'Marah Carter is dead. Your
quest will be in vain.' "
Mother St. Perpetua sat with bowed
head, her hands clasped in her lap.
Tears rolled down her faded, waxlike
cheeks. Then she took the cross hang-
ing on her breast and pressed it to her
lips. Beyond that she gave no sign.
" When I had spoken," Madam Bolt-
wood continued feverishly, " I knew
that Philip Boltwood's heart was slain.
It never lived again. Long years after-
wards we were married, but his love
was always Marah Carter's. You were
like an angel in his life, but like a
haunting, torturing ghost in mine. We
were happy together as lives go. I bore
him three sons. We grew rich, and I
made him a good wife. But the lie was
The Eleventh Hour.
261
always between us. I prayed that he
might never know it ; that no accident,
no chance word, might uncover the
foundation on which our married life
was built. God was so far merciful
that He granted that. When tidings
came that Isaac Allis had been lost in
the China seas, I felt as if the Divine
Will itself were protecting me. And
yet I suffered, no one but God knows
how. Sometimes it was remorse, some-
times it was dread. As I rose each
morning I said, ' Perhaps he will know
to-day ; ' as I laid me down each night
't was with the thought, ' Perhaps he
will know to-morrow.' At last I came to
have but one prayer : < God, keep him
from knowing in this life, and I will give
him up in the next ! ' I was willing to
buy for time at the price of eternity ;
and I bought, I paid, I received what
I asked for. When his eyes closed, two
days ago, I had had my request to the
full. There was nothing left for me.
Mine was a love with no future to it;
for the future, the eternal future, must
be yours."
Jael Boltwood fell back upon her pil-
lows, and sank into deathlike silence.
Mother St. Perpetua continued to sit
with bowed head and hands clasping the
cross. Then she rose slowly and knelt
down beside the bed. She took the dy-
ing woman in her arms.
" My sister, my dear sister," she mur-
mured, " how you have suffered ! But
be comforted. God is love."
" It is not God I fear ; 't is you."
" And I forgive you, fully, freely, as I
have been forgiven. You thought to do
me wrong, but God overruled it to the
highest good. How wonderful He is in
his doings toward the children of men !
When earthly love was taken from me,
He inspired me with his own. Do not
pity me, Jael Hurst, Jael Boltwood, you
who have been my lover's wife. I am
the Bride of Christ. You do not know
that happiness ; you cannot guess it ;
you cannot fancy it. Better than all hu-
man love, however close, however dear,
is that which wraps me round ; which
holds me nearer than I am holding you ;
which breathes upon me, smiles upon
me, lifts me up and draws me to itself,
filling me, thrilling me, with a joy sur-
passing words, transcending thought,
excelling every earthly passion, and mak-
ing all other joys seem dim. Oh, Jael,
Jael ! mine has been the better part. I
thank and bless you. Much as I love
Philip, I love my Bridegroom more. For
I was made for Him."
" When you see Philip, will you tell
him that ? "
" 'T is you shall tell him. You shall
tell him first. You shall tell it him
from me, from God, from all the records
of God's fact and truth. Tell him that
you were best fitted to be his wife ; that
I had other work to do."
" He will not believe me. He knows
that I have lied."
" He is in the Land where all things
are viewed in a clearer, juster light than
that in which we see them here."
" 'T is justice that I dread."
" And yet 't is perfect justice which
makes perfect mercy possible."
" Light the other candle. It is grow-
ing dark. I want to see you plainly."
The nun rose and obeyed.
" Stoop nearer me. I cannot see you
yet."
The nun bent down. The woman
raised herself.
" Yes, you are Marah Carter. But
this is not the face that has haunted me
for fifty years. There is a light around
you. What is it ? Ah, I see, I see. It
is the light of the love of God."
" It is round you too, my sister."
"Is it? Is it? Is it? Are you
sure ? Yes, something is shining. Put
the candle out again. It is too bright.
What is it ? What is it ? my soul,
thou hast trodden down strength ! Sis-
ter, hold me, kiss me. I am going away.
My spirit is breaking forth. Put both
the candles out. The light is blinding
262
The Great Preacher.
me. Yes, Philip, I am coming, dear.
I hear your voice, but call me once
again. Philip, Philip, here is Marah
Carter ! She is coming home with me.
She is clothed in fine linen, pure and
white, for she is the Bride of the Lamb
of God. Yes, Philip, my husband, Ma-
rah's lover, I am here. Ah, the dear,
dear face ! Ah, the mercy of God ! See
him, Marah ! But who else is there ?
Who is that in the garment of light,
with the eyes like fire, with the feet like
brass, and girt with the golden girdle ?
Let me go. Let me go. Do not keep
me. He is holding out His hands. I
come. I come."
When, a few minutes later, Mother
St. Anthony of Padua came into the
room to renew the lights, Mother St.
Perpetua still stood beside the bed.
" Our dear sister has gone home,"
she said. " Pray for her soul, and pray
for mine, for I am going too. The hour
has nearly come, and I am ready. I
am going to my Lover, for whom I
here renounce all other love I have ever
cherished in my heart. I hear my
Bridegroom's voice, like the sound of
many waters. I see his Face, his Form,
and lo, it is the Son of God ! "
Mother St. Anthony of Padua caught
the aged woman as she fell.
Basil King.
THE GREAT PREACHER.
IMMEDIATELY after the death of Phil-
lips Brooks, Dr. Allen contributed to
this magazine 1 a warm-hearted, discrim-
inating appreciation of the great preach-
er. He wrote from the same sort of
personal knowledge which other of his
friends had, and, without attempting any
historical study, held Dr. Brooks to have
been throughout his life a man with a
genius for preaching. " In Phillips
Brooks," he said, " the inward prepara-
tion does not seem to correspond with
the vast influence he exerted, and cer-
tainly the negative attitude of antago-
nism toward rejected beliefs was almost
wholly wanting." Now, after three
years' close study of the great volume of
Dr. Brooks's printed and unprinted writ-
ings, and of the tributes, public and pri-
vate, to his character and influence, he
has written a generous memoir, 2 which
is a revisal of his early judgment, and
such a disclosure of the correspondence
between inward preparation and out-
1 See the Atlantic Monthly for April, 1893.
2 Life and Letters of Phillips Brooks. By
ALEXANDEB V. Q. ALLEN, Professor in the
ward influence as would be hard to par-
allel in the whole range of biographic
literature. Dr. Allen intimates in his
preface that he started out on his task
with no theory respecting biography.
The result is evident in the free handling
of his great subject. Clearly he had no
theory, but he had a consuming desire
to get at the man himself, and, if possi-
ble, to reproduce in his volumes some im-
age of a nature which towered head and
shoulders above other men of like voca-
tion in his generation. It was plain to
Dr. Allen, as it must be to any one who
stops to reflect, that a history of Phillips
Brooks's career could be told with brevity.
A preacher who confined his work almost
wholly to preaching, who held but three
rectorships in the thirty-three years of
his ministry, who took almost no part in
any organization outside of his parish,
and scarcely any initiative there, whose
vacations were spent in foreign travel,
and whose recreation was in his friend-
Episcopal Theological School in Cambridge.
With Portraits and Illustrations. In two vol-
umes. New York : E. P. Button & Co. 1900.
The Great Preacher.
263
ships, what was there in the outward
details of such a life to demand and hold
attention ?
There was nothing dramatic in this
preacher's life, except as one counts the
scenes connected with his successive pro-
motions in influence as dramatic ; and
yet what a triumphal progress that was
when the young man who broke down at
the outset of his career as a teacher, and
was harried out of the schoolroom by
boys, finally was borne in his dead ma-
jesty on the shoulders of manly students
out of a great church which was a glori-
ous monument to the affection his peo-
ple bore him, through a weeping multi-
tude, and across a college yard where a
university stood hushed in solemn grief,
while the whole city of his birth mourned
over the untimely death ! Surely a life
sealed with such profound witness held
something that could be told beyond the
simple annals of a popular preacher,
and Dr. Allen was right when he judged
that a man built on so great a scale as
was Phillips Brooks was to be measured
and interpreted only as one applied him-
self to the discovery of the very secret
of his being.
For this Life of Phillips Brooks is the
history of a human soul, engaged in the
greatest of affairs, and yet in its work
unwittingly writing down the records by
which its history may be read. The
documents which were at the hand of
the biographer were the sermons Brooks
had preached, of which many had been
printed ; the abundant notebooks, which
contained the jottings of the hour ; a
great many letters, comparatively of lit-
tle value ; and the contemporary records
of the press, which preserved the im-
pressions created by the preacher on
many occasions. Added to this material
were the numberless testimonies of men
and women and children who had come
within the sweep of his personal influ-
ence. Out of all this really vast mass
of evidence Dr. Allen was to construct
an image which we may justly regard as
having the same relation to the spiritual
life of Brooks, and as permanently so,
as the statue by St. Gaudens may be ex-
pected to have to his physical presence,
or Trinity Church to his constructive
power as a great force in the society of
his day. The Life never loses sight of
its great purpose to show the correspond-
ence between the inward preparation and
the outward influence.
Dr. Allen very wisely looks carefully
at the stock from which Brooks sprang,
and especially does he reproduce, not in
a single statement, but with a multitude
of significant touches, the figures of his
father and mother and the whole family
group ; for with all the breadth of his
affection, indeed because of it, Phillips
Brooks was a plant that struck its roots
deep in the family life. Near the end
of the book, when the shadows begin to
fall, we are told that now Brooks spoke
often of his mother. The phrase is an
illuminating one. Mrs. Brooks had then
been dead more than ten years, and
when she died he had spoken little of
her. She was too deeply set in the se-
cret place of his life to be lightly spoken
of ; but when his own end drew near,
he could not help discovering this holy
presence, the veil was being removed.
The letters from Mrs. Brooks to her son
which Dr. Allen prints show us a New
England Monica ; and one is tempted to
ask again and again, Is such a life to be
lost out of the world in the extinction
of the New England type of evangelical
religion ? And if so, what have we to
show that is worthy to take its place ?
It is not difficult to see in what a shrine
Phillips Brooks set his mother, a shrine
in the very heart of the household,
homely, close, and yet infinitely sacred.
We are even fain to believe that in the
very sanctity of her nature, her burning
zeal for the truth of God as she per-
ceived it, lay in part the difficulty of her
son's approach to her, which finds its
explanation in Dr. Allen's pages in the
nature of the son himself.
264
The Great Preacher.
For early in the study of Phillips
Brooks's character we come upon that
profound reserve, that deep conscious-
ness of the sacrosanct personality, which
lay at the very foundation of his being.
Here was a mother loving her son with
a passionate fervor, and hungering for
some confession from his lips of a conse-
cration of his life to the God whom she
worshiped with the whole might of her
nature ; and here was the son himself
conscious of a great turning toward God,
yet dumb in the presence of his anxious,
trembling mother. Surely it was not
only his deep reserve, but something also
of awe before that saint, that sealed his
lips.
The boyish portrait of the young col-
legian, the first in an admirable series
of portraits scattered through the two
volumes, comports well with the descrip-
tion which Dr. Allen gives of Brooks's
youth; and in the narrative which re-
counts the experiment in teaching at the
Latin School, when Brooks made so
conspicuous a failure, we are able to
trace something of the character lying
behind the incident. The instinct for
teaching which sent him back to his old
school after he was graduated from Har-
vard was one which deepened into the
consciousness of a great vocation. The
defeat which he met at the threshold of
his career was precisely of a nature to
give him pause in the particular form of
teaching he had essayed, and to throw
him in on such an examination of his
own nature as led him into a profounder
apprehension of life. Dr. Allen, pur-
suing the wise course adopted for the
whole work, has given copious extracts
from Phillips Brooks's notebooks dur-
ing the period which elapsed between
the resignation of the ushership at the
Latin School and his entrance on theo-
logical studies at Alexandria, but he has
not indulged in much speculation over
the process which was going on in the
young man's mind. In consequence,
though one reads these pages attentively
he gains little specific knowledge of the
workings of the young man's thought,
but he brings away a strong sense of
the reserve which was so fundamental
a characteristic. Those lonely walks
through Boston streets, those reflections
on books and life committed to the note-
books, and the hunger after companion-
ship which his letters disclose, what
are they all but half-hidden evidences of
a struggle going on deep beneath the sur-
face, a struggle in which the bitter sense
of personal humiliation unquestionably
stung his thought about himself into ac-'
tion ? Now and then one sees a meek
man who betrays by the telltale flush on
his cheek that his meekness is not a neg-
ative quality, but a virtue won by hard
battle with an imperious nature. It is
not too much to say that the pride which
accompanies so strong a sense of person-
al dignity as Phillips Brooks had by an
endowment of nature was at this time
resolutely subdued, and that the humil-
ity which throughout life was the crown-
ing grace of this masterly man registered
a victory which was won after the in-
dignity he had suffered. This humility,
which was Pauline in its nobility, lay be-
hind that disposition he now felt to sub-
ject himself to further discipline under
the teaching of the greatest of sciences,
and the almost secret departure for Alex-
andria marked a temper which was at
once docile and honest and yet profound-
ly self-centred.
It is a striking fact that not only did
Phillips Brooks enter a school for the
training of Christian ministers before he
had apparently made up his mind to ac-
cept that calling, but before he had come
forward for confirmation, or, to use the
term which the evangelical school in
which he was brought up would say, be-
fore he was converted. The independ-
ence of his nature could not better be
affirmed, nor the sincerity of his pur-
pose. With scarcely a word to those
most concerned he put himself to the
test, and he put also to the test the
The Great Preacher.
265
claims of the church upon him for ser-
vice. The strength of his convictions
which made him so powerful a pleader
for righteousness was due, in the first
instance, to his determination to stand
on no false bottom of merely hereditary
faith or conventional view of the minis-
try.
The life at Alexandria, which occu-
pies a large space in Dr. Allen's record,
was in part a prolongation of the lone-
ly walks in Boston when he had been
thrown in his early wrestling match.
To one who looks eagerly for the hand
of the potter shaping each vessel to
honor or dishonor, nothing could seem
more fit than the secluded life that Phil-
lips Brooks now led, with little in the
way of collegiate instruction to distract
him, with a companionship easily limited
in intimacy to a very few who remained
lifelong friends, but with leisure for
great books and the meditation on great
themes. It is a commonplace that great
men have had this sort of withdrawal into
the wilderness, and certainly there is no
seminary of intellectual eminence which
does not seem to include in its academic
buildings a hermitage. Here, as one
reads on and on in the notebooks which
contain the confidences of Phillips
Brooks, one sees the gradual unfold-
ing of a rare soul. What splendor of
imagination is revealed, what glowing
spirit of discovery in the great realms of
human feeling, new, undiscovered terri-
tory to every son of man, yet so rarely
traversed, since most are content with
their own little plots of earth ! To read
these passages alone, one might easily
fancy that here a poet was making ; and
it is no surprise to find the young theo-
logical student taking verse naturally
and simply as his vehicle of expression,
packing criticism into a sonnet, and sing-
ing his way among the mysteries.
Dr. Allen has called attention to the
predominance of intellectualism in his
early sermons, and to the play even of
fancy, but he has also reminded us of
the fervor and the strong human sym-
pathy which from the first marked his
preaching. What most impresses the
reader, as he follows Phillips Brooks
through his ministry in Philadelphia, is
the manner in which he threw himself
into the national cause of the war for
the Union, and then and later into the
education of the blacks. The war came
at a time when the young preacher was
coming into conscious possession of his
power, and furnished him at once with
a field for large endeavor. He proved
himself to be of the order of prophets ;
and as we are most concerned with the
development of the man, we have a
right to say that the cause of union and
freedom both amplified his thought and
prepared the way for that still higher
consecration of his powers which came
when he concentrated, as he did later,
all his energies in the work of declaring
a gospel commensurate with the needs
and aspirations of humanity. In those
days Phillips Brooks was a great civil-
ian. His conception of nationality was
a religious conception, and the attitude
which he took toward the war was one
which presaged his attitude toward life,
when this dramatic occasion passed. He
had a profound respect for the individ-
ual soul ; but his vision was always of a
large humanity penetrated with the di-
vine influence, and his preaching grew
steadily in the direction of the interpre-
tation of this truth.
For, though one may not seek to mark
the boundaries of life in such a nature,
it is clear, from the evidence given in
these volumes, that when Phillips Brooks
transferred the scene of his endeavor
from Philadelphia to Boston, there was
something more than a mere change
of residence or expansion of influence.
No great development comes in a man's
expression which does not spring from
some inner experience, however that ex-
perience may be concealed from view;
and in a marked degree, this man, so
reticent in his speech regarding himself,
266
The Great Preacher.
so little given to personal disclosure, from
this time forward became the most per-
sonal of preachers. One hesitates about
seeming too intimate with this reserved
man, yet it almost appears that as, at the
time of his disappointment over his trial
of teaching in Boston, he had gone down
to the depths of his nature, and come
forth as a strong man armed for the
calling of his life, so now he had touched
some deep experience in life which
thenceforth made him surrender him-
self, and not merely his gifts, to the no-
ble work of preaching. This man, who
could be dumb before the passionate
longing of his mother for a response,
even while he was quite ready to meet
her most darling wish, could now stand
before an audience and empty his heart
and soul to them.
In nothing has Dr. Allen shown
greater insight as a biographer than in
the interpretation which he has put
upon the abundant material he possessed
in Phillips Brooks's sermons, whether
printed or unprinted. The letters which
Brooks wrote are very expressive of a
certain side of his nature, that sunny
side which made so large a part of his
greatness, but they rarely are more than
superficial disclosures of his tempera-
ment. In his case, as in so many others,
life must be read in the man's per-
formance of his chosen work ; and when
one has such ample witness to work as
may be found in these innumerable ser-
mons, one feels instinctively that there
he must look for the man. Dr. Allen,
at any rate, had this instinct. He looked
for Brooks in his sermons, and there
he has found him. Never was there a
more complete fulfillment of the mystic
words of Christ : " What I tell you in
darkness, that speak ye in light : and
what ye hear in the ear, that preach ye
upon the housetops." It is not merely
that the great truths which were lumi-
nous in these sermons had been nourished
in the secret places of life, but the still
voice which had whispered in his ear,
and had come from the very depth of
his personal experience, was now at
once translated by him into a public
message. Again and again does Dr.
Allen draw forth from this rich treasury
sentences which, if deftly put together,
would be a very mosaic of the man's
inner portrait. The great cardinal truths
were there, especially the comprehensive
one of the Incarnation ; but the terms
in which they were presented were often
autobiographic, though veiled in an im-
personal speech.
From this time forward one must in-
creasingly think of Phillips Brooks as
a great preacher ; and here comes into
view a homely consideration, almost
startling in the impression which it
makes on the reader's mind. If there
was any one feature in Brooks's impas-
sioned discourse which had universal ac-
ceptance, it was his spontaneity, so that
one always regarded him as possessing
in his nature a wonderful living spring
which flowed as if inexhaustible. At
the very last of his life he was at a New
England dinner in New York. " A gen-
tleman who sat beside him complained
that he could not enjoy the dinner be-
cause of the speech he had to make.
'That,' said Phillips Brooks, 'is also
my trouble.' 'Why,' said the gentle-
man, ' I did not suppose you ever gave
a thought to any speech you had to
make.' 'And is that your impression
of the way in which I have done all my
work ? ' 'It is,' said the gentleman ; ' I
have thought it was all spontaneous,
costing you no effort of preparation.' "
Now, the evidence which Dr. Allen
brings from the preacher's multitudi-
nous notebooks and memoranda is cu-
mulative to the effect that the most ap-
parently unpremeditated discourse was
patiently prepared. The glimpses we
get into the workshop of this man of
genius show him to the very last making
the most careful preparation for every
discourse, however simple. The views
we get of him in the delivery also show
The Great Preacher.
267
him very often apparently brushing
aside manuscripts and notes, and letting
his impetuous speech carry him beyond
the bounds of his preparation. But the
fact that is most important is the re-
spect in which he held his audience and
his work, so that he never slighted his
workmanship. His rapid utterance made
a stenographic report exceedingly diffi-
cult, and it was in part the risk he ran
of being misquoted that led him imper-
atively to refuse a sanction of publica-
tion following upon such reports ; but
beside this it may justly be inferred that,
knowing the actual discourse to be a
genuine work of art, he would not have
a mangled substitute presented.
Alike the scrupulous care in prepara-
tion and the freedom afterward, know-
ing that he could trust his spontaneity
since it had been so brought under the
control of a disciplined judgment, testi-
fied to the nobility of his conception of
the preacher's vocation. We are some-
times in danger of suspecting the art of
an orator, to hold it as something infe-
rior to the wayward impulse of the im-
provisatore, and to regard what looks like
an unpremeditated burst of eloquence as
a bit of nature, and thus above the work
of the artist, and subject only to some
law superior to the ordinary laws of art.
But here was an example of freedom
gained by perfect obedience, and the ex-
ample is of the utmost value. If ever a
man had a genius for pulpit oratory, it
was Phillips Brooks, and yet this me-
moir bears indisputable evidence of the
toil with which he wrought at his ser-
mons. The explanation is to be found
in two causes. There was in him the
consciousness of an artist. One can see
this in such insignificant matters as the
character of his handwriting and the
finish of his ordinary expression as in
familiar letters. He was not merely a
man of taste, exquisitely modulated for
the appreciation of all forms of art, if
music be excepted, a not uncommon
exception, but he had the constructive
gift, and his first efforts in youth made
it easy to predict for him a literary ca-
reer. But there was in him emphatical-
ly that which now and then lifts an ar-
tist into the region of inspiration, name-
ly, a possession. And here, again, it
will not do to look upon him as some
half-conscious instrument, to be played
upon by spiritual forces ; he had, by the
struggles to which we have referred, and
by a long process of training, wrought
of himself a mighty engine for doing a
piece of work in which the emotional
nature and the intellectual energy both
bore a part. Filled he was in all his
being by this breath of the divine will ;
but the largeness of soul which could be
so filled was not a mere gift, it was a
great development. As the reader moves
through these absorbing pages, he be-
comes aware of a concentration at last of
the preacher upon the great message of
reconciliation, of harmony, which it is
his to deliver. That pictu 
